All I Want For Christmas...Is To Get This Out Of My Mouth.

You know what's really not hot for the holidays? Being sick. And guess who just happened to come down with strep throat during the most romantic time of the year to be playing tongue hockey? That's right-- THIS GIRL.

Among all the things in the world, the image above is NOT something you want in your mouth.

Sunday night I was feeling great. The boy came into town; we watched a movie (NOT in the sense of what it meant in high school-- in the sense we ACTUALLY watched it, or, most of it); I was in high spirits. Monday morning, I woke up to clean the apartment before it was being shown and before I picked my mom up from the airport, and I noticed that my right lymph node on my neck was slightly swollen and a little painful. Now, my throat glands are the rough equivalent of Zac Efron-- they start breaking down if you even just look at them funny and they sure as hell can't take a punch. So I ignored it. Monday afternoon, I zonked out and took a nap like the dead for hours when my body commanded it. When I woke up, BOTH glands on the sides of my throat were swollen. Great. Well, I've got Aleve, and chloraseptic spray, and throat lozenges-- bring it on, bitch. I'm prepared.

NAWWWWWT. Tuesday, I woke up crying because it hurts so much to swallow no one should have to endure that sort of pain, not even Kim Jong-Il, Jack the Ripper, or the Jonas Brothers. Now, I'm a stoic bitch. I'm pretty used to pain. In fact, I'm kind of prone and partial to enjoying it-- if you think I'm faking, ask me about the bruises and welt on my forearms sometime. But, when I'm trying to breathe and swallow and talk, that is not the time to fuck with me about pain. So, after calling my mom and sobbing brokenly to her about it, I woke Alli up and had her drive me to the Fletcher Allen walk-in clinic. Insurance is a grand thing, but still, I spent $30 to have a doctor tell me that my rapid swab turned up negative for strep, and to go home, gargle with salt water (WHICH, by the way, is possibly my LEAST favorite remedy and something I'm sure is COMPLETE bullshit), and get some children's Benadryl and ibuprofen and wait it out. I do all of the above. I sleep a lot. I try to be a trooper. I cry a lot more than I'd like to admit to. I really just wanted some sort of antibiotic from that visit, that's all, and I DON'T think it was too much to ask for. That night, I call the clinic back as rasp at them that I've done everything they told me to as religiously as a pagan can, and if anything, the only things it's gotten me is A.) feeling worse, and B.) producing copious amounts of thick, viscous, slimy saliva that won't go past my engorged glands. Great. Now I'm slowly suffocating to death, and all that they'll tell me to do is wait it out to see if it's an abscess in my tonsils that will need to be DRAINED. Sounds like all the fun you want during your holiday break, right? "Sorry babe, this may not be a great week to come see me...I'm getting my tonsils drained of pus and shit. But you have a Merry Christmas, and we'll be kissing under the mistletoe soon enough?"

Now, I am not the sort of person to WebMD shit. I'm not a hypochondriac, or a germ freak, but mono HAS been going around, and though I had in once before in high school (before I even had ever kissed a guy; it was SUCH a bum deal) and was 95% sure that's not what I had this time, I went to the Mayo Clinic online, because my aunt works there and I trust it, and did some research on strep throat. Armed with a flashlight, the bathroom mirror (I was decidedly NOT the fairest in the land at that moment), and just enough knowledge to be considered dangerous, I looked into deep throat. Well. That's an angry red, and that's certainly swollen, and WAIT...ARE THOSE WHITE SPOTS? YES, THOSE ARE WHITE SPOTS! And wait! IS THAT MY TONSILS TOUCHING MY GLAND? YES, that would be my swollen tonsils touching my swollen, spotty gland. Excuse me, Fletcher Allen, what is going on here? I'm so needlephobic I faint after getting shots and have white-coat syndrome, and even I know strep when I'm staring down my throat at it.

Called my mom. Cried about it some more. Spit some more shit out because I couldn't swallow it. Wiped my running mascara off my cheeks. Was coerced into going home a day early to have real doctor's appointment at my primary care place. I mean, I was convinced I was going to lose my tonsils at this point if this tragic comedy of errors and misdiagnoses continued, so I was willing to brave the Home From Whence I Came for one extra night if it would get me some antibiotics, which Fletcher had made abundantly clear would not be happening there, save possible administration after I, I don't know, DIED.

After listening to my general list on complaints and doing a rapid check of my ears, nostrils, eyes, and throat, it was decided in my hometown doctor's office. "You're showing 3 of the 4 signs of strep, and the only one not there is the test result," Dr. Coombs told me. "At some point you have to put aside the test and start treating the patient." I felt my eyebrows raise, fo' sho', and made some sort of hands-out-shoulder-shrug in mute pantomime of "finally!" I got scripts for not only the antibiotic I so desperately wanted, but also for steroids to speed up the process, and Vicodin for the pain, which I aptly described as being "the worst in my life." I have had my arms broken more than 4 times. I dislocated my collar bone. I've been kicked in the chin by a horse wearing steel shoes who had just thrown me into the wall of the indoor arena. I've had sex with overly well-endowed men. And it's strep throat takes the cake for "Most Painful And Humiliating Moment Of My Life."

So, moral of the story? I paid a $30 dollar co-pay, and $15 worth of bullshit medications to be told nothing was wrong with me and for things that did absolutely nothing for me. And then we paid a $20 co-pay, and under $20 for what I am throughly convinced are the best drugs in the world (I really do NOT understand how steroids and Vicodin can be less than what it costs for a g of greenery), and I feel if not like a million bucks already, but at least like 500,000 grand. I now understand not only why people love Vicodin enough to become addicted to using it recreationally, but also while I was a little confused at first when the doctor said that while the steroids can make me "zingy" and more of an insomniac, the Vicodin might knock me out, now I get it. I promptly went fucking off my rocker, and then passed out on the couch. Euuuuuphooooria.

While I know that this subject matter isn't quite what you're used to if you're a devout reader of SATCG, I feel like it's an important story nonetheless. Moral of the story in more clear, blog-themed wording? Sometimes you don't get what you pay for-- sometimes, it's the less expensive things that have the most effect. Which I think is a really valid point as we come up on Christmas. I.E-- Don't get me jewelry-- get me a new wristband to add to my tatty collection, and I'll wear it every day until it falls off. The end.

XOXO

Sidenote: Steroids make me ridiculously horny? What is this? Why? Aren't they supposed to do the reverse? Or is it because I have no balls to shrink that if affects me the other way? Does anyone have an answer for this?

The State Of Heaven On Union: Thoughts I'm Too Sick And Exhausted To Flesh Into Real Posts

I made one shady judgement call, and all I got was this stupid cold. Well, among with a few other things, but mostly, this stupid cold. Even my immune system is immune to some things. Fuck.

I'm never more on the fence about relationships than when I'm sick. First of all, I'm a huge baby about it, so I'm really glad no one romantically involved with me is usually around to see me in the same tank top and jeans for 3 days straight (after wearing said tank top to bed two nights in a row,) and whimpering softly like a hit puppy while rolling around on my bed amongst the used tissues.

On the other hand, I've decided that you really have to love and be committed to someone to want to be around them when they're sick. I mean, Jesus Christ, it's a marriage vow, for fuck's sake. But it still doesn't mean it's any sort of pleasant business. Case in point: I normally run an abnormally low body temperature around 96.8 degrees, but when I'm running a fever, I physically burn up while mentally registering that I'm chilled to the bone. And me and my sweaty/chilled body just want to be clooooooose to yoooooooou. Ick.

Times it's good to be single: Check. Because though I'm all about warning people when I'm sick so that they can keep their distance (unlike some, apparently), being with someone who doesn't want to be close to you when you're at your most degrading and disgusting (short of food poisoning, Montezuma' and the Chinese from last night's revenge, or childbirth,) is like being with a man who takes a shower after having sex with you. And doesn't invite you along.

...That's never actually happened to me, but it sounded really dramatic.

This is for all of you women out there who have not been invited along for after-sex showers. And all of you like mucous-addled poor souls out there. Being sick sucks. If anyone has good movies, extra body heat, or some Chinese Hot & Sour soup to deliver to this sad little address, I'd be indebted forever. Grazie mille.

XOXO

Relationship Of The Traveling Jacket

As we probably all know by now, I have issues with money. Specifically, not spending it. And even as apt as I am to spend it on a whim for myself-- really, a lot of the time, I have no idea where my money even really GOES-- I'm even more apt to spend it on presents for other people. Shopping for myself is so easy it's not even much of a challenge anymore. I know what I like; I know where to find what I like; and I have no trouble buying what I like. However, there's that One Moment when you find something that is so perfectly perfect for someone else that I liken it to the shopper's equivalent for the Holy Grail. It's like a coke addict getting the pure stuff. It's like Imelda Marcos finding another pair of shoes. And I swear to god, in the moment that I spot that item that my friend/father/boyfriend/boss/random-waiter-who-only-serves-me-on-the-3rd-Friday-of-every-month/professor cannot possibly live without, even if they don't know it yet, and I get to be the one to present it to them...it pulses in my vision with a radiant golden glow, like it was sent from the gods. It's like a something in a totally killer video game, but it's REAL LIFE. And it's blissfully and tangibly MATERIAL.

The weather in Vermont lately has been such a teaser for the fall to come, and today was the first day since moving back Stateside that I got to wear my leather jacket (seen above at Trevi Fountain, below looking toward the Colosseum, and above-above on the night of my birthday, so I guess, technically, that's a lie, though literally, today was the first DAY and not NIGHT I've worn it). I commented on this fact to Alli during our dinner-and-an-old-yet-favorite-movie at home, and the conversation finally worked its way around to the fact I bought and brought back from Italy to the guy I had most recently been seeing a leather jacket of his own, based merely on the fact that as I was leaving, I asked if he needed a new wallet or belt or journal, as I was going to be living in the leather goods capital of the world, and he jokingly replied, "Nah. But I always have wanted a leather jacket," and so on the same day, in the same shop I found mine, I found the perfect one for him-- something

which neither Alli nor Nora have completely made peace with yet considering all of what happened between coming back from Italy, giving him said jacket, and now. As for my part, it was a gift, and I am not an Indian-giver. You don't just happen upon, buy, give, and then take back the perfect present. You don't repossess something bought specifically for one person. You just cut your losses and call it even. Eh. What ya gonna do abouddit?

Today, however, I found the loop-hole, as I looked down at my spoils-of-Italy-clad feet while splayed across the couch. "You know what?" I said to Alli. "I actually think I paid more for these boots than I paid for that jacket."

Italy. Your economy can thank me.

XOXO

Broke in Burlington

As if floundering about (read: sinking) in my love life and getting let go from my summer job wasn't enough, I recently overdrew my bank account (rent) and worked my way into a goodly sum of overdraft (again, imagine the cost of my rent,) and down to the last $5 in my wallet. "Stressed" and "rough patch" don't even begin to describe the situation I'm in. I've prostituted myself to every worthwhile job position I could find, and spent an afternoon seriously considering debuting in porn after seeing the dollar amount tacked on to the job. (But just like egg donation, I nixed that idea. Porn because, well, though I may watch it, I don't really want to be so interactive in it, and the egg donation because for the rest of my life I'd be doing double-takes at every blonde, blue-eyed child, wondering if it's mine. And with the smoking, I'm not exactly an ideal candidate. Like every other job, so it seems.) I already sold all the clothing I could to Plato's Closet, and unlike last summer's period of saintly rest from the wicked, I don't have the spoils of my bad habits to exchange for cash. I'm using them myself. I have to. It's what's brightening my days.

The good news is, there are 22 cigarettes, 9 beer, half a tank of gas, half a bag of cat food, and half a box of kitty litter left. There's food in the pantry, so I'm playing the game of "what can I make with what's left over?" But you can only get so far without milk, meat, or chocolate before you start to feel, well...hungry. And deprived.

So, what's a girl to do? Well, eat/beg/borrow/steal smart. Everyone knows the age-old trick of eating the food samples at Costco's as a lunch staple, but in order to do that, one actually has to have a Costco card. (Actually, I have an old one, and I doubt they look too hard at them until you actually buy something.) Instead, improvisation rules your meal times. I've been using my good grace and the love of my friends and their food as much as possible. Any food invitation you get, from a homemade mac and cheese dinner to pizza and cake to a handful of chips, you take. For the more discerning palates, there are other options. When I was a sophomore, I read a great article in the Champlain Current by Ian Frisch about how to use City Market's good intentions against them and make a meal for under $3. It involved buying a banana, the ends of meat and cheese that are sold for a song, and using their free bread, condiments, and water in the buffet to make a sandwich. (They also periodically have fuck-ups price-marking the food that are worth looking for-- I got a $4, not $12, pork roast once, and cheese for 22 cents that should have been $5.22.) I

walked into Great Harvest Breads on Pine Street to inquire about a job, and though it was filled already and I left still unemployed, I found something nearly better-- they give you thick slabs of free bread samples, which you can slather with as much butter as you want right out of a crock. A slice of bread and butter from there is enough for a lunch on the run. Bring your own water, though-- the bread, while fantastic and addicting, especially the Honey Oat Wheat and the Mediterranean Olive Loaf, is dense, doughy, and dries your mouth out like the best herb money can buy. Only you're getting dry-mouth and a full belly for free. Cheese Traders, Lake Champlain Chocolate's shop on Church Street, and farmer's markets are always good places to cruise for free samples of tasty little delights, too.

Speaking of that other thing, beggars cannot be choosers, and should not be above using people to smoke their shit when down and out. Everyone does it at one time or another. Especially to people they just met and will never see again. (Read: dudes intent on hitting on you hard-core at

parties. Plus, it makes them bearable.)

For broke-ass fun and entertainment, it takes a little more settling. I've resigned myself to the fact I won't see Inception until it comes out on DVD, and that barring friends lovely enough to buy my drinks-- that's you, Emily and Nora--the bars downtown are going to have a rest and recovery time from me until the end of August. However, walking down to the waterfront to watch the amazing sunsets over the Adirondacks is just as good as any cinema, and there are always parties to go to in Burlington. If you're sick of all your movies, you can always watch new ones online, or start a lending group with friends. (You can actually also start a cooking circle with friends so that you can eat up to 4 dinners a week for free and only have to cook for everyone else once.) Church Street is always great entertainment, too-- I walk down to listen to music performers and go to Borders to stand in the magazine section and catch up on articles I've missed and harass them about hiring me. And you can always get more cultured and stroll into Frog Hollow or the Bern Gallery or some of the small local art galleries and peruse some fine arts for not even a nickel. Check out Seven Day's calendar for more free goings-on around town, too.

Happy mooching. And any food/dollar/alcohol/nicotine donations out of the kindness of your heart are more than greatly appreciated, too.

XOXO

The Peep Show Next Door

Last night, I inadvertently saw a naked man. I'm warning you now, this has nothing to do with me getting any. But everything to do with me feeling uncomfortable.

Girls are weird about seeing people naked. We get a kick out of it, and--unless it is someone we want to see naked and there is sex for us involved--then we want it to be over. Patience walked into my room with a shell-shocked-prisoner-of-war face on, and said, "I think there's a naked guy next door." As any red-blooded American girl will, I asked "Where?" and followed her into the living room to investigate. And yes-- there, across the driveway, was a naked thigh. Followed by a naked ass. Followed by a-- OHMIGOD, DID HE SEE US?

Paish and I dived for cover and nervously giggled for a few minutes. This seems to be the natural response of women to nakedness-- duck for cover, then giggle about it. Gradually, we crept back up to see if he was still there...

...And he was. Staring up at our window. Not trying to conceal anything.

He stayed there, flaunting his nakedness and our growing discomfort for over 15 minutes. It was at this time that I put 2-and-2 together about what Twan had warned me about the guy next door with a fetish for both blow-up dolls and not closing his blinds, and Mister Red Light wondering where we'd gone. It was worse than that time in Perugia-- well, I mean, the guy wasn't in at least his mid-forties, and had a better body, but it was creepier; Perugia Nudie didn't give a flying fuck if anyone was watching him. Jeepers Creepers next door wanted to know if we were watching. Twan had told me to call the cops the first time Peep Show creeped us out. I couldn't justify calling the cops yet, and at 3 AM, so I texted Twan instead. He didn't answer; Paish and I went out on the back deck to get out of sight and smoke a stress-cigarette, and when we came back, the blinds had closed again. All in all, nothing accomplished but feeling dirty.

As Patience asked, "Why does this always happen to me?" I feel like I too have seen an unfairly disproportionate number of naked men from across air spaces and driveways. And mostly, always men. Now, I know I'm no blushing daisy myself, of Naked Tuesdays fame, but when I realized on two separate occasions that our hot carpenter/next door neighbor-- not to be confused with Jeepers Creepers-- was the person who lived directly across the driveway from me on the second floor and not only was the guy who got to watch me cooking in a bra and shorts, but also was the same person closing the blinds in the kitchen that looks directly into my bedroom window every morning because I may-or-may-not-but-definitely-do sleep in just underwear and didn't have curtains yet, I started thinking about flashing my naked body around a lot less than I did in say, Italy. A little respect is all I ask. And respect is not craning your naked self out of your window to look up toward my living room and see if we're watching your

naked ass. Respect is shutting your damn blinds before we have to.

I guess this is my welcome to Mister Roger's Naked Neighborhood. Why can't all naked men over the age of 25 just look like Rusty DeWees, I ask you?

XOXO

P.S-- And yes, I'm going to use that image as much as humanly possible in the foreseeable future. I also, for shits and giggles, want you to guess how old that man is. Just, please-- guess. I can't wait to tell you the truth and blow your mind.

The Tell-Tale Heart

I know Facebook has ruined us. Do you want to know how Facebook has ruined us? Because for what was probably the past three hours of my sleeping life, I grappled with a dream which started out pleasant and involved two loves of my life: men, and pie, and yet progressed into something that made my heart-- literally, I felt my heart-- plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes when in my dream, I saw It. That thing that all girls secretly dread. The terror of the internet. The scourge of Facebook. "_______ is in a relationship with _______." That little pink heart has never been more ominous.

When I woke up, I promptly lunged for my laptop, just to make sure it wasn't true and I hadn't been sleep-web-surfing like how I sometimes have to wake up and grab for my phone to see if I really was sleep-texting or so-fucked-up-you-might-as-well-be-asleep-because-you're-not-gong-to-remember-doing-it-in-the-morning texting. The rest of the dream I could brush off as kinda ridiculous-- running down the road, looking in houses for someone you have no idea how to find (oh, that's telling!) and who remains, decidedly, not a character in the rest of this dream, but instead, a blue and white profile with a new pink heart on it; an 18 year old, baby-faced, cowboy hat-wearing new girlfriend who kinda looked like Bret Michaels had actually succeeded in fathering a child with one of his Rock of Love floozies, having a traumatic breakdown on my shoulder while the only decent thing to do was hold a tissue for her to blow her nose while consoling her because, "I know how he can be, sweetie." It rang so true I couldn't even get mad when she blew snot all over my toes and her parents told me how perfect they were together over what seemed to be a feast straight from Henry the VIII's table. I mean, there was a woman ladling split-pea soup straight into her mouth, for chrissake. How am I supposed to take a dream like this seriously?

The point is, I did. The point is, I woke up with a start, gasping and bolting upright, and then scrambled down to the foot of my bed and grabbed my laptop to check-- just because. Just because it felt so real. Just because I am that terrified. Just because it brought to my attention that any day, that could be a real possibility, and I am, as evidenced, nowhere near prepared for that. I guess what they say about dreams bringing out your subconscious fears and desires is true-- in which case, I am a mess. Facebook, you've finally fucked me over.

XOXO

P.S-- In other news, you have 5 days to become my 48th, 49th, or 50th follower. (Which is a great birthday present to me.) And there's $1.14 that stands between me and a check from Google, which would really be appreciated as I am currently investigating the laws of prostitution for some gray area and not quite the same severity as a sentence for robbery/forgery/extortion/embezzlement, as those are my 5 options at the moment to afford summer rent.

Of Fox And Men.

Easter Sunday was not the best holiday of my year so far. Then again, neither was New Years, or Valentine's Day, or April Fool's Day.

I was stood up, and fell off of the broken toilet seat in the little bathroom. Twice.

Yes, you are allowed to laugh about that, but I was pretty much done. Maybe this just isn't my year for the holidays. About the only ones that went somewhat according to plan were St. Paddy's Day and 4/20, if that tells you anything.

Fast forward two weeks later, and I was getting pretty much used to being stood up when I was stood up again. This time, as you may have guessed, it was by Middlebury Grad Guy, and it wasn't so much of "being stood up" as it was I decided it "wasn't worth calling" when he didn't. I didn't think much of it after the fact.

Surprise, surprise, a few days later, Middlebury Grad Guy sent me the following apology: "Hey Carissa, I wanted to sincerely apologize for not getting back to you about Boboli. I got really tied up that weekend, and after that I was too embarrassed to address it. So I'm really sorry and if we can't get together before you leave Italy; hopefully we can see each other in VT this summer."

Perfectly succinct, contrite, and polite. Nothing that would ever get your heart pounding or change your mind, however. I sent back something equally noncommittal about how it was no problem since I had a friend who unexpectedly dropped in that weekend (true,) and that if we didn't run into each other in the 20 days left in Italy, then maybe we would in Vermont (maybe not so true). In the past, I might have scoured every line to try to translate it into Girl Speak what he meant-- Did he really want to see me? Did he get "tied up"? Was he really embarrassed? Was he really sorry?-- but the amount (next to nothing) that I cared about these questions reaffirmed something that I once told myself: It's not worth wasting your time on someone that you're not completely into. Yeah, he's nice and smart and funny and not hard on the eyes at all, but he's just not the person I want to be with. So why try to make something happen if it's just not there? Done. End of story. I brushed my hands off, deleted the email after saving the copy here, and went back to the new chapter of my Single Girl life: getting used to being stood up or let down.

But what he said, or rather, how he said it, got me thinking. Apologies are funny things. I've been getting a lot of them lately, which has brought up the question: How many times can you accept an apology? How much can you put up with? Or, should you?

So, you're going to have to stick with me for this logic-jump, but I also just watched and fell in love with "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" the other night, and a scene from the movie in which Felicity Fox confronts Mr. Fox about lying to her re: stopping stealing shit explains the dynamics of an apology really well:

"I believed you. Why, why did you lie to me?"

"Because I'm a wild animal."

No, no...I'm not stopping here and just saying men are wild animals. (Though it can be true at times.)

"I'm trying to tell you the truth about myself."

"I don't care about the truth about yourself. This story is too predictable."

Someone is always going to want to explain the truth about themselves to you. Some will do it by not calling. Some will do it by sending a perfectly nice apology. Some will do it in their actions, or by their in-actions. Some will do it by not being there when they say they will be. And some will by doing exactly what they say they'll try to do for you. Your part in an apology is to decide whether to accept it or not. It's up to you to decide if you've heard too many apologies to continue to let someone slide by you, scott-free, by just saying "I'm sorry" without ever trying to change. It's up to you to decide if an apology is something that you, personally, can or cannot accept.

Just like a fox can't change his nature so easily, neither can people. It's deciding who, in the end, is still fantastic enough to keep around and have enough faith that at the last minute, they will change enough to come in and save the day.

XOXO