I'm Just Giving The Dog A Bone: The Men's Guide To Flirting

So you think you can flirt, huh? I have news for you, buddy-- you can always improve on that game, and just like how you begged until your parents sent you to basketball camp in middle school so that you could improve that 3-point shot of yours, I'm here by popular demand to tell you where you're slacking on the job while trying to pick up chicks. So, here it is, 5 quick, easy tips for sneakily getting on the better, phone-number-giving side of the fairer sex. Use them for good, my boys, not evil. After all-- Gandalf is watching.

- Be Aggressive, B.E AGGRESSIVE:

This is the cautionary tale of one would-be suitor gone horrible wrong:

Sometimes, being aggressive is a good thing, like in rugby and fencing and chess and discount sales in Filene's Basement. But sometimes, it's not. Persistence isn't always the best tactic. One over-enthusiastic gent tracked me down on Facebook-- and Twitter. He tried friending me-- 3 times in 2 days when I didn't accept fast enough for his liking. He messaged me. He poked me. It was the electronic equivalent of a grade-school kid standing on his blue plastic chair, waving his arms over his head, screaming, "Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!" I still haven't accepted his request. Why? Because there's aggressive, and then there's AGGRESSIVE. And...desperation has never been sexy. Doesn't matter if you're XY or XX-- it's a big NO, and the reek of it permeates everything you do. We will know when you're desperate. Your friends, parents, coworkers, classmates, postal worker, hair dresser, and the entirety of Facebook will know when you are desperate. It shows. So get a leash on that beast. Down, boy.

- "E" Is For Effort. Also, Egotistical Eunuchs End Up Eating Alone:

I've had guys tell me, "Come down to see me when you're on your break." This is bad. If you're the one who wants to see me, then you can come to me. A girl with options never goes out of her way for a man; she'll let him come to her, if he wants to. Nothing tells a girl faster if a guy is really serious about her or not by how much effort he puts into seeing her. And by this age, we girls should have stopped being delusional and making excuses for lazy asses and should know how much effort shown constitutes a viable man and a viable relationship. I know. If it isn't calling, isn't visiting, isn't writing, and isn't planning, it ain't yo' boyfran, gurrrrrrl. And kind sirs, if you are not actively walking your ass over to see her, she's going to find someone else who WILL, because she ain't that desperate yet for yo' lazy ass. Again, desperation is never sexy.

- You're QUALITY, Not QUANTITY: 

Always remember: A little goes a long way, if your "little"-- time, effort, energy, affection, money, passion-- is quality. I've always preferred my men a little aloof-- it helps keep the magic going. My last S.O waited until Date #5 to finally kiss me; the entirety of dates 1-4 I was constantly wondering what was going on, and the anticipation made me sparkle even more than the average girl trying to look good on a date does because I kept working for it. But the long-awaited kiss was so good, it was worth the wait. And you know what? All that time spent in good, intelligent conversation, learning each other's likes and dislikes, food and movie preferences before swapping spit made us both sure that we liked the other-- more than just a first date could have foreseen. They were quality dates. It was a quality first kiss. We were sure that the other was a quality person. Much better than a really awkward make-out session straddling the cup-holders in his car's front seat post first-date beers would have been. A win all-around.

- How To Scabbard Your Sword-- What Women Want:

Sorry, this isn't about sex. I just thought that play on words would grab your attention for what will probably be for most of you the hardest concept to grasp. (Unlike grasping other things.) This is about what all women want. This is the secret that lands the nerdy guys the perfect 10s. This is the Rosetta Stone for understanding women. Cracking this is like cracking a Rubix Cube. So I don't want to have to sit here and waits through eons of evolution for you guys to finally get it. Which is why I'm just going to come right out and say it to you:

Women just want to be saved. Or, at the very least, we want a partner in crime.

You know how in Million Dollar Baby, Hillary Swank kicked major ass? It was because Clint Eastwood was there in her corner, and he had her back. All women want a knight...white, black, red, or purple, it doesn't matter to us. What matters is that we all want a champion— someone who is willing to go forth and do battle for us, whether it’s getting us that extra dollar off our soft pretzel at the mall that the salesgirl somehow forgot to credit us, or sticking up to other people to defend us. Because we’re worth it. As Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote, every girl is a princess, whether she looks like it or acts like it or not. If I do something, if I say something, you best believe I do it with 110% conviction, and all I want— and what I deserve— is to have someone there who will stand next to me and uphold those words and those actions.

This is where a guy riding up on his high horse comes in. I don’t need to be questioned anymore. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. What I want, what I need-- what all women need-- is someone as strong and courageous and faithful as I am to stand next to me and be there for me to lean on when I’m too tired to lead the charge, and have them stand up to the job. So be a stand-up guy. If you say something, follow through. Never make any promises you can't keep; don't lie. If you know something wrong is happening, stop it. If you see something unfair, call people on it. In return, I promise that any woman worth that title and her salt will be doing the same for you, because if you have my back, and I have yours, nothing in life will ever be able to sneak up on us and scare the crap out of us. THAT is what women find most sexy of all-- reliability, safety, and partnership.

- Getting The Big N.O, or, Failure For Champions:

Then again, you could do everything right and still be turned down. It's a woman's prerogative to be fickle. Maybe she's just gotten out of a bad relationship, or isn't over her ex yet. Maybe she's interested in someone else and doesn't want to lead you on and waste your time. Maybe you're just not her "type"...you can't help that, but chances are you definitely will be someone else's. Or maybe she's just enjoying being single right now, and doesn't want to think about getting involved with men or dating. But don't let this dissuade you from trying again with a different girl-- practice makes perfect, after all. Take a page from the Casanova-like diaries of the men I met while I was in Italy-- with all the "ciao, bella"-ing that was going on, and all the flat-out rejections from those "bella"s, I thought it was a wonder any Italians ever managed to procreate. But as my Food and Wine professor told his class of 18 American girls, "If you say it enough times, someone is bound to say 'ciao' back." That's how he landed his American wife while she was studying abroad. See? It works. If Giancarlo could do it, I have faith that you can, too. Now, get out there, and be someone's knight in shining armor. Or, at least, take you car through the car wash and go pay for the cute lady in front of you's espresso at the coffee shop tomorrow morning.

Buona fortuna!

XOXO

How To Stay Single, Or, The New Girl Brings All The Boys To The Yard.

When I moved home, I expected that being a grown-ass woman rooming with her parents was going to be putting a HUGE dent in my dating game, were I to choose to play it again. I forgot to factor in the atmosphere of where, exactly, I was moving back to, literally and metaphorically.

The one thing I'd forgotten about starting new jobs was the fact that working in a mall is kind of like being thrown A.) Back into high school, and B.) To the sharks. Since breaking up, moving back home, and becoming employed elsewhere after years of working for the college, I'd somehow forgotten that when you're a mall-rat employee, you meet LOTS of new people. Not because you're just that cool or that popular...but because everyone wants to find out what the new girl's like.

Well, when the new girl's under the age of 30, single, and is willing to wear 5-inch heels to climb the ladder at work to hang new company posters...well, being the new girl turns some heads. The fact that she doesn't pay rent and eats home-cooked meals isn't considered a deterrent, at all. Unfortunately.

By my second shift, I already had a coworker trying to play matchmaker with me and one of his friends. I had a slew of new Facebook friend requests...all male. I literally had to make the "turn around" hand motion to get some poor young dude working across the hall to go back to his shirt folding when I clicked by on a candy bar run to Kmart before his manager yelled at him. I have gotten more store card apps in the last two weeks from eager, young, impressionable men with birth dates in the '90s than...well, more than I should feel morally ok with.

...Have I mentioned the fact that in my hometown, having all your teeth is a sign of natural beauty? While I may not be a top-model prize in Burlington or, say, Milan-- in Vegas, baby, (all) my straight teeth and 4-pack abs are pulling out all the stops.

But here's the thing-- I'm enjoying being single. After two and a half years of always having some guy around, I actually like being on my own. I mean, sure, the fact that it's getting cold at night without someone else to leech body-heat from is becoming a pain in the ass, and I really miss the company, but as I told a coworker today when she asked me how I was getting by without having sex, considering the fact that I lived with my last boyfriend and consider sex to be a daily-- if not twice or thrice daily-- duty when in relationships, I'm taking a little bit of a respite from it now, thanks. It's nice to not have to shave every other day. My body is thanking me more than it's yelling at me every time a tall, muscular dude who looks like Jason Statham's nephew walks by the storefront. For real. I'm not kidding. And my leg hair has never kept me warmer. Which is good for all those cold nights spent cuddling with my cat at home while watching Netflix and having to keep turning the volume out to drown my parents out.

So, despite all the things that nature and our 21st century society state I should have working against me right now, I've started waving at one of my sweeter admirers every time he passes by, even though I've made it clear to all that NOBODY gets a "friend" request accepted until I've met and talked with you at least twice for a decent amount of time (it helps suss out the creepers from the genuine nice people), no matter how many times you walk by or how many times I wave hello. One of my managers noticed, and asked me how I felt about jumping back into the dating pool. I pulled a face and told her my master plan.

"I figure, if I say to them, 'my last relationship involved living together, him doing the laundry, and talking about weddings; are you ready to jump right in there?' it will scare them away."

So far, the master plan is working. The only thing scarier than a woman with missing teeth in this town is a 22 year old single girl who's looking to play Mr. and Mrs. Buy A House. I mean, I didn't give an underwear model my info. And he looked like this:

What in the unholy Universe would convince me to start dating again NOW?

So who's the smart one now? This (happily single) girl.

XOXO

6 Quick Tips To A Better Relationship

Clear space out in your life for them, literally. Yes, yes, we all heard first-hand from me what a bitch it was to lump all my tank tops and long sleeves together in my closet, but making a shelf for the guy I'm seeing has ended up not only being functional so that the extra pairs of socks and shirts he keeps here don't get mixed in my my cast-off clothing, but also, a great visual reminder behind my closet door that it's not just me and my girl clothes in there anymore. Even when he's not here, his stinky socks are, which is strangely more endearing than it sounds.

Spend the night where you normally wouldn't. I had an important doctor's appointment last week in the morning, and it's a 2 hour drive from here to my hometown. Fortunately, TGIS lives basically halfway between my college home and my permanent, parental address, and offered to have me come down to him and spend the night before there so I only had to drive an hour in the morning and could get some extra zzz's (in theory, at least). It was charming and enlightening to be in his world (and house) for the night, and to sleep in his bed and watch his TV shows. If you never spend the night at his place because, ick, can you say man-cave?, I'd suggest you woman up and do it, if just for one night. Not only is he in his comfortable territory, but you both get to do something new. If you already swap nights between your place and your S.O's, go somewhere else overnight like a B&B or hotel or offer to house-sit for a friend who's going out of town. Moving your relationship somewhere it normally doesn't exist gives you a fresh perspective.

Uphold your couple habits. I've said it time and time before-- you shouldn't have to talk to your S.O every day. And yet, I'm currently involved in a relationship, as shown, that it's weird to not at least send at least a single text in every day. Case in point: I've been going through a lot of personal things lately, and have talked to the guy I'm seeing about how I really need support right now. Yesterday was kind of a down day for me, and I didn't hear from him, which didn't make me feel any peppier-- until he sent me a completely random, inside-joke text at 1:42 in the morning. I may have been juuuust about to fall asleep, but knowing that he reached out before I did let me sleep so much more soundly. The key here with communication is to uphold without going overboard or smothering-- You don't want to be the type of girl who dominates his Facebook wall, and you also don't want to horn into his time with the boys, though I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you posted random, funny things you find on Youtube from time to time, or if you sent him a single "thinking of you, you great big stud-muffin"-y text or a risqué photo to remind him what he's missing on boy's night. Moderation-- as with in things like drinking, drugs, and shopping-- is the key.

Shower together. During that time of the month, extracurricular relationship activities come to a slow-down for me, and showering together is one of the things that I've found that you can do that's a little romantic, a little sexy, and great for bonding. You don't even have to start anything-- just the feeling of your two naked bodies in a close space doing something most people don't get to see promotes feelings of trust and intimacy. Plus, it's environmentally friendly, blah, blah, blah. Just don't, like, shave with him watching or anything. That would kill intimacy, not foster it.

Cook dinner. If he can/wants to help, that's icing on the cake, but more than anything, you can really get off on a big relationship boost of providing for someone's basic need: to eat. Have a few quick, under 30-minute go-to recipes mastered that you know you both enjoy-- I make a mean risotto that I learned in Italy that TGIS calls "bitchin'," so if he's over and hasn't eaten dinner yet, I make sure I always have the ingredients to whip it up. (No one is EVER getting my secret special recipe, but you can find a similar, definite man-friendly risotto with bacon recipe here.)

Enforced bonding activities. This may not sound like much fun, but if I could, I'd make EBAs mandatory in relationships. They're the things that really aren't fun, but prove to each other that you're willing to put up with them when the shit hits the fan. Cases in point: Retracing steps and keeping a level head when they lose their credit card. Digging each other's cars out after a winter storm. Meeting the parents. Attending your S.O's work functional as their +1. EBAs prove that when the chips are down, you're by their side and not going anywhere fast, which is possibly one of the most heartening and affirming things that you can do or receive in a relationship.

What are some of your best relationship tips?

XOXO

Bringing Sexy Back

I frequently spend downtime at my job chatting with the guy I'm seeing when there's no clients, no pressing inter-office business, and no other busy-work to be done while I'm sitting at the desk, awaiting inter-collegiate emails. However, work and play overlapped in a way I didn't see coming yesterday that left me feeling a little shook not only about how my job and interests bleed into my personal life, as well as how "comfortable" isn't always a good thing in a relationship, despite the connotations of warmth, bliss, and utter lethargy. The conversation that started it all (lightly edited for content, clarity, and privacy,) is as follows:

He: "My friend who you met at ____ has been in one of they're videos."

Me: "Really? And yo' grammar. It's outta control."

He: "You can bug me about it, but I don't give a shit."

Me: "Good grammar is sexy."

He: "If I thought I still had to make sure I was being "sexy" for you online then I would, but I REALLY don't feel obligated to go back over every sentence I type right now, especially since I'm doing a couple things at the moment."

Me: "Real romance never dies. Proof-read so I can think more about jumping your bones and less about proper usage."

I work in a writing center, and I'm a professional writer. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the English language (and occasionally, other languages, so holla to you, French and Italian), and it's something that's obviously important to me. The guy I'm seeing knows this. It's no secret to him that I decided to give him a chance after he used the word "microcosm" in a comment on my Facebook wall-- he literally had me at "the world in miniature." Which is why it was such a bummer for me to see the wrong "their/they're/there" in something he typed-- when he was still working on winning me over and wooing me, everything he wrote to me was flawlessly edited for maximum correctness, and if he slipped, he'd immediately correct it. He knew I have a hard-on about grammar, so he put the time in to make it all look appealing. It meant a lot. To me, good grammar is sexy. Words are sexy. Which brought up the question today-- At what time is it ok for the sexy to stop? Is it ever really ok?

Granted, he has a point in the fact that we've now been seeing each other more or less for three months, and together for two, and it's hard not to feel comfortable with someone when they're leaving their clothing, their beer, some food, and have a toothbrush in your apartment, but I would hope that someone would always want to be sexy for me, regardless if we've been together for two months, or two decades. When the sexy stops is when the taking-for-granted comes in, and no one likes to admit when sexy changes from something that you do inherently as a means to an end (getting laid), to something that falls by the wayside because you're now comfortable with someone (and now getting laid regularly). As Carrie said in "The Drought"-- "There's a moment in every relationship where romance gives way to reality." And it blows. But does it have to? Does the sexy really ever have to stop?

True, it's a lot of work to maintain, but that's what makes a relationship go from "work" to "magical." So what if you have to spend a few more minutes proof-reading something? I'm not going anywhere. And so what if you've woken up next to me with sex-hair, or seen me in the shower with mascara running all down my cheeks? Just because I'm comfortable enough with someone that they've seen me looking pretty bad doesn't mean I still don't bust hump applying make-up, choosing the right outfit, and doing my hair for a good hour before I see them, still. Right now, it's still all smooth legs and thongs. But what if I decided I was comfortable, and let the romance die? What if I stopped shaving my legs regularly and started wearing more cotton full-coverage bikini underwear? I'm pretty sure there'd be some protests, if not some full-on Egypt-scale riots. Because really, those are two things I definitely DON'T do to keep it sexy for him. And both take more time and effort than using spell check does.

I don't mean to gripe, and I think at this point, we all know how deliriously pleased I am most of the time with the new beau and consider myself a very lucky girl, but I just think that this example illustrates the differences in men' and women's ways of thinking better than nearly anything else. To me, the romance, the effort, the spark (if you will,) in a relationship is really important...nearly as important as the good grammar I get paid to look for. If that means that I'm going to have to put in a little more work to keep things fresh and exciting and sexy, then yes, I'm going to do it. To me, comfort is letting you use my laptop without hovering over your shoulder paranoid you're going to go through my search history, or leaving you the keys to my apartment, not burping in front of you and occasionally being caught wearing something from Vickie's cotton college dorm-wear PINK line instead their Sexy Little Things collection. So no...no, I don't think it's ever ok to think that comfort with someone equals the fact that they're a sure thing and let the sexy slip away, because if grammar is the first thing to go, it begs the question of what the next thing to slack will be. The sexy needs to be nurtured, in moments like the Hollywood Kiss that took me by surprise one random night when he grabbed me and dipped me for a kiss (in the Top 3 Most Romantic Moments Of My Life, for sure), or when you spontaneously reach for the whipped cream in the supermarket or the new pair of underwear he's never seen before, or that random moment at 2 AM last night when he texted me, just to say "hi" and ask how I was doing. The sexy is what takes a relationship from normal to fireworks, and you best believe that I'm a fireworks kind of gal. I love fireworks. Almost as much as I love the Oxford comma.

XOXO

Three Short, Hilarious Stories I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries.

Caught Red-Handed:

For a year, I slept with the same guy. While there were perks-- intimate knowledge of how each other's body worked, relaxed expectations because you knew exactly what you were going to get, the fact that you find a routine that works perfectly every time-- ending that relationship and having a new partner has been a little thrilling. Sometimes, more than just a little.

I had a gynecological exam yesterday morning because I practice what I preach (GET TESTED, PEOPLE!), as well as am very adverse the the idea of having babies, and needed my birth control script refilled. The first sign that this may have been a really potentially awkward experience was when I looked at the nurse and asked, "If I've had sex within the last 24 hours, is it going to affect my Pap results or cell samples?" The second sign would have been the fact that my ass is currently redder than a drunken Irishman sweating under a Caribbean sun with no sun umbrella in sight.

While it's great for health insurance perks and getting appointments ASAP, the problem with having a mother who works in a hospital and knows EVERYONE is that I'm pretty sure that while nothing was said to me, other than a shocked expression quickly covered up by some very pointedly raised eyebrows, someone might be asking my mother shortly if I'm "safe at home" or if I'm being beaten. Having to explain it's consensual...very, very awkward.

However, good news-- they've now replaced the metal duck-lips with plastic ones. Slightly warmer. Less terrifying than having metal inside of you.

Be The Bigger Man:

The guy behind the counter was cute. Very cute. Nice eyes. Very boy-next-door in plaid and shaggy blonde hair. I saw his eyebrows flash up and down in the universal sign for "well, hello there, gorgeous!" as I walked toward him, heels clicking through the thin nubby carpet, and he grinned as he asked, "Hi, how are you?"

"Great, thanks," I said, putting the box of Magnums down on the counter between us. And I shit you not, he looked down at the box, as did I, and stared silently at them for a full 5 seconds in dumb shock, then went on to complete the rest of the transaction in complete silence, except for a half-hearted "have a good night," as I slipped them into my purse.

"Oh, I will," I told him.

Ladies Is Pimps, Too:

I am firmly against parents being allowed on Facebook. Why? Because if your friends accept their friend requests, even if you don't, you still wind up finding things. Like this.

My friend Tessa griped in her status, "How to lose a guy in 10 days? Uhmm a more appropriate question would be how to get a guy in 10 days..."

My mother's response? "Tessa, you should touch base with Carissa."

THANKS, MOM. BECAUSE THAT LOOKS REAL GOOD. Something else to add to my resumee-- columnist, blogger, peer advisor, man finder, pimp. I'm so glad my $40,000 a year multi-faceted liberal arts private college education is paying off.

XOXO

Playa Hater

In many aspects, I'm not your typical girl. I don't know many Lady Gaga songs, I'm really not into jeggings, and I'd rather watch a football game than Glee and go to a dive bar than a nail salon. I've never had a manicure (waste of money when you use your hands as much as I do), and I didn't have senior portraits taken, or professional prom photos done. So it really shouldn't be any surprise that there wasn't any photographic evidence of me with any of the guys I've dated or been in relationships with.

I mean, yes-- there is a horrible held-at-arm's-length cell phone quality snapshot of me and a guy I was with freshmen year, and there's a photo of my on-again, off-again guy and I in a group of our friends, but that's it. No official "hello world, we're a couple, and can't you tell?" photos. I was thinking about this fact today while watching SATC reruns and thinking about how anti-girl that fact is. Also, about how slightly sad it is that I'll have no photographic reminders of how I felt together while I was with a guy.

Until now. Low and behold, not 30 minutes later, an image taken of the boy and I on his birthday surfaced on Facebook from his friend's cell phone. I knew that his friend had been taking photos of the shitshow taking place, and was expecting some hilarious Leaning Pile of Drunken Man photos, or possibly, ones of me standing in front of him with his chin in my hand, trying to get him to focus on me long enough to find out if he needed more water. Instead, what popped up was a photo of the two of us casually sitting on the end of the couch closely together, my arm around his neck, hand resting on his collarbone, his arm around my waist and hand on my hip, both our eyes focused down at some point on the floor in front of us as we talked about something. Or he slurred and I listened intently.

It's a great photo. I wasn't expecting it, especially from a friend of his. Totally candid, yet entirely truthful. I am now a believer in those body language experts who say they can tell if two people are sleeping together just by reading their body language as they interact. If a picture is worth a thousand words, than that photo only needed three: "So into him." I wondered, when I saw it, what the shelf life of it would be on the page of someone who is enjoying a Time Without Labels, and says that one of his favorite things about me is the fact that I don't ask about his business, yet has his own toothbrush on my sink and spent 3 of the last 7 nights at my place. As I expected, it lived live for about three hours, and then disappeared.

I'm not surprised because I know the situation. I know how refreshing it is to get out of long relationships and be single again, even if you're currently casually seeing someone that you really like. There's no rush to jump into anything, and the concept of not having to be committed to anything is intoxicating. I know that he's the sort of guy who wants to appear single on his page, even if he's into displays of affection in public, just like I'm the sort of girl whose Facebook relationship status is "In An Open Relationship" because that's how I consider myself-- in an open relationship with THE WORLD. I'm not into relationship statuses, or broadcasting it every time I start crushing on or seeing a new person. And while I'm not looking for any sort of label from him, and while I knew from the instant I saw it that that photo's shelf-life had a short expiration date, I have to admit, it did get me a little down to not see it there anymore. If you can show me off around town and to your friends, why don't you want to show me off in other aspects of your life, too? Because I honestly feel like I'm worth it.

Part of me, a very small part of me, took tiny offense to it, with a grain of salt. From the get-go when I saw it, I knew it would probably be removed because it would hurt his "playa image"-- the thought that he can flirt with whomever he likes online or in the real world because they don't know he's seeing anyone else. For three hours, that image was killed by any other girls who happened to see it, and the photo probably wasn't as well-received by him as it was by me because of that fact. In reality, he knows the difference between flirting with someone and trying to get with someone, and is very straight about it-- I have no worries that he's actively trying to get with anyone else. And hell, I'm a huge fucking flirt, so if he wants to get his harmless flirt on, he can get his harmless flirt on. But it got me thinking and couldn't help but make me wonder: Why do men always feel the need to be lining up the field? It's not just him-- it's the guy my friend is trying to see who has a ton of his "bitties", and what my ex who always had another girl on the side, just in case, did. It's what this guy explains in his "bottom bitch theory" video. This is dating, and as much as it seems like a game of chess or a full-body contact sport like rugby (but with kissing), IT AIN'T. I am not lining up my next starting line while I'm with a guy. As unnerving as it is, I play it play-by-play and day-to-day, and if it ends tomorrow, then it's gonna be awhile before I find another starting player to draft. Girls (sometimes, more than guys,) deal with periods of singledom and sometimes celibacy because of this-- when a girl is really with you, we're WITH you, ride-or-die style. And if a guy's not thinking the same way, than it's like you're dating on top of a trapeze of your feelings with no safety net underneath if he decides to drop you for the next Maria Sharapova or Mia Hamm or Serena Williams.

But it's easy-- in today's world, the internet and our presence online is what dictates how people who don't see us every day or regularly view us. And if he's flirting with other girls online, it just wouldn't do to have a couple-y photo at the top of his page. I get it, though I'm not entirely down with it. I run into the same issue every time one of my close guy friends posts something that could be considered especially intimate or overly interested-- I worry how other people will read into it. Granted, at this point, I'm pretty sure the guy I'm seeing knows they're my friends and he's the only one I'm currently seeing and/or sleeping with, but then again, whenever he leaves me a comment, then I'm always stuck wondering what my ex thinks of it. It's a no-win situation out there in cyber space.

XOXO

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.

Beauty Or The Beast?

Women, I think, more than men, tend to be territorial. While men may have classically been the hunters and warriors, you better bet that while the women stayed home and cleaned cave, sweet cave and cooked and watched the hairy little kids that they had to protect their fair share from the saber-tooth tigers of lore. In fact, in a poll taken asking who tends to be more territorial, men or women, 7 out of 10 answered in the affirmative for women, in one case, with the answer "...Women are like tigers guarding their kill." And so, the vestigial feeling remains in all women-- but what happens when the instinct in women is raised by another woman? While half of us is groomed from the cradle to be sugar and spice and everything nice and sweet, the other half is still thinking, "Bitch, get close enough, and I will sink my teeth as far as they can get into your eyes like grapes."

Is this really any surprise? In 2003, the FBI conducted a statistics report which showed that assault by women had risen 41% since 1992, in contrast to a 4.3% increase among boys. I myself, if this blog's content is any proof, am much more of a lover than a fighter, and yet, I'm not ashamed to admit that around the same time as this census, I was involved in two locker room fights in high school. And won. And if girls are willing to fight like cats and dogs over things like a bathroom stall to change in before gym class, how driven do you think we really are to fight over things we really want? Grown-ass women come to tooth and claw over discount Prada at sample sales in the sterile and soothing atmosphere of Barney's. And that's just Prada.

Like the sort of marks that wild animals leave to assert their presence in nature, women leave subtle clues for other women to see when they're marking out their territory. (Guys, prepare to have the lid blown way off.) Facebook provides a sort of "soft" surface to scratch on-- among especially younger girls and women, it provides a place to publicly stake out your claim. Women may post numerous items on a guy's page to send off a "taken" message to other women, or to undermine others. If you really want to get all scientific about it, check out the timestamps on recurring poster's entries. Chances are, if there's a man-stomping-ground fight brewing, there will be a rapid retaliation time between two women's messages on one wall. She posted yesterday? The other will post today. It's a not-so-silent waiting game until one gives up or gives in. Or, just resorts to less public forms of communication.

Women, unlike men, are tactile creatures. We touch things to find out more about them. Watch a woman shop, and you'll soon realize this. In person, women tend to stake out their interest the way they know best-- through touch. If another woman is constantly putting her hands on the arm or shoulder or back of a man, she might as well have branded "TAKEN!" across his forehead for other women to read. Here is a classic example of this, along with some advice for women how to handle a situation like this. The number one response? Be nice, and if that doesn't work, just walk away.

Listen for name-dropping. Does someone's name in particular keep coming up? Bingo. People naturally want to talk about what they're excited about. Is someone in the conversation coming back with responses like, "Oh, that's so funny-- Andre went to Mexico for vacation last year, too!" Five minutes later, it'll be, "Well, the other day, Andre said..." Women, as you may have noticed, cannot keep our traps shut. So if we can talk about you, we will. And if we can talk about you in context with other people so that they know that we're all over your shit? Even better. Let the gossip begin.

And then there's just women's intuition. We know when someone's creepin'. We usually can sniff out pretty quickly who they're creepin' with. It's not like we're "snooping" or "being nosey"-- the best way that I can explain it is that most women have the ability to look at another woman and go, "Huh. Yup. She's totally his type, and you know what? She's been coming around a lot more recently. Hmm. Gotcha." If you really want to see how and what women think of Other Women, I highly suggest the movie "The Women" (the 2008 version). Women just know other women. We get them in the way that you guys generally tend to understand anything that has a motor. We know what she means when she says cryptic things to her friends. We know when she's trying to make us jealous. We know why she is taking 500 photos of you and her, or the life around you and her. And we know what those song lyrics really mean. In an ideal world, you'd be able to use the two women that you're seeing to understand the other, because chances are, they know each other far better than you do. In this world, unless you have huge vat of mud and a large inflatable pool on hand-- don't.

There's ladies, and then there's not-so ladies. So how does a "lady" deal with a situation without her fists?

Girls are taught from an early age to assert themselves when they feel like they're being pushed around, and this is a lesson that sticks for both emotional and physical pushing and shoving, as well as leads to the phenomenon of cat-fights. The Catch-22 is this: If you actually assert yourself and your emotions and express your displeasure by saying something like, "Hey, I know what you're doing to me, and I don't like it and the way it makes me feel, AT ALL," you're in jeopardy as coming off as "needy," "overbearing," "controlling," "trying to change" someone, and yes, my favorite-- "a crazy bitch." However, this is the way that your mother and your public school education taught you how to communicate in. It's unfortunate that some men and other women couldn't give less of a fuck that approaching a problem head-on and distinctly is not considered the ideal way to communicate. You may be thinking, "What? You're crazy. No way. I want open and honest communication, all the time!" Well. Let's put ourselves in two scenarios, shall we?

Scenario One: You're a guy, and you've been engaging in some seedy and slightly sleazy behavior behind the back of a girl who you consider normally very sweet. But hey, whatever, right? Until one afternoon when she looks you dead in the eye and says, "Look, I like you a lot, and I think we have a pretty good time together, but I know what you're doing, and it makes me feel like shit. Did you ever think about how this makes me feel?" OH SHIT. Caught red-handed. So, what do you do? If you're even a half-way decent guy, you come clean and apologize and actually start doing right by her. But we all know, even in the most contrite individual, part of you is going "BITCH. You ruined all my good fun. And because of what? Feelings? Puh-lease. There are wild oats to be sown!" Because believe it or not, women have that same thought-process, too.

Which brings us to scenario two: You're another female roommate or coworker, when, one morning, your other female roomie/coworker approaches you and says, "Look, I love sharing meals with you, but I've noticed recently that you aren't contributing to the food supply, and, in fact, are eating some of mine. I wouldn't mind so much, but money's a little tight for me right now, and it's hard to do the grocery shopping for one person, let alone two." This is another situation where as the equal-opportunity snacker, you know you're to blame, but at the same time, you can't help but feeling a little self-righteous. So you generally come back with something like this as a retort: "Sorry, but I didn't see your name on that food." And then, for good measure, add in, "And could you clean your expired food out of the fridge? It's taking up space." Passive-aggressive female defense at its best.

Basically, with this first option, you're trying to assert yourself the best way you know how, but unfortunately, our society has stressed the ideal of the "sweet" girl to the point where many women are torn between the hard choice of feeling like if they express themselves, they'll lose a close relationship, or if they don't, they'll get continually steam-rolled. So, what to do? Pick another option?

Then there's the ultimatum-- "You can't have it both ways-- choose." Not a favorite. It backs people into corners and makes them do the one thing that all the previous behavior has shown an aversion to-- picking one option and sticking with it. Feminists would tell you ultimatums are an enlightened woman's friend. Men would tell you you're starting to sound like their mother. And women don't listen to ultimatums.

And then there's our third option, otherwise known as "The Girl Next Door." It balances a healthy dose of looking the other way with still being sweet to all involved. AKA: no bitching at him, no sinking your teeth into her eyeballs or fist into her jaw if you meet her, and crying only to your friends and pillow at night. Most men would probably tell you that they prefer this option. Most women, myself included, will tell you it's a recipe for pretty much one thing: an unhappy woman.

There are some people who can raise "The Girl Next Door" approach to kind of a cosmic and Karmic ideal, which involves realizing that The Other Woman is not all to blame, and, in fact, another wounded party involved; that the man in this situation is the one that has orchestrated this all; and that maybe there are reasons for him doing the things he does. There's lots of forgiveness and Zen-ness involved in this approach. I am not quite that good of a person. You can strive for it, but it's hella hard.

So, what is a girl to do if her locker room fighting days are past, and all forms of communication seem to be moot? Will an eloquent "This is how I feel" conversation ever truly give the satisfaction of a good right hook, or are women always doomed to be silent about certain things due to the fears of not being the quintessential Perfect Girl? You may say that you want the truth, but do you really want to handle the repercussions it may have? What do you think? Is there really any way to address these sorts of issues while both being strong yet not being a hard-ass?

XOXO

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost.

My friend Arielle, who is a very wise woman, said something to me the other day as we were discussing our time living in Italy-- "No one decides to go halfway around the world and study abroad for months for no reason. If your life was perfect, you wouldn't be in Italy, or Ireland, or France. I think everyone who studies abroad, whether they know it or not, is trying to escape from something."

That girl knows how to kick me in the ass like almost no other.

What she said is true. Think about it. If you were perfectly content and happy with your life at home, why would you leave? Why would you uproot, leave all your support systems, and decide that maybe, living somewhere 4,000 miles away sounded like a good idea? Why would you exchange your apartment, job, college, local grocery store, friends, climate, coffee shop, and daily routine for new ones if you were still so enamored with the old ones? It is not because, as some might say, you "wanted the experience." To that, I say bullshit. Yes, it certainly is an experience, but so is going to your closest amusement park and riding a roller coaster. If you wanted to shake your life up a bit, you would find a new job or get a haircut. You would not pack your life into two suitcases, a backpack, and a very large purse and move yourself across the globe for a nice jaunt. That is not an "experience." That is a life change, and you have to have a very good reason for making one of those, believe me.

I know because what Arielle said applies for me, too. One thing that I have learned while over here is what I am, and what I am not. And one thing that I am is a runner. If I have an issue, I tend to run away from it. In fact, Italy was my biggest runner of all. Italy was my answer to running away from my life for over three months, putting everything I could not fix on hold, and distancing myself from reality. In the months before I left, things happened in my life that I didn't have answers for. I lost someone incredibly important to me. I was stagnant in my job. I found myself in a situation that I didn't know how to deal with, because I did not have the guts to actually speak up about what I wanted and what I needed and what I was feeling. I experienced raw, emotional pain for the first time in my life like a tidal wave that sucked me down into the deepest depression of my life. Nothing was working. I got scared. I was flailing, and falling, and striking out at whatever came near me. I remember, hazily, screaming at my mother in the car while sobbing hysterically. I remember my hands shaking from thinly controlled nerves as I tried to paint. I remember turning back to chemical release because I still could not use words to remedy the situation I was in, and so, smoking could do it for me. I remember hours spent lying on my bed, in the dark, not doing anything, because just moving hurt. I remember days where I did not talk. I remember not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, because then I would see hipbones and ribs and sharp angles that I had never had before.

And so I came to Italy because I was letting go of everything that was holding me back, because I was leaving. I was checking out. I was done with living the way I had been. I came thinking that that would be the answer to life. I got shiny and sleek from the hot sun and rich food. My hair got longer in passing with the days. I started to heal. But, like Arielle, I started to realize why I had come to study abroad. I started to separate the experience from the impetus.

It took some massive struggles and some pretty tough self-love. I didn't like myself all of the time. I still don't, some days. I can be obsessive, illogical, irrational, jealous of things I cannot change, and--yes-- neurotic, and a HUUUGE flaming hypocrite. I cannot, in other words, get out of my own way. Like every person, I like to think that I was a great baby. In reality, my mother tells me that until I learned how to "get out of my own way" and crawl, I was miserable. And just like when I was a baby, with the stress of finals looming, eight-and-over page papers due in nearly every class, trying to find a job to now go with my apartment and nearly $700-a-month rent from across the ocean, my body rejecting nearly everything I try to put in it because at this point it is trying to physically reject Italy itself, and a massive question-mark hovering over the status of my life back in Vermont, I am fussy and just want to go home and figure all that out. NOW. I started to panic. I started to obsess and started to expect more than was feasible from other people, and then take it personally when things didn't pan out. I started to shut down. Like, "Get me on a plane tomorrow, ship me home, and the devil take my finals and credits and grades, because I have figured out me, I have figured out my life here, and now it is time to rejoin reality and figure out my life there."

But then I realized that if I went home now, I would have forever run away from something else-- something which I will never get a chance to get back. I also would incur a large amount of debt from switching my ticket that, seeing as I am currently job-less, I would not be able to pay back until the already large lump-sum had accrued even more money not being paid off on my (brand-new, never used, very scary) credit card. Overall, I think staying for the next 16 days is in my best interest. And so, to make it easier on myself, I cut the things out that were making me unnecessarily worry and over-hype and expect and wait and wait and wait for SOMETHING to happen, for some divine clue that everything was alright and that life back home was waiting for me to return, just as it was when I left, just as I hoped it would be. This means, for the next week, no skulking around Facebook. No waiting on Skype. No Twitter (except to Tweet these updates to the blog). This, of course, I cannot cut out, and wouldn't want to. If I couldn't write, I would die. As simple as that. (One of the things I discovered, inequivocably, I am: a writer. In that, I chose rightly.)

It does not mean, however, that it isn't very hard. I now have an apartment in Burlington that all I want is for it to be June 1st so I can move in. I want to have Saph's head on my chest again, impossibly heavy and nearly knocking me over, her nostrils making wet pockets on my shirt, my nostrils filled with the scent of hay and dust and horse. I want to wake up early and go for a walk with the trees overhead like a canopy, so early that no one else is up and I can savor a Vermont morning, all by myself. I want to drive my Civic again and panic about hill-stops on Main Street. I want to be back among my people, my friends, and the plaidness of it all. I want to find out what's going on, and where I stand. I want to have (physically, if not also emotionally if it is not too much to ask for,) safe sex again. I want to not have to smoke as much, though this is a completely open-for-interpretation desire, as my smoking habits vary directly with my stress levels. In any case, I want to not have to buy a new pack every five days.

Right now, I need more than is fair to ask from others. And so, that leads to having to ask myself to be everything I need. And this is why I came abroad, come to find out. I had to leave so that I could find myself. So that I could learn to be nearly everything I need. So that I could learn that I am obsessive, and illogical, and irrational, and jealous, and-- yes-- neurotic, and that I can be a huge hypocrite. The one thing I have to say about this period of time of running away is that though Arielle may have been right in the fact that I had a reason for leaving my life, I found an even better one to return to it: who I am, what I want, and what I need. And so, I close with this thought: though wanderers and runners and study abroad students may leave to go someplace for reasons they don't know, they will find them once they get there. If you leave someplace, you will discover why. And if you go somewhere new, you will discover something new about yourself, not just about your location. Many times, I have foolishly wished I didn't come here, just so that things could "stay normal" at home and so I wouldn't "have to worry." But in the end, what I have found here, and what has happened in Italy will be what sticks with me for the rest of my life, despite whatever I find has or has not changed back home. Not all those who wander are lost.

XOXO

The Heartbreak Project

I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.

I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."

The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.

Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.

Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.

This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.

After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.

And so, the (heart)beat goes on.

XOXO

S.O.S-- Save Our Sanity: What The Fuck Is A Date?

At over 20 years of age, I find myself in a situation I have never, ever been in before.

I am getting ready for my first date.

Now, this may totally shock you. You may wonder how this is possible. You know I've had many men, and just a bit fewer relationships. No dates, you say? How is this possible? Let me explain. The men I end up with usually fall into two categories:

A.) I sleep with them, and then we continue seeing/sleeping with each other. (I.E-- Perfect, Legs.)
B.) They're friends of mine and we decide (most of the time, wrongly,) to take things to the next level. (I.E-- The Flaky Artist, Catholic Boy, The Inappropriately Aged Ex-Boyfriend.)

Dates are scarce things in these sorts of relationships. True, The Inappropriately Aged Ex-Boyfriend did take me out to dinner and a hockey game around our six-month, but, looking back, he was already cheating on me, and I get the feeling it was to try and mix things up and see if he could rekindle that (statutory) spark and feel bad about porking a fat 'ho behind my back. He didn't. I kicked his ass to the curb less than a month after when I found out about said 'ho. And then there were the three Kinda Dates that all add up to roughly one jigsaw-puzzle date: The Flaky Artist and I walked to the U Mall, where he bought me my double cheeseburger; Legs asking me out to meet for our tried-to-be reconciliatory coffee this past May; and my Chinese dinner out with Perfect...and Cait.

Hmm. See? No real, honest-to-God, getting-to-know-you dates.

But no. Now I have one this coming Friday night. And it's not with anyone you know.

You are so confused right now. I know. I'm sorry. The explanation of why Perfect is on bad-boy behavior back-burner status right now is in the works. For right now, this is what you need to know: We had a fight. It was nasty. It started about the care package, and ended in me drastically realigning his place in my life right now. It basically boiled down to him saying, "You're too serious about this," and me snapping back with "What could I be serious about? The fact that you're three and a half hours away and we never see each other and you're probably shacking up with half of the freshmen class females? Oh, give me a break. I'm just a tease, JUST LIKE YOU ARE."

Ahem. Pent-up issues are explosive when the fuse is lit. I may have finally reached the end of my leash with him, and became the equivalent of a chained, baited, and disgruntled/rabid pitbull of love. But, oh well. It's out, it's done, and I haven't heard from him in 12 days since the night of the Epic Fight, because I now refuse to be the only one calling/texting/Facebooking. Fuck it. If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. I'm done with it. Moving on.

So, long story short, it's been raining men for me for awhile. I'm not trying to brag or complain, but it's has been damn eerie. First, Motorcycle Man resurrected himself from the Land of Thank God, I Think That's Over when I ran into him at a dance, or, rather-- he made his roommate come over and introduce us because he didn't have the balls to do it himself. I ended up giving him and his roommate a ride home that night since they were out a car and I was already giving another girl friend of mine back, since we all live in the same apartment building. I then received an onslaught of private Facebook messages from him, basically saying, "It was great to finally meet you; you seem like a really fun and chill girl; I think you're hot; come down and chill out with me sometime; I'd like to give you a ride on my bike before I have to bring it home for the winter."

...I would like a ride on that bike. But I played it safe and non-committal with everything else, ignoring the hard attempts, and instead just saying I was glad I could give him and his roommate a ride home, and life was really hectic right now. (No lie-- it's crazy-manic.)

But then, there's been this other interesting character, whom we shall call Gypsy-- and the enlightened of you can put 2-and-2 together and laugh if you know post-Medieval European slang-- sniffing around the edges of my life for, oh-- the past 2 months. He's about 5'10", with reddish-brown hair and great, crinkly blue eyes, and a body that is just-- yeah, it's WOW. (Think a young Aaron Eckhart. Really. Very much so. Alli and I saw someone running from behind this past summer and started making all sorts of lascivious comments about the guy's ass and legs, and as we drove by, realized it was Gypsy, who we only knew from the party circuit and were totally embarrassed and swore to never tell anyone we classified his ass as "chewable.") Every single girl I have ever talked to about him wants to bone him. Bad.

It started with a random Facebook friend request from him. Yeah, ok, we have a lot of mutual friends and I've chatted with him for a few minutes at a few parties before; I know he's not some crazy psycho-killer, so yeah, I accepted that request. And then he started commenting on some of my statuses, particularly the ones about running, since he's a runner, too. (Thought about calling him Marathon Man, because, hey, if the shoe fits, but no...there's a better nickname.) And then I started getting Facebook email messages from him at odd hours of the morning (AKA: drunk messages.) They were cute, they were funny; he's cute, he's funny, so I didn't think much of it. We chatted, basically. Gypsy is one of the most popular, good-looking, social, party-going guys in my class year. I chalked the interest up to Bud Light and runner's high. (And, oh yeah-- he's a Vermont Boy, too. Who sends texts that are identical to Perfect's, down to the exclamation points and "haha"s, did track in high school and loves exercising and sports, and had floppy brown hair until he recently cut it. Shoot me now. Universe, I hate you.)

And the Gypsy was at the dance, too. We happened to both be heading up the stairs at the same time for the door-- him to leave, me to get some air and cool down. (I be a dancin' FIEND.) "Hey!" I (ok, I'll admit it--) squealed at him.

"Hey, how are you?" he asked.

"I'm good! Hey, so you went to (enter South Vermont prep-school name here)! You know like, 5 of my friends who I grew up riding with!"

"Really?" Gypsy asked. "Throw me some names!"

I did, and we chatted from the bottom of the stairs through the door, or, basically, for about 2 minutes. In this 2 minute span of time, I realized a few things about myself and Gypsy and I.

A.) I am such a writer. Give me a screen or keypad to hide behind, and I am so much more comfortable. In email or text, I have time to plan what I want to say, and be witty and charming and flirtatious.
B.) In person, Gypsy and I act like the most retarded high school students you ever saw in your old high school's hallway desperately trying to connect with each other-- my voice gets high and girly, conversation flies out the window when we seize on something small and exhaust it in 2 minutes' worth of time and panic when we realize that one safe topic has been beaten like a dead horse, and we stare at each other for a bit until we realize we're staring, and then quickly look away. We are so awkward. It may be painful to watch. It's certainly painful to be a part of.

That night, when I finally got home, I found two Facebook emails waiting for me-- one, predictably the previously stated message from Motorcycle Man, and the other, from Gypsy. "I wish I'd been at least buzzed for that dance-- it was way too hot for sober dancing, haha!"

"Totally agreed," I wrote back. "I had a broke/sober summer, so now that I have a job any, any excuse to be buzzed is a good excuse. Also, a Thursday or Friday night time spot would have been nice-- a Wednesday is such an awkward day for getting your groove on. I never wake up and think, "Hey, it's Wednesday-- I want to dance my face off tonight!""

"Tell me about it!" Gypsy responded. "I found myself low on rent money and spending too much on drinks...what a horrible idea. You should pre-game heavy then get your groove thing on at Rasputin's tomorrow with me. I mean it is a Thursday. I know a good bunch of people are going. Can I just text you in stead of this silly FB message?"

I told him that unfortunately, I had previous plans (did not mention it was going out for the most hilarious of all double-dates that the Champlain Current has ever funded, bringing Nick and Anthony of "Flannel VS. Flannel," Alli and I for "Kitchen Bitches," and Henry, the Arts and Entertainment editor and a friend mysteriously nicknamed "Dos" to the Bobcat Cafe and Brewery in Bristol. I work with Anthony, who is a little bit psychotic in an endearingly scruffy way, and Nick is from Virginia and though he's lost the accent, still oozes Southern Charm and movie-star good-looks. I touched his cheek on the ride home to prove a point about how cold my fingers were and promptly almost swooned from the proximity and the perfect amount of stubble on his cheek.) but maybe some other time? I also gave him my cell number. Less than 5 minutes later, I got a text.

"Yeah," Gypsy told me, "that was my corny way of asking you for your number."

I responded back, saying it wasn't corny at all, and I give him props for not just coming right out with a totally uncreative "what's your number?" We texted until 1:30 AM, when we both went to bed. The next morning, after a meeting with a student, a work out at the gym, and distributing the second issue of the Current, I walked back in to the Current's Dungeon Office to hear my cell ringing. I picked it up and flicked it open to see a text from Gyp.

"You can't balance newspapers on your head for crap, haha!" he said. I was mortified. After working out like a mad-woman, my arms were dead beyond belief, and I had resorted to alternative methods of carting around newspaper bundles, including, yes, balancing them on my head like women from Africa do with their water. While standing in a campus building, newspapers on cranium, I specifically looked in the surrounding classrooms to make sure no one potentially damning could see me. One was empty. In another, everyone's backs were to me. And in the third, a girl/acquaintance from another class was laughing at me with her friend. Whatever-- Sami's a nice girl. We get along. She could get a good laugh at my expense in that boring class, and I didn't care. Who I apparently didn't see, but who had a seat next to Sami and watched the entire thing, was Gypsy, watching me try to balance 30 pounds of paper and newsprint on my (unwashed, previously had been sweating in a pony-tail that had since been taken out) head, wearing bright blue boy's soccer shorts that were still visible under my white Victoria's Secret PINK sweatpants, running shoes, a black tank top, and my new teal and black plaid hoodie with the furry hood lining.

"Oh my god," I texted back. "You saw that?"

"Haha...yeaaaaaaah."

"We're going to pretend that never happened," I told him. "But for the record, my arms were dead after just working out, so I was trying to come up with alternative ways to carry them. Plus, I'd like to see you do better. Do you know how heavy those things are?!"

I'm hoping this whole debacle was more quirkily endearing than hopelessly embarrassing. Gypsy has a playful and child-like side-- I'm praying it appealed to that side of him, and not the side going, "Dear god, I asked her out-- why did they ever let her out of the zoo?"

Anyway. Thursday night didn't work, so while I was in New Jersey this past weekend with my trainer, finishing helping her with the L Program, I texted him to try to set another time/happening up. Plan B, as I called it. Gyp said it was up to me; whatever I wanted to do. Technically, I know this is a guy being nice, but really-- guys, I hate this. If you let me choose, I'll try real hard, but I may choose something you hate. And then you're hating the date, which doesn't make it look good for Date #2. It's such a Catch-22.

At first I was thinking something festive, fun, quirky and memorable, like a corn maze, but my No-Free-Time schedule and his Equally-No-Free-Time schedule wouldn't allow. Plus, for a first date, it was kind of a hazard-- sure, if it goes well, you're together, alone, in a corn maze for a few hours as the sun sets. Endless talking time and getting to know each other. But, if it doesn't go well-- you're stuck in a corn maze together, hopelessly lost, as it gets colder and darker. That would be about when I say, "Thanks, but I'm outta here," and start bushwhacking my way out.

So we're doing the classic "grab a bite to eat downtown and stroll around the waterfront" on Friday evening. (I guess it's official-- it's happening on "Date Night Friday," so the cat is out of the bag to every person in downtown Burlington who sees us awkwardly with each other.) I'm already on full-on panic mode, even though by now, we have both mutually asked each other out once, and neither one of us has turned it down. If anything, Gyp is being really nice and attentive about this whole thing. But still-- I am a Philistine when it comes to dating. I am a ticking time-bomb. As I said to Alli when she asked, though he doesn't know it, fuck the date-- I would be willing to just stop, drop, and roll for him. I am liable to spontaneously combust, and I really need him to not know any of this. So, I'm stuck trying to cover all my bases before Friday, starting with the simple things, like wardrobe, and building up to the issues that make me squirm, like saying goodbye.

So, this is what I've got so far. The questions are what I need help with. And if you have any tried-and-true pointers, please, I would love to hear them. Like I said-- I've never, ever been on this sort of date where you sit across or walk next to someone and had to get to know them, figure out what makes them tick, or why they find me interesting/lovable/someone they'd like to fuck. (Some super Facebook creeping unearthed that his high school long-term girlfriend and I look similar, so that takes about a fourth of the "Why Me?" factor away.)

Wardrobe: It varies as of now. Until I get my hands on a weather forecast, it could be anywhere from a cute dress, scarf, cardigan and boots to jeans, flats, and a girly shirt. Whatever it is, it will be dainty, feminine, and a little revealing. I'm not totally stupid, here.

Location/Time: TBD. Somewhere downtown that's cheap and guy-and-girl friendly with the menu. And as for time-- after 4 and before midnight? That's broad enough for me. We'll narrow it down as we get closer.

Conversation: He went to high school with some of my friends. (Becky gave me some interesting info seeing as his ex was one of her friends. He can't stand flaky girls, and was/still is a bit of a player. Eh, whatev. You can't play a player, and Jay-Z might as well have penned "Ladies is pimps, too," for me.) We both go to the same college. We both live in the same town. (Sort of. He has a coveted Burlington zip-code.) We both like alcohol. We both have friends in common-ish. (His roommate went to high school with my roommate of the past 3 years, Melissa, and I've known him since freshmen year. Nice guy.) The rest-- the questions of getting to know him better; what's good to ask, what I should steer clear from-- that's where my blunt and no-holds-barred mind is at a loss. Heeeeelp?

The Three Times Rule: I am allowed to say I'll pay for my own food three times, says Alli. It goes something like this. "I've got mine." "No, let me." "No, really, I've got it." "I'd like to." "Are you sure?" "Yes. Please." "Ok, then. Thank you." (This is something I struggle with. Even when The Inappropriately Aged Ex-Boyfriend and I were together and we'd split pizza or Chinese, I had issues with him paying for it. Ok, so maybe not issues-- maybe like I can escalate this argument into a full on fight because, really-- why are you spending money on me? Although in total girl fashion, yes, if you will pay for it and are willing to reassure me of this fact numerous times, I'll let you. Unwillingly, but there is something hot about a guy who pushes my arguments aside the first time and hands the cashier or waiter money before I can protest again, I must say. Take-charge men. Yummy.)

"How Far Can I Drive This Car?" or Saying Goodbye: Hmmm. May have dug myself a hole with this night-time deal, because it allows for no easy outs, other than saying, "This was fun-- let's do it again sometime soon-- but I've got to go home now." Our stroll could turn into an invitation back to his place, which, let's face it-- it's getting fucking cold out in our little mountain state, and I get freezing so easily NASA could send me into space, no worries, but since I've already inadvertently played hard-to-get with having to turn down Gyp's first date idea, I'm seeing this thing through, the right way. I am about to become a girl who doesn't put out on the first date. As Alli, and Becky, and my own thoughts, memory, and intuition have warned, Gyp can be a bit of a player. And dammit, he's gonna work for it. First date= kiss goodnight. If it goes well. If he's lucky. If I don't just turn tail and run away, because I am notoriously nervy about first kisses.

So, that's where we're at. I'm not a total mess-- I know not to lick the plate like I can get away with at home with Melissa and Alli, and I know not to ask any dreaded Ex-Files questions or talk about babies and marriage. (Neither of which appeal to me AT ALL in the first place, so it's a safe bet anyway.) But still. I am a freaking 20 year old date-virgin. I have a date Friday night with the Hottie of Junior Year at Champlain. I have a habit of making an imbecile of myself in front of him. Let's just hope he's got a thing for imbeciles, or, really, really smart girls who just can't get out of their own way. All aboard-- this is one hot mess!

But really, I'm excited.

...Sure I'm going to vom, but excited.

As I said to my trainer, "...So you can suck my dick, Perfect." (Totally texted Cait and let her know about it so she would tell him. Bwahahahahahahaaaaa. Eat it. Eat it, Tease Boy.)

Onward. Upward. Gypsy-- get ready, because you have never met anyone quite like me.

XOXO

Settling In The City, and The Chains That Bind.

[“So are you a pipe, or are you a diamond? Because pipes burst under pressure, but diamonds are made.”]

Life’s a funny little bitch. Sometimes, just when things are going right, a wrench gets thrown into the works from somewhere unidentifiable, and then you’re left sitting on your ass, wheels spinning in the air kind of uselessly. Basically, you’re wasting time for a bit.

That’s what I feel like I’m doing right now: wasting some time. Perfect is still rather incommunicado, though we did text back and forth a few times yesterday. Knowing that I’ve been getting the same treatment (if not more contact,) than his family and his other friends keeps me even most days. Also, I’m reminded of something Cait said once: Perfect likes to get close and cling to people, and then he likes to have his space for awhile. Admittedly, we were pretty close in contact the week before he left for college—I’m considering this a good time to let that contact a little loose, give him his head (as we say in the horse world), and let him settle in a bit.

In the meantime, I’ve been doing little things: sending him video clips of guys in flying-squirrel suits jumping off of cliffs in Switzerland and coasting the airstreams; setting up play-dates for him and two of my guy friends who also love downhill and free-ride biking when he comes back home for a visit; and just generally keeping a watch on him from the wings. He’s tired; he’s struggling with being back in school already; he’s being run weary by meeting people, commitments, and starting training for the track season. I don’t need to be another burden right now. I’m being the coolest non-girlfriend there ever was—he better realize I’m the shit.

Meanwhile, I’ve been getting some interesting developments of my own. I get lonely too, you know. I like testosterone and male company in my life. I love to flirt. And lately, there’s been no shortage of available men. I’ve been bumping into my beautiful Writing Lab Boy everywhere, who apparently saw me everywhere this summer: at the mall, on the beach, at a party, on the street, in the gym. (I am so happy I looked tan and fit and good in my itty bitty bikini this summer. Thank you, lord.) The other day, riding the god-awful-early-morning bus to campus for my 8 AM class, Blowdryer Boy sat next to me. The heat coming off of him along with the smell of his cologne and shampoo was almost intoxicating in my early morning haze. (The Bailey’s Irish Crème that may or may not have been in my coffee also helped with this haziness—both to add to it and then erase it. Yes to starting out shitty mornings the good way.)

Blowdryer Boy is one of those people who exist in my group of friends whose path sometimes brushes up against mine. For awhile last spring, I flirted with the idea of ending up in bed with him. I didn’t, though, and most of the time, I’m sure I made the right choice.

The night before, I had had the shittiest night’s sleep since May. I crammed for three hours with homework, and then was kept up from 12:15 to 1:30 by my roommate’s pseudo-boy and his friend laughing in the living room. I woke up at 6 AM, for some reason thinking I had to take the 7:10 bus, and not the 7:35 bus, meaning I missed out on an extra thirty minutes of sleep. By the time I got around to making my coffee, I was already thoroughly disenchanted with life. Missing Perfect profusely—that was the shitty night’s sleep; the feeling of him being there was gone, snapped like a guitar string—and having Blowdryer Boy so near tempted me into the “what ifs” that I generally like to try and stay out of. Like I’ve said, I’m generally a one-man woman. But sometimes, distance and no word can get to be a little much on my nerves and heart.

So sometimes, like this other morning, I like to think about it. But when it comes down to it, Blowdryer Boy would be settling after Perfect. Blowdryer Boy would just be a waste of time and a warm body to replace the warm body that I really want. (And I’m pretty sure that most of the time, Blowdryer Boy can be bitchier than I am.)

Also, I recently found out what happens when you play with other people’s private property: you get fixed up. Generally, I try to keep my hands to myself in matter like this, but there’s this beautiful sport bike that lives in the same parking garage as my Civvy, and Alli and I recently did an impromptu photo-op with it. We touched it as little as possible while still admiring it and handling it with care, and then I posted the pictures on my Facebook profile, thinking that in my protected and private account they’d be safe from any angry Hell’s Angel owners looking for revenge and a new leather jacket made of my skinned hide for touching his bike.

Well, surprise. Facebook—it’s not that safe anymore, kids, at least not when you have mutual friends with said bike owner. A few days after the pictures went live, I got a comment from a friend who said they knew the owner. The next morning, I got a friend request from the guy. I accepted it, thinking, hey—I played on his bike. Might as well be nice. Fortunately, instead of being a hulking antichrist, the guy turned out to be a stocky senior. Who reverted back to the third-grade playground practice of asking our mutual friend to ask me if I’d be willing to meet him for a set-up.

Actually, it went more like this:

Mutual Friend: “Motorcycle Boy would like to meet you; shall I set up a meeting?”

Me, hemming and hawing about if I really wanted to do this: “I'm kinda figuring things out with the guy I was seeing this past summer, so I feel the need to get that disclaimer out there in the disclaimer of not leading anyone on, but seeing as he (unknowingly) let me molest his bike, I would say it's only fair to be able to apologize/thank him in person. Plus, I love meeting new people!”

I thought I was pretty clear about the fact I wasn’t looking for anything more than a new acquaintance. Apparently not, though.

Mutual Friend: “Haha, he was like "Pam I wanna meet this girl!" He’s a sweet guy, haha. He's leaving in December I think, anyway, so it doesn't have to be anything serious. He said he Facebook friended you, so I dunno if he's messaged you yet or not.”

No, he hadn’t. He’s letting our friend do his dirty-work for him. But whatever. I want to get on that bike, come hell, high water, or a fix-up. I just know to be very up-front about the fact that I am in what I’ve taken to calling a “beautifully complicated and daily-evolving relationship.” But seriously. I want to get on that bike. It’s worth it. And new friends are nice, too.

All these boys suddenly crawling out of the woodwork are making me wonder: could I really settle for one of them while I wait for Perfect? The more and more I look at it, the more and more I realize how easy this whole thing is, really. You are attracted to someone. You let your interest be known. You resist the urge to do the right thing and get to know them or categorize your feelings, and instead, just fall into bed with them. You wake up, get dressed, and walk out. Done. Simple. Over.

Can I do that, though? Could I use one person while wanting another? My heart says “no,” while sometimes, my mind whispers “yes.” Perfect would never need to know; Perfect is probably off doing the same thing with all the soft little freshmen co-eds, and that’s why he’s so tired, my mind whispers to me. Just do it. Just work out your frustration and your lust and your feelings on someone else. Don’t waste time, and youth, and beauty, and your body. Don’t go another year without sex. There’s no reason to.

But at night, at times like this, lying on my bed, the bed I slept with Perfect in, and loved Perfect in, in the same sheets that still, months later, at times still hold wisps of his scent, I think no, no, no, no—I could never do it. I miss him, and I want him, and no one else is going to replace him or fill his hole. To try and do so would be me, settling. And after my many past frog princes, settling is one thing I told myself I’d never do again. Settling was the rut that Perfect saw me in and pulled me out. Settling was what he told me I didn’t deserve.

But, am I settling for this distance between us? The air in this state feels so empty, sometimes it’s hard for me to breathe around the hole that seems to be there; something suddenly missing. It feels like there’s a hole in my Vermont, and you better believe it’s a huge one, because that boy is massive. At any given point in time, I can give you a general idea of in what direction the important people in my life lie. It’s a spider-web of love that crisscrosses the U.S, sometimes even the globe, of what I imagine being thin gold chains running from my heart to the other person’s.

The best way I ever heard this phenomenon described was in Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus’s novel, Dedication. (Which I highly recommend, by the way, especially for people who have ever had any interested in the musician/muse relationship.) As Kate Hollis, their main character and heroine, they write:

“…I feel this thing take root in my stomach, this rubber band thing as Jake Sharpe comes back from the concession stand. A twinge tells me to turn around and, sure enough, he has just walked in the doors at the top of the dark aisle. The band tightens as his narrow silhouette approaches. Then, when he slides past I tuck my legs up on my chair and our eyes meet…and it is taut between us. Loosening as he plunks himself at the other end next to Benjy… I slide my hand to the center of my chest while staring up at the screen. This thing is different from living down Jake Sharpe, different from avoiding Jake Sharpe, even different from knowing Jake Sharpe thinks about what I look like. This new Jake Sharpe thing is happening inside me, all the way at the core… I am piano-bench straight, every inch of me realigning to this new state, this Jake Sharpe Compass I have just become” (McLaughlin/Kraus 68-69.)

Like Kate, if you ask where someone is, I can point, assuredly, in a direction after a moment’s thought, giving that little heart-string a gentle mental tug, and waiting to feel in what direction the pull back comes from. It’s how I also know what direction home is. It’s how I know where my roommates are; where my best and dearest and closest friends from home are; the sisters of my heart and mind and soul. And it’s how I can feel Perfect. What once used to be a thick and relatively short gold chain, full of feelings running back and forth this summer is now one of the thinnest links; one that is full of static and loss of sensation and makes me feel empty in the pit of my stomach and heart. There isn’t that proximity. There isn’t the thought that we’re only a less-than-an-hour drive away from each other, if we really needed to be there, standing next to each other, breathing the same air, and sharing the same space, feeling that electric crackle in the air, and then the sublime stillness that I feel when my body is molded seamlessly up against his—weight on weight, cloth sticking to cloth, skin on skin, hands on body, no start and no finish to us.

Instead, I have this three-hundred mile long chain, and a tentative grip on it. I give it a little pull, and wait for it to jingle back in response. Sometimes the return tug is long in coming. I begin to unravel a little bit, but for the most part, I hold strong, using sticky tape and gritted teeth to keep this girl together. I’m tough. I’ve been through worse. I can do this. I want this. I’m a fighter; I don’t just lie down and cry and give in. If he needs his time and his space to settle in and make his life kosher, than I can damn well have the same time and space to use to my own advantage. There’s always more work I can do on myself. Just like whatever is happening between Perfect and I, I am also always a masterpiece in progress, some days darker and more linear, some days bright and effervescent. There’s really never any telling, anyway.

Looking at being part of a relationship like this: he needs his time, I need my time to have no idea what the hell I’m doing and to grapple with feelings—we’re both in different states, at different colleges, leading different lives—how do you try and integrate someone like a significant other into your life like that? How does it work, really? Can two people living in two different circles stay together with themselves as the only constant and shared thing?

[If I never sing another song, another song, another song…can I still sing your tune?]

XOXO