A Better Woman Than You

One of the bad parts about staying in the same town that you graduated college in is that inevitably, you'll run into people from your past who you would rather not see. Like today when I unexpectedly bumped into one of the ex's little slips in fidelity. It had been awhile since I'd seen her; even longer since I'd seen her in the same room as myself and the ex. If counting my two relationships since him was any indicator, I've obviously moved on. I don't wish her a quick slip and a bad fall anymore. I don't spend my nights obsessively checking her Facebook profile to see what she's been up to lately (answer then would have been, "having more of a life than you are obsessively checking her page, dipshit,") anymore, either. In fact, it was kind of a shock to see her and instantly remember that, well, she exists. So I did the natural thing, which, in this case, also happened to the the right thing: I smiled genuinely at her, and said, "Hi, _____, how have you been?"

And she barely looked at me. She said a flat "hi" back, and moved on with whatever it was she was doing. For a moment, I was PISSED. Look, I've been the Other Woman (with the same guy, nonetheless!) in the past, so I know what running into the First Woman entails-- You smile politely, but not too much, lest she think you're mocking her. You speak first. You say a genuine, polite "hello" or "hey." If she engages you in conversation after that, you stick to neutral topics-- the weather, work, school, recent plans (that DON'T involve the man in both of your lives). You DON'T just ignore her. Because here's the thing, if you don't at least smile and say hi, then you're being a bitch. And if you happen to the the First Woman, you end up having yet another reason to hate the Other Woman even more. Basically, I was mad because I slipped back into the thinking that if you have the balls to want to share my relationship's bed, you BEST have the balls to meet my eye when you see me. Otherwise, I'm going to think that you're a coward, not a threat, and start to question my partner's interest in you in the first place and if you're what he wants to run around with, than is he really the sort of man I should be with? There's a very particular sort of woman who lurks around the outskirts of your life, looking in, wanting what you have, and is all bark behind your back and no real bite, and those are the women I can't fucking STAND. And THAT is EXACTLY the sort of woman who doesn't have the social grace or class to actually buck up, be a big girl, and converse like an actual person.

All of this flashed through my mind in about a nanosecond, dragging with it all the old feelings of spite and envy and mistrust and haughtiness. Then, something else happened-- I suddenly realized that I had no right to feel ANY of those ways about her anymore, as I was no longer (obviously) with the ex, and neither was she, either. I realized that if she couldn't even look my in the eyes now, over a year after everything between all of us went down, well, that was telling. About her, about her character, and about how she felt about the whole situation. And so, I kept on walking, letting it slide, and feeling vaguely protective of her, and the innocence and naivety that she exposed by not knowing how to do the right thing. Because, when it comes down to it, there are always going to be other women out there who are either trying to get a rise out of you, or you are trying to get a rise out of, yourself. (I would be lying if I said I was currently engaged in a game of electronic "chicken" myself.) We all have it in ourselves to be bitches. We all know exactly how to hurt other women. But that's all rather childish, and should be behind us by now, like how I realized that what she thinks or does no longer has any impact in my life, not even if she refuses to respond to my greeting. What really proves who the bigger (and better) woman is is who smiles and says that theoretical "hi" first. And I am now DEDICATED to being that better woman.

XOXO

Be a Girl Scout; Be Prepared.

I'm a girl who likes to be ready for anything. I carry a big wallet (an embossed alligator 5 Euro flea market find from Firenze that can hold my passport,) and I make a point to always have condoms on me, because hey, you never know when the opportunity is going to present itself, if you will. In fact, at any one time, there are usually 5 condoms within close distance of my person. I told this to a guy I was sleeping with, and he seemed awed. "That's more than I have. That was my last one."

I'm highly optimistic.

Possibly even more useful than carrying protection, however, is carrying something for when you've passed to point of protection and now need to go on the offensive: Not Plan B, but a small packet of at least 2 painkillers and a few Band-Aids. Painkillers to soothe all your little roughnesses in life, and Band-Aids for everything from paper cuts at work to covering developing blisters from your cute yet painful flats. Truth be told, I always end up reaching for those two things more than the condoms.

Now, if only I could find a way to fit a shot of vodka in there for those times you need either liquid courage or a bracing moment, we'd be in business.

XOXO

Where Have All The Good Men Gone? Someone's Already Dating Them.

Like I've said, I enjoy a challenge and something new. After a year of riding the same merry-go-round, I decided to take a break from the one-man game and see what else was out there and offering itself's up, because, after all, what's good for the gander is good for the goose-- if you're not getting what you want and you need, and if there's no commitment, and he's off having fun elsewhere or not making up his mind-- you should be looking elsewhere, too. Respect yourself; know your worth. If one man won't appreciate it, chances are, another will. Start looking for that man, or men, if you feel like you just want to date casually at this point in time. Men have been doing it for years; it's time for women to start dating and mating like men, too.

And if there's anything he can do, I can do it better. Am I right, ladies, or am I right? Time for me to enter the world of dating, albeit a little bit late in RSVPing. Straight from the dating trenches, I bring you the secret, the Good, the Bad, the Ugly, the Ridiculously Attractive, and the Golden Rule:

The Secret: Your friend's friends are your secret, untapped resource. Ask around and see if anyone is hiding a great guy-- someone they used to date and have remained friends with with no residual desire, just a platonic friend, a brother or cousin or co-worker or classmate, etc. The good news is, your friend can vouch for their sanity, and knows what you're looking for, and can also play referee and deliver the rulings from the other side of the field; if they feel comfortable doing so, of course. (Guys, I hope you realize this goes for you, too-- your buddies could be sitting on some great girls to set you up with!)

The Golden Rule: 10 minutes of straight, uninterrupted talking is possibly one of the smartest moves you can make when you're getting to know someone. Plan the event surrounding those 10 minutes of bliss (or abject horror) accordingly. The object of this first date or meeting is to fill enough time doing something else so that you still don't know everything about each other, because hopefully, the suspense and good feelings created will lend themselves to a second meeting. Sporting events, where it's only considered decent to talk in between innings or quarters or commercial breaks, are a great choice if you're sports fans; catching a show or a concert is another venue that gives you time to re-group and be silent and think, rather than having to spend all the time together talking, which, let's face it, can be trying, or worse yet, means you run out of things to converse about. Though movies aren't generally considered the best since you're sitting silently side-by-side in the dark for 2 hours, it could maybe fly with the right person. Maybe.

The Good: "I offer my most sincere apologies but I have to run; I'll talk to you tomorrow, though."

The Bad: Just signing off or not responding to the last text or leaving. You'd be shocked and amazed how many guys do the "bye!" duck and run, or, don't even say that they're leaving. Common manners is saying goodbye; great manners are apologizing for an abrupt exit, and leaving a time-frame for the next time they'll be in touch. (Same goes for you, ladies-- let a guy know how much you've enjoyed talking with him, and let him know it's either ok for him to contact you again, or that you'll be in touch with him. Stop being so fucking aloof. Let him know he's done well and that you like him. For god's sake, flirt with it if you're into it. A little mystery never killed any romantic suspense, but being an Ice Queen sure as hell never started any grand passion.)

Women tread a fine line with dressing for dates. On one hand, I lived in Italy for 4 months and dropped some major cash on some pretty fashion-forward clothing. On the other hand, no woman should outshine her date-- the goal is to match each other in terms of dress. I'm not talking you two should be in matching tracksuits like how your mom used to buy you and your siblings all color-coordinated outfits for the holiday family photo, but rather, that the way that you dress will compliment the way that he dresses. (Because let's face it, women generally are more fashion-conscious then men. It's easier for us to think of all the outfit possibilities and align that with our plan.) However, this being said, it is always better for the woman to be a little more under-dressed than the man. This is because if a girl shows up dressed to the 9s, while a dude's in his flannel shirt and jeans, it's going to do 2 things: Make him feel self-conscious, and convince him that she's more invested than he is. When in doubt, GO CASUAL. Jeans, boots, and a shirt never went wrong. A skirt and a t-shirt is fine. Tailor your outfit to the location-- if it's a movie or a concert or bar, a dress will look out-of-place. If you're going out for dinner at a place where entrées are $20 and above, you might want to wear that dress there.

The Ridiculously Attractive: When a guy shows up with obvious effort put into his appearance. I dressed a little down; he showed up in a button-up cuffed at the wrists, trousers, and a fresh shave. His stock went through the roof.

The Ugly (Truth): I'm gonna say it-- I hate Facebook chat. I really, really hate Facebook chat. I usually sign in, scope out who's on, and then sign off real quick before any of the random people I went to high school with and haven't talked to in years decide it's time for a reunion! This being said, everyone and their mother is addicted to Facebook today, and it's generally a good place to get in touch with people, meeting, before, or in between or after dates. Today, I logged myself on and sat down, waiting through an excruciatingly weird conversation with one of my best friend's exes, just to ignore the person I actually wanted to talk to. Why? Because I'm a woman. We set up a scene so that we can wait around...and then ignore a guy until he starts talking to us, ESPECIALLY after a date or seeing him for one of the first times in person.

See, it's all about the chase. If you've just met up, or if you just went on the first date, contacting him first it going to cloud your waters. I mean, yes, we're big girls in the 21st century here, and if we like a guy, we know how to let him know. But it's also important to find out exactly how he feels about you. If it didn't go as well on his end as it did on yours, it'll show in how long it takes him to contact you. And if he's enthusiastic about you, you'll also know it by how little time it takes for him to say "hey" again. From there, you've got a pretty educated guess on how receptive he is to you, and if date 2 or meeting up again is an option.

Let's recap: I am perfectly comfortable asking a guy out (though I'd prefer he does, first). I'm fine with asking for digits-- asking for people's phone numbers should be routine by this point in your life. I even periodically open doors FOR MEN. But what am I, and nearly all other women-- and I'd be willing to bet large sums of money on this, if I had it-- still loathe to do? Be the one to make first contact. It's so fucked up, I know, but that's women for you. There. Consider yourself strapped. Go forth, and message her first.

Happy dating! And if you have any dating rules you live and die by-- send 'em in! Lord knows I need all the help I can get.

XOXO

Ready, Willing, and (On Occasion) Able.

Good morning, lovelies and creepfests, alike. (Remember that Google Analytics post a little while ago when inspiration hadn't struck in awhile, and I felt it pertinent to post about how through using stats and simple Sherlock-Holmes-approved process of deduction, I can figure out who is reading this blog and what they're looking for? Well, let's just say, I'm HOT in Russia right now, and I doubt it's for anything good. Or literary. Sigh. One of my biggest fears is that I'll come home one day and unlock my door to find a massive Russian dude sitting on my sofa, waiting for me in full bondage gear. Because that's what I live in fear of. I don't want that. AT ALL. What is Russian for "no"? Nyet. That's right. Sometimes my life is a little too bizarre for me to take logically.)

Anyway, I had a rather productive weekend, complete with a random dude who thought that walking with me in the general vicinity of my apartment on Saturday night constituted "walking me home" from a party and asked for a kiss in return as if we had just agreed to swap his Oreos for my Dunkaroos over the 3rd grade lunch table. I realized, in hindsight, that I should have colored the story about a "friend" of mine that I'd told him 2 minutes previous with the word "boy" in front of it, and headed off the whole debacle so that I literally wasn't stopped in mid-stride up my front steps when he said that like some cartoon character straight out of Looney Toons, did an about-face, and really awkwardly went: "Um. Wow. I have an, um, guy, sorry, but uh, props to you for having the balls to ask. More guys should do that. Uh, so yeah. 'Night," before running inside and slamming the door behind me. My cardinal rule is that-- now, pay attention, ladies-- IF YOU DON'T WANT A GUY ASKING OR TRYING TO EXCHANGE SALIVARY GLANDS WITH YOU, EITHER EMBELLISH YOUR CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS, OR MAKE A BOYFRIEND UP, AND DROP HINTS, CAVEATS, AND STORIES ABOUT HIM DURING YOUR CONVERSATION. I really didn't think this guy whose opening line was "Do you like Pop Tarts?" (again, 3rd grade,) and progressed to "Do you read Chomsky?" the second time he made a pass at me needed to be headed off at the pass. Especially because I hadn't showered in 2 days, smelled like another man, was subsisting on about 6 hours' worth of sleep, couldn't raise my arms past shoulder height for a really embarrassing reason (not even to SMOKE), and was generally disinterested in anything but eyeing my cell phone's clock until 1 AM rolled around and I felt like I could bow out of my friend's house after enough sufficient bonding time with the boys. It's good to know sometimes that you're still attractive. And sometimes, I really just feel like people have much lower standards than I'm comfortable with.

It's just like when women go out to the bars: It does not go, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, you are now entitled to sex with me. It goes, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, this means that we get to spend the time while I drink it together learning more about each other and if I would ever sleep with you, or if you even really still want to sleep with me. I'll admit it-- sometimes I accept a drink, and then spend the next 10 to 15 minutes sabotaging myself and acting like the most asinine, alarming, unappealing woman ever so that they'll run away without even trying to make a bid for sleeping with me. What can I say? I'm dead broke.

So all in all, I'm beat, and not feeling particularly creative. Instead, I give you this blog post from The Redhead Papers on oral sex. Here's an excerpt to get you started and prove why you need to read this: "I’ve had a handful of serious relationships (if by "serious" you mean "seriously dysfunctional") and more than my share of casual sexual encounters and I’ve only rarely come across a man who simply just won’t travel to the nether regions. For the most part, they’ve been ready, willing and, on occasion, able. What they lacked in knowledge and experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and a desire to please at all costs. This enthusiasm isn’t always, shall we say, preferable, but it is welcomed."

Erin is much more witty and eloquent about the topic than I could ever be today, and I laughed so hard while reading parts of this that I nearly snarfed my hummus. (For those of you fortunate few out of the know, "snarfing" is when you have a liquid or a solid in your mouth and get so suddenly surprised by something funny that you forget that you're currently engaged in masticating or swallowing, and when you suck in to go to laugh, said liquid or solid gets partially sucked up your nasal passages. In some cases, this results in aforementioned liquid or solid coming out of your nose, if you're really unfortunate. It is mostly a painful process, and much funnier when it happens to someone who is not yourself.)

Neverfear, I'll be back soon with something more substantial than stories of how women lie to men about having boyfriends because it's easier than giving a flat-out "No." I know. We're evil, devious, fickle creatures. I'm sorry. It's just in our biology. I can't help it.

XOXO

Rules of Attraction

I was recently at a friend's moving-away party, which was definitely more of a sausage-fest than an equal-opportunity kegger. Probably not surprisingly, this is exactly the way I usually like my parties-- heavy on the dudes, light on the other women. As I teared up while hugging my friend good-bye for probably the millionth time at 3 AM, I explained it to the girl behind him who was getting a kick out of my theatrics. "If one of my girls moves away, fine-- we'll talk, and hey, I'll see her later. But losing one of my boys is like losing a member of my family." Not having them around anymore is like a gaping hole in my life. Local anaesthesia just doesn't cut it.

But enough of the Kleenex-laden emotional bullshit. On with the stuff about sex. As a budding so-called "sexual anthropologist," the other nice thing about dude-parties is that they give you a chance to watch men in action as they try to pick chicks up-- sometimes, you being the bird, and sometimes, other women. Here are a few of the fail-proof tricks of the trade to keep an eagle-eye out for the next time you find yourself wondering if a guy's hitting on you, or if he's just seizing in your general direction:

- Male or female, if you're interested in someone, you turn your body in toward them. Women tend to point with their chests, because hey, that's where we have distracting goodies located, while men tend to point with their pelvises for the same reason. Elvis totally understood this rule.

- Take this one with caution: A man who'd feeling you (or who'd like to be feeling you up later,) will invade your personal space like nobody's business. Consider it a basic test-run to see if you have chemistry together. There are some people that I can't stand in the same room as, let alone next to, without feeling like there are sparks jumping off of my skin. Conversely, there are dead fish whose company I would feel more warmly about snuggling up to than some other people. You just can't fake attraction and chemistry. So if you're you're sharing the same airspace, take a moment to consider how you feel, because chances are, he's doing the same. HOWEVER. Drunk people also invade personal space because they don't know any better. As for drunk people who are attracted to you, just throw your hands up and assume both.

- Combining these last two hints, if you're worried that he's about to start dry-humping your leg because every time you breath out, you're smooshed together in a way that is not PG-13 and is basically sex while both of you are still wearing your jeans, it's either really packed in there and he'd rather touch you than the 250 pound dude with an "I Hate Mom" tattoo across his forehead who's behind him, or yes, he's hitting on you. If his belt-buckle is getting personal, he'd like to be, too.

- Everyone's favorite topic is themselves. If he's asking you 48 questions about yourself, he's trying to prove that he's really interested in YOU, not talking all about HIM. Though I'm sure he wouldn't object if you started asking him things about himself. It's called "good conversation," and most not totally socially-inept people find it very flattering.

- So your conversation has ended, and you've turned away to mingle with other people. You notice he's stayed put close by, and is alternately casually chatting with other people, or just, um...hanging. This one's sneaky: Now that you've moved on from him, he's watching to judge if you were really into him too, or if you were treating him the same way you treat everyone else. Women do this all the time, too. (Generality ahead, but backed with evidence as we notice when you do it, but I'm pretty sure you don't notice when we do it:) We just tend to be better at disguising what we're doing so it doesn't freak you the fuck out. Pouring a drink? Checking our phone? Talking in low voices with a friend? No, we're really not. Those are all things we could do with our brainstem unattached. We're really listening in and making furtive glances in your general direction to keep tabs on you, while being as least creepy as possible. (I just royally broke Girl Code in divulging that and probably just shot myself in the foot, but bahhh. It's a random Monday in the Writing Center, and I'm bored.) No one likes looking up to see someone boring holes into them with their eyes from across the room. Unless you find that sort of thing hot, which it can be, unless you look like Jack Nicholson in "Wolf."

XOXO

The Little Things, AKA: Why Do Men Hate Mirrors?

I know I'm incredibly self-righteous and preach about the benefits of making an Overnight Kit, and just ever-so-recently made a comment about how it would be really smart to carry one whenever you leave your house, among other things. But as you should know by now, I only do what I tell other people they should be doing about .012% of the time. And it seems to me as if every time you shave, put on the good lingerie, and bring the damn thing, you never end up with a reason for needing to shave, wear the good lingerie, and bring the damn bag, because you find yourself walking through your front door at a respectable early-morning hour grumbling about how that was a shave completely wasted. In fact, I actually have a card somewhere that says exactly that-- "Was it worth shaving her legs for?"

So, how does a girl deal when she does not have the needed amenities?

Well, first, we hide in bed and bitch, and consider crawling out your

window and over the dumpsters and hightailing it out before you roommates clap eyes on us and start shrieking about "Swamp woman! Tia Dalma has come to exact her revenge! Calypso! We're all gonna diiiieeeee!"

Then, we get crafty. I don't understand why men have an aversion to mirrors that rivals that of vampires, but it seems like they do. In the morning, I need to look at my head before I walk out of ANY door, be it a bedroom door, or a front door. This goes double for when it's hot, I've been sweating, and I'm pretty sure something nested in my hair during the night, like possibly, your cat, or a cockroach. Although I have heard some pretty creative and far-out excuses for why mirrors are not a part of the decor-- "I usually have my webcam in here and use that,"-- most people DO have something on them that's of equal use: the shiny, reflective screen of your cell phone. Granted, anyone with a slab-like Smart Phone has an advantage, and yes, the screen is small, so you'll have to inspect your hair and face in sections, but it works in a pinch. And believe me, this is one case in which you're not being pinched-- you're being grabbed.

The other thing I've noticed is that toothpaste, or a tube that doesn't require two people and a steam roller to get any gel out, seems to be a rare find. So here's another quick fix that can be found in most non-prepared purses, anyway: Gum. Just, please, if you're going to kiss goodbye, remember it's still in your mouth before that poor guy finds himself wondering a half-hour later when he popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

The only other words of advice I can give you are these: Use toilet paper to remove any excess make-up from the night before while keeping what's still good and hasn't run like a man who just heard the word "love" on your face. What's making you look like Gene Simmons in full stage make-up is most probably your eyeliner, falsely-labeled-not-waterproof-or-at-least-sweatproof mascara, and lipstick. Just use that as a guideline to swipe around your eyes and mouth for when you're mirror-challenged.

And, get dressed as much as possible. I mean, yeah-- if you were wearing a skin-tight clubbing dress the night before, people are gonna notice you traipsing back home at 9 AM. (And dammit, I don't care how much your feet hurt-- put the damn heels on again; don't carry them!) Just hold your head high. Pretend it's Vegas where dressing like that in early morning hours is perfectly acceptable. If you originally dressed more understated, re-create the outfit to the best of your abilities, if you can still find all your clothing on the messy floor or in the black hole under the bed. Chances are, anyone other than your one-night roommate and their roommates who saw you in what you were wearing last night aren't going to be seeing you this morning, so pretend that it's a totally valid new outfit that you put on specially for today. This means putting all your jewelry back on, tucking in your shirt again, and unrolling your pant legs. Just do it. You won't look so much like "Oops, Annie Get Your Clothes On! I Know Where You Were And Weren't Expecting To Be Last Night!" to everyone who sees you. Instead, they'll probably just think-- "She looked so well put-together until I got closer and noticed her hair. Poor girl. Should I try to comfort her and tell her that the starting phases of dreadlocks are a bitch?"

And can I please get some feedback on the phenomenon of how when you're ready for it, it never happens, but when you're all, "Jesus, I'm such a landscaping wreck, not even a Lowe's employee would want to rehab me, LOLZ!", you get hit out of nowhere like a freight train carrying a full load of "Don't You Feel Stupid Now?" Or am I alone and special-in-the-handicapped-way in that?

XOXO

Conversations With (Marginally More) Hideous Men, Part 2

The other day, I was downtown at Fuda getting Chinese with my neighbors Jamie and Adam after hitting 3 Needs for the end of Duff Hour and getting a little swasty before 6 PM. After my mouth ordered myself special lo mien (the origins of yesterday's lo mien in post,) and the cashew chicken combination platter instead of the special lo mien and the relatively much cheaper fried wontons, and mid-conversation while we were extolling the virtues of eating cold lo mien straight from the carton the next morning (it's seriously my favorite breakfast, and given half a chance with inanimate objects, I might marry it,) an absurdly cute 20-something guy who must be Vermont's answer to Paul Walker appeared at my elbow and offered his two cents with a totally disarming smile.

"I'm a chopstick person myself, but I bet you only use two fingers when you eat it."

He was right, and he was cute, but I was in the process of wrestling with myself before making an...interesting...phone call, and was a little drunk and scattered. We flirted a bit while Jamie and Adam receded and did the engaged-people equivalent of giggling and goading on match-making. But I was distracted, and cut off the sweet-talking pretty shortly, leaving him awkwardly standing next to me with nothing to do, so he looked around, locked in on the establishment owner's children playing at a nearby table, and went over to kibitz with them.

Sometimes men are so transparent you can literally see the cartoon character speech bubble floating over their head: "Now she'll see how great I am with kids, because don't all girls dig dudes who like babies?"

Well. I never want to birth my own, but yeah, I can appreciate a guy who doesn't make children run screaming, and I can also appreciate a guy who puts a lot of effort into winning me over more. Unfortunately, his order (and time) was up, and as I pointed it out to him, he commented off-hand, "Oh, it's not for me. I'm just the delivery guy." Short of calling all the independent delivery services in Burlington and saying, "Excuse me, do you have a driver who looks like Paul Walker's younger brother, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, lots of leg hair, blue sneakers, and a small earring? And how might I find him?", I gave up on him as soon as he walked out the door wishing me a good night and I got my hands on (and in,) my lo mien.

Back at the apartment, eating on the back porch, Adam asked why I'd put my wall up about Delivery Dude. "I'm not looking for anything right now," I told him while twirling my noodles.

"Maybe he's not looking for anything either," he responded, and I swear to god I felt my lip curl in a silent "Eww."

"Not my style," I told him.

Adam's more or less appalled by my dry spell streak, but I have this theory about how when you're not feeling wanted, or after the end of something emotionally taxing, your libido goes on strike. And then I tend to just forget about it. For the most part. And I'm picky about ending it.

Case In Point: Last Friday night, Emily and I went out for a Girl's Night. In the middle of Ake's

Place, I laid the gauntlet down-- "Our goal for the night is a phone number or a free drink. May the best woman win." We shook on it and drank to it, and apparently stumbled upon the magical sports bar secret, because not 20 minutes after finding a table at 3 Needs (yes, it's my favorite bar), Emily came back from the bar giggling. "There's two guys up there, and I just got a phone number." They came to sit with us, and soon numbers were exchanged all around, (along with me telling the drunker one that Emily was from "Amish country, but she believes in electricity!") and they were eying our drinks. "I'd offer to get you another beer, but you already have one."

"Is that a promise?" I asked. He agreed, we shook on it, I pounded the half of my bottle left, and true to his word, he got me another one, insisting I belly up to the bar with him and snaking a polite arm around my waist. Italy taught me a lot of good life skills, one of which being the foresight to see in which direction men are thinking, and halt it in action. Unfortunately, while in Italy, telling someone you're engaged (because having a boyfriend doesn't mean bullshit to them,) only elicits the mildly more respectful response of (and I quote from numerous Italian men,) "Where is your man? America is very far away," but here in the good ol' U.S of A, it's easier to stop a speeding train. I asked our beer-buying gentleman where he lived, and promptly responded with, "Oh! That's near where the guy I'm seeing lives! He lives on _______ Street!"

Lesson #1 in bar and club safety for women: If someone's coming on to you who you're not interested in, yet you don't want to totally discount them because they're a nice and gracious person, make up a boyfriend, and sprinkle tid-bits about him liberally through the conversation. "He lives (here)." "He took me (there)." "Last night, we went and saw (this)." "He's out with his guys tonight, so we're having Girl's Night." And the killer: "I think you two would really get along."

"You're cute, but you're difficult," he told me later as we walked to Mr. Mike's. I snorted, and told him, "You don't know the half of it. I'm sure my exes would agree with you. I'm making that my new tag-line."

He bought us pizza, and insisted on walking us home even though it was on the complete opposite side of town from where he lived. On the front porch, I gave him a quick and perfunctory hug, thanked him, wished him a good night, and then shut the door on him and tripped lightly up the stairs and passed out in bed. Alone.

Well, not quite. Nicco has cemented his nighttime abode as my pillow, and wakes me up in the morning by stoking my head with his little paw and preening my hair, which is really alarming sometimes when you're dreaming about Bourdain or Shemar Moore and wake up to someone fondling your head. But at least he never leaves the toilet seat up.

XOXO

P.S-- I recounted that bar story to a guy that one of my friends is dating, and the look of sheer terror that came across his face as I described how women will make up boyfriends so we don't have to flat-out turn you down was telling, yet hilarious. I guess the lid has now been throughly blown off of that one.

Good Morning, Amurika!

I'm really digging off-the-shoulder tops lately. It's a nice way to show a little extra skin, and is so much more unexpected than showing more cleavage or back. If your neck and collarbone are sensitive, it's sure to get some blood rushing.

I bought 3 cheap pre-made o-t-s tees and a regular crew neck Rolling Stones men's tee the other day, brought it home, and DIY-ed it into an off the shoulder with "Can't Get No..." emblazoned across the back. The first thing I ever DIY-ed (we're not counting the misguided attempts at making my own deconstructed/reconstructed clothing held together with more safety pins than sewing when I was a pint-sized punk-rocker in middle school who refused to "conform to The Man" by, I don't know, wearing jeans and clothing that did not have holes in it?) was what was in it's previous life, an XL white Hanes men's crew neck tee. Now, it's an off-the-shoulder tie-dyed tailored shirt-dress with peek-a-boo holes cut down the spine. Hey, who said I got rid of my holey obsession?

I've been partying a lot lately, and unlike the sophomore bitties who go all-out in dresses, heels, hair and full make-up for a house party to only sit on some guy's couch that's still squishy with spilled cheap beer, my formula for parties goes along the lines of fun, functional, funky, comfortable, and easy. Face it ladies, if the party is happening on the roof or in the basement, and you can't get there because you dress doesn't allow some minor acrobatics and your heels and non-functional, you're not going to be have a fun time.

This is a Kirra scoop-neck, loose-sleeve tunic that I tug over my left shoulder and go. It looks very Parisian over skinny black pants, or hipster-chic layered over a tight knee-length shirt, and under a plaid button-up. You can even belt it at the waist to give it some more shape, but as it already tapers, I'm pretty cool with it as is when not under something less form-fitting. Worn best with lots of jewelry, unwashed Cali-girl hair, and a whimsical attitude.

And the hat? Red Stripe. "Don't worry; beer happy."

XOXO

Discourses in Deception

I always have mocked the term "recessionista," but when you find yourself substituting 4 o'clock and 5 o'clock "Duff Hour" at 3 Needs as your new more cost-effective, less prime-time alternative to late-night drinks, those $1 pints seem to be more practical, if not glamorous. And when you're not really working (although I've got an internship, a paid short-term copy-editing gig, and a new column being optioned-- I like wearing as many caps as possible; maybe it's because I don't look good in hats--), like me, $1 pints are not something to be picky about when what you really want is a $7 Cosmo with the girls. I'll take

my cheap alcohol where I can get it.

If there's anything I've learned while living on the lean, it's the the art of deception is probably

one of your most paramount tools in life that you will ever learn to master, along with being flexible, crafty, and mastering some sleight-of-hand while working the bills out. I know some of you (including one ex in particular who hated lies while at the same time going out of every way to have to explain the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him god,) aren't the biggest fans of deception. Some of you think it's best to "keep it real" and "tell it like it is." And while "telling it like it is" may not be a particularly strong point of mine (and here I hear a few "Amens" from the same chorus), what I'm advocating here is the sort of deception that hurts no one.

College and shortly thereafter is a time in which you trade, barter, and prostitute with what you have. Like my renaissance love-affair with Duff Hour, you work with what you have. And what I have right now is lots of time. In this time, there are two things I like to devote spending vast amounts daydreaming about: Writing, and cons.

Ok, so maybe it's more like three things: Writing, sex, and cons. And while my writing is getting me free business lunches and opening doors of career opportunities, it's not exactly paying the bills NOW.

A "con" or a "confidence trick" or "confidence game," (also known as a bunko, con, flim-flam, gaffle, grift, hustle, scam, scheme, swindle, or bamboozle) for those of you who never saw the brilliant "Catch Me If You Can," is "an attempt to defraud a person or group by gaining their confidence. The victim is known as the mark, the trickster is called a confidence man, con man, confidence trickster, or con artist, and any accomplices are known as shills. Confidence tricks exploit typical human qualities such as greed, dishonesty, vanity, honesty, compassion, credulity, irresponsibility and naïveté. The common factor is that the mark relies on the good faith of the con artist." Cons aren't always so devious as sometimes they're just a fact of life. Sometimes, it's necessary to convince someone that you're solvent enough to be a good investment. So when I showed up today for my business lunch in an avant-garde skirt and leather heels, no one would have been any the wiser that I owe the bank $200, haven't paid my utilities bills yet for the month, and only have $4.27 in my wallet, and literally, to my name. With the right wardrobe, you can be anyone. I like my money where I can see it: On me. People say invest in gold and bonds and the tangible, so I do my best, and keep it in my closet.

But like every good con, I have my tell-- the more jewelry I'm wearing, the more insecure I am. I can't help it-- being a jeweler's daughter, I've watched all sorts of people walk in, and I've checked out their bedazzledness. A large gold watch or large watch with gold accents screams "I can afford to have the time." I got mine for 10 Euro in an Asian appliance hole-in-the-wall in Florence. In a time when people accessorize by

dripping with jewels, I got my fighting leopard cocktail ring, long sunburst necklace, and vintage cat pendant at a flea market in Florence, not paying more than 10 Euro for each of those

pieces. My gigantic Chinese knot necklace I got from a booth in New York City's Chinatown, and

the only jewelry of any value that I ever wear are two rings from my father-- one, the first thing he ever made for my mother; the other, my 18th birthday present.

I can play a fun game with you in which I point out what things in

my room I've bought at T.J Maxx-- hint: it's about half. That's where I've picked up discount Tommy Hilfiger and Polo Ralph Lauren bags, and the white studded Steve Madden purse in photos above. I bought my 1970s vintage Louis Vuitton messenger bag--my first piece of big-name designer anything-- at the same flea market in Florence where I bought all my jewelry, and I haggled the price down 15 Euro for it, too. That pink silk shirt, and a gray tee, were both originally from Urban Outfitters, where I have never bought anything full-price-- the pink silk was thrifted from Plato's Closet, and I bought the gray shirt on heavy sale, like everything else I've ever come home with from that store. Honestly, I was just in there again today, and while I adore a large majority of their clothing, I could just as easily walk into a good consignment shop and find the same styles for half the price. At least. But for now, I'm perfectly content with re-inventing things from my own closet to look like new. And if all I'm covering up is a sub-par bank account with a few extra bangles, I don't see what the harm is in convincing other people I'm either flush, or something that I'm not. It's like playing dress-up, but for semi-grown-ups. All we're doing is running around and trying to

appease people and convince them that we're what they want us to be, anyway.When was the last time you were truly you, just because you had a chance to be?

Yeah. Next time, don't worry what they think-- worry about what the people who know you for you and love you for you think. As Emily has said, it's all about "faking it 'til you make it." Hey, I never said my moral compass was straight.

{An extremely insecure and nervous day--

The UO tee of my 3 major food groups

(Alcohol, Caffiene, Nicotine,)

that I've worn to death and stretched out into an off-the-shoulder,

3 necklaces,

4 rings,

my bangles,

wristband from Brewfest that still hasn't fallen off,

my beaded rasta bracelet from Solarfest,

and my studded riding belt.

Jewelry is my armor.

Mistah J is my dude.

And my other tell-- I can't keep my hands away from my mouth.}

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

Playing With Boys

I have two traits that can be extremely useful in meeting men: When I want to be, I can be extremely charming, and I am what could be called a "guy's girl." I generally tend to like men-- it's easy to be in their company; I'd rather chill with some of my boys than have a girl's night. I think it's just the level of energy-- women, as a general rule, require more energy to keep up with than men do. This is one reason that I can understand why a man would rather be single than have a girl. This is also another reason why I hate being stuck with needy men.

A good indicator of this is someone who tells you 4 times in the span of 20 minutes that "you're a real chill girl, you know that? I really like you."

And then, my friends, is when you know it's GAME. OVER.

Last night was one of my friend's birthdays. We got to her place over an hour late, and walked into a mixed bag of people-- some familiar faces; some not. Normally, when out and about, especially with people I don't know, I'm quiet and more reserved than I am with say, my circle of friends. But last night? It was like a switch had been flipped, and I came out swinging, feisty, and quirky, climbing on top of a dresser to touch the textured ceiling, and begin my hostile takeover of the men from a bird's eye view. Last night, with some wine lubricating me, it was like I was playing jacks with men-- by the time the ball dropped, I wanted to have as many as possible in hand. And this worked, apparently, because I landed not one, but two.

...That may not have been the best metaphor I've ever crafted, but you get the point-- juggling men. One had green. The other showed up and had a dog. I traded stock real fast after literally burning through the first. As I hopped over the porch railing to get down and play with the dog, leaving my smoking buddy on the other side, I remember saying, "You have a dog? I'm your new best friend." I have never said I was extremely loyal to anything with testicles.

"So, how was your evening?" Alli asked as we walked back home.

"I have no idea what got into me," I told her.

"ME." She's right-- it was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Normally, Alli's the out-going, friendly, flirty one with strangers, and I'm standing somewhere in the back, rolling my eyes, going "When he's blowing your phone up, I'm going to be saying 'I told you so'," and passive-aggressively drinking myself out of conversations-- you know, that move where people take a sip of their drink so they don't have to answer you as their eyes scan the room, looking for some way out? HELLO. I may not be the most optimistic, equal-opportunity dater. I was a part of receding-hairline-affirmative-action once before, and when I got home, after the sauvignon blanc wore off my eyes, I realized there is absolutely no way I can forsake, as I called them, "those thick, luscious locks you can fist your hands in." (Bachelor #1.) Or a vocabulary that extends beyond the words "bro" and "right on." (Bachelor #2.) So while I may have had a productive evening, it ended up this morning as a wash.

And this is why meeting people and dating makes me long for the good old days when every. single. thing the guy I was with for actually over a month did drove me fucking nuts and to chain-smoke. Because despite the "thrill of the new," there's nothing better than someone's old quirks that you know and are used to. I forgot how hard finding someone you actually like is.

Fuck.

XOXO

Carissa Goes To Jail

Jeepers Creepers appeared again for an encore show the night after his first performance, now with a new act: masturbating in front of his window while looking up at ours to see if we were watching. For what we pay for rent, we should have a view of shirtless hunks washing dishes or carrying heavy lumber, not a man who only gets close and personal with blow-up dolls, his palm, and apparently, us. While variety may be the spice of life, his little variety show understandably turned us way off, so the living room blinds have been closed for the past two days, and today, Alli and I went to Burlington P.D to lodge a formal complaint against our unsightly scenery.

Considering the last time I talked to two cops, I was drunk and said "good evening" like a Transylvanian brothel madam, I was understandably a little nervous. That, and I may or may not engage in some activities not exactly kosher with the law. And I always feel cops just know that about you. Like psychics. But with handcuffs instead of crystal balls. And arrest records seem to be far more damning than birth charts, from what I've seen, at least. But knowing that I am a grown-ass independent girl (or at least, should be), I sucked it up, and went.

In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been worried. My behavior never came up-- just his. If you were wondering, "lewd and lascivious" is the definition for it, and in Vermont, you can only be fined up to $300, which to me is a pittance when compared to what you're knowingly inflicting on other people, or spend under 5 years in jail for it. Unfortunately, unless Creepers initiates more attention from us than just standing full-frontal in his window and whacking it silently, there's not much the police can do about it, given it is technically in his own apartment, as I suspected. I voiced my concerns about the fact we're two small young blonde women living together, and that this may be his way to seek attention, be it positive of negative, along with the fact that I wouldn't recognize him if he and I were both out on the sidewalk checking our mail, which is just icky to think about brushing shoulders with this freakshow and not know it.

However, I was pleased as-- no pun intended-- punch when the Corporal gave us permission to either have a male friend talk to our Chippendale's wannabe or, and I quote here, "kick his teeth in." So-- how many male friends do I have who are willing to help me out of this awkward skin-pinch? Because we really do need some help, guys. We would do it, but we were instructed to not involve ourselves with him in order to not egg his delusions on any more. We're here for another year, and I don't want to be afraid to walk in or out of the front door to my own apartment or feel forced to not stand by the same window the cat loves to sleep in. After being grabbed in Italy, I'm more sensitive to these things than I'd like to admit. I wasn't able to do anything in Florence, but I'll be damned if I do nothing on my own home turf. That's just not cool, at all.

Later, as Alli and I sipped our restorative Slushies from Cumbies in the oppressive afternoon humidity and discussed our dilemma, I looked at her and said, "I can't tell if I'm disgusted by it or if I really like it."

She looked horrified for a minute before I caught myself. "I mean the slushie. Not the creeper." Obviously.

XOXO

The Bitch & The Logger

In between the beer and the beef jerky, I realized at Vermont's 2010 Brewfest that I have a nearly patented method for meeting, and subsequently getting rid of, men. Don't get me wrong-- Brewfest is a GREAT place to meet men. It's LOUSY with men. It's lousy with DRUNK men. I had highest hopes; in fact, I shaved for this festival. I cross the lines between food and drink and sex in very odd ways.

It goes something like this: I'm standing in line, or waiting somewhere, when I notice the dude behind me is blatantly scoping me out. I covertly scope him back. If it seems like he isn't someone entertaining thoughts of choking me to death in some back alley or holding a chloroformed handkerchief in his back pocket (or, I'll admit to being shallow, if he isn't dog-fugly with only a face a blind mother could love), I may change my attitude setting to "open to conversation." Conversation then ensues, usually for about five to ten minutes. During this time, I'm looking for intelligence, humor, yes--looks--, and if he's just someone that I connect with. Sometimes, it's apparent within the first 30 seconds that this ain't gonna work. At which point, I politely yet firmly put an end to the conversation and then-- wait for it; this is the bitch move that I finally pinned down-- turn back around and cut off all further contact. Literally, I turn my back to them. I don't know, short of throwing shit at them or taunting their masculinity to their face, if there's any faster way to prove to a man that you are not feeling him. At all. Never. Not even drunk.

I may have found the reason I am chronically single. But, I would RULE at speed-dating.

Maybe that's what it kind of it-- a quick assessment if it's worth spending any more time on this short, overly-preened dude in a checked button-down with a tan that looks like he's either Cuban or from Miami or a Cuban from Miami. I mean, hey, I found out four things from him-- how much empanadas were; if the green pepper dipping sauce was hot; that his friend was an overt bro asshole; and that while he was cute, I just wasn't feeling the amount of maintenance he exuded. It's not that he seemed like he'd find chomping on my dead thigh a rollicking good time-- it was just that he seemed like the kind of guy who thinks buying you dinner means you instantly owe him a blow job. No, thank you-- moving on to the next. Being picky and having high standards saves me a lot of time when wading through the time-wasters and assholes. I am not burdened with the curse of being overly nice to guys-- all guys-- like my roommate is. And while she struggles with juggling men's attentions and getting rid of creeps and the geriatrics who seem to love her with all of their last hard on's dying strength, I have all that time I could be fending off the advances of unwanted men free to do things like...I don't know...terrorize the kitten, blow smoke rings, and perfect the fine art of the double-orgasm. Or write for this blog. All terribly valid and time-consuming things.

I thought I was done for the day-- total waste of a shave, total disappointment. But then, in the middle of City Market, picking up a 12-pack for the way home, it happened. I ran into the sort of man who makes your palms sweat, the kind of man who when you're holding box with 12 very breakable bottles of beer with a tray of dumplings precariously balanced on top, the sort of man it's really bad to run into, because you might just end up dropping everything. Literally.

Since I was about 7 years old, this good ol' Vermont girl has had a horrendously huge crush on local 802 celeb and comedian/writer/actor/musician and "master of Duct Tape" Rusty DeWees. You may know him as "The Logger." Don't ask me why all the love and lust-- maybe it's the shit-eating grin; maybe it's the blue humor; maybe it's the height; maybe it's the apparent aversion to razors and the three-day-old perma-stubble; maybe it's the plaid. Anyway, one would not guess that since before I thought "Dildo" was another Hobbit in the Shire, I had the hots for this dude:

It was like an out-of-body experience. There, just in front of the empty buffet area at closing time, I recognized him instantly as he looked down at me-- a cute drunk blonde with a lot of beer-- and slid me one of those sly smirks. Smitten. Actually, past-tense-- utterly smote.

In case you still don't understand, there's always this:

Do you get it now?

And can I get an "Amen"?

So, see? Standards. Being a bitch about who you'll go home with helps. Not only did Mr. Miami not waste my time, but if I had stuck around to find out if that tan was real or fake, I would have missed nearly raping The Logger in the middle of the wine section and having my evening made by finally seeing one of my favorite local boys in the (toned) flesh.

...And if you're wondering, I didn't. I would have had to put down the beer. I'm as red-blooded as the next girl, but some things are sacred.

XOXO

Celibacy and the City

A friend of mine told me the other night that she made the conscious choice to be celibate for the last year after she took a long and hard look at her hook-up history and felt less than pleased.

"Hey, that's cool," I told her, to which she scoffed.

"Oh yeah, Miss Sex-Blogger?"

I can't fault anyone for thinking that I'm pro-sex-- for sure, I am-- but it's more about her deciding to do something, and less about the fact that it's about not having sex. Right now, I'm going through the process of deciding what I want this summer to be all about, and I've come up with something that is just as interesting as her choice to be celibate:

I want to wake up every morning with expanding possibilities. I want to not be afraid to play. I want to stay loose. I want to keep things casual. I want to not let the past affect my future. I want to soak up the sand and lake's water equally. I want to not have to miss you any more. I want to be civil and someone who you'd want to miss. I want to be young. I want to be allowed to do as I please. I want to come and go and not have answer to anyone. I want to sleep the best I ever have. I want to go to concerts and movies and hiking and camping and sailing and road trips and swimming and expand. I want to become more professionally-proactive than before. I want to be able to change as often as the summer breezes. I want to not be figured out. I want to be allowed to just be.

And here's what I don't want, although it's exactly what everyone seems to think I should want: I don't want to date.

And I don't want to be tied down.

Maybe that's the root of the problem-- I came back thinking that's exactly what I wanted, and was too stunned to react with any sort of aplomb when I started to having sneaking suspicions that that's exactly what I actually don't want right now.

Would Carrie think wanting to be single is acceptable? I think yes, absolutely. People are fighting and clawing to get into relationships-- I want nothing more than to NOT be in one right now, taking a break and cooling down. What about you? What do you want this summer? Are you waiting to get into the "In" door, or are you running for the "Exit"? For now, the only man getting the right side of my bed is Nicco. The kitten.

XOXO

A Potent Publican Primer: Red Square

Nora couldn’t get the name of the bar right to save her life. It was “the Red Hexagon.” “The Red Parallelogram.” “The Red Circle.” It ended up being fitting. Madison couldn't close her tab without another shot of tequila. We came full-circle from drunk to drunk.

If they have a live DJ, it is probably the best place in Burlington to dance, other than at a show at High Ground or Nectar’s. The sleeze category of Lift or Rasputin’s stays at Lift or Rasputin’s, and the place is smaller, more intimate. Dress ranges from 30-something women in their J. Crew “going out” dresses to college students who wander in in the same tank and shorts they wore to North Beach earlier in the day. The waitresses are good. Capable. Veteran. They have to be.

Bouncers are another story. The bouncer looks at my ID, then back up at me. “You just made it,” he tells me. I want to fist my hands in my hair and scream. It’s been this way for the past few days. Kind hostesses wish me a happy belated birthday; bald and beefy security men eye me up and down and offer me a gruff “Congratulations,”; and these tall and weedy pricks at the trendy bars make a huge fucking deal about the fact that 2, 4, or 14 days ago, they would have gotten to bounce me out on my size 6 ass. I want to tell him I was probably drinking before he was. (It could be true.) Instead, I smile tightly and slip into what Alli has dubbed the “heinous bitch” demeanor.

Over a week later. Same bar. Could be the same bouncer, but then again, they all look the same, as if their high school basketball starting-forward days were the best they ever had and ever will have. Same dilemma. “So how’s it feel?” he asks me as I retrieve my ID from him and start to slide in the front door. I decide this jig is up and I’m tired, like so lately in life, of being continuously run over and pretending to not care.

“Well. I just came back from 4 months in Italy, so the bar scene is not new. And I figure, I just now legally get to do everything I’ve been doing since I was 14, so, it’s no big deal, right?”

He looks confused, like he wasn’t expecting that much information, and then just nods. “Yeah.”

The problem with the Red Four-Equilateral-Sided-Shape is, it’s where everyone wants to see and be seen under the mortician’s red lighting. The seats that spill into the alley and onto Church Street are prime see-and-be-seen territory. Some of my older friends, who I used to consider helplessly cool and aloof and just slightly affected in that way that all college students hope they come off as “worldly”, become much more human to me as I watch them shell out three bucks for a can of PBR and perch on the wrought iron chairs, trying, and failing, to look like it still isn’t a big deal. They are, like me, much more at home in the darker, quieter, wood-paneled bars, but if you are over 21, and if you’re in Burlington, you still feel this inexplicable need to go to Red Square, where the drinks are overpriced, the cocktails are almost too heavy on the liquor, the lighting is atrocious, and yet, you can’t help but wanting to be a part of it all.

And at the end of the night, what are you left without, other than an impending hangover in the morning?

Intextication. It's what happens on your cell phone when you get drunk. Luckily for some of us, the quick text link to Twitter is right beneath other phone numbers in our Favorites list, and we end up sending some of those texts to Twitter instead of the intended recipient. Rendering us a little less annoying, and the Twitterverse a bit more amused.

Intoxuation. It's fleeting infatuation that only occurs while you're slurring. So, texting things like "I miss you" at 3 AM while fueled with beer and rum is not the best idea. Because you can guarantee that when you wake up the next morning, you'll still be mad, and not only still mad, but now mad and mortified.

There hasn't been a dryspell like this since Jagger sung "I can't get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!" In the end, I even kept space between me and George.

XOXO