Go With The Flow

What's more hip right now than vampires? Tampons, obviously. Let's talk about vaginas, shall we?

I'll admit it-- I'm a bit of a brand whore, and I'm as loyal as the Labrador Retriever you grew up with when I find a product I like. I've worn the same American Eagle jeans since I was in middle school, because they're the cuts that fit me best. I've washed my hair with Garnier Fructis since I was a senior in high school. I only ride in Dansko paddock boots, and Ariat tall boots. I buy Barilla pasta (if it's good enough for the supermarkets in Italy, it's good enough for me). I pitched an ungodly fit when my local pharmacy changed my straight-from-the-brand Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo to the generic birth control alternative, and had it promptly changed back. (Part of that may have been because the generic pills looked like they had been pressed by some enterprising young meth-head in his back-country trailer park, and also the fact that I am NOT willing to risk my fertility on the cheap shit, because babies are HELLA expensive.) And I have always, ALWAYS used Playtex Gentle Glide tampons (fresh scent,) for as long as...well, for as long as I've been cursing being born female and fertile.

However, this is not to say that I can't occasionally be lured away from a specific product by the seductive siren song of another. While I may be very, very loyal and monogamous in my relationships with people, my relationships with products have a tendency to sometimes end up polygamous. Take, for instance, the last time I found myself journeying down the "feminine care" aisle of my local Rite-Aid on a last-minute "Dear god, like the three bears, my bathroom cupboards are bare and Goldilocks (Little Red Riding Hood would possibly be more apt?) has come to town!" mission. There they were, right in front of me-- the pink box with the familiar script, the reassuringly large "S", the vague floral scent wafting out of the box already. But, three boxes to my right, something caught my eye. It was black. It was colorful. It was modern. It was aggressive! It was a box that said, "Hey, cool lady, let's kick this period's ass like it's past 4 AM at Bungalow 8 and you're on Andy Warhol's arm!" Someone had obviously done enough market research to pick up on the fact that a black background with bright color accents just pops off the shelf (can't express to you how many books I have mysteriously ended up owning based on the fact that my brain sees bright pink on a black cover and instantly equates it with the next Great American Novel and NYT best-seller...which never, in fact, ends up happening), because after some hemming and hawing over the comfort of the familiar versus this bright new interloper, the box of regular-weight U by Kotex Click tampons had popped right into my basket. Women will endlessly be attracted to the shiny and new.

After two trials of "Why could I not have been born a Brandon?" use, here's the list of pros and cons that I've compiled for this new product in regards to how they stand up/fill out/carry their (water) weight against my beloved Gentle Glides. As always, every woman (and her flow) is different, so just because I found it a certain way doesn't mean that you necessarily will, too. Just keep that in mind. Now that we've got that across, here are my VERY opinionated views:

From an aesthetic point of view, the box and packaging of U have it allllllll over Playtex. The tampon cartridges themselves are much smaller, which is convenient because trying to fit a super-weight Playtex tamp in the pocket of a pair of girl's jeans is pretty much like trying to shove an atomic missile into hiding inside of a lycra catsuit. You know something is in there. The U's small cartridge, ever so tiny enough to fit a handful in my summer clutch, also expands to click into place (hence the name, Kotex Click) rather neatly. I got the first box of U's when they offered blue, green, orange and yellow colors instead of the rather sickly purple they replaced the blues with, but hey. Still, they have much more personality than Gentle Glides. And I always thought a woman's tampons told you a lot about her personality.

The thinner plastic cartridge (I never understood why ANYONE, including my mother, would have ever used the cardboard cartridges; I mean, I get that they're more environmentally friendly, blah blah blah go hug a tree, but the sensation of trying to use one is like trying to insert the corner of the box of Annie's Organic Mac & Cheese you just ate for lunch into your down-undah. NO THANK YOU!) also equates to an interesting other plus for Kotex-- you know that phenomenon that happens as you get towards the end of your Time of Bleed when your vagina just kind of shuts down like a government building under attack and stops accepting any foreign bodies into it and is all, "PENIS OR BUST!" and for the life of you, you cannot plead, cajole, coerce, or force another tampon comfortably in there to save your life, or your new pair of underwear? Well, with the very slim plastic cartridge body, the U just kind of...slides by your vaj's defenses unnoticed, like Bond. No struggle, no teeth-gritting, and no more crying and pleading while in a public bathroom stall that distracts other people around you. Solid.

However, the U does fall short of my beloved Gentle Glides in a few places: Namely, the fact that the regular-weight U's are about half the size and absorbency of the regular-weight Gentle Glides. They don't expand as well to fit and leak-proof your lady-bits quite as well as Gentle Glide's cotton protection does, either, probably due to the fact that Gentle Glide's cotton tamps are roughly the same softness and fluffiness that newborn baby kittens are, while U's tamps are made of something that feels suspiciously like yesterday's newspaper that's been lining your kid sister's hamster cage overnight. It's kind of stiff, kind of hard, and has this weird...well, this weird almost shell to the cotton, which acts as kind of like a primary defense system that your bodily fluid have to breach before the damn tamp will begin to absorb. Not, generally, the best thing that one looks for in a tampon.

All in all, this one's kind of a wash. While I continue to buy my Gentle Glides for their vastly superior protection, I've also started making sure that I always have a small box of the regular-weight U's kicking around for either those really light days when my vagina decides that it's on maximum security lockdown, or for those special occasion events like summer weddings, outings on boats, or barbecues when I need either my small clutch instead of a large purse, or don't want to look like I'm smuggling Cuban cigars back into the country in my denim short's pocket. So, U by Kotex Click-- worth the fancy-shamancy hip packaging, but not worth it to entrust any new pairs of underwear to provided that like Victoria, you should want to keep your little monthly visitor a secret.

XOXO

Things About Being The Best Girlfriend You Can Be That Nobody Ever Told You:

...Until now.

1.) Sometimes, guys get headaches, too. A night spent together without sleeping together is not a night wasted-- it's life. Just like you have "off" nights, men are allowed to have "off" nights and days, too. Don't take it personally. Enjoy your night of restful sleep. And if you're really torn up about it...there's always the next morning.

2.) Nannying was a really useful summer job to have as far as a skill-set for relationships go. There is absolutely no harm in asking before leaving for a trip if your partner has remembered to pack the essentials: toothbrush, deodorant, underwear, something to sleep in, cell phone charger. If he has, great. If he has somehow overlooked an item or two in his packing, he'll think you're a godsend for remembering what he didn't. It's easy, too-- just think about the things that are REALLY needed for a day or two away; while we may not be able to function without our trusty blowdryer, that's the way he feels about his deodorant. And when in doubt, just as when I was SuperNanny I always had tissues in my back pockets and a big red Mary Poppins purse full of tricks, there are a few things to always carry in your purse to make your union even smoother: tissues, band aids, breath mints or gum, cough drops, a condom or two, and water. Toys to keep him occupied while you're shopping optional.

3.) It's ok to get mad. You have emotions, too. But realize that when you start to withhold affection because of something that you haven't shared with him, you're doing more to damage your relationship than to move past the anger. If you start withholding, he'll start, because he has no clue what's going on unless you tell him. 9 times out of 10, whatever ticked you off was one of your little personality quirks or pet-peeves, and he didn't mean to do it, or doesn't think it's a big deal. You have one of two options: Address it with him, or move past it and let it go on your own. Your sour mood has the ability to affect not only you and your partner, but everyone else around you, too. I realized the other night that my tetchy mood after I felt like my significant other had been ignoring me in a social setting wasn't only dragging down my night out; my bad mood and surly attitude was dragging down him and our friend from having a good time, too. It wasn't fair to any of us, so in a quiet minute alone, I addressed it, we hugged it out, and the rest of our night was fabulous. A quick chat and a hug can repair far more than going an entire night or few days in a funk can.

4.) Let it go. Your past relationships are over, and shouldn't affect your current one any more than your elementary school friends affected your college life. Sometimes, when my ex hadn't shaved in awhile, he reminded me so much of my first boyfriend that I would get completely turned off. Other times in relationships, all the emotional bullshit and trust issues that the ex had put me through resurfaced, and undermined my current relationships, for no reason other than the fact that I was scared what happened to me in the past would happen again, just with another guy. If it's over and done with, let it be over and done with. And if it's still present, the best thing you can do for EVERYONE involved is to set boundaries. Twice now I've had my exes calling and/or texting me after the relationship ended, trying to get with me or see me. For the sake of my current relationships, I set very firm ground rules with them:

A.) Acknowledge the fact that you are in a new, committed, monogamous relationship.

B.) Let them know that while you appreciate their interest in seeing you and/or newfound desire to communicate, it's not the ideal time at the moment because you have other, more pressing issues that need your attention. Like sleep, your job, or going back to date night.

C.) But tell them when it is acceptable. 4 AM is not acceptable; I'm not always alone at night, and I enjoy my beauty sleep. Be firm in telling them to keep their dialing to daylight hours.

D.) If they're not being nice, DO assure them you will not put up with their bullshit any longer, because you're not in a relationship anymore, and you don't have to.

E.) If they are insistent about wanting to see you and talk, do it somewhere neutral, and in public, like a coffee shop or a city park. Having witnesses never hurt-- someone would be bound to see them drag your body away.

F.) Be nice, but be firm. It never cost anyone anything to be civil; remember, at one time, this person meant the world to you. If you can't at least be friendly and/or treat them like a friend, something's wrong. If they need to leave you alone, tell them that. Though it's flattering to hear that the ex wants you back, your priority now should be your new relationship, not your old ones.

5.) Everyone has a different bank account balance. Sometimes, what one partner can spend is different than what the other is capable of, and, as money is very fluid, sometimes that changes from person to person from month to month, or even from week to week. If you can't be generous in your spending, be generous in other things, instead, like in your time or your effort in the relationship. I spend a lot of time at my significant other's, so, to thank him for the nights we spend there and not at my place, I clean his house. It's easy, it doesn't take much time, but it speaks volumes that I value his space and his things as much as I do mine, and he appreciates it. If you've got a little cash, treating your boyfriend to drinks or late-night delivery is always a great "I appreciate you and like taking care of you" gesture. If you are absolutely tapped, a fun time out can be hard. However, it costs nothing to go to a local high school sports game and cuddle in the bleachers, or take a blanket and drive out into the country and go star-gazing. When in doubt, keep track of the things he mentions wanting or needing-- they can be little, like a new pair of sunglasses for summer, or big, like a new bike or the special collector's edition of his favorite TV show. When you DO have cash, referring back to your secret list of his desires will give you a shopping point to start from (great for birthdays, Christmas, and Valentine's Day presents he'll actually care about).

6.) Health issues aren't embarrassing; they're your body. If you can share your body in an intimate way, you should be able to talk openly and freely about why your period isn't going to allow you to have sex for the next 5 days, why the Chinese you just ate is sending you running for the bathroom every 15 minutes, and what a UTI is and why you have one. Women pee, shit, barf, sneeze, fart and cough just like everyone else. A fart during sex isn't the end of the world; please learn to either ignore it and move on like adults, or how to laugh it off together. A good girlfriend can talk about body issues and things relating: her birth control habits, because it's important that he understands them, too; why a clean bathroom at his place with a trash can in it is needed; any body hang-ups she has and how they affect their sex life; and any outstanding health issues that he should be aware of-- if someone needs to accompany you to your doctor visits and your parents aren't in the area, guess who should pony up? While explaining your cycle to your guy may not exactly be like asking your best friend for a tampon, both are people who should understand you, your insides and out.

7.) All girls are taught that when a guy asks you what you want-- for date night, for your birthday, for lunch-- you should say "nothing" so that he thinks you're a laid-back catch of a woman and values you more for that and ends up pulling out all the stops to make you happy. However, we've failed to take in the communication differences between men and women into account. When we tell a guy that we want "nothing" or that we "don't want to do anything special," he's going to take you at face- and word-value, and you'll be getting a whole lot of nothing instead of that whole lot of SOMETHING that you really wanted. And then guess who's going to be the one sulking? Not him. He did EXACTLY what you told him to do. So, take it into account-- while if you ask for nothing you're bound to get nothing, if you ask for EVERYTHING, you're also bound to get nothing. A nice dinner out is perfectly acceptable to ask for for your anniversary. An all-expenses-paid trip to the Taj Mahal is not. If you want the turkey club, or a dinner out, or that bracelet for your birthday, ASK. Don't make him try to read your mind. He'll appreciate your up-front-ness, and both of you will end up winning.

8.) Sometimes, when you ask him what he's thinking while he's staring at you with a goofy grin on his face, and he says "nothing," what he really means is, "I'm honestly not engaging in any brain activity right now, so stop asking me for the answers to life," NOT "I'm thinking about how you're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen and if I were to ever meet her, I'd tell Megan Fox to get a face-lift to look more like YOU, not the other way around," like you want to hear. So stop asking him what he's thinking...just let him veg peacefully.

9.) If asked about your ex's endowment, DO NOT give solid measurements in inches and diagrams. Be vague, but truthful. Say "You fit me better," or "It wasn't all that great." Penis envy is real, and just like how you REALLY don't want to know if his ex gave better head than you do, he really doesn't need to be thinking about how he measures up to The Hammer.

10.) One of the best things you can do for your relationship is realize that the time you spend annoying each other (and it WILL happen!) is always less than the time you spend loving to be around each other. (If it's the reverse, I think you need to get out-- NOW.) If he's being chipper in the early morning before you've had your coffee and all you really want to do is tell him to shut up, sit down, and leave you alone, remember that this too shall pass, and in the next 10 minutes, he'll go back to being your average, normal, lovable boyfriend. A little memory of the good times together, and a LOT of tolerance goes a looong way in relationships. If he doesn't think he drives you mental at least twice every day because you keep it to yourself and work through it, he'll think you're Mother Teresa's hot young kid sister.

XOXO

This Is Just To Say...Men Rule*.

I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I have to be That Girl today and write something potentially disgusting that some of you, my lovely, loyal readers who I honestly lose sleep over trying to think of new ways to appease, may hate and thus boycott this blog. But it needs to be said. If I was not currently at work, I would traipse up to the top floor of the library to sing it from the outdoor patio, but alas, leaving the office during hours is frowned upon (even while blogging, reading Cosmopolitan, and taking personal calls is not,) and I'll have to settle for spreading the good word here:

Last night, after taking my second 50 milligram dose of Zoloft (in the future, please look for a really fun post that will more fully detail WHY I am now being medicated for clinical depression [finally,] as well as how to deal with depression in your relationships), I promptly ceased to retrieve messages fired from my neurons and washed it down with two glasses of a very tasty Malbec (...red wine, for those of you not obsessed with all things vino), which I will NEVER do again (or, at least, not until I really, really, RULLY want a $5 house margarita at Miguel's), because, suffice it to say, I ended up brushing my teeth while leaning at a 45-degree angle between the bathroom door and wall and then passed out mid-scene while Buffy and Angel were cuddling in bed in Angel: Season One while spooning my cat and WHO REALLY DOES THAT. Anyway, I learned my lesson re: anti-depressants and depressants and that's what really matters. That, and the fact that after receiving "Giant shark vs. mega octopus?" as a response to my 12:30 AM "I'm a dumbass who mixed drugs and drinking and I may not be alive in the morning due to the fact that my heart currently feels like a epileptic trying to dance to dubstep and isn't it always said that heart attack signs are so much harder to diagnose and tend to go unnoticed in women? so I just wanted to let you know 'cause I thought you might care" text to TGIS, he texted me back again this morning while I was (alive) (un-heart attacked) (sober) at work, just to see how I was feeling (and concernedly chastise/advise me about my medicating and self-medicating actions in the future like I was sitting in a high school chem class while he pointed to a pie chart labeled "Bad Life Decisions You Have Made Broken Down Into Things That Contain Chemical Symbols", but that is an after-thought besides the point and sir, you need not worry. Lesson LEARNED.)

...Or possibly maybe just to see if I were still alive or if he is now a free agent. Men. But that's the point...Men.

There. I'm sorry. I had to brag. Sometimes, men are the best. And in my honest opinion, he is the best of the best.

XOXO

(*Qualifier: "Sometimes." Amazing how easy seemingly insignificant little things can be, yet still make a woman sing a guy's praises, isn't it? Please note, dog-ear, and favorite this notion for future use, you of the Y chromosomes.)

What I Wore.

{Hat: Columbia;
Shirt: Truly Madly Deeply from Urban Outfitters;
Leggings: Old Navy;
Knit Stockings: Charlotte Russe;
Boots: Deena & Ozzy Tread Boot from Urban Outfitters.}

It's been cold as blue balls lately here in VT, and paired with the fact that the medication I've been on for my fever and infection (there's the reason I've been MIA-- Ladies, DO NOT ignore a UTI and just HOPE it'll go away; I guess if we play, we've got to pay at some point...) includes the lovely side-effect of making me sweat more than a whore in Sunday service, dressing has been...well, dressing hasn't happened, since I didn't get out of bed for three days, due in part to the fact that I couldn't begin to fathom how to dress for both sweating AND the chills.

But last night, my shipment from Urban Outfitter's massive blow-out sale came in, and there's nothing like clothing and a new pair of shoes to make a girl feel like new again, am I right, or am I right? I apologize now if you won't see me devoid of these boots on my feet for the rest of the winter-- not only are they STUNNING in a bad-ass bitch, combat-boots-with-class sort of way, the Timberland-like tread on the bottom is great for city slush as well as the Vermont snow, and they're supportive, warm, and comfortable. And heels I can wear all winter long! Paired with the knit stockings I grabbed for $4 and wear EVERYWHERE-- over leggings for another warmer layer, with boyshorts around the apartment, during "intimate moments" for a snowbunny school-girl vibe-- and a knit cap, I was warm and comfortable enough all through work, my night class, and dinner with the girls after. Finally-- forward Vermont winter fashion success!

XOXO

Fun fact: Before I inadvertantly quit smoking in early November, I was virtually never sick. Now, I consider a 2 week stretch of good health a record-breaker. What gives with that irony?!

Boys Will Be Boys, And Girls Will Be Like Boys.

I learned a fun fact this evening while I was talking to my roommate Alli about the fact that I'm starting to think that slightly larger than average amounts of testosterone in my biological make up would explain a lot about me, paramount being my sex drive, natural aggressiveness, tendency to dominate, and the fact that a lot of the time, I feel masculine despite my 36C breasts riding on my 5'3" frame and 36 inch hips. It's not anything...I don't know, abnormal, like I'm going to bust out a beard at any moment...it's just that despite my love of shoes and the fact that I tear up over ASPCA commercials and reflexively smile hugely like a butter-hearted idiot at cute babies, I still feel like in a crisis, I'd be the one picking up the rifle and trekking into the woods to go kill shit to feed the family.

Maybe it's because I'm a Vermont girl. The most romantic thing I could get for Valentine's Day would be a remote car starter. A remote car starter on a nice bracelet.

Or maybe, it's something else. "Let me see your hand," Alli asked, and then held hers up to explain. "See how my index finger is longer than my ring finger?" I dutifully held mine up. She went "YEAHHHH" quickly in a tone of voice that I'm sure they train out of doctors in pre-med. "Look at how much longer your ring finger is than your index finger." She's not lying. It's probably nearly a quarter of an inch longer. "They've linked longer ring fingers in women to higher doses of testosterone in their chemical make up. So that explains it for you."

Think this is all bullshit like how a man's hand or foot size denotes the size of his dick? Then try this on for size: "Unlike men, most women have ring fingers that are shorter or the same length as their index fingers. Only a few have longer ring fingers. The finding adds to evidence that the ratio between the two fingers - not the length itself but their length relative to each other - is associated with a number of different personality traits, which include sexuality, fertility, intelligence, aggressiveness and musical ability. The difference is believed to be linked to the level of the male hormone testosterone, to which the foetus is exposed in the womb."

Whelp. That not only explains my merit as a sprinter, but also my sex drive quite nicely. "But babe, I know you're tired...don't blame me, blame my finger!" Think it would fly or hold up in a court of law as an argument? However, I can also guarantee that all the women who just read this are looking at their hands right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

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

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

Eat It.

There's this love/hate relationship I have. It deals mainly with me, and someone I see every time I sit down at a restaurant table or get out of the shower. It's with my body.

For the first time in over 5 months, today, I spotted my long-dormant abs. I have a body build that was best suited for when my Austrian-Hungarian ancestors toiled in fields all day and popped out kids left, right, and center, probably in those same fields without missing a step. With my manual labor years behind me, my aversion to pregnancy and desire to adopt, I'm pretty much stuck with incredibly dense bone structure, a perfect 36-27-36 hourglass shape, and a build that could be described as "as solid as a brick shithouse." As it has been.

The primary problem is this: I. Love. Food. Wait, let me expand on this: (WARNING: Food porn ahead. NSFHunger.)

I love cooking, I love eating, and I love drinking.

None of this is conducive with maintaining a weight or shape other than "round." My legs are the only thing that I know will always be there in some sort of cab-stopping appeal, because I won the genetic jackpot on that one, and I have what is now the equivalent of a lifetime of horseback riding under my breeches. And so, reluctantly, I'm a little bit of what is usually dismissively called a "gym rat." I'm dedicated to 4 or 5 days a week of some sort of cardio and weight exercise. Being a "path of least resistance" person when it comes to working out, I chose the things that I can pretty much do in about 6-by-6 feet of room, preferably, standing still. (I told you, I'm lazy.) There's lots of side-bends to work my abs (which do not want to exist in the first place), lots of oblique twists (easy as turning your upper body while focusing on isolating muscles), and lots of weight training. I can punctuate homework or commercial breaks with 50-100 lunges a night, or I can sweat off over 100 calories dancing from sheer happiness and because I just flat-out love to dance. I like it when working out does not take time or much action, which is pretty counter-intuitive to the whole concept, but hey-- it's been working for me.

In part, it works because of the other things that I do. I ride, not nearly as much as I used to, but it's still a full-body workout. I took up running because...well, I don't know. I used to be one of the fastest sprinters in elementary school, but then puberty happened, and I remember looking at a girl on the cross country team during Women's Ensemble choral practice in high school and saying, "Do I LOOK like I enjoy running? The only times I run are when someone is chasing me, or I am chasing someone." And then I went and became a runner in college. Not a runner of any great shakes-- as a genetic sprinter (mom and dad were both track kids in their high school days, and then dad liked it so much he went into the Marines to prove he was one of the best damn runners Camp Lejeune saw during the 'Nam years), I top out around a mile and a half and pretty much decide right there is where I'll lay down and die. Admittedly, smoking does not help this. Smoking other things did for awhile, as I was asthmatic as a child but fixed it by building up some greeeeat lung capacity in my late teens. Now, after four months of eating whatever I wanted and getting my only excercise in walking Florence's cobblestone streets in heels and the periodic odd hike around Italy and raising my smoking to a national past-time level, running seems like it will pretty much be the end of me. At the moment, I am one gigantic pulled, strained, sore, slowly re-building muscle. However, also being a masochist, there's something that appeals to me in a very dark and disturbing place in waking up to go kick myself in the ass.

And when I am not stuffing my face decadently and holding up both middle fingers to calorie-counting, I eat damn well. By that, I mean I eat SMART. I take a long, hard look at what I'm eating regularly, and I think about the nutritional and health values in them, or lack thereof. I've never had to detox or diet in my life, but I'm not above cribbing some ideas or eating tips from them.

It's only going to work for you if you find foods you're excited to eat. Look for foods or diet strategies that seem good and feasible to you, personally. I don't care what your friend is doing-- one of mine has calorie amounts memorized, but I could care less as long as I don't have to be rolled out of a restaurant and picked up by a fork-lift. I started eating Greek yogurt with honey after I saw an extremely appealing ad for it in Cosmopolitan, and it wasn't until about a year later that I found out that it has 4 times the protein in it for the same amount of fat that regular yogurt does. (Also, it brings me right back to a specific time in history-- 8 AM Technical Writing classes Tuesdays and Fridays Fall semester of '09, in sweatpants, unwashed, and considering using the keyboard in front of me as a pillow. I ate a lot of Greek yogurt and honey in that class.) A healthy alternative to tuna salad of tuna mixed with hummus just tasted better to me, and cut out some mayo that I don't really need in my life. I could eat salmon and avocados every day for the rest of my life, and both happen to be high in Omega-3 fatty acids, which are one of the best things you can ingest, and something that my body responds incredibly well to. A recent British study found that after eating salmon, skin across subject's faces and stomachs seemed tighter and more toned within 30 minutes. Now, that's my kind of exercise.

Substitution is key. If you're trying to cut something out of your diet, you better have a good alternative to it, or you, my friend, are just going to backslide right into a truckload of Ben & Jerry's. Instead of chips, I started eating Pirate's Booty. Then, I moved from Pirate's Booty to a handful of cashews, or small bags of popcorn with Parmesan cheese sprinkled lightly over the top. And speaking of ice cream, banana slices, powdered with cinnamon, cocoa, or cinnamon sugar and sprinkles and frozen in the freezer for about 2 hours, have the same consistency and flavor as ice cream, with nearly none of the calories, and is also 1 of your daily fruit servings.

I try not to eat much processed foods. This does not mean I won't stop in the drive-by of McDonalds-- oh, no. A McNugget Happy Meal to go, please, and I can also order it in Italian if you want. But 4 nuggets is not 6 or 10 nuggets, and is just enough to satisfy a craving. Last summer, while I was so poor processed and therefore, expensive, foods were out of my budget, I cooked and ate more fresh, local, and inexpensive foods. By the time that I had a disposable income again and was grocery shopping, the shit that goes in to microwave pizzas and flavored chips made me literally sick to my stomach. Cutting the SHIT out of your fridge and freezer is one way to get healthier, STAT. And remember-- if you don't buy it, it's not there.

NEVER, EVER deny yourself something you really crave. (This applies to nearly all things in life, except for when it applies to cheating.) If you don't eat it, you're just going to obsess about it and be unhappy, and what's the point in looking good if you're not happy and a bitch to everyone? Just limit yourself. If you want chocolate, have a square, not the whole bar. (Unless you're PMSing, and in which case, rock on with your bad and bloated self. Worry about that shit later.)

Keep track of what you eat, and you'll be amazed how much you're putting in to your body. I keep a food log periodically if I feel like I'm really getting off-track in my eating, just to see where during the day I'm caving in and snacking, and where I'm really losing it. It also helps to have a visual reminder that you just ate 2 hours ago, so if you are feeling "hungry" again (read: "bored"), you can see that you, in fact, are probably really not. ASK YOURSELF-- "Do I really need this?"

I know that short of a stretching rack and bone shaving, I am never going to be a size 2, or a real size 4 for that matter. I am a size 6. Haven't always been, but probably will now always be. I will never be a Victoria Secret's model, no matter how much of their underwear I buy, or how good my catwalk walk is. (And believe me-- it's good. Miss Jay of ANTM would be proud.) But I know what my body can do-- it can sprint a half-mile, ride a three-day event, gracefully absorb a semester of devil-may-care eating, and keep a man enthralled for a few hours or a night or few. That's the biggest lesson that you have to learn about making nice with your body: it is never going to look just like someone else's, because it's yours. It's pointless to hunger (literally) over a size 4 if where you are healthy and naturally balanced is a size 8. I have friends 5 inches taller with bird bones who weigh 12 pounds less then me, and they're the ones jealous of my body. Body perception is skewed. It just is. I am my body's harshest critic, just as I have a feeling the skin in the buff that you see in the mirror is very different from how anyone else who has the pleasure of seeing it views it. (In fact, I have it on good authority that as long as you're naked, most men are really, really pleased with your bod.) So, as long as it's healthy and does what you need it to do, be happy with your body. That's centuries of family history in there, and only the way you treat yourself is going to change anything. Exercise, smart eating, and a few minor changes in your daily routine, and you'll quickly come to terms with the body you're bringing to the beach this summer.

And a note to the men: Just as women have an obsession with being thin, you seem to have a desire to NOT be thin. I have dated it all-- beer kegs of the undrinkable kind; taut soccer bods; tall and slender men; and ripped jocks. You may call them "chicken legs" or "getaway sticks," but women are surprisingly lenient when it comes to men's bodies. Let me tell you why: because we KNOW you're not the last guy we dated. I went from over 200 pounds of bicep this, six-pack that, lats and quads and glutes, oh my! to a body nearly half the width and on whom that sort of tone-age would be impossible, and do you know what I was thinking? "Hair. Manly body hair. Where have you been; I've missed you so! Thank you, Jesus, thank you!" What we liked in one man is sure not to be what attracts us to another. So, stop hiding under the covers like a woman, or bolting for the bathroom in the middle of the night while you think we're asleep. Because we're awake, and as you slide out of bed and creep out of the room, we've got one eye peeked open and are thinking, "God, I love that ass."

XOXO

The Aftermath of Sicilia: Sunburn and S&M

Hindsight and nerve endings being 20/20, this, to the left, may not have been the best choice.

Rubbing lotion in tiny, gentle baby circles on my chest with my fingertips hurts like a bitch that sends me gasping for air.

It's worse than sadomasochism.

There's a pretty good chance that when I get home, I'll be peeling most awe-inspiringly. Like, the sort of awe that you get when you see a burn victim on the streets panhandling for change, compared as to the sort of awe that you get when you see a really great piece of art or drink a perfectly made Cosmopolitan, 1 part Triple Sec, 1 part cranberry juice, and 2 parts premium vodka.

Said Cosmopolitan costs 10 Euro. Said sunburn was absolutely free after round-trip airfare and a hitched bus ride.

Even if you can peel the skin off the back of my thighs and shoulders and write on it like Hannibal's own parchment, will you still love me when I get home?

XOXO

The Tough-Love Guide To Splitsville: What Do YOU Want?

This is pretty frank. If you're someone who gets upset easily, you may not want to read it. If you really don't want to know how women go through the after-shocks of "it's over", don't read this. If you wear perpetually rose-tinted glasses, and think true love prevails, this ain't for you.

But if you are going through a break-up, or feel lost, alone, scared, or like you need something to shake you out of it and at the same time make you feel less alone and unloved, read on, sister, or I guess to not be gender-biased-- friend. Hi. I'm not going to say "Let's hold each other while we sob," because that is so not my scene or how I do this, but I may be inclined to say, "If you need the occasional hug, I'm down for that, and in the meantime, let's curl up with a good book and chat and smoke."

So. You're now an Uno that used to be part of a Duo. Join the club. Take a seat. I'm gonna need your full attention. So stop thinking about it for a moment. I'm not going to sugar-coat any of this. I think it's about time we didn't take a "one size fits all" approach to what happens after it's over. If you really want to know how women get through this without going through boxes of Kleenex and repeatedly watching "The Notebook", this is where you want to be. I mean, that's all well and good if it's what gets you through, but not all of us operate like that. Some of us need to know what to expect if we want to get on with our lives, straight-up, no chaser.

Yes, You are Going to Lose Weight: You know how there's that very media-contrived popular image of that woman who's just had her heart broken drowning her sorrows in pint after pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby? Well. I have never, ever met a woman who actually went on an eating binge and gained weight after a split. Instead, the norm I have found is that women actually lose weight. This is accomplished in one of two ways: "Do-Something" women usually throw themselves into their gym membership with renewed vigor and burn those pounds away to a leaner, more competitive self. "What-The-Fuck-Just-Happened?!" women usually get thrown right off their appetites and start to whittle away.

Let's break it down. Much to my chagrin, I recently found that when you feel comfortable with yourself and someone else, you eat. Why not, right? You know the term "comfort food"? Yeah. You're happy. You're not worried. You're probably feeling pretty secure. So you want to keep feeding that feeling, either physically or emotionally.

Well, after a split, shock sets in. It's going to happen, no matter how amicably it happens. At first, you may just forget to eat. Hey, it happens. Your mind is preoccupied elsewhere. If you're a smoker, like I am, you can easily mistake hunger for the need to smoke. Which further suppresses your appetite. Then, when you do get back around to that food thing, odd feelings may get dredged up that set you right off of eating. For me, it was disgust. Every time I sat down to eat, my mind would start wandering through what should have been closed and padlocked doors, and I would find myself so physically disgusted that I felt like I might vomit even before putting food in my mouth. I lost 6 pounds in 3 days. Not good. I don't really have 6 pounds to lose. Now, you can locate my hipbones for the first time since I hit puberty, and I'm honestly concerned that a pickpocket in Italy could just pick me up and carry me away instead of dealing with pockets.

Because I can't do this for myself, I'm going to do it for you: DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT. I don't mean the whole mess of affairs (ha), I just mean the things that happened that you couldn't have helped, one way or another. Really. Some things shouldn't be dwelt on. Don't give in to those thoughts that will never, or should never, be answered. You will never, and SHOULD never, know what it was like. You really, really don't want to know the details. So making them up isn't doing anyone any favors, least of all you, lady. And you are who matters right now.

I will say, however, that there is one up-side to losing post-disaster weight: compared to your emaciated African-child frame, your mammeries are going to look more massive than ever. It's the little wins.

Vices, Or "Why Is That Pack Empty Already?": You feel a little used and abused, so now you want to use and abuse something else, right? Alcohol. Cigarettes. Controlled substances. Give me the Stoli, and nobody gets hurt, right? Yeah. We've all been there. I'm not going to preach anything, because I am probably going to be sainted as the Patron Saint of Avoidance Through Substances. But just like the whole eating thing, one day, you're going to start to realize you're not drinking/smoking/toking/using as much as you were previously. That's when you know it is safe to start putting down the bottle/cigarette/bowl/rolled-up bill and step a little further away. And a little further away the next day. And sometime shortly, you will be able to enter civilized company again.

If you're finding this is not the case, and in fact, it's getting worse, do what any responsible user would do: have one "safe" person who knows about your problem and who you would feel comfortable having them snap you out of it, and GO TO THEM. Killing yourself is no way to get on with a better life. And plus, though you may feel hurt, there are so many other people who care about you. I bet you anything, that even if you are unlucky in love, you are incredibly blessed with amazing friends who would do nearly anything for you. I know I am. And most of the time, that unconditional love is even better than regular sex.
...Ok, so that may be a total lie, but, you know what I mean. It's more important.
......Or...ok, I just can't win this one.

Crazy-Bitch Behavior, And Why You Shouldn't Be Doing It: You may want to make a grand gesture. Usually, a pretty crazy grand gesture. But here's the problem: if you want to maintain any sense of decorum or civility with your ex S.O, you can't. No showing up on doorsteps. No beating other women up. No really pissed-off tirades or messages or letters or blog posts. Be a Big Girl. It's such a Catch-22, I know-- you really want to do something to let you blow off all that steam inside, but you'd be best off getting it out sometime when you're really not into the guy or outcome or friendship, anyway. This is what your friends are for. Swear them to secrecy, bug the fuck out, and be done with it. (Also, make them swear up, down, and sideways over your dead body or the closest bottle of their favorite beer not to send any angry letters of their own. Because having scary friends is no way to Win Friends And Influence People. Or ever have your friend and the person who recieved said Angry Letter in the same 20 foot radius ever again. Even though your friend's heart may be in exactly the right place. Make your judgement call.)

Re-Assess Your Situation-- Who Are You, and What Do You Want: Speaking of, by this point in your life, you shouldn't be with anyone who you feel like you're settling for or are apathetic about. You should be with someone who you can be totally, one-hundred-percent yourself around. You should be able to talk to them about whatever you want, and even crack horrendous jokes during foreplay without a second thought. You should not be compromising one iota for anyone else. You should not be afraid to say "this is what I like" and "this is what I don't like." You should know yourself pretty well by now, and if you don't, you should be figuring that out.

I know this sounds much easier said than done, but when you find it, you'll just know it, I promise you-- no games, no worries.

Personally, I am taking my semester abroad in Florence as a self-discovery field-trip. I can already tell you it's going to make me more independent, more confident, and more adept at expressing myself. Whatever else I learn while over there is going to be the surprise. But mostly, it's about getting away to find out who, exactly, I am. Not just who I am in the mirror, what music I listen to, what I like to eat, what I'm not a fan of doing, but what makes me come alive. What makes me scared, and how I can get over it. What I refuse to let go of. What I need to learn to admit to. And where I want to be, physically and theoretically.

What You SHOULD Be Doing: Full Disclosure: I am writing this to you in a massive Princeton hoodie, leggings, and slippers. I haven't showered yet. I haven't eaten yet. In fact, I woke up at 11 AM. Coping comes in all different guises. But what I can tell you is that right now, I am starting to get hungry for some toast. I'm planning on getting dressed to go into town and mail out some paperwork this afternoon. And I'm looking forward to a midnight Jacuzzi tonight.

It's little steps. Get out of bed. Get dressed. Go places. Keep yourself occupied. Take the time to be selfish and do what you like. Do what you want. Make no excuses. This time is about YOU. It's not about being nice or even charitable to whoever makes you feel less than stellar at the moment. The first step to surviving is to recognize what you need. Do so. Follow through. Don't rest until you get there.

A Note to Fellow Writers: I actually found this nugget in the most unlikely of places-- in one of my freshmen year textbooks from "Introduction to Professional Writing." Ariel Gore, author of "How To Become A Famous Writer Before You're Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights," devotes a section of the first chapter to heartbreak. And no, I'm not shitting you, I found this is a required course book. This is what she says:

"When bad things happen to writers, there's always the silver glimmer of a good story. Damn, we think when we're facedown on the rain-wet pavement, nose broken and bleeding, coughing betrayal. This is gonna make a great story...Every time you expose yourself to annihilation, you come that much closer to grasping all that is indestructible in a soulful human being" (Gore, 31-32).

I bolded that last segment because I think that's the part you should focus on. Yeah, you may get a great story out of it, which, I have to admit, is the crutch that most writers and poets fall back on with biting black humor, or, like I do, get some cathartic writing out of it, but more than anything, the fact is that through the writing process after a big spill, you learn more about yourself, and what you really need. Seriously. Sit down with a notebook and some paper and start some stream-of-consciousness writing about what happened. You'll be amazed at what comes out of you: things you never said, things you did say, things you barely consciously remember, things you're writing down because you never want to forget, things you didn't know you had to say. And maybe, somewhere in that lovely chaotic mess (because I am a big fan of chaos), you may find exactly what it was you were looking for all along. Maybe it's an answer. Maybe it's a cold, hard fact. Maybe it's a new revelation about yourself. Maybe, it's where your soul really lies.

...So I took all day to write all that, and then thought...

That's kinda bullshit.

I mean, what is the most important thing right now? What is really resonating with me? It's not the fact I haven't eaten a square meal in a week. I couldn't care less. It's not the fact that I'm feeling a little like a schlub. I'm home; the cats are the only ones who can judge me, and they do that silently. And yeah, I'd really like to help other people out in the same spot I am right now, but that's not why I'm writing. It's the fact that I was rocked pretty hard. And how?

I find, usually, that the best thing that I can do when I'm stumped is to find someone else's creative content, in a similar vein to that I am working through, and watch, read, or experience it, completely open to interpretation. Sometimes, something jumps out. Sometimes, I get hit with a blinding flash of the obvious. And sometimes, I have to go through it a few times before I really get it. (Hello, "Dazed and Confused". Both the movie, and what it rendered me.) I've been watching the movie "The Women" a lot recently. Adapted from the 1936 play by Clare Boothe Luce, it features an all-star women cast (Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, Candice Bergin, Bette Midler,) directed by Diane English, and focuses around the relationships between friends, mothers, daughters, wives, mistresses, and how they all intermingle in life.

The first night I watched it, I was completely raw. It was not a great experience. It hit a little too close to home and basically reduced me to a lump of nerves and totally withdrawn thoughts on the couch. That was the first night I thought, "Am I allowed to be angry about this? Can I really put aside the idea that I am supposed to be A Big Person and Do The Rational And Accommodating Thing for a moment and just...feel this?" So I did. I opened myself right the fuck up and got righteously angry.

But anger doesn't get you very far. This is not to say that you shouldn't let yourself get angry. There are some things absolutely worth getting angry over. Let me be the first to say-- there is nothing quite like those first initial five minutes after you reach a realization or see something totally upsetting in which you fume and rage and stomp around and shriek like a banshee, but you get spent very, very easily. And sometime, when you're lying there, as low as the floorboards can get, you think, "Is this really worth it? Is it really worth this emotional strain? I mean, past is past. Done is done. Don't you think you should be...I don't know...doing something instead of just lying here and being vaguely pathetic?"

This is when you ask yourself the two things that reverberated with me in "The Women":

"I've spent my entire life trying to be everything to everyone, and somehow, someone is always disappointed."

"Don't give a shit about anybody. Be selfish. Because you have to ask yourself a question: What about ME? ...I mean, after all, who are you? What do you want?"

I can't answer that for myself right now. Maybe that's the problem. On one hand, I know I never want to go through a repeat of what happened, but on the other, it's giving me the questions that I'm grappling with every day to reach on consensus on: "How forgiving am I? How much does it really mean to me? Where will I bend? Where will I break? And what do I now feel? And if you can do that, I should be smart enough to let you walk away."

You have to know the answers to those questions before you throw your lot in with someone else.

You do not have to be Wonder Woman. I give you the permission to be as completely human, and therefore, as completely imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be in finding those answers for yourself. That's as imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be, not want to be.

I once heard a young woman described as "ferocious" by one of her ex-professors in regard to going after what she wanted. That's what I want to be: ferocious. I want to be someone to be reckoned with. I want to be someone that you would not even think about crossing. And I don't ever want to be in this situation of not knowing, ever again. That's what I want most: a firm stance on what I want.

XOXO

[Fabulous photo credit goes to Edahn at http://www.askedahn.com/. Check that site out for some right-on advice.]

Necessary Evils: G-Y-N Does Not Spell F-U-N, But Being Clean Does.

There are some things in life you just shouldn't be subjected to. The ad for sheer men's thongs of yesterday's entry, for example. Particularly horrendous in-laws. Obscene amounts of child snot (though this is manageable after one gets over the initial disgust. Believe me-- True Life: I Was A Nanny. I know. This may also be why I always have a zip-lock baggie of tissues with me. Always. Because you never know when someone else's baby is going to start leaking from the nose on you. And because I am basically like Mary Poppins with my Big Red Purse of Everything You Could Ever Want. I could entertain a child with the contents of my purse for hours [and I have] as long as you let me keep the cigarettes).

Back on topic. More unfortunate things: Running into and having to make awkward conversation with people, particularly exes or friends of your parents, in inopportune places: specialist doctor's waiting rooms, in front of the condom selection in the grocery store, any time anyone involved is blatantly drunk. (However, if it is an ex, I have a handy script for you. For doctor's offices, it goes: "Well. I guess I know where I got THAT." In front of the Trojans: "Yeah. I'm bangin' like a rabbit ready for spring. And how are you lately?" No one ever said I was tactful.) That totally unnecessary and stoke-inducing pause between when someone says "We have to talk...about who's picking up the cat," or something equally mundane. Lines at the DMV. A long winter walk without gloves or a hat. Staying on hold for more than 5 minutes. Purgatory. (One could argue the DMV and hold are lesser forms of Purgatory. I'm all for that argument and so anti-Purgatory it's not even funny. You don't just wait around after you die. Something, other than waiting, has to happen, even if it's nothing. Life is not about waiting and then going on to die and wait some more.)

But the number one thing you shouldn't have to endure? Totally pointless invasive procedures. First off, I have never had to wait so long for ANYTHING after getting naked. And at least, once you're there, get me ready by asking probing questions before you actually PROBE. This time round, there was no peeing in a cup. (Another thing I loathe. I am not a man. Peeing into and/or on things is not something that I pride myself on.) Hence, I could have toked my little self silly this morning to take the edge way fucking off instead of panicking and cold-sweating into one of those ridiculous open-back robes while being talked through that day's activities. (On the downside, this also meant no super-quick and accurate medical pregnancy test.) There was also no asking me if I was sexually active (guess the cat is out of that bag), when the last time was, about partners, etc. I mean, that's like, my bragging time. Call me immature, but after years of appointments occurring during dry spells (programmed like clockwork for the most emotionally-stunting impact like every. single. "I am alone but I really shouldn't care about it anyway" Valentine's Day,) and pregnancy tests run with me in the background going, "No, really-- it's been six months. I think even I'd have noticed SOMETHING right now. And if that comes back positive, either that sucker had some Olympic sperm, or call the freaking Pope and tell him it's happened again, and to a PAGAN," nothing makes me happier than to announce "YES" like a child who has just learned how to tie her shoes. And generally, I only let people down there for a good time, and I don't exactly call getting pried open by the Jaws Of Life "fun." Also, quit talking to me like everything is normal. This is a fucking awkward situation. If a guy I was with looked at me mid-act and said something like, "So, what are your summer plans?" or "I was thinking of repainting the walls," I'd ask him to kindly shut the fuck up with the small talk or dismount so we can talk about non-sex-related things like civilized people while not trying to accomplish the task at hand. Or...well. You know.

Can't we all just agree that if you take a look and it looks good, it's probably good and you don't need to get all up in there? I know there are few of you out there going, "Tsk tsk, Carissa-- this is exactly the sort of thinking that will wind you up dying a slow and painful death from syphilis. STDs are a serious matter. You can't just self-diagnose! Eye-balling it doesn't answer everything!" Believe me-- when I was 16, I thought I was going to be the first and only person ever diagnosed with Brazilian Vagina-Eating Disease (the country, not the wax job,) due to some young, naive--FINE, they were mostly just STUPID-- mistakes I'd made; I am all about getting a clean bill of health. (Important for both partners, people. If one of you has something, chances are, the other's gonna get it, too. It's like magnets; it's just how those parts work.) But really-- if it is a trained medical professional or specialist saying everything looks good TO THEM-- do we really need to continue to do the rest of the song and dance and swabbing? "Everything looks great!" should mean "We're stopping now." Only if you hit a "Damn, that's certainly not normal!" should it mean "Full swab ahead!" I mean, the "oww's" I am saying are not for theatrical effect. "Oww" means, "it used to be fine in there, and now you're fucking that all up!" There is no lying back and thinking of England. There is no fooling yourself about what is going on. There is just lots of squirming and manically checking the clock. Though, I am pretty sure, with catheters and all that, you guys have it much worse off. Ha. Hahaha. Small consolation prize for us being stuck with the whole childbirth thing.

My mother told me last night to stop being such a baby about it. "It's not like it's your first time," she correctly pointed out, but then she said what made my heart sing and snarky wit sensors start vibrating (...maybe this is not the best post to use the word "vibrating" in...oh well. Damage is done,) and churning. "It's not unlike anything else that goes in there."

I was practically salivating at the mouth by the time I cocked (...another unfortunate word choice...) an eyebrow at her. "I'm pretty sure I've never been with a guy with a metal penis."

Ew. Ew. Ewww.

But yeah. Getting tested is important. Do it at least once a year. Like any well-functioning machine, making sure all parts are clean and in order is para...mount. (Jesus, I don't even try, I swear.) And though it may be one of the more awkward conversations of a relationship (or evening), it really is important to make sure your friend isn't bringing other "friends" to play-- his ex who gave him herpes, the one-night stand with the clap, or some exotic STD from playing abroad. A clean bill of health in one of the most important things you can bring to a night (or nights) of fun, otherwise, well, it's not going to be fun when you have to make or receive that angry phone call, is it? So, suck it up, because if I, Miss I-Faint-At-The-Sight-Of-Needles-And-White-Coats Syndrome can do it, so can you. Make an appointment. And if you're lucky, (and clean, and someone is on some other form of preventative birth-control, and monogamous, and not totally worried about it,) maybe you can play without the raincoat. Which, I will admit, even from a woman's stand-point, is so much better. But until you see a doctor's signature or the emotional wounds from an appointment, be safe and wrap it, kiddies!

After this emotionally taxing morning, it is nap-time for this big baby.

XOXO

P.S-- No Brazilian Vagina-Eating Disease yet. Thank god. In my mind, it's akin to Audrey 2 from "Little Shop Of Horrors." Sheerly terrifying.

Smart-ass.

What you should not say to your dentist when, instead of just looking at your x-rays in the folder in his hand, he asks you if you've had your wisdom teeth removed:

"Well, unless it happened during one of those nights I got black-out drunk, no."

I have never actually been black-out drunk (thankfully); I just need to learn when not to be a wise-ass.

Like when sharp implements are in my mouth.

XOXO

Orgasms For Peace; Toe-Curlers Against War.

The best part of Champlain Current's Layout Weekend is the news-trolling that we have to do in order to find pertinent news-briefs. (As opposed to news boxer-briefs.) (Which are much more appealing.) (Bwahahahahaha.) (No, but really-- boxer-briefs are like the Wonder Bra of men. I am adamant about this fact.)

We come across some real gems. Like the mother of five in New Jersey who, after being laid off from her job, had enough crazy faith to believe that God would provide for her family and sat around for the last few years not trying to find a job or buy groceries. Because starving your children is so Christian.

But to balance that atrocity is good news: December 21st is Global Orgasm Day. Fo' realz, yo. The idea is to have an orgasm for peace. Because, I don't know about you, but after I have a toe-curler, I am not thinking of running off to go fight a war. I'm more preoccupied with taking a nap. The only thing I want to wage war with is my eyelids, and possibly my bed partner for a little more mattress space.

Globalorgasm.org backs up their movement with some sound, albeit wordy, reasoning: "To effect positive change in the energy field of the earth through conscious dedication of orgasmic energy to the vibration of Peace. Our minds and our biology influence Matter and Quantum Energy fields, so by concentrating our thoughts before, during, and after orgasm on peace and loving-kindness, the synergy of high orgasmic physical energy combined with the power of positive visualization could help reduce global levels of violence, hatred and fear. Orgasm is the largest possible instantaneous surge of human biological and spiritual energies. It is a biological gift! What better way to achieve your resolution for Peace?"

If you're like me and don't like to read text that sounds like it could come from a New Age science textbook unless you have to (for, say, Copy Editing homework), this is basically what it boils down to: in case you were unaware, orgasms feel good. And when you feel good, you're not putting negative energy into the world. Which means you're not making other people unhappy. Capice?

The best part of this is the statement in which Global Orgasm encourages you to "in the meantime, practice, practice, practice (safely)!" So the next time you're craving some lovin', please, I implore you, look at your S.O and say, "But babe, it's for WORLD PEACE." (Let me know how that goes. If they say "no" to that plead, I think you're dating either a heartless bitch or a Neo-Nazi. In any case, I'd wonder about their moral fortitude.)

For those of you still in the college world, December 21st falls at a pretty good time. For most of us, finals are just getting over, so you've got some steam to blow off. You also are looking at a holiday break in which, if you and your S.O are from different geographical locations and are each making the toe-dragging pilgrimage to your respective homes to the world of living with your parents for about a month again, awkwardly re-meeting with your high school friends for New Years' Eve, and sleeping solo in your childhood bed, means you're going to be apart and (hopefully) (though this is a horrible thing to say and it does really pain me so,) sex-less during this time. So the 21st is kinda like the sexual equivalent of your Last Supper. Savor it, people, savor it! Practice makes for the perfect orgasm! It's for WORLD PEACE.

For more information on what is possibly going to become one of my new favorite holidays, right after April Fools' Day and Halloween, visit Globalorgasm.org.

XOXO

This Is What A Forty-Thousand Dollar A Year Education Pays For.

I swear I do go to college. Really, I am on my way to achieving a BA in a program dubiously titled "Professional Writing," which, if one takes these words at face-value, means that I will be able to find a job in which I "professionally write" after graduation, and not have to live in a cardboard box and slip slowly into a delayed and drawn-out alcoholic death because I have already deemed that I will in no way be possible of writing the Next Great American Novel. American Eagle may be looking at a future manager, but I would probably strangle myself to death with a cable-knit sweater.

With today's economy and job market, I have already started hoarding boxes so although I may have to live in one, it's going to be a motherfucking cardboard castle. My spacial reasoning skills and my father's dreams of me becoming an architect will finally be coming true, just in a very bass-akwards way.

Don't get me wrong-- I love what I do; I just am doubting the fact that it is financially solvent, and passion for something, without an outlet that offers monetary gain, doesn't feed or clothe you, unfortunately, which is one of the great injustices of life.

Anyway, let me walk you through the past 12 hours at good old Camp Champ. After this, if you have children, or are planning on having children, you may decide to no longer remit money for their higher education fund. I'm sorry. But really, as I was telling my parents last Sunday, I have decided that on the immediate surface, if you don't get into particulars such as effort, intelligence, and aptitude, the only difference between people who graduate high school and people who graduate college is that college graduates are over $100,000 in the hole, have some vague notions on Plato's teachings and writings, and have a sense of entitlement.

Last night around 10 PM, I remembered the fact that I had not one, but two writer's journals due for Copy Editing. On further investigation in my inbox to find the subjects of these entries, I also discovered a 7 page scientific paper titled, I am not shitting you, "Sandy deposits study offshore Lithuania, SE Baltic Sea." I tried editing it, really, I did, but around 1 AM, it started to feel like my brain was leaking out of my ears, and even the Long Trail Blackberry Ale I had picked up to self-medicate and help myself through the process was no longer holding any appeal. I ditched the "sandy shores" and "Juodkrante–Preila site" and wrote one of the journals, before my body decided to call it a night and close my eyelids for me.

As for an important interlude, let's be clear on what a college student's diet looks like: Between being warp-speed busy all day with study abroad forms and meeting, discussing finances with my mother (possibly one of my favorite things in the world, right up there with puppies and non-anaesthetised dental procedures,) class, and my, I don't know-- crazy desire to actually communicate and spend time with my roommates and friends, and having forgotten to grab food before leaving my apartment, I was subsisting on cigarettes. As I explained to a horrified professor, this past summer I came to the realization that smoking suppresses my appetite. Hungry, but have no food? Easy-- I always have a pack on me. (As my professor said, "That's horrible, but I remember that you were poor this past summer," which is possibly an understatement, but by June I had already figured out that even $10 for a pack of my Djarums was still cheaper than groceries.) Around 9, I finally got dinner, AKA: delicious honey barbecue wings from Wings Over. Not eating all day, smoking, and then ingesting half a pound of wings may not have been the best idea ever. But going home and chasing it all down with a beer was possibly the tipping point.

I woke up this morning, reminded of the painful, cruel fact that my body and artisan, fermented beer do not play well together. I liken it to what labor pains probably feel like, or your appendix exploding. Basically, fold up, clutching your stomach and gasping, cold-sweat, and writhe around a little. That's what I looked like. It's one of those great debates in life: I can drink American piss-beer like Coors and Bud and Keystone and feel fine, or I can drink something that actually has taste and craft to it and want to die 9 hours later. Seeing as I like to play a little game called "Me vs. My Body," (props to Meg at 2Birds,1Blog for that catchy title, as well as being the founder/a co-player of this game,) my tastebuds sometimes make the masochistic choice for me.

Between my death-throes, I looked out my window and then rolled over and looked at my clock, saying "Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkk," even before I saw the time. Sometimes you just know. Sure enough, it was 9 AM. My cell phone, which has been dramatically prolonging it's own death scene for the past week and a half, (first front display, then battery, then screen,) decided that the little part of it that would die over the night was the alarm. Otherwise know as, my alarm clock. I slept through Tech Writing and our new invention groups. It was one of those moments where you just sit there and literally hang your head in shame going, "I am a horrible student; Warren is going to be so disappointed, and I don't deserve to sleep in for this extra hour."

I thought that this would, in some twisted way, allow me time for the rest of the Copy Editing homework I had given up on around 2 AM. So I went back to the "sandy shores" of Lithuania, and promptly realized that I was utterly delusional if I thought I could slog through it all before catching the bus to class. Yeah, I edit a fuck-ton, but there is something about an academic, scientific article numerous pages long that just stops me in my tracks and demands to know who the hell I think I am. I am not a scientist. I am not even a great copy editor. I'm more of a big-picture person, and copy editors are all about minutia and the titles to parts of sentences that I was supposed to have learned back in the 8th grade when really, I was making Tyrannosaurus Rex arms with Nora across the classroom with our hands curled into the two-finger air-quote sign. (Yeahhh...good times.) But ok. Bullshit another journal entry, and call it a morning. Sometimes, like when you have a minimum word limit, being verbose is an excellent character trait to have.

When I walked into Copy Editing this morning, unwashed, bedraggled, and feeling an overwhelming urge to curl up in the fetal position on the floor and give in and say, "You win, Life!" my professor looked at me, concerned, and said, "You don't look so good." If she wasn't a genuinely nice human being, I think that would have roughly translated to, "Wow, you look like shit." I can't contest. I'm a wake-up-and-shower person. Foraying into public looking like something the cat dragged in and then gnawed on is against the very grain of my fiber, but sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

My professor then also asked me if I wasn't functioning due to lack of sleep. I looked at her, surprised, and said, "No, I actually got 6 or 7 hours!"

"Oh," she said. "You've got some really dark circles under your eyes and just don't look good."

This, people, is what happens when I actually do my homework. It literally makes me ill.

But my favorite thing about college has to be the people. Where else in the world would an acceptable, passionate, engaging conversation topic be "Can you drive from Champlain to Tibet?" And, only at our tech-enamored school would someone pull out a iTouch and actually search the possibilities on Google Maps.

The answer, by the way, is yes-- sort of. You can drive, but you also have to kayak, and jet-ski. All I know is that whoever got to write the directions for this trek has a sense of humor I would kill for. Also, a nice little subtly passive-aggressive gig going. Aha! This is one of those rare, mythical "professional writing" jobs! My life would be made if I could do something like this where your primary objective is to answer impossible questions in the most creative, smart-ass way possible, and still get paid for it. Possibly my favorite directive is #104: Jet ski across the Pacific Ocean.

Really?

...Really?

I made the argument that rather than lugging a kayak, car, and jet ski around the literal Earth, you could quite easily accomplish this 40 day trip with one prime piece of human ingenuity: The land/aquatic vehicles they use for tours of Boston called "Duckies."

And yes, this is life at college.

XOXO