Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of A Relationship.

You do things for relationships that you normally wouldn't be caught dead doing, right? I mean, after all, we always hear about how "sacrifice" and "work" are the two hot-button words in the game of being a two-some. For some women, that means learning how many minutes are in a quarter of football (that's 15, if you were wondering,) and what player's names to scream at the TV. For others, it means learning how to dirty-talk, or indulging in that odd vinyl fetish. For me, it apparently means sacrificing life, limb, and new Urban Outfitters' dress. After watching a 20-something guy hammer a screwdriver into his motorcycle’s locked gas tank, I’m literally sitting here, writing this to you perched on top of an old black plastic milk crate, listening to a neighbor say “I took my dad’s bike to go meet my girlfriend in South Burlington; I met her in Kmart’s parking lot, ‘cause that’s where she was, Kmart…” Why? In the name of male bonding.

Now, there are three things I love, and three things I really, really love when in conjunction with each other: Men, beer, and oil grease. An elusive and usually sheltered sacred act, I found myself out of Burlington and in the wilds of Winooski after I was promised by the S.O some Steel Reserve and a chance to watch men physically pull apart a motorcycle; I jumped on that shit. But much like taking the pants off of a new beau after a Beergoogle Olympics night out at your local dive bar, I wasn’t ready for just how hairy things could get in a land where the Y chromosome had replaced a fun time for logic and was wailing away at a gas tank, cigarette dangling from lips. While any half-way intelligent person would be running for their life and diving behind the closest Jersey barrier, here I perch, on my milk crate, listening to four men talk about guns, bikes, engines, cigarettes, and penis length.

Well, maybe not penis length, but close enough. This could not get any manlier if Hulk Hogan suddenly showed up in a Ford F250 and promised to teach them all some top-secret wrestling moves and how to get into a scorecard girl’s booty shorts.

Any time when men and women coexist in a non-professional setting, a few differences between the genders become self-evident: 1.) Grooming techniques. 2.) Conversation topics. And 3.) What is really important and constitutes a good time. For women, these things include some strong drinks in martini glasses, the receipts from the last shopping trip’s spoils, and the latest gossip. For men, it seems to be beer, anything with an engine, and anything BUT gossip or recent headlines, possibly other than, “Did you hear about the Royal Wedding? Prince William—what a bitch now.” They ask about family, mutual friends, recent car accidents. They talk about the price of things—TVs, motorcycles, cars, cell phones. They compare the quality of beer, cigarettes, knives, bikes, cars, and housing. After three hours on this milk crate, I feel strongly in the validity of my statement when I say—men and women don’t like the same things. While my S.O and I both have subscriptions to GQ and I’ve watched him flip through the pages of my Cosmo, and we both have an affinity for expensive clothing and fine food, I have finally found an area in which I can’t follow him in—it seems to be, after all, a man’s world, and I suddenly feel like I should be asking if anyone wants me to make them a sandwich.

...Aaaaaaand my very white-collar boyfriend just craned his head around his shoulder, and spat. Oh yeah, Toto—we’re not in college or the Hill Section anymore. Time to get out of here.

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 Wrapped Up

So, I write about sex and relationships. And now I've hosted a Durex House Party.

It actually started because I realized that my condom supply is due to expire at the end of the year. Despite being on the Pill and the wayward decisions of my youth, any of the guys I've slept with in the past 3 years could tell you I'm rabid about wrapping up. But if there's one thing that I possibly loathe even more than paying over $8 for 4 beer (that would be you, Dogfish Head Brewery,) it's paying for condoms. But I also refuse to trot over to Planned Parenthood and rob them blind, because, when it all comes down to it-- I'm still a Brand Girl. Some might say, I have "gourmet taste."

Instead of shelling out dough for latex, I usually go trolling Trojan' and Durex's websites to see if they have any freebie trials going on. That's how I landed my first Trojan Ecstasy, and I had pretty good feelings about that, so back I went. There were no free trials on either sight, but what there was was a House Party Girl's Night hosted by Durex that promised 4 condoms per party goer, all fo' free, designed about closing the "pleasure gap" between male and female orgasm, otherwise known as, "Now that you've come, what about me? Oh, wait, are you snoring? ARE YOU ASLEEP?!"

It was like a Tupperware party for the sexually active. Over 20 women showed up to Heaven on Union for food, drinks, a penis cake that was even decorated with it's own condom, and sexy twists on classic party games, culminating in the sharing of our most hilarious or embarrassing sex stories. (It's shocking how many people have literally been caught with their pants down.) We held a world summit meeting on the things we could all agree on: Men keeping socks on during sex is extremely off-putting; shower sex never works; talking dirty is fine to a certain point, after which it becomes alarming; and men saying they're intimidated by you is a load of crap. When was the last time a woman was intimidated by a man? Oh, right-- yesterday.

I was really hoping the stuff got shipped to us in a big box with a return address to "Durex," because I'd have loved to see that Fed-Ex guy's face delivering it. Instead, what I got was a gigantic cardboard box that I set a new land-speed record in opening, beating even my most ravenous Christmas and birthday mornings. Greeted immediately with the sight of nearly a hundred little perfectly square foil packets and blue beer koozies emblazoned with "Durex-- Stick It In," I sat on my bed, squealing in supreme pleasure over everything for a solid half-hour, though it took me about 10 minutes to figure out what the hell the vibrating cock ring was and what way it was meant to be used. What can I say? I'm a small-town girl.

Equally exciting yet tricky at times were some of the freebie offerings generously included for me as hostess. "Like the gel that cools, tingles, and warms at the same time," I told my girl friends as they came over to investigate the big ol' box of goodies. "Because my clit is not confused enough already!" There was also the vibrator. The vibrator that caused a lot of controversy.

"Jesus, I would never walk 20 minutes for sex," a friend told me as we caught up in my kitchen one evening after the party that she missed.

"Like I said, my vibrator broke."

"That's the worst. Why don't they make those things out of titanium? Although I guess it's more blowing out the motor that's the issue."

"Yeah. And blow the motor did. I wore it out a week and a half after I got it. It was the best week and a half of my life. I've teared up about losing it three times since Saturday."

R.I.P, a Single Girl's best friend.

XOXO

Apartment In The City

The Bat Cave, named due to the $1 curtains.

Also, see if you can spot the stolen items in our living room.

Hint: Road crews hate us.

The ceiling was painted years ago by a previous tenant who was an Art student at UVM.

So I guess they are good for something.

The long hall.

Our shared walk-in closet.

My closet, also known as "The Spoils of Italy."

Our back porch, complete with our neighbor's cat, Otis.

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

Which Is Getting Hot: The Atmosphere, Or My Co-Workers?

Does this man look good to you? Are you wondering where you can find someone like him?

Have you been wondering lately, "Why can't I talk to a nice, handsome, wholesome, smart dude to save my life? Where are they hiding all of them? And how do I get in?"

Have you been wondering why all your co-workers are totally undateable and think that it's a miracle that there are any real-life Pam and Jim romances?

And hey, do you need a job?

A job in which you can be surrounded by hot, passionate, articulate, intelligent, college-aged students? And also make a pretty nice weekly base salary? And also make a difference in your state's political and

environmental scene? And also drive, bike, drink beer, eat pizza, throw parties, or go on camping trips with them?

Canvassing. Good, old-fashioned, door-to-door canvassing and campaigning. I recently took a job with VPIRG, doing summer canvassing about using renewable resources in Vermont. The hours are long and mean I can't eat a week-night dinner out before 11 PM, but I get mornings and weekends off and it's rewarding to talk to nearly thirty strangers every day. Today, I spent five minutes talking with a blind man who told me some of the most cuttingly hilarious jokes I have ever heard, who then donated $15 to our cause. It's the little things like that that really make it worth it to me. That, and my really attractive co-workers.

Sure, not all of them look like social activist Leo, here, but really...hot, smart men and the environment. Can I sign any of you up?

XOXO

20-Somethings

This past Thursday was my 21st birthday. It goes without saying that I had a great time-- what I remember of it, anyway. But it was landmark in more than the fact that I am now able to walk into a U.S liquor store without being run out; it showed me how far I've come in the past year and more.

21 Things I Managed to Accomplish by 21:

1.) Found, applied for, negotiated, and moved into my first "big girl" off-campus apartment.

2.) Come to terms with love and loss. Who I was in the fall changed radically with the death of someone I loved. Though the loss of a life shouldn't be taken lightly or spun in any light other than tragic, it did make me mature more quickly than I would have ever thought possible. Because of this, I've been able to maintain a much more realistic outlook on the loss of friendships, lovers, and situations than I ever was able to before. And I also realized the benefits to taking time out of every day to quietly remember someone.

3.) Spending a semester in Italy did more than expand my thinking on the world and love of clothing and shoes; it also made me more intimately aware of who I am, what I am capable of, and what I believe in and will stand for. This may have made me seem more demanding, opinionated, or quick-tempered, but it's become apparent that if people can't see past those characteristics to the driving force behind them-- can't recognize what I need; aren't willing to see things from both sides; get equally frustrated or mad instead of trying to come to a conclusion that suits both parties-- then they don't either know me or want to know me enough to know what's best for me.

4.) My mother looked at me the other day and in a tone of relief that was a little disconcerting, exclaimed, "You've finally grown into such a pretty young woman." Ok, ok, I'll be the one to say it-- I have not always been the most attractive specimen of womanhood. Most of it was elective. But I was also damn awkward for a long time. I hit 20, and BAM! I was someone new. My body shape changed. My face got leaner and more mature. My hair finally grew into acceptable submission. And this morning, when I stopped to talk to the painters as I left my apartment, I realized through their shyness that I've become to sort of girl who makes men nervous. Looks are not everything, but they mean more to the person they belong to than most of us are willing to admit to.

5.) Bought my first big-name designer item-- the vintage Louie messenger bag.

6.) Walked into a liquor store in the U.S, and belonged there.

7.) Spent the night on an Italian beach watching a meteor shower.

8.) Climbed an active volcano.

9.) Traveled extensively to places I have never been by myself, never got lost, never panicked, and never backed down from the challenges.

10.) Cried in public for the first time in my life since I was a toddler.

11.) From being a juvenile delinquent in high school, became a damn good and Dean's List college student who is involved on and off campus. (Key point: Finding out how to separate your professional and social lives.)

12.) Learned 2 other languages.

13.) Found, negotiated, bought, and learned how to drive a stick-shift.

14.) Became a runner. There will be no marathons in my life, but I'm a runner all the same.

15.) Recognized the fact that I am also an emotional runner.

16.) Learned when to say "yes," learned when to say "whatever you want," learned when to say "I'm sorry," learned how to say "I don't think so," learned how to say "Absolutely not!" and what situations to apply them all to.

17.) Though proposed to twice, was wise enough to say "no" both times.

18.) Rode one of the painted cows on Church Street. It goes without being said that this happened the night of my 21st birthday. Yes, there is photographic evidence. It will come a bit later.

19.) Among other things while nannying, taught a baby how to say "elephant," "lion," and "bear;" how to fist-bump, and how to swim. In doing so, helped shape a young life for two years.

20.) Can now pair food and wine and make some kick-ass authentic Italian meals.

21.) Started this blog. It may not be what defines me, but it's become a major part of my life, and for being a part of it, I thank all of you.

22 Things I Want To Accomplish by 22:

1.) Turn this blog into a website with advertisements from local businesses. The good news is, I have friends to build websites for a living and for fun. The bad news is, once this gets accomplished, I have a sneaking suspicion I'm going to have to start referring to myself as an "entrepreneur." And I can't spell that word, let alone live up to it.

2.) Have the sort of relationship that I want-- not the one that someone else wants.

3.) Publish something in Glamour, Cosmopolitan, ELLE; writing publications of note like the New Yorker, The Atlantic, etc.; or a well-heeled website.

4.) Get a "real job" I don't despise, and make enough to start saving for the first time in my life instead of living hand-to-mouth.

5.) Start saving for the first time in my life. Because come college graduation, it's not just me anymore-- it's me AND my horse I'm providing for. (If you don't understand the bond between women and horses, you can substitute the word "baby" for horse, and get the gist.)

6.) Compete again. I was a competitive rider from the age of 9, but with the start of college, showing fell by the way-side. I'm relaxed enough now that it's not about the ribbons and high scores anymore-- it's about seeing the changes and how far you've come as a team with your horse. (She used to try to kill me. Now she cuddles. I'd say that's an accomplishment better than any blue ribbon right there.)

7.) Pass my GREs, and start grad school.

8.) Give a hitch-hiker a ride.

9.) Get a dog again.

10.) See the desert.

11.) Get back to Disney World and let my inner child run rampant again.

12.) Read all of Edward Abbey's novels.

13.) Model for a piece of artwork. I came close for doing it for cash in Italy, and it looks like I may be in the same pose-ition (hahaha, bad puns, I can't resist them!) again this summer. My mom did it when she was in college, and I think there's something amazing about being able to look back at a portrait of you later in life and say, "That was me. That was what I looked like. Those are the same moles, the same toes, the same scars, the same birthmark. And that's art."

14.) Ride a motorcycle.

15.) Take a bar-tending class. I love talking to people, and I love alcohol, so why not combine two loves and make some money while doing it?

16.) Birthday sex. Possibly the one day out of a year when you can ask for whatever you want and make someone feel obligated to do it. Though you shouldn't take advantage of this situation...everyone does.

17.) Not over-draw my checking account ONCE.

18.) Become more comfortable with the more traditional aspects of dating. I feel like a freak of nature having to admit this, but I really feel as if my love life would improve if I did not turn paying the bill into a full-on brawl.

19.) Start having Boy's Nights like I already have Girl's Nights. Because I love my boys just as much, if not sometimes more, than I love my ladies, and it's time to start showing them that appreciation.

20.) Start painting and sketching again.

21.) Find a charity I really believe in and donate to them.

22.) Continue doing things that stretch my comfort level and make me grow and expand.

XOXO

If You Have Ever Wondered, This Is What It's Like To Be Me.

Greetings, one, all, and the hopelessly indifferent! I write to you from my bed of twisted sheets that smell like Robitussin and Halls in the land of Italia, where I am currently suffering from what probably is (and what will probably remain since I am too poor/stubborn to call in a doctor) bronchitis.

As the title and introductory paragraph hint at, since I am currently too exhausted with coughing both right and left lung up to really put some effort into deep thinking, since I can't even breathe deeply without wheezing, I have a few stories to tide you over and sate your curiosity. The first one goes like this: I'm in Italy, it's beautiful out, and I am dying in my bed in a country where the only place one can find Halls cough drops is in the tobacco shop. So, what is a girl to do, other than buy 3 packs of Halls and Ricola cough drops, and one pack of Camel Lights? (Mom-- I know you're probably reading this right now, so don't worry-- I'm not smoking right now. I bought the pack in best hopes that I will get better soon enough to smoke it.)

The second brief epistolary took place a few weeks ago in Perugia. Our last morning there, I was quietly contemplating the beautiful Umbrian scenery while hanging out of our window at the hostel, minding my own business completely, when all of a sudden, the shutters opposite me across the street were thrown open, and there, blinding in the morning light, was a late-40-something middle-aged man resplendent in all of his pale, saggy, naked glory. I have never recoiled so fast from a scene of tragedy in my life. Alli came back from the bathroom to find me hiding as far into the corner of the room opposite the window as I could possibly get, shaking and shaken. "What happened?" she asked, so, of course, like any good friend, I said nothing and instead pointed for her to look out the window so that she, too, could share in my disgusted pain. A moment later, when she joined me in our little corner of 20-something scarred cornea, I looked at her pleadingly and said, "I was just minding my own business, and then...THAT! The last naked body I saw was young and beautiful, and now, I have to carry THAT thought along with me!"

Our third and final retelling is also of the "woe, why me?" category. My final dinner in Dublin, Alli, seated facing the door and front windows of the restaurant, said she kept seeing quite possibly the most beautiful black man in the world walking by. Trying to be smooth and suave about it and not crane my neck around in my usual fashion or let on to the fact that I really wanted to be a part of this hunk-o-burnin'-love-fest, I waited a few minutes before discreetly turning my head to look out the window. Instead of Shemar Moore's missing twin, I found myself watching a man who quite possibly weighed over 300 pounds wearing a grey hoodie and a red backpack literally DANCE down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. And by dance, I do mean jiggle, undulate, ripple, and shimmy as only someone the size and obtrusiveness of a small Shetland pony can. Hearing a choked gasp, I turned around to face Melissa, by whose wide eyes and slack jaw I also correctly guessed had witnessed our movin' and groovin' friend. "Alli looks out the window, and she sees a gorgeous black man. You and I look out the window, and we see THAT," Melissa said to me, right before we collapsed into tearful and manic laughter. "Story of my life!"

So, there you have it. Irony rules my life.

Also, if you're from my homeland of the most beauteous and sorely-missed Burlyworld, please Skype me as I am not only an incredibly huge baby when I'm sick but am also very, very homesick and need something other than Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey's wacky treasure-hunting hijinks to keep me entertained. And don't mention the state of my hair or the fact I am wearing a white wifebeater and a black floral bra. I know, ok? If I had the ambition/strength/gave a fuck, I would crawl out of bed to change to. Mostly, if I gave a fuck.

That is all for now. Cough, cough; hack, hack; splat. Hey, anyone need a spleen?

XOXO

P.S-- I am currently accepting movie nominations to keep me occupied while confined to my bed this weekend. I have already watched Fool's Gold, Moonstruck (Newsflash!-- Nicholas Cage WAS once hot-- just before I was born), the new (aka: 2003) Peter Pan (won't discuss how attractive I found that boychild) (...someone call Neighborhood Watch), Love Actually, Into The Wild, Shutter Island, P.S I Love You (way to make me fear another man I love dying), and Old School.

Please, what must I see while I remain a captive audience? Extra points go to people who nominate a good action movie. Or porn with a plotline.

...If only I were actually kidding.

Yankee Girls

Last night at dinner with the Ghibellina Girls, we were talking about how different girls from different parts of the U.S act...differently. We all agreed that a Brooklyn Girl can fuck you up in a New York Minute; that Californian Girls just want to have fun, and that Southern Girls are far too sweet for their own good. "Yeah," I said a little glumly at the end of our little exposee. "And then there's Vermont Girls. I can load a rifle and push a car uphill in snow. There's nothing cute about that."

But this morning, I was obscenely glad to be from nowhere else.

Already running late to meet my parents in their first day in Firenze, I hopped into the shower only to find that in this, the apartment in which SOMETHING is always wrong, today it was our hot water. Or, rather-- our lack of hot water.

I grumbled about it for a minute, cursing in a mix of English and Italian, because, after all, our landlord is Italian, and then did the only thing I could do, because I sure as hell wasn't going to go greet my parents two days unwashed and looking like I had been living on the streets of Florence-- not the way to convince them I'm A Big Girl Now. Instead, I went into the kitchen, found out largest pot, heated water, took a big plastic cup and the pot of water into the shower, and proceeded to take a manual shower. God bless all those times my father, an eternal DIY tinkerer, decided to fuss with the hot water heater at home and render us hot-water-less while he installed a new one; once, for an entire summer of pot-and-cup showers like this. (I had to plead with him to finish putting in the new once before school started.)

But those shower-less days at home paid off. I write to you, squeaky-clean and still in a towel, ready to go make today my bitch. Yankee ingenuity at it's finest.

XOXO

Miss Indipendenza

Late last night, I was chatting with a familiar gentleman when I remembered the fact that my parents are going to be flying across the Atlantic to join me here in Italy TOMORROW. I am tremendously excited, as one can imagine, both to see them since A.) They are my parents, and B.) Two of the most familiar of the faces that could ever be familiar.

I have restaurant plans and…oh, remind me to make reservations at Coquinarius!...day plans and must-see museum trips and meetings planned for them, but it wasn’t until he said, “Isn’t it great to show your parents that you’re making it?” that I actually started to think about it.

Initially, I brushed the thought off, as I have only, very, very rarely felt the need to impress my parents—the only examples I can think of were when I found, negotiated, and bought my car with minimal help from my father, the first time they visited me at college, and when I’m riding and they’re watching their little girl and multiple-K, hay-munching investment. (Dear Mommy and Daddy—I love you!) Maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised like most children are, but they only people my parents taught me are actually needed to impress are you, yourself, and on occasion, your bosses or professors. (Usually right around the time of yearly reviews or mid-terms and finals.)

However, the more I mulled over it, the more I started to wonder if maybe he wasn’t right—maybe there is something about showing your parents that you’ve “made it.” If I wasn’t making plans at Jazz Club and buying that white-and-navy striped dress at Zara and matching cage heels for a specific reason, then what was I doing? And where better a place to show them that you are no longer their little menace in rompers and scrunchies than in a foreign country, across an ocean, in a different culture? As I take them down the old, worn cobblestone streets, deftly navigating in my heels, maybe I’m actually navigating them through my independence. And with this food and music and wine, it’s a fabulously sweet independence, indeed.

XOXO

Italian Escapades: My 18th Night of Mayhem in Italy, Gone Native in Carnevale, And Other Assorted Excitements

For my 18th night in Italy, I went to see The Wailers in concert, smoked Italian doobies, got caught up in a front-row mosh pit, touched 3 of The Wailers and got an autograph, ran across a 7 lane highway on the way home and was almost hit by a speeding moped, jumped some Jersey (Sicily? Do you think they would be called Sicily barriers over here? Is Sicily the Italian equivalent of New Jersey?) barriers, and coined the term "Unholy Cannoli." Just another day.

Robin and I got to Flog Auditorium (quite roughly the Italian version of Higher Ground-- same size, same atmosphere, but much more relaxed, in fact, non-acting, security,) an hour early, and stood in possibly the most miserable weather conditions I have ever waited for doors to open. And I waited outside for Busta to start in just a t-shirt last April in Vermont.) It was damp and drizzling. The trees dripped down on us. I went to go find a beer to find to improve my general disposition, and was greatly relieved when I got back to find that whelp, this being a Wailers concert, it was incredibly easy to score some weed. So score away. Also, once inside, our early arrival resulted in center-stage spots 1 person back from the stage. And this put us right inside the center of the cloud of smoke as the audience proceeded to hot-box the auditorium.

Second-hand smoke at concerts has got to be one of my favorite things. I love getting high on other people's time and money. So sue me.

If I had questioned it previously, I now know where I can find every Italian man I find attractive: At a Wailers concert. From dreadlocked, to hipster, to the young Italian Johnny Depp look-alike who was tripping on E and loved everyone and everything with a sort of infectious child-like humor that reminded me of the bastardized lovechild of Devendra Banhart and Russel Brand, who I spent the 3 hours of the concert pressed up against (3 hours well spent), it was a collectively attractive and fun crew. Until some of the drunk soccer boys and tripped-out electro-scene girls thought it would be a cute idea to start a mosh pit.

Now, there is a place and a time for a mosh pit. At an alternative or punk or metal show, yes. If you're seeing ICP or Sick Puppies or MOP. If you're under the age of 18. If you're a 185 pound man over six feet. But if you are a 125 pound woman under five-foot-four, mosh pits are not fun scenes. Losing my Gianni Depp in the melee, I locked myself to the jersey-clad back of the soccer boy in front of me, and shoved elbows back into the bodies that crushed up against me, fighting to keep standing. (First rule of mosh pits: DON'T FALL DOWN. Unless getting trampled seems like a good time to you.)

However, this mosh pit succeeded in pushing me even closer to the stage (literally back-humping this poor boy,) so that I was able to A.) touch the lead guitar, B.) Shake hands with the keyboardist, and C.) Get an autograph. So. I can't say that it wasn't a huge pain in the ass, overall.
Cabs were nonexistent from the concert, so Robin and I hiked the 2 miles back to our apartments. Thanks to the weed and the drinks, I couldn't feel my knees (long story short: years of horseback riding and jumping is not conducive to good cartilage in your knees, which is not conducive to all the walking I've been doing here, which results in massive amounts of pain and me hobbling like some of the black-clothed bubbies here), which came in handy for the sprint across the 7 lane highway in which a speeding moped nearly mowed me down, and again when we had to jump two lanes of concrete barriers to get across said highway to our street. Robin nearly drank from a dog's water fountain in the park. I had massive munchies and was trying to convince him that it was a good idea to go to the Secret Bakery to get "Unholy Cannoli" and "Debonair Eclairs." I thought it was HEE-LAR-IOUS at the time. The next morning when I woke up, very slowly and fuzzily and in lots of pain, I was really glad he put his foot down and said no.
Saturday morning found me waking up at the ass-crack of dawn at 5:15 (after going to sleep at 3:30 AM) to pack, have a quick wake n' bake session, and get on a bus at 6 AM for a weekend in Venice. I was able to buy gummybears, my favorite munchie food ever, at the rest stop, took pictures of the sunrise, and slept some more before walking up and stumbling onto a boat to Venice. It was also a good thing I slept through most of it because I have realized something: If I die while over here, it will not be from a kidnapping/rape/murder. It will be because of Italian drivers. Take a Boston driver. Make him snort copious amounts of speed. Perform a partial lobotomy. And then put him behind the wheel of a BUS. That, my friends, is terrifying. And I am living in a country full of them. Crossing streets and getting in cabs and buses and the such. I am literally playing Bussian Roulette.

This is what you need to know about Venice: It is easily one of the most beautiful, unique, and creepily romantic places in the world. It is so old and seeped in popular lore that at night, when lights reflect on the moving water in the canals, you will believe without a doubt that you are in a Poe story. Especially if it happens to be Carnevale, and all of humanity is running around in masks and costumes in Italy's mashed-up version of Halloween, April Fool's Day, and prom. I bought a mask, and my roommate Raquel, Robin and I took to the streets at night to find a restaurant featured in Bon Appetit and get in on the fun. We ran into a desk of cards, a set of bowling pins, an army of walking garbage bags, sperm that I ran away from, and some attractive young Ghostbusters that had it all over Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd. As soon as I heard the theme music coming from the boombox one of them was carrying, I was off and running toward them, camera flying behind me. They were young, charming, funny, friendly, sweet, and tolerated our photo shoot with them. In short, they are my new best friends. Almost everyone we met, excluding only the really drunk twenty-something men who only approached Raquel and I to ask if we were with Robin, as in, if he was our boyfriend, and walked away when we quickly repeated "Si" a few times (Robin was big pimpin' that night, fo' sho'-- male friends make the best joint bodyguards/decoys), was incredibly nice and friendly. More English is spoken there; less cigarettes smoked. Carnevale is basically one big, deliciously decadent and light-hearted romp. I was so glad I got to be there, and am definitely going back again at some point in my life. Actually, I would live in Venice for about a year, easily. I fell in love with it, even more than Florence.
My un-Valentine's Day was perfect. I tried to remember what I did last year-- I think a Girl's Dinner and then I went home, smoked straight to my face, and passed out early-- but it is one of those many Lost Memories. (This hints very strongly that smoking copious amounts of greenery was involved, even if dinner out was not.) This year, we were on tour boats to Murano and Burano and Venice for most of the day, and once we got to Venice, Robin, Raquel, Brian and I ran off to find calamari and a gondola ride. The gondola ride around sunset was easily one of the most un-romantic romantic things I have ever done in my life, (squeezing my gondolier's biceps included,) and as we took the tour boat back to the bus station (after almost missing it and being stranded in Venezia-- not the worst thing that could happen, in my opinion,) the sun set in rainbow hues with a blood-red, huge sun setting on the horizon. Blissful couples were unapparent. We took the bus back to Florence, and I crawled into bed with Pineapple Express, Baci chocolates, and more gummybears before passing out. In other words, unadulterated, Single Girl bliss.

Looking back, I find that I've been surprising myself numerous times. Probably one of my favorite things-- surprising myself. Usually, I am exceedingly hard to surprise. (See: Jaded. Cynical. Guarded.) Usually, I would die to be actually (positively) surprised. It just doesn't really happen for me. But there I was, finding myself surprised as I watched a hand-- my own hand-- reaching for the door of a cab last Thursday night. And like an out-of-body experience, leaning in, and asking the cabby in pidgeon English/Italian if he could take us to Flog Auditorium, and for how much. There I was, forefinger and thumb pinching a tight little jay as I inhaled while listening to "Everything's Gonna Be Alright." There I was, dancing with a room full of totally chill strangers and listening to the late, great Bob's songs in a cloud of haze. There I was, drunk on wine and life by 2:15 PM. There I was, in a gondola, looking up at the golden light on marble palazzos. There I was, flirting with a Ghostbuster holding a leafblower. There I was, eating some of the most delicious ravioli in a butternut squash sauce with sugared black truffle in a restaurant that Bon Appetit called "the best in Venice." There I was, flying by the seat of my pants, running from cars and mopeds and for trains and boats and buses, asking absolute Italian strangers for directions and tickets and ganja and photographs and phone numbers and recommendations. I'm living a charmed life, I know it, and I'm grateful for every moment of it.

I am finding that I am doing nearly everything I said I wouldn't do in Italy. And it's thrilling. The moment I stopped sweating it was the moment the world opened itself right up to me.

XOXO

Daughters, Students, Friends, Lovers.

All the men in my life are inordinately worried about me being over here. My father keeps telling me to “have fun” like I’m not already eating the best food of my life or working my way through a bottle of wine that I buy completely legally, free and clear, every other night. A favorite professor sent me a very comforting email about how the initial “initiation” phase in Italy can be very tough, but I’ll get through it, fine. Geoff, if he had had the time before I left, wanted to string together all the empty .38 shells from our afternoon at the shooting range and make a necklace for me so no one would fuck with me when I was out and about. Twanthony writes me wordy and hilariously, disturbingly violent weekly emails from home about what’s going on at work, who he wants to lay waste to and why, and to keep up with my adventures in his native land. Robin and the boys upstairs walk with me, even in broad daylight, right up to the front door, as if I could be whisked away somewhere in the 100 feet between the corner and front stoop. And after the first night I almost called you as I did it to have someone to walk me home over the phone from across the Atlantic, I re-thought it and realized I won’t dare tell you that I do the 20 minute walk home from my late-night class in the south end of the city to my apartment in the north end alone, because after the multitude of “be safe”s and “come back soon”s and the rest of the unspoken worry that nested somewhere between your guarded eyes and furrowed eyebrows, I would not put it past you to pitch an unholy fit and start developing the beginnings of an ulcer.

“Be safe” seems to be the rallying cry of all the important men in my life right now.

This is all I can say to you: I am fine. Stop worrying—not all the way, but enough to just know that I am enjoying myself here, and being as safe as I can be, and I will do all that I can to return myself back state-side in one piece, save for some liver damage from all the good vino and home-made liquor and about half a lung less than I started out with—both self-damaged and from the unavoidable second-hand smoke. The women here like me because I am up-front and assured while still being polite. The men, so far, are a little mystified at an American girl who looks them straight in the face and doesn’t play coy or seem to overly want their attention. Eh. They’re pretty, alright, a collectively beautiful people, but too clingy and a little too poetic for my tastes. “We be together tonight?” is not in my registered vocabulary at the moment. This is not to say I mind the occasional familiar heavy lean against me while seated, or hand on my hip or arm around my waist. These things are as reassuring and informally intimate as hearing an old friend’s voice, or a firm handshake. But I don’t have time for broken English or flowery Italian. Give me my American boys and an intelligent and fully comprehendible conversation, and call me a happy girl.

So. I’m being safe. I’m having fun. Short of saying “I would live here,” I hope it gets the point across. And rest assured, I worry just as much about you all being there, and me being here. I can’t wait to see you again.

There. Properly satisfied? Are we clear? Are you a little less nervous? A little more soothed that I am not running off with random Italian counts to their villas in Tuscany? (Though, I have not yet actually met a count. If I do, the game might change.)

XOXO

Conversations With Real, Live Girls!

If you have ever wondered what women talk about when they get together, or if "Sex and the City" was over-doing it, this is for you. Real conversation between two young women, had yesterday night. I tell you the truth; you tell me no lies.

"Honestly, I'm less concerned about that than I would be about someone studying to be a GYN."

"Hahaha, truth. But a GYN would know EXACTLY what all those peices-parts are and what they do. And you wouldn't have pregnancy scares because they control Plan B So, actually...dating a GYN sounds like a good deal. I must go find one."

"And remember when you were worrying about the wayward finger that had the potential to go where no man had gone before?"

"Yes. I will never forget it. Believe me. Did you encounter it as well?"

"Yes. I think it's just natural hand positioning, possibly leverage. I think it's safe."

"Thinking back, after that night, I don't think it raised its...finger...again."

"It wasn't signing a lease there, but it subletted the space for a time."

And this is why we have girl friends.

XOXO

Some Things Are Universal

If there is one big difference between American men and Italian men, it is that Italians are much more up-front about their opinion of you. Thankfully, I am usually blissfully unaware on the street when they say things to me, because my grasp of the language does not extend after ordering food. However, some things, like a graze across your ass, or "Ciao, bella"s translate loud.

Today, I was loitering outside of a store, smoking, when a very large middle-aged man wandered into my personal space and gave me a "Ciao, bella!" I was startled, yet a little pleased, as always. Then he continued wandering past, muttering to himself, and then started shouting things about "amore!" to absolutely no one.

He was stark-raving mad.

I didn't know it this verified or negated his compliment to me. I'm still questioning this.

XOXO

Supercallifragisexy...With Cheetos On Top.

Because Fergie has not yet penned an epic war-chant for the vaguely illiterate yet titled "Un-G-L-A-M-O-U-R-O-U-S," please let me enlighten you as to what the music video for this gem would look like:

A college girl, dressed in plaid flannel, sitting in the half-empty bedroom that she is in the process of moving out of, cuddling with her husband pillow (yes, that's what they are called,) while giggling like a rabid hyena and trying to stifle the sound so she doesn't wake her roommates up while catching up on reading GoFugYourself and 2Birds1Blog, and MOWING down on a bag of Cheetos at 2-fiddy in the morning like she has not eaten all day and she can see Starvation, closely followed by Death, trotting up the path toward her. In the background, drunk 20-something men longing for their frat days shout things like "That's how we do it, BITCH," as they stumble out of the bars below the apartment.

Yeah, that's right, 2-FIDDY.

Which is totally, exactly what I am doing right now. I am eating Cheetos, and not doing any of my exam homework. No judging-- we know what choice we all would have made, too.

I swear it is not because I didn't fall off of the little green wagon. Nor am I drunk. There are just some nights when a girl needs a little orange fake cheese powder schmeared on her duvet cover.

...I have either made it in life, or I am nowhere near to ever making it. I just can't decide which. The good news is I am perfectly happy with either.

Can I get a "G"?
...An "L"?
......Possibly a "supercallifragisexy?"

...I am so ashamed I actually know that phrase.

XOXO

"Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open."- John Barrymore

Do you know when I feel sexiest? When I'm happy. It's a stupidly simple formula-- when you feel good, you feel good. People tend to discount it because of the fact it is so simple, which is probably one of the worst mistakes you can make. I'm having a good day today; I got my monstrous paper for one of my classes finished last night and handed it in; it was sunny, even though it was ass-numbingly cold out; I'm looking forward to going out and catching up with a friend later; I got paid and so am out of over-draw in my bank account; I've got a lot of other things going well and making me happy right now. What can I say? I'm a lucky girl. And the best part is, is that I know it. I'm not taking anything for granted at the moment; I'm just living moment-to-moment, like a particularly felicitous hitch-hiker.

Though it's nearly impossible to whip yourself into a good mood, I've found a few things that never fail to work for me:

- One of the things that makes me feel happiest is to grab a good cup of coffee, get my new monthly issues of Cosmopolitan and Glamour, and read, sip, and relax to some good music. Indulge yourself harmlessly like this. It's my once-a-month date with myself. Spend time for yourself, by yourself. Your time is precious. You give it to other people. Now give that same gift to yourself.

- Make a playlist of songs that make you crack a smile every time you hear them. Music is one of the greatest mood-elevators of all. Just hearing a familiar song from someone else's headphones makes me grin. Today, I passed a guy blasting Beck's "Girl," which is one of my all-time favorite songs, let alone one of the ringtones in my phone I love to hear go off.
Here are a few I love:
"I'll Be Your Man"- The Black Keys
"Mama's Room"- Under The Influence Of Giants
"Girl"- Beck
"Love You Madly"- Cake
"Who Knows"- Marion Black
"Do What You Want"- OK Go

- Around this time of year, I love going for chilly strolls downtown to see the lights and decorations. Church Street is beautiful. Check out your own metropolitan area-- the lights and people-watching are superb. Make up stories about passer-bys over coffee or tea or hot chocolate for some free amusement. Bringing a friend along to see who can come up with the most creative or crazy story tops it all off.

- Spend some time with animals. (And no, your wild guy friends don't count.) Possibly the best gift I've been given this year is the chance to take my friend's dog home again for the holidays since she's away. If you don't have pets, spend some time with the ones of friends who do have them. Petting something has been proven to lower stress and blood pressure and raise your oxytocin levels, the same "love chemical" that gets released during sex. (Weird, but since it feels good both times, we're not going to discuss it.) And yes, if you can't get your hands on an animal, I'm sure a friend wouldn't mind having their hair petted, or a guy being caressed.

- If you're going to sit around and stare at your phone while waiting for it to ring, you might as well make good use of that time and pick it up and call a friend or family. (This is what "call waiting" was invented for.) No more wasted time pining when you could be keeping up with another, usually more important, relationship, missy!

- Give a sincere compliment. It makes someone else's day, and you always feel like a superstar afterward.

- Cook, or (if you're one of those people who burn water), go out for, a meal with your friends to say goodbye before you all scatter for the holidays. Hosting friends always brings out the most of your hospitable, polite, generous talents.

- And, of course, a great guy is just the icing on the cake. Find a guy who dials, not just texts. A welcome phone call can make a difference to any day or night. (Yeah, you're doing it right, so thank you. Yes, you. I know you read this; don't think I don't. I'm hip to your groove, sir. But thanks for keeping the silence at your end of the deal, anyway. You get bonus points for that.)

Speaking of giving, the economy sucks right now, if you didn't get that memo, and people's wallets are slim. (Like you keep trying to keep your waistline. But that's much harder. Unfortunately.) My roommates and I went all-out with the Christmas gifts last year, but this year, we've decided to give each other a much less expensive, yet much more touching, gift: we've all agreed to give each other the love we have in our hearts for Christmas. It sounds like a cop-out, but when a friend looks at you and says, "I love you so much; what would I ever do without you?" it honestly feels like you've just been given the best gift in the entire world. And who doesn't want love?

For those of you who are looking for ideas for the hubby for the holidays, here they are, from one of the Current's own writing men! I absolutely adored this article, and was so happy when Sean agreed to write it:

"All He Wants For Christmas
By Sean Conrad
Special from the Champlain Current.

Good evening, ladies. I’m sure that right now you’re asking yourself, “What am I going to get my boyfriend for Christmas?!” or one of the other myriad of gift-giving occasions this December. Well, there are plenty of options for different types of guys, as well as for all of your price ranges.
If you’re already stumped, you’ve probably considered gift cards. Does your guyfriend snowboard? Chances are he has a pass for his favorite slope, but does that slope offer gift cards for the ski lodge? Not needing to worry about having cash for a hot chocolate after flying down a cold mountain would put a smile on anyone’s face.

While unbelievably corny, a coupon book of favors can go a long way. And no, I don’t just mean sexual favors. One for going with him to Gilbane when he gets his car; one for sitting through an entire hockey game without asking how much longer it will be; one for a back rub; one for allowing him to burp whenever he wants for an entire day without being glared at. These are just a few examples. Barnes and Noble sells a few coupon books, but I would suggest writing some of your own— go crazy with it!

A good fallback for a college male these days would be a video game, but don’t just go out and buy him Barbie Horse Adventure; he might not appreciate it as much as you hope. I would also shy away from the ‘hot’ new games, like Modern Warfare 2, Assassin’s Creed 2, Uncharted 2, and for consistency’s sake, Left 4 Dead 2. Go back a few months into the release schedule and think about Turtles in Time Re-Shelled, Battlefield 1943, Infamous, Batman, and Borderlands; just don’t forget to make sure he doesn’t already have it!

Last, I must digress. Take him out on a date. Don’t go for anything exceptionally fancy or proper, just a nice relaxing evening at his favorite restaurant on your tab. I would advise against a ‘new’ restaurant, since there should be no worrying about whether or not the menu has something desirable. Even if you usually split checks or take turns paying, this would take all of the pressure off of him, and give him a chance to just think about how lucky he is to be eating out.

What’s that you say? This list is too short? Well the problem is, you think you don’t know what to get him, but he’s been telling you for a year! “My car’s sound system sucks!”, “I wish my hard drive was bigger”, “Your mom looked really hot in that”, “My keyboard’s keys keep falling off”, “This jacket can’t keep the cold out”, and so on and so forth. Some items you can’t get outright, and might not know exactly what to get, but a gift card to one of those places where he wants to get something really expensive would give him the chance to finally make one of those upgrades. I know you’ve been listening, so go forth and conquer. And if all else fails, get naked."

See, wasn't that good? I have such a great staff...(insert bragging here.)

As I'm a writer, I've always been a big fan of the slightly personal. Some of the best things I've ever given people were written. Write something down for someone, if you're good with words. A poem or a letter can last forever, and guaranteed, it won't just be thrown away. ISpys in the Seven Days newspaper between couples are always fun, touching while not overly sickeningly sweet, and like an inside joke or secret. Plus, they're relatively cheap.

Lastly, on a slightly more shallow, yet still practical note, when you look good, you feel good. It can be remarkably hard to look cute in the winter, the time of year to bundle and layer. If you're of the mindset that looking like a yeti's wife or an Eskimo's cousin isn't the hottest deal, I've got some tips for you from the frozen tundra that is Vermont. (For the geographically challenged, we're located in the north-east, in New England. In other words, it's cold. REAL cold.)

- I love wearing oversize men's sweaters with skinny jeans and boots. (Generally, my tall Uggs-- they may be ugly as all hell, but they are the warmest things I have ever worn, and you can't get me out of them in the winter.) Warm, functional, and cute.

- Plaid, flannel, men's clothing, and gender-neutral clothing are all big right now. To make sure you don't spend your day feeling frumpy, lazy, or awkwardly butch or gender-confused, accessorize with girly pieces! I love big cocktail rings, bangle bracelets, and blinged-out headbands. In fact, I'm wearing all three today.

- The snowbunny look I love: Bright sweater-dresses over black or gray leggings. You can belt them for that tiny-waisted, hourglass shape.

- Long graphic tees over leggings with a cardigan in a fun color is a great way to layer and keep warm.

- If you can afford it, cashmere is the best, most snuggly, luxurious, warm thing you can give yourself. A sweater will keep you so comfortable you'll never want to get out of it. Lord knows I've slept in mine during a few cold nights. Look for some deals on cashmere after Christmas time; that's usually the best time to buy. Buying cashmere/something else combinations is usually cheaper, but just as nice, as well.

- Get thee some cute flannel pajamas for around the house, dorm, or apartment!

- Always remember: "Of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important."- Janet Lane. Spread the happy.

- Lastly, not a clothing item to keep you warm, but an important fashion note: girl's jeans are tight. Bulges in pockets from cell phones are so unsightly. I like to keep mine in my boot. Roll up and fold your jeans to tuck them into your boots, and keep your phone in the little pocket that your pant legs make so you don't lose it under your foot when walking. Plus, it's always surprising when it goes off and people watch you reach into your boot; it's novel.

That's it for now, loves. I hope I gave you something to chew over, whether it's a way to be happier, a good new song, or the solution to Christmas presents you've been stressing over. In the spirit of the day and upcoming holidays, and because I'll be busy with exams for awhile, I want to thank each and every one of you for reading. EACH and EVERY one of you, whether you are a long-time reader, someone who just stumbled upon this blog, or if you're having a good laugh at my expense-- you all keep me going. For those of you who comment, motivate me, compliment me, stretch me and press me to grow, challenge me, or believe in me, I thank you thousand-fold. And that's one of the best things you could ever give me.

XOXO