Attack Of The Pod People.

My childhood best friend is getting married shortly (a June wedding; classic, of course). Despite the fact that we've been largely out of touch for the past few years, my family and I were still invited. My dad bowed out-- weddings aren't exactly his thing-- but my S.O gamely agreed to be my date, anyhow. What startled me the most about these upcoming nuptials wasn't the fact that I actually have a date to a wedding; it wasn't that my childhood best friend, one year older than I, was getting married; it was, rather, the fact that I remember sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks with her in 5th grade, laying on the carpet on our backs in front of the drink cart in my parent's dining room, and planning out her wedding. That's when it hit me as I read her wedding invitation and RSVP card--

We're not playing little-girl games anymore.

And it shows. Lately, I've been feeling a sort of shift in myself and my desires in relationships that I thought was imperceptible to everyone but myself, until in the eyes of my first college roommate, I finally saw reflected a very different vision than the college freshman who used to slink back into our cramped dorm room ashamedly at 2 AM from her forays in the RA’s room, sex hair rampant. I was poised. I was graduating. I was in a functional, happy, mature relationship that was defined by the both of us in accordance of what we wanted, what we needed, and what we were looking for from each other. I was—Jesus Christ—in love. What shocked me most was when she commented after I told her that my current relationship was making me realize how much the past, less-serious relationships I had been in irked me in their undefined, let's-just-see-where-this-takes-us-before-one-or-both-of-us-abruptly-jump-ship, laissez-faire attitudes, "I've seen how you've struggled and been hurt, even when you said you didn't want anything that was serious, because I knew you'd figure it out for yourself, one day."

Me? Actually be one of those girls her likes her relationships done defined with a side of seriousness, going in a positive, delineated fashion? Mais, non!

Mais, oui! As we stood on the corner of Church Street and Main last night, my S.O referred to me in passing to his friend as "my girlfriend." And that's when I realized-- I haven't had a guy call me his "girlfriend" since I was a junior in high school, and that's also the same guy who ended up proposing to me. Since then, I've been "my friend," "the girl I'm seeing," "the girl I'm sleeping with," or just plain "Carissa," but never the "girlfriend." Until now, when I've met the family and keep my pear-and-sugar exfoliating scrub in his shower and have brought him back to my hometown. It makes me wonder if all of this-- the meeting of the families, the mature partnership and cohabitation, the giving of solid, concrete titles, the endeavoring to actually, I don't know, BE TOGETHER-- was what was missing in the rest of my relationships, and thus, why they all ended up failing. While watching an episode of SATC yesterday, it brought up the question: If men and women are like cabs, cruising around with our lights off while we pick up and discard all sorts of people until we finally decide the time is right-- post-college, post-nearly a decade of dating debacles, post-living abroad, and now, pre-friend-in-the-same-age-group's weddings-- are our lights now suddenly on?

While pop culture knowledge may say that I should now be desperately plotting how to wrangle a man into my marriage bed now that my friends are starting to say their "I do"s, I say "I don't"; I may not be on the fast-track to engagement or marriage (the only thing I like about engagements is the ring, because I adore diamonds, and the only reason I'd really like to get married is to put my Star Wars-themed wedding plans into action; both of which don't quite seem like good enough reasons to do either), but there are some disturbing signs pointing to the fact that I may, quite possibly, be one of those "pod people" types who is actually happy inside of her relationship, just the way it is. You know, those couples who are always together, just happen to end up wearing matching outfits, and constantly use the word "we" all the time? You know, pod people. "We" people. "'We' went here," "'We' did that," people. But then I rolled over this morning, and suddenly realized the novel "Chasing Harry Winston" by Lauren Weisberger was on top of my reading pile, while "The Bridesmaids" was on my Movies-To-See List, and my mother and I had recently debated the choice of my childhood best friend having her reception at The Legion and the S.O and I had ended up in front of the engagement display, comparing tastes, while on a trip to Periwinkles to find him a watch. I started getting suspicious. Maybe I was getting antsy. Meanwhile, in the formulation and brainstorming process of writing this post and getting into the "wedding" frame of mind, I've been trolling countless big-name jeweler sites, ring-watching. (If you don't think it's not a competitive sport for women, guess again.) And until I found this ring on Harry Winston's site, which isn't even an engagement ring, I was rather lackadaisical about the whole thing. Still no real drive to hear wedding bells. Still entirely loathe to put together a guest list (my own personal nightmare). And then, I saw the ring. Imagined what it could look like with a diamond crowning it, instead of a sapphire. Thought about how I could rope my father, a jeweler, into designing and making something similar. And I suddenly got it. The itch. The diamond fever. I realized that every relationship before now was wrong because we weren't on the same page. They were all in the casual lane while secretly, unbeknownst to even myself, I was in the "Skyscraper ring on my left ring finger" lane. I started wondering where I could find decent flower arrangements and a hot pink Gerber daisy bouquet. Then, I caught myself. I almost, unknowingly, without being on guard, let myself slip into the "we" people zone again. The diamond almost got me. While I may be the sort of girl who has rediscovered that she cherishes being called "the girlfriend," I'm still not the sort of girl who thinks picking place settings and napkin fabrics out is a good use of my time, when I could be, I don't know, catching up on all the new episodes of Sons of Anarchy or creating a new, catchy acronym for inappropriate relationships (P.I.W.B: Professor I Would Bang, anyone?). So, while I may be discovering, through my relationships, through my friends, and through myself, what sort of pod person I really am, I'm also still not overly tuned into my biological clock or life plan. It was all the ring. The fucking ring. Weddings. They're still on my "highly skeptical; treat as you would a leper patient" list.

XOXO

The List: "To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things."

I'm a list person. There's almost nothing that I like better than sorting things out and writing them down in detailed lists to make me feel like I actually have a good grip on what's going on. Grocery lists? I try not to shop without them, otherwise, my compulsive buying gets the best of me and I wind up at home with an eggplant, and no milk. Though I may not actually do what is on the list, I'm a big fan of making homework lists so I can at least see what I need to do on a page in front of me, and then decide if it's worth it or not. (Usually, I make this list and feel some perverse sense of accomplishment from just doing that and being "organized" that I totally forgo anything after that. Now if only my professors would accept my very thoughtful, detailed lists and that could be the end of things...) And don't even get me started on To-Do lists. The feeling I get when crossing something off a list is slightly akin to how early explorers and Spanish conquistadors must have felt claiming nations.

Someone (anonymously) asked after my post in which I mentioned it, what exactly the other things on my "To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things List" not mentioned were. Truth be told, it ebbs and flows. I add to it as I find things that appeal to me. Some items are broad; some are very specific. Some I've already done; some I've even done numerous times. Some really aren't feasible, but you always have to have something to reach for, now, don't you?

- Know enough about wine to not be intimidated by a French (and that's IN France, not American-French) restaurant's wine list.

- Be able to order the wine, in French.

- Master another language. Or, at least, be fluent enough to progress past my bastardized second-grader's level French. Who knows-- maybe Italian will be easier for me.

- Participate in UVM's Naked Bike Race, which, for me, who abhors bikes, but does run, will be the Naked Run, or How Fast Can I Streak By These People And Hope Not Many Champlain Students Who Will Recognize Me Are Here?

- Live somewhere not in the continental U.S for over 6 months.

- Spend a week or two hiking somewhere. Anywhere. (That counts as wilderness.)

- Learn to play the guitar.

- Write a novel, even if it doesn't get published.

- Create, or attend, a foam pit party-- you know, like the Smirnoff commercial where they fill an empty pool with pieces of foam. (This one makes me really excited.)

- Be able to drink whisky, Jager, or cheap vodka without making a face. (Working on it. It's a reflex.)

- Get wonderfully lost and not worry about it.

- Learn to throw a football in a perfect spiral, and with good aim, at a good distance. (This may not be able to happen, thanks to my impossibly tiny hands.)

- Live in New York City.

- Own a pair of terrifyingly beautiful classic Louboutins.

- Stay up all night to watch a gorgeous sunrise; no other purpose.

- Do the Walk of Shame. Depending on how you feel about it, the Shame part is optional.

- Try eating calves' brain, (thank you for this whim, Bourdain).

- Learn how to ballroom dance.

- Write/compose a song.

- Sing solo in front of an audience. (Oh, stage fright. I'm like Piper Perabo in Coyote Ugly...the lights would have to be shut off for me to even get up there.)

- Speaking of Coyote Ugly, dance on a bar-top.

- Drive a Porsche on the Autobahn...no speed limit, baby!

- Ride through the desert in Egypt to see the Great Pyramids. (I suppose a camel would suffice, as well.)

- Say "I love you" to a significant other and really mean it.

- Perfect my golf swing. (Putting, I'm already BOSS at. The ability to golf is a really good skill to have-- do you know how many high-ranking people think a round of golf is the best way to meet recruits or get to know someone? It's shocking.)

- Take up creating art again.

- See more of the Great Masters' artwork in person.

- Spend a night in jail for something completely stupid that will make a really great story.

- Get in a bar-fight.

- Win said bar-fight.

- Master a totally useful yet non-traditionally-girly skill, like changing a tire, setting up a television's sound system, or...my personal favorite goal...being able to re-haul an engine. Vroom, vroom.

- Have a righteously enviable music collection and firm grasp on almost everything that's in it, from title to lyrics.

- Get a tattoo. Working on this one...

- Attend a frat party.

- Eat at a five-star restaurant.

- ...But be able to cook what I ate at that five-star restaurant. In other words, master the art of cooking.

- Dance naked under the full moon.

- Visit the country my ancestors are from and get mistaken for a local.

- Be proposed to. For the third time. But actually want to say "yes."

- Travel to Egypt and Dubai, Manchu Pichu, the Great Wall of China, Cambodia to see the temple ruins, Paris for the Louvre, the Sahara, New Orleans, Barbados, Russia and Czar Nicholas's Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, the Taj Mahal and India, Spain and the best tapas bars in the world, the countrysides of Ireland and England, Tuscany, and oh, so many more. Ask me any given day of the week where I want to go. It's always different.

- Get black-out drunk and have to put the puzzle-pieces back together in the morning with help from texts, friends, photos, and mysterious stains. (In a good way.)

- Learn to finally, really play Poker. And to stop bluffing every hand.

- Teach a child how to read.

- Create a college scholarship in my grandfather's name, to thank him for my opportunity, and give someone else a chance.

- Cross-country road trip. Possibly with the Little Civvy That Could, but then again, driving standard for that long is literally a pain in your ass from shifting weight to step on the clutch.

- Get Spied in an iSpy ad. (I have an obsession with the iSpys; they're the first thing I always read when I pick up a Seven Days.)

- Rescue and adopt an animal.

- Get backstage at a concert.

- Put into action that phrase "Beg, borrow, or steal."

- Go scuba diving in the Caribbean.

- Do something that involves jumping from a height or free-falling.

- Refuse a ludicrously lucrative job offer because it's not something I agree with or can morally get behind.

- Affirm your beliefs; stand behind them under fire.

- Plant some trees; give back from what you take.

- Bet an insane amount of money on a hand I could lose. See what happens.

- Reconnect with lost friends.

- Brew our own beer or dandelion wine with my dad. He's done it; I want to learn.

- Sail on my own.

- Meet a real pirate or drug lord, ideally in a non-threatening setting. Or royalty or a superhero. Someone out of the ordinary.

- Become a great debater and be able to support my standing eloquently, intelligently, and without losing my temper.

- Learn to control said temper.

- Learn to crack safes and pick pockets.

- Break one of my superstitious habits. (There are quite a lot of them.)

- Attend one of the great parties of the world: Carnival, Mardi Gras, Day of the Dead, etc.
- Read the classics. So cliche, but so worthwhile. But I don't mean "the classics" as in, anything and everything that was on your high school English class reading list-- I mean "the classics" as in the novels that people recognize as being great FOR A REASON. No reading Dickens just to read Dickens. Personally, I've found Austen to give great advice, Washington Irving to tell a damn good tale in prose that makes me envious, and Orwell to be damn negative and depressing. What you consider "the classics" is up to you; just be sure there are good reasons you're considering them.

- Pick up and go somewhere or move on a whim.

- Not worry so much.

- Have one of the most kick-ass obituaries ever published. Something along the lines of, "Carissa, age 76, died in Paloma, Spain, during the Running of the Bulls. She is survived by..." Ask me about my plans for after I turn 75 sometime. Suffice it to say, I don't want to grow old, so that's when all the things like bungee jumping and swimming with sharks come in.

My advice to you is to write your own list. Find out what things you really want to do, and then work toward them. Know when you will say "yes" in life, and when you will say "no." No one ever got very far not taking risks. It's knowing which appeal to you that will shape how you live your life.

And plus, remember what I said about that whole "I'm conquering the world" feeling you get when checking something off. Don't you want to feel all-powerful like Cortes, minus the native slaughter, pillaging of treasures, and devastation of natural resources? Yeahhhhh...

XOXO

Party On Willard Street!

Happening recently in the life of—gasp—a girl with a social life? are a few note-worthy events. One of them is completely unprofessional in nature; the other stems from my professional life. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a Gemini, but I think there’s something very important about having a social life and a professional life that don’t overlap. As long as your partying doesn’t affect your performance in your place of work, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t, or wouldn’t want to, take the chance to blow off steam as long as you’re being responsible. A girl satisfied at play is a girl satisfied during her work-day.

Last Friday night, I attended a house party with Cait, Heather, Alli, and Em. We got dolled up, tequila-d up, and flaunted our stuff in a steady drizzle of the seemingly ever-present rain to a friend’s house, which was packed from porch to blacklight-lit basement with other partygoers. I, unfortunately, along with Alli, did not get the “highlighter theme” party memo, and both showed up in nice white shirts. (Mine was part of an adorable shirt/dress I got at Charlotte Russe by writing a check with no funding behind it—I do believe it’s called “deficient spending” or “kiting a check,” and while not wise or something I necessarily recommend, it’s the closest I’ll get to stealing and also, how I’m affording most of my reading material and clothing this summer. Oh, the things you learn being unemployed and mostly broke.) This resulted in a need to write “Skin Only” prominently on the copious amounts of skin on our chests revealed by our necklines—hey, I never said I was a prim and proper girl. There was lots of fun dancing to the DJ in the dirt-floor basement, and Alli and I got out groove thangs on as some of our drunk guy friends met up with us and I accidently (or not so much) slapped one of them in a tequila, jungle juice, and beer affront after he tried correcting another friend who told us we looked hot. I ended up handing off one of my highlighters to a really cute dude passing through the crowd—russet-colored hair in that kind of fluffy/spiky way most all-American boys are wearing it these days, the front of it pushed up either naturally or with some gel, blue eyes, a bit of facial hair and stubble, and either a green or blue shirt. (I was kinda drunk; the lights were kinda dark.) Later, I met up and was able to parle avec un tres cute Quebecquois giant by the name of Nate who drew a blue smiley face on my wrist. Unfortunately, the noise was so deafening we could barely talk, and my chicken-shit morals kept me from giving him my number. He was cute, kind of shy but personable, and game to make nice and talk with me and my girl friends, even in a little bit of French with me. (If you’re wondering, my French, even after three-and-a-half years, is rooted firmly in the present and rudimentary—as soon as I have to conjugate a verb, I give up. In fact, verbs are my French downfall. I can’t seem to “do” anything in French. However, Nate the Quebecquois Giant was nice enough to tell me to keep up with it. I like him.) My spectacular cop-dar yet again proved it was working when Alli and I decided to leave ten minutes before the party was busted. We picked up Cheesy Bread from Dominoes, went home drunk and thrilled with life, and passed out quite happily.

Here are my tips for maximum party enjoyment that have served me quite well through my “wild years.” Maybe they can help you out as well:

1.) Get your drink on at your place before you leave, if you’re not driving. Throw back a shot or two so that you’re not having to pay $5 for the drink cover for something that amounts to being 4 parts red Kool-Aid, 1 part vodka. Or, bring your own drink. However, if offered free drinks or sips from friends’ drinks, by all means, take it only if you trust the person. Free liquor is free liquor, and in this economy and age, we can’t afford to pass it up.

2.) Dress for the occasion and YOUR attitude. If you want to wear a dress to a more casual affair, go for it. You’ll be known as “that chick who wore the really cute dress.” If you want to wear heels, judge the weather, terrain and rest of your outfit. If it’s raining, boots might be a better idea. If you’ll be walking a lot over cracked pavement, and possibly inebriated, think of twisted ankles. If the rest of your outfit is laid-back and you have a pair of heels to match the vibe, why not? Sometimes, a girl just has to feel tall and like her legs go on for miles. Just remember, however—there is something as “too much of a good (or dressy) thing.” If you look like Lady GaGa’s doppelganger, you may want to re-think if you really need those heels and all those accessories to go with your stand-out dress.

3.) Get to the party a half-hour to forty-five minutes after it’s supposed to begin. This gives the host time to get ready, and a decent crowd of people to get there so you can meet and mingle easily, and not arrive too early and be one of five people there with no one else you know, clutching your drink and standing in a corner.

4.) Bring your own friends. Ask the host if you can beforehand, but bringing your own friends, (at least one,) gives you not only entertainment if the party turns out to blow, but also someone to keep you safe and help you make wise decisions. (You may think that guy with the spider-web tattoo on his neck is a total catch, but your more sober best friend may be able to tell you she saw him on the evening news in a mug-shot for domestic assault the other night.)

5.) Leave as soon as the party becomes too big for its location. Signs of this may be things like standing-room only, people lining up to vomit in the single bathroom, strangers taking over apartment owner’s bedrooms to have random sex, and being pressed up against other people in ways that would create offspring sans clothing as a protective barrier due to the influx of people who just streamed in via the front door. If the porch out front has become over-run with spill-off from the party because not everyone can fit in the house; if the DJ’s music can be heard down the street; if the temperature and humidity inside is hovering somewhere around “Amazonian” due to the amount of sweaty, breathing people—now would be a good time to leave. People staggering down sidewalks, noise disturbances, large crowds of people, and people hanging around outside are all things cops look for. If the party you’re at is displaying a few or all of these signs, it’s time to peace. The cops aren’t far behind. If you have to leave and there happens to be a back door, take it. Cops tend to watch the front of a house or apartment for traffic. (Take it from me—I’ve now left four parties right before they got busted by following these guidelines. At one, I was walking out the back door as the police were coming in the front. Too close a call for my taste, thanks.)

The next morning, I realized that the “Skin Only” idea may have been a bit flawed when it wasn’t washing off in the shower, even after intense skin-peeling scrubbing with my nubby soap, I still had things like “Skin Only” and “Hottest Current Editor Ever” written on me. Oh, and did I mention I had to go meet my parents, and their friends, for one of their oldest and closest friend’s birthday? Thankfully, they’re all pretty cool people, and after being corrected on the fact that “Skin Only” meant, “write on my skin only, please,” and wasn’t some sort of reference to my preferred type of magazine, they all chuckled, collectively sighed, and said “College.” (Oh, and my mother and I went through my pictures of the night without comment until she stopped on one and said, “You’re looking kind of trampy again, dear.” What picture was that? My profile picture. Of course. To which I responded, “I know, mother. Sometimes, you just have to ask for it.”)

In other news and my real life, devoid of relationship drama, sexual innuendos, and a night-life, I’m an intern at two local newspapers and the rising editor-in-chief of Champlain College’s newspaper, the Current. I also am a Peer Advisor to freshmen at the college, and a tutor in the Writing Lab. For a few years, I was one of your friendly sales associates at American Eagle Outfitters in my hometown. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from interviewing and talking to these hordes of people that my jobs bring me, it’s that water is an essential aspect to your groove. (Especially if you’re folding clothing for five to eight hours a day—lint-mouth is nothing to joke about, even more so when it’s your job to say, “Hi, can I help you?” every five minutes.) Not only is water a great health supplement, and needed to keep you healthy and hydrated, it’s also a great diet supplement, too. I drink water during the day when I start to feel needlessly hungry between meals because it gives your stomach something to fill up on, with no calories, and is great for your hair, nails, blood, skin, organs, and when talking to as many people as I do—voice. Make sure to always, always carry a water bottle with you, even as nothing more than a prop. Awkward silence while talking with someone? Take a sip of water. Don’t want your professor to call on you with a question about the reading you didn’t do last night? Take a gulp or three from your water bottle. Just like your prof would feel like a jerk asking someone sick who’s blowing their nose or coughing to answer a question, someone filling their mouth with a hydrating liquid is also someone too busy to tell the class whether or not Mary Shelley was objectifying humans or Frankenstein’s monster as the real freak.

Something else that’s been making me tick lately is a new (to me) TV show. Tonight is a beer, cheesy scrambled eggs with ketchup, and Everlast night. I recently discovered TNT’s nighttime drama “Saving Grace,” and consequently, a great interpretation of what I will be like in, oh, another 20 years. (Hence the Everlast—he sings the theme, which I love, and also, if you were wondering, still gives a great show—I saw him at Higher Ground last fall. His publicity photo was maybe ten years out-of-date with his current age, but I had no complaints musically—the signature growl is still as good as it was during the days of House of Pain.) This is a great example of my idea of a good single girls’ night: I am happy, I am slightly tipsy, I am content…for the most part, and until I remember certain details about my life. But that’s a story for another time.

Keep it easy!

XOXO

The Ever-Elusive Hunt for Fireworks and Love. (Or At Least Something Easy.)

[“I have a loose interpretation of the word “easy”.”]

Fourth of July:

What I really like about being in college is the fact that you’re young, working, and starting to think about economics and how they pertain to your life for the first time. Which leads to all sorts of fledgling grown-up conversations. At this point, though, they’re mostly still about things like drugs and making money quickly the easiest way possible. (For awhile, I was planning on making a t-shirt that had a picture of a rotary road-sign in the middle that read: “I’m unemployed because I live on a rotary,” on the front, and on the back followed up with, “There are no corners.”) Tonight’s conversation dealt with the pyramid scheme of the drug world, and how when it comes down to it, it still follows the basic laws of economics and can learn from basic Human Resources.

“I went there because although the price was higher, the quality and customer service were better,” I told my friends of my favorite (now ex-,) dealer.

“But the customer service wasn’t as good as you would have liked,” Madison followed up doggedly, remembering the fiascos and escapades surrounding my infatuation with Jersey Blunt.

“Yeah, it wasn’t full-service,” Alli followed up.

Economics and innuendoes. Who ever knew they went so well together? This is one subject I could get passionate about if it lets me speak tongue-in-cheek. Flaccid economy, stimulus plans…really! My night was made when I was able to work “I’d like to horizontally integrate with him,” into common conversation.

Third of July:

Last night, on the third of July, I got to hang out with (almost) all of my old Soho Boys. They may be bona-fide juvenile delinquents, they may be terrors to society, and they make smoke and drink and swear too much, but they’re MY boys, and I love them all. Deep-down, they’re all really good people.

Some, I love more than others. Jersey Blunt happened to be up from, (you guessed it,) the Dirty, and it was the first time I’d seen him since I propositioned him stoned via text at the end of the school-year. It was interesting to see him again—I got the familiar jumpy stomach that indicated suspense and pleasure, but not the same rabbits-gnawing-on-my-stomach-lining excitement that Perfect gives me. We slipped back into Ebonics easily enough, something that I had to try really hard to drop when talking with Perfect as the confused looks indicated that words like “wylin” and my common greeting of “ayo” did not compute in his Vermont farm-boy language. While Perfect is wholesome and wheaty, Jersey is nefarious and so Italian white-bread his caterpillar eyebrows beg to be wiggled up and down insinuatingly, as they are so often.

This did not stop me from letting him give me the biggest and warmest hug I’ve received since, well…Perfect almost a month ago. This also has not stopped me from deciding that Jersey Blunt goes on my Sexception List. You know—the list of people you’re allowed to sleep with even if you’re with someone else. Though technically I may not still be “with” Mr. Perfect, I am a very monogamous (go figure,) girl and usually can only withstand deep and abiding and usually sexual feelings for one man at one time. Hence, why I am probably one of the safest girls ever to not be worried about cheating on a guy.

But Jersey. There’s so much unfinished business there—he wanted me, I deferred due to job circumstances (I may have been his advisor at the time…) and then by the time I rolled around to deciding it would be ok to sleep with him on the DL, he had gotten tired of waiting and moved on to greener and more easy pastures. Still, all it takes is one look to realize that that person would still love to go hog-wild with you.

Jersey is that person for me.

And speaking of Mr. Perfect…

The name of the game is LIMBO, as called by two outside witnesses. He’s got me totally bent over, and not in a good way that I like. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not 100% out of one either. We waver somewhere between 60 and 40. Some days, I am pretty sure that he’s absolutely trying to cut me completely out of his life, possibly to make room for one of the visiting French girls who took pictures of him stripping down to go skinny-dipping. (Every time I log into Facebook, I see his naked ass, clearly taunting me, saying “haha—you won’t be seeing me anymore!” On the up-side, though, I have now seen him naked from every angle due to this picture, so I suppose I should be thankful.) On these days, I am pretty sure he’s sexting them, saying things like, “I have never been with a French girl, but I have always wanted to!” (Just like my “I have never been with a girl who has garters, but I have wanted to!” that he sent me. Exclamation point for my heavy-heartedness!) Other days, when we’ve spent a few hours texting each other back and forth like normal, The “how low can you go” thing works really well, too, seeing as the man just makes me want to drop all of my standards and feelings to the floor to be allowed to keep some sort of closeness with him. A relationship? I was willing to sacrifice it for the sex. Sex? I was hesitant by coerced into letting it go for continued friendship. My dignity? Pretty much gone already.

…And The Future:

And oh? Did I mention? I get to see Perfect for the first time in both 22 days and since we decided to no longer be a continuing entity. But the best part of all this? It’s going to be in his hometown. And we’re going to be swimming. Yes. Me, tanned, toned, and slightly starved for both food since I’ll be wearing a teeny bikini and starved for sex—I’m going to see Perfect and his perfect body dripping wet and the second most-naked I’ve ever seen him (I don’t even need to imagine the rest anymore…I know what weapons he’s hiding). I’ll consider it a success if I don’t either burst into tears upon seeing him or scale him like a tree.

Star Wars, or Why Am I Single?:

Spike TV has been making my life lately. Yes, the TV channel “For Men” is really serving me up a great schedule of keep-me-happy programming. For the holidays, they’ve been Star Wars marathoning from 3 PM to midnight every day, and starting tomorrow at 9 PM, they’re playing the 100 Best UFC Fight of All Time.

Some explanations on why these things make me so happy I squeal with joy are needed. A.) My daddy raised me as a Star Wars girl. When the local movie theater re-released the original Star Wars movies a week apart when I was about seven or eight, on the way home, I’d sit behind my dad’s driver seat and hold on to the headrest, pretending it was the guns of a fightership, as he, the pilot, steered us through enemy territory in deep space, and we blasted out way out, sound affects and all. He also bought two retractable plastic lightsabers so we could duel on the front lawn on summer nights, which was my first foray into fencing. (My dad’s an accomplished ex-Marine. I always beat him in duels. He’s never let me purposefully win a single thing in all of my life. Needless to say, he’s a proud poppa.) When the newer trilogy came out, he was the one who drove me and my un-licensed best friend to the movies and sat a couple rows back from us. Yeah. Don Daddy—he’s pretty cool.

And B.) As for the UFC thing—really. They’re very muscular, very testosterone-fueled men grappling in tight little shorts and beating the fuck out of each other. I am a red-blooded woman. I love that kind of shit. I’m the kind of girl who tends to go for the tall and muscular guys because I’d secretly love to see them knock someone’s head against a table defending my honor or, you know, my stolen bar seat.

But during my recent Star Wars watching, an over-whelming desire has grown on me. It’s the weirdest little fantasy, but it’s tenacious like English ivy in old brick with crumbling mortar. (In this analogy, the ivy is the fantasy, the brick is my moral fortitude, and the crumbling mortar is my will-power when it comes to not mounting the next man, or chair arm, I see.) I really, and I mean, REALLY want to just go down on a guy as he watches Star Wars. Maybe it’s Han Solo running around on the screen (I’ve always had a soft spot for Harrison Ford located somewhere south of my belly-button and north of my thighs), but I find myself alone in my apartment, wistfully looking at the foot of the empty couch and wondering, why, why, WHY is there no guy sitting there who will think he’s the luckiest man on the face of the planet if I were to seductively slink closer and unzip his pants while he gets to watch Luke Skywalker defeat the Dark Side?

Though irrational, obsessive, secretly needy and easily jealous and angered, I am also small, cute, well-dressed, in shape, and very out-going about my sexuality. (Obviously.) Why is that invisible man not real and on my couch? Maybe it’s like an old elementary- and high-school classmate of mine once said: maybe I do intimidate men with my quick mouth, straight-talking, and zero-bullshit approach. (Eric was six-foot-four, well over 200 pounds of football and rugby muscle, and going into military college. Eric has been shot at. Eric is also no dummy—he was an honor-role student for the 14 years I’d known him. So him saying this to me was an accomplishment, although maybe not a good one for me.)

This may be something I have to look into. Am I really that hard to approach? Do I, gasp, need to soften up a little?

…This could be disastrous.

Also, about the title and a fun fact pertaining to the festivities of the holiday: All the women in my family supposedly see fireworks when the love of their life (and in most cases, future husband,) kisses them. My grandmother, my aunt—my mother stills claims she gets the same sky-rockets and room-spinning feeling she got the first time my father kissed her, 35 years of marriage later. I now spend every lead-in to a first kiss with a guy, that sweetly awkward few seconds where you make eye contact and start to lean in, hoping for the best and no head-bumping, closing your eyes and wishing your lips to find each other’s smoothly and softly, wondering, “Is this it? Is this going to be my fireworks” Talk about pressure. So far, the only thing I’ve seen is the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I will admit—Legs could make the earth move from under me with some of his kisses, but no bottle-rockets; not even any sparklers. Perfect gave me a sensation and taste of sugar and cupcakes and everything sweet. And so, the waiting continues.

Ciao, or, maybe to those French girls with the unabashed cameras, salut! (Please, you can’t go back home quickly enough for my liking!)

XOXO