Assumption Eats Away At You Like Consumption.

I am an idiot.

Sometimes.

And assuming really does make an ass,

But mostly out of me.

I take it back.

Not all.

But most.

XOXO

"Of Course It Is."

I fall in little love here every day. It's a good lesson for a girl who's never said Those Three Words. Some days it's with a passer-by on the sidewalk. Others, someone I actually talk to-- a vendor, a waiter, or another student.

A different man every day-- that is my plan. Not as in, 'a different man every day' in the Biblical sense. No, thank you. As I once said, I really wish I were having as much sex as people assume I do. Because, let me tell you, when eating heavenly pear and cheese ravioli is the closest to a purely physical experience you have had in the past month, life is pretty sad, my friends, and you are NOT a-knockin' boots on the regular. 'A different man every day' as in, I would like to meet, talk to, and potentially flirt with, a different man every day. My own special way of getting to know the locals. I am an incorrigible flirt, and part of my self-designed work-plan is to get better at opening up and actually talking to people, so, why not keep myself occupied doing something I can't help as much as I can't help breathing, and also stretch my solo-emotion-zone comfort boundaries? That's my debatable (dateable?) goal here. Breaking hearts, taking names, and integrating myself with the culture.

Last night, it was my waiter at Coquinarius. (Coquinarius-- possibly the best meal I have eaten here, even better than the Bon Appetit restaurant in Venice. Mixed salad with Gorgonzola, pear, celery [which was not ingested-- can't stand the stuff. It's food that takes more eating it than it puts in you. I mean, what sort of wickedness is that?!] and walnuts paired excellently with a crisp, bright, and lively Pinot Grigo and the infamous pear and cheese stuffed ravioli.) It took me half the meal, but I eventually realized I had taken an instant comfortable liking to him because he looked like the Italian version of The Small Man, one of my favorite young professors from last semester. (He also chain-smoked Camel Lights out front of the restaurant's front stoop, too, so that bumped him up a few 'general likability' points.) He was attentive and possibly the most brilliant speaker of the English language I have met while here, and by the time I went up to the front of the restaurant to pay, we struck up a conversation. He asked me if I wanted an aperitif, on the house. You never, ever need to ask me if I want free liquor twice.

"Si! Grazie!"

"Do you like anise?" he asked, and I was nodding before I even processed, because, my adorable little waiter could have asked me if fresh lamb's blood was ok, and I would have "si"-d him to death and happily guzzled it down. A minute later, as he tipped the bottle toward me, the scent of something came riding over to me on the air currents like an ungodly chariot of death. Liquorice. Anise is liquorice, you dumbfuck. As in, that liquor that after an unfortunate experience in London junior year of high school, you swore to never drink again. As in, I don't even eat liquorice candy. As in, I think it is the black tar of plague, pestilence, and the putrid.

And yet, I reached forward, grabbed the first shot, and downed it. For you, adorable Italian waiter-friend, I will drink liquorice flavored demon water. The second one quickly followed. The room tilted a little bit.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Carissa.” We shake. His hand is very, very warm, and I feel tiny hairs on the back of it, where the pad of my forefinger is pressing. “And what’s yours?”

“Nicolai.”

“Of course it is.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even filter it. Two glasses of pinot grig and anise, you’re a bitch. He gives me a quizzical looks. It didn’t translate, but he knows enough to be confused.

“It’s a good name,” I tell him quickly, trying to cover.

“Yes,” he agrees. “The best name. No…” He gives a little laugh and shrugs. “Will you be back?”

“I’ll be back a lot,” I tell him, no lies there. “The ravioli were molto bene. Very, very good.”

“Si. My friend says that they are like little bundles from heaven. Come back again, very soon.” I watch as he bangs the register keys, and suddenly, my total of 29 Euro is somehow, magically, 24 Euro. He winks at me.

You, sir, are a little bundle from heaven. Hello, waiter—check, please? I’d love to take you home in a doggy-bag.

"I think you are very brave," he tells me as he hands me back my change.

I push 2 Euro back at him, and he pockets it. "Pourquoi?" I ask, out of habit, not meaning to mix my French and Italian, as I inevitably do at least once a day. I have always heavily favored "pourquoi-- for why?" over just a simple "why?"

"You are here alone," he says. "Not many girls do this."

If you only knew the half of it, Nicolai. If you only knew the half of it.

---

Hindsight of this experience?

Do not ever, ever let me drink liquorice flavored liquor again. I hate it, and no matter how cute you are or how free it is, I still shouldn't have it.

Date your waiters. Seriously. They know good food and where to find it. If nothing more, you'll get a few good meals and some table-side conversation from it.

XOXO

The Most Important Relationship You Will Ever Have

Yesterday, I opened up February's issue of Glamour to read a Letter to the Editor that resonated with me as if I had written it myself. It reads as follows:

"I just finished '6 Love Talks That Bring You Closer' [December], and its message, 'If you feel it, say it,' hit me hard. Too many times I've held my emotions inside, whether for the sake of a friend or for fear of scaring off a guy. Thank you for reminding women it's OK to voice their minds, because they may not get the opportunity to do it later." -Laura Kell, Ottawa, Ontario

As I may have glossed over a couple of times here, I am One-Month Girl. For some reason, right around the time of the one-month mark of seeing someone approaches, it usually ends. Either I get bored with them, or they have finally been driven crazy enough by something that I do to leave (there are many quirks), or the connection was just never really there and we just stop calling or texting to see each other and drift apart.

Curious about how true this statement really is, I counted. Out of 9 relationships I have had, only 2 made it past one month. (The first was 6 months, but I was young and too apathetic to actually muster the energy to dump him on his ass like I should have. Really should have.)

Recently, I went past the one-month deadzone with a guy I was seeing, nearly effortlessly. The date came and went without nearly any fuss, barely noticed. It went over a month and a half, and-- surprise-- I would roll over and still be looking at the same person. I can't lie. I actually enjoyed it. Very much so. I hadn't had that experience since I was...and I'm not lying...16. And I actually liked the person I was waking up next to this time around.

As I had not found in my past "monthers," there's a level of comfort that can't be fully achieved in 4 weeks. Or, maybe, it's just my hyper-awareness of the timestamp and expiration date that makes me so sensitive. But nonetheless, it brought up the curious territory that I hadn't encountered yet before: communicating about what was going on.

Most people will tell you that at one-month in, you should start doing the discussing. Because of my brief and checkered past, I had learned one thing about being with men, and one thing only: whatever you feel, don't say it, because they're not going to be around long enough for it to matter. And so, I remained quiet about what I was feeling and what I hoped for, odd in what was an extremely talkative and open relationship. As for my fellow co-sleeper, he was far more expressive. But for every time he did something that could have warranted a glimpse into what I thought, I thought it to myself, and myself only. I never said, "I love being able to talk to you about writing and the fact that you're just as passionate about it as I am, or, in fact, I love being able to talk to you about anything intelligently and receptively," or "I love that I can ask you for an interesting book suggestion, or in the morning, if I really wanted to, I could grab something off your bookshelf and keep myself properly entertained until you wake up because YOU ACTUALLY HAVE A BOOKSHELF. WITH BOOKS ON IT. THAT I WOULD LOVE TO READ," (sorry. Good literature is something I get really passionate about. Mix it with men, and I'm a goner,) or "I love being able to just sit here and do absolutely nothing and still feel like it's all good and we're actually doing something," or even "No matter how many times she bites me, I adore your cat, even if she hates me because I am the Other Woman to her." I think, maybe, once, I told him that I loved being able to use my full vocabulary around him and not have to worry about getting lost in translation after dropping "ostracize" for the first time. I was definitely teased for using words like "fetching", and I definitely teased right back when he said "Bully for you."

"I don't think anyone has said that since Teddy Roosevelt died," I told him. My first defense to feelings and emotions is always to be blase. I may have even said the words "Well, it's been fun, kid," while I was saying goodbye before Christmas break. A.) He's older than I am, so who was I "kid-ding"? B.) Who the hell did I think I was with that line, Mr. Big?! and C.) Whenever I may have to say something that might be hard or uncomfortable, like, say, "I'm going to miss you," I stray instead into the obnoxiously trite and banal, like this gem of a parting statement.

Basically, when it boils down to it, there were lots of "thank you for's" and "I love when's" and "I don't think you know it, but's" that I never said. I, the perennial Single Girl, highly cynical, sarcastic, jaded, abrupt, and blunt, was trying to do the thing I do best, and protect myself in the advent that it all went wrong around that one-month mark. After it didn't, I should have known. I should have known that there is a difference between when you don't really care about the outcome of something or someone, and when you're actually invested in it, and that as soon as you begin to invest, either with time, or money, or feelings, you need to do that talking, no matter how scary it seems. As soon as I realized that, I should have started doing the talking.

But I didn't. Instead, I fell back on my crutch, being a "Shower"and not a "Teller." I hoped that the nights spent together and the small gestures and the fact that the steel trap I call my mind came up with a fitting Christmas/Thanks For Being Dislocated College Student Crash Central For Me gift would do the talking so I didn't have to. Let me be frank: I don't tend to soften for people. I am a little stiff and awkward. So the fact that I loosen up enough to call you "babe" and try to be as charming as possible around you and your friends means something. The fact I actually let you snore instead of just leaving and going back home means something. The fact that I got used to you snoring and the crumbs in bed from your eating means something HUGE. Though he may have been the one who said "Don't try to change me," I was actually the one doing the changing. I softened. For the first time, I dropped all the guards and was 100%, totally, completely me, "that's what she said" jokes, stupid superstitions, and all. And I didn't worry about it, something totally foreign and new to me.

Last week, it ended. After much thinking, I have decided that the phrase "But there's something I need to tell you" should be struck from the English vocabulary. As soon as I heard those words, I knew that shooting me point-blank with a .45 would have hurt less.

While we were having our extremely calm and mature dissolution conversation (I'm not being ironic here-- we actually had a very low-key walk-and-talk-it-over, a first for me), he looked at me and said, "Carissa, you never told me how you felt or what you wanted."

True on both counts. I was the one who, at the very beginning when he called me to ask what was going on, was the one who preached "casual, casual, casual." But that's just me. I'm a pretty casual girl. I don't really do dates, and I'm much happier just chilling at home with you or your buddies than going to a big party where I only know a few people, though I will pull myself up by the bootstraps and be a big girl and do things like introduce myself to your female friend after she walks in on me in your bed. (That one goes down in the books as one of the "Ten Most Awkward Experiences Of My Life." Right before that time in high school I had to hide in a shower because I thought my then-boyfriend's mother had come home early. And if this doesn't sound awkward enough, let me tell you which shower: the one in her private bathroom in her room. Can't you just see that discovery going over?)

I can't put my finger exactly on when it went from "casual" to "I'm actually seriously into this." It was somewhere between the drunk texts asking for a wake-up call to not let him sleep through class and the hours spent together just being totally at ease and yes, this is me, so I'm going to say it, the great sex, and the horrible puns I actually enjoyed and getting used to the smell of the cigarettes that I came to realize that I actually really liked this person I was getting to know. But I didn't say anything because honestly, it was exactly the way I wanted it, and I didn't want to say anything and have it change. As always, I was afraid that saying something would equate change, and maybe not for the better. I wanted to keep everything just as it was, so I kept quiet. Broken logic states that if you don't ask, you can't hear the response.

For fear of losing him, I kept quiet, and partially because I kept quiet, I lost him. Ladies, I am sharing this with you so you don't make the same mistake I did. Like Miss Kell said, "It's OK to voice your mind, because [you] may not get the opportunity to do it later." And because I am sure you will read this at some point-- babe, I'm sorry, but thank you again for coming clean and meeting with me and, actually, for everything. "Better late than never" is not true, but I hope that this speaks far more candidly and clearly for me than I could at the time.

In the end, it was amicable. There is nothing quite like getting the explanations and respect you deserve to show you the difference between the absolute asses you have been with before and someone who actually doesn't want to hurt you. Obviously, I am not thrilled that something that I thought was so good is now over, but you have to respect it when someone says "I'm not ready," and when both of you have things that still need to be worked on before things can progress or get any better. When someone has enough integrity to say to you, "I erred, and I'm telling you," you better listen, and listen hard. And when that same person tells you, "And here's what you could have done better," take it. We all have things to work on. Some of us may not even understand the things we do to ourselves or others, but only one truth remains-- you have to keep working at it. That's all anyone can ever ask of you. You can't change the nature of your beast so easily. It takes trial and error, blood, sweat, and tears, and lots of time. It's not going to be pretty, and generally, it's better if someone doesn't have to live with you through it. Believe me. I know. I have alternately been the girl who's tried to stick through a guy's abusive drug use because I mistakenly thought I could help and be the rock, and the girl who tried to keep the guy through my own major life changes that rendered us both incompatible.

In the end, I can't tell you which would hurt worse. I've never been shot point-blank with a .45, but I have been left, a lot. More, I would hazard to say, then my fair-share. If there is one thing that so many dissolutions have taught me, it's that you always learn something about yourself. Even just the act of being with someone else is an incredible learning experience. Someone else will always be able to open you up, pull all your shit into the light, and expose you far better than you will ever be able to yourself. So what did I learn? Firstly, I am potentially even tougher than I thought. What doesn't kill you will hurt, but I'll get through it, because I always do. Secondly, there is still more work to be done on myself before I take the next leap of faith.

In the end, as I said to him, the only person you can control in a relationship is yourself, and sometimes, not even then. You're never going to be any braver than you are this very second, so now is the time to do exactly what you need to do. Speak up. Tell them. Do what you need to. Make the changes that will let you live with yourself and not have regrets. When it comes down to it, the most important relationship that you will ever have is the one you have with yourself.

And I hope that that relationship only gets better from here.

XOXO

Smart-ass.

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

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

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

Like when sharp implements are in my mouth.

XOXO