Good Morning, Amurika!

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

This Is What I Believe In...

...Laughing out-loud in public. Letting your bra straps show. Wearing what you feel like wearing. Always saying "I love you" at the end of a conversation with your parents or friends. Buying flowers for yourself, just because you feel like it. Indulging in chocolate. Going to the gym and running until you get high. Wishing on a star. Paying it forward. Smiling at strangers. Saying "please" and "thank you." Being the bigger, better person. Speaking your mind. Not being afraid of the dark. Not being afraid of what other people think.

Glowsticks and loud music. Singing along in the car, shower, and anywhere else you feel so moved. Not stressing about the numbers on your scale. Being happy with what you were given, and how your body functions and looks naturally. Believing in yourself. Believing in others. Having a few bad habits. Keeping secrets. How a date with your girls will always be better than a date with a guy. Laughing so hard you cry or get breathless. Wearing bright colors. Wearing sexy underwear, even if no one but you will see them. Washing your face and brushing your teeth every night. The power of naps. Dancing in the rain.

Hugs. Animated movies and reliving your childhood. Traveling to expand both your world and your mind. Taking chances. Being spontaneous. Diamonds are a girls' best friend. Love conquers all. Being bad is good. Pretty is a state of mind. Plaid. Lots of cream and sugar in my coffee. Sleeping in and staying up late. Making the right decision, even if it's not the easy one. Living every day to its' fullest. Making time to be alone. Palm trees and sun as a balm to the soul. Driving fast, but driving well. Cars with engines that purr.

Good jeans making all the difference. High heels and red lipstick as instant confidence-boosters. Art as self-release. Dogs as best friends. Being independent as a best defense and the most important life-skill. Knowing how to take a compliment. Knowing when to admit defeat gracefully. Not caring what you look like when you dance-- it's the movement that's important. Taking pictures to remember. Not acting your age all the time. Guilty pleasures. Getting drunk, but not too drunk.

When you finally stop looking is when someone finds you. Always keep a spare, NEW toothbrush ready, just in case a man decides to spend the night and doesn't have his. Men love the smell of lavender. Thoughts can be louder than words. Always trust your sixth sense or intuition.

Buying men clothing is a curse-- within a week, they always leave me afterward, even if they don't even know I've bought anything for them yet. AKA: You can't clothe a ghost.

When you shave, paint your nails, and wear your prettiest matching underwear is not the day or night when anyone will see them. When you haven't saved in a week, your polish is chipping off, and you're wearing plain cotton is the day you'll get some.

Always kiss your palm and smack the roof of your car when driving through a yellow light. Not only will it stay yellow for you, but I have it on good authority that each time you do this, you receive 10 minutes of great sex from the universe. (I run a lot of lights and do this. This explains a lot.)

You will always, ALWAYS regret sending that text or email. You know the one I mean-- the one you debate sending before you do it, anyway. The one were you use the words "jerk", "dick", "asshole", "douchebag", or whine. The one where you stop being the strong girl and become the annoying girl. It's always better to leave someone wanting more than to try to get the last (unkind or whiny) word in.

Wearing blue brings you good luck. Knocking on the side of your head to ward something off that you just talked about always works better than knocking on wood. Astrology works and is far more accurate than you would think. Find a good astrologer (I like Mother of the Skye as she has always been dead near accurate all my life,) and start reading your horoscope.

Having a checkered past makes you interesting. All Mae West quotes: "When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better." "Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before." "I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it." Having a large vocabulary, and the smarts to know to use which word, when. Appreciating the finer things in life, but knowing which you can live without. Pretty things. But judging content of character, and not taking at face-value. Being quirky. And hot men. Like this one:



Welcome to basically what I will be looking at all tonight. Ok, so, maybe I actually won't be gazing at the beauteous visage of Emile Hirsch, but Southern Charm is a dead-ringer.

Be very, very jealous.

I shall spill later.

Some things aren't meant to be kept secret, after all. :)

XOXO

Men Are From Mars, And I Love Them For It.

It was remarked to me the other day that men are my favorite topic. They really are. A dinner party, a family function, a meeting with my boss-- I will assure you, there will be some way at all of these events to somehow work in men or relationships to common conversation. It's not just MY men and MY relationships, mind you-- it's ALL men and relationships with men. This blog would not exist without men. My passion for life, writing, and the things that go along with it wouldn't be nearly as exciting without men. And sex? Fuggetaboutit.

Men fascinate me. I figure out new things about them every day, but I still don't think I'll ever truly understand them. They always remain deliciously mysterious, even when I'm sure they are, in fact, remarkably simple. Food, fun, money, and women/sex (not in that order, or, if you're gay, substitute "men" for all "women," because same standards apply): that's what motivates men. It's just the concepts of WHAT about food, fun, money and women motivates men that remains unclear, or how men go about obtaining these things, the lengths they will go to do it, WHY in fact they really need that steak/new car/raise/girl in their life is so important, and what they MEAN by that dinner request/need for speed/cash/comment about that thing that they said last night when we told the maitre-de that you were with each other.

"Did he mean WITHwith, or did he just mean "with," as in, "yeah, we're eating with each other for dinner; other than our mutual love for this establishment's lo mien we aren't connected romantically in any way, shape, or form."?!"

People (men, especially), always say to take what a man says at face, or word, value, because that's what he really means. I'm finding that that is so totally untrue. Sure, when a man says, "Hey, can you pass me the salt?" it's probably not a cover for "Hey, I've noticed you've been getting a bit thicker in the waist lately, so why don't you move that bloating NaCl away from yourself and over to me so you don't blimp up like the Goodyear?"

But if a guy says to you, "Hey, so, _____ said that you were hanging out with _____ the other day/skinnydipping naked in the town fountain/posing for Playboy-- what's up with that?" chances are he's not meaning "Hey, so, I'm cool with you and _____ shacking up/the town getting a new mascot/13 year old boys hanging you on their bedroom walls, and can I get a copy autographed?" Chances are, what he really means is, translated into Girlversion, "Jesus Christ, please tell me this isn't true so I don't have to worry about what you're doing and my chances with you! Or, at least tell me that _____ is flaming gay."

Let's try another exercise:
He says: "I had a really good time with The Girl You're Not last night."
He means: "I had a really good time with The Girl You're Not last night, and want to make sure you hear it here first, and not from my buddy, and think I'm hiding it from you."
Not: "I'm saying this to make you want me back."
Disclaimer: Some men like making girls jealous. Most don't. Most try their hardest not to make the girls they care about feel shitty, even if you do have a rocky history. So most think that by the time they've moved on, it's ok to share these things with you because you're Just Friends now.

He says: "Hey, did you get my text last night? You never said anything back!"
He means: "Oh, shit, am I in trouble? Can you please explain why I am in trouble, and what I can do to get out of it?"
Not: "I'm doubting Verizon's coverage-- can you just affirm this?"

Someone even tried saying to me the other day, "Yeah, but _____'s not like that." Bullshit, sweetheart. Does he have a dick? He's like that. If you can listen to me and my stories about Perfect and say, "yeah, but did you think that's not what he meant?" or, my personal favorite "he's a guy; he's not going to understand," then be ready to take the same thing. Yes, he may know you well, or you may know him well, and you may even think he's different than every other guy on the face of the planet, but I'm sorry-- he is not exempt, and you are not exempt. Some men things are universal, like the fact they can't see as many shades of color as women can, and think that grilling is an acceptable way to cook anything.

And this is another reason why I love men-- they are so very different from me. But at the same time, they are a lot more like us than we would ever think. They worry about getting fat, too. They worry about hair and clothing. Some of my best, most frequent and fashion-concerned customers when I worked at American Eagle were men. They were always the ones who wanted me to stay in back near the fitting rooms so that they could do a mini- fashion show and have me OK their outfits. 8 times out of 10, a guy will ask a woman or sales associate, "Does this look OK?" before a woman will.

Some of my favorite things about men are completely nonsensical. I love the way the ALL seem to wear Old Spice deodorant. Every guy I have ever dated, except for the Douche, have always worn Old Spice. The smell of Old Spice, to me, says "boyfriend." The Douche wore Axe. To me, the smell of Axe says, "you want me, but you can't have me, because me and my Axe are not going to be reliable. Whatsoever." Sometimes, I go to the deodorant aisle in the supermarket just to take the cap off of a container of Old Spice, close my eyes, and breathe it in-- comfort, closeness, lazy afternoon, good sex, and sexily sweaty men are all contained for me under that red plastic cap.

I love watching men. I love watching them work, play, smile, laugh, frown, and play video games. I love watching them eat; watching them during sex; watching them purse their lips tightly together so that they're almost invisible when they're trying to concentrate really hard. (Almost all men do that. It's hilarious.) I love the way they walk, and I love the way they talk, and I love the way their biceps flex when they pick something up. (Mmmmm...) I love how they're so very warm at night when I'm so very not. I love the way any man will stand in front of a car's open hood with his hands either on his hips or on the front of the engine wall and have a look on his face like, "Yes, I can solve this," even if he was no idea where to put his washer fluid. But I love the fact that most men, somehow, someway, CAN figure out what's wrong, just like how they all seem to have cable's TV station numbers memorized by heart. They can do so many things that I can't-- reach shelves, kill spiders without squealing, throw a football in a perfect spiral, roll out of bed looking great, remain calm in a crisis-- and this is why they compliment me so well.

I also love watching men shave, something which is at odds with the fact that I also love when men have stubble. Stubble is a tactile thing for me-- I love to run my palms over their jawline and feel the sharp little hairs rasp against the soft skin in the middle of my hand. A lot of guys look more mature and a bit "harder" with some stubble. This is why I love stubble. It is a purely sensory love for me. But shaving is an emotional draw to me. The process, the finesse, the idea of them grooming themselves like that just fascinates me. I can sit on a sink counter or on the edge of a bathtub and just unselfconsciously watch for however long it takes them. They get so studious and focused and you can even catch a glimpse, for a brief second, of that pre-teen boy who stood next to his father at the bathroom sink's counter for the first time, holding a razor for the first time and following carefully the motions mimicked for him by the giant in his life; Superman; his dad. They are so vulnerable and manly all at once, and certainly have more guts than I would ever have for holding a razor blade over their jugular almost daily.

I generally tend to think I'm a pretty clever little minx, but men can always leave me baffled. They always have me second-guessing, keeping one step ahead, and this is another reason I love them-- they challenge me. With some, it's mental-- Jersey Blunt could run circles around me sheer, brutal conniving intelligence-wise, and Perfect, for example, knows all my buttons, and how to push them in perfect unison so I am both frustrated and turned on.

So here's to you, men: here's to the things that they do that I love, and even to the things they do that I hate (hello, leaving the toilet seat and cover up, anyone?) because that's what makes them different from me, and so, so fascinating.

XOXO

Perfection, or Lack Thereof

[“It’s not my fault…if I know it’s out there, I’m going to go after it. I’ve never been good about not giving into temptation,” the small girl said, biting her lip guiltily. From the kitchen, her roommate leveled a ladle at her like a sword. “Maybe that’s why you never made it as a Christian.”]

I have, admittedly, a few bad habits. Maybe even some downright nasty ones. On the nervous tick side, I chew on the insides of my cheeks when I’m nervous or thinking particularly hard, and I picked up split-end pulling as a side-effect of having OCD. On the more destructive side, I’ve already had a brush with alcoholism in high school that has made me extremely wary of vodka, and a small-time pot-smoking habit, mainly for escapist reasons. I casually smoke clove cigarettes, but mostly when I’m stressed or nervous, not as a real habit, and it can take me a month or more to smoke a pack of twenty. I do swear like a sailor or seasoned barmaid, and, if you haven’t picked up on it, am downright casual and outgoing about sex and sexual things.

It’s no wonder one of my high school’s boyfriends’ Roman Catholic mother absolutely despised me.

I’m not perfect.

I’ve been in three real relationships, but had three or four more “things” that defy any sort of definition, mostly because I hate titles and somehow missed out on getting the female gene responsible for making me want to talk about “what’s going on”. My longest (by far) relationship lasted six months. The rest of them, one. I somehow have perfected the art of entrapping, loving, and making one of us in the relationship (or whatever it is we’re doing) check out after four weeks. Despite this, by the tender age of nineteen, I’d already collected two marriage proposals, both of which I’d turned down.

(The first was my seriously older serious boyfriend in my seriously-in-over-my-head six monther. The second came from one of my cousin’s seriously drunk friends at a wedding. That’s my favorite proposal. He was a young heir to a very wealthy New Jersey mafia family and had a last name you would probably recognize. After thirty minutes of conversation with him, he looked at me and said, “Wow, I could marry a girl like you. What do you say? Will you marry me?” I thought for a moment about the repercussions of saying “no” to someone whose family owned a waste-removal business that did inexplicably well and decided that all the Dior in the world wouldn’t make up for having to look over my shoulder for baseball bats, guns with silencers, or piano wire for the rest of my life. I let him down gently, pleading the too-many-gin-and-tonics excuse. He sighed, and told me he hoped I’d reconsider someday because I’d be “a valuable asset to The Family”. I was charmed.)

Although I have been in love with a man, I have never said “I love you” out-loud. Neither have any of my various men ever uttered those words to me. Generally, I tend to consider myself unlovable. At first, I may deceive people into thinking I’m easily loved, but once you discover all my bad habits (see above), spend some quality time with me (read: extended periods of time, like all weekend; special functions; experience me hungry, tired, or really pissed off), or start to see my odd quirks (won’t even go into those), I can even see why most men would rather run for the hills than spend another week with me, let alone tell me they love me.

My mother has always said that that man I end up with…

(Note she says “end up with.” Despite the marriage proposals, I have no intents on ever getting married. I feel it’s a dying institution and find the idea of waking up next to the same person every morning for over thirty-five years of my life like my parents have to be utterly demoralizing)

…Will be someone incredibly interesting who will give me a good run for my money.

Because if he’s not, I’ll certainly manage to get rid of him.

I am loud, bawdy, cocky, have a tendency to have to put my foot in my mouth, saccharinely sweet when dealing with people who I don’t want to have to deal with that they can sense, two-faced in dealing with my personal and professional lives that I see no problem with, have never had to meet the parents and so am terrified to for the above reasons, and generally a very good example of the term “a hot mess.”

But what does this all have to do with anything, you ask? Well, I’ve just met Mr. Perfect, you see. Maybe not my Mr. Perfect, as he’s lacking the blue eyes and criminal record and subsequent nefarious mind that I seem to find so appealing, but I think the rest of the world would agree on the fact that he is Perfection. Hence, the moniker. In fact, I think he was actually behind me the day we met when I ran to my bedroom to Tweet to the rest of the Twitter world that I had “met the perfect man, and in fact, I think he’s standing right behind me as I write this.” If so, he was perfect enough not to mention my zeal and indisgression.

He is six-foot-three, and a solid two-hundred and four pounds of “I work out at the gym for two hours every day and did track and field in high school” muscle. Make that, “I have the state record for a discus throw, too,” muscle. He has soft and floppy brown hair, and bright and mischievous hazel eyes. He has a quick and bright white smile, with teeth that either boast a few thou worth of orthodontia work, or some of the finest genes Mother Nature ever handed out. He dresses nicely, wears size fifteen shoes, and has hands that are so big his fingers bend down mid-knuckle over the top of mine. (And yes, if you’re wondering…he is proportional.) He’s out-going, and makes friends quickly and conversation easily. (I refer to his disposition as the Labrador of people. Big, charmingly goofy and attractive, and has never met a person that hasn’t liked him. Except for maybe one of my exes.) He has a beautiful tenor singing voice, writes his own music which he performs, and plays the bass. He spent two months in Costa Rica with a few friends this past spring on a whim, and while there learned how to both salsa dance and surf. He, in fact, likes to dance. And used to ride horses. (His family has two.) He is, surprise surprise, just as casual and into sex and sex-related stuff as I am.

And of course, I am not the only one who has realized he is perfect. Of course. But I always did like a good fight, and I never play fair.

We actually met on a fix-up. My short-term roommate Cait just happened to be one of his closest friends, and one Friday afternoon called me into her room to show me pictures of her friend who was going to come and visit. “I think you’ll really like him,” she told me. “You two are a lot alike and I think you’ll click.” His pictures didn’t really do him justice, even after Cait gave me the “track and field, state records, works out, really tall and attractive” spiel. I was indifferent.

“If I’m around, sure, I’ll meet him,” I told her.

I happened to be around when Cait brought him back to the apartment, and went to go let them in from the parking garage. As I held the door open for them and watched him walk toward me, I had only one thought:

“Wow.”

Needless to say, we did click, as Cait had predicted. By the time he left that first night, and Cait asked what he thought about me, he told her he thought I was cute and fun and would love to hook up, if possible. I considered it very, very possible.

Four days, a few texts, a collective eight vodka shots, four beers, a half-and-half clove and marijuana cigarette, a drunken invitation to share my bed for the night, some quick meeting of my friends (and an ex), over two hours of soul-searching and past-enlightening conversation, and a cute come-on later, I slept with him. The second time I met him. Though this officially made me a slut, and not, as my best friend protested, “horny and opportunistic,” it was the right move. We both wanted to, so why not? I’ve never held much stock in that whole wait-for-the-thrill-of-the-chase thing.

Since then, Mr. Perfect remains an on-going experience. We’ll see how long it takes him to figure out that under the big blue eyes and quick wit, I am anything but perfect.

XOXO