Carissa Goes To Jail

Jeepers Creepers appeared again for an encore show the night after his first performance, now with a new act: masturbating in front of his window while looking up at ours to see if we were watching. For what we pay for rent, we should have a view of shirtless hunks washing dishes or carrying heavy lumber, not a man who only gets close and personal with blow-up dolls, his palm, and apparently, us. While variety may be the spice of life, his little variety show understandably turned us way off, so the living room blinds have been closed for the past two days, and today, Alli and I went to Burlington P.D to lodge a formal complaint against our unsightly scenery.

Considering the last time I talked to two cops, I was drunk and said "good evening" like a Transylvanian brothel madam, I was understandably a little nervous. That, and I may or may not engage in some activities not exactly kosher with the law. And I always feel cops just know that about you. Like psychics. But with handcuffs instead of crystal balls. And arrest records seem to be far more damning than birth charts, from what I've seen, at least. But knowing that I am a grown-ass independent girl (or at least, should be), I sucked it up, and went.

In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been worried. My behavior never came up-- just his. If you were wondering, "lewd and lascivious" is the definition for it, and in Vermont, you can only be fined up to $300, which to me is a pittance when compared to what you're knowingly inflicting on other people, or spend under 5 years in jail for it. Unfortunately, unless Creepers initiates more attention from us than just standing full-frontal in his window and whacking it silently, there's not much the police can do about it, given it is technically in his own apartment, as I suspected. I voiced my concerns about the fact we're two small young blonde women living together, and that this may be his way to seek attention, be it positive of negative, along with the fact that I wouldn't recognize him if he and I were both out on the sidewalk checking our mail, which is just icky to think about brushing shoulders with this freakshow and not know it.

However, I was pleased as-- no pun intended-- punch when the Corporal gave us permission to either have a male friend talk to our Chippendale's wannabe or, and I quote here, "kick his teeth in." So-- how many male friends do I have who are willing to help me out of this awkward skin-pinch? Because we really do need some help, guys. We would do it, but we were instructed to not involve ourselves with him in order to not egg his delusions on any more. We're here for another year, and I don't want to be afraid to walk in or out of the front door to my own apartment or feel forced to not stand by the same window the cat loves to sleep in. After being grabbed in Italy, I'm more sensitive to these things than I'd like to admit. I wasn't able to do anything in Florence, but I'll be damned if I do nothing on my own home turf. That's just not cool, at all.

Later, as Alli and I sipped our restorative Slushies from Cumbies in the oppressive afternoon humidity and discussed our dilemma, I looked at her and said, "I can't tell if I'm disgusted by it or if I really like it."

She looked horrified for a minute before I caught myself. "I mean the slushie. Not the creeper." Obviously.

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

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