The Things Women Never Say

I don't cry in public. I'm mortified when I cry in front of my friends. In fact, I flat-out believe that I should never cry; if I have to, I cry in the shower so it's like I never did in the first place. Getting me to admit fear or the fact that I feel something or want something is harder than getting me to submit to vaccinations administered through needles or local anesthesia. And I have not had either in the past 4 years. I think it's a woman thing: We're taught that there are some things that you should never say to a man-- never expose your flaws, never explain your fears, and certainly never ask for anything more. But I think that one of my favorite things about Carrie, and the trait that I admire most about her, is her ability to speak up and speak her mind when it comes to the men in her life. Be it the fact that she'll pick up the phone and dial without thinking (while I get the shakes just texting if I think that it won't be welcome,) or that she doesn't seem to care if a guy thinks that she talks too much or is too blunt, I think this is an excellent example of the fearlessness with which she approaches her relationships that we all could stand to emulate.

"Ok, I know I've lost a little of my power here, and I'm pretty that most women's magazines would say that what I just did was a very bad idea but...it's not your fault because I never say it."

But for the record, there are some things that you should never say. Such as, "Your back hair looks really weird," or "My ex used to have those boxers, too!" or quite possibly "From the way you look when you sleep at night, I can so tell our children are going to be really cute." Those would all be classic example of what NOT to ever say. But Carrie was right. Things like, "I hate your cigars," (if you're not smoke friendly, or, alternately, feel the extreme need to smoke as well when people you're close to light up, like I do,) "I hate that you look at other women," (I think we've all wanted to say this at one point or another,) "I hate that I don't have a key to your place, and you've never spent the night at my place," (if you've been in a committed, long-term relationship and it's gotten to the point that either the doorman or his roommates all expressly know to let you in, no questions asked, and will sit and talk with you until he gets there,) and "I still want something to change, a little bit, for me," can be really important to say. If you're not happy, something's gotta give, and it shouldn't have to be your standards of contentedness. Nor should it have to be your relationship.

I've asked friends going through difficult relationship times if they ever talk to their partner about their desires and fears and what they want out of said relationship, and I've gone through that same process of being guilty of not doing it, too. We women never say these things, because we like you so much that if it doesn't go over well, we don't want to lose you or the relationship totally, because as very wise yet very desperate people once said, something is better than nothing. But how much of "something" is better than us feeling like we're taken by our partners as a "nothing"?

Swallowing your pride and fear to say things like these can be difficult, but it has to be done. Just like how you can't get mad at someone for doing something if you've never spoken to them about it, you also can't expect things to change or get better or magically rectify themselves if you never bring the issue up. Don't point fingers; don't be obtuse about it-- just say "I feel (this) about (this), and I need/would like (this) from you if possible/if you're willing/if you feel the same way." Even if the situation can't be fixed, even if he won't give up his cigars and will never stop looking at other women or doesn't think you need a key to his place because of all the wonderful bonding you do with his roommates because you don't have one, the point is that you've gotten it off you chest and said your piece. And that will hopefully give you some peace.

And also for the record, I have never punched a guy I was seeing.

XOXO

The Mystery of the Missing Man in the Morning

Just when I was getting comfortable with the whole morning-after routine, the dealer throws a new card. Or, in this case, no card, no note, no nothing when I woke up the next morning, to not only find him gone from his bed, but gone from his house as well. There's this one extremely hilarious moment in which a woman, still fuzzy with sleep, reaches over to the other side of the bed, and feels the mattress palm-down to determine if it's still warm, or at this point, cold. It's like playing Sherla Holmes, Detectivette.

Sex and the City did not prepare me for this. Carrie never sat down at brunch one morning and said, "Hey, girls, the oddest thing happened this morning-- I woke up, and Mr. Big was gone to work, with no note!" We never discussed what to do when you are left with bedroom carte blanche! I WAS NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS. No one, it seems, has ever given much thought to this situation before, or at least, not thought of it as an issue that needed any forethought. We all know, at this day and age, what to do the morning after. But what do you do when you're the last person left the morning after?

There are common-sense general perimeters for this sort of case-- don't still be there when he gets back, because that would mean that I would have slept in...for another 6 hours; pick up and lock up after yourself; and for god's sake, don't snoop!-- but I still was wobbling between secure and frantic now that my training wheels had been taken off. Good sign? Bad sign? Indifferent sign? Maybe he just didn't feel like having to go through any early morning shit-chat today, you know: "How's the weather/What are you up to later/What are the headlines?" Or maybe he just didn't want to have to share breakfast.

So, like Carrie does with Miranda and Charlotte and Samantha, I turned to what I supposed was my best hope for a second opinion: two of my girlfriends, one in a committed relationship, and one committed to having lots of relations with lots of different men, for advice on time frames for sleeping in more and if I should text when I left or not. After echoing each other-- "No note?! Well, at least he's comfortable enough with you to leave you alone with all his things," (I certainly would never leave anyone alone in my room for more time than they could get in trouble in,)-- they came through with the same answer: you should be able to sleep in for at least another hour, but after that, leave quickly, and text to let him know. Done, and done.

On my walk home in bright sunlight and the gently drifting downward leaves of late fall, I was caught between reveling in my extra hour of sleep and worrying. I liked it, being left to my own devices, to wake, dress, and go home at my leisure on my day off. Was I supposed to like it? Or did I really want to be woken up and said goodbye to, properly? Or do I really love uninterrupted sleep more than waking up and having to fit some logical puzzle pieces together to solve the mystery of the missing man? Was comfort a good thing, or a bad thing? And most of all, why had no one ever pulled us aside before, like your girl friends did when they first discovered orgasm, and gave you the play book? Why did they never tell us that this was a situation to prepare for? Who had the answers before this morning? Who still doesn't have the answers?

XOXO

Discourses in Deception

I always have mocked the term "recessionista," but when you find yourself substituting 4 o'clock and 5 o'clock "Duff Hour" at 3 Needs as your new more cost-effective, less prime-time alternative to late-night drinks, those $1 pints seem to be more practical, if not glamorous. And when you're not really working (although I've got an internship, a paid short-term copy-editing gig, and a new column being optioned-- I like wearing as many caps as possible; maybe it's because I don't look good in hats--), like me, $1 pints are not something to be picky about when what you really want is a $7 Cosmo with the girls. I'll take

my cheap alcohol where I can get it.

If there's anything I've learned while living on the lean, it's the the art of deception is probably

one of your most paramount tools in life that you will ever learn to master, along with being flexible, crafty, and mastering some sleight-of-hand while working the bills out. I know some of you (including one ex in particular who hated lies while at the same time going out of every way to have to explain the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him god,) aren't the biggest fans of deception. Some of you think it's best to "keep it real" and "tell it like it is." And while "telling it like it is" may not be a particularly strong point of mine (and here I hear a few "Amens" from the same chorus), what I'm advocating here is the sort of deception that hurts no one.

College and shortly thereafter is a time in which you trade, barter, and prostitute with what you have. Like my renaissance love-affair with Duff Hour, you work with what you have. And what I have right now is lots of time. In this time, there are two things I like to devote spending vast amounts daydreaming about: Writing, and cons.

Ok, so maybe it's more like three things: Writing, sex, and cons. And while my writing is getting me free business lunches and opening doors of career opportunities, it's not exactly paying the bills NOW.

A "con" or a "confidence trick" or "confidence game," (also known as a bunko, con, flim-flam, gaffle, grift, hustle, scam, scheme, swindle, or bamboozle) for those of you who never saw the brilliant "Catch Me If You Can," is "an attempt to defraud a person or group by gaining their confidence. The victim is known as the mark, the trickster is called a confidence man, con man, confidence trickster, or con artist, and any accomplices are known as shills. Confidence tricks exploit typical human qualities such as greed, dishonesty, vanity, honesty, compassion, credulity, irresponsibility and naïveté. The common factor is that the mark relies on the good faith of the con artist." Cons aren't always so devious as sometimes they're just a fact of life. Sometimes, it's necessary to convince someone that you're solvent enough to be a good investment. So when I showed up today for my business lunch in an avant-garde skirt and leather heels, no one would have been any the wiser that I owe the bank $200, haven't paid my utilities bills yet for the month, and only have $4.27 in my wallet, and literally, to my name. With the right wardrobe, you can be anyone. I like my money where I can see it: On me. People say invest in gold and bonds and the tangible, so I do my best, and keep it in my closet.

But like every good con, I have my tell-- the more jewelry I'm wearing, the more insecure I am. I can't help it-- being a jeweler's daughter, I've watched all sorts of people walk in, and I've checked out their bedazzledness. A large gold watch or large watch with gold accents screams "I can afford to have the time." I got mine for 10 Euro in an Asian appliance hole-in-the-wall in Florence. In a time when people accessorize by

dripping with jewels, I got my fighting leopard cocktail ring, long sunburst necklace, and vintage cat pendant at a flea market in Florence, not paying more than 10 Euro for each of those

pieces. My gigantic Chinese knot necklace I got from a booth in New York City's Chinatown, and

the only jewelry of any value that I ever wear are two rings from my father-- one, the first thing he ever made for my mother; the other, my 18th birthday present.

I can play a fun game with you in which I point out what things in

my room I've bought at T.J Maxx-- hint: it's about half. That's where I've picked up discount Tommy Hilfiger and Polo Ralph Lauren bags, and the white studded Steve Madden purse in photos above. I bought my 1970s vintage Louis Vuitton messenger bag--my first piece of big-name designer anything-- at the same flea market in Florence where I bought all my jewelry, and I haggled the price down 15 Euro for it, too. That pink silk shirt, and a gray tee, were both originally from Urban Outfitters, where I have never bought anything full-price-- the pink silk was thrifted from Plato's Closet, and I bought the gray shirt on heavy sale, like everything else I've ever come home with from that store. Honestly, I was just in there again today, and while I adore a large majority of their clothing, I could just as easily walk into a good consignment shop and find the same styles for half the price. At least. But for now, I'm perfectly content with re-inventing things from my own closet to look like new. And if all I'm covering up is a sub-par bank account with a few extra bangles, I don't see what the harm is in convincing other people I'm either flush, or something that I'm not. It's like playing dress-up, but for semi-grown-ups. All we're doing is running around and trying to

appease people and convince them that we're what they want us to be, anyway.When was the last time you were truly you, just because you had a chance to be?

Yeah. Next time, don't worry what they think-- worry about what the people who know you for you and love you for you think. As Emily has said, it's all about "faking it 'til you make it." Hey, I never said my moral compass was straight.

{An extremely insecure and nervous day--

The UO tee of my 3 major food groups

(Alcohol, Caffiene, Nicotine,)

that I've worn to death and stretched out into an off-the-shoulder,

3 necklaces,

4 rings,

my bangles,

wristband from Brewfest that still hasn't fallen off,

my beaded rasta bracelet from Solarfest,

and my studded riding belt.

Jewelry is my armor.

Mistah J is my dude.

And my other tell-- I can't keep my hands away from my mouth.}

XOXO

Celibacy and the City

A friend of mine told me the other night that she made the conscious choice to be celibate for the last year after she took a long and hard look at her hook-up history and felt less than pleased.

"Hey, that's cool," I told her, to which she scoffed.

"Oh yeah, Miss Sex-Blogger?"

I can't fault anyone for thinking that I'm pro-sex-- for sure, I am-- but it's more about her deciding to do something, and less about the fact that it's about not having sex. Right now, I'm going through the process of deciding what I want this summer to be all about, and I've come up with something that is just as interesting as her choice to be celibate:

I want to wake up every morning with expanding possibilities. I want to not be afraid to play. I want to stay loose. I want to keep things casual. I want to not let the past affect my future. I want to soak up the sand and lake's water equally. I want to not have to miss you any more. I want to be civil and someone who you'd want to miss. I want to be young. I want to be allowed to do as I please. I want to come and go and not have answer to anyone. I want to sleep the best I ever have. I want to go to concerts and movies and hiking and camping and sailing and road trips and swimming and expand. I want to become more professionally-proactive than before. I want to be able to change as often as the summer breezes. I want to not be figured out. I want to be allowed to just be.

And here's what I don't want, although it's exactly what everyone seems to think I should want: I don't want to date.

And I don't want to be tied down.

Maybe that's the root of the problem-- I came back thinking that's exactly what I wanted, and was too stunned to react with any sort of aplomb when I started to having sneaking suspicions that that's exactly what I actually don't want right now.

Would Carrie think wanting to be single is acceptable? I think yes, absolutely. People are fighting and clawing to get into relationships-- I want nothing more than to NOT be in one right now, taking a break and cooling down. What about you? What do you want this summer? Are you waiting to get into the "In" door, or are you running for the "Exit"? For now, the only man getting the right side of my bed is Nicco. The kitten.

XOXO

Repeat Mistakes

I’m getting to that age where it’s perfectly acceptable to sit around with my girl friends and discuss marriage. And that’s scary. I would like to freeze time right here, please.

Earlier tonight, five of us were sitting around the dining room table in our apartment discussing the fact that now that we’re in our twenties, the search for the Eternal Happy Ending, or, at least, a 2-point Engagement Ring and Iron-Clad Pre-Nup, is on. Though some of us aren’t actively looking, or some of us, in fact, aren’t looking for that storybook ending at all, we all could agree on one thing: Being with men is getting scary. It’s a total Goldilocks syndrome for your twenties: you’re scared out of your wits if you’re perfectly happy with them and see it ending all rosy and blissful, but you’re also scared shitless if it doesn’t seem like you’re getting anywhere with them.

“It’s so weird to think that the next person we’re with could be our potential future husband.”

“But I feel like every guy I date is just getting farther and farther away from who I would want to marry.”

“That’s why I like Sex and the City. Carrie didn’t get married until she was sure he was The One.”

“That’s the inherent flaw,” I interjected, having been over this thought a few times before. “Making the same mistakes over and over again isn’t called ‘failure’. It’s called ‘dating’.”

Two weeks ago, I downloaded the episode of SATC in which Carrie first says “I love you” to Mr. Big. When he doesn’t return the statement, she proclaims to the Ladies Who Brunch crew that unless he antes up within a week, she’ll have to end their relationship. When I watched it, I was initially floored. How could a woman end a relationship right after she admits to something like that? Isn’t that kind of the equivalent to Indian-giving or saying, “Oops, just kidding”? Isn’t that a bit quick to retract all those big emotions?

I get it now. You can say what you want and what you feel, but there are some things that you have to do because in the end, keeping yourself and your dignity is worth even more than anyone else is to you.

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m not good at sharing my feelings, or, in fact—sharing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been screwed over one too many times. But during my two day hike in Cinque Terra, I did a lot of thinking, because other than focusing on screaming calf muscles or the fact that my smoking has finally caught up with my respitory system, I had a lot of time to mull it over, and over, and over again. There’s nothing quite like being alone in nature with your thoughts. Coming back to Florence and civilization clinched it for me.

I’ve always been preoccupied with looking out for Number One first, something that I lost sight of in Italy, of all places. It’s not selfishness—it’s self-health-ness. My eternal problem is that I give and I give and I give and forgive and forgive and forgive, until the point where I’m not happy with myself, my lot in life, or what a push-over I’ve become. I am willing to do a lot for other people. But I’m done with the competing to prove it. The only thing I am not willing to do is sacrifice myself, or that maybe-unpromised Happy Ending in whatever form. I am young, and I am alive, and I am in Italy—quite possibly the Land of Love. If there is nothing else to love, there is always the sights and the sounds and the smells and the newness of living here for three months, which is not something I’m ever going to be able to get back. While there will always be some things you can work at, there are others that are fleeting and fresh and will never appear again. So it shouldn’t be squandered under dark clouds of doubt and regret and indecision and unhappiness. I’m not going to keep counting down the days until I leave. I am going to live instead for the Now and the Here and the Why Not? And if you want to squander, you can live however you wish.

If I can get out relatively unscathed, with my dignity still attached, then I’ll keep moving on and making my mistakes. As Passion Pit says in their song “Little Secrets” (on heavy repeat on my iPod), “Let this be our little secret; no one needs to know how I’m feeling.” There is no feeling quite like finally making up your mind. I feel lighter and more content with life than I have in months.

So maybe your twenties aren’t for being afraid of what’s ahead. Maybe your twenties are for wild abandon and enjoyment; late nights; new things; drinking and smoking too much; discovering yourself and new places; making up your mind, and brief moments of clarity and maturity. Maybe, as Carrie discovered, there is time later to go back and mend bridges if want be.

XOXO

These Boots Were NOT Made For Walkin'.

It's official: Italian women are made of stronger stuff. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's grappa that flows through their veins, and not blood.

I just spent a day walking in their shoes (109 Euro, black leather biker chic heels by Letizia Ferrari, from Stefano e Sabrina on Via Nazionale), and let me tell you-- these dogs, they are a-barkin'.

Thankfully, I know the age-old secret remedy: a glass of good, bright, lively pinot grigio. Or two glasses. And putting your feet up on the nearest elevated flat surface.

Beauty is pain, right? Suffer for fashion, and all that? I really, really would like to see how men here walk in those insanely pointy-toed loafers. Thank an un-masochistic god that I have no men over here to dress.

XOXO

P.S-- I call this picture, "Still Life Of A Girl's Vices." Expensive shoes, cigarettes, a glass of wine, and, in the back, leather bags. I am going to die alone and destitute. But well-shod. And with lung disease.

Can You Hear Me Now? GOOD.

Possibly one of the things that we hate most about being a woman (other than the PMS and the bloating and how hard it is to lose weight,) is that we have this innate desire to KNOW. Know what's good. Know what you're up to. Know what restaurant in town is now "hot." Know what our friend said to our other friend. Know whom is sleeping with whom. And most of all, know why you aren't calling or texting or emailing us back.

It makes me feel like such a traitor to my usually-relaxed personality when I realize I've turned into one of those harpy bitches staring at her phone like, "Um, hello? I sent you a message. RESPOND TO IT, PLEASE." Usually, I am not like this. Usually, it is my mother who is the one being like, "Have you heard back from so-and-so? When was the last time you talked to Nora? How's Matt? Have you called your grandmother lately?" while I sit in one of the barrel chairs and make the universal "calm down" motion with my hands, and be like, "Chilllllllll, mama. All in good time. People are busy. I'm not stressing, so why are you? If they have something to say, they'll call. Why would you call if there's nothing new to talk about?"

But sometimes, despite best efforts, we all succumb to this. As I outlined briefly in a recent previous post, I know that part of my personal issue with it comes from the fact that one day, there was no getting through to someone I cared about; the calls and texts and responses stopped for absolutely no reason, leaving me hurt and confused. The other part is just general woman-worry. Really, when it comes down to it, I really don't need to know THAT MUCH. Half of the texts I send are completely useless and don't demand real responses and are of the "I am bored and looking for you to distract me" variety. Which can be hard when their recipient isn't bored and isn't looking for distraction and in fact, YOU are distracting THEM.

But, the eternal harpy in me protests, really, how much time does it take to send a quick response back?

I should be the last person to be pointing fingers. Communication isn't one of my strong points in the first place, unless it suits me, as most of my friends, family, and men could tell you. I'm notoriously horrendous at A.) first and foremost, actually picking up my phone, B.) responding to messages, and C.) responding to my own texts, and yet, I find myself flipping a shit, or, ok, not really-- more accurately, cocking the eyebrow of heavy judgement and tapping my toe waiting for a timely response. It is so one-sided. I enjoy being in the wind; what I do not enjoy is the person I'm trying to get a hold of being in the wind. It's not being high-maintence-- I am not one of those girls you have to call every day, or even every other day. When this happened to me, I was baffled. You mean, people-- they actually call just to see how your day was? Really? I liked this. What I don't like is that feeling of mandatory check-in, like a telephonic prison-break. Call me every day expecting conversation time or for absolutely no reason, and you've got yourself onto the fast-track of getting sent straight to voicemail. Yes, I am guilty of it, too.

But having free time, usually something I don't allow myself because I consider it destructive in large and unstructured doses when paired with boredom, proves itself the downfall of many smart, perfectly sane women. Multiple times this break I have considered flinging the goddamn phone into a snowbank off the deck, because then, by god, it would have a legitimate reason not to ring, that I know about. (I have always been a big fan of practicing proactive offense. And proactive defense. And being passively-aggressive. It is one of my less charming and more aggravating quirks.) My advice to you is this: STEP AWAY FROM THE PHONE, and no one gets hurt. Leave it somewhere. Don't cart it around with you; the lack of ringing will be all that more apparent. Unfortunately, in East Gomorrah, my phone is the only contact I have with the outside, civilized world. I am chained to the thing I hate the most. Freud would have a field-day.

I try to be fair, really, I do. People are busy. There are far, FAR more important things to do than respond to a text, like, save children, be on vacation, not interrupt the rest of a movie theater, be out of service or like two of my closest friends be travelling internationally, be "busy" with a S.O, buy that $12 cashmere sweater before some other bitch does, actually focus on your job, give all your attention to your driving and not cause a 12 car pile-up, and celebrate a birthday or holiday with friends and family actually present and in front of you rather than staying glued to your cell phone. As Miss Molly Ford of Smart, Pretty, and Awkward noted, "People standing in front of you are always more important than a text message on your phone."

But still, like any other woman, there are times that I worry that I look like this chick, right here...

None of us mean to, I promise. None of us mean to nag, or complain, or make you feel like any less of a good friend or sibling or cousin or guy. (In fact, we are trained from the time we are still in diapers NOT to nag, because nobody likes a nag. And it's true.) It's not you-- it's us. It's us worrying why that guy never called after we gave him our number, or after a first date, or after he said he would, when really, it's clear. It's us worrying about how you used to call every day or text us for at least a half an hour every afternoon, and now that things are comfortable and you feel like you don't have worry about us running off with a new best friend/other sibling/new guy without you, you've stopped "just checking in." Well, here's the doozy: just when you are feeling comfortable enough to not have to talk to us everyday or every other day, we have gotten used to it. We've (wrongly) grown to depend on it. No one can keep that sort of instantaneous gratification up, and we are just starting to realize stamina's limitations. We're just feeling smug about the fact that we found someone who knows the importance of good communication, and then you go and pull the rug right out from under us, wrap your line of communication up in it, throw it off the wharf, and call it a day.

It's bizarre; I know. I suck at being a caring niece and granddaughter and even daughter and calling my family ANYWHERE near regularly enough, and I'm not the person my friends would ever call in the middle of an emergency for some quick action because lord knows I may not even pick up my phone or, god forbid, send them straight to voicemail, but I expect you to respond to me promptly, and what I am good at is casually staying in touch with the people, like, once a blue moon, and still having it be ok. Maybe that's what spoils me. I can not call my best friend or close friends from high school for months or even a year, and yet, when one of us finally does, we just pick it up right where we left off. Yet, with the people that you see regularly, you can't. That level of familiarity isn't there yet. You're still wondering "Does he like me? Does she like me? Do they miss me? Or are they off cavorting around town with my new replacement?" Women, as a general rule, love making worry-monsters in our brain. We're hard-wired for it. Some of us have managed to preform partial lobotomies-- years later, I'm rid of the "I'm being cheated on RIGHT NOW!" monster day-dream, but still working on sawing off the connection of the "They are having so much fun without me" one-- but we still all have that faint, wiggling suspicion that you really might be better off without us. Which would just suck.

But-- BUT-- good luck finding the woman who will actually admit to you that she is fine not hearing from you. Really. I've been thinking about this: is there any way to broach the topic without sounding like a completely whiny, insecure-- yes, nagging-- bitch? No. No, I really think there is no proactive way to approach this, save possibly the "destroying your own phone" tactic I've been contemplating, there is not. There is no possible way to say, "Um, hey, I've sent you a few text messages; not sure if you got them, because you haven't been responding to them...know you're busy, but it'd be nice to hear from you..." without sounding like a total ninny. (By the way, that is totally my speech. You can steal it if you really think it accomplishes anything. I don't think so.)

And so, women deal with it different ways. This is the one major deciding factor between Carrie Bradshaw and myself. As any half-assed Sex and the City watcher could tell you, she actually had the balls and/or lack of caring about sounding a little pushy or questioning to pick up the phone and make that sort of call. I, on the other hand, take the chicken-shit route and figure that I'll sleep on it and tomorrow, won't care so much. It works, in theory. Dorothy Parker immortalized the tango of phone hate and women best-- "It'd be such a little thing; just RING!"-- in her short story "A Telephone Call."

Parker wonders, much more eloquently than I ever could, (and most women echo,) "Suppose a young man says he'll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn't. That isn't so terrible, is it? Why, it's going on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what's going on all over the world? Why can't that telephone ring? Couldn't you ring? Ah, please, couldn't you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. Damn you, I'll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I'll smash your smug black face in little bits...Oh, what does pride matter, when I can't stand it if I don't talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I'm not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That's true, I know that's true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides."

Would it kill you to call first and not wait on them? No. But it's always better if they do. Would it kill me to actually form and enunciate the words "I miss you"? Probably. So instead, I hope it's implied. Will we actually ever tell you when we've been acting like a crazy person by the phone? No. We'd voluntarily die by our own hand or painful self-inflicted torture first, screaming "I am an independent woman!" the whole way. Could we ever make that speech asking you if you've really been too busy to text? Probably not. We probably don't even need to. Deep down, we know that there's nothing to worry about. We trust you. We know that you probably won't discard us like a used tissue for the next friend/sibling/woman. Deep down, we just masochistically like to have something to fret over. When something is naturally easy, no drama involved, self-fretting is the only outlet we have. We try and hide it. Well, most of us do. This is pretty much the equivalent of letting my freak-flag fly high and proud. I hope a get a few "amens!" from ladies to back me up, here, so it's not just me. (It is SO not just me. In fact, it is RARELY me.)

So what can you do for us so that you don't have to worry that we're going Parker ourselves and sitting and staring at the phone and stewing in our own self-disgusted juices and you are secretly getting blasphemed for honestly being just busy? It's so simple. It's almost stupidly simple. When you do get two seconds, call or text back. Honestly. Nothing makes someone feel better than a call saying, "Hey, I am really not neglecting you; I really am busy." And nothing, in a pinch, fills that gap like a quick text back to let us know you really are paying attention and care and aren't off having crazy adventures with the entire kick-line of Rocket City Girls and a guy mysteriously named "Fuzz" while we are painting our nails for the fourth time for tortuous fun and trapped in the house in a blizzard counting snowflakes. We really want to look like this girl when we're talking to you, and not the other ones.

In the spirit of reciprocation, here's what we pledge to do for you:

- Always say "thanks for getting back to me," and let you know that it, and you, are really appreciated.

- Let you know how happy we are to talk to you. if we don't say it out-right, we promise to sound it.

- Not take your communication for granted.

- And never, ever lead on to the fact that two minutes before your ringtone started, we were holding our phone up and making crabby faces and mocking it like a child. "Really? Really? You're really going to play this game with me? Ring. Ring, or I will tear your face-plate apart and make your wiring squeal for mercy while I disassemble you. Ring, dammit! RI--SHIT!...Uhh, hello? Heyyy! How are you? No, no, don't worry about it; I'm really busy, too!"

So, love us. Love us, anyway. We are women; this is what we do; and we can't help it any more than you can help the fact you grow manly body hair and still think farting and poop-jokes are hilarious. And to each his or her own.

XOXO

...And it just rang. I am not even shitting you. Twice during the writing of this, I got those coveted responses. People. Stop being so good. (No, really-- keep it up, please! I don't like feeling needlessly neurotic. And I can say it; you can't.) If I could fill an entire post up with the words "Thank You" and get away with it, I would. You deserve to be appreciated.

"...And Just A Little Too Much."

Top Ten Articles Of Clothing I Swear By:

I really love being a clothing chameleon. A full and diverse closet means many different kinds of looks, from the sweet, to the sultry; to the bohemian, to the edgy. I like knowing that whatever mood I wake up in the morning, I’ll have an outfit that I can throw together to reflect it and play it up. And if my mood changes by mid-day, well, so can my clothes.

I haven’t always had a love-affair with clothing. I used to be, (and still can be, on my bad days,) one of those teenage girls who really just didn’t like shopping. Book shopping—yes—I could be in Barnes & Nobles for an entire afternoon. Clothing shopping—no. I went through a retro-punk phase in middle school that mandated that jeans were verboten as they were “conforming to the Man” and the rest of average America. During my junior year of high school, I got a job at American Eagle Outfitters, and that was the beginning of the end of my relationship with cotton, silk, bright colors, five different cuts of jeans, and even sometimes—cashmere.

During this same very impressionable time in my life, I started touring (and I am not kidding you,) DOZENS of college campuses. The more campuses I saw, the more different dressing styles and similarities I picked up on. I noticed that while I was touring Emerson gaily in a t-shirt emblazoned with a bird motif and the words “American Eagle,” most of the college girls I deemed as “well-dressed” had seemingly nixed graphic tees from their wardrobes in favor of cable-knit cardigans over plain tank tops and some of the nicest high heels I’d ever seen. (I’ve always had a thing for heels, and the higher and more out-there, the better. Bring on the studs, the straps, the zippers, the fun!) It wasn’t something I thought much of, other than pitying them for their maturity which had diminished their sense of “fun” t-shirts, but this past year, now myself a “college girl,” I looked deep into my closest and realized that other than a few very “interesting” graphic t-shirts, I’ve done away with the emblazoned, the trademarked, and the overly-written on. Instead, I’m awash in solid-colored t-shirts, striped shorts, dark and light jeans in different cuts, V-neck sweaters, and dresses of every shape, color, cut and style imaginable.

1.) Something plaid. An oversize men’s inspired shirt, a flirty tank top, the classic plaid pleated skirt—plaid is fun. Just make sure the pattern size matches your body—small people can get lost in big checks, and large people can look larger in little checks. I tend to like purple plaid, red plaid, or gray plaid.

Pretty plaid, layer with a vest and jeans: http://www.charlotterusse.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3686053
Wear over black leggings: http://www.charlotterusse.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3630347&searchId=42777057074
Adorable summer plaid, over cut-off shorts: http://www.charlotterusse.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3583131&searchId=42777057074

2.) Leather leggings. Or, if you can't afford the real McCoy, pleather leggings. Leggings that look inky and leathery. Guaranteed to be one piece of clothing a man will remember. I think it goes back to the days of Laura Croft and her tight leather pants and her battling undead stone monkeys while double-fisting Desert Eagles. (Or whatever.) The first day I wore mine, I got three compliments from men I didn’t know. Only one of them was obviously gay. In my thinking, that’s a good day.

A Good Place To Start: http://store.americanapparel.net/rsac306.html?cid=153

3.) A plain white t-shirt. V-neck, crew neck, scoop neck—whatever style you want, but basic and plain. You can dress it up or dress it down, and nothing is more classic than a white tee and a pair of well-fitting jeans—light or dark, your choice. Right now, I’m loving a white Nollie V-neck t-shirt ( http://shop.pacsun.com/girls/tees/Euro-Neon-V-Neck-Tee/index.pro?colorCd=010 ) in medium instead of my usual small—white looks more flattering when it’s a little loose; if tight, it adds weight, if loose, it drapes and flatters—and destroyed and cuffed loose dark wash boyfriend jeans and a big gold braided belt. I’ve worn this outfit EVERYWHERE: to the movies with a light pink summer hoodie; shopping on Church Street; to a family outing to Shelburne Farms. There’s something chic and impossible to nail down how much you spent or didn’t spend on this outfit. (You can buy a great pack of three white men’s tees from Hanes for $15.)

4.) Some interesting dresses that are quirky enough to be remembered. I recently got one at Charlotte Russe that has the upper half of a white ribbed wifebeater, a thick band of black elastic around the waist, and a purple multi-layered ruffled skirt bottom. (Nordstrom's sells a similar dress-- on sale now! http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/3055558/0~6002289~6002290~2378375~2378405?mediumthumbnail=Y&origin=category&searchtype=&pbo=2378405&P=2 ) My favorite dress of all-time has to be the purple figure-skater dress that I got for a $10 steal at Urban Outfitters. (They were selling one similar at American Apparel without the cross-strap back that mine has for $40. http://www.americanapparel.com/rnt40.html ) It makes me feel like the little princess of my childhood fantasies, with a grown-up twist. As my roommate Alli said, “It’s a very Carrie Bradshaw dress.” Little does she know that’s one of my rules of clothes-shopping: I always ask myself, right after I see if it’s flattering on me, if Carrie would wear it. If the answer is “yes,” I generally know it’s quirky enough to be cute, memorable, and right up my alley. Remember: WWCD? What Would Carrie Do?

Dresses I like because you don’t have to coordinate a top with bottoms—just a dress with shoes and maybe some accessories. I can spend sometimes the entire twenty minutes I am in the shower in the mornings mulling over all the various articles of clothing that I wear, trying to figure out two that would go together favorably that day, and still draw a blank when I’m standing in front of my open closet door.

Le Sac ( http://www.americanapparel.com/rsa0300.html?cid=29 ) is a great option because you can do so much with it and get so many different looks from it. I also like this ( http://www.americanapparel.com/rsa4306.html?cid=29 ) cross-strap dress because you can either dress it up or down for any occasion.

5.) Something purple. Purple used to be the color of royalty. So why not feel royal yourself once in awhile? Purple is a flattering color on most every skin tone and shade of hair. I personally own a lot of purple clothing, from hoodies to t-shirts to gladiator thong sandals to a pair of jeans-inspired leggings. Plus, it’s a color that makes you “pop” and stand out in a crowd. If you’re feeling confident, try some purple in your life.

6.) Wide belts. Use them to make a statement with ordinary jeans by tucking in a corner so it shows off the buckle, or use it to cinch the middle of a shirt or dress. I have a black suede belt I got for $2 at a second-hand store, and the infamous gold braided one I like wearing with EVERYTHING in the summer. A wide belt at your mid-section gives you what I like to call “kickin’ curves” worthy of a Lambo.

7.) Large necklaces. Statement jewelry. Big rings. Chunky bracelets, or tons of thin bangles piled on one wrist. I personally like to jingle a little bit when I walk.

I wear pretty much the same jewelry every day, as I am both a jeweler’s daughter with favorite pieces of my fathers’ that were given to me as gifts over the years—the diamond for my eighteenth birthday on my left ring finger, which as doubles well as a jerk deterrent when out and about; and the beautiful blue appetite and diamond sunburst ring I received for my sixteenth birthday and chipped the night I found out my Inappropriately-Aged (starting the next morning, Ex-) Boyfriend was cheating on me on my right ring finger—as well as the double-whammy of obsessive-compulsive and superstitious.

8.) Collegiate sweaters. Striped. Cable-knit. Cardigans. Cashmere. Wool. Rugby. Yes, I’m telling you—I love the same sweaters I saw those “boring college girls” wearing when I was in high school and telling you they’re essential. Pair them with a strand of pearls either real or costume, some flats and jeans, and you’ve got the quintessential “serious college girl” uniform. I love it for visiting friends or people I want to impress with my style and maturity—as it’s a classic, it makes you look like you know what you’re doing with style even if you were in ripped tights and a denim mini the night before. No one ever needs to know. Plus, it's such a New England look, espeically come fall.

My favorite, the classic cable-knit: http://www.jcrew.com/AST/Browse/WomenBrowse/Women_Shop_By_Category/sweaters/cambridgecables/PRDOVR~17267/17267.jsp
A basic sweater: http://www.jcrew.com/AST/Browse/WomenBrowse/Women_Shop_By_Category/sweaters/merino/PRDOVR~17023/17023.jsp
A more end-of-summer worthy 3/4 sleeve striped variation: http://www.ae.com/web/browse/product.jsp?catId=cat90048&productId=1341_6944
Cute details, amazing price. Try in your local store for a better size-range: http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=26195&vid=1&pid=632596

This is the outfit I favor for when/if I visit Perfect at his college. Most freshmen girls are behind the curve on the sweater outfit memo, and it screams “hot older girl!” to most young guys. Also, it fits in well with Perfect’s casual-yet-well-dressed farm boy wardrobe. (I like things to go well together, like peanut butter and Nutella; black and gold; Perfect's wardrobe and mine.)

9.) Some fierce graphic t-shirts. Yes, the graphics. Think gold detail, tattoo designs, or some seriously awesome artwork. (Newsprint-inspired or animal designs are also a personal favorites of mine.) Black is the most serious color for a graphic like this, but I also have an orangey-red Kirra tee from Pacific Sun with a multi-colored peacock feather design that I absolutely adore. Just remember, hip and trendy, not mass-produced is the way to go. And NO STORE NAMES!

Some graphics I like:
http://shop.pacsun.com/girls/tees/Songbird-V-Neck-Tee/index.pro (Black V-neck with Feathers.)
http://shop.pacsun.com/girls/tees/Loose-Fit-Printed-Pocket-Tee/index.pro?colorCd=672 (Yellow V-neck with Flower.)
http://shop.pacsun.com/girls/tees/Victoria-Purple-V-Neck-Tee/index.pro (Purple V-neck with Detail.)
http://shop.pacsun.com/girls/tees/Water-Stone-V-Neck-Tee/index.pro (White V-neck with Small Color Logo Detail.)

10.) Metallic flats. These I do not own yet, but there are three different styles of gold flat that I have my eyes on, these being one of them-- http://www.ae.com/web/browse/product.jsp?catId=cat380151&productId=4411_1317 . Seriously—metallic flats are basically jewelry for your feet. It’s like—basic shirt, basic jeans, HELLO SHOES! Gold, silver, or copper—there’s no bad way to go.


P.S—With Love. The Look Book.
Other styles I adore and aim for:

Grecian Goddess: White flowy shirts. Gold accents. Gladiator sandals. Wavy hair.

Farm-Fresh: Cut-off jean shorts. Worn-in sweaters or tank-tops. For dressier occasions, large floral-print dresses with knee-length hemlines and a sweetheart or modest V-neck neckline.

Rocker/Motorcycle Chic: Lots of black with color details. Leggings. Chunky boots or sandals. Heavy on the eyeliner. Small braids in hair.

Working Girl: Trousers, tight and thin sweater in a bright color, or a plain shirt with a sweater-vest or cropped sweater over it, and some peep-toe heels. Preferably black patent leather, like this http://www.dsw.com/dsw_shoes/catalog/product.jsp?prodId=177609&cm_mmc=prodlist-_-shoppingpl-_-main-_-main . With laces. (I got my pair for $6. Yes.)

The Boyfriend Look: Made famous by Katie Holmes, I love the idea of being able to wear men’s style clothing and still look feminine, and I’m not even a fan of androgyny. (My height works really well for this, because it makes me look even smaller and more delicate, which I love. Conversely, tall girls also look great and statuesque in this fashion mode—my best friend is a prime example of this at 6’1”.) Cuffed boyfriend jeans, best when dark and slightly destroyed; an oversize cardigan, either widely-striped or dark; a plain tee underneath; a fun patterned scarf with fringe; flats; belt, if you like, to keep those slouchy jeans up. Voilá. Perfection.

What I call “Vermont Nautical”: Cuffed jeans (ok, yes, you are noticing a pattern: if I have to wear jeans in the summer, I like them to be cuffed. It takes denim from three seasons to summery and slightly less hot and sticky); a striped button-down shirt, or a white shirt—patterned is fine; and some Ked-inspired sneakers. I have a pair of super cute and girly pastel polka-dot Vans skateboarding sneakers ( http://shop.vans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product2_10001_25104_10101_623920_-1 ) that I adore from Pacific Sun—there’s just something about the flat, white sole that makes me think of sailing. (Maybe it’s the fact that I wear them on our boat when I go sailing with my dad.) I tend to think of this as a very “Ralph Lauren” or “Tommy Hilfiger” look, and it was pointed out to be the other day that maybe it’s because I always have either my Polo or Hilfiger bag with me when I dress this way, and both of them are red, white, and blue. It doesn’t get more American Nautical than that.

And, ok, what if you don’t have some of these things in your closet but want to get a few pieces and don’t want to spend an arm and a leg of your precious dough? Plato’s Closest is your friend. (http://www.platoscloset.com/) Find a store close to you, take all the clothing you don’t wear anymore, and turn them into cash in your still-worn jean pocket. Any second-hand clothing or consignment store will do, but Plato’s offers cash up front for your stuff, rather than you having to wait until something is sold to get the profit. I even have a friend who invented an ingenious method: go to your local Goodwill, buy some cheap, nice, and current-fashion clothing, go to Plato’s, and sell it to them for profit. You can more than double your original investment. (She bought her then-boyfriend a plane ticket to fly and see her with her earnings. Yes, that’s right—a round-trip plane ticket off of second-hand clothing. The more famous the label, the better the cash.) Plus, you’ll free up room in your closet for clothing you actually want to wear now.

That’s it for now, loves—if you can’t tell, it’s being a productive columning day on my end, so there will be another post in about an hour or so—I hope you wanted reading for this weekend! (And yes, it’s about Perfect.) Oh, and if you were able to spot that the post title comes from “SATC: The Movie” and was quoted about Samantha…good for you! Personally, I think you can never have “too much” of a good thing.

XOXO