Should We WANT To Lose Ourselves?

We all know the sayings: Lose yourself in the moment. Lose yourself in your work. Lose yourself to find yourself again. But should we want to lose ourselves in the first place? Lately, I've been wondering what good can come from losing oneself. I hate that moment in a relationship when you suddenly realize that you're not happy being alone anymore, or, at the very least, have come to expect that someone else will be around to entertain you. And when that's not the case, then that thought becomes an obsession, and it's like you're suddenly a half of a Siamese twin severed, who feels like they've lost their identity, or what was special about them. In many way, identity theft may be kinder than the moment in which you find yourself realizing you're losing yourself, or, at least, losing the things that used to make up your life or define you as an individual or Single Person.

The existential crisis started around 56 hours ago (and counting). Thursday morning, I was woken up by a text from TGIS, and we continued correspondence from afar until about 5 o'clock that night, after which, I haven't heard from him since. (Granted, I haven't been trying very hard, but that's because A.) I'm under the severe impression it's just better not to nag, and B.) I've always thought it gives you a better symptom of your relationship to see when he finally gets back around to you.) One day was fine. But when I woke up this morning, I felt odd, disoriented. And that's when I realized it was because I'm so used to waking up beside someone. Noon came, and I found myself still in bed, because no requests for brunch out had been made. By this evening, I was in full-out obsession mode about not only the state of my affair, but also, about what the FUCK I was supposed to do with myself and all this free time that had suddenly (and unwelcomely) been found on my hands. So while I may not be neuros-ing about it all over him, I found an outlet for it elsewhere: With my girl friends. Obviously. Because some things never change, even if your established weekend routine suddenly does.

I'm in my twenties. I'm so close to having my Bachelor's Degree in hand I can almost feel it; I paid for the insanely expensive and insanely luxurious Ralph Lauren sheets on my bed myself; I'm paying down my credit card; and I'm giving a presentation at a national writer's convention in Boston in March. My life is pretty fabulous, and yet, all it takes is two day's worth of silence, and I find myself acting like I'm 16 again, trying to occupy myself by making a list of things to do with items like "Wash dishes," "Moisturize entire body," "Watch a 'thinking' documentary to try to get my mind off of 'thinking' about the fact it is a weekend and I don’t believe it without another person here: Sexual Intelligence; Wild China; Food, Inc.; or Prehistoric Predators, Season 1," "Find some way to make a palatable drink with Skyy vodka, the dregs of orange juice, whipped cream that’s lost it’s whip, and anything else in the fridge, all while really just wanting a nice glass (or bottle) of wine," and "Try not to 'wine' anymore." It made me wonder: Do our lives really still revolve around boys?

Once upon a time back in sophomore year of college, my mother thought my friend Madison was secretly my lesbian lover. I can see why she might have thought that-- we spend an uncomfortable amount of time talking to each other. Mostly, I think, it's because we usually have equal levels of confusion in our lives, and think about things similarly. So it was Madison I turned to when asking, "Why do I always panic like this if I don't hear back from a guy for like, I'm not shitting you, two days? I mean, it's TWO DAYS. My sane self knows this. However, my relationship self is going mental. What I want to know is, why do I FREAK out?"

And then Madison said something very true, yet not very heartening at all: "Because you haven't had good luck with similar situations in the past."

Touché, my dear, and good fucking lord, there is no hope-- I'm done for.

I am not the only one who seems to be wondering about the ramifications of losing yourself for someone else. Madison has her own issues, too. "The problem is that I've always known that [I was letting him use me like a doormat]. I just kind of let it happen. And that's not me at all. And that's why I'm ashamed."

And that's when I hit my epiphany in our conversation: "Secretly, I think we're all ashamed at things we do in relationships or non-relationships with other people. Look at me-- I've forgotton how to be ok with being suddenly alone. I think there's something about wanting to be with another person that makes us crazy and makes us forget and sacrifice parts of ourselves because we want something else SO MUCH."

It's all so terribly ironic, because as I was driving home on Wednesday night after bringing TGIS back to his hometown, I was smugly reminiscing on this relationship versus past relationships, thinking to myself how you can be the person you're supposed to be and want to be when you're with the right person. Give me 56 hours of silence, and I'm still the confused little mess I was a year ago, give or take a different man, situation, and a few relevant learning curves. Look how far I've gotten on the road map to finding myself.

XOXO

So what about you? How have you learned not to lose yourself, or how to occupy yourself when you'd rather be doing something with someone else? Do you think that we're more willing to sacrifice parts of our lives and our selves if the payback of having the love of someone else is an option? Comment below and tell me what you think-- who knows, we might be able to solve all our relationship issues and neurosis together. Wouldn't that be a freaking miracle? What would the world do with so many more sane people?

The Secret Language of Men

You know what I really secretly and snarkily love? Shooting down your exes, when they deserve it. (Not exes that you're Still Trying To Be Friends With. Even I have 3 of those.) I just watched someone I know do it, and I more than giggled a little about it. I did it the other day when my first-semester-senior-year-of-high-school boyfriend commented on a photo of me on Facebook. It was a liiiiiiittle too close and personal of a comment for my liking from someone I haven't talked to in, oh, 3 years, and basically in the most misspelled way possible pointed out for the entire Facebook world to see (which, as we all know, is the only world that matters, am I right, or am I right?) that we'd Had Sex. And I DO NOT need all 560 of my Facebook friends knowing that I slept with a guy whose idea of spelling is "conplaned." So that comment got deleted faster than Pirate's Booty gets eaten.

(Going to ignore the fact "booty" and "eaten" are in close proximity to each other and MOVING ON!)

Anyway, this got me thinking about how guys treat women, and what their behavior can tell you. We all know by know that "I'll call you" means absolutely nothing that translates; that "I'll call you back," means "Maybe sometime when I eventually remember, but probably not,"; and that "I'm doing this for you" basically means "I'm doing this to keep having sex with you, until I no longer want to, and then I'm going to stop and promptly get convenient amnesia that I ever promised this to you." But what are the other little things that girls pick up on easier than a coon hound picks up the scent of dropped bacon?

- If you're not introducing us to your friends, we're usually clever enough to pick up on the fact that this means you're not serious about us. You introduce important people in your life to your friends, because you want their approval, and even sometimes, their jealousy. But if you introduced everyone you slept with to your closest friends, even they would start to think you're a slut. So you hold off for the people that it seems like you have the most interest, pride, and investment in, and then you introduce them. So if it's been over a month, and you haven't invited us out to a party to do a meet-and-greet, we know we're pretty much a place-holder and bed-warmer. Sucks, but we get it. (Some of the guys I've been with have never met a single one of my friends, so it also works both ways, dudes.)

- Along similar lines, if you never invite us to do anything with you in public, it pretty much means the same thing as above.

- The way a man talks about his exes will tell you a lot about how he'll talk about you. I was with a guy who referred to his longterm high school girlfriend as "The Vapid Bitch." There was also the "Crazy Bitch." This hasn't made me very hopeful about the fact I'm not now referred to as "The Psycho Bitch."

- I heard something interesting on the show Covert Affairs the other night-- Auggie, who's a blind information analyst, told Annie that he can tell if a woman is hot or not just by the way other men speak to her. I feel like there's some truth to this-- if a guy's friends like you, like spending time with you, or think you're attractive, it ups your appeal to that guy. Guys like to compete with each other, be it in sports, video games, drinking tolerance, or who can pull and bed more women. Just like in Marketing, we call this "Supply and Demand." If you're on good terms with other guys, the one you're with is going to know you're a hot commodity, and (hopefully), step his game up. So always be sweet to the friends.

- We know when you're "yes"ing us to death. Same as when you're answering a question without thinking or looking. If your texts are one or two word answers, we know you're not in the conversation. And like I've said, "I love you"s and "I miss you"s are not Band-Aids for everything else you've fucked up about, to be liberally applied to stop the emotional bleeding. They stop meaning so much when you bandy them around, and we stop listening or believing.

- Straight from the mouth of one of my exes to your ears, if a guy wants to impress you on a date, he'll tip well. So try to get a glance at that line of the receipt. Something about "working in food services; I know your pain," and "not wanting to look cheap."

- And going back to the beginning, a good ex is one who you can still keep in touch with and rely on to still have your back and best interests at heart because yes, at one time, you both cared about each other. A walk down Memory Lane with these guys isn't awful. In fact, it's a little like watching a Lifetime movie-- comforting, pastel, and a little nauseatingly sweet. A bad ex is the one who flies in like a bat out of hell from nowhere to drop unwanted "Haha! I know what cup size you are and the shape of your nipples!" bombs on your life in hopes of scaring off any current dudes. They probably didn't care much about you. Or just cared about your nipples.

What are some other things you picked up from your dating and dude-ing experiences?

XOXO

P.S-- And yes, yes, I did just use a Skeletor comic to demonstrate a point. Does anyone else remember Panthor with such fond childhood memories?

Being Yourself... Apologetically.

In every girl's life, there's that moment in their youth when they look back at their past, and suddenly see the huge, purple elephant standing in the middle of the room, and do a perfectly executed forehead smack/"Oh shit!"

I recently had mine in regards to my last relationship. Enough time and distance had finally passed to allow me to step back, look at it non-judgmentally, and try to sort out who did what to whom and where and when it went nose-dive-spiral wrong. It didn't take that long, because when I looked back, I saw something odd: It wasn't a relationship that had two distinct characters in it. It was a relationship that had three. And sometimes, more.

Maybe it doesn't come as a surprise, knowing that I'm the anti-dating, anti-commitment snarky love harpy that I am, but we started as TV-and-drinks night hook-up, nothing overly interesting. Yes, we clicked, yes, there was intelligent conversation and good humor and great sex, but I was not doodling hearts on my notebook the next day in class. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. What was interesting was when he texted me 5 days later around 1 in the morning, to check in because he "just hadn't heard from me" since that night. I was just trying to play it cool and keep things normal, but when we finally switched over to voice-on-voice action via the phone instead of thumb-on-thumb, it became clear that our objectives were not eye-to-eye. I told him I was leaving for Italy soon, and not looking to start something. He countered back with, "Technically, we've already had relations, so like it or not, we're already in a relationship."

"I'm fine as long as you don't actually say that to me," I told him, fighting down hyperventilation. (I think until this day he still didn't know that my body actually locked up when he said that "R" word and I could only breathe in shallow gasps for the next 5 minutes.)

"I didn't expect that to happen," he told me, and I swear to god I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, please. I knew it was going to happen. You don't think I go everywhere with an overnight bag, do you?" (Actually, that's a very smart idea, and do as I say, not as I do myself.)

"Ok, I had some idea when you came over that we would end up sleeping together, but I didn't expect anything other than that would happen. But what could go wrong in 2 months?"

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't know me."

Honestly, as in, 100% brutal, public honesty right here and now, I didn't expect anything to happen, either. Honestly, brutally, publicly, the only thinking I'd done about it, and about him, and about me previously was "You're hot. You're really, really hot, and I'm going to just keep having sex with you until you won't let me anymore, and then I'm going to point at you and say, 'Do you see that gorgeous man? Yeah, I tapped that,' and brush my shoulders off." That was my game plan. I wasn't initially serious. At all. I was just seriously horny. And was just thinking he was seriously hot. But he was also raising some good points, and I hadn't connected with anyone like that in...ummm...ever. So we decided to take things slow, until I went to Italy, or until we drove each other crazy, whichever came first. (Keep in mind, I'm a One-Month Girl, and Italy was 2 months away. I was hedging bets on it crashing and burning before then.) I was being honestly, brutally, totally myself. I wasn't playing games, and I wasn't going to sign on to something that I didn't see myself wanting to do. A lot of the time, women tweak aspects of themselves or their personalities to appeal more to men, but it was odd-- I hadn't done anything but be exactly myself with him. I had no ulterior motives. I wasn't trying to impress anyone-- in fact, I believe I tried warning him off. And strange thing-- he seemed to like that. He seemed to like me, the me that not even all my friends get to see.

So things progressed. I was spending at least a night a week at his place (he never even saw my place), meeting his friends, doing the not-dating thing. It was casual; it was comfortable; it was perfectly in my comfort-zone. One night, he called to see if I was doing anything more exciting than painting my nail and watching Sex and the City reruns. (Fact.) I wasn't, and he invited me to go with him to a friend's birthday party. I declined, saying that if it was just a party, I'd be up for it, but since it was this girl's birthday, I didn't want to show up as a stranger. It was like that, for awhile-- he'd say he was going to a show or concert, and I'd say I'd meet him after; he'd call and see if I wanted to spend the night and go to our morning class together, and I'd be already in bed and unwilling to get up and drive through the winter's chill just to get into his bed; he'd say he'd ditch bar night with the boys if I wanted to come over, and I'd decline saying that he needed boy time and I needed girl time (fact #2, and also, something very important to keep on your mind when you're under 21 dating someone over 21-- they need their bar time. And you can't go. So don't impede.)

I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to be included in everything, though I'd help break down a performance space and drive his buddies home if they needed a ride. I baked brownies to stay on his roommate's good sides, and tried to keep the late-night noise down. And then something odd happened-- I started to actually fall for him. It wasn't just about the sex anymore-- it was about his bookshelf. His vocabulary. The way if he tipped his head back and said "Oho!", you knew he was getting ready to contradict something you just said. The way he'd call, just to say hey, if he hadn't seen me that day. His eyelashes. The way we both regarded bantering as a form of foreplay. How he would personally say good-bye to my friends and check in to see what my plan was before we'd leave someplace. The fact that we functioned pretty well together and surprisingly had a lot in common. I started to actually say "yes" to those invitations. It wasn't all great-- we went through some shit that was rough and ultimately took its toll on us, but I started to think about not sabotaging it. Maybe, I don't know, but I've heard of this weird thing that normal, committed people do-- nurture it?

And then I went away. For 4 months. That's a long time. At first, we Skyped a few times a week, or, when I lost internet, we'd have trans-Atlantic calls. Some weeks, we talked constantly. Others, not so much. I was fine with it-- I was busy exploring a new place and leading a new life, and he was the first one to bite the bullet and say "I miss you," which went over really well with me, as I had tried to say it at the end of the conversation before, and literally had choked. But he got that. It was difficult, yes, but whatever it was, it was working ok for the situation, and ok for me.

After Spring Break, what had previously been a pretty steady stream of communication started to trickle down. It became harder to get a hold of him, which was hard and frustrating for me because it was also when I was having the most issues being abroad. I got public-ally felt-up and molested by a stranger. I got bronchitis, with no doctor, and no drugs. I was getting broke. I had to find someplace to live for the next year while across the ocean from America. I was planning my senior year and starting to think about grad schools. I was really homesick. And he just didn't feel "present" anymore. About this time was when I realized he was seeing other women, which explained a lot.

Italy proved to be my undoing. Not that I'd ever take the experience back for, literally, the world, but in the last few dozen days before coming back home and moving back to Burlington, I got more and more keyed up. The girl who previously wanted a very achievable, functional, next-to-nothing relationship now wanted everything. And wanted everything to go perfect. I wanted my fairytale ending-- a reward for all my hard work. I wanted to actually be able to say "relationship" without fainting. I found myself daydreaming about things like washing his dishes and grocery shopping. I started looking at music calendars for shows we both liked. I started calling back to the U.S, just to whine about how much I wanted to be gone, and be home. A lot. If I couldn't get through to him (which, by the point, was more un-often than not), I would call my closest guy friend, conveniently his best friend, and bitch. (I am so sorry.) In other words, I jumped the gun. Not just any gun. I jumped the Heckler & Koch G36. (And yes, go to that link and look at the photo so you can see just how far ahead of the horse I put the cart. That thing's a beast.)

I think I temporarily misplaced my identity with that of one of Mad Men's housewives.

I ended up becoming one of Those Girls-- one of the whiny, insecure ones who seeks constant validation from her partner because she's not secure enough in what she wants. And I ended up rendering myself wholly unattractive and pushing him away, before I even realized what I was doing. I effectively took that G36, and shot myself in the foot. Or, maybe the heart. (And this is now the part in which now that I've claimed my share, I also acknowledge that he was a particular dick for a bit, too. So it wasn't all him, but it wasn't all me, either.) I went from being someone who knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly what she was comfortable with, and exactly what was fair to ask or be expected, to someone whose thoughts on commitment and relationships flip-flopped every other day and was getting increasingly demanding while at the same time never being pleased with the results, even if they were exactly what I had asked for. I became (and I'll say it since I know you have,) a total, raging, whining, needy cunt-bitch. No, I wouldn't have wanted to be with me, either. In fact, I hated myself while I was doing that, but it was like a personal train wreck I just couldn't stop-- I'd built up enough momentum, it just had to run its course. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

And this is what I have to say about this whole affair-- my Cliff Notes, if you will:

- Know what you want out of a relationship, always. It may change, but at no point should you be waffling around about it. If you are, it means you either don't want it enough to still be in it, or you're too confused about something in yourself to be a productive member of it.

- Do not, do not, DO NOT become someone who picks petty fights over text, or calls or texts numerous times a day for unimportant reasons. Here's an example of when it's ok to call and/or text more than a few times in one 24-hour period: Medical emergencies. If pertinent, timely plans have become subject to change. If you've just won tickets to a Philadelphia Eagles game. Here's when it's not ok: When you just want to "hear his voice." Again. 2 hours after the last call. When it's to say that you still haven't found your sunglasses, and can he please check his car again? When you know he's at work, or with his family. When you are drunk.

- When things change, you've gotta put the Big Girls pants on and talk about them. Things like emotions. Goals. Where you see yourself in a month, or 5 months. Where you see him in that. If you don't see him in that. If you'd like to see him in that. Mind-reading (still) is a lost art.

- After the break-up, wait it out. You're gonna be sore, and tender, and touchy, and bitchy for awhile. For maybe, a long while. Wait until you sort yourself out to sort anything else out. Maybe that's why I'm in such a total "no nothing" zone right now. No relationships. Nothing even casual. I just want to be me, and figure out what that means again, and not have to worry about anyone else. (Though, 2 months later, even when you're creatively slurring their name paired with rhyming insults at 3 AM, you're still going to be worrying about them. Worrying if their life's on-track. Worrying if they're remembering to feed the cat. Worrying if they're getting a chance to bitch about their work/parental/friend issues with a caring ear like they need to. Worrying if they're just eating pizza every night and haven't seen anything green or leafy in weeks. Worrying if they're happy. Not fair, and it sucks, but true.)

- In some wise dude words, "It's between you and him." Remember that. Act accordingly. At one time, you liked each other. You still might, half of the time. So be nice to his friends. Be nice to his property. Don't talk shit about him. Have some manners, and bitch about it with your roommate later. (All this personal informational is strictly for educational purposes, from my side of things. Another "do as I say..." moment.)

- Space, like silence, is sometimes golden in a relationship. You need time alone or with your friends. He needs time alone of with his friends. Doing everything together, or expecting to do everything together, is not sexy. It's suffocating. I never appreciated sleeping alone more than the nights after I spent the one before with him.

- Goddamn, it's a phone, not a texting device. That is still your cell phone. Stop with the day-long texting, and actually take 45 minutes to talk. It is so important. Honestly, that's one of the things that won me over and made me go from "just another bro" to "I'm really feeling this Joe."

- If you see yourself becoming that Crazy Bitch, please, for the love of god, try to stop or have someone step in and perform an intervention/exorcism.

That's what I have for you in hindsight. The rest, you'll have to take and make up as it comes along on your own. But believe me-- heed me. If I could go back, fix it, make it right, and take it seriously, I would. Maybe not now, but when I'm ready. Don't fuck yourself over, too. You deserve a whole hell of a lot more than that. You're all smart, pretty, fabulous girls. So start acting like it, and not someone else.

XOXO

Men Are Just Breathing Machines

Nicco and I are curled up together on my bed, being stoned and blissful, listening to music, because that's what we do, and his little body rises and falls against the side of my head and face, lulling me into and even deeper daze, when it hits me:

Maybe it's just the feeling of someone breathing beside me that I've missed.

XOXO

The Young and the Restless

There are 2 types of people who can't sleep: The genuinely not tired, and those who are being kept awake by their thoughts that are too loud. Lately, I've been one of the latter. Granted, I've never been someone who kept up with a solidly respectable sleep schedule-- I'm more of a "night-owl and sleep until noon" person, myself. But when it's your fifth night in a row pressing the lighter side of 4 AM face-down in your bed, rest nowhere to be found and utterly restless, it's time to face facts:

One.

There is no one you can call or go see at 4 AM for a good limb-entwined sleep. There may have used to be. But there is no longer. And granted, you may have all sorts of friends to call on: Friends to drink with, friends to dance with, friends to discuss literature with; friends who will cook for you and go on drives with you and will lend you ten or twenty dollars in a pinch, but there is no one really who you can call, wake up, and say in that hesitant low voice that needs to be specially reserved for hours after 1 AM, "Hey, what are you doing? Can I come over?"

Two.

This may be what's keeping you awake.

Three.

You may be in mourning.

Four.

Every morning.

This is one of those times where you realize, yet again, that some aspects of being single suck. I've had, most of my adult life since the age of 16, someone handy to share a side of a bed, or, in the case of the small and cramped college extra-long, extra-narrow mattresses, a whole bed. Or, in other cases, the downward tilt of the mattress and the wall. And for the first time, I find myself, a grown girl of modest means, with her own new bed, most everything she could wish for or desire, with scads of experience and options, realizing that all that doesn't mean much unless you can get a good night's sleep. For which, apparently, my egg-timer of sleeping sand has run out, and all my trains have left the station.

Humph.

Is there a service for this sort of thing? A bed companion? A room-share? If it would cut down on the rent, that would help, too.

XOXO

No Patience

Last night, my friend Patience played this song during her show at Parima. I'd never heard it before. And it made me tear up. To recap, I don't really cry, and I sure as hell don't cry in public. Her mom may have even seen it. Mortifying. But the lyrics and message in it are so important that I had to share it with you. So click that link.

To all of you girls reading this, I put that here for you. Because I want to remind you like Paish had to remind me to please remember: You're smarter and more unique and more special then the sum of all the people who have ever been too blind or distracted to see that and screw you over and let you go. Their words are their words and their actions are their actions, and please don't let anyone ever convince you that you are their problem. You --your time, your feelings, your mind, your words, your actions-- are gifts, and

not curses. You should

never have to answer to anyone who thinks any less than that.

That's a

lesson I'm still learning.

And I'm hurt still. Civility is a handy disguise, but I'm so awkward about it and unsure and treading lightly and some days I go to sleep missing you and some mornings I wake up so pissed at you I'm not sure I ever really want to make conversation other than "How are you?" again. And it's a two-way street. You deftly ended it with exactly the words you knew it would take to get me mad enough to go away (because burning bridges seems to be a specialty of yours), so if you decide you ever want to mend things, you're going to have to say those words, too. You worried about if I could ever cut you out of my life totally. I found I probably could. We always held that "stay friends" clause. It hasn't been upheld as of late. I never told you that things changed when I came back because I found how much you'd changed. (I, taking full responsibility for my actions here, never told you a lot of things in the entirety of our interactions.) I fell out of adoration with you. I settled somewhere around "disappointing." I don't know what happened to you, and I'm sorry if it's something I could have helped or even something I couldn't've have helped with, but I miss the guy who walked through the snow in November and respected me. I don't miss the guy who played the game like I was just a handful of cards to gamble and cash in. Because I'm better than that. I think you know it, but I just hope you know it, too.

That's all I have to say.

XOXO

A Potent Publican Primer: Red Square

Nora couldn’t get the name of the bar right to save her life. It was “the Red Hexagon.” “The Red Parallelogram.” “The Red Circle.” It ended up being fitting. Madison couldn't close her tab without another shot of tequila. We came full-circle from drunk to drunk.

If they have a live DJ, it is probably the best place in Burlington to dance, other than at a show at High Ground or Nectar’s. The sleeze category of Lift or Rasputin’s stays at Lift or Rasputin’s, and the place is smaller, more intimate. Dress ranges from 30-something women in their J. Crew “going out” dresses to college students who wander in in the same tank and shorts they wore to North Beach earlier in the day. The waitresses are good. Capable. Veteran. They have to be.

Bouncers are another story. The bouncer looks at my ID, then back up at me. “You just made it,” he tells me. I want to fist my hands in my hair and scream. It’s been this way for the past few days. Kind hostesses wish me a happy belated birthday; bald and beefy security men eye me up and down and offer me a gruff “Congratulations,”; and these tall and weedy pricks at the trendy bars make a huge fucking deal about the fact that 2, 4, or 14 days ago, they would have gotten to bounce me out on my size 6 ass. I want to tell him I was probably drinking before he was. (It could be true.) Instead, I smile tightly and slip into what Alli has dubbed the “heinous bitch” demeanor.

Over a week later. Same bar. Could be the same bouncer, but then again, they all look the same, as if their high school basketball starting-forward days were the best they ever had and ever will have. Same dilemma. “So how’s it feel?” he asks me as I retrieve my ID from him and start to slide in the front door. I decide this jig is up and I’m tired, like so lately in life, of being continuously run over and pretending to not care.

“Well. I just came back from 4 months in Italy, so the bar scene is not new. And I figure, I just now legally get to do everything I’ve been doing since I was 14, so, it’s no big deal, right?”

He looks confused, like he wasn’t expecting that much information, and then just nods. “Yeah.”

The problem with the Red Four-Equilateral-Sided-Shape is, it’s where everyone wants to see and be seen under the mortician’s red lighting. The seats that spill into the alley and onto Church Street are prime see-and-be-seen territory. Some of my older friends, who I used to consider helplessly cool and aloof and just slightly affected in that way that all college students hope they come off as “worldly”, become much more human to me as I watch them shell out three bucks for a can of PBR and perch on the wrought iron chairs, trying, and failing, to look like it still isn’t a big deal. They are, like me, much more at home in the darker, quieter, wood-paneled bars, but if you are over 21, and if you’re in Burlington, you still feel this inexplicable need to go to Red Square, where the drinks are overpriced, the cocktails are almost too heavy on the liquor, the lighting is atrocious, and yet, you can’t help but wanting to be a part of it all.

And at the end of the night, what are you left without, other than an impending hangover in the morning?

Intextication. It's what happens on your cell phone when you get drunk. Luckily for some of us, the quick text link to Twitter is right beneath other phone numbers in our Favorites list, and we end up sending some of those texts to Twitter instead of the intended recipient. Rendering us a little less annoying, and the Twitterverse a bit more amused.

Intoxuation. It's fleeting infatuation that only occurs while you're slurring. So, texting things like "I miss you" at 3 AM while fueled with beer and rum is not the best idea. Because you can guarantee that when you wake up the next morning, you'll still be mad, and not only still mad, but now mad and mortified.

There hasn't been a dryspell like this since Jagger sung "I can't get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!" In the end, I even kept space between me and George.

XOXO

Wrapping Up Firenze

Today, I am living in Florence:

I know it because I spent two hours tanning on the balcony in my bikini in the hot and dry Mediterranean sun, and then had to put on jeans, fashionable sandals, a classic white t-shirt, and do my hair and make-up, just to leave the apartment, walk down the street, and get a Doner kebab for dinner. I know because as I was walking down the sidewalk, half of the Italians who passed me were still in heavy coats despite the direct sun and 60+ degree temperature, and I found myself catching snippets of conversations as I passed. "Uomo mange troppo..." became "Man (meaning 'humans' in this context) eat too much." "Dove lei?" I understood instantly as "Where is she?" And the construction works who called out "Mamma mia! Caro! Bella! Biancaissimi!" as I passed needed no translation.

Tomorrow marks one-month away from leaving this country. 30 days left. In total, I have now lived here for 80 days. I have been to Roma (twice), and Venezia, and Pisa, and Cinque Terre (twice), and Dublin (for a week), and Northern Ireland(twice). I still have my last hurrah-- 4 days in Sicily with Alli the last weekend I am in Italy. I have spent more money and gained more debt than I care to admit, gained about 5 pounds and lost all my gym-rat-and-runner's muscle mass, and gotten sick of eating pasta while discovering a deep, passionate, and abiding love for Doner kebab. I enjoy wine exponentially more than I did before I came, and can now assess body, bouquet, and balance without a second thought. I have eaten fresh octopus and veal marrow and squid-ink spaghetti, and still need to try a famous Florentine tripe sandwich. I brought back the dying pen-pal tradition with the help of a well-written, verbose friend's assistance and continued correspondence. I have bought 6 pairs of shoes, and mastered the double-orgasm. I have made new friends for life, and managed not to kill any of my roommates yet. I have become a bona-fide, addicted, sometimes chain-smoking smoker. New friends bonded over new food and new clothing every Thursday night. The language became musical as I grew to understand it, in piccola and grande chunks. I became adept at sleeping anywhere-- foreign beds, beaches, and buses. I now parlo un po d'italiano.

But I've missed 21st birthdays, break-ups, new relationships, sex, parties, concerts, good days, bad days, daily life, and even sacrificed pieces of my own life where they intersected with other's lives while being here. I have gained some things, and may have devastatingly lost others. I am down-right guilty that I will be missing graduation, watching it streaming from my hotel room in Sicily instead, as friends I've had for years grasp diplomas and walk out of Champlain College's life, and into their own new ones. I've found that sometimes, you need to leave to get closer, and that you are never truly lost or plan-less as long as one foot is being put in front of the other. I have learned the weight of deeply missing someone, as well as the high heights of making it on your own. No matter what has or what will happen, I never would have traded this experience. The girl who came without much of a plan but a lot of questions is now ready to go home, someone a little wiser and a little different, with a lot of answers. So, now. Take me home. If I click the heels of blue boat shoes three times, will it get me back to Vermont?

I'm ready to be back in my real life; try it again, this time, hopefully for real, and take back everything I've been missing, detailed below:.

The Roof Over My Head:

Is at 311 South Union Street. It faces North, and has 2 bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, an enclosed back porch, and a large and bright eat-in kitchen. (Though I have not been in it yet. I am trusting my description on my mother's words.) Until I can move in on June 1st, I'll probably be splitting time bumming around between my extremely sweet and gracious friend's couches in Burlington, and tying My Life As I Know It up in Rutland and packing up and out of there for good. I always thought it would be harder to leave the home I grew up in, but after these three months and the at times physical pain of wanting to be in Burlington so badly, it has been made abundantly clear to me that that is where my life is. That is where my friends are (though my 802 Crew will always, ALWAYS be welcome to visit in Burlington, because you are not friends at this point-- you are FAMILY). That is where my apartments have been. That is where my school is. That is where my jobs are. That's where the sun over the lake blinds my eyes as I look down the hill and the sand at North Beach gets stuck in between my toes and in my hair. That is where I know streets like old friends and can give you a running commentary on who lived where, what infamous party was busted there, and what I've eaten here as we walk through the city. There's where I know what's around me, what I have, and therefore, who I am. In short, that's where my heart is.

So I will pack up. I will take my hand-painted Monet stool and my nightstand and my two floor lamps and my shoe collection and the brown sofa bed that is older than I am, and I will move them, and my life, an hour and a half North to register as a resident, have my voter's details changed, and pay rent like a real, poor, and real poor human being. I will scour Recycle North and the Christmas Tree Shop and IKEA's website and DIY websites and manuals and reupholster and paint and hang (might need some taller help with that,) and decorate with whites and chrome and pops of bright colors and hints of green. I will find my first, and probably only and last, queen size bed. I will buy those dishes at Homeport I have always loved. I will do laundry regularly. I might bring my FatCat up to live with me so I am not alone on nights my roommate is not there. Provided she does not pee outside of her litterbox. (The cat, not the roommate. The roommate is housebroken.) I will go to classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the fall, and work nearly every other waking hour in between. I will save my money. And I, too, a year from now, will graduate, and will realize that I have moved myself out of my parent's house and out of my hometown, and have already started my life.

An Ode To Food:

I am in ITALY, and all I am planning for my first few days back in Burlington is to eat. First stop, American Flatbread for a Medicine Wheel pizza, NOT like they make them in Italy. Then, for comparison, I will wander over to Mr. Mike's for a slice of Buffalo Bully, because an Italian would never, EVER put ranch dressing on a pie. (This also coincidentally knocks off another item on my American Dining List-- ranch dressing. I want it on my pizza, and I want a huuuge, green, veggie-laden salad absolutely SMOTHERED in it, please.) That night, I will order a half-pound of Wings Over honey barbecue boneless wings at 2 AM. BECAUSE I CAN. I will also get the buttermilk ranch dressing with them. The next day, I will wake up around noon, get my girls together, and go to the Skinny Pancake (affectionately known amongst a select few as the "Spinny Cancake" because THAT pronunciation was the sole braincell that died after a very prodigious night's smoking back sophomore year,) and get the apple and brie crepe. I will go straight from there to City Market, where I will buy Vermont Cheese & Cremery's distinctive, straight-from-the-farm butter, and a baguette, and will eat the whole. damn. thing. Then, I will drive over to the UMall, and treat myself to an Auntie Anne's original pretzel and a small, tart, refreshingly summertime lemonade.

And I will go to Bobcat Cafe and Brewery in Bristol, even though I will have to wait another 28 days once in Burlington for my legal birthday, and bring one of my older accomplices in crime with me, and dine on what is simply THE BEST American comfort food there ever was, and drink what is arguably some of the most unassumingly best beer in the Northeast. Much better than a half-liter 1 Euro Peroni-- vero, vero, vero.

And THEN I will hit the gym with a vengeance, and embrace and cry over my treadmill like a long-lost friend. And hopefully live a little bit longer, if I haven't already damaged my arteries too badly while here and developed smoker's cough.

Sex:

Lots and lots of you-know-where's-it's-been, you-know-where-it's-come-from, and you-know-what-it's-going-to-be-like sex.

That is all I want out of coming home. The apartment, my friends, good ol' honest American food and brews, and good ol' honest American sex. Life is pretty simple for me. Shelter me, feed me, fuck me. And while you're here, can I please get you to help me put up these curtains? I can't reach. Thanks.

XOXO

A Life Lesson In Gender Relationships

A girl must have her girls.

But when in doubt, when you're feeling very small and unsure and scared and alone...

Call on your boys.

Have a few good, solid, hearty guys in your life who you know will always pick up the phone. Who will always sound like hearing from you is Christmas morning all over again. Who will sit through you having a crisis of faith in everything from yourself, to others, to the real estate market, to the state of your lungs and just listen and let you get it all off your chest. Who, when they say, "it's just a few more weeks," makes it sound not only doable, but enjoyable.

Because while your girls know what they should say to make you feel better, your boys can say things to you that make you feel like you're back at home in someone's living room in your warmest, most comfy sweats, passing a bowl and smelling spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke.

It may not sound all that glamorous or comforting.

But my god, it is.

So here's to the men in my life who pick up those calls and listen to all the small, scared thoughts and are intuitive enough to say things like, "We miss you too, muffin," which is pretty much the psychological equivalent of a giant bear-hug from across the Atlantic. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of this scared little unbeliever's heart. While I may have shitty luck in housing, the job market, and love, I am overly-blessed in my friends. And when it comes down to it, they usually have a couch and enough room in their life and love for your poor homeless ass, too.

XOXO

If You Have Ever Wondered, This Is What It's Like To Be Me.

Greetings, one, all, and the hopelessly indifferent! I write to you from my bed of twisted sheets that smell like Robitussin and Halls in the land of Italia, where I am currently suffering from what probably is (and what will probably remain since I am too poor/stubborn to call in a doctor) bronchitis.

As the title and introductory paragraph hint at, since I am currently too exhausted with coughing both right and left lung up to really put some effort into deep thinking, since I can't even breathe deeply without wheezing, I have a few stories to tide you over and sate your curiosity. The first one goes like this: I'm in Italy, it's beautiful out, and I am dying in my bed in a country where the only place one can find Halls cough drops is in the tobacco shop. So, what is a girl to do, other than buy 3 packs of Halls and Ricola cough drops, and one pack of Camel Lights? (Mom-- I know you're probably reading this right now, so don't worry-- I'm not smoking right now. I bought the pack in best hopes that I will get better soon enough to smoke it.)

The second brief epistolary took place a few weeks ago in Perugia. Our last morning there, I was quietly contemplating the beautiful Umbrian scenery while hanging out of our window at the hostel, minding my own business completely, when all of a sudden, the shutters opposite me across the street were thrown open, and there, blinding in the morning light, was a late-40-something middle-aged man resplendent in all of his pale, saggy, naked glory. I have never recoiled so fast from a scene of tragedy in my life. Alli came back from the bathroom to find me hiding as far into the corner of the room opposite the window as I could possibly get, shaking and shaken. "What happened?" she asked, so, of course, like any good friend, I said nothing and instead pointed for her to look out the window so that she, too, could share in my disgusted pain. A moment later, when she joined me in our little corner of 20-something scarred cornea, I looked at her pleadingly and said, "I was just minding my own business, and then...THAT! The last naked body I saw was young and beautiful, and now, I have to carry THAT thought along with me!"

Our third and final retelling is also of the "woe, why me?" category. My final dinner in Dublin, Alli, seated facing the door and front windows of the restaurant, said she kept seeing quite possibly the most beautiful black man in the world walking by. Trying to be smooth and suave about it and not crane my neck around in my usual fashion or let on to the fact that I really wanted to be a part of this hunk-o-burnin'-love-fest, I waited a few minutes before discreetly turning my head to look out the window. Instead of Shemar Moore's missing twin, I found myself watching a man who quite possibly weighed over 300 pounds wearing a grey hoodie and a red backpack literally DANCE down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. And by dance, I do mean jiggle, undulate, ripple, and shimmy as only someone the size and obtrusiveness of a small Shetland pony can. Hearing a choked gasp, I turned around to face Melissa, by whose wide eyes and slack jaw I also correctly guessed had witnessed our movin' and groovin' friend. "Alli looks out the window, and she sees a gorgeous black man. You and I look out the window, and we see THAT," Melissa said to me, right before we collapsed into tearful and manic laughter. "Story of my life!"

So, there you have it. Irony rules my life.

Also, if you're from my homeland of the most beauteous and sorely-missed Burlyworld, please Skype me as I am not only an incredibly huge baby when I'm sick but am also very, very homesick and need something other than Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey's wacky treasure-hunting hijinks to keep me entertained. And don't mention the state of my hair or the fact I am wearing a white wifebeater and a black floral bra. I know, ok? If I had the ambition/strength/gave a fuck, I would crawl out of bed to change to. Mostly, if I gave a fuck.

That is all for now. Cough, cough; hack, hack; splat. Hey, anyone need a spleen?

XOXO

P.S-- I am currently accepting movie nominations to keep me occupied while confined to my bed this weekend. I have already watched Fool's Gold, Moonstruck (Newsflash!-- Nicholas Cage WAS once hot-- just before I was born), the new (aka: 2003) Peter Pan (won't discuss how attractive I found that boychild) (...someone call Neighborhood Watch), Love Actually, Into The Wild, Shutter Island, P.S I Love You (way to make me fear another man I love dying), and Old School.

Please, what must I see while I remain a captive audience? Extra points go to people who nominate a good action movie. Or porn with a plotline.

...If only I were actually kidding.

American Girls, or Why I Evidently Should Have Studied Abroad In Switzerland

Do you know that internet access is a human right in some countries? Not only does Switzerland consider it a human right, they also have some of the fastest broadband internet speeds in the world. Estonia, Greece, and France all consider internet access an inalienable human right.

So why, then, did I choose to come to Italy, land of the "Yeah, we'll get around to it...someday," public services and apparent lack of affection for making sure students studying abroad can like, I don't know-- actually keep up with their loved ones, do homework for online classes, and run blogs?

Monday night, I was laying in bed, streaming The Nanny (no judging), being generally happy, when it crapped out. I called the internet company the next day, and they told us it was a problem in the telephone lines (I believe it-- the entire neighborhood is holed up in the corner bar, the only place with functioning Wi-Fi in apparently, a 2 block radius,) and that they were leaning on the phone company to get it fixed. Great. The next day, I called back to check progress on the strong-arming. "A technician will be coming tomorrow, probably in the morning," I was told. Awesome. Thanks. Next morning, no show. Next-next morning, still no tech. An apartment full of 8 angry women. 6 angry guys above us. Peeved American students all up and down the block. And the only thing I can think the phone company is doing is sitting and rotating on their thumbs.

I'm sorry. I'm a little steamed. It wasn't so much of a big deal when I KNEW I didn't have internet, but now that I'm paying a REDICKULUS amount of money for it per month, I would really, really like to exploit it as much as possible. I would really like to be able to talk to the people at home that I miss. Like, reassure my parents that I'm ok and to ignore and not open my monthly bank statements, or to be able to make Spring Break plans with my roommates in Dublin. Potentially, even-- TRY TO FIND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN WHEN I COME BACK SO I AM NOT HOMELESS IN BURLINGTON.

Because do you know what internet-less American girls resort to for entertainment? It's nasty, nasty stuff, my friends. Retail therapy. Chainsmoking. Consuming entire bottles of wine, and starting to drink just after the sun reaches the zenith. Unsafe behavior. Risky road-crossing. Gelato addictions. Baked good and chocolate abuse. Spending horrific (HORRIFIC) amounts of money on new books to keep one's self occupied in lacking electronic pages. Talking to the local men. Taking far, far too much time to gaze at Michelangelo's David. (By far the hottest man in Florence. Those abs. Those buns. That...ball-sack. That's carved out of marble? Seriously? Seriously?)

While I am whining, let's insert a few other general complaints:
- I absolutely despise sleeping alone.
- The guy above me blasts “You are my everything, everything, everything, everything,” while having bed-post banging sex. This is why I do not sleep with bros. If I heard that song, I would be out of there before the end of the first chorus.
- I live in a madhouse. Please save me. Except for Alli, I never want to live with women again.
- I want a good beer like I want a fucking hard-on inside of me. And then, I think I want the beer more. Something tall, dark, full-bodied, with great head. And we’re still talking about the beer, here. Italy-- not a place for internet, or good beer.
- After seeing Avatar and beautifully joined-up alien/alien animal relationships, I really, really, miss Saph. This is the longest I have ever gone without seeing her. I am missing my other half, people.

If I make it back home alive, you have Robin to thank for the majority of this. He tried, really hard, to find me functional internet without the cost of a pint-and-a-half beer or banana and Nutella milkshake. He makes sure I am properly entertained and don't walk alone at night. He hears speeding mopeds before I do. And last night, he cooked dinner and got my Avatar ticket in advance. Along with the general fond company and lack of interest in each other, I think this is what an old marriage is like.

XOXO

Flight Of The Midnight Sun

As I watched the sun rise in shades of pale orange, rose, and eggshell blue over the Atlantic Ocean at 6:30 AM Euro-time, and 1 AM U.S time from the plan window, it struck me that just like watching the sun rise in the middle of my night, I am in totally strange territory. In one month, I assigned myself to living in a totally foreign country for three months. There was lots of last-minute paperwork, not much planning, and a sense of total disregard for reading any of the prepatory material. Watching that midnight sun rise, I realized that not only was I not traditionally "ready," I also have no clue what I am doing. After a brief moment in which my eyes suddenly burned with a wall of saline tears pressing against the back of them, much to my total horror and embarrassment due to my attentive seatmate watching me, it passed. I am here. I said I'd do this. I need to do this. Already, I am stretching boundaries, making new friends, and opening myself up totally to whatever new experiances find me (including a group outing planned for what will be dubbed "The World's Most Offensive Scavenger Hunt" to a park replete at night with prostitutes, transvestities, and drug dealers in effort to find the holy trifecta of a transvestite drug-dealing prostitute, just to say we met one,) and just rolling with it.

Something's different in the air over here. It's not just the 50 degree temperature. It's not the food smells, or the palm tree that grows below my hotel window. It's a different permiable attitude of "what will be, will be." I am far calmer and more out-going and humorous here than at home. It's easy to be with a group of strangers, as a stranger, when all the natives expect you to be different anyway. Don't get me wrong-- I'm still alternately scared shitless and asking myself what the fuck I've gotten myself into, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Florence, already.

I am pretty sure this is the craziest and most exciting thing I have ever done.

Thank you for letting me go do this. It means so much.

I miss you all.

XOXO

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.

Have Yourself A Furry Little Christmas.

By this time, you should have opened up presents, stockpiled your stash back under the tree, and sat back and looked over it all like the Overlord (or Overlady) of the Material. You should have stuffed your face with Christmas ham or turkey and potatoes, and special Christmas cookies so much that you've popped the top button of your jeans and vowed to start hitting the gym with a vengeance as soon as possible. Maybe you've imbibed enough eggnog to vomit. Maybe, like me, you started your morning off with champagne enough to put you down for not one, but TWO, afternoon naps. (Mmmm, bubbly...what a weakness.)

You should have called your friends and family to tell them that you love them. You should have been tickled pink by all the random "Merry Christmas" texts you got from acquaintances. (You should have responded to them, too. Nice is as nice does, after all, to run the risk of sounding like your, or my, elderly Southern ex-deb grandmother.) You should have seen a few important people in person, and remembered the ones you can't see (Nora, my best, the Cheech to my Chong, the Jeff to my Mutt, the Curly to my Larry, the Lucy to my Ethel-- this was such a weird Christmas without you this year. I love you; I miss you; I hope you're having the time of your life in New Zealand, but I can't wait to see you again!).

You should have napped. You should have stretched out on the couch and watched some TV and a movie or two. (The Notebook-- and yes, I couldn't watch the end.) You should have helped your family or friends or whoever you're doing Christmas with cook or clean or prepare for dinner and lent a general hand. You should have gone outside for a walk in a winter wonderland. You should have thrown a snowball and tried to catch a snowflake on your tongue without thinking of acid rain or our deteriorating atmosphere.

You should have celebrated Christmas by doing whatever makes most sense to you, in other words. But I know it can be hard. One reader asked me after a recent post what the single are supposed to do for Christmas. (Um, well, I can tell you from a perfectly candid side-- Christmas for me this year was nearly identical to Christmas for me last year, irregardless of status. Nothing special happens for those in relationships, save possibly the creation of an ulcer worrying if his/her family is going to like you if you're doing the whole "Christmas With The Other Family" thing.)

Christmas is filled with more promise than any other holiday (save maybe Valentine's Day). A single person can feel as if they belong in the Land of Misfit Toys. You are told, trained, and brainwashed from childhood to believe that you'll be unwrapping your heart's desire on the morning of December 25th. But, as another friend of mine recently pointed out, sometimes that's not possible. And I know it.

Sometimes, there is no big surprise. Disappointment can be hard to downplay, but, as I (continuously) get older, I start to realize that certain things no longer are so weighty. A small present haul doesn't mean much compared to a large one as long as you're content with what you have. In fact, Christmas lists start to become non-existent. Mine this year was simple-- new running shoes and plaid Burton luggage. Check, and check, and there was my Christmas, for the most part. There are other little things you learn to deal with with maturity. Don't let the little things bother you-- a lack of a call is not a lack of affection. Take a time-out. Realize people are busy with their own families and plans. Keep yourself busy and keep it from getting you down. I firmly believe that love and care does not have to be stated-- love can be implied, and it doesn't need to be over a phone line. In some cases, an international phone call is just not possible. In other cases, it just may not be the thing to do.

It's not always feasible for the people you want to be there for you to actually be there. You may have to make do without friends, or family, or significant others. "Single" comes in a lot of different styles around Christmas time. "Single" can look like someone who's closest friends haven't come back to the hometown for the holiday; "single" can look like the person who is apart from their S.O; "single" can look like the other blogger I read who decided for economical decisions to stay in New York, by herself, than overload the money and stress of going home to Texas and her parents. Take a look around. Find another "single" person. Two "singles" together aren't "single" anymore.

My biggest savior this Christmas has been my friend's dog that I'm holiday-sitting for. Dubs is a Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler/Labrador cross, roughly the size of a small pony, very warm at the foot of my bed at night, snores exactly like someone else does, and very dedicated. (Dubs would make a wonderful man.) He's become my (almost realistically sized) shadow. When I start to lose purpose, I turn to Dubs. There's always a walk to be had, a tennis ball to throw, or even just a paw to hold. (He holds hands. It is adorably wonderful.) It's hard to be down when big orange eyes are looking at you like, "Hey, get up. I need you, please. Here is my tennis ball. Make yourself useful."

More than anything, I usually need a use in life. Give me a project or an aim, and I am a happy and productive girl. When a dog has figured this out, I'm taking it to mean I wear it on my sleeve in flashing neon. So I'm thankful for this, this year. It gives me something to do other than mope and stress and think, re-think, and over-think.

What else am I thankful for? I'm thankful for my great, caring friends and wonderfully wacky family. I'm thankful for the very gracious texts I got from people it means a lot that included me in their yearly Christmas-texting rounds. (Hello, a few surprises this year! I must be doing something right to merit those.) I am thankful for the lessons I've learned in the past few months, and the happiness and contentedness I've found through them. I'm thankful for the people who have taken a chance on me. I'm thankful for the things I have learned to say. I'm thankful for the conversation, the arguments, the smiles, and the little things. And I'm thankful for you, dear reader, for your support and time.

Now excuse me. I have to go take the dog on a car-ride to go see some Christmas lights and smoke a cigarette since I can't do it in the house.

Merry Christmas, and, if worse comes to worse, go run rampant with some mistletoe.

XOXO