Go With The Flow

What's more hip right now than vampires? Tampons, obviously. Let's talk about vaginas, shall we?

I'll admit it-- I'm a bit of a brand whore, and I'm as loyal as the Labrador Retriever you grew up with when I find a product I like. I've worn the same American Eagle jeans since I was in middle school, because they're the cuts that fit me best. I've washed my hair with Garnier Fructis since I was a senior in high school. I only ride in Dansko paddock boots, and Ariat tall boots. I buy Barilla pasta (if it's good enough for the supermarkets in Italy, it's good enough for me). I pitched an ungodly fit when my local pharmacy changed my straight-from-the-brand Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo to the generic birth control alternative, and had it promptly changed back. (Part of that may have been because the generic pills looked like they had been pressed by some enterprising young meth-head in his back-country trailer park, and also the fact that I am NOT willing to risk my fertility on the cheap shit, because babies are HELLA expensive.) And I have always, ALWAYS used Playtex Gentle Glide tampons (fresh scent,) for as long as...well, for as long as I've been cursing being born female and fertile.

However, this is not to say that I can't occasionally be lured away from a specific product by the seductive siren song of another. While I may be very, very loyal and monogamous in my relationships with people, my relationships with products have a tendency to sometimes end up polygamous. Take, for instance, the last time I found myself journeying down the "feminine care" aisle of my local Rite-Aid on a last-minute "Dear god, like the three bears, my bathroom cupboards are bare and Goldilocks (Little Red Riding Hood would possibly be more apt?) has come to town!" mission. There they were, right in front of me-- the pink box with the familiar script, the reassuringly large "S", the vague floral scent wafting out of the box already. But, three boxes to my right, something caught my eye. It was black. It was colorful. It was modern. It was aggressive! It was a box that said, "Hey, cool lady, let's kick this period's ass like it's past 4 AM at Bungalow 8 and you're on Andy Warhol's arm!" Someone had obviously done enough market research to pick up on the fact that a black background with bright color accents just pops off the shelf (can't express to you how many books I have mysteriously ended up owning based on the fact that my brain sees bright pink on a black cover and instantly equates it with the next Great American Novel and NYT best-seller...which never, in fact, ends up happening), because after some hemming and hawing over the comfort of the familiar versus this bright new interloper, the box of regular-weight U by Kotex Click tampons had popped right into my basket. Women will endlessly be attracted to the shiny and new.

After two trials of "Why could I not have been born a Brandon?" use, here's the list of pros and cons that I've compiled for this new product in regards to how they stand up/fill out/carry their (water) weight against my beloved Gentle Glides. As always, every woman (and her flow) is different, so just because I found it a certain way doesn't mean that you necessarily will, too. Just keep that in mind. Now that we've got that across, here are my VERY opinionated views:

From an aesthetic point of view, the box and packaging of U have it allllllll over Playtex. The tampon cartridges themselves are much smaller, which is convenient because trying to fit a super-weight Playtex tamp in the pocket of a pair of girl's jeans is pretty much like trying to shove an atomic missile into hiding inside of a lycra catsuit. You know something is in there. The U's small cartridge, ever so tiny enough to fit a handful in my summer clutch, also expands to click into place (hence the name, Kotex Click) rather neatly. I got the first box of U's when they offered blue, green, orange and yellow colors instead of the rather sickly purple they replaced the blues with, but hey. Still, they have much more personality than Gentle Glides. And I always thought a woman's tampons told you a lot about her personality.

The thinner plastic cartridge (I never understood why ANYONE, including my mother, would have ever used the cardboard cartridges; I mean, I get that they're more environmentally friendly, blah blah blah go hug a tree, but the sensation of trying to use one is like trying to insert the corner of the box of Annie's Organic Mac & Cheese you just ate for lunch into your down-undah. NO THANK YOU!) also equates to an interesting other plus for Kotex-- you know that phenomenon that happens as you get towards the end of your Time of Bleed when your vagina just kind of shuts down like a government building under attack and stops accepting any foreign bodies into it and is all, "PENIS OR BUST!" and for the life of you, you cannot plead, cajole, coerce, or force another tampon comfortably in there to save your life, or your new pair of underwear? Well, with the very slim plastic cartridge body, the U just kind of...slides by your vaj's defenses unnoticed, like Bond. No struggle, no teeth-gritting, and no more crying and pleading while in a public bathroom stall that distracts other people around you. Solid.

However, the U does fall short of my beloved Gentle Glides in a few places: Namely, the fact that the regular-weight U's are about half the size and absorbency of the regular-weight Gentle Glides. They don't expand as well to fit and leak-proof your lady-bits quite as well as Gentle Glide's cotton protection does, either, probably due to the fact that Gentle Glide's cotton tamps are roughly the same softness and fluffiness that newborn baby kittens are, while U's tamps are made of something that feels suspiciously like yesterday's newspaper that's been lining your kid sister's hamster cage overnight. It's kind of stiff, kind of hard, and has this weird...well, this weird almost shell to the cotton, which acts as kind of like a primary defense system that your bodily fluid have to breach before the damn tamp will begin to absorb. Not, generally, the best thing that one looks for in a tampon.

All in all, this one's kind of a wash. While I continue to buy my Gentle Glides for their vastly superior protection, I've also started making sure that I always have a small box of the regular-weight U's kicking around for either those really light days when my vagina decides that it's on maximum security lockdown, or for those special occasion events like summer weddings, outings on boats, or barbecues when I need either my small clutch instead of a large purse, or don't want to look like I'm smuggling Cuban cigars back into the country in my denim short's pocket. So, U by Kotex Click-- worth the fancy-shamancy hip packaging, but not worth it to entrust any new pairs of underwear to provided that like Victoria, you should want to keep your little monthly visitor a secret.

XOXO

The Little Things, AKA: Why Do Men Hate Mirrors?

I know I'm incredibly self-righteous and preach about the benefits of making an Overnight Kit, and just ever-so-recently made a comment about how it would be really smart to carry one whenever you leave your house, among other things. But as you should know by now, I only do what I tell other people they should be doing about .012% of the time. And it seems to me as if every time you shave, put on the good lingerie, and bring the damn thing, you never end up with a reason for needing to shave, wear the good lingerie, and bring the damn bag, because you find yourself walking through your front door at a respectable early-morning hour grumbling about how that was a shave completely wasted. In fact, I actually have a card somewhere that says exactly that-- "Was it worth shaving her legs for?"

So, how does a girl deal when she does not have the needed amenities?

Well, first, we hide in bed and bitch, and consider crawling out your

window and over the dumpsters and hightailing it out before you roommates clap eyes on us and start shrieking about "Swamp woman! Tia Dalma has come to exact her revenge! Calypso! We're all gonna diiiieeeee!"

Then, we get crafty. I don't understand why men have an aversion to mirrors that rivals that of vampires, but it seems like they do. In the morning, I need to look at my head before I walk out of ANY door, be it a bedroom door, or a front door. This goes double for when it's hot, I've been sweating, and I'm pretty sure something nested in my hair during the night, like possibly, your cat, or a cockroach. Although I have heard some pretty creative and far-out excuses for why mirrors are not a part of the decor-- "I usually have my webcam in here and use that,"-- most people DO have something on them that's of equal use: the shiny, reflective screen of your cell phone. Granted, anyone with a slab-like Smart Phone has an advantage, and yes, the screen is small, so you'll have to inspect your hair and face in sections, but it works in a pinch. And believe me, this is one case in which you're not being pinched-- you're being grabbed.

The other thing I've noticed is that toothpaste, or a tube that doesn't require two people and a steam roller to get any gel out, seems to be a rare find. So here's another quick fix that can be found in most non-prepared purses, anyway: Gum. Just, please, if you're going to kiss goodbye, remember it's still in your mouth before that poor guy finds himself wondering a half-hour later when he popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

The only other words of advice I can give you are these: Use toilet paper to remove any excess make-up from the night before while keeping what's still good and hasn't run like a man who just heard the word "love" on your face. What's making you look like Gene Simmons in full stage make-up is most probably your eyeliner, falsely-labeled-not-waterproof-or-at-least-sweatproof mascara, and lipstick. Just use that as a guideline to swipe around your eyes and mouth for when you're mirror-challenged.

And, get dressed as much as possible. I mean, yeah-- if you were wearing a skin-tight clubbing dress the night before, people are gonna notice you traipsing back home at 9 AM. (And dammit, I don't care how much your feet hurt-- put the damn heels on again; don't carry them!) Just hold your head high. Pretend it's Vegas where dressing like that in early morning hours is perfectly acceptable. If you originally dressed more understated, re-create the outfit to the best of your abilities, if you can still find all your clothing on the messy floor or in the black hole under the bed. Chances are, anyone other than your one-night roommate and their roommates who saw you in what you were wearing last night aren't going to be seeing you this morning, so pretend that it's a totally valid new outfit that you put on specially for today. This means putting all your jewelry back on, tucking in your shirt again, and unrolling your pant legs. Just do it. You won't look so much like "Oops, Annie Get Your Clothes On! I Know Where You Were And Weren't Expecting To Be Last Night!" to everyone who sees you. Instead, they'll probably just think-- "She looked so well put-together until I got closer and noticed her hair. Poor girl. Should I try to comfort her and tell her that the starting phases of dreadlocks are a bitch?"

And can I please get some feedback on the phenomenon of how when you're ready for it, it never happens, but when you're all, "Jesus, I'm such a landscaping wreck, not even a Lowe's employee would want to rehab me, LOLZ!", you get hit out of nowhere like a freight train carrying a full load of "Don't You Feel Stupid Now?" Or am I alone and special-in-the-handicapped-way in that?

XOXO

Eat It.

There's this love/hate relationship I have. It deals mainly with me, and someone I see every time I sit down at a restaurant table or get out of the shower. It's with my body.

For the first time in over 5 months, today, I spotted my long-dormant abs. I have a body build that was best suited for when my Austrian-Hungarian ancestors toiled in fields all day and popped out kids left, right, and center, probably in those same fields without missing a step. With my manual labor years behind me, my aversion to pregnancy and desire to adopt, I'm pretty much stuck with incredibly dense bone structure, a perfect 36-27-36 hourglass shape, and a build that could be described as "as solid as a brick shithouse." As it has been.

The primary problem is this: I. Love. Food. Wait, let me expand on this: (WARNING: Food porn ahead. NSFHunger.)

I love cooking, I love eating, and I love drinking.

None of this is conducive with maintaining a weight or shape other than "round." My legs are the only thing that I know will always be there in some sort of cab-stopping appeal, because I won the genetic jackpot on that one, and I have what is now the equivalent of a lifetime of horseback riding under my breeches. And so, reluctantly, I'm a little bit of what is usually dismissively called a "gym rat." I'm dedicated to 4 or 5 days a week of some sort of cardio and weight exercise. Being a "path of least resistance" person when it comes to working out, I chose the things that I can pretty much do in about 6-by-6 feet of room, preferably, standing still. (I told you, I'm lazy.) There's lots of side-bends to work my abs (which do not want to exist in the first place), lots of oblique twists (easy as turning your upper body while focusing on isolating muscles), and lots of weight training. I can punctuate homework or commercial breaks with 50-100 lunges a night, or I can sweat off over 100 calories dancing from sheer happiness and because I just flat-out love to dance. I like it when working out does not take time or much action, which is pretty counter-intuitive to the whole concept, but hey-- it's been working for me.

In part, it works because of the other things that I do. I ride, not nearly as much as I used to, but it's still a full-body workout. I took up running because...well, I don't know. I used to be one of the fastest sprinters in elementary school, but then puberty happened, and I remember looking at a girl on the cross country team during Women's Ensemble choral practice in high school and saying, "Do I LOOK like I enjoy running? The only times I run are when someone is chasing me, or I am chasing someone." And then I went and became a runner in college. Not a runner of any great shakes-- as a genetic sprinter (mom and dad were both track kids in their high school days, and then dad liked it so much he went into the Marines to prove he was one of the best damn runners Camp Lejeune saw during the 'Nam years), I top out around a mile and a half and pretty much decide right there is where I'll lay down and die. Admittedly, smoking does not help this. Smoking other things did for awhile, as I was asthmatic as a child but fixed it by building up some greeeeat lung capacity in my late teens. Now, after four months of eating whatever I wanted and getting my only excercise in walking Florence's cobblestone streets in heels and the periodic odd hike around Italy and raising my smoking to a national past-time level, running seems like it will pretty much be the end of me. At the moment, I am one gigantic pulled, strained, sore, slowly re-building muscle. However, also being a masochist, there's something that appeals to me in a very dark and disturbing place in waking up to go kick myself in the ass.

And when I am not stuffing my face decadently and holding up both middle fingers to calorie-counting, I eat damn well. By that, I mean I eat SMART. I take a long, hard look at what I'm eating regularly, and I think about the nutritional and health values in them, or lack thereof. I've never had to detox or diet in my life, but I'm not above cribbing some ideas or eating tips from them.

It's only going to work for you if you find foods you're excited to eat. Look for foods or diet strategies that seem good and feasible to you, personally. I don't care what your friend is doing-- one of mine has calorie amounts memorized, but I could care less as long as I don't have to be rolled out of a restaurant and picked up by a fork-lift. I started eating Greek yogurt with honey after I saw an extremely appealing ad for it in Cosmopolitan, and it wasn't until about a year later that I found out that it has 4 times the protein in it for the same amount of fat that regular yogurt does. (Also, it brings me right back to a specific time in history-- 8 AM Technical Writing classes Tuesdays and Fridays Fall semester of '09, in sweatpants, unwashed, and considering using the keyboard in front of me as a pillow. I ate a lot of Greek yogurt and honey in that class.) A healthy alternative to tuna salad of tuna mixed with hummus just tasted better to me, and cut out some mayo that I don't really need in my life. I could eat salmon and avocados every day for the rest of my life, and both happen to be high in Omega-3 fatty acids, which are one of the best things you can ingest, and something that my body responds incredibly well to. A recent British study found that after eating salmon, skin across subject's faces and stomachs seemed tighter and more toned within 30 minutes. Now, that's my kind of exercise.

Substitution is key. If you're trying to cut something out of your diet, you better have a good alternative to it, or you, my friend, are just going to backslide right into a truckload of Ben & Jerry's. Instead of chips, I started eating Pirate's Booty. Then, I moved from Pirate's Booty to a handful of cashews, or small bags of popcorn with Parmesan cheese sprinkled lightly over the top. And speaking of ice cream, banana slices, powdered with cinnamon, cocoa, or cinnamon sugar and sprinkles and frozen in the freezer for about 2 hours, have the same consistency and flavor as ice cream, with nearly none of the calories, and is also 1 of your daily fruit servings.

I try not to eat much processed foods. This does not mean I won't stop in the drive-by of McDonalds-- oh, no. A McNugget Happy Meal to go, please, and I can also order it in Italian if you want. But 4 nuggets is not 6 or 10 nuggets, and is just enough to satisfy a craving. Last summer, while I was so poor processed and therefore, expensive, foods were out of my budget, I cooked and ate more fresh, local, and inexpensive foods. By the time that I had a disposable income again and was grocery shopping, the shit that goes in to microwave pizzas and flavored chips made me literally sick to my stomach. Cutting the SHIT out of your fridge and freezer is one way to get healthier, STAT. And remember-- if you don't buy it, it's not there.

NEVER, EVER deny yourself something you really crave. (This applies to nearly all things in life, except for when it applies to cheating.) If you don't eat it, you're just going to obsess about it and be unhappy, and what's the point in looking good if you're not happy and a bitch to everyone? Just limit yourself. If you want chocolate, have a square, not the whole bar. (Unless you're PMSing, and in which case, rock on with your bad and bloated self. Worry about that shit later.)

Keep track of what you eat, and you'll be amazed how much you're putting in to your body. I keep a food log periodically if I feel like I'm really getting off-track in my eating, just to see where during the day I'm caving in and snacking, and where I'm really losing it. It also helps to have a visual reminder that you just ate 2 hours ago, so if you are feeling "hungry" again (read: "bored"), you can see that you, in fact, are probably really not. ASK YOURSELF-- "Do I really need this?"

I know that short of a stretching rack and bone shaving, I am never going to be a size 2, or a real size 4 for that matter. I am a size 6. Haven't always been, but probably will now always be. I will never be a Victoria Secret's model, no matter how much of their underwear I buy, or how good my catwalk walk is. (And believe me-- it's good. Miss Jay of ANTM would be proud.) But I know what my body can do-- it can sprint a half-mile, ride a three-day event, gracefully absorb a semester of devil-may-care eating, and keep a man enthralled for a few hours or a night or few. That's the biggest lesson that you have to learn about making nice with your body: it is never going to look just like someone else's, because it's yours. It's pointless to hunger (literally) over a size 4 if where you are healthy and naturally balanced is a size 8. I have friends 5 inches taller with bird bones who weigh 12 pounds less then me, and they're the ones jealous of my body. Body perception is skewed. It just is. I am my body's harshest critic, just as I have a feeling the skin in the buff that you see in the mirror is very different from how anyone else who has the pleasure of seeing it views it. (In fact, I have it on good authority that as long as you're naked, most men are really, really pleased with your bod.) So, as long as it's healthy and does what you need it to do, be happy with your body. That's centuries of family history in there, and only the way you treat yourself is going to change anything. Exercise, smart eating, and a few minor changes in your daily routine, and you'll quickly come to terms with the body you're bringing to the beach this summer.

And a note to the men: Just as women have an obsession with being thin, you seem to have a desire to NOT be thin. I have dated it all-- beer kegs of the undrinkable kind; taut soccer bods; tall and slender men; and ripped jocks. You may call them "chicken legs" or "getaway sticks," but women are surprisingly lenient when it comes to men's bodies. Let me tell you why: because we KNOW you're not the last guy we dated. I went from over 200 pounds of bicep this, six-pack that, lats and quads and glutes, oh my! to a body nearly half the width and on whom that sort of tone-age would be impossible, and do you know what I was thinking? "Hair. Manly body hair. Where have you been; I've missed you so! Thank you, Jesus, thank you!" What we liked in one man is sure not to be what attracts us to another. So, stop hiding under the covers like a woman, or bolting for the bathroom in the middle of the night while you think we're asleep. Because we're awake, and as you slide out of bed and creep out of the room, we've got one eye peeked open and are thinking, "God, I love that ass."

XOXO

New Faces, Deep Tans, Deep Ties.

I've met a lot of people while in Italy. Australian guys, New York girls, Minnesota couchsurfers, a Singapore traveler, and accidentally Vermonters. Without meaning to, I kind of stumbled right into the world of Couchsurfing.org when I made instant friends with a girl couchsurfing her way back through Italy and Europe. The day she left, I got a phone call from another couchsurfer, asking if I could show her around Florence. I wasn't expecting on doing anything that day other than eating Nerbone's lampredotto sandwich and catching up on all of my past-past-due Portfolio homework, but I broke down and said "sure" after listening to how enthusiastic and eager-to-please my new Florentine acolyte sounded. I grumbled about it all the way to the Marcato, but promptly fell right into friendship, just like always, with this fun, spunky girl from Singapore. I ended up spending the day with her and Arielle, just having Girl Time in our apartments and gelato shops across the city, and the homework remained not done. (Or even started.) This morning, I was reading one of my favorite travel chick-lit books by Jessica Morrison, "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club", which I brought with me for comfort reading, when I found this passage:

"These things may have happened only months or weeks ago, but it is our only history, so we hold onto every moment with both hands. It's all we have...Zoey and I promise to visit each other back home and to email constantly, but behind these promises we harbor the unspoken truth that the friendship we embraced so voraciously here-- for travelers, I have learned, must be voracious with their friendships-- won't be easily reconstructed. 'This was the best time, you know,' she whispers to me the next morning as we wait for her taxi to the airport to arrive. 'Nothing will ever be the same as Buenos Aires.'" (Morrison, 200-201).

Just like nothing will ever be the same as Italy. The people I've met, the new faces that I hold as dear from three months, or even just three days, as the ones I've known for years; the sights I've seen, the smells, the tastes, the things that whispered against my skin-- hot air, warm sun, soft fabrics, chilly water, ancient dust, cold stone, countless strangers-- the adventures with both old friends and new ones-- none of this will ever be the same. I may be counting down (27 days,) but the shifts that have opened up in me to rearrange to fit new people into my life are forever. Easter and exploding carts with Aussies. Drinking on a pebble beach in Cinque Terre at 3 AM with Alli. Thursday Night Girl's Night (dinner, drinks, dessert, dishing out gossip,) with the Ghibellina Girls, and our mutually-enabling shopping, chocolate, and lazy afternoons with Arielle. Missed trains with Naomi. A group of drunk 30-something Americans and a bartender with bulging biceps in Montorosso. Cannoli-slinging Sicilian twins Massimo and Jean-Luca in Vernazza with the best ricotta cream filling in the world and saucy wit. Equally frustrated Italian classes with Erin, dissolving frustration into laughter with sentences like "Albero e mio ragazzo," "Tu sei caldo come il pane," and "Io lavoro a banca," the last of which does NOT mean, as those of you who may have taken a few years of French like we did and be horrified, "I wash in the bank"-- instead, it means "I WORK in the bank."

Without meaning to, and kind of hesitantly, Arielle and I sort of became Couchsurfing's Florence mascots, but in the end, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Traveler's attract each other. That's the way it is, the way it should be, and the the way it has to be. I've learned more from these people about life, relaxation, indulgence, mellowing, making things happen, taking chances, Aussie slang, how women and men are the same the world over, and just taking life one step at a time than I ever could have by myself. I whole-heartedly encourage you to seek out other wanderers when you wander away from home, because you'll find that where they are, you and a feeling of home is, too.

Now, unlike some of my more genetically-gifted new friends, I am white-white-painfully-white. I'm a Northern European snow princess. But there is nothing I love more than sun and a good, natural tan. I've been spending two hours of every blisteringly sunny day sitting out on the balcony in my bikini, trying desperately to achieve a color other than "fish-belly white", to no avail. Today, finally aggravated beyond everything, I stomped back into the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel and the bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, and slathered myself in the oil like I was basting myself to marinate. And back out and marinate I did. Not only did the oil soak right into my Mediterranean-dried skin like an oasis in the desert, but the smell and the suppleness it gave to my skin felt incredibly sexy, like some sort of Grecian sun goddess. And I was browning nicely within ten minutes. Huh. I suggest this trick to anyone fed up with dry skin and slow tanning, and not a redhead. When in Italy, you have to live like the Italians do.

XOXO

Yankee Girls

Last night at dinner with the Ghibellina Girls, we were talking about how different girls from different parts of the U.S act...differently. We all agreed that a Brooklyn Girl can fuck you up in a New York Minute; that Californian Girls just want to have fun, and that Southern Girls are far too sweet for their own good. "Yeah," I said a little glumly at the end of our little exposee. "And then there's Vermont Girls. I can load a rifle and push a car uphill in snow. There's nothing cute about that."

But this morning, I was obscenely glad to be from nowhere else.

Already running late to meet my parents in their first day in Firenze, I hopped into the shower only to find that in this, the apartment in which SOMETHING is always wrong, today it was our hot water. Or, rather-- our lack of hot water.

I grumbled about it for a minute, cursing in a mix of English and Italian, because, after all, our landlord is Italian, and then did the only thing I could do, because I sure as hell wasn't going to go greet my parents two days unwashed and looking like I had been living on the streets of Florence-- not the way to convince them I'm A Big Girl Now. Instead, I went into the kitchen, found out largest pot, heated water, took a big plastic cup and the pot of water into the shower, and proceeded to take a manual shower. God bless all those times my father, an eternal DIY tinkerer, decided to fuss with the hot water heater at home and render us hot-water-less while he installed a new one; once, for an entire summer of pot-and-cup showers like this. (I had to plead with him to finish putting in the new once before school started.)

But those shower-less days at home paid off. I write to you, squeaky-clean and still in a towel, ready to go make today my bitch. Yankee ingenuity at it's finest.

XOXO

Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One.

There are a few things in life I like to indulge in: alcohol, shirts, shoes, smoking, driving above the speed limit, cheese, fresh artisan bread, a good latte, women's magazines, lavender soap. And then there are a few things in life I just can't deny myself, no matter how bad it gets or how much it will cost me: books, men, chocolate, the perfect dress, a chance of a lifetime, and underwear. Oh, the underwear.

Usually much to the delight of my men, underwear is basically the crack cocaine of my life. I get flat-out withdrawls if a pair has not been purchased within a month. I would probably be willing to trade my car for a Vickies' credit card with no limit and a floorboard-low APR. I am a staunch Vickie's Girl. I cannot pass a Victoria's Secret without going in and at least scoping out the 'wears. The Semi-Annual Sale is like a religious holiday to me, or Christmas, and it happens TWICE A YEAR. I am on a first-name basis with the staff of all the Vickies in the area and I get frequent tip-offs on the best deals, dates of sales, and new orders. I may or may not have personally funded one of Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen's infamously outrageous outfits for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show by now. I also may or may not own over 150 pairs of underwear. (The true number is a closely guarded secret like National Security or Kim Cattrall's real age.)

That is "underwear." Not, excuse me, "underpants." (I wore those when I was three.) Not "undergarments"-- those are like Spanx and the full-coverage deals. Not even "undies," "grunders," "knickers," or "drawers." "Skivvies" is acceptable. What is never, ever acceptable is the cringe-inducing "panties." Saying "panties," especially if you are a man, makes me think of you holding a pair of five-year-old's underwear. The only people who can say "panties" and get away with it is Victoria him/herself and your lady grandmother. (And probably the Queen of England. She strikes me as a "panties" person herself.)

If you want to get technical, than by all means, let me inform you. Women can wear hiphuggers, cheekies, briefs: high-rise briefs, mid-rise briefs, low-rise briefs, boyshorts, thongs, g-strings or v-strings, tangas, bikinis, string bikinis, Brazilians, and garter sets. These all come in cotton, lace, mesh, satin, silk, nylon/spandex, no-show, and every pattern or color imaginable. They can be trimmed with anything from lace, to ruffles, to rhinestones, to sequins, to ribbon. The combination choices are enough to make your head spin. Men out there, right now, I know what you are saying. You are saying "Thank you for the pictures, but What. The. Fuck? A tanga and a bikini look totally the same to me. What are you women thinking?!" Let me tell you, unlike your collection of plaid and striped boxers, out of my collection, no two pairs of underwear are exactly alike-- there is no repeating here. Why would you ever want to, given all these options?

It all seem very extravagant, to a Marie Antoinette-level. I feel as if I should be reclining somewhere on a chaise lounge popping truffles into my mouth and cackling, "Let them wear Hanes!" But let me explain to you the draw of underwear: No other garment can dress your more to fit your mood than underwear can. No one else ever has to know that under your worker-bee required uniform, you are sporting man-eating skivvies. No one needs to know that when you are depressed, you wear black underwear even if the rest of your outfit is bright and cheerful. If lace makes you feel dangerous, great. If ruffles make you feel angelic, wonderful. I personally have a lucky Sunday Football pair that has a helmet print on the ass (this is why you love me). Just knowing that it's there, hidden, has the ability to affect your entire mood. A good pair of deliciously sexy underwear puts a spring in my step, a gleam in my eye, and an agenda in my mind like nothing else can. It's the power of mood, in a tiny scrap of fabric that I probably pay way too much for(average price for a Very Sexy lace hiphugger or cheekie at Vickies: $16), but am willing to, just because I know what the idea means to me: confidence. When you cannot fake it, you dress for it, from your bottom, up. I throughly believe that the most important part of a woman's wardrobe resides in her underwear drawer. (Also, not a good idea to hide things in there, ladies. It's always found.) The good news vis-a-vis price vs. quality of a pair of Vickies undies that is, if treated right, they can last you four YEARS. Legitimately. I've owned numerous pairs since I was 16, including my pair of "lucky underwear", and you better bet your sweet ass I'm still wearing them. Now, that's CPW (Cost Per Wear) for you!

Underwear are a woman's best friend; not dogs, and not diamonds. All you single ladies, go invest in a few pairs that make you feel like you, not Adriana Lima, should be strutting down the catwalk clad in next to nothing, because you, lady, are too hot for clothing to handle. These are the secret Weapons Of Man Destruction for you to wear not only on dates, but whenever you so choose to feel like the cat's lack-of-pajamas. And for those of you lucky gals in relationships-- go buy something your S.O has never seen before; maybe, something a little different then you would normally wear. Variety is the spice of life, and of the boudoir. (I just said "boudoir." I feel as if I should be elegantly smoking a cigarette out of an ivory holder and pouting at my French lover while calling him "mon petit chou." And if there was ever any question, that term of endearment alone is proof the French are flipping crazy. Although, they give us La Perla, so I will cease and desist my complaining.)

And while we're wrapping up the topic, let me lightly touch on men's underwear options. They are significantly shorter, so this will be (haha--) brief. You have briefs (AKA: tightie-whities or tightie-whatever colors), boxers, and boxer-briefs. (If you are European, you may have speedos and trunks and bikinis.) This is what I have to say: Boxer-briefs. Amen. They are like the Wonderbra for the man world-- they lift everything up and put it where it should be, make everything nice and tight, and show everything off to its full advantage. However, there is a rule: if you've got some extra flesh around your waistband, boxers for you, my friend. No muffintop. And if you are a beanpole and look like an emaciated African child in boxer-briefs-- boxers for you, too. I don't want to be thinking "feed you!" when I should be thinking "maul you, you sexy man-beast!" And no spoofy boxers, (yes, American Eagle, I am talking to your merchandise of the hot dogs and crabs and glow-in-the-dark hot tamales.) (I am not kidding. Follow that link. If I woke up to a short's full of glowing hot tamales coming at me, I would be out of that bed and running so fast the hinges on your front door would never close the same again. It's just like colored or glow-in-the-dark condoms-- whatever is coming at me, I want to be as natural, non-threatening, and serious as possible. I am trying to have sex here, not get raped by a circus clown. Thank you.) No one ever went wrong with classic plaid or preppy striped boxers. I am particularly partial to both patterns in blue, myself.

And yes, to answer your question, I could feasibly go for over a third of year or five months without ever having to do laundry for a clean pair or go involuntarily commando. And also yes, a Victoria's Secret gift card would be the perfect gift for me if you ever felt so moved. (Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh, please!)

XOXO

This Is What I Believe In...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Be very, very jealous.

I shall spill later.

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

XOXO

"Good Girls Stay Home. Bad Girls Go Everywhere."

So, first off, let me apologize for the style of the last post-- I may have been a wee bit intoxicated, and unlike Jack Kerouac, apparently do not write either eloquently or coherently when alcohol is in my system.

So props to you if you got the drift of it. Long story short, it was a good night until my car was towed, but the Civvy is back in my possession, $72.50 later, and sprung from the impound lot, so life is good. By the way, if there was ever any question, an impound lot is basically jail for cars. It was one of the saddest sights of my life to see my sturdy little burgundy Civic behind the chain link fence with total wrecks and junkers. I can only imagine what may have happened to, all alone and in the cold overnight with the rust and mechanical failure of the other cars. After getting into it, I immediately caressed the steering wheel and stared apologizing profusely to it. "I'm so sorry, baby; you're so good to me, and I go and get you towed to car jail! You're not a bad car-- I'm just a bad owner!"

It may have been the closest to tearing up I've come in awhile. I take my cars seriously. It is basically my child.

Because I'm (becoming) a big girl, I've started to realize some things about preparedness and my social life. Or maybe that's a lie. Maybe when I saw the size of Gypsy's shower during one of my Drink n' Strip Jenga visits to the bathroom to remove under layers of clothing, I started to hyperventilate. Which turned into full-on panic-mode after my car went MIA and it looked like Emily and I may have been spending the night on the extra mattress and have to use said shower in the morning. It is basically a box that was placed in the narrow little bathroom that plumbing pipes were then put through. I have the "fit 5 people, no problem" Party Shower at home. Ok-- so "narrow" and "little" can practically describe Gypsy' and Greece Lightning's entire apartment, but I don't have to live there, so I don't care. Plus, they are boys who have apparently heard of two very important things: bleach, and cleaning. I was impressed. What terrified me was the thought of waking up in the morning, in a strange little apartment, and having to make due with yesterday's smeared make-up and bed head around a guy I would ideally love to find me attractive and keep me around. I'm pretty certain looking like a hobo is a deal-breaker. As I told Southern Charm, I don't just wake up looking like this.

So I have put together the most clever little kit that would make a sexually active Girl Scout proud. I call it the "Quick And Easy Overnight Bag." ("Quick and easy" describes the effort it took to put it together-- not, as some might think, the morality of the maker.) Here's what it consists of:

- A small clutch or bag to hold all the contents, in a fun, girly pattern. It should be small enough to slip into a medium-sized purse. (I used one of the bags that they give you at Clinque when you get the little freebie make-up kits for spending over X,Y, a truly horrifying amount of dollars, on Clinque products. It has white and silver zebra stripes and is roughly half the size of your standard shoe box.)

- An extra pair of underwear. I don't know about you, but I hate wearing yesterday's undies, especially if I have been, um, in and out of them. I put a pair of no-show seamless ones in my kit, so that no matter what you wear, you will be covered and VPL-free. (That's "Visible Panty Lines," for those of you who don't know, and they are horrendous and awful and make my best gay friend cry.)

- Small, airline-sized containers of shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. You don't want to use whatever guy's all-in-one shampoo/conditioner/body wash, trust me.

- A toothbrush. He'll thank you, and you can probably use his toothpaste.

- A washcloth. I have to wash my face every night, to get make-up off so I don't wake up looking like a raccoon's hot trash girlfriend.

- A mini make-up kit, (you could even use the original make-up that came in the bag you're using if you're doing what I did). Mine contains a mini lip gloss, mini foundation powder and blush, a mini mascara tube, a very short eyeliner pencil, a small tube of skin cream, Q-tips (which I love and think are a totally necessary implement for removing and/or correcting eye make-up), two hair ties, a bobby pin, two cough drops, a sample-size bottle of perfume, and a few tissues. (Men don't seem to believe in tissues. I need them.)

- A box of mints. Fresh breath is always appreciated. And sexy.

- Two condoms. Always be prepared.

- An extra package of my birth control, so if I stay past the time I normally take it at home, I don't have to put it off and play Russian Roulette with my baby-prevention methods.

This is on top of what normally is in your purse, and for me, this includes my full make-up kit, cell phone, Moleskin notebook, camera, cigarettes and lighter, emergency "Is It Really That Time Of The Month?" tampons, water bottle, and a small brush. Remember, if you're staying overnight at a guy's place, he probably, (unless he happens to be Blowdryer Boy,) does not have the hair-care things that you use every morning, such as a blow dryer and a hair straightener, or an extra towel for your hair. (If he does-- worry about who's prettier, you, or him?) At home, play around with some hair styles that are flattering if you're like me and your naturally air-dried hairstyle isn't so stellar. (I like to put my hair up in a bun after a vigorous towel-dry and let it get curly from where the hair ties scrunch it. When I let it down, I have some nice waves and curls.) If you don't carry a brush with you normally, remember to throw one in. Ditto for a cell-phone charger, or remember to shut your phone off while you sleep to conserve its battery if needed. I also can't/refuse to/feel physically ill if I sleep in jeans, so I normally ask a guy for an extra pair of his shorts or a CLEAN pair of his boxers to sleep in. Most of the time, they are willing to provide you so you can be both comfortable and cute in their clothing.

The goal is not to "mark your territory" by bringing all your beauty supplies and clothing and stashing them around a guy's apartment-- the goal is to come in, use your little magic bag to transform yourself into something the next morning he isn't terrified of and is slightly in awe of how easily and breezily you accomplished it with one small bag, and then to leave with everything you came with. Comfortable for you, and comfortable for him.

(Sometimes I even leave with one of their pilfered shirts, but that's just me, and I just have a men's shirt collection to wear around the apartment on weekend mornings.)

I'll be back soon. I must update y'all on the Saturday Saga and why treating a man like he is invisible is sure to win his heart! (Yeah, riiight.) Until then, go forth and sleep over in style!

XOXO

"To Be Irreplaceable, One Has To Be Different." Fall Fashionista.

Yesterday afternoon, I watched the Lifetime movie "Coco" about Coco Chanel. One of her immortal lines happened to snag my ear like a dog on the end of a chain.

"To be irreplaceable, one has to be different."

What works for fashion works elsewhere, too. Self-marketing in both your professional life and in your relationships is incredibly important. For me, as a writer, it's asking myself: "What makes me a different writer people want to read from the thousands of other writers? What is special that I have to offer?" I know what the industry is like for writers. How many other young women are out there writing about love and sex and relationships? Thousands. Millions. How many of them can also write about fashion and review books and movies and food and music? How many of them can edit? Know how publishing works? Can run a staff? That is where my strength lies-- not in my content, but in the parts that make up my character and experience.

In relationships, the concept of being irreplaceable probably means more to me because the thought of being replaced leaves me terrified, with a deep, wrenching hole in both my heart and stomach. "What sets me apart from the other girls?" is what you have to ask yourself, especially when you're dealing with someone like Perfect, who has a veritable harem. So I call and text less-- not every day, maybe every two or three days. Sometimes I let it go five, long enough for him to notice my absence and wonder what I'm doing. I flirt harmlessly with other guys, letting it spill out to public places like my Facebook wall, where he can see. (Jealousy is a trait I've have just started to realize will motivate Perfect. Being an illogically jealous person myself, I can work with this.) Sass him back when he needs to be put into his place, because you can be damn sure no other woman is sassing him back. The boy can get a bit big for his britches, and those are some big britches in the first place. Make him work for it. Friday night when he was begging for pictures of me, I didn't send one, even though it killed me not to. He's used to things coming to him easily in life, and having to wait and work for something makes it so much more delicious when you finally do get it. Extending the suspense is both seductive and invigorating. As another quote Chanel said to one of her lovers, "You can be very cruel."

"Like anyone who is in love," he replied.

And to get back to the fashion segment of the Chanel quote on irreplaceability, sometimes it means not following trends. Acid-wash may be a huge look for fall, but I absolutely abhor it. Instead, I counter with the idea of plaid and denim: a red plaid shirt with either jeans or cut-offs has that rustic fall look that appeals to me so much. A bright red plaid shirt with light jeans and black boots has the same "BAM!" factor of acid-wash, without the bad 80s flashback aftertaste.


Another look I'm loving right now is the color combination of hot pink and gray worn together. I own a cute little colorblock dress with a hot pink ruffled top and a hair-waisted gray skirt, but a more casual example of this combo saw in the newest Victoria's Secret catalog completely blew me away, but realistically and stylistically. A long, hot pink hoodie or sweater worn over gray leggings with Uggs is the perfect relaxed fall outfit. I'm a college student-- I strive for the least amount of fuss necessary. This is right up my alley, and it looks cute while still remaining supremely comfortable. It makes you looks like the girl who rolled out of bed, ran a hand through your hair, out this on, and waltzed out the door. Which you did. Men love this "relaxed chick" idea. But please, if you're going to rock a laid-back look like this, do do more than rolling out of bed and pulling it on. Doing your hair and wearing some more attention-grabbing makeup than normal can turn an outfit like this into something downright striking.

Layering, especially in climates like Vermont in the fall, is essential. Pairing relaxed boyfriend jeans with one of your short summer dresses and an oversized or long cardigan or sweater and flats transitions you from warm climates (buses, cars, restaurants, your apartment,) to cooler climates (outdoors, classrooms, movie theaters, your boyfriend's apartment).

Right now, I'm finding myself wearing more and more men's-wear inspired pieces. During the Current's Layout Weekend, it was actually one of the shirts I bought for Perfect but haven't had a chance to give him yet. (Plus, I'm enjoying them.) I wanted to feel comfy and warm, and hey, now it will even smell like me when he gets it. Win/win. A few days later, it was one of the small V-neck men's sweaters I bought on sale at Old Navy, dark skinny jeans, and metallic gold ballet flats. Yesterday, it was a striped button-down shirt belted at my hips that looked like I was wearing one of my (nonexistent) boyfriend's dress shirt, but in reality, it was just a long button-up. Men love seeing you in their clothing. Wearing clothing that gives the illusion that you're already wearing a man's clothing makes other men wonder what their clothing would look like on you. Cute. It's literally dressing to flirt.

I call these sandals the "jewelry for my feet." They are so cute, so sweet, and so adorable that they instantly make me smile and put me in a good mood every time I look down at them. Plus, the leather is so soft it doesn't feel like you're wearing straps, the tassels are fun to play with when I get bored and need a distraction in class that isn't texting Perfect, and I most definitely got my pair for $20 at T.J Maxx. I win.

I recently went on a massive sweater hunt, stalking the ever-illusive perfect light-weight fall/winter sweater. I found this one at Anne Taylor Loft, which was made in the exact fabric and flattering cut that I like-- I swear that this cut makes you look RIDICULOUSLY slender-- but the three-quarter sleeves weren't exactly my thing. If you're going to wear a sweater, you might as well have long sleeves, right? Push them up if you get hot. It's better than if you get cold from missing that extra four inches of fabric. Then I found these at American Eagle. I liked them because they were full-length sleeves, and I felt the stripes made them young, sporty, and flirty. But they were cotton. Surprisingly, cotton is not my favorite. It sticks and stretches and doesn't breathe well and...well, I'll end up getting the purple and blue striped ones, but only because the colors look really good on me. But then...then I went to Pac Sun, and found Nirvana. In clothing, that is, not the grunge band sans infamous lead singer. These sweaters are made of the same light-stitch fabric as the Anne Taylor ones, but in full-length! And they're striped! It's like ATL and AE had beautiful sweater babies! I was so pleased with life.

As far as relaxed, lazy weekend t-shirts go, I like the message in this one. It's cute, it's sweet, it's flirty. However, why anyone would wear this shirt, even if it applies, is faaar beyond the scope of my understanding.

Dressing for an occasion excites me like to other. Halloween is coming up-- dress for the occasion! During the day, this may be black-and-orange themed, or something whimsical and slightly costume-y if you can get away with it at work or school. At night-- dress the fuck up! Go for a stroll around the neighborhood in costume even if you're too "old" to still get candy when trick-or-treating. I'm sure, if you're in the twenty-something crowd that I am, especially in a college town, some of your friends or local nightlife establishments will have bitchin' themed parties. Get back in touch with your childish side. Buy candy. Get lost in the magic of the holiday. And if dressing up is not your cup of tea-- good news for you-- basic black looks good on everyone and it's right in tune with this holiday.

I'm starting to think about taking Cait down to surprise Perfect for his birthday in December, and asking John, Knight in Shining Honda Armor, to also meet us at Perfect's college, converging on him from all friendly sides. I recently bought this dress, and and thinking that this may be, (at least for now,) the outfit I'd wear to surprise him.

Then again, I just got this top, too, which I'm a big fan of. I'm not used to wearing drapey shirts, but I like it. And that's Miss Alli with me, looking all hot.

We were off for our first Kitchen Bitches 2.0 restaurant review, so look for that here soon! In the meantime, ciao, bellas, and remember-- be irreplaceable!

XOXO

Can Ya Dig It?

There seems to be this Universe phenomenon where when you’re either in a relationship, or are in the confusing place either before or after a relationship, it suddenly starts raining men. Far from a “Halleluiah!” it’s usually more of a “What the fuck—NO!” I don’t know if it’s pheromones, or maybe if once you’re off the market men start to think of you as a “hot commodity”—that whole supply and demand thing—but for some reason, un-single girls never seem to have a problem finding interested men. It’s when you’re single that you feel like you’re going through a drought and possibly one of the most uninteresting, unattractive, unlovable people ever in the history of the world.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re happy that men pick up on. Certainly, people in a just-budding or going-well relationship have the certain je-ne-sais-quoi about them that seems to exude that all is right with the world. Who wouldn’t want to be with that? Also, Murphy’s Law might have something to do with it—when you want ‘em, you can’t find ‘em, and when you don’t need ‘em, they’re there.

During this marathon “What Are We Doing?” silent battle between Perfect and I, I’ve gotten two other advances from guys. Normally, I would be flattered. Now, I’m just frustrated and exasperated. The first was one of my Soho Boys—we briefly touched on this a few posts back. Anyway, feeling the need for some male company in my life, as I crave the presence of testosterone like pregnant women crave pickles and ice cream (“I have to have it NOW!”), I texted him last time I went to the beach solo to see if he’d like to keep me company. His response is a good example of why I equally adore and despair of my Soho Boys—“Well, I smoked so I’m feeling lazy, and we’re drinking before my roommates go to work, but after they leave I’ll let you know.” For background information, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. (Although I’m really not one to talk. I found myself in bed one morning with a 2-month-old bottle of wine and a cigarette at 10:30 AM after Perfect came down sick and had to cancel a visit to Burlington. It was not one of the proudest moments of my life, but it certainly was a special one.) My Boy didn’t end up joining me at the beach, but it became obvious that I had unleashed a younger monster when he proceeded to text me all afternoon to “check in.” Cute? Yes. I figure as long as I drop in enough “dude,” mans,” and “yo’s,” to keep it platonic, I can stave off an awkward conversation long enough to casually mention I’m “trying to work things out with a guy I was seeing” before my Soho Boy gets any real ideas.

The second guy was a little ickier than my (relatively) harmless ex-advisee. The ex-boyfriend of one of my freshmen-year dorm-mates and friends, he sent me an email at 1 AM the other morning. It started out fine, with the usual, “hey, it’s been awhile since we hung out,” which is true, and then quickly got much more awkward. “I think you should know I’m quite attracted to you,” he said. “Maybe we should talk about it. IM me sometime.”

Firstly, I don’t think I’ve seriously used Instant Messenger since high school, unless it’s to keep up with my friends far away at college. Secondly, I really wanted to nip this in the bud. I sent him back a very prompt and business-like email, basically saying that yes, it had been awhile—life has been crazy, I hope his summer’s been going well; I’m flattered, but there’s someone else and no hard feelings. Oh, and, yes, I already have his screen name. Hopefully, that’s the end of that. Men who try and date around an exes’ group of friends just make me feel nauseous. (The Flaky Artist successfully ruined another dorm-mate friendship of mine after he started dating a girl down the hall after he broke up with me because he was “still in love with a girl from home.” Yeah.)

And it’s not just me getting onboard with this “once you’re taken, you’re wanted” idea. A friend of mine in a long-term relationship has recently been getting (rather hilarious) advances from another guy, who knows, after being told, time and time again, that she already has a boyfriend, who she’s quite happy with, thanks. And Alli discovered the magic of multiple male attention on a Greyhound bus ride from Boston to Burlington. She started out with one phone number, and had collected three by the end of the trip. That’s what we call “quick work.”

---

Because I also like to give hints and tips to keep other Single Girls (or Bored Girls In Relationships, too, I suppose,) busy and happy, here are a few things that have really been rocking my world lately. Hope you get some inspiration! Also, I’d really love to get some feedback from readers about things that they like or do for fun and entertainment, because I have four weeks of summer vacation left, and am rapidly running out of both ideas and funding. The cheaper or more free the idea, the better!

(I also welcome general reader feedback. For those of you who have commented, thank you so much—your kind words and interest are what keep me going when I’m feeling too tired, too bored, or too uninspired to write. For those of you who read but don’t comment, really—I’d love to hear from you! Tell me what you like, what you don’t like, what you want to see more of, etc. Frankly, I’m amazed I haven’t gotten any comments back from people telling me I’m a crazy bitch for all the drama with Perfect. Just keep in mind—downright rude or spiteful comments will be deleted—only constructive criticism, please.)

For my birthday, I got a tube of A&W lip balm. Yes, A&W as in, the root beer. And let me tell you, it’s fabulous. It tastes just like the real thing, sticks to your lips even after swimming (!) and is a nice tan color that really makes a complimentary nude-colored lip balm that accents your natural lip color. Plus, it comes in a really cute little tube shaped like a can of soda. Lotta Luv makes it—it’s one of their Lip Sips collection. Unfortunately, I have no idea where you can buy it around town. Maybe CVS or a local pharmacy?

How To Be Single—A Novel, by Liz Tuccillo. You may know Liz’s name from He's Just Not That Into You, the single-girl almost-Bible she co-wrote with fellow “Sex and the City” writer Greg Behrendt. Her first foray into fiction, Tuccillo examines the relationship between five (thirty-something) single women in (surprise) New York City, and the relationships that they go through with other men, from the two yogis getting hot and heavy in a supposedly celibate ashram to the trek around the world that the main character makes, trying to decide if anywhere in the world, women have got the hang of being single and happy. From poignant to hilarious to introspective, How To Be Single draws from experiences you can certainly relate to to make you feel as if you personally know the characters. Honestly, reading this, I felt like I was out for a girl’s night. It’s engaging, smart, and will really make you think about the single lifestyle, love, both platonic and love relationships, and what makes you truly happy. (I read books with a highlighter in hand to mark down passages I particularly like or find interesting as I feel it’s good practice as a writer to identify what works. I killed a highlighter on this one novel. That’s how well-written it was. Never once do you feel like you’re being lectured to—it’s more like listening to a friend tell you about her last night out and give you advice about the guy you’re seeing. I got a lot out of it. I’m looking forward to what Tuccillo does next.)

I am brown as a roasted little chestnut from going to the beach this summer, and I love it. Previously this spring, I was paying $6.95 per visit to the tanning salon—Body Le Bronze on Pearl Street; it’s really nice and clean and calming, plus you’ll smell like coconut oil after you leave even if you didn’t use any—but now that I can be on the beach and rolling around on my towel like I’m roasting on a spit every nice and sunny day, I’m getting my color for free. Plus, I get to go for a dip right afterward to escape the heat, and let me tell you, Lake Champlain is warmer this year than I’ve ever felt it. It’s heavenly. Get thee to the beach!

Summer is the time for road trips, and as the New York City set moves out to the Hamptons in the summer, my group of friend and I drive 45 minutes to Montpelier and Worcester on the weekends. We started out in Stowe, but it was too small and touristy for us; plus, we didn’t know the local spots. Having Cait, a ex-Worcester resident, really opened up all the backyard swimming holes to us, as well as spot-on restaurant recommendations for eating before the drive back. (Dairy Crème is a must-go for their enormous soft-serve ice cream cones—a medium cone is enough for dinner, believe me. I prefer the classic Twist with rainbow sprinkles.)

This Sunday, Emily and I, and maybe Cait if she’s not busy, are going to make a day of exploring Montpelier. As a native Vermonter, I’m ashamed to say that before this summer, I’ve only been to the state capital once, in fifth grade on a fieldtrip to watch bills get passed in legislation. This was also during my bloody-nose phase, where, at least once every day, my nose would randomly unleash a waterfall of blood at the most random moment. (It happened to my mom during puberty, too, so I guess I only have the genes to blame.) One moment, I was sitting in a plush chair, watching gray-haired men push paper at each other and wave pens around, and the next minute, I was clutching both hands to my nose to try and pinch the flow closed. Business on the State House floor stopped as aides and my homeroom teacher rushed me to the closest ladies’ room. It was mortifying. I literally stopped legislation because of the amount of blood flowing from my tiny little fifth grader’s nose. When it stopped twenty minutes later and I walked back to my seat to join my classmates, there was a single nickel-sized spot of blood from my deluge staining the carpet. Suffice it to say, I made my mark on the politicians enough to not be considered for a page.

Hopefully, this Sunday will consist of coffee at Capitol Grounds, a nice sit-down on the State House lawn, some window-shopping at the trendy clothing stores like Salaam, a dip in the Pots possibly accompanied by Perfect and John, getting naked on the side of the road as tradition insists while I change, eating ice cream at Dairy Crème, and no bleeding. Here’s crossing my fingers.

I picked up Dear G-Spot: Straight Talk About Sex and Love by Zane at Borders for $4 during their book sale this past week. I figure, as someone who writes about love and sex, I also need to read up on what other people are reading about love and sex, right? Assess the market. See what works, and what’s lacking. Carve a niche, and all that. The low sticker price was what originally caught my attention, and I figured that even if it wasn’t so great it would be worth the four Washingtons. It’s actually quite good. Zane, probably best known for her erotica, is a straight-shooter who holds nothing back from her advice. Opening every chapter with a short essay or reflection on the content, she covers letters written to her asking for advice ranging from cheating to communication problems to oral sex to orgasms to how to ride a man like a rodeo star. (My favorite chapter? “Relationship Confusion.” Of course.) At times explicit, but always truthful, honest, and well-intentioned, she had me hooked at her disclaimer: “Warning: If you are sexually oppressed, sexually repressed, or have any sexual hang-ups whatsoever, please put my book down and slowly walk away from it. It is too damn hot for your ass.” Zane is a woman after my own heart.

I absolutely adore wearing men’s clothing: wifebeaters, boxers, hoodies, t-shirts, boys sport shorts for the gym; over-size rolled-cuff button-up shirts belted with a cute belt to give it a feminine flair and some shape; boyfriend-cut jeans, preferably rolled or cuffed in the summer; girl’s boxer briefs, etc. I’m the kind of girl who’s ridiculously happy wearing a guy’s wifebeater to bed and nothing else, or a clean pair of boxers or shorts around the house while reading the latest issue of “Cosmopolitan.”

I own a few pairs of “girl boxers” bought from the Aerie line at American Eagle (also known as my Place of Longest Employment,), as well as a pair of real men’s boxers. (Don’t worry—I bought them new for myself.) I tend to finagle to keep or steal a few men’s shirts or hoodies from my guys—sometimes it’s as easy as asking male friends if they have any clothing they’re thinking of getting rid of, and sometimes it’s stealing a t-shirt from the guy you’re sleeping with. (So worth it.) I also, as previously stated, have the bad habit of buying clothing for my men, and so usually end up with a few items I can’t part with in the end-run, like the large purple hoodie I bought for Jersey Blunt and then decided to keep. (He made a good bid for it one night though, hoping I’d forget it in his room, but I remembered right before I walked out the front door. It’s like my second bathrobe and favorite thing to curl up in with nothing underneath because it’s so warm and snuggly.)

We’ve been seeing a big influx with men’s-wear inspired clothing in the fashion industry lately, which I like. Just remember—keep it feminine. If you’re going to be wearing a large button-up, belt it or wear nice jewelry. Pair your boyfriend jeans with a fitted top and painted nails. The best (and cheapest) V-neck rugby shirts I ever bought were from the men’s sale racks at Old Navy—classic, flattering in the drape and fit on a woman’s more curvy body, and CHEAP! I bought a cashmere sweater for $20, people!) Wear a strand of pearls and tight jeans, and you have the perfectly relaxed, yet put-together preppy outfit.

There is almost nothing men like to see more than a woman in their clothing, or clothing like theirs. When Perfect slept over, I furiously pawed through my underwear drawer to try and find an acceptable pair of undies to sleep in while he was in the bathroom. My time ran out, and as I heard the toilet flush, my fingers closed around my pair of girls’ boxer-briefs that I bought in London, complete with a British flag on half the ass. I yanked them on as Perfect opened the bedroom door and then stopped dead. “Yeah?” I asked. “Hot,” was all he managed to say before staggering in and pulling me back to the bed. When not entertaining, and as an added bonus, boxers are possibly the most comfortable thing to lounge around in since, well, being naked, and certainly more roommate-friendly.

Burlington used to have The Second Floor, a nightclub that while decidedly a little seedy, was also the place where under 21 clubbers could go to get their groove on. Ok, so, it wasn’t the best place, but it was the ONLY place to go clubbing without a fake ID. Unfortunately, it closed in January. Lift opened in its placed, newly revamped, redecorated, with better music and DJs, and more high-class, with stricter dress codes, and more selective about who they let in. This was good; this was nice; this was what Burlington needed. BUT. Lift is almost an exclusively 21+ establishment. Obviously, for reasons such as alcohol and predators, this is safer, but at the same time, unless it’s a special event that’s 18 and up, (which happens about once a month or so,) the 20-and-under college crowd is getting STIFFED, and stiffed HARD. I, personally, love dancing. I love getting dressed up, getting a bunch of friends, and going and shaking my thang at night. I will pay to do this, too, as will most of my like-minded friends. Right now, Lift is seriously missing out on making some serious dough as well as having a hand in further cramping the nightlife of under 21’s in a city that already doesn’t have much of a nightlife during the non-school year if you won’t have a driver’s license pre 1988. What do you say, Lift? Rise to the challenge and let me and my friends come and rip up the dance floor? You won’t regret it, I promise.

That’s it for now—I’ve got a shower to take, an outfit to pick out, and places to be and people to see.

XOXO