Normalcy Sucks.

Cosmopolitans. Good beer. My monthly women's magazines. Men's facial hair. Expensive leather interiors of expensive European cars. Bubble baths. Sunday football. Snakes. A few of my favorite things.

Writer's block. Or, more accurately, having absolutely nothing of interest to write about. Not one of my favorite things.

There comes a moment in your life when you've laid the past just enough to rest that you're more "more" over it than "less," and in a sort of gray-zone about where to go from there. This moment generally comes around when you've progressed to being friends with your ex; when you have decided that you are perfectly content with the way things are (for the most part); or when you've committed to keep sabotaging yourself or others for the stupid fun of it, but in a very small way. This moment is called A Love/Sex/Relationship Columnist's Nightmare.

I'm the sort of person who could never be happy in a perfectly functioning and progressing relationship. In order for me to remain happy and interested, there's always got to be some small level of drama-- something for me to tear apart over and over again in my head. Average just doesn't cut it for me. That's why I'm so notoriously picky. There aren't many guys who can keep THAT intrigue up. And when there is no drama, no intrigue, and no new news to report, it means that there is nothing for you to read.

So if you've noticed a downswing in the amount of content on this blog recently, sorry. I have no one, and nothing, to bitch about. Boo hoo. Normalcy sucks. I'll try to pick it up. Anyone know an attractive, emotionally unavailable, intelligent man with a casual style and psychological, misogynistic, and mommy issues with an charismatic and addictive personality who just happens to be misguidedly looking for the love that he will never be able to maintain? Kind of my specialty. (Not much of a specialty.) I need a project.

Or a new hobby, possibly less destructive than this.

XOXO

Good Morning, Amurika!

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

The Nasty Bits

I like the forgotten foods. The misunderstood foods. The bizarre, Alice Cooper-esque foods that tend to scare people off of them. The foods it seems no one else in my age demographic loves anymore. Foie gras. Pate. Sweetbreads. Marrow. Lamb brain.

There are other "normal" things I love with nearly unparalleled power-- cheese, Italian white wines, vodka, chocolate, fresh artisan breads, and, of course, beer. But while I can wax poetic about different cheeses and recommend the perfect pairings for a Vernaccia di San Gimignano or a what sort of sandwich you want to eat with a bottle of Magic Hat's Summer Wacko, these things aren't as compelling to me as "the nasty bits."

The thing with these foods is that yes, you can tell at one point, this was something very much alive. This was something that lived. If you're a soulless vegetarian, or, god help you, a heathen vegan, odds are, you're not going to understand this. I won't even ask you to. Mainly, because I've given up on people like you. But for the rest of you natural, I-understand-the-point-of-human-evolution-and-why-I-have-canine-teeth carnivores out there, here's the reasoning: These foods, these "nasty bits," are the taste of life.

As for you veggies, I'm ignoring you from here on out. Please never forget-- I am not called a "Kitchen Bitch" for nothing. Maybe you're asking, "Why the animosity?" Well, let me tell you a story: I went veg for two weeks my sophomore year of college. And I got sick. Anemically, dizzyingly, hungry-all-the-time sick. It was not from a lack of protein or a balanced diet-- I was eating eggs, nuts, tofu, lots of fiber, lots of iron-rich greens and doing vegetarian by the nutritionist's books-- it was because my body thought I had gone barking mad. I need meat to function and survive. I've never felt more weak, unenergetic, listless, and just plain grumpy and unsatisfied and starving as I did at the end of those two weeks. At which point, I went to the nurse and was told to start eating as much medium-rare steak as I could ingest. Best diagnosis of my life. Also, my ex is now apparently seeing a vegetarian. I don't know why you'd ever date someone who can't share your steak with, myself. To me, love is a shared slab of something bloody, and that's only halfway a euphemism for how love can dice you up better than anything else.

If what the Aztecs believed is right, when I savored lamb's brain delicately breaded in panko crumbs and fried at Bluebird Tavern, I was learning through the taste and texture what it means to appreciate that animal, and the unique knowledge that comes with that. While scooping out the marrow of beef bones in Florence, I was tasting the very essence of that bovine-- a cow grass-fed, treated with respect, not injected with god knows what; a very spoiled, very natural Italian cow.

Some people have-- excuse me, no pun intended-- a beef with foie gras and pate, as inhumane treatment of animals has been cited in the production of these delicacies. Hell, if you stuffed me every day with choice bread bits until I was obese, I'm sure I'd protest, too. Not so much, but I might ask you to substitute some croissant for the stale loaves. The thing is, you have to understand-- these are special foods. These are not foods that you are eating every night for dinner. These are foods that you have rarely; foods that you savor for special occasions. If you're

going to get up-in-arms about geese being over-fed, please, and by all means, turn your

attentions to the conditions that most of the commercial chicken raised in the United States live in, and then you can call yourself a hypocrite like I am.

What about these foods gets our feathers so ruffled about them, or like me, your appetite so whetted? Maybe it's the taboo feelings about them. Maybe it's the shock value. Maybe it's the primal urge to devour. Or maybe, just maybe, it's just the fact that they taste so. damn. good. in what can be such a very bland world.

XOXO

The Bitch & The Logger

In between the beer and the beef jerky, I realized at Vermont's 2010 Brewfest that I have a nearly patented method for meeting, and subsequently getting rid of, men. Don't get me wrong-- Brewfest is a GREAT place to meet men. It's LOUSY with men. It's lousy with DRUNK men. I had highest hopes; in fact, I shaved for this festival. I cross the lines between food and drink and sex in very odd ways.

It goes something like this: I'm standing in line, or waiting somewhere, when I notice the dude behind me is blatantly scoping me out. I covertly scope him back. If it seems like he isn't someone entertaining thoughts of choking me to death in some back alley or holding a chloroformed handkerchief in his back pocket (or, I'll admit to being shallow, if he isn't dog-fugly with only a face a blind mother could love), I may change my attitude setting to "open to conversation." Conversation then ensues, usually for about five to ten minutes. During this time, I'm looking for intelligence, humor, yes--looks--, and if he's just someone that I connect with. Sometimes, it's apparent within the first 30 seconds that this ain't gonna work. At which point, I politely yet firmly put an end to the conversation and then-- wait for it; this is the bitch move that I finally pinned down-- turn back around and cut off all further contact. Literally, I turn my back to them. I don't know, short of throwing shit at them or taunting their masculinity to their face, if there's any faster way to prove to a man that you are not feeling him. At all. Never. Not even drunk.

I may have found the reason I am chronically single. But, I would RULE at speed-dating.

Maybe that's what it kind of it-- a quick assessment if it's worth spending any more time on this short, overly-preened dude in a checked button-down with a tan that looks like he's either Cuban or from Miami or a Cuban from Miami. I mean, hey, I found out four things from him-- how much empanadas were; if the green pepper dipping sauce was hot; that his friend was an overt bro asshole; and that while he was cute, I just wasn't feeling the amount of maintenance he exuded. It's not that he seemed like he'd find chomping on my dead thigh a rollicking good time-- it was just that he seemed like the kind of guy who thinks buying you dinner means you instantly owe him a blow job. No, thank you-- moving on to the next. Being picky and having high standards saves me a lot of time when wading through the time-wasters and assholes. I am not burdened with the curse of being overly nice to guys-- all guys-- like my roommate is. And while she struggles with juggling men's attentions and getting rid of creeps and the geriatrics who seem to love her with all of their last hard on's dying strength, I have all that time I could be fending off the advances of unwanted men free to do things like...I don't know...terrorize the kitten, blow smoke rings, and perfect the fine art of the double-orgasm. Or write for this blog. All terribly valid and time-consuming things.

I thought I was done for the day-- total waste of a shave, total disappointment. But then, in the middle of City Market, picking up a 12-pack for the way home, it happened. I ran into the sort of man who makes your palms sweat, the kind of man who when you're holding box with 12 very breakable bottles of beer with a tray of dumplings precariously balanced on top, the sort of man it's really bad to run into, because you might just end up dropping everything. Literally.

Since I was about 7 years old, this good ol' Vermont girl has had a horrendously huge crush on local 802 celeb and comedian/writer/actor/musician and "master of Duct Tape" Rusty DeWees. You may know him as "The Logger." Don't ask me why all the love and lust-- maybe it's the shit-eating grin; maybe it's the blue humor; maybe it's the height; maybe it's the apparent aversion to razors and the three-day-old perma-stubble; maybe it's the plaid. Anyway, one would not guess that since before I thought "Dildo" was another Hobbit in the Shire, I had the hots for this dude:

It was like an out-of-body experience. There, just in front of the empty buffet area at closing time, I recognized him instantly as he looked down at me-- a cute drunk blonde with a lot of beer-- and slid me one of those sly smirks. Smitten. Actually, past-tense-- utterly smote.

In case you still don't understand, there's always this:

Do you get it now?

And can I get an "Amen"?

So, see? Standards. Being a bitch about who you'll go home with helps. Not only did Mr. Miami not waste my time, but if I had stuck around to find out if that tan was real or fake, I would have missed nearly raping The Logger in the middle of the wine section and having my evening made by finally seeing one of my favorite local boys in the (toned) flesh.

...And if you're wondering, I didn't. I would have had to put down the beer. I'm as red-blooded as the next girl, but some things are sacred.

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

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

Spud

It's one of those rainy summer days that makes the only thing I want to think about curling up with a good book on the covered deck and smelling the ozone and wet grass, and NOT about how drunk I was last night. Unfortunately, people are apt to do things like get hungry after not eating for over 16 hours. After the past 4 months of not cooking, and rather, just eating out in Italy, laziness is a big factor in my kitchen M.O. Scrounging around in the kitchen came up with the following ingredients, which I whipped up into a creamy potato soup in under 10 minutes that accompanies some summer iced tea and "Julie & Julia" quite perfectly.

Potato "Bisque":

1 large baked potato, cubed. (Sucks if you don't already have one made as it'll take you another 10 minutes to make it; do it the easy way in the microwave).

Onion, chopped.

1 carrot, chopped.

Milk, about 1 cup to 1 & 1/2 cups.

2 tablespoons butter.

Salt

Pepper

Oregano (I put oregano in nearly EVERYTHING I make. Chances are, if I made it, and you're eating it-- oregano.)

Some sort of sharp cheese, cubed. (I used Consider Bardwell Farm's Pawlet, a semi-sharp yellow cow's cheese with a nutty taste and creamy yet still block-formed texture.)

Since I was out of beer (big surprise there, not,)...a splash of vodka. You've heard of people who say, "I love cooking with (fill in the alcohol here). Sometimes I even put it in the food"? Hello. That person is me. I know, I know, it sounds so weird, but it compliments and cuts through the melted cheese and starchy potato texture so well. Plus, a little hair of the dog never hurt anyone; rather, it may help.

In a small pot over a low flame, melt your butter, and, as it's melting, add your chopped carrot and onion. Let sauté in the butter until the onion is cooked through and the carrot is starting to get soft. Add your potato cubes, milk, salt, pepper, oregano, and any other spices you so choose. Let the soup base (milk and all your other crap) start to thicken with the potato starch, and add your cheese, stirring it in well. Let sit for about another 2 minutes over low flame, then remove from heat, add splash of vodka (or beer, or white wine,) and pour soup into a blender or a

Cuisinart. (If you're a college student, you better have a blender. If you don't, go buy a cheap one at Kmart. Think of all the frozen, blended, savory, and alcoholic possibilities!) Blend until texture is creamy and slightly "puffy," like a bisque. Don't worry if your blender appears to be smoking-- it's steam condensing inside from the hot food. This soup will transition well to any season, especially in the colder ones.

Enjoy with a complimentary beverage-- iced tea,

a beer, or even a vodka on the rocks. Hey, it's past noon. I suggest staying out of the rain and snoozing-- the MonsterCat has the right idea. I'm so glad I'm not moving in today.

XOXO

(Just for reference, those two suitcases he is sprawled in front of are over three feet long. He's longer by another good 6 inches. Now imagine that beast being your living alarm clock in the morning.)

Everything A Girl Could Possibly Need

No, I have not seen SATC2 yet. I thought I’d get that out of the way. And yes, there are some people I enjoy far more when they're naked.

You may like to think that I have lots and lots of sex and the glamorous Vermont equivalent (HA. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!) of a Sex and the City lifestyle, but besides the inordinate amount of shoes and what will probably become a large money-management problem and lots of debt, it’s not so exciting. I only wish I were having as much sex as is commonly thought. I’ve only ever brought one guy home to my apartment. Whether this is the fact that I also treat dating as a kind of real estate viewing opportunity or if I just want to get out my own space and not have to clean, I don’t know, but the point remains: I can be a secretive little fucker. That, and I also don’t really want to have to explain the life-size cutout of the Joker in the corner.

Anyway, because I really have nothing to give you today vis-à-vis SATC2, I’m giving these little caveats, these bon mots, instead and hoping that you're appeased. Practice driving in heels or pouring a beer while I desperately try to come up with some better content, please.

-Insomnia? Orgasm. One will send you off to sleep gently like a baby; two will knock you out like horse tranquilizers. It relieves tension and stress and takes your mind off of everything else that could be keeping you awake.

-Driving a standard in heels? Rest the tip of your left heel so that it makes a V-angle with the floorboard near the clutch. That way, the stress when you decompress the clutch is on the heel, just like it is when you're walking, and it gives you better leverage.

-How to look like you belong anywhere: If you know what sort of event you’ll be at beforehand, it helps you in choosing the right attire. If you have no idea, dressing nicer than many be needed is preferable. Other than that, confidence is the name of the game. Engage in conversation, but not too much. People will notice if you’re the life of the party and start to ask questions, as in Wedding Crashers syndrome. If you sense someone is about to ask you a personal question, cut them to the chase and either compliment them or ask them a question. It will throw them off.

-Make friends with his roommates now so they’re more tolerable to your loud moaning later. Homemade brownies or cookies usually do the trick. Think of it as a very intimate and slightly bribing host’s gift.

-Get out of a ticket for speeding. This works with both male and female officers. Say, “I’m so sorry, and this is so embarrassing, but it’s that time of the month, and I think I sprung a leak. I really need to get to a bathroom.” If you’re in a non-populated area, ask for the location of the nearest public restroom. Look antsy and do the child bathroom squirm while saying this, and it’s very convincing. Being able to blush on command helps, too.

-For Guys: Special Teams. Never, ever, flat-out admit to a girl that she is your second hitter. That’s like telling her she’s only good enough to eat someone else’s leftovers. A good girl would never tell you if she were playing the field around you, and never forget—if she’s not on your starting line, she probably knows it and can always find someone else who will be more than willing to put her on theirs. As Franz Ferdinand summed it up, "Sometimes, I say stupid things that I think; well, I mean, I-- sometimes, I say the stupidest things, because I never wonder how the girl feels." All I can say is, think what it is about the girl that you’re saying this to that you like, because you may have to do without it after telling her this.

-Become the best damn barmaid that you can be. Open the bottle or can. Don't spill it-- if you do, your career is over already. Touch the rim of your pint glass, chilled stein, or SippyCup so that it is resting under one of the grooves that the bottle's cap screwed on, or along the under-ridge at the top of a can at an obtuse angle-- i.e: if the bottle or can were the hour hand on a clock, it would be around 5, and the glass you're pouring into would be around 8. Slowly tilt the bottom of your bottle or can up slightly as you pour so that the beer runs down the side of the glass, not directly to the bottle. (If you let it run directly to the bottom, as I did the first time I poured beer for an ex at 16, all you will get is shit-tons of head. While normally not a bad thing, in the beer world this is a very bad thing.) Go slow while pouring. While you may be chugging it later, there is no race about the pouring. Let it oxidize nicely so that when you finally do get down to the bottom quarter of the bottle or can and start to pull the glass you're pouring into from the 8 to the 6 or straight-up position, there's about half an inch of nice head. Or, you can skip all that and do what I do-- be a Bottle Girl.

-When asking for a favor, widen your eyes and blink once or twice. It works WONDERS. Also, leading in with something like knowing how busy someone is is an instant guilt-trip, and leaves them room to see that you acknowledge how busy they are, so doing this one little thing would be SO GREAT.

Others may pop up later, but I'm lazy and hungover right now. Happy Memorial Day-- make sure to thank all the veterans in your life. Love you, Dad! And speaking of glamorous life in Burlington, PMG Public Relations was recently featured as a quote in Cosmopolitan, and a study done by St. Mike’s students was used in a Glamour article. Burlington is getting to be a happening place. Hey, publications—I’M RIGHT HERE, AND I’LL WHORE MY WRITING OUT FOR THE RIGHT PIECE AND THE RIGHT PRICE. Move-in day: t-minus 8 days.

XOXO

Giving, Getting, And Graduation

My birthday is coming up, (in over a month, so um, don't get too excited,) and it's got me thinking of gifts and gift-giving lately.

About the only thing I really need is a bed for my new apartment, and my extremely loving and gracious family is making that dream come true for me. I am going to have the first queen-size bed of my life; in fact, the first bed larger than a twin. I am beyond excited, because this means that I will have all sorts of room to starfish out and share the bed with George, my faithful body-pillow. However, I already know that I'm still just going to sleep on the edge of the bed pressed up against the wall, like always. So it's the thought that matters; not the practice. Also, I guess this also now means I can have guests over in comfort, and not in hot and sweaty enforced spooning sessions. To this, I say hell yes. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good cuddle, but sweaty summertime spooning at night is not something that I am a huge fan of.

Also, Erin and Arielle recently introduced me to Regretsy, where I found this, a penis chapstick cozie. I have to admit, I was very taken with it. It's me in a very comic, non-serious way. For any other jokesters out there, this is a perfect gift. (Regretsy is also the perfect place to find really weird, really stupid, one-of-a-kind gag gifts for your friends with a discerning sense of humor.)

But penis chapstick cozies aside, this little keychain is probably what I want the most. Some of you might recognize it from the Sex and the City movie and think that it's a little tacky, but I think it's just fabulous. I love the idea of having a constant reminder on me. Also, it's large enough that I won't lose my keys or won't be able to find them at the bottom of my huge purses. It's just something so little, and I want it so bad.

Also, because it will be, yes, my I'm-a-legal-drinker birthday, I finally get to enact the plan I've been thinking of since I was (no lie) 16. (I've always taken my liquor very seriously.) A 21st birthday is the perfect time to start a really great liquor cabinet, and I've always held that the mark of a truly great host or hostess is that they have the liquor necessary to create your favorite drink. So, instead of asking for "stuff" or letting people take a shot in the dark, create a "liquor cabinet" list like an alcoholic's wedding registry, and let your friends bring you a bottle of each needed liquor. It doesn't have to be Stoli when Smirnoff will suffice, but you still need your basics: vodka, gin, rum, tequila, Triple Sec, scotch & whiskey (though I am never drinking it EVER. AGAIN), and a bottle of champagne. Insta-party. Oh, and a few 6-packs of good beer-- Blue Moon; Long Trail's Blackberry Wheat; Magic Hat's #9, Circus Boy, this summer's Odd Notion, and Braggot, if you can find it; and a good seasonal beer. You must NEVER forget the beer.

Graduation time is now, and there are always graduation gifts to be bought. Thankfully, being in Italy makes that pretty easy for me, so while I'm all done on the grad-shopping front, you may not be. Here are some of the things that I've stumbled across recently that might just make the cut:

For other writers out there, I've been obsessed with Smythson's writing goods since I was (not joking) about 7. I've received journals, ink and pens, and art sets from them, and I have to say-- cost is quality, especially in this regard. What about some personalized business stationary? An embellished leather business card case? Or a journal with advice emblazoned on the cover? Depending on the sentiment of graduation, you can go with "Now Panic and Freak Out," "Keep Calm and Carry On," "Work Hard and Be Nice To People," or just the classic, possibly even personalized. Nothing says "You've made it" like something from Smythson for the new grad.

Anyone who has ever worked a job that requires you to be up earlier than your 9 AM classes can tell you how important coffee is in their life. For this reason, a coffee maker is a great gift for grads. I have used many different coffee makers in many different jobs, but this one by Keurig has to be, by far, the best coffee I've ever had out of an electric coffee maker. Plus, it comes with control for brewing three different cup sizes-- which I like to think of as "good morning," "Good Morning!" and "GOOD MORNING WORLD, I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU UP TODAY!"

For a more sentimental take than screaming obscenities at the world in a caffeine-induced haze, Dr. Seuss's classic book, Oh, The Places You'll Go!, with a personal message written on the inside cover, and a road atlas for all the adventuring that they'll be doing.

For him, a really kick-ass personalized beer stein, pint glass, or beer mug.

For her, a get-away weekend. For some ladies, it could mean a weekend in New York City for spa treatments, cupcakes at Magnolia, shopping, dinner at one of the hip new restaurants, and drinks at a fabulous bar. For other girls, it could be a weekend camping trip, complete with gourmet s'mores, guitar jam sessions, henna tattooing, and kayaking. Only you know what your friend likes-- be creative!

If all else fails, I found this site to be helpful, if not slightly cliche at times.

And last but not least, money. Money is always a fool-proof gift for grads, because, chances are, they don't have it, and they're gonna need it.

XOXO

Because I Want You To Eat Well, Too...

The closer and closer I get to leaving Italy, the more and more I realize what a fetishist-at-heart foodie I am. For me, it's all about appealing to the senses. My most cherished memories of Italy will be in the art I saw and sketched, the fashion I went into debt for, and the food that gave me an ass like Beyonce. My most rigid plans before I leave are a list of things still yet to be eaten (a famous tripe sandwich at Nerbone in Marcato Centrale,) and restaurants like Coquinarius I need to eat at just. one. more. time and say goodbye to my favorite waitstaff and the entrees I will dream about for the rest of my life. (Or my next trip here.) And other than seeing the people I love, putting the things I love into my mouth tops my list of right-off-the-plane activities for getting back home. (And we're not even going to touch that innuendo...)

So. Because I want you to eat just as well as I do, here are two places in or around Burlington that you absolutely MUST dine at. And do it preferably before I come home on May 15th, because I will not tolerate waiting a single second more for another customer before putting a pint of Bobcat Cafe and Brewery's Heller Bock in my hand and some of Bluebird Tavern's fall-off-the-bone lambs ribs in front of me. And you do not want to see me when I'm hungry.

...Can you tell I'm on a budget-and-health induced diet right now? Dear god. I'm dreaming in Florentine steaks and roast potatoes.

XOXO