Man Eater

Even though I'm a little rock-n'-roll in my style, it's taken me a long time to hop on board with the whole tights-under-denim-shorts look. Burlington, Vermont, while extremely fashion-forgiving, is not exactly Florence. This girl, however, rocked the look in way that felt easy enough to emulate with pieces out of my own wardrobe when I was getting dressed this morning in a particularly ass-kicking mood. (I'm also lusting after that men's Bone Idol t-shirt HARDBODY.)

I took this Elvis pompadour skull tee that I got at Zara in Florence, sheer black leggings, and my American Eagle medium wash denim short-shorts and called it a Vermont December day with a studded belt, and my Letizia Ferrari black high-heeled motorcycle booties from Italy. I hunted all over the internet for a photo of them, but alas, failed, so you can see them back in this post here, and here are a few other example of black motorcycle booties that I think work with this look nearly sinfully well:

Just a few hints: Keep it all black from the end of your denims down. This elongates your legs and keeps everything uniform. Some girls can pull off brightly colored tights instead of black, but if you have a midget-sized inseam like I do, black is your best friend.

And think Seattle Grunge. Think Kurt Cobain. Pile on the jewelry and top is all off with a flannel long-sleeve shirt. I roll my cuffs to mid-forearm, always. All the better to show off that jewelry with.

I'm currently trying to make up allllll the work I never did this semester before it ends, and juggle it with my social life. Here's a big mea culpa for being spotty about blogging lately-- unfortunately, it's probably going to continue for the next two weeks, but how about I promise that what I DO finally get around to posting sporadically in between crying myself gently to sleep at night at the thought of having to write another speaker reflection paper for Internship and getting my handle on this thing called "acceptable public interactions with men," they'll be really good, thought-provoking, interesting, dishy posts. Ok? Ok. Cheers.

XOXO

Kitchen Bitches: Get Around (The World) At Duino! (Duende)

Duino! (Duende)

10 North Winooski Ave.,

Burlington, VT

Carissa: “Cheddar cheese and kimchi inside; dude, it’s so good,” said the guy from the next table who was wearing the same wool Gatsby hat that my grandfather and father used to get from Conte of Florence for golfing. Make no mistake, ¡Duino! (Duende) is not for the faint-of-hipster heart.

Alli: There’s a wide, open doorway connecting ¡Duino! (Duende) to Radio Bean, allowing all sorts of things to waft through the spaces between: the scent of coffee and beer melding with garlic and spice, chatter, music, and yes, hipsters.

More palatable things come through that doorway, though. The whole night, we were serenaded by two lovely female fiddlers with misty sunlight, smoky-breakfast-tea voices. They played a set of reels and ballads alike, obviously very talented with a bow, that set the soundtrack for our meal. There’s definitely an upside to being connected to Radio Bean. You get all the live music, great food, and entertainment (yuppie-observing), but far enough removed that you actually have a two square inch buffer around your person at all times. And you get damn good food.

Carissa: The exposed kitchen gives you a great opportunity to watch your food being prepared, as well as to scope out the prep chefs. As I said to Alli, “If the extremely pretty person preparing our food is a man, I totally dibs him.”

Alli: The kitchen is impressive in its tiny size, proving that the chef is good at what he does. If he can work in such a small space, imagine what he could do with real counter-space. It’s almost bar-like. And being able to watch the chef slicing and sautéing and plating…it’s a total tease. I caught him lifting the cast iron pan from the flame, use his hand to waft the steam toward his nose, and breathe deeply. He handled the food as if it demanded respect and adoration in equal parts. It was beautiful (Carissa’s convinced that’s because he is beautiful).

Carissa: ¡Duino! (Duende)’s faded sort of charm with chandeliers above the high round tables and stools and a burgundy theme is reminiscent of old-time speakeasy vibes, complete with the Nickel Creek-esque melodies that were going on that night through—literally—the hole in the wall. After fighting through the menu like Saint George with the dragon and making your final choices, you actually get to eat. But the menu might be what’s possibly the money-maker for ¡Duino! like running books and illegal card games used to be for those speakeasies of old—loaded with inventive, scrumptious street foods from around the world, none more expensive than $12, and with good portion sizes—and by god, I mean real plate sizes— ¡Duino! (Duende) has carved out a late-night or quick-bite niche with a sit-down restaurant floor for itself in Burlington’s dining scene, something not easily accomplished.

Going into fall and crisp, cold nights, their Cider Snap is the hot alcoholic drink you want to wrap your hands around to warm them from the nip in the air outside. A concoction of hot rum and mulled cider with a circle of orange suspended in the clear stein, the rum hits you first, then the mulling spices, with a final citrus zing from the orange. It’s got automatic machinegun speed and accuracy going through the flavors, one right after the other.

Alli: For me, the Cider Snap was warm from the inside out. It was softer than an AK-47; you get a hug from the rum, a kiss from the spiced cider, and a wink from the thick orange slice wedged in your mug. But yes, in that order—always in that order.

My drink, Reed’s Ginger Brew, was a thick, viscous soda low on carbonation and huge on taste. It’s made the traditionally, with real ginger and spices and honey. It’s not as “crisp” and fizzy as Canada Dry. It’s sweet and pungent with just a little spice from the ginger, flavors that settle on your tongue in noticeably different parts. (Off the record, it would be perfect with a little bit of Jameson.)

Carissa: Elote is the Mexican street food’s answer to corn on the cob. Grilled with buttery “mojo” aioli and cheeky Mexican spices so zingy they make the corners of your mouth tingle—from which I could pick out cinnamon and chili powder—the corn itself was sweet and juicy. My one complaint of the evening was that unlike my first ear of corn, my second was not properly de-silked enough.

Alli: The elote was smoky and rustic. The parsley sprinkled generously over the two ears gives it a solid green kick to go with the medley of deep spices. The only problem with serving corn on the cob at a restaurant like this is that it is not at all dignified to pick the skins of kernels out of your teeth for the remainder of the meal. Especially if you’re sitting in the half of ¡Duino! (Duende) arranged near the large windows, where the entirety of North Winooski and Pearl can see you trying to floss with your fingers.

The Duende salad is a little sweet, a little tangy, and a little bitter with a variety of textures all in one bite. Atop the fresh, hearty green bed are shredded carrots, crunchy sunflower seeds, and crispy beet shavings. The honey-hops dressing is tangy and creamy, probably made with greek yogurt, sweetened with that honey, and deepens with the nuttiness of the sunflower seeds. It’s wonderful.

Carissa: (Duende)’s take on Quebecois poutine with cheddar cheese instead of curds and a mix of two distinctly different sweet potato and russet fries is genius, fresh, and invigorating. The brown gravy that it’s smothered in is so homey with hints of onion and sage, and the fries themselves were just as crunchy and salty that they’re stiff competition with Bluebird Tavern’s for tastiest fries in Burlington. Fo’ real. I think I liked the sweet potato fries in the gravy the most—it had that diabolical flavor combination of sweet and salty going on that’s a killer for most women. Together with the Cider Snap, you’ve got the perfect heavy warm-you-from-the-inside-out and sticks-to-your-bones (and your ass,) fall and winter meal.

Alli: Although I was concerned when the plate of poutine, typically thick fries smothered in gravy and hunks of cheese curd, came out as two-toned shoestring fries with shredded cheddar, I have to concede. It was fantastic. The russet fries were a little too salty with the gravy and the cheese, but the sweetness of the sweet potato fries cut that saltiness really well. And the best part was that because it’s a lighter poutine, it doesn’t settle in your stomach like a couple of mud bricks.

“The Maduros are extra good today,” our waitress bubbled when she set my plate down before me. “The plantains we got this morning were perfect.” True story. The sweet plantains for this dish are lightly pan-fried and dusted in cinnamon and nutmeg. The dense starchiness is cut by the thin, light, cream-and-mint dipping sauce pooling in a little saucer on the side. Carissa preferred the maduros without the mint-cream-concoction, and I can understand why: comfort levels. This dish is perfect for apple pie cravings. It’s starchy, almost doughy, enough to satisfy a pie crust craving, and the sweet plantains are spiced just right to fill in for the apple filling. But don’t forget, this dish isn’t dessert. Sprinkled over the plantain slices are charred onion slivers, adding that salty, smoky level to the sweet. Between those and the infused cream sauce, you get a slightly uncomfortable jolt; the variations aren’t quite rebellious enough to really pull away from that tie with mom’s apple pie. However, those onion slivers and that mint dipping sauce is exactly what brings this dish up to par—it’s taking what you know and love and adding a new twist. As soon as you accept that, you’re in the hands of a subtle genius.

Carissa: I got spoiled on plantains when my best friend’s Jamaican dad cooked them for us in

London. Duino’s maduros are the best plantains I’ve had since, and I’ve tried making them in the chaos of my own kitchen—always ending up drying them out or over-frying them. These squished through their fried crusts like too much succulent plantain flesh is inside to be contained.

By the end of our meal, I was so satisfied that I could have

fallen into a dead sleep on my bar stool. You get a sense of comfort here from all over the world, both in the food and the preparation of it, that in turn makes you feel all is right in your little corner table of the world. Coming from the girl who doesn’t date, you could take me here for dinner, totally fine. ¡Duino! (Duende) is romantic in a faded, chintzy way, and it’s cheap. You’re not going to break anyone’s wallet here. Maybe that’s why it’s so popular.

Alli: It’s a total paradox, having a street-food restaurant, but it works. Street food is simple, quick, comforting, and cheap. And, more often than not, some of the best food there is because of it. It’s why people go to New York for soft pretzels, Fenway for franks, Spain for churros, Belgium for cones of frites. It’s low key, which makes it easy to love. Which, I agree, makes it perfect for a date. But seriously, it’s about the food.

As an end note, the menu at ¡Duino! (Duende) seems to change frequently. Check in often to keep up with and make your way down the menu and live music from Radio Bean. All in all, it’s a good Repeat Restaurant. And just to reiterate, this would be a good restaurant to take your, ahem, favorite Kitchen Bitches.

XOXO

Two Bucks' Worth of Cunning

I'm always amazed when writers, notoriously flaky people, can conjure up past work within minimal (seen, at least,) sweat. As I promised in the last post, I asked Ian to delve deep into his computer's memory and haul out "Two Bucks" if he could. And he could. And he did. Within 24 hours. That's turnaround, people.

So learn, enjoy, and click that link to visit his new blog about life in New York. It's equal parts entertaining, informative, honest, witty, and sarcastic. And if you're like me and like something new to read on your news feed nearly every day, he doesn't disappoint.

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When I’m dead broke and hungry, I do what any logical person should do in Burlington: I go to City Market and take them for all they’re worth.

I start in the produce section, leech my way to the deli on the opposite side of the store, creep along the hot-buffet, pass through the check-out line, and plop down into a chair in the newly renovated eat-in area to sit, read, people watch through the large windows, and mow down on my hearty meal that was not only 40 percent free, but also under $2. It’s good, really: a turkey-salad sandwich in cucumber-mayonnaise dressing with lettuce, spinach, mozzarella cheese, and carrots, squeezed between two pieces of hearty wheat, white, or sourdough bread; a banana; and a tall glass of ice-cold water, or milk, if I’m feeling the craving for that homogenized goodness, and, of course, if I have an extra dollar kicking around—sometimes breaking the $3 threshold is a little too much.

I remember one leeching incident vividly.

It was early in the morning—which is very important when doing these types of missions, but that comes later—and was sometime in January, or early February, and even the permeating chill of the produce section felt warm on my hands and cheeks juxtaposed against the bitter Vermont mid-winter mornings. I scooted past the apples and oranges, peaches and pears, and over to the bananas. (Now, you can choose any fruit you want, but never go organic. Remember: You’re broke, not trying to save the world or set a good example. A traditional banana tastes just as good as an organic one, and anyone that tells you different is lying to themselves. A medium sized banana ripened to a bright yellow, and is soft, not mushy, to the touch is the best option, and is usually around 35 cents, give or take a couple copper Lincolns.) I found a medium-sized, more curved than normal banana, and moved on.

Next was the meat.

There is a secret, almost hidden box of meat and cheese trimmings at the island between the hot-buffet counter and the beer cooler, stuffed between pre-made Asian foods and a basket of single-serving, raw eggs, on the shelf above the samosas. Any bag of trimmings is half-off of the original price at the deli counter, and the selection is broad, as well: smoked turkey, honey-cured ham, and, if you’re lucky, peppered roast beef. The best selection, though, comes early in the morning, before ten o’clock; there is never a standard amount of trimmings per day—five, on average—and most of the good ones get snatched up by noon or one o’clock. The good thing about this bin, however, is that all of the servings of meat are very small; most are less than a quarter of a pound, and under 50 cents. If you’re a wimp, the bad thing is that the trimmings are the ends of the slabs of meat they use at the deli counter—the butt, or nub of the meat, as some call it. (But hey, you’re broke, remember? Plus, you’re going to be chopping it up for your sandwich, anyway.) As I rummaged through the bin, I found a juicy nub of roasted turkey for 28 cents and stuffed it, along with my banana, between my forearm and ribcage.

I turned around and faced the hot-buffet counter, and walked left, to the build-your-own-salad section. This part of the journey takes a bit getting used to: the buffet foods are $7.49 per pound, and some experience is essential to not taking too much, and end up having it be more than $1.25—my usual limit. (City Market is smart; there is no scale to weigh any of the buffet foods. Most inexperienced buffeters end up paying way more than they expected when buying from the buffet.) I grabbed a small, brown to-go container in my left hand, put my banana and meat nub on the counter, and snatched the black, plastic tongs in my right hand. A pinch of spinach. A tong-full of lettuce. A dash of carrots. A sprinkle of mozzarella. After using my memory and precise guessing tactics to weigh the heap of veggies, I closed up the box and grabbed a small, black serving cup for my dressing. (Again, I usually get the cucumber-mayo dressing, but you can get whichever you like. I think they have some sort of honey mustard dressing. But always remember: Never put the dressing on the salad before you pay! City Market benefits from stupid people like that. But when you’re broke and hungry, you can’t afford to be stupid. I always put it in a serving cup and hold it in my hand while going through the checkout; the cashier will never make you pay for it, or even question it.)

I got to the register and paid $1.93.

“Do you need a bag?” the cashier asked me, reaching her left arm toward a stack of brown, paper bags of various sizes.

“Sure, a medium-sized one, please,” I responded. It is key, in this situation, to get a bag that is a great deal bigger than what you actually need because of the free bread bucket located at end of the buffet station—I need plenty of room for all the free bread I’m about to take. (I never use the word steal here, because, frankly, it’s free bread, and there’s not limit if it’s free, right? At least none that I can see.) After she stuffed the bottom of my bag, and once her attention was taken over by the person in line behind me, I nonchalantly shuffled over to the free bread, and jammed at least four pieces into my bag—I sometimes come back for seconds after I’m done eating. (It is essential to be as cool and calm, as well as quick, about this as possible. Any employee could give you guff about nabbing half the free bread in the bucket, so I try to get in and out as quickly as possible.)

After tossing my jacket over the back of one of the chairs at a two-seater table next to a window, and putting my bag of food down, I walked over to the free ice-water jug and poured myself a glass. I drank half of it there, smacked my lips with a sigh, and turned to the condiments station to my left. The station made my belly shake with excitement: Free napkins, plastic silverware, mayonnaise, ketchup, spicy mustard, and Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. (Frank’s Red Hot Sauce is God. If I have time, I usually ditch the turkey-salad idea and snag three, four, six, or ten packets of Frank’s, go home, chop up my nub of meat, heat it up in a pan with Frank’s, add a heaping glob of ranch dressing, wedge it between two pieces of free bread, and toast the sucker to perfection. Sure it’s a tad more work, but the outcome is incredible.)

After grabbing some napkins, a fork, and a knife, I sat down and began the assembly process. As I chopped up my turkey into half-inch cubes, and threw them into the box of greens from the buffet station, I overheard a couple to my right whispering: “What is he doing? Is that lunchmeat?” I snickered to myself, and took another sip of my water. I dumped my dressing into the box, and scraped the container for every last drop. (Sometimes, if I really need it, I’ll just go right back up and get a second container of dressing. I’ve gone this far, right?) After shaking my concoction like an eight-year-old inspecting a Christmas present, I carefully dumped the contents onto a piece of bread, and a squeezed the top piece on, careful not to spill any of the delicious innards. I got up to refill my water and the couple to my right stopped chewing their sandwiches and glared at me as I walked past. I glanced down at the wrappers of their sandwiches and caught the price of one of them: $4.95. I smiled to myself and filled up the cup.

I sat back down and slowly ate away at my homemade sandwich—an adventurous option to dining out or making an arduous meal on the stovetop; an inherent way of life for a college student scraping by; finding the flaws in the system; being innovative; making a new, cheaper path to something simple, but essential: a full stomach—the nature of the beast.

XOXO

Broke in Burlington

As if floundering about (read: sinking) in my love life and getting let go from my summer job wasn't enough, I recently overdrew my bank account (rent) and worked my way into a goodly sum of overdraft (again, imagine the cost of my rent,) and down to the last $5 in my wallet. "Stressed" and "rough patch" don't even begin to describe the situation I'm in. I've prostituted myself to every worthwhile job position I could find, and spent an afternoon seriously considering debuting in porn after seeing the dollar amount tacked on to the job. (But just like egg donation, I nixed that idea. Porn because, well, though I may watch it, I don't really want to be so interactive in it, and the egg donation because for the rest of my life I'd be doing double-takes at every blonde, blue-eyed child, wondering if it's mine. And with the smoking, I'm not exactly an ideal candidate. Like every other job, so it seems.) I already sold all the clothing I could to Plato's Closet, and unlike last summer's period of saintly rest from the wicked, I don't have the spoils of my bad habits to exchange for cash. I'm using them myself. I have to. It's what's brightening my days.

The good news is, there are 22 cigarettes, 9 beer, half a tank of gas, half a bag of cat food, and half a box of kitty litter left. There's food in the pantry, so I'm playing the game of "what can I make with what's left over?" But you can only get so far without milk, meat, or chocolate before you start to feel, well...hungry. And deprived.

So, what's a girl to do? Well, eat/beg/borrow/steal smart. Everyone knows the age-old trick of eating the food samples at Costco's as a lunch staple, but in order to do that, one actually has to have a Costco card. (Actually, I have an old one, and I doubt they look too hard at them until you actually buy something.) Instead, improvisation rules your meal times. I've been using my good grace and the love of my friends and their food as much as possible. Any food invitation you get, from a homemade mac and cheese dinner to pizza and cake to a handful of chips, you take. For the more discerning palates, there are other options. When I was a sophomore, I read a great article in the Champlain Current by Ian Frisch about how to use City Market's good intentions against them and make a meal for under $3. It involved buying a banana, the ends of meat and cheese that are sold for a song, and using their free bread, condiments, and water in the buffet to make a sandwich. (They also periodically have fuck-ups price-marking the food that are worth looking for-- I got a $4, not $12, pork roast once, and cheese for 22 cents that should have been $5.22.) I

walked into Great Harvest Breads on Pine Street to inquire about a job, and though it was filled already and I left still unemployed, I found something nearly better-- they give you thick slabs of free bread samples, which you can slather with as much butter as you want right out of a crock. A slice of bread and butter from there is enough for a lunch on the run. Bring your own water, though-- the bread, while fantastic and addicting, especially the Honey Oat Wheat and the Mediterranean Olive Loaf, is dense, doughy, and dries your mouth out like the best herb money can buy. Only you're getting dry-mouth and a full belly for free. Cheese Traders, Lake Champlain Chocolate's shop on Church Street, and farmer's markets are always good places to cruise for free samples of tasty little delights, too.

Speaking of that other thing, beggars cannot be choosers, and should not be above using people to smoke their shit when down and out. Everyone does it at one time or another. Especially to people they just met and will never see again. (Read: dudes intent on hitting on you hard-core at

parties. Plus, it makes them bearable.)

For broke-ass fun and entertainment, it takes a little more settling. I've resigned myself to the fact I won't see Inception until it comes out on DVD, and that barring friends lovely enough to buy my drinks-- that's you, Emily and Nora--the bars downtown are going to have a rest and recovery time from me until the end of August. However, walking down to the waterfront to watch the amazing sunsets over the Adirondacks is just as good as any cinema, and there are always parties to go to in Burlington. If you're sick of all your movies, you can always watch new ones online, or start a lending group with friends. (You can actually also start a cooking circle with friends so that you can eat up to 4 dinners a week for free and only have to cook for everyone else once.) Church Street is always great entertainment, too-- I walk down to listen to music performers and go to Borders to stand in the magazine section and catch up on articles I've missed and harass them about hiring me. And you can always get more cultured and stroll into Frog Hollow or the Bern Gallery or some of the small local art galleries and peruse some fine arts for not even a nickel. Check out Seven Day's calendar for more free goings-on around town, too.

Happy mooching. And any food/dollar/alcohol/nicotine donations out of the kindness of your heart are more than greatly appreciated, too.

XOXO

Carissa Goes To Jail

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

The Peep Show Next Door

Last night, I inadvertently saw a naked man. I'm warning you now, this has nothing to do with me getting any. But everything to do with me feeling uncomfortable.

Girls are weird about seeing people naked. We get a kick out of it, and--unless it is someone we want to see naked and there is sex for us involved--then we want it to be over. Patience walked into my room with a shell-shocked-prisoner-of-war face on, and said, "I think there's a naked guy next door." As any red-blooded American girl will, I asked "Where?" and followed her into the living room to investigate. And yes-- there, across the driveway, was a naked thigh. Followed by a naked ass. Followed by a-- OHMIGOD, DID HE SEE US?

Paish and I dived for cover and nervously giggled for a few minutes. This seems to be the natural response of women to nakedness-- duck for cover, then giggle about it. Gradually, we crept back up to see if he was still there...

...And he was. Staring up at our window. Not trying to conceal anything.

He stayed there, flaunting his nakedness and our growing discomfort for over 15 minutes. It was at this time that I put 2-and-2 together about what Twan had warned me about the guy next door with a fetish for both blow-up dolls and not closing his blinds, and Mister Red Light wondering where we'd gone. It was worse than that time in Perugia-- well, I mean, the guy wasn't in at least his mid-forties, and had a better body, but it was creepier; Perugia Nudie didn't give a flying fuck if anyone was watching him. Jeepers Creepers next door wanted to know if we were watching. Twan had told me to call the cops the first time Peep Show creeped us out. I couldn't justify calling the cops yet, and at 3 AM, so I texted Twan instead. He didn't answer; Paish and I went out on the back deck to get out of sight and smoke a stress-cigarette, and when we came back, the blinds had closed again. All in all, nothing accomplished but feeling dirty.

As Patience asked, "Why does this always happen to me?" I feel like I too have seen an unfairly disproportionate number of naked men from across air spaces and driveways. And mostly, always men. Now, I know I'm no blushing daisy myself, of Naked Tuesdays fame, but when I realized on two separate occasions that our hot carpenter/next door neighbor-- not to be confused with Jeepers Creepers-- was the person who lived directly across the driveway from me on the second floor and not only was the guy who got to watch me cooking in a bra and shorts, but also was the same person closing the blinds in the kitchen that looks directly into my bedroom window every morning because I may-or-may-not-but-definitely-do sleep in just underwear and didn't have curtains yet, I started thinking about flashing my naked body around a lot less than I did in say, Italy. A little respect is all I ask. And respect is not craning your naked self out of your window to look up toward my living room and see if we're watching your

naked ass. Respect is shutting your damn blinds before we have to.

I guess this is my welcome to Mister Roger's Naked Neighborhood. Why can't all naked men over the age of 25 just look like Rusty DeWees, I ask you?

XOXO

P.S-- And yes, I'm going to use that image as much as humanly possible in the foreseeable future. I also, for shits and giggles, want you to guess how old that man is. Just, please-- guess. I can't wait to tell you the truth and blow your mind.

No Patience

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

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

not curses. You should

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

That's a

lesson I'm still learning.

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

That's all I have to say.

XOXO

Dirty Little Secrets

When I was 8, I went to New York City with all the women of my family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, drank at Trump Plaza (where I sent my Shirley Temple back for being too light on the grenadine-- I've always been particular about my drinks,) ate at delis and from Zabars and Tavern on the Green and went to a Broadway play (Ragtime). At night, tucked into our hotel rooms, we amused ourselves in the city life. My aunt still had her opera glasses from the play, and using them, we peered into the lives of the people in the apartment building across the street. There was the muscular gay couple tangoing. (Not a euphemism.) There was a woman who couldn't decide what bra matched her outfit. Lots of people watched TV or worked out. And there were a few windows I was not allowed to look in. (Now I understand.) This, the strict voyeurism and the intrigue, more than the play, the food, or the weekend's daytime events, sticks with me the most about this trip.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people have a fascination with other people's lives. What strikes me the most about Batman's villains is that they're all different people than they appear to be, just like Batman himself, or you, or me, or the guy you're currently dating. True, they may not be as juicy as Selena Kyle/Catwoman or Bruce Wayne/Batman, but we all have secret lives. There are things that we all do that other people may never know about. There can even be large chunks of unaccounted for history between people who think they know each other so well. But the fact is, no matter how much we want our secrets to stay secret, there will always be someone else with a pair of binoculars looking into the windows of our lives and our minds. And though we may prefer to be creatures of mystery, damn sure we hate it when others are.

I air my laundry pretty throughly. Part of this blog is making a good half of my life public knowledge, but there are some things I have learned to draw the line at. Hence, recently, a casual friend of mine came up to me with a surprised "I never knew until it was over!"

I shrugged. "I like to keep some things low-key; quiet," I told her. Even you, dear readers, probably only get a very sheltered half of the stories. Some of you know more than others. Some of you know EXACTLY the story. Still others of you, have absolutely no need to know. It's difficult at times. Sometimes, knowing that I could get the feedback or sympathy or support I crave by telling the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god, is tempting. Sometimes, I want to Anais Nin that shit and blow it all wide open. But what stops me is the fact that no matter how many hundreds or thousands of people read about it, it's not really going to change much for me. In fact, it may even get in the way. Just like those people living their lives in those New York apartments didn't know that they were being watched, knowing that they were would have made them act differently, in ways less true to themselves. So, maybe, by at least pretending to leave someone's life alone, it's really the best way to let them learn and grow through whatever is happening, without interfering. It's hard, but it's best to wait it out.

That's why it's so weird to be living in the same city as people you know so well, so intimately, so conventionally, and still have no idea what's happening with them.

XOXO

P.S-- I guess I've come full retribunial circle with the whole , because due to my lack of modesty, I have become That Girl in the neighborhood that the neighbors can count on to forget to close her curtain, cook half-naked in the kitchen, or sprint by the living room windows on the way to the bathroom fully nekkid. Perhaps I have a guilty and paying-for-it-now conscious from all those years back.

Which Is Getting Hot: The Atmosphere, Or My Co-Workers?

Does this man look good to you? Are you wondering where you can find someone like him?

Have you been wondering lately, "Why can't I talk to a nice, handsome, wholesome, smart dude to save my life? Where are they hiding all of them? And how do I get in?"

Have you been wondering why all your co-workers are totally undateable and think that it's a miracle that there are any real-life Pam and Jim romances?

And hey, do you need a job?

A job in which you can be surrounded by hot, passionate, articulate, intelligent, college-aged students? And also make a pretty nice weekly base salary? And also make a difference in your state's political and

environmental scene? And also drive, bike, drink beer, eat pizza, throw parties, or go on camping trips with them?

Canvassing. Good, old-fashioned, door-to-door canvassing and campaigning. I recently took a job with VPIRG, doing summer canvassing about using renewable resources in Vermont. The hours are long and mean I can't eat a week-night dinner out before 11 PM, but I get mornings and weekends off and it's rewarding to talk to nearly thirty strangers every day. Today, I spent five minutes talking with a blind man who told me some of the most cuttingly hilarious jokes I have ever heard, who then donated $15 to our cause. It's the little things like that that really make it worth it to me. That, and my really attractive co-workers.

Sure, not all of them look like social activist Leo, here, but really...hot, smart men and the environment. Can I sign any of you up?

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

Exes Undercover

Seeing people you used to be with is always really awkward. Like Miranda once said on SATC, I'd love to be one of those very forgiving and karmically correct people who can be all "We were; you enriched me; thank you," but I'm much more along the lines of her "You were in me; now you're not; you need to not exist anymore."

It's a small town, and it's bound to happen. But when you do finally bump into them, it's not like you can prepare for that sort of thing, especially if you're still smarting. I mean, you can have a general idea of how you want it to go-- no crying, no screaming, no resorting to physical violence; act with class and good manners, be a bigger person. But as for the minutia...no one ever manages to plan for the sudden shortness of breath, the shaking, or the feeling that due to the fact you are suddenly more aware of your massive heartbeats than you've ever been before, you're just going to keel over right now, into your Creme Caramel JavaKula, while an old tranny sits across the cafe in direct line-of-sight from you, meaning that he/she will be the last thing you ever see, and your headstone's epitaph will read: "Died before her time for her choice in men; but she had a glorious vagina."

No one, no one, not even decedents of Hitler or whoever invented Spam, deserves to go out that way.

So you end up reverting to some pretty (and petty) asinine behavior. Yesterday, while perfectly happy minding my New Yorker and coffee in Borders, I had one of those moments in life where something makes you look up just as someone else looks away from you. We both knew the other was there. And we both knew the other knew. But, instead of even looking up and waving through the window, I feigned massive ignorance and totally avoided doing anything altogether. It may have been a shitty move, and I realize this puts me back in the socially inept category of a 5 year old, but at the moment, I have no (civil) words, and my momma always told me if I don't have anything nice to say...

"At least," Alli pointed out, "you didn't pick up your magazine and block him with it as he walked out." Which I guess is true. It could have been worse.

But I'm glad to see I'm not alone in this. Later last night, while I was at Vermont Pub and Brewery, watching the Sox game and having dinner and a pint with Alli, she nudged me, and sotto-voice, said, "Look." I looked away from the screen, and immediately saw a wall of newspaper where the 20-something woman seated in front of us previously had been. Momentarily confused, I looked at Alli, wondering what about us the woman found so particularly offensive, then wondered if she was talking about us for some reason behind her improv screen, and then, as I was craning my head around, spotted exactly what made her go all Agent Undercover-- the waiter who was standing behind us. Despite her barricade, the waiter spotted her a few minutes later and went over, interrupting her and her new date, and through her forced, nervous, slightly-too-loud laughter and the "catch-up" chat, confirmed our suspicions. In an instant, empathetic moment, I got it. None of us-- none of us-- really know how to deal with this moment. This woman may have used the shielding technique that I maturely chose not to use in favor of the very classy "ostrich ignorance" maneuver (sarcasm is extremely heavy in that sentence, if you're not great on picking up on it), but from Burlington to Timbuktu, all of us are just freaking out alongside each other, and no one's mastered the art of acting gracefully under fire yet.

That's the problem with dating-- carnage.

So, I guess I'm sorry. Next time, I will actually acknowledge you and ask you how you are. But, if for some reason, I panic and you're met with a wall of newspaper or book cover instead, just know-- it's not just me.

XOXO

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

There's Friends, And Then There's Boyfriends.

There are some things in life you can always count on: the infallible ability for Murphy's Law to hit at exactly the worst time; that gas prices will always go up and not down; and that Homer Simpson will never turn down a donut. But in the past week since I've been home from Italy, I've been making new discoveries about the sort of things you can always count on: namely, that while families and S.Os are nice, they will never be able to beat the awe-inspiring, nearly Twilight Zone-esque capabilities that your friends have for being able to figure you out.

While discussing new apartment logistics vis-a-vis the new queen bed, my best friend snorted when I told her, as always, my bed had to be, had to be, had to be located in one of the corners of my room, preferably across the room from the door. "Yeah," Nora replied, "because you always have to sleep pressed up against the wall and curled up in the fetal position. A queen bed is totally wasted on you." What does it say that my friend knows me so well that she can say this completely matter-of-factly, and yet, I have ex-boyfriends and ex-S.O's who I have either spent a fair share of nights and beds with or lived with part-time who would be hard-pressed to tell you this about me in the same way that it is so obvious to my best friend? Nora knows how, exactly, I like to eat my salads, and in fact, puts to test the whole friends-as-soulmates thing with the fact that she eats the light greens, while I only eat the dark. Watching us eat salad is like watching the Cleaver parents share a meal-- she moves her dark green leaves over to me, I fork out my light pieces and stalks to her, a flawlessly enacted Ballet of The Greenery over the dinner table. She has been known to perfectly time lighting as I inhale, knows how I take my coffee, what weather is my favorite, and 101 other little quirks about how I prefer life. It's the little things that she picks up on that mean the most.

As if getting hit with this stunning realization wasn't enough, Nora's mother then walked in and the first thing out of her mouth was, "Look at you with the long hair!" Granted, this is a woman who assured me during my high school bob-cut phase that I was beautiful no matter what, but sometimes, it's the things like noticing a new hairstyle that women really want to be recognized for and complimented on. It's so cliche, but so true. If you don't want to be quite so trite, instead of just saying, "I like your hair," or "Hey, did you get your hair cut? It looks nice," why don't you try making it more personal and saying something like, "I really like your new haircut because it brings our your eyes" or "I love being able to put my hands through your long hair." Give us a specific reason why you notice it or like it. No one is cookie-cutter-- well, no one outside of Stepford or Connecticut. (I joke, I joke...)

My friend Caiti has known me longer than probably anyone except my immediate family. We met in kindergarten over a set of stilts, and have been friends since. Because we have watched each other go through so many year's worth of styles, from bowl-cuts to braces, from pig-tails to driver's permits, from clogs to stilettos, one of our favorite things to do together is bargain-shop. (Or, in Caiti's case, be reasonable while I drop money like a Rockefeller on an unemployed college student's salary.) On our latest installment of Clarendon Chicks vs. T.J Maxx, she watched me as I cooed over a chain-handled black leather purse. "Your style has changed," she told me, absolutely no judgement in her voice. And just as quickly as it used to take her to dig me out the All-American styles that I used to love (but hello, Ralph Lauren, you are still loved), she was offering up new things to suit my bella-Italia leanings. Despite our 17 year relationship (which is BY FAR my longest), Caiti is as flexible with my mercurial changes as a girl could ever ask for. As I am pattern-perfect Gemini who has a hard time remaining the same person from day to day in the first place, Caiti is unflappable and loyal enough to teach men a lesson: although the look and the years might change, the girl inside is still pretty much the same. You can cut or grow hair, change the wrappings and the address, but what attracts you to a person in the first place is still going to be there.

My roommate-come-travel buddy-come-football watching partner-come-personal chef Alli is like my personal bomb-squad between me and the rest of the world, alternately defusing or detonating. When a guy I was seeing fucked up, I had to send her daily email reminders to please not fire off any missives (or missiles) of her own while we worked it out for ourselves. "Mama Lion" was not quite so pleased, but after reassuring her that her Doberman status had not been totally choke-chained, she settled in for quietly resuming to have my back better than anyone else. Maybe it's because we've lived together long enough to finish each other's sentences or know exactly what the other is thinking at a moment, but quicker than anyone, Alli can tell you why I'm angry, what made me upset, and how to make up for it almost faster than I know the answers to those questions myself. Not much of a used asset for men, a girl's confidants like Alli are immeasurable treasure-troves of information of everything from her favorite flower to requested diamond size to why your girlfriend is mad at you, so it would behoove a guy to play nice with her.

When I went back up to Burlington for the first time in 4 months, I was shocked about how warm the reception was in some cases, even though I was technically 2 days late getting there due to the mishap in Zurich. Just as going away for awhile makes you appreciate home more, I think it can also make you appreciate your friendships more and the people in your life. Old coworkers stopped working to chat for 10 or 15 minutes. Friends' boyfriends came to dinner to say hey and welcome me back. I spent hours and multiple meetings in one afternoon and evening catching up with friends who although I would have assumed had had enough of me via Facebook and Skype and international phone calls while I was gone, wanted to spend even more time with me now that I was back in person. I was shocked when friends called me to see what I was up to, if I was bored or just wandering around, or wanted to meet up with them instead of further slogging through the fruitless job market self-prostituting. "Hey, what are you doing?" "Where are you staying?" "The apartment's small, but I've got some floor for you if you need it." "Come over any time!" "Why don't you stay another day?" "Do you want to grab something to eat?" "Why don't we met up again after your dinner?" "Hey, where are you?" "Let me know when you come back next week." Not only did they meet up with me all across Burlington, but they even helped me knock down a few of my must-eats off my American Food I Have Been Yearning For list, and, as we know, like a good man, one of the quickest ways to my heart is through my stomach. I got nearly teary when, down by the dog park, a young couple stopped my friend and I to ask for a light. As I forked over my lighter and he lit his jay while I held his half-mastiff dog, he looked at us and held up the hemp-wrapped joint now merrily burning. "Hey, you want a hit?" And right then was when I knew I was back in Burlington and that this was all real.

The Sex and the City writers once infamously wrote the line, "Maybe our friends are our soulmates and guys are just people we have fun with." While I might argue that it may not always be fun and games with guys, I will agree that our friends are the ones who will always be there, despite now being spread across the country, or, in some cases, the world. Whether they're someone you've had in your life for years or someone you've seen three times since meeting three months ago, there's no denying it-- your friends are your chosen family and your chosen companions. And the best part is, you know they're not just in it for the sex.

XOXO

Wrapping Up Firenze

Today, I am living in Florence:

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

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

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

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

The Roof Over My Head:

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

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

An Ode To Food:

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

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

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

Sex:

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

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

XOXO