Figuring It All Out

At 22, I thought that my big Quarterlife-Crisis change would be starting to navigate the big, scary Real World, B.S in hand. Instead, the economy solved that issues for me by making me generally unemployable (who ever got a Liberal Arts degree, anyway?) and only a few months freshly out of college, my big life change ended up being a drastic switch from The Single Life to The Coupled Life. Between the two of us, self-imposed loners with a sarcastic, highbrow bend and a serious commitment to Netflix and alienating ourselves from decent society, we managed to take two fairly boring lives, combine them, and make one chock-full-o'-nuts life together. Hence why I have been fairly MIA for the last few months. Hence why I now have friends IRL. Hence why tonight, while he's gone from the nest and I am too mindlessly bored to continue watching yet another Katherine Heigl movie, I've decided to let you know that I remain alive, just a little bit less single than I used to be, and a little bit more grown-up.

All kidding aside, what have I learned about relationships in the past few months cannot be neatly summed up in a single blog post, or in any number of blog posts, for that matter. (Believe me-- I have tried. And tried and tried and tried. My Drafts box is both imposing and impressive now.) Our relationship, like most others, is too complex and nuanced to break it down into categories and subcategories: What I Think About Him, What He Thinks Of Me, When An Acceptable Amount Of Time Is In Which To Say "I Love You," And Who Said It First (neither of those actually happened to be good societal standard norms, but fuck it), How We Met Each Other's Families, The Fact That All My Friends For Once Agree I Have Met A Suitable Man And Would Probably Take Him Over Me Were We To Split, Our First Mini-Getaways As A Couple And How To Survive A Vacation With Your Partner When Your Forget Your Blowdryer, What To Say When You're Caught Red-Handed, How To Breathe And Just Let Shit Roll Off Your Back, What Happens When The Past Sometimes Doesn't Stay In The Past, How Cooking For Two Requires More Math Than You're Bound To Remember From High School Calc Than Cooking For One Does, and The Proper Way To Wake A Snoring, Blanket-Stealing Man Up.

Instead, I've gone back to my pre-schooling basics to make this relationship work where others before have failed. We share things: My car. His house. The grocery list. A full-size bed (built for cuddling when you're respectively 5'3 and 6'3,) and one blanket-- well, he has a tendency to get all Oldest Child about it and steal it, so I've resorted to His and Hers duvets. Colds-- he just got over one; kindly has passed it onto me. We compromise: He, a full-bore Mac Man, has learned to navigate around my PC. I've given up eating quite as much red meat as I used to to better suit his vegetarian diet and our shared meals. He's getting used to having to repeat questions. I'm slowly getting used to actually listening to the answers. The other day, I caught him kiss my cat on the head, not sneer and verbally demean him per usual. It touched me in a very special place. (No, not that special place.) Basically, as I am dying to tell all of my ex-professors, the things I learned in hallowed campus classrooms were NOT, in fact, the lessons that have helped me survive life after college; it was the lessons my parents taught me pre-K and everything else I picked up from dating in dorms, renting as a roommate, and romancing the reluctant and recalcitrant rascals of my previous Single Life that have got me where I am today: Happy, well-adjusted, cohabitating, and in love.

...And yes, still funemployed. But writing pro bono for a few publications, and one newly-created nationally-syndicated women's magazine! (I guess some of those publishing and entrepreneurship classes did come in useful, after all.)

Long story short, I spent 4 years of my life and nearly a cool $100K to learn that to make it in life, you have to be funny enough to ensnare a man's attention, quirky enough to keep it, well-versed enough in the kitchen to feed him once you've got him, persevering enough to play hausfrau for him, relaxed enough to drink beers with his buddies, feminine enough to keep his blood boiling even after a few months in, well-read enough to read the labels on his shirts before laundering them, and educated enough from your previous Single Life to be able to introduce him to new things, places, and experiences.

He, in return, has got to love you enough to find all of this amusing and endearing.

In other words, stay in school, because that's where all the good men are.

XOXO

Like A Bad Episode Of "Mad Men."

So, that new little widgety thing at the top of the page there, where it says "I Majored In Creative Writing, Why?" and has a donation tab? That's not spam, or an extremely fitting ad. That's what happens when your parents are supportive of your dreams and don't stop you from graduating with a B.S in Writing and no job. So, if you, dear readers, happen to be a little more flush than I am, and enjoy reading what I put up here, throw a couple of dollars at me, and help keep me off the streets and instead, pounding them and the parties and lives of the influential, funny people and writing interesting, informative, and sarcastic little witty things for you to read and be entertained by. Thank you, very, very much, in advance. (My adorable little cat who relies on me for food, shelter, and litter thanks you too, as he has grown very used to being kept in the manner of someone whose housing used to be paid for by college scholarships and is no longer.)

In other news, I am at the S.O's condo all evening, trying to polish off this extremely arduous next Vermont Commons magazine column (which resulted earlier in me cleaning said condo during a bout of writer's block), and roasting a whole chicken, potatoes, and carrots so that the S.O will have dinner when he gets home from work. With a nice bottle of Italian white wine, perfectly aerated. (Italy was possibly the best finishing school I could have ever been sent to. Cooking lessons, everything there is to know about good Italian wines and liquor, and how to extricate myself from a very vehement European would-be Don Juan while hurting no one's feelings. Now, THAT'S an education for you; you can hold my B.S!)

Like I said, between that, and listening to him and his friends talk business in posh bars while getting quietly drunk in the corner of the table, what is this, the freaking '50s again?

But no, babe, I love it, really! (Now would be a good time to let y'all know he reads SATCG, so, if you want to know if he has any cute, similarly considerate and funny, single friends [which he does], now would be a good time to send a shout-out in the comments section! Or just for doing a great job all around at keeping me occupied and happy.)

XOXO

Live, Single Girls!

After my third friend in a row was recently dumped by her long-time partner in lovin' crime, it started to put my ladies in the Burlington area in a bit of a panic. First, TGIS had gone MIA, then, one friend's 9+ month f-buddy called it quits on her while citing the need to emotionally distance himself before moving to Beantown, and to top it all off, one of the longest-running couples I knew decided it was time to part ways, effectively rendering everyone's general mood as if it were the end of Scrub's era again. At the beginning of the winter, everyone was shacking up. Now as the season is almost turning to summer, it seems as if they’re all shedding us ladies like winter coats and beards. It’s bizarre, but it’s biological.

When I came home a few weeks ago late at night/early that morning from a successful date #2, I realized then that I haven't been without at LEAST the prospect of a man for the last two years. I went from a summer fling to a feel-it-out situation, to breaking the feel-it-out situation when I slept with someone else who I then started an on-again, off-again relationship with for about a year, then finally ended up facing the music, the relationship's downfalls, and the lack of my desires being unfulfilled when I met and started hanging out with someone else, and just kept going from there. So much for being a "Single Girl." But it's not my fault-- there are men EVERYWHERE. The key to finding them, it seems, is to apparently not be looking for them.

While I may have achieved success (more or less,) in the really odd way of just continuing to date via the ex's friend pool-- not by choice; Vermont is just that small-- the lesson that I've learned here is that "the end" does not really start the sentence "the end of the rest of your romantic life." When I finally reached the conclusion on my own thanks to lack of any communication or response from him that my relationship with TGIS had run its course, I cheered myself up by doing two things-- remembering that he himself had been a random stranger I'd met while intoxicated at a party (true life,) and didn't remember until he popped up out of the blue and started talking to me on Facebook, ergo, that you NEVER know who'll you'll meet or click with, and secondly, taking my bed back by sleeping in the direct middle of it so it didn't feel quite so big and empty and pathetic and lonely anymore. (Wait, are we talking about me or my bed, now? Hmm.) Partially thanks to that, and partially thanks to probably my Zoloft prescription, it was the least painful break-up I've ever had, even though the relationship in itself was probably the most involved and serious to date.

And then I was asked out again out of the blue. I wasn't expecting it. It wasn't like I was planning on being a sex-kitten man-magnet right out of the emotional gate again. I actually intended to take some time off, be single, and re-evaluate myself and my life. But instead, I'm content to just feel things out, meet new people, and take things slow for now. Nothing, after all, is written in stone. Other, of course, than monuments, historical road signs, and castle dedications.

The other night, as the beau and I picked up the ingredients to make a late Sunday night dinner dressed in a motley assortment of "wow, laundry day needs to come soon" clothing, I looked across the self-check-out station at another young couple. He was in Timbz and sweats; she in jeggings, flip-flops, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that could have been identical to mine. She and I were bagging what was obviously going to be dinner for the night as the guys swiped it across the scanners, and suddenly, it hit me-- this isn't that weird; this is what people my age do. We date. We get in and out of relationships. We find out what we're looking for in a partner, and we adjust our thinking accordingly. So, while I may eternally feel like that Single Girl, what I really am is a Normal Girl, one who goes on dates, gets into relationships, still deals with her ex's drama, and more than anything else, is actively and eternally curious about learning what the words "love" and "relationship" really mean.

XOXO

---

This is also a massive apology for the lack of posts in the past month-ish. Between my thesis, finals, Senior Week, graduation, family, my new relationship, finding a new apartment, and traveling, I've been more than a little tied up. However, I HAVE still been taking notes and writing, so be prepared for a slew of posts flooding your RSS feed. Starting...now. Thanks for all your continued support and kinds words in my Comments box; I can't tell you how appreciated they were and how much they meant to me!

The Anti-Rebound

Last night, I went out for impromptu drinks with a guy. It's not like I went to my night class thinking, "Whelp, it's the last class of the semester and everyone is ridiculously stressed in Hell Week before Finals, so why don't we choose now to find someone to go out with, eh?" But that's what happened. As we chatted instead of working, and added each other on Facebook (the "hey, I'm interested in you" move of the 21st century,) we realized we had some mutual acquaintances in common-- namely, my most recent ex and all of his friends. It's official. I have to move out of Vermont. I have dated EVERYONE.

This got me thinking about one of the most ugly terms in the dating world-- the "rebound." While both my new friend and I were very open with each other about the fact that we had both recently gotten out of serious relationships and were still recovering from them, I knew what word would be on everyone else's lips were they to know that three weeks after the Hindenburg crash-and-burn-in-flames end of my last relationship, I was downtown slinging back beers on someone else's tab. While the most recent ex is undoubtedly taking a new girl out on the town, it makes me wonder-- what's the double-standard for switching dating interests so quickly? Do his friends care? Do they miss me? And do rebounds really matter anymore, or are they just another way to brush the dust of your last relationship off of yourself?

While my friends are glad that I'm back on the horse that so uncharacteristically bucked me off with aplomb, I find myself questioning what my dating and relationship mentality has evolved to. Though I still mourn the loss of my last romance, as it was a great one right up until the point we suddenly weren't together anymore, I've realized something that's become equally evident to others-- after over half a decade of dating, it's become harder to get as attached to someone (or the IDEA of someone,) and easier to deal with and mend from failed attempts at love than it used to be. For the five-plus month duration of my last relationship, I always maintained the mentality that nothing was guaranteed; it could end the next day. I was guarded with my mother and friends; less than hopeful when making reservations for one extra seat for my graduation dinner. So when it suddenly ended, I was somehow more prepared and less affected than I'd ever been previously. And healthy or not, that's how I found myself out last night with someone who potentially knows my ex even better than I do. (Slightly hilarious, I'll admit.) It wasn't because I'm some callous bitch who thinks all men are expendable and I don't know how to be or want to be single-- it's because I want to NOT be a callous bitch and learn how to acknowledge and move on from the end of a previous relationship as best as I can.

We tend to look at rebounds as some meaningless, interim fun. But the best part about last night for me wasn't getting the validation that I still got it, but rather, bonding with a guy over getting past the past, and having us both realize that we could have a good time out with a member of the opposite sex again. (It was a little bit like Heartbreaks Un-anonymous, not gonna lie.) To me, THAT was more valuable than scoring a second date, though, this girl's still got it in her. So, to make it clear, people, it's not a rebound-- it's a growth opportunity.

XOXO

"O" Makes The World Go 'Round.

I'm taking a break from my Hell Week before Finals and graduation to bring you something I found while researching for my Gender Com. paper: A response from a potential student's father to the University of West Florida's sex column from March 2009, saying, "What possible editorial and journalistic motive was there for printing such trash-- was this an opinion piece meant to elevate the discussion on sex, excess drinking, drug use or STD's on college campuses?...[Readers] learn from this enlightened young lady that...girls at UWF want what Pixie wants-- "a belly full of beer, a taquito from Whataburger and an orgasm. UNBELIEVABLE!"

Now, I don't know about you, but those three things sound just downright wonderful to me right about now. Who else-- besides obviously not this father-- is with me on that one?

While large quantities of beer and the perfect taquito may be fleeting desires, I often say I come with a disclaimer-- if I don't come at least once a day, I can be a f***ing c**t. THAT'S how important an orgasm a day is to me-- that if I don't get one when I need one, somehow, it ruins the rest of my day, and can even impede on the general good mood of yours. In other words, it is in everyone's best interest that we have orgasms.

What drives us? Orgasm. What is the Number One most constantly pressing need in my life? To orgasm. It is not the need for food, water, shelter, love, money, or success that we all seek with a single-minded drive like a wolf pack on the scent of a wounded moose calf-- it's the need to orgasm that defines us as being alive. Bear with me here, I know that that was a potentially loaded statement. But let's think about it, for a moment-- how does the human race continue our existence? Procreation. And what occurs during procreation? A man has an orgasm. Ergo, orgasms = life. Our drive to carry on the human race and to make babies is what, really? The continuous quest for an orgasm. This father, who was sooooo outraged that a young woman bluntly describe her Holy Trifecta of Awesomeness, unless he is some odd asexual freak of nature who somehow managed to find it in himself to have sex once and thereby create his son with whom he was touring UWF with, is most probably also a devotee of the House of Orgasm. Unlike the House of Valentino or Dior, that's a house that never goes out of style.

There are so many ways to achieve an O that it literally blows my mind sometimes. With a patient, and direction-taking or naturally gifted partner. Or on your own. A response to a weekly sex column run in Burlington's local alternative newspaper, Seven Days, that questioned the phenomenon set off by Natalie Portman's self-lovin' scene in "Black Swan" really made me see for the first time how completely we focus on getting our rocks off; the reader writing in asked the resident sexpert if masturbating "facedown" could help achieve better orgasm than her standard "on her back" position.

I had NEVER thought of this before. EVER. By this point in my life, when finding myself Suddenly Single, like right now, I generally go right back to my Old Faithful routine. I have a feeling this is the way it is for most people who take the task, so to speak, in hand, for themselves. I doubt that many people, other than this letter writer, really fux with something like achieving orgasm once they have a good thing going. But like this letter and response pointed out, there are so, SO, SOOO many different ways to O. On your back. On your stomach. Through underwear. With fingers. Strictly clitoral. With some sort of penetration. With toys. Now choose a toy. Is your mind blown yet, as well? IS THERE AN EVEN BETTER WAY TO GET OFF THAT I JUST DON'T KNOW ABOUT?!

Yup. That's about it for now. Let's all go ponder the state of our orgasms as we all quake in shock knowing that there might be a better way out there, and that really, when you wake up tomorrow morning, it's not because you want to live another day-- it's because you want to O another day.

XOXO

What I Wore.

{Hat: Columbia;
Shirt: Truly Madly Deeply from Urban Outfitters;
Leggings: Old Navy;
Knit Stockings: Charlotte Russe;
Boots: Deena & Ozzy Tread Boot from Urban Outfitters.}

It's been cold as blue balls lately here in VT, and paired with the fact that the medication I've been on for my fever and infection (there's the reason I've been MIA-- Ladies, DO NOT ignore a UTI and just HOPE it'll go away; I guess if we play, we've got to pay at some point...) includes the lovely side-effect of making me sweat more than a whore in Sunday service, dressing has been...well, dressing hasn't happened, since I didn't get out of bed for three days, due in part to the fact that I couldn't begin to fathom how to dress for both sweating AND the chills.

But last night, my shipment from Urban Outfitter's massive blow-out sale came in, and there's nothing like clothing and a new pair of shoes to make a girl feel like new again, am I right, or am I right? I apologize now if you won't see me devoid of these boots on my feet for the rest of the winter-- not only are they STUNNING in a bad-ass bitch, combat-boots-with-class sort of way, the Timberland-like tread on the bottom is great for city slush as well as the Vermont snow, and they're supportive, warm, and comfortable. And heels I can wear all winter long! Paired with the knit stockings I grabbed for $4 and wear EVERYWHERE-- over leggings for another warmer layer, with boyshorts around the apartment, during "intimate moments" for a snowbunny school-girl vibe-- and a knit cap, I was warm and comfortable enough all through work, my night class, and dinner with the girls after. Finally-- forward Vermont winter fashion success!

XOXO

Fun fact: Before I inadvertantly quit smoking in early November, I was virtually never sick. Now, I consider a 2 week stretch of good health a record-breaker. What gives with that irony?!

LikeALittle, or Like A Lot?

I was at a party last night when a local celebrity walked in. No, I’m not talking about any epic Vermont personas—not entertainer Rusty DeWees, not novelist Chris Bohjalian, not even Fred Pabst the Younger, a Vermont ski mogul whose grandfather started that scion of beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon, even though lots of said beer was in attendance—no, I’m talking about a real Champlain College celebrity: Mountain Dew Hat Guy.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you obviously haven’t been following the new LikeALittle Champlain page. The “About” section of LikeALittle calls it a “flirting-facilitator platform,” and says that the site’s purpose is to “allow you to compliment and chat about your crushes around you or otherwise bemoan your missed encounters from the safety of your trusty screen.” Basically, it’s a more campus-centered spin on the iSpys that Seven Days newspaper has been hosting for years, the main premise behind the site being a bastardized love-child of Twitter and your local personals. I’ll admit, I pick up an issue of Seven Days every week, just to read the iSpys. I’m pretty obsessed with being Spyed. But Champlain’s LikeALittle page, which can be found at LikeALittle.com/Champlain, has taken all the guesswork out of deciphering if you were that particular cute blonde in a red scarf sighted on Church Street last Sunday night. Starting with locations around campus (residence halls, the library, in the caf, etc.) and including the gender of the person being holla-d at and their hair color as identifiers, they sometimes include articles of clothing, hints at names, or other clues that make it easier to figure out if you’re being flirted at, or if you’re just crazy and wishfully thinking.

Some messages are cute—“At Fireside: Female, Brunette. You helped me make a Cookie Jar while I sat there, struggling with the twine. Even though I'm not your type, I'm glad you cared, enough to take the time.” Some are hilarious—“Girl at the salad bar in the blue… You say ‘tomato,’ I say DAYUM!” And some are downright creepy—“I stare at that booty through [yo]ur second floor window ;).” The innuendoes are astounding. I have to say, as a peer advisor at the Writing Center, I have had to re-align my standpoint on our student body’s use of metaphor, allegory, and simile. What I’ve seen on this flirting site is a lot better and a lot more sophisticated than what I’ve seen in academic papers. Furthermore, a haiku was written, and another student corrected it—“A haiku is 5-7-5, not 7-5-7.” If we could get this sort of dialogue going in classes, we’d nearly make Mini Ivy status. It blows my mind what some people are capable of creating when they want something…or someone. That’s you, Mountain Dew Hat Guy, Bandana/Lip Ring Dude, and Cute Redheaded Girl Who Does NOT Look Like Hayley Williams.

Currently, over 250 people “like” the page, and I’m sure more visit it daily, even if they haven’t publicly endorsed their urge to creep (myself included). But what’s the draw? Is it a new sort of ego-search, like how you used to Google yourself? Is it because this is such a godforsaken small campus that we all feel the need to know the dirt on each other and who thinks who is hot? Or is this the new way that our generation has taken to meeting people and hooking up—a less lame version of Match.com, in shorter format and more geared toward getting phone numbers than to meeting someone perfectly compatible with you based on 33 personality characteristics and not your shared love of the salad bar or gym machines?

I couldn’t help but wonder as I walked into the dining hall for lunch—was I going to be looking at a post on LikeALittle later this afternoon: “At Cafeteria. Female, Blonde. Teal sweater and Champlain hat. Yeah, I like the way you eat that sandwich.”

Special to SATCG from the December 2010 issue of the Champlain Current.

XOXO

Three Short, Hilarious Stories I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries.

Caught Red-Handed:

For a year, I slept with the same guy. While there were perks-- intimate knowledge of how each other's body worked, relaxed expectations because you knew exactly what you were going to get, the fact that you find a routine that works perfectly every time-- ending that relationship and having a new partner has been a little thrilling. Sometimes, more than just a little.

I had a gynecological exam yesterday morning because I practice what I preach (GET TESTED, PEOPLE!), as well as am very adverse the the idea of having babies, and needed my birth control script refilled. The first sign that this may have been a really potentially awkward experience was when I looked at the nurse and asked, "If I've had sex within the last 24 hours, is it going to affect my Pap results or cell samples?" The second sign would have been the fact that my ass is currently redder than a drunken Irishman sweating under a Caribbean sun with no sun umbrella in sight.

While it's great for health insurance perks and getting appointments ASAP, the problem with having a mother who works in a hospital and knows EVERYONE is that I'm pretty sure that while nothing was said to me, other than a shocked expression quickly covered up by some very pointedly raised eyebrows, someone might be asking my mother shortly if I'm "safe at home" or if I'm being beaten. Having to explain it's consensual...very, very awkward.

However, good news-- they've now replaced the metal duck-lips with plastic ones. Slightly warmer. Less terrifying than having metal inside of you.

Be The Bigger Man:

The guy behind the counter was cute. Very cute. Nice eyes. Very boy-next-door in plaid and shaggy blonde hair. I saw his eyebrows flash up and down in the universal sign for "well, hello there, gorgeous!" as I walked toward him, heels clicking through the thin nubby carpet, and he grinned as he asked, "Hi, how are you?"

"Great, thanks," I said, putting the box of Magnums down on the counter between us. And I shit you not, he looked down at the box, as did I, and stared silently at them for a full 5 seconds in dumb shock, then went on to complete the rest of the transaction in complete silence, except for a half-hearted "have a good night," as I slipped them into my purse.

"Oh, I will," I told him.

Ladies Is Pimps, Too:

I am firmly against parents being allowed on Facebook. Why? Because if your friends accept their friend requests, even if you don't, you still wind up finding things. Like this.

My friend Tessa griped in her status, "How to lose a guy in 10 days? Uhmm a more appropriate question would be how to get a guy in 10 days..."

My mother's response? "Tessa, you should touch base with Carissa."

THANKS, MOM. BECAUSE THAT LOOKS REAL GOOD. Something else to add to my resumee-- columnist, blogger, peer advisor, man finder, pimp. I'm so glad my $40,000 a year multi-faceted liberal arts private college education is paying off.

XOXO

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

Sex with an Ex: Distressed, or Progress?

Over an extremely rare burger and extremely good beer out with friends tonight, I got a text from one of my exes. He was not, shall we say, one of the prominent exes in my life; rather, a guy I was with for the last month of my freshman year of college, just before he graduated and fell off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, until the next time he happened to come back to Burlington, and every time he stopped in again after that. He is, of course, the resident ghost of "Night of the Living Undead Relationship", and since I wrote that, has re-orbited around from the wild blue yonder twice, neither of which time did I see him. We'll see if we really meet up to discuss life post Firenze this Saturday or not. One way or another, it's still a bit shocking every time it happens.

But it got me thinking, as I pulled a surprised face when I saw his name on my phone's screen and showed it to my incredulous roommate beside me, about your relationships with your exes. Some of them I like to pretend don't exist anymore. Some of them are perfectly nice people with whom we both had bad judgement in dating and it just didn't work out, and we still are friends are periodically hang out in large groups with our mutual friends or chat for a good 15 minutes when we run into each other on the street and part with a hug, no harm, and no foul. And some of them are still around, (or, at least, cycle around periodically like this Space Cowboy) and defy both definition or a close to a relationship.

While I may not be doing anything other than having coffee and speaking Italian with this ex, there are other things you can be doing with your exes than meeting up with the crew for brews or occasionally catching up via Facebook chat or Skype or when you go home for the holidays. How bad is sex with an ex, really? Cosmo seems to want us to believe that after re-joining your genitals, you promptly go up in flames of shame and defeat. "It's hot, it's naughty...oh yeah, and it's a really stupid idea. You know it's unhealthy, and that's precisely what makes it so damn good."

I can get behind this state of mind, and I have in the past: It's basically admitting you haven't met any better men, which is depressing at best, and degrading at worst. I even used to think that "you could always do better than yesterday's old news." Believe me. Some of my past "issues" are more fit to line hamster cages than anything else, and I still feel this same way about them. But not all of them are equally horrendous.

78% of Glamour readers also say that sex with an ex is a bad idea. Shanna Moakler, otherwise known as Travis Barker of Blink-182's on-again, off-again wife stands as the one lone vocal supporter of it: "As long as you go into it with a clear mind-set—knowing it’s complicated, knowing you have issues and knowing the relationship can’t go forward—I say yes! Do it! All of the pressure is off, and you can just enjoy each other as friends and lovers. [We’re] exes, but there’s still that substance there, that history."

Sure, this is still someone who you care a lot about. That's perfectly fine. You've spent a lot of time together. You know each other intimately. It's only right that you want to see the best for them. What I've come to realize is that you don't ever "get over" someone you were at one time in love with-- you just fall back out of love with them, gradually and almost unknowingly. The history and comfort that you have with each other can gleam in high contrast to the awkwardness of the mornings after or the futility of trying to meet new people who you like as much, if not more. But only if you have moved on enough in your own life that you don't still want to "be" with them can sleeping with them again really be called "safe." And even then, we can be back-stabbed by our very own brains, who believe that the release of oxytocin released during orgasm means LuV 4EvA, hehehe! So do yourself a favor so you don't find yourself back-sliding: DISAPPEAR.

Take a few days, a week-- whatever-- after the event and go all Witness Protection Program. There should be, at this point, nothing else that you need to talk about, so don't. Don't make excuses for it, and don't hang around. Go, enjoy your post-orgasmic bliss, and invest your energy and happiness somewhere else. (I hope by now you've learned that you can't depend on them as your sole source of happiness. It's all about YOU, sister.) Wait until you actually DO have a reason to talk to them to reappear. And no, "I'm horny again" is not a valid reason. Something like, "Hey, can I pick up the shoe I left there, and have you happened to find my car keys?" is. But then again, you have more than that one pair of shoes (I SINCERELY hope,) and you don't really need to drive anywhere for a few days. So give it some chill time. Do whatever it is you need to do to keep yourself balanced-- when I get lonely at night, I borrow my neighbor's amiable huge mutt Mason, who likes to spoon just like a human man (something I may or may not be coming around to), and give of just as much, if not more, heat. Mason, however, doesn't snore. As much.

Also, I find it really handy, when you are feeling a little weak, to remind yourself of all the hugely dickish moves they made. This is especially helpful in keeping you clear-headed if they're STILL occasionally slipping up and making the dickish move. In that case, I would almost be inclined to say thank them for making your life easier.

But strangely, it was Marie Claire's male blogger Rich Santos who encapsulated the whole ex-mystique thing so fully: "These days, I'm undecided on whether it's best to take someone back or swear them off after they've messed up. A lot of it depends on why they left your life or how they messed up... If you take someone back, they may think they can get away with treating you badly and they'll take advantage of you. When you have that familiarity with each other, it's so easy to fall into bad habits. For example, I've gotten back together with many women as a temporary Band-Aid for our mutual loneliness (which usually plays itself out in the form of sex with no real relationship). Usually, your heart is wrong and your head is right, but your heart wins out. Sometimes it's impossible to say "no," and that's OK." Or, as he then points out, it could be better than it ever was. Not being fully together anymore takes a lot of the pressure of a bona-fide relationship off-- my favorite part is that I am no longer obligated to answer to my exes. Problem is, that also means that they are no longer obligated to answer to you. See? Even out of a relationship, you can never win.

All in all, there's something to be said about your exes who are still current in your life. Whether or not you're into sex with an ex or not, get on with your bad self. Seeing my orbiting ex again always makes me realize how much I've matured and changed from when I was in love with him, and carrying on other relationships with exes teaches a delicate sort of teeter-totter between intimacy and friendship that you'll never learn any other way. I really think that the relationships you have with your exes AFTER the end of your "relationship" is the NEW relationship of the 21st century. It's your grown-up "we're all people here who have issues and needs" relationship. So embrace the ex. It's just up to you how full you decide you want that embrace to be.

So, what do you think? Ever been burned (a second time) by the same person? Are you one of the 78% against knocking some familiar boots, or are you one of the cool 22 who think there's something to be said for it? (Namely being, y'all know the bells and whistles {and emotional hang-ups} already.)

XOXO

All Wrapped Up

So, I write about sex and relationships. And now I've hosted a Durex House Party.

It actually started because I realized that my condom supply is due to expire at the end of the year. Despite being on the Pill and the wayward decisions of my youth, any of the guys I've slept with in the past 3 years could tell you I'm rabid about wrapping up. But if there's one thing that I possibly loathe even more than paying over $8 for 4 beer (that would be you, Dogfish Head Brewery,) it's paying for condoms. But I also refuse to trot over to Planned Parenthood and rob them blind, because, when it all comes down to it-- I'm still a Brand Girl. Some might say, I have "gourmet taste."

Instead of shelling out dough for latex, I usually go trolling Trojan' and Durex's websites to see if they have any freebie trials going on. That's how I landed my first Trojan Ecstasy, and I had pretty good feelings about that, so back I went. There were no free trials on either sight, but what there was was a House Party Girl's Night hosted by Durex that promised 4 condoms per party goer, all fo' free, designed about closing the "pleasure gap" between male and female orgasm, otherwise known as, "Now that you've come, what about me? Oh, wait, are you snoring? ARE YOU ASLEEP?!"

It was like a Tupperware party for the sexually active. Over 20 women showed up to Heaven on Union for food, drinks, a penis cake that was even decorated with it's own condom, and sexy twists on classic party games, culminating in the sharing of our most hilarious or embarrassing sex stories. (It's shocking how many people have literally been caught with their pants down.) We held a world summit meeting on the things we could all agree on: Men keeping socks on during sex is extremely off-putting; shower sex never works; talking dirty is fine to a certain point, after which it becomes alarming; and men saying they're intimidated by you is a load of crap. When was the last time a woman was intimidated by a man? Oh, right-- yesterday.

I was really hoping the stuff got shipped to us in a big box with a return address to "Durex," because I'd have loved to see that Fed-Ex guy's face delivering it. Instead, what I got was a gigantic cardboard box that I set a new land-speed record in opening, beating even my most ravenous Christmas and birthday mornings. Greeted immediately with the sight of nearly a hundred little perfectly square foil packets and blue beer koozies emblazoned with "Durex-- Stick It In," I sat on my bed, squealing in supreme pleasure over everything for a solid half-hour, though it took me about 10 minutes to figure out what the hell the vibrating cock ring was and what way it was meant to be used. What can I say? I'm a small-town girl.

Equally exciting yet tricky at times were some of the freebie offerings generously included for me as hostess. "Like the gel that cools, tingles, and warms at the same time," I told my girl friends as they came over to investigate the big ol' box of goodies. "Because my clit is not confused enough already!" There was also the vibrator. The vibrator that caused a lot of controversy.

"Jesus, I would never walk 20 minutes for sex," a friend told me as we caught up in my kitchen one evening after the party that she missed.

"Like I said, my vibrator broke."

"That's the worst. Why don't they make those things out of titanium? Although I guess it's more blowing out the motor that's the issue."

"Yeah. And blow the motor did. I wore it out a week and a half after I got it. It was the best week and a half of my life. I've teared up about losing it three times since Saturday."

R.I.P, a Single Girl's best friend.

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

Ready, Willing, and (On Occasion) Able.

Good morning, lovelies and creepfests, alike. (Remember that Google Analytics post a little while ago when inspiration hadn't struck in awhile, and I felt it pertinent to post about how through using stats and simple Sherlock-Holmes-approved process of deduction, I can figure out who is reading this blog and what they're looking for? Well, let's just say, I'm HOT in Russia right now, and I doubt it's for anything good. Or literary. Sigh. One of my biggest fears is that I'll come home one day and unlock my door to find a massive Russian dude sitting on my sofa, waiting for me in full bondage gear. Because that's what I live in fear of. I don't want that. AT ALL. What is Russian for "no"? Nyet. That's right. Sometimes my life is a little too bizarre for me to take logically.)

Anyway, I had a rather productive weekend, complete with a random dude who thought that walking with me in the general vicinity of my apartment on Saturday night constituted "walking me home" from a party and asked for a kiss in return as if we had just agreed to swap his Oreos for my Dunkaroos over the 3rd grade lunch table. I realized, in hindsight, that I should have colored the story about a "friend" of mine that I'd told him 2 minutes previous with the word "boy" in front of it, and headed off the whole debacle so that I literally wasn't stopped in mid-stride up my front steps when he said that like some cartoon character straight out of Looney Toons, did an about-face, and really awkwardly went: "Um. Wow. I have an, um, guy, sorry, but uh, props to you for having the balls to ask. More guys should do that. Uh, so yeah. 'Night," before running inside and slamming the door behind me. My cardinal rule is that-- now, pay attention, ladies-- IF YOU DON'T WANT A GUY ASKING OR TRYING TO EXCHANGE SALIVARY GLANDS WITH YOU, EITHER EMBELLISH YOUR CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS, OR MAKE A BOYFRIEND UP, AND DROP HINTS, CAVEATS, AND STORIES ABOUT HIM DURING YOUR CONVERSATION. I really didn't think this guy whose opening line was "Do you like Pop Tarts?" (again, 3rd grade,) and progressed to "Do you read Chomsky?" the second time he made a pass at me needed to be headed off at the pass. Especially because I hadn't showered in 2 days, smelled like another man, was subsisting on about 6 hours' worth of sleep, couldn't raise my arms past shoulder height for a really embarrassing reason (not even to SMOKE), and was generally disinterested in anything but eyeing my cell phone's clock until 1 AM rolled around and I felt like I could bow out of my friend's house after enough sufficient bonding time with the boys. It's good to know sometimes that you're still attractive. And sometimes, I really just feel like people have much lower standards than I'm comfortable with.

It's just like when women go out to the bars: It does not go, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, you are now entitled to sex with me. It goes, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, this means that we get to spend the time while I drink it together learning more about each other and if I would ever sleep with you, or if you even really still want to sleep with me. I'll admit it-- sometimes I accept a drink, and then spend the next 10 to 15 minutes sabotaging myself and acting like the most asinine, alarming, unappealing woman ever so that they'll run away without even trying to make a bid for sleeping with me. What can I say? I'm dead broke.

So all in all, I'm beat, and not feeling particularly creative. Instead, I give you this blog post from The Redhead Papers on oral sex. Here's an excerpt to get you started and prove why you need to read this: "I’ve had a handful of serious relationships (if by "serious" you mean "seriously dysfunctional") and more than my share of casual sexual encounters and I’ve only rarely come across a man who simply just won’t travel to the nether regions. For the most part, they’ve been ready, willing and, on occasion, able. What they lacked in knowledge and experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and a desire to please at all costs. This enthusiasm isn’t always, shall we say, preferable, but it is welcomed."

Erin is much more witty and eloquent about the topic than I could ever be today, and I laughed so hard while reading parts of this that I nearly snarfed my hummus. (For those of you fortunate few out of the know, "snarfing" is when you have a liquid or a solid in your mouth and get so suddenly surprised by something funny that you forget that you're currently engaged in masticating or swallowing, and when you suck in to go to laugh, said liquid or solid gets partially sucked up your nasal passages. In some cases, this results in aforementioned liquid or solid coming out of your nose, if you're really unfortunate. It is mostly a painful process, and much funnier when it happens to someone who is not yourself.)

Neverfear, I'll be back soon with something more substantial than stories of how women lie to men about having boyfriends because it's easier than giving a flat-out "No." I know. We're evil, devious, fickle creatures. I'm sorry. It's just in our biology. I can't help it.

XOXO

Professional Opinion: The Case For Cliches

I just spent the last hour and 15 minutes of my life trying not to storm out of a room while listening to a man. It was harder than I thought it would be.

Periodically, for my Internship class, we have guest speakers come in and present to us what it is they do and how they have made their livings in the writing world. While I have thoroughly enjoyed some of these speakers and gotten new and innovative ideas on where I could potentially go with my career, some of them, like today's, signify to me all that is wrong with the writing industry and world.

I've been learning lately that the "Lemon Law" that applies to dating-- the idea that within your first few encounters with a new man, he will tell you exactly, but maybe not in so many words, what it is that is wrong with him-- applies to the professional world as well. Within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone in a professional setting, you can usually get an idea as to their bend rather quickly. Sometimes it's in their lack of interest, or in their blatant disclaimer that they hate hiring new people to do what it is they think they can do best themselves. Today, the head editor of a local newspaper that shall remain unnamed, along with the speaker, pronounced within the first 5 minutes of sitting down that "99% of what is on the internet is swill."

This may have understandably got my hackles up, but what ironies and flip-flopping proceeded to come forth from his mouth really cemented him as, in my mind, probably one of the least-favorite individuals I've ever met. And this is why.

"Get rid of your mannerisms," he told us. "The hackneyed phrases; the cliches. You won't unearth your personal style until you strip away this junk." You know, I've heard this enough from my professors and other professionals that I get the point. A lot of budding writers stick to the cliches and what they know is widely known an accepted because they don't have the tools to formulate those phrases or thoughts yet themselves. But just like some of the rules of traditional style have to be sacrificed for the sake of excellent poetry (e.e cummings, anyone?), and you have to know the rules of grammar in able to stylistically have the license to break them, I think that some of those cliches are so wide-spread because when used sparingly and properly, they can speak to people and be understood instantly and better than anything new possibly could. I use cliches. I actually really love the nostalgia of certain cliches. The turns of phrase are more elegant and sophisticated than what I'm capable of coming up with on my own sometimes, and they read more consistently across the board. "Misery loves company." "Footloose and fancy-free." "Free as a bird." "As subtle as a bull in a china shop." They're beautiful. Why shouldn't we be able to use them, when the right moment arrives?

Furthermore, your mannerisms, I believe, are what make your voice. My mannerism are what makes my writing unique and stamps it as my own like a thumb print. You cannot write with the same spin that I do. I can't mimic your writing, because I don't think the way you do. My vocabulary is not your vocabulary. We don't use those same phrases and cliches-- we have our own favorites. Strip that away, and you're left with what? Associated Press-sounding content. Yes. Because AP style is totally going to make my page impression count go up.

This came from the same man who handed out a packet of what he considered "excellent writing" in which the following lines were included in "Warrior's Requiem", which, first of all, is an incredibly pompous name for a news article. Ever since "Requiem of a Dream," I've been weaned off of liking that word. Anyway, here are a few samples of sentences: "convalescing from the storms and stresses," "like a sudden liberated vacationist," "the outpouring of the national heart," "under the wide and starry skies of his own homeland America's unknown dead from France sleeps tonight, a soldier home from the wars," and "Alone, he lies in the narrow cell of stone that guards his body; but his soul has entered into the spirit of America. Wherever liberty is held close in men's hearts, the honor and glory and the pledge of high endeavor poured out over this nameless one of fame will be told and sung by Americans for all time." Gag me. Gag me, now. I'm sorry. Was that clear? Concise? Direct? Not cliche? Was that good news coverage for the everyman? No across the board.

He then encouraged us to keep our writing to one thought per sentence, shying away from using commas to tack on another compound thought, and forgo using "and," "because," "therefore," "however," and "although." "Don't force readers to think [back in the text] by using words like 'latter' and 'respectively'," he then told us; personally, I think he could have stopped at "Don't force readers to think," and summed up his whole outlook on his writing profession succinctly and successfully. Scary, then, that this man is in charge of the content of local news, and champions charging fees for accessing archived information and moving some forms of electronic news over as apps for iPad and smart phone users alone. Maybe I'm just from East Bumfuck, Nowhere, and maybe it's just my radical, nearly Communist, liberal way of thinking, but I'm sorry-- is local news a right, or a privilege? When I hear about a shooting in the town I grew up in, try to access my hometown newspaper's website, and can't get any information from it because I refuse to pay a fee for what will be a once-in-a-blue-moon-or-disaster frequency, do you know what I have to do? Call my family and friends and ask if everyone is ok. Chances that they know exactly what happened to whom? Slim. This helps me, and communities, how? Turning it into a money-making venture from something that used to be so typically First Amendment American turns my stomach. I believe that that's one hell of a way to alienate your audience, as well as your community. Very few disillusioned souls ever went into the newspaper business to get rich. You pick your lot in life-- now deal with it. Not all of us will end up being wildly successful. If you're in the writing gambit, chances are, you should be more comfortable with the idea of living in a cardboard box than in a mansion. Or, at least, anywhere far above the poverty line, unless you have an incredible talent and natural proclivity.

I guess what got me the most up on my soapbox about this dude was the fact that he seems to be instilled in the fact that you must condescend to your readers, and maybe more so, finds this appropriate. This flies in the face of all that I believe and hope to achieve. Reading Cosmo isn't fun anymore. I've moved to Glamour for my monthly glossy reading, with supplements like The Atlantic, The New Yorker, ELLE, and Vogue. Reading Cosmo, in fact, makes me feel stupid-- like I can literally feel my brain cells screaming out for a compound sentence and shriveling up. What I'm trying to offer here, at its best, is an alternative to the recycled dumbed-down content for the thinking woman, and honest intelligent insight into women's thinking for the everyman. Is this achieved in every post I write? Certainly not. But I do my best. The wait between posts is a real-time example of the amount of time it takes for me to find, research, mull over, and develop a new idea, or a new spin on an old idea. It's not easy. It's not to be taken lightly. What it is, I hope, is fun, sometimes innovative, and thought- or opinion-provoking.

Unlike our speaker today, I think that it is a writer's obligation to expand their reader's minds. To not cater to the intelligence slums of the masses, but challenge their readers to think. Challenge them by doing what other writers are too afraid, or too traditional, to do. Trust that your readers are people as intelligent as you are, if not more. Trust that they have interests. Trust in their powers to infer, or gather more information if they don't think they have all of it. And if absolutely nothing else, trust that your readers can always find somewhere else to read if they're not giving them what they desire. We're not sheep. You're not sheep. I hope I give you enough to stay interested. Please let me know if I'm ever not, and, unlike our speaker, I'll do my best to make sure to provide something eclectic and invigorating for you to read.

XOXO

The Morning After

By all rights, this poem belong over on Juxtaposition with the rest of the poetry and the experimental prose, but, because of the content and subject matter, I'm posting it here, instead.

This poem came into being after we read aubades, or "dawn songs," in my Reading and Writing Poetry class. An aubade is written by a lover regretting the coming day, and the separation it will bring from their beloved.

I think we all know how I feel about overly romantic crap.

One aubade, however, I liked because it was written by a man about lying in bed while his girlfriend takes a shower, and he thinks about her body, and sleeping in a little more, equally. Maybe it was the comfort of the poem-- the sense that you got that they'd been together long enough that she always gets up first to take her shower, and that he feels no stress in lounging around for a few more minutes-- that I liked, in a sincere contrast to the feeling that I'm used to most mornings upon waking up not in my own bed. So, to counter all these idealistic people in their comfortable relationships and long-term commitments, I wrote this:

"Your underwear

Are always the first thing to go missing,

Hiding under the bed,

Or tossed into some far corner.

He usually will get up first,

To make coffee, or go to the bathroom,

That is, if you aren't ashamed enough

To have snuck out during the early dawn light

First.

You will have roughly 15 minutes

To regain some semblance of the well-pressed self-control

You had the night before,

Sans brush, and sans mirror.

His roommates will be moving noisily around,

With no clue or no care

That you might still be there.

They talk about eggs as you try to find all your rings,

Loose, like how you're feeling about your morals.

You hold your forehead,

Sneaking glances at him in Ray Bans and a Sox hat,

From in between your fingers

As he drives you home.

You wonder if he'll call again."

XOXO

Rules of Attraction

I was recently at a friend's moving-away party, which was definitely more of a sausage-fest than an equal-opportunity kegger. Probably not surprisingly, this is exactly the way I usually like my parties-- heavy on the dudes, light on the other women. As I teared up while hugging my friend good-bye for probably the millionth time at 3 AM, I explained it to the girl behind him who was getting a kick out of my theatrics. "If one of my girls moves away, fine-- we'll talk, and hey, I'll see her later. But losing one of my boys is like losing a member of my family." Not having them around anymore is like a gaping hole in my life. Local anaesthesia just doesn't cut it.

But enough of the Kleenex-laden emotional bullshit. On with the stuff about sex. As a budding so-called "sexual anthropologist," the other nice thing about dude-parties is that they give you a chance to watch men in action as they try to pick chicks up-- sometimes, you being the bird, and sometimes, other women. Here are a few of the fail-proof tricks of the trade to keep an eagle-eye out for the next time you find yourself wondering if a guy's hitting on you, or if he's just seizing in your general direction:

- Male or female, if you're interested in someone, you turn your body in toward them. Women tend to point with their chests, because hey, that's where we have distracting goodies located, while men tend to point with their pelvises for the same reason. Elvis totally understood this rule.

- Take this one with caution: A man who'd feeling you (or who'd like to be feeling you up later,) will invade your personal space like nobody's business. Consider it a basic test-run to see if you have chemistry together. There are some people that I can't stand in the same room as, let alone next to, without feeling like there are sparks jumping off of my skin. Conversely, there are dead fish whose company I would feel more warmly about snuggling up to than some other people. You just can't fake attraction and chemistry. So if you're you're sharing the same airspace, take a moment to consider how you feel, because chances are, he's doing the same. HOWEVER. Drunk people also invade personal space because they don't know any better. As for drunk people who are attracted to you, just throw your hands up and assume both.

- Combining these last two hints, if you're worried that he's about to start dry-humping your leg because every time you breath out, you're smooshed together in a way that is not PG-13 and is basically sex while both of you are still wearing your jeans, it's either really packed in there and he'd rather touch you than the 250 pound dude with an "I Hate Mom" tattoo across his forehead who's behind him, or yes, he's hitting on you. If his belt-buckle is getting personal, he'd like to be, too.

- Everyone's favorite topic is themselves. If he's asking you 48 questions about yourself, he's trying to prove that he's really interested in YOU, not talking all about HIM. Though I'm sure he wouldn't object if you started asking him things about himself. It's called "good conversation," and most not totally socially-inept people find it very flattering.

- So your conversation has ended, and you've turned away to mingle with other people. You notice he's stayed put close by, and is alternately casually chatting with other people, or just, um...hanging. This one's sneaky: Now that you've moved on from him, he's watching to judge if you were really into him too, or if you were treating him the same way you treat everyone else. Women do this all the time, too. (Generality ahead, but backed with evidence as we notice when you do it, but I'm pretty sure you don't notice when we do it:) We just tend to be better at disguising what we're doing so it doesn't freak you the fuck out. Pouring a drink? Checking our phone? Talking in low voices with a friend? No, we're really not. Those are all things we could do with our brainstem unattached. We're really listening in and making furtive glances in your general direction to keep tabs on you, while being as least creepy as possible. (I just royally broke Girl Code in divulging that and probably just shot myself in the foot, but bahhh. It's a random Monday in the Writing Center, and I'm bored.) No one likes looking up to see someone boring holes into them with their eyes from across the room. Unless you find that sort of thing hot, which it can be, unless you look like Jack Nicholson in "Wolf."

XOXO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO