The Not-So-Perfect Ending.

{ My Goodies-- Ciara} <--- Means "listen to this, please." See what I did? I'm kinda workin' a theme, here.

So I feel like I deserve to tell you the end of the "Me & Perfect" story. The Final Chapter, if you will. What happened right before I finished that book and apparently, single-handedly, snapped it shut and threw it in the fire.

Perfect and I got into that Epic Fight September 30th. We haven't talked since. Which may be partly because I may or may not have said some really nasty things. But hey. It's not all my fault. My defenses go up when you start blaming me for shit. I'll do a basic recap of WWIII for you:

Perfect: "You're getting too attached again!"

Me: "Excuse me, what could I get attached to? You're 3 and a half hours away. I never see you anymore. I'm sure you...busy, AKA: fucking your way through your freshmen class and any upper-class ladies you can get your big paws on. I'm BUSY."

Perfect: "Well, it just seemed like you're putting too much into this and getting too committed with all the things we've been saying and doing and all the nude pics I've been somehow convincing you to send me without even having to work for them. But short of ogling your strategically covered body, I can't commit like that right now. And you're going and committing!"

Me: "I'm just a tease. JUST LIKE YOU ARE. You're a great guy, except when you're being a complete asshole, like right now, and yeah, sometimes I wish things could be different, buy they're not. Look, I'm driving home from the gym. Can we continue this lovely blame-fest when I get home?"

Surprise, surprise, I didn't heard back from him. And I still hadn't. The other day, after realizing that I hadn't been seeing anything from him on my Stalker, errrr-- Newsfeed on Facebook lately, I went to go to his page to only find out I have apparently been unfriended either by him, or Facebook went on a binge and deleted half of his friends list like half of it is now missing, I did not, A.) Flip a shit, B.) Send him a snark-tasic message asking him to explain his incredibly juvenile actions, or C.) Call him and pick WWIII back up. Instead, I have decided to just brush it off. Whatever. I didn't think our fight was honestly that unforgivable, and I was hoping we could at least try and remain friends considering all that we've been through, because as he said, "Yeah, but I've had sex with you."

But after everything that's happened with Jersey Blunt, I'm starting to realize just how short and unpredictable life is. Add leaving for Italy for four months and a trans-Atlantic flight, into the mix, and I am feeling very, very mortal. And yes, I've been missing Perfect lately, too. There's nothing like one person going missing from your life to bring the other players hiding in the shadows out and to your attention. I miss the good times we had. I miss knowing he was there for me when I needed him. It felt real bad when all I wanted was strong arms to hold me, and knowing I don't have that luxury because the one guy who was always there for that hug is dead and gone, and the other one who might do that for me is silent, almost 50 days going. I'm not taking that for granted, anymore. So I got off my high horse of Pride and texted Perfect today.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked. "Surviving college?"

"Good," he responded. "Who is this?"

It was like a sucker-punch to my gut. But I guess I deserved it-- all the deletion from his life. I said some pretty nasty things.

"Wow, ok," I said. "It's Carissa."

"Hey, yeah-- I'm doing good," he told me.

"Awesome. Look, some things have happened in my life recently and made me realize I really don't want to leave things nasty from the last time we talked. Basically, I guess I'm sorry."

The whole time I drafted this text, (possibly the first time I've actually said "I'm sorry," to a guy,) I was sitting at work, looking at Anthony and going, "If I say, 'I guess I'm sorry,' it still counts as saying 'I'm sorry,' right?"

Can we tell I have a hard time saying this? If it's all my bad, I'm fine admitting it. But, let's face it-- he started it. I don't want to be fully culpable for this mess.

"Yeah, it was kinda weird! But I understand," Perfect said.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for understanding," I told him. "Hope life's good!"

That was it. Swallowed my pride; made up (kind of), and lived to tell the tale. I feel so much better. I miss that kid.

But now I may or may not feel like the outcome of my dating triumph rides on whatever is going on with Gypsy ending well. It's not rebounding, per se-- it's just the fact that the two of them are so alike and I've been doing such a good job correcting all the mistakes I made with Perfect in what's going on with dealing with Gypsy that if I honestly can't pull this off, I'm going to feel like I failed miserably twice.

But really, I can't figure out what he wants from me. I'm not used to being considered a "prize," something to tap and be able to say, "I tapped that!" As I told Anthony today over dinner when he and Dos asked me why I was with a guy like Perfect in the first place-- heavy on the muscles, lite on the vocabulary-- there are some guys girls date just to say that we landed that; to admire for how warm they are, how nice they smell, how good they look, how much weight they can lift. Yeah, it may seem a bit shallow, but men, when you protest, let me ask you: why are you waiting for the girl with the bangin' body and niceness when there's that average girl friend of you who's super-intelligent, charming, and well-spoken? We're all only human-- we all like looking at nice things.

I'm just not used to being the "hot" girl. I'm not used to being the girl who gets asked over to sit on a sofa and look pretty while not being talked to. I'm not used to being the girl that your other friends stare at. I'm dying for some equal treatment, here. I'm dying for something other than a night that involves the alcohol that Gypsy mistakenly thinks will magically lower my jeans. (Seriously, better chance of me sleeping with you when both of us are sober than when we're drunk. I learned that lesson, and learned it hard.)

So, uh-- how do you tell a guy this without coming off like a total gold-digging tease? Seriously-- you know my "I buy my on goddamn food!" issues-- it's not like I'm asking for a free meal, here. I'm just asking for the sort of old-fashioned, formal acknowledgement of a status that can only be achieved by looking at someone in public (not in their apartment, not a frat house, not at a party in someone else's basement,) while masticating something that counts as sustenance. ("Chewing"...for those of you who instantly went to dirty places and are too lazy to open a new tab, go to Merriam-Webster online, and look it up. I live to serve-- I aim to please.)

Short of getting my ghetto on and telling him, "Playa, I ain't lookin' to be played, so y'all better make up your mind like, right now and we can either fuck and go our own separate ways, or you better be making an honest woman out of me," I am really at a loss. I would like to again make the point that we really are like two supremely socially awkward teenagers about this-- he has yet to make a solid move, and I have yet to throw him a bone. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I'm the sort of girl who really just wants a guy to grab me and kiss me. Fuck the gentlemanly shit at this point-- if I'm crawling into your bed and spending my Thursday nights out with you, I'm not flashing conflicting signs. I'm only talking to Greece more because he actually talks to me. I'm leaving because I refuse to be like any of your other girls and sit and wait for you to come home. I'm a flirt; you don't pay attention, and I'll find something more fun to do. I want you to do something here-- fight for it. Show me it's worth giving it up.

Or I'm gonna bounce to the next. I'm not the most patient girl. And I need reassurance, too.

Sure, he's a player. Sure, if it has a pulse, moves, and owns a vagina he'll make a pass at it. Sure, it's all very casual to him. But sure, it's also getting very casual quickly for me, too. I'm a ticking time-schedule, here. I would like to make something happen there sometime within the next, oh-- week. I'm feelin' it.

Here's to making up, and making out.

XOXO

"...And Let Them Have Whatever The Hell They Want."

Thought of the day: Have sex with as many people as you want to.

Seriously.

I don't mean this in a "Go get massively plastered and fuck whatever doesn't move away fast enough" sense-- I mean this in a "If you like them enough to want to sleep with them, do it if you can, because curiosity killed the cat, and not enough sex kills your libido."

In the face of my January 24th departure to Italy, my horizontal planning has gone into over-drive. We're in the middle of November now, people. I have roughly 2 months to have as much safe, non-stranger, U.S sex as I can. And I see no reason why, at this point, it has to be limited to one person.

I guess this has come in the face of facts: leaving in roughly two months, I have no time/desire/realistic ability to start a relationship. Yes, even me, Miss One Month, realizes that even trying to start something would be an exercise in futility. I can see it now-- "Oh yeah, sweetie, we'll be together here for about two months-- excluding Thanksgiving break, Christmas break, and then the fact I have no housing in Burlington for all of January before I leave-- and then I'm going to be away for 4 months, expecting you to remain faithful, expecting me to keep my hands to myself and off of the hot European men's perfectly denim-clad asses; maybe you'll fly out to meet up with me for Spring Break, or maybe we'll try to pick things up when I come back mid-May and pretend like there's not now MASSIVE differences between us, and I am fully thinking that you've slept your way around behind my back."

Sounds like a great arrangement, right?

Nope. I'm becoming practical. And "practical" for me means realizing that while Gypsy and I are casually casually CASUALLY seeing each other-- (read: emphasis on the "casually." I mean like, we see each other once a week, and I have yet to throw him a bone or, hahaha, get boned)-- actually trying to date him would be the death of me. Especially with his habit of abruptly leaving to go someplace with no explanation. He did that last night, to go get pizza with some other friends, and I had Greece Lightning walk to my car (AFTER HE ADMINISTERED A FIELD SOBRIETY TEST ON ME-- this is why you don't want Criminal Justice major friends, people,) and just left.

I am not the kind of girl who just sits around and waits.

I am, however, the type of girl who spends her weekend in Montreal alternately discussing religion with top professors and academics in their fields, getting stumble-drunk wasted in bars, and thinking about how really, I would just like to casually sleep with Gypsy at this point, and that is about all, folks. I would like some good, old-fashioned, unattached, college sex.

...I love a religion that lets you drink too much, fornicate frequently, and be scholastic all at the same time.

Meanwhile, Southern Charm has invited me over to his place on Tuesday night to watch "Sons of Anarchy" and have beer. If that doesn't seem like just the best evening ever, I don't know what is. (That is a love train I would very much so like to hop on, thankyouverymuch.) (SoCharm...if you're reading this...never, ever mention anything. Let me believe I am living in an unawkward world. Keep the dream for me.)

...Some of this may be because I have always been horrible at picking favorites.

Also, today is the day of Jersey Blunt's memorial here on campus. I might be speaking. At very least, I'll be there with the SoHo Boys thinking about our missing part.

Life is short. Live it up; don't waste it.

XOXO

...And For Halloween, I Was Ballsy.

Halloween Weekend '09 will be one for my record books for all the years of my life to come, AKA: until if/when I turn 75 and decide to off myself before I inevitably contract the familial genealogical jackpot of Alzheimer's, dementia, heart disease, and blindness, but keep on living into my 90s in a crippled, demented state. Why, you ask? Because, in the space of 24 hours' worth of time, I checked 3 Life Goals off of my list of To Be A Truly Interesting Person, You Must Accomplish These Colorful Things. I,

A.) Went to a frat party.
Actually, I went to a frat party with an list-only policy, and got in with the line that will resound in UVM's Sig Phi history forever. Some back-story: Lorelei, Madison, Amanda and I were all chilling at Amanda's apartment, trying to find a good party to go to and talking about how outrageously pissed-off one of Amanda's friends would be if she knew that Gypsy and I were...whatevering...(I still have no phrase for this, mainly because I have no clue WHAT we're doing,) because her friend has had a massive obsession with him since freshman year, when, speak of devils, I got a text from Gyp.

"Sig Phi," it said, meaning the frat up the street. I was wickedly pleased, because Gyp and I had been texting earlier, but had not made any concrete plans to see each other, though I totally wanted to end the night at his place. Not driving home. But this is my thinking: if his phone is always blowing up with girls saying, "Come here with me!" or "Where are you? I want to come!", I am not going to be another one say those things. Instead, I ask what's up. He usually tells me some plans. I say, "Oh, nice-- I'm going to ____, but maybe we'll run into each other while we're out." He says he'd like that. A few hours later, I usually get a text from him telling me he wants to see me and to come to ____. Genius. Manipulation without having to ask or grovel. I figured it out. Dating lessons learned. ANYWAY.

I say I'm down and ask if the other girls can come with. He drops the bomb that they're judging at the door. Of course. (Frats...sigh...) But we're all bangin' bitches, so we decide to pound a few drinks, and go onward and upward to Fratland. When we get there, we find a line about 15 deep being turned away from the door. "It's list-only," some cute, probably freshman, girls on the sidewalk tell us. "They're not letting anyone in."

Amanda, who has been to this frat before, bails at the sign of refusal. Madison, consummate wing-woman, stands by her. Lorelei and I want into that frat. I want me some Gypsy. Lorelei is down to roll with anything. We mount the marble steps, and I pull the front of my (previously altered to new boobalicious heights) witch costume down further to almost scandalous levels. (Hey, I know what I'm working with and how to increase my odds with fratboys.) I had a small purple star where Marilyn Monroe had a beauty mark. I am slightly tipsy. I feel bangin'. Nope. Denied. "Is your name on the list?" the frat douche asked.

"No," I told him, "but my boy's inside, and I have to meet up with him."

"What's his name?" Door Douche asked.

I told him.

"Nope, not on the list-- sorry."

I have never taken rejection well. Lorelei and I climb back down the stairs, and I'm already texting Gypsy a mile a minute, fingers flying. "They're not letting ANYONE in. I flashed major boob."

"Oh no! Flash harder?"

"Unhelpful. Can you pull me in?"

"They know me."

With this text, I turn Lorelei and my train around and march back up those steps. New Door Douche looks at me speculatively. I thrust my phone in his face, and decide it is go big, go for broke, or I'm going home. And with this sentiment, I utter the statement with quiet, resolute, emphatic power that I will always remember:

"My boy is in there. I NEED TO GET LAID TONIGHT. YOU NEED TO LET ME IN."

It had the effect of a Jedi mind-trick. Door Douche #2, who, in his defense, was quite cute and looked like a Kewpie Doll, blinked rapidly three times, and said in a loud voice so that everyone lined up behind us could hear, "I'm sorry, but you need to put your cell phone down. If you're not on the list, you can't get in." And then he leaned in and whispered, "Go in to my left. Go, go, go, go, go!" BINGO!

The best part is, as the door opened to admit people out and Lorelei and I in, Gypsy and Lorelei's friend who was also trying to pull us in were standing in the breezeway, arguing with fratboys to try and get us in. When they turned to look at us, inside Sig Phi, astounded, I was like, "Oh, yeah-- we got in on our own."

With that, Gypsy leads our little frat-crashing train down to the basement, where there's a pretty awesome dance floor going. It's packed, so steamy that my glasses fog up and my previously straight hair instantly curls, and my adorable witch hat gets hit by people packed in so much that finally I give up and stuff it into the plastic cauldron I was using as a purse. (Great idea, by the way. Feel free to use it in Halloween's Future.) Gypsy leads us through the mob to an open patch of dance floor, and promptly disappears. Vanishes. Poof-- gone. Lorelei and her boy start dancing together. Greece Lightning is dancing with an utterly adorable Mulatto girl who made me miss my best friend Nora, away herding sheep in New Zealand, something fierce. I lean in to ask Greece Lightning where his roommate went, and get as far as, "Hey, where's Gyp--" when a pair of hands latch onto my hips and I am bodily hauled up against someone else's body and I am being ground on. I panic for a second, thinking it's going to be Death by Overeager Fratboy, and look as far over my shoulder as I can to see who the grabber is. All I can see is orange-- AKA: Gypsy, in his NASA astronaut suit. This, I am good with. We dance for a song or two, and then-- POOF! He's gone again, in search of more beer. I'm fine alone, and am dancing with Lorelei and her boy when I notice orange across the packed dance floor and see Gypsy dancing with another girl. Ok-- whatever. Strangely, don't really care. A moment later, a male voice says, "Hey, let's dance," and before I can accept or decline the apparently non-optional invitation, I am being treated to a repeat of grabby-grind earlier, only this time, it is not Gypsy, and instead, a random fratboy. 3 songs and another random fratboy grind later, I look up, still glued to the pelvis with a fratboy, and see Gypsy standing in the doorway, staring at me. Not so pleased. Oops. But really-- you leave me alone in a frat, what do you expect? I'm cute, and I'm not gonna beat them away while you dance with other girls. If you play, I'm gonna play. Don't try and beat me at my own game.

I thank Random Dancing Partner Fratboy #2, separate our body parts, and head back upstairs with Lorelei & Co. to try and find Gypsy and peace. I look up and see Gypsy, a Slutty Bee wrapped around his front, carrying her down to the basement. Fuck that game. Apparently, we fight jealousy with jealousy, here. Greece Lightning heads off to round now VERY inebriated Gypsy up and out. Lorelei and I work out a plan, and by the time we get everyone together, she and her boy and DD head one way, and Gypsy, Greece Lightning and I split for their apartment, me in my purple and black striped stocking feet, heels in my hand.

10 minutes after we get back to the boy's apartment, me walking (unscathed) over broken glass and puddles in the streets, Gypsy gets a call and tells Greece and I that he has to get a girl. Greece looks from him to me with a pointed, "Are you completely stupid, man?! You're already got a girl here!" look. I blow it off. Whatever. I'll assess the situation when it gets here. No need blowing up about it first.

Come to find out, this was probably the smartest decision I made all night. A half-hour later, Gypsy comes back with one of the freshmen girls from the Thursday night previous. She was the one I liked more, and someone spiked her drink with either acid or roofies at a party. When she went back to her dorm, it caused a scene, and she needed someplace to lie low. Gypsy sobered up long enough to provide her with a safe place, but as neither he nor Greece Lightning do any form of drugs, it falls on me, the ex-stoner, to help her out.

Lo proves to not be the only problem. My intimate little half-hour tete-a-tete with Greece Lightning has put Gypsy's (surprisingly easily insecure) hackles up. They raise further when Greece offers to walk me to Amanda's apartment to collect my overnight bag I had (wisely, thank you, Amanda, for the suggestion,) left there since Gyp had just gone out to get Lo. By the time the boys decide it's bedtime at 4, Lo wants to sleep on the living room floor, and I say I'll sleep on the double-chair I've been sitting in, insisting that they don't need to pull out the mattress like Gyp and Greece are insisting they do, because, as I flippantly say, "I'm used to sleeping interesting places," Gyp fires back with, "I hear Greece's bed is a pretty interesting place."

Excuse me? I decide not to say anything and let him have his snit-fit. 10 minutes later, I get a text from him, asking if I'm going to make it. I say yeah, and ask for a pair of shorts to borrow, but he's already passed out. I walk down the hallway to his room, where he's left the door open "in case we need him", and wake him up. He searches for a clean pair, can't find any, and ends up removing the pair he's wearing. (Don't worry-- there were boxers involved under them.) "They're new," he assures me. "It's fine." Freshly shorted up, I make sure Lo is still alive, crawl into the double chair in the living room, and proceed to cat-nap from 4 AM to 8 AM.

Which leads us to B.) Did not sleep in my own bed.
I knew from the night of the 29th that I did NOT want to be in my own bed Halloween night, all comfy with Mr. Bodypillow like every other night. FUCK THAT. Give me a real man, real body, and someone else's bodyheat and call me happy. So, after Lo's ride came and got her at 9 AM, I stood in the living room for 20 minutes and debated with myself. Literally, stood there and listened to "Just Do It" Carissa berate Pussy Carissa. It went something like this.

"Just Do It" Carissa: "Now's your chance! Lo's gone! Greece is asleep! No one would know! It doesn't have to be awkward!"

Pussy Carissa: "Oh, dear god, no, I can't do it!"

"JDI"C: "Really? Are you that much of a pussy?"

PC: "Absolutely."

"JDI"C: "I thought you wanted this!"

PC: "I do!"

"JDI"C: "Well, get down there and do it, then! He's already feeling insecure about you and Greece, and after you accidentally shut him down at the dance Thursday after HE came over to YOU to dance with YOU 5 times, you really need to prove to him that you're just as into him! If not, you're going to get stuck so far in the dreaded Friend Zone that you will never, EVER be able to pull yourself out of there!"

PC: "Fuuuuuuuuuuck..."

I'm one of those people who need to send my body ahead on a "grabbing my balls and going for it" mission like this. FINALLY, I was half-way down the hallway before my brain caught up with my body, and the creaky floorboards sealed the deal, considering if Gyp heard them, he knew someone was up and moving toward him and his open door. (Open door policy, anyone?)

Gypsy was fast asleep, sprawled out on his bed, down comforter thrown over himself and limbs everywhere. "Gypsy," I said, knocking on the door frame.

"Yeah?" he asked, eyes fluttering open.

"Lo left-- her ride came and got her. She's fine," I told him, and then went for it, balls in! "I can't take those chairs anymore; they're killing my legs. Do you share well?"

He looked at me, blinked, and then what I was asking caught up with his sleep-addled mind. "Oh. Yeah. Here!" He fished another pillow out of somewhere, lifted up the comforter for me, and scooched over. "I'll take the wall," he said, meaning the fact that his bed rests against the sloped eaves of the attic apartment. "I don't want you to bump your head."

After crawling into bed with him, there was an extremely awkward 5 minutes of us lying back-to-back, not touching, while Pussy Carissa squealed, "I'M HERE, I'M HERE, I'M HERE!" and "Just Do It" Carissa went, "Yeah, but now what are you gonna do about it? This is thrilling, laying here like a couple who've been married for 20 years and hate each other."

The tension was palpable. Finally I said, "I forgot how the time change makes it lighter out earlier." Stunning. I know. But it was what I had to work with, and the sun pouring through his window was all I could think of.

"I can shut the blinds," he said.

"No, that's ok-- I'm fine," I told him, truthfully, but he insisted.

"I've got to get some water, anyway. Want some?" he asked as he scrambled over my (still) (panicked) (corpse-like) (brainless) body to get out of bed.

He returned a few minutes later, resplendent in boxers and glasses (Ah! There goes my proclamation to Alli that I could never be with a guy with glasses because I don't find them attractive,) shut his (previously left open) door, dropped the blinds, and and sat in the middle of his room, staring at me in his bed while he drank. (Yes. It was slightly creepy.) "I really have to clean my room," he told me. "Actually, the whole apartment. Sorry."

"It's fine," I mumbled, hoping he'd get the hint that really, I just needed to be horizontal and asleep, not chatty and sexing it up. It's not just the fact that I'm really trying to hold and be good and make him actually take me out somewhere that is not a party or his apartment; it's also that fact that I know I am unapologetically loud, and seeing as Greece Lightning was in the other room, asleep, and one of my friends, I really didn't want to have to wake him up like that. I feel like he should at least have some sort of previous warning other than hearing me scream "Oh god!" from the other room.

So. Gypsy finishes his water, and crawls back into bed. Halfway over me, he drops, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me to him. "If we're going to share, we might as well share," he tells me. "How are you at sharing?"

"Excellent," I tell him, now spooning with him, his arm over my waist and his hand gripping the edge of the mattress, locking me against him. (Like I'd want to move?)

We napped, sometimes him rolling over, sometimes me. Sometimes we both woke up when the other moved and chat for a bit about things like him playing the harmonica, college, and high school before falling asleep again because we'd decided a full half-day of sleep seemed like a good idea.

At one point, I had migrated back to the edge of the bed like how I sleep at home. I was asleep until Gypsy said "Girl, back up!" in the most resolute, commanding voice I have ever heard him use, and wrapped both his arms around my waist, yanking me back to him, and put his head on top of mine. "Stop this 'edge' shit."

I could feel his stubble-- the perfect facial hair-- on my cheek and neck. I could also feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and in my ear. I tried tolerating it for a minute until I gave into the giggles that had been threatening to shake me since he settled into that position. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I only have one ticklish spot, and that's the back of my neck and ears. You really can't do that unless you want me to be hysterical."

He laughed, apologized, and repositioned. I swear I felt lower lip on the back of my neck. He moved his hand from my hip to around me to cup the elbow of the arm I had bent up to pillow my face. And then he blew into my ear. "Jerk," I squealed as he laughed and then pulled me tighter to him again.

"I'm sorry. I had to do it once." He rubbed his hand up my arm, across my back, and to my shoulder. I almost purred.

Stop the press. Gypsy is a cuddlebug? Personally, I'm fine with spooning-- I need to be touched if I'm going to be in the same bed as someone-- but really-- hard-core cuddling like this isn't my cup of tea if I'm trying to sleep, and I was. I'm one of those, "If I'm sleeping, please, either spoon me half-heartedly or put a hand on me, but not both, because you're distracting me," people.

I swear-- I am a girl.

So I spent Sunday morning from 9:30 to noon in Gypsy's bed, cuddling and napping. And yes-- if you've been keeping track, you're correct-- still no kiss. What is this gentlemanly shit? I swear, I'm going to have to make an engraved invitation to present him with next time.

Around noon, he texted Greece Lightning to see if he was up. He was, about to take a shower, and texted back. "Carissa's not in the living room, but her stuff's still here."

"She's with me," Gypsy texted back.

"OH," was Greece's response.

About 20 minutes later, he knocked on Gyspy's door. "G-morning, sunshine! The shower's open."

"Ok," Gyp yelled back, and then Greece, undoubtedly with a shit-eating grin that you could hear in his voice, said,

"Good morning, Carissa."

"Morning, Greece," I responded, squashing giggles. Gypsy and I stumbled out of his room-- him in his boxers, going straight to the bathroom-- and me, in his shorts, the shirt I was wearing after I changed out of my costume, and crazy hair, going to the living room to sit next to Greece and watch part of the movie we started the night before.

"Hey," Greece said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Hey, " I said, giving it right back to him.

But it's obvious that these boys are so used to one-night stands. After Gypsy got out, I popped into the bathroom to change, brush my (totally unfixable) hair, and fix my make-up. When I got out and handed his shorts back to Gypsy, he and Greece were in the process of leaving. Thanking my lucky stars I was already planning on leaving, I grabbed my stuff, said goodbye, and was half-way down the block before they both remembered manners and the fact I was not, in fact, a One Night Stand, and possibly, someone they wanted with them still. "We're going to Moe's for lunch!" Gypsy shouted at me, hanging out of Greece Lightning's truck window.

"I'm going home!" I shouted back. I was not foraying any more into public in the state I was in. But what I would have paid to be a fly on the wall to hear the conversation they had at that lunch.

And this Halloween story end with, C.) My first Walk of Shame, though thank god I had the foresight/wishful thinking to include a pair of jeans, longsleeve shirt, and flats in my overnight bag, so instead of a witch walking through Burlington at high noon from Isham to campus to get my car, it was a desheviled college girl doing a slightly more discreet WoS, but still with broomstick, witch's hat, and cauldron. I was honked at a few times, but I decided something: It's only a Walk of Shame if you feel shamefull. If not, it's a Walk of Hell, Yeah.

...This stellar weekend and events still did not stop me from completely ignoring Gypsy at dodgeball last night, even though he walked by the gym office about six times, where I was catching up with Elyse, who so pointedly said, "He's waiting for you to say 'hi', you know." Some things never change. I secretly think he likes it when I treat him bad/I kinda think he needs it. Totally. That is totally the way to get a guy: Pretend he is invisible.

Seeing as this is how I act, why do you people even listen to me? Really. Go find someone else who knows what they're doing better, like a steady girlfriend, or a Playboy Bunny, or the dog that always humps eveyone's leg. You'd be better off there. Trust me.

Hope your holiday was just as exciting!

XOXO

P.S-- The other cute/slightly creepy moment? When Gypsy mentioned seeing me in City Market Halloween morning. When I asked why he decided to be a creeper and not say hi, he responded with, "Well, I was checking out as you were walking in, and you seemed really content, so I didn't want to disturb you."

Ohhhh, it's true, and how cute. And thank god I wore my heeled boots!

Get A Little Public.

So, this is going to be an interesting little (Aha...HAHAHA) post. I'm sorry for my lack of presence on the blog/in my apartment/in classes. I must have a new boy. Detrimental to sleep, seeing my roommates, and accomplishing things.

Operating along the lines of "better safe than sorry," this is a HUGE WELCOME to any men I know personally who happen to stumble upon my blog. Southern Charm, that's you-- though I told you after allowing you to follow me on Twitter to either NOT click the link to my blog, or to never tell me that you did-- so if you're reading this now, I suppose than you're going with the "hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil" route. Gypsy, you oh so adorable online creeper, this goes for you, too. (Ladies-- if you're a private person, steer clear of the Information Technology men. I'm pretty sure that when I ignored a "follow" request from Gypsy on Twitter and then sent him a Facebook message saying, "No, I'm sorry, but no-- you cannot follow me on Twitter," even though he said, "Fine, be as secretive as you want," he also cracked his Computer Digital Forensic major fingers and got down to business finding out why, exactly, I was being so squirrely. And as any of my Twitter followers know, I link my blog and new posts on my Twitter page. Hence why it's locked. Hence why I'm picky about who I let follow. But, I have the feeling that things like passwords and firewalls mean absolutely NOTHING to him. Oh, well.)

So, HELLO BOYS! This is my blog! Welcome to my huge embarrassment! And if you ever speak to me about it, I will deny, deny, deny till I am blue in the face, and then I will hit you over the head and hiss at you, "Alright, FINE, yes, I did say that about you in total and sincere honesty, now SHUT UP!"

Again, as Stephen Stills said, "There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature." And I don't believe in being sexist, so I round the figures out by writing about you, guys.

I've been spending a bit of time out and about, as I alluded to, getting to know Gypsy. (Being in that apartment has just further affirmed my firm appreciation for Greece Lightning as well. What an easy-going, personable, chill person he is. Why did I forget to associate with him sophomore year?) It's going well-- I spent not last Saturday, but the Saturday night before that there with Emily (hence that blog post, car being towed, all that fun stuff); last Thursday night from 11 PM to 5 AM at their apartment; and last night from 10:30 PM to 1 AM. NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. I'M BEHAVING. In fact, I may have looked at him on Thursday night (a wee bit intoxicated, hence the sauciness and forwardness) and said, "I'm making you work for it."

His response? A solid "Ok."

Thursday night he actually texted me and asked me to come over. I wasn't doing anything, so I went over and was immediately introduced to two of his close friends. I'm not so used to this whole "meet the friends" thing. Most of the guys I date are in the frame of mind that introducing me to their buddies is not a good idea because A.) I am a huge flirt, or B.) they (rightly) don't see things working out with me for too much longer. I'm also not so used to the fact that he has obviously given them marching orders to be nice and interested, because one of them walked me to class the other day after running into me in the coffee shop, and another struck up random conversation at the bus stop. I love how "bros before hoes" mentality turns into "I like her, so you've gotta give a fuck about her, too" with guys. I feel like women are a whole lot more careless about these things. Your girls don't like the guy you're seeing? Ehhhh. Guess who's going to be seeing less of you around the TV on "Grey's Anatomy and Margarita Night"? It sucks, and it's so not right, but women are so much more likely to not listen to and ditch voices of reason and think below the belt for themselves and go forth and do douchebag dating and mating for the hell of it. Because we think it's ok. Truth. I said it.

The game plan Thursday night/Friday morning was to stay up all night and then walk to my 8 AM class on campus. Gypsy and I were in for the long haul, while Greece Lightning went to sleep not long after the friends (and the world's two sweetest but dumbest freshmen girls,) left. When Greece heard I was planning on staying, he furtively texted me. "Oh, so you're staying? Five bucks on where you think you're sleeping."

True, I HAD thought about it, but I'm being good, dammit, and there's nothing like someone calling my intentions into question to make me stand by them. So thanks, Greece, though Gyp might not feel the same. "Well," I texted back while Gypsy unknowingly and blissfully made PB&Js for us in the kitchen, "I assume this movie will be about two hours. I have to move my car at 6. And I guess I'm going to be napping in this chair between 6 and when I leave for my class at 8."

Greece Lightning circumvented my prudish logic and went right after the heart of the argument. "I think you should go for it. It's a pretty sure bet."

Well, thanks for the words of encouragement. And I'd love to be a fly on the wall of that apartment to hear what was said when it came up that I left at 5 AM, 2 hours after Greece went to bed, but no-- I stuck by my guns. I did not go after it. I. WILL. BE. GOOD. (Godammit.)

Gypsy moved seats from across the living room to next to me, and he and I stayed up, eating our PB&Js and half-watching a movie and talking to each other, doing the whole families/growing up/interests "getting to know you" talk. I learned a lot about him; he probably learned too much about me. It was basically the criteria you go over on a first date-- only we were sitting in stolen chairs in his apartment with our feet up on his "coffee table"-- a cable wire spool. In fact, how would I describe the decor of the apartment? Hmm. Stolen. Road signs and signs deck the walls. A pizza delivery car's roof light adorns the radiator. I love it. It's so "boy."

Though he offered again to have me spend the night, I thought about what Greece Lightning had said and decided to remove myself from the temptation. "Spindly sleeps over on it," Gypsy told me in a last-ditch attempt to have me make peace with the extra mattress. "Blowdryer Boy sleeps over on it. It's for friends who don't live nearby. It's not like we're trying to lure girls over to sleep on it." Nice, but I was more worried FOR him than ABOUT him.

So he walked me the three blocks to the place where I had (finally, after 20 minutes of driving around Fully Booked Parking, College Slum Central, Burlington,) found a spot. I gave him a ride back to his apartment. He said goodnight, got out, and then ducked his head back in. "Can I see you again this weekend? What are you up to?"

Be still my heart. A man, planning ahead? I swoon.

"Umm, my parents are coming up for Parent's Weekend, but they know I have a life and are going to be gone after an early dinner. I don't know after that."

"Ok, I'll call you or you call me."

"Sure. Night!"

"Yeah-- you, too. Drive safe!"

About 20 minutes after I got home, at 5:55 AM, my cell rang. It was a text from Gypsy. "Make it home ok?"

Again, adorable, and I swoon. Repeat.

"Mmmph. Yeah. In bed. Trying to warm up and pass out."

"Same here! :-) Two comforters does well though."

Oh, the cute just about kills me.

We were supposed to meet up on Saturday after my parents left town after dinner, but he ended up being tanked by 8 PM and too inebriated to coherently explain to me where he was. ("Sami's" doesn't quite cut it. I need a street address here, people!) Oh well. I watched "The Goonies" for the second time in a week with Melissa and went to bed early. (The Goonies Said: "Booby traps?" "That's what I said-- booty traps!" Melissa Said: "Awww-- they're skipping!" I Said: "Stripping?!" M: "SKIPPING." C: "STRIPPING?" M: "NOOO-- SKIPPING!!!" I apparently hear what I want.)

Monday, one of my roommates came down really ill and her parents drove up from Jersey to bring her home. (No Swine Flu...no worries.) To give them time and get out of their way, I hopped around campus and Burlington all night, catching up with the lovely Miss Mercure and eating KKDs. I also texted Gypsy to ask if need be that I could crash on the infamous extra mattress. "I may not need it-- I may just apartment hop until I sneak back to my apartment after they all go to sleep. What time is a no-go for coming over to chill?"

"Whenever. I'll most likely be up late. And I'd wake up to let you in and set up the bed for you. Doesn't matter."

Can we just give him a medal already?

So, hmmm...Gypsy. He's intelligent, articulate, funny, sweet, and cute as all hell. Basically a five-year-old in a man's body. A bit of a drunkard and a player, yes, but the more he gets up and walks around the apartment, the more times I just want to sink my teeth into his ass. (Alli. You are so to blame for this. That, and that summer day We Shall Never Speak Of. Again. Ever. Starting Now.) He's certainly used to being an older brother and "protector" which I will admit I like as it makes me feel all taken care of inside and go girly. I am so used to taking care of myself that when other people do it for me, I just tend to...love it. Last night, he walked me to my car-- again, parked 3 motherfucking blocks away-- and as I beeped it open and threw my purse in, he craned to see over my shoulder. "No one's hiding out in your car?" he asked, looked for himself, and then, content that I wouldn't be mauled to death by Birdman, or another one of Burlington's vagrants in my own car, declined my offer to drive him home, saying, "Naw-- I'll walk back," and then put his arms around me. I nearly ate a shoulder full of red and black plaid flannel but composed myself long enough to do that awkward thick-winter-coats-between-us-like-fat-padding embrace.

Oho. We're onto hugging, now. I almost looked at him and said, "Man up and kiss me, already."

As Greece Lightning would say, I'm "a sure thing."

I've never really been the one pursued before. This hit home again when one of my friends was talking to Gypsy randomly two weeks ago and my name came up as someone they knew in common. "She's hot," Gypsy had said. Though I admit it, I may have grooved a bit when I heard this like someone had just told me I was getting a lifetime's free membership to the Victoria's Secret Vault Of All Things Sexy, I'm still kind of baffled. ("Baffled" is an EXCELLENT word for what I am, actually.) Usually, things go like this: either I, A.) meet you, decide I want you, and go after you with varying results, or B.) we meet, we like each other mutually right off the bat, and we fall into bed and a sort of quasi-relationship together. Usually, I don't give the guys that like ME the time of day-- I'm after the ones who I like: the hard-to-reach fruit on the Tree of Temptation. Things like the apple-pie guy who came from the Tree of Temptation liking me usually don't happen. I don't think I can say I've ever had to sit there, talking to a perfectly cute, perfectly nice guy before and think, "Hmmm, do I really like you? Would I sleep with you? Would I ever want to, GASP, date you? Be in a relationship with you? How do I REALLY feel about you? Could I see/let this thing happen?"

So bizarre. I don't know how you serial daters do it.

I also like the way Gyp says my name. Usually, I pronounce it "CA-rissa," but there's this phenomenon that happens with Vermont boys, I've noticed. The soft Vermont accent turns it into "Crissa." Catholic Boy did it. My trainer's husband does it. Some of my native friends are guilty of it, too. But that's all very girly and neither here, nor there.

But god, he's opinionated and set in those opinions. I just want to shake him up a little and say, "Jesus Christ, open up your mind think about it from the other side for once!" Also, let me tell you one of the stupidest arguments in the world: "Well, I only do [dangerous things] when I'm alone. Because hey, if it goes wrong, it's just me." Yes, Gypsy, this is directed at you and your quote. But it's NEVER "just you." It's you, and your family, and your friends, and everyone else who would be left behind if you killed yourself in a moment of young adult male stupidity.

As someone whose life has been affected by far too many losses and far too many "stupid moments," let me tell you-- nothing sucks more than being someone left behind. So don't put the people you love in that position. Think. Texting while driving, or while on a motorcycle, is ridiculously dangerous. People react 18% slower to break, swerve, or speed up when texting on their cell phone. For every 6 seconds that a person spends texting while driving, roughly 4.6 of those seconds are not spent looking at the road. Nearly 25% of all wheeled accidents occur because of texting or talking while driving. Over 2,600 people per year die because of accidents related to dialling or texting on a cell phone while driving. Another 333,000 are injured. Yes-- I am guilty of occasionally texting while driving. I try not to-- driving a standard takes the two hands I already have. Pressing buttons at the same time is really pressing it for me.We all do at one time or another. But really-- we shouldn't. Don't become another statistic.

See? I can do a well-meaning public service announcement other than "use a condom!"

Now LISTEN.

XOXO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Two condoms. Always be prepared.

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

This Is My Life.

Tonight, I--

A.) Ended up commando and bra-less in just a hoodie and jeans at Gypsy's apartment playing drink and strip Jenga with him, his roommate, and four other friends. Though it might seem a bit risque, this is actually one hell of a fun game.

B.) DIDN'T ACT LIKE A COMPLETE, MUTE RETARD and got to suss the whole Gypsy situation out. He was far more vocal or just drunk enough to let the fact that he has EXTENSIVELY creeped my Facebook profile, and god knows what else, out, than I would ever be about the fact that I have done the same to him. It was actually a good night, and even though I did let him off easy without a date, it was as important to see him in his natural setting as I thought it would be. At one point, he came over to sit in the double chair with me, putting an arm around my shoulder and the beginnings of some baby moves on. (I did not object. He was pleasantly warm. And his boxers and t-shirt and my hoodie and jeans were the naked barrier. Oh, so close.) The other girl who had been drinking and was planning on driving, he and his roommate, who we shall call Greece Lightning, let go. Me, they were not so into letting me leave. In fact, I was almost forced to stay, even though I was sober. Clothing was hidden. Numerous threats and offers were made. Flirting was done. Though his phone was chirping off the hook with other girls' texts, at one point, he threw it down and said, "I'm not even responding to that."

Other than being a player, he's witty, charming, eager-to-please, and very easy on the eyes. I can deal with this. I like him. We can pursue this. Case closed.

...Although I do believe one of the Never-Have-I-Evers was "eaten a girl out," and he did not put a finger down. That will have to change, stat.

C.) There is, in fact, an actual extra mattress.

D.) Had my car towed. Sploraine's, or Spillane's, or something has it. Stood in North House's parking lot, said, "My car's not here," and immediately picked up my cell and called Gyp to tell him my car was not where I left it, and that Emily and I would be coming back to figure things out. Again, the offer to spend the night was extended. Again, I really wanted my own apartment. Normally, I would have just said, "Sure-- give me a pair of shorts and an extra blanket, or better yet, make room in your own bed," but Mother Nature has mandated that spending the night in a guy's apartment right now would be really awkward. So we declined, yet again. We came back, he made sure I was relatively ok with life after a cigarette, and walked us back to his apartment, where he sat up and watched "Cheaters" with us until my ride (Super Hero of the Night Miss Jaime!) came to get Em and me. He made a PB&J. As we were getting ready to leave, he looked at me and said, "Yeah, I would have made you a PB&J, too!"

"I didn't realize there was an offer," I told him. "Next time I'll take you up on it."

I will bitch Carl Riden out in the morning and get it back then. Right now, I am in bed, and not so worried.

E.) Just got home. It is 4:30 AM. I am so thrilled with life.

New guy; no car; beer and strip Jenga.

This is college.

XOXO