Growing Pains

There are some things in life that are just naturally painful. Root canals. Cute shoes that are unfortunately too tight. When your friend pinches you to shut up after you say too much. Spider bites. And talking to your exes about your current relationships.

I may have been clear in the past that just talking to your exes in the first place is probably painful enough, as you've got some colorful history, and sometimes, it's just easier to pretend it (and that person) doesn't exist. But there are some exes that you can't just wish away or out of your life, because, let's face it, at one point, you loved this person, and even if you've since fallen out of love with them and/or moved on, you still bump into them, or you still have mutual friends with them and still occasionally wander through each other's social lives. Or they still keep showing up on your cell phone's screen.

A few weeks ago, I was riffling through the kitchen cupboards on a raccoon-like rampage at 2 AM for something sweet when I heard my text ringtone go off back in my bedroom. Thinking it was the current boy, as we share insomniac tendencies and are prone to late night conversations, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie, and ate half of it in the time it took me to take my sweet time getting to my room, grabbing my phone, and sauntering back into the kitchen to prepare a response. When I flicked the screen's lock up and saw my ex's name instead, I froze. Cookie crumbs dropped from my hand, as well as the pit of my stomach, not to mention anything about my previously ravenous appetite. I texted back, more incited with his extremely casual text than anything else, and had to take a seat when I realized I was dizzy from this sudden turn of events. Our conversation quickly boiled down to him asking if I'd come over (and believe me, SOMEONE wanted to enjoy some cookie that night other than me), but other than establishing the loss of desire to finish the rest of my cookies and being saved from my sweet-tooth, it also established some odd revelations:

1.) I was able to turn my ex down, something I previously did not know I was humanly capable of. I deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor for this. You may not think so. You don't know my ex.

2.) This meant I liked the guy I am currently seeing a lot more than I previously realized. Oh. OH.

3.) In the moment of having to explain to my ex that I would not be coming over this time, or any other time in the foreseeable future, I felt a sudden wave of extreme tenderness and empathy toward him. It can't be easy, I thought, to reach out to someone you haven't seen or spoken to in awhile, let alone slept with, and admit that you need them for one of your basest desires. I certainly know how hard that is for me, and knowing that I was about to be turning him down made me feel incredibly caring toward him, in a totally platonic way. It made me wonder, what is the least painful way to talk about your new relationship with your exes?

It feels odd to be sympathetic with your ex, and nearly even protective of their feelings again, especially if you haven't interacted with them for awhile. But there I was, finding myself asking how he was after telling him I was seeing someone else, wanting to make him feel like it wasn't a total loss to go out on a limb, wanting him to know that even if he lost the girl, he hadn't lost the friend, instead of saying, "I wasted a year on you, to have to cheat and lie and use me, and now, NOW you expect me to roll over from a guy who's actually treating me like a princess, just because you finally decided on your own accord that you want me?" like I would have wanted to a few months ago, when I was still raw and fresh and sure that I would never heal, that I would never find someone to right the wrongs. Surprise.

A half hour after his initial text and being turned down, he surprised me by texting back and asking if my new S.O was a good guy. I told him he was, and thanked him for asking. I thought this was a good move. I thought it was classy. And then I got another text from him last night. And this time, I had to be firm about it and tell him clearly that I was currently monogamous with someone else, even after he offered so gentlemanly to pay for my cab fare over to his place (the first time he ever offered to pay for anything in the last year and a half we've known each other in a romantic sense). "Well, if you wanna take me up on that let me know. Anytime, probably," he told me, and it was suddenly like I was back in Italy and had to be very straight-forward about the fact that nothing was going to be happening, while still being polite as to not start an international incident.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm pretty happy right now."

Strange, as he used to be the person I was thinking of while gently turning other men down. I was caught in a sudden kaleidescope of time fragments, thinking about how I used to hold out on other guys for him; how he and I had our own falling out; how I was now holding out on him in favor of another man, while at the same time learning how to put aside my feelings of disappointment and disgust about our dissolution in favor of seeing him as a real person again, a real person who went out on a limb with no promise of a safety net, whose feelings could be crushed, who was trusting me to at least let them down gently-- which, to my surprise, I found myself doing as I thought of him as my friend and the man I once loved for reasons I once knew well, and not just an X in a box for "been there, done that." Oh, how times change. And how YOU change.

XOXO

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

Can I See Some Classification?

Lately, my most over-used phrase has been "He's not my boyfriend." As the boy himself pointed out the other night, he gets why when he kisses me in public, people assume I'm his girlfriend, and sometimes it's easier to just not correct them, and I hear that and am all over with agreeing with it-- I let it slide too, when it's not really important. But still, if I have to tell my mother one more time that he is not my boyfriend, and that she needs to stop telling people that I have a boyfriend in favor of telling them that I'm casually seeing someone, there's gonna be a matricide charge. So, A.) because my mother reads my blog, and B.) because I feel like a primer isn't a bad thing if you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about when I say I'm "seeing someone", here's a written guide on the classifications of relationships:

If you think someone is the bee's knees and they might not even know you exist, you're crushing on someone. Conversely, they might know they exist. They might like you, too. But other than talking and hanging out, if no one's made the first move, you're still just crushing on someone.

If you're being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on someone, and they're talking about other girls or other guys and are asking you for advice or help with landing the opposite (or same,) sex, or call you "bro, man, homie," or any other generic, genderless term of affection, you're just friends. You are in the friend-zone. Even if they were stupifyingly drunk, you're probably not getting any. Also, you could just be friends if they're someone that you've never had a single sexual thought about, and the same is true for them about you. Caveat: If you're NOT being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on them, now might be a time to start, because if they DO also like you and you say nothing, you will still get stuck in the friend-zone. Not, as I hope you want to be, in at least the next classification, where sex is involved.

If you're having sex and he's never hinted at or tried moving things out of the bedroom or car or motel room (other than to change location for sex), you're hooking up. Also classified as fucking, or being fuck buddies.

If he takes you out more than twice and drops cash on you, no matter how much or how little it is, and keeps making noise about wanting to keep taking you out and/or treating you-- you're dating. And he's a keeper.

If you're spending time together, going out, sleeping together (both sexually and physically in the same bed), in each other's top 5 contacts lists, and have met the important people in each other's lives-- roommates, friends, parents, etc.-- you're seeing each other. Now, there are two classifications to seeing each other: casually, and exclusively. "Casually" implies that there's been no exclusivity talk or commitment; that if you don't see him a certain number of times in a week, it's cool, and that both of you respect each other's social lives without needing to be in it 24/7. "Exclusively" just means that you had that chat where you said that you only want to be with the other, and you now have an excuse to castrate him with the closest dull yet pointy object if you catch him with another woman after that conversation.

Another word that you can use in place of "seeing each other" is that you're together. He knows that you're together. You know that you're together. Both your friends know that you're together. The people that see you out and about know that you're together. But just like the difference between "casually" and "exclusively" seeing each other, that girl who he's chatting up at work when you're not there might not know that you and he are together. So get it confirmed in conversation if it's going to bug you. Or if it's been a few months that you've been "together." Then, it's just time to shit or get off the pot. While relationships aren't about sprinting through the classifications or steps, they generally do need to progress, though it takes time to get to know someone, and if you'd like to go to the next level with them. Exclusivity is always the next step in the relationship at this point-- it just takes some people longer to work around to it than others. And if he won't give you his exclusivity, or if you're unwilling to stop trying to get with other people, then it's time to end it...

...AKA: break up. You can use the term "break up" to describe what happened with anyone at any point after hooking up-- it's just easier and clearer what you mean that way, rather than saying "we're no longer communicating," which means you could still be fucking, just not talking. (Hey...it happens.) Even if you were just sleeping together, if you're not anymore, if you had a nasty conversation about why you won't be anymore, you broke up.

NO ONE is anyone's boyfriend or girlfriend until the question is raised and the ok is given to refer to them as such. This would mean that you need to either say, "Hey, would it be ok if I called you my boyfriend?" or he says "I'd like you to be my girlfriend." Even if y'all have been dating and sleeping together for two or more months, if you haven't talked about it outright, he ain't yo boyfran, as my friend Caiti would say. In which case, if he does something above and beyond what he needs to do in your current status, you can tell him he's the best "not-boyfriend" ever. Or if you do something above the call of duty for him or his friends, you're allowed to comment on the fact with your friends that it officially made you the best not-girlfriend ever. The "not" is the most important part of this phrase. It shows that you're aware of the fact you don't have this label, yet are perfectly capable of and willing to do the things that would come with it. Strangely, I prefer the title "not-girlfriend" to that of "girlfriend." I think it's because it means I care about someone enough that I'm willing to do what I don't really have to, just because I want to do it. Caveat: Sometimes it's easier not to fight society's previously conceived conventions and try to explain that someone is not your boyfriend. In these cases, either grin and bear it, as we talked about earlier, or correct them if it really irks you that much, or you feel that you need to our should. If you're stuck for a term to correct them with, "significant other" covers it well as a blanket term. A "significant other" is someone who is the most significant other person in your life that you're in a relationship with-- be it a not-boyfriend or not-girlfriend, or a not-quite-yet-fiancée, or your baby-daddy who isn't thinking about making an honest woman out of you yet, but is in your life and supportive.

If you've moved on to seeing each other exclusively, and have had the labels conversation, you're in a serious, committed relationship. You might now be going on vacations together, be invited to each other's family events, thinking of signing a lease together, or he may have started casually browsing the front window displays of jewelry stores. (Note-- this classification is highly age and maturity regulated.)

If you signed a piece of paper together, exchanged rings, and remember saying "I do," I hate to break it to you, but you're married. That is the only time it is appropriate for anyone to call your girl "the wifey."

And now for the toughest term-- a relationship. A "relationship" can be taken a few different ways. You have a relationship with your parents. You have a relationship with your friends. You have a relationship (and probably, some sort of understanding,) with your landlord. And you certainly have a relationship with the person of the opposite or same sex in your life, regardless of the fact if you're just fuck buddies or if you're in a serious, committed relationship. One of my exes explained it this way, and tricked me into a relationship with him in doing so, which was probably the most clever act a man has ever pulled on me as well as the only way a guy could wrangle me into something: "Technically, we've already had relations (read: sex), so whether you like it or not, we're now in a relationship." It's true-- sex changes things between two people. So does him taking you out, even if you haven't slept with each other yet. And if he's spending nights with you, that's another step up the relationship pyramid right there-- not only are you together, but you also have a different relationship as bed partners. (He steals the sheets, you kick, and you're both learning how to deal with the other one while asleep.) So, if you have a different relationship with him that exceeds your friendship, no matter what it is, from sleeping together to being engaged, you're in a relationship with that person. Again, it can be serious or not serious, but dynamics between the two of you have changed.

So...readers...Mom...next time someone asks you what's going on with you and that dude that they're always seeing you with, or if your nosy neighbor who fancies herself a new-age matchmaker asks you if you're in a relationship, you can tell them, "Yes. I'm casually seeing someone, and I really like him." Case closed.

XOXO

The Man, The Woman, The Legend.

Urban legends, right in time for Halloween. Not only are there scary urban legends, there are the sort of urban legends that Single Girls tell to each other to feel better-- things like "It's not you; it's him. He's obviously crazy, and he'll be begging you to come back next week, just wait and see." That, my friends, is a total myth, and one we all know is complete bullshit.

So which do you think is more unbelievable, the ones we choose to re-tell, hope attached, or the ones told to give us goosebumps of the un-delicious kind? The stories of the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-cousin whose fiancée cheated on her, and then repented to become the best husband and father there ever was, or the one about the girl who came home late one night to her dorm room, drunk, and fell right into bed, only to wake up in the morning to find her roommate brutally murdered, and the words "Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the lights?" written in her blood on their wall? Appalachia's Tailypo story scared the shit out of me when I was a kid, but the legend about how it's women who least expect it find the perfect guy is supposed to give us hope? How do we least expect it, if we're all frantically looking for it? Sure it happens, but never in the way we're least expecting it to.

And what about Hook Man? Maybe at one time, he had showed up under a girl's window with a boombox and won her over. And alligators in New York City's sewers. Oh, wait-- that one's true. Do you know what other Single Girl urban legend is sometimes true? The girl who had a one-night-stand that turned into a relationship.

Once upon a time, I had a one-night-stand. I had met the guy a week previously. We spent about 2 hours talking, on a kind of set-up, and that's all it took to convince me he was attractive, convince him I was cute, and convince both of us that we should end our respective dry-spells. We slept together for one night, and then never again. I ran out of my apartment the next morning at 8 AM, leaving him eating breakfast in my living room.

Once upon another time, I had another one-night-stand. This time, I had no disillusions about it being anything but-- we both knew it. He asked me to spend the night; I had brought my overnight bag with me. He kissed me goodbye the next morning; I was confused, yet triumphant. It was like big-game safari hunting, campus edition. 5 days later, he called. He wanted into a relationship. Thus started a 330+ day on-again, off-again unholy partnership of egos, lengths of silence punctuated by periods of too much talking, the exchanging of books and saliva and lots and lots of stories, and just enough occasional sweetness to make it actually seem like an ok idea when barely lucid. The fling was flung. Man, myth, legend.

Like how my mom used to chop all my Halloween stash candy bars in half because of that urban parenthood legend about psychopaths shoving needles and razor blades into trick-or-treating candy, proceed with caution when it comes to these stories, and like with all urban Single Girls legends and gossip, take it with a grain of salt. Someone else's sort-of-optimistically-Unhappy-Ever-After may be just what you're looking for, or it may be the sort of thing you told around campfires to hear other people's screams. Moral of the legend? Promiscuous sex rarely leads to relationships-- it tends to lead more to things like venereal diseases, people saying "I'll call you" and then never doing so or never returning your calls, and terse mornings spent hovering over the toilet bowl making all sorts of strange promises to different gods re: your fertility-- but sometimes, when all the planets align, and the air smells right, and when you least expect it, sometimes, it will at least lead to a second night. Or a whole bunch of second nights. Boo. Scary, ain't it?

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

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

Not Just A Number

I've got a slightly shocking revelation for you tonight: Barring the time in high school when we played drunken Spin the Bottle, I have only ever kissed the same men I've had sex with. This also means I have only ever fooled around with, hooked up with, and awkwardly groped in the dark while intoxicated the same men I've had sex with. While this may seem ridiculously old-fashioned, it's just what works best for me. I'm notoriously picky. (However, this does not mean that I still don't end up with men who are more likely to give me herpes than jewelry.)

A lot of my friends will say, "I really wish I haven't slept with as many people as I have," or "I really wish I could remember the name of the guy who I made out with for three hours in the bathroom at that party," and for the most part, I really don't feel like I'm missing out on those sentiments. I find it fascinating how women can always tell you the EXACT number of men they're slept with; do men keep track of it, too? Once, when asked by a friend how many people I assumed the guy I was seeing had slept with, I responded, "My guess is about 50, but let's go on the conservative side with around 30." She was shocked. I was serious. (I have no idea if men actually count like this. Could someone enlighten me?) But regardless of how other people work, I've always made my choices based on lots and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of thinking. Lots of time thinking about who I am and what I want and what I need. Lots of time weighing pros and cons and doing the fieldwork to see if it was worth it. And in a few cases, split-second reacting.

Once, I was seeing this guy who had had a thing for me for awhile. I wasn't sure how I felt about him, but I figured it couldn't hurt to "try him on for size" like you would a dress you liked the looks of or a pair of jeans. On paper, he was great for me so I assumed I could make it work--literally, FORCE it to work--, but in person, things were strained. He was doing his damndest, though he didn't realize, just as many don't, that I'll never do drunk what I won't do sober, and I felt like I deserved to make a good Yankee go of it (the motto of my life, it seems,) but it just wasn't...right. I ended up sleeping with someone else who I had been warned off of a million and three times while he and I were still technically dating, and it was my fling that blind-sided me. I wasn't expecting much. In fact, I wasn't expecting anything past one night that I could pretend never happened. What I planned for was bragging rights; the ability to say, "See that gorgeous man? I tapped that." What I didn't plan for was falling for the one person I never could have seen coming. I could never have foreseen what happened afterward, the abrupt flip in the compass rose of my love-life from north to south. There was absolutely no forcing of anything-- there was just raw, unavoidable, undeniable connection. It ended up being one of the most fulfilling and enlightening relationships of my life. And every time I saw the "perfect on paper" guy I passed (screwed?) over, I breathed a sigh of relief. (And um, to him, I'm sorry? But not really?)

So, this is what I have to say to you as the moral of the story: Be picky. Don't feel like just because someone is into you that you're obligated to also be into them or owe them anything. Girls seem to fall into this trap a lot, and it pains me to see it happen. Don't worry-- if there's one thing I can assure you, it's that the last time you got laid will not be the last time you ever get laid. You're still young. There's lots of guys out there. You've got years. Unless you're 82, it isn't the end. (And even if you are 82, it may not even be the end then.) Dry spells are as annoying as fuck, but they won't kill you. You can hang in there until you find someone who you're thrilled about, not someone who is thrilled to get into your pants and you're just complacent about. Sex is sex is sex, but it ain't the best unless there's something more to it.

Times like these are when I find myself doing things like trying to find my A.) feelings, B.) pride, C.) social graces, and D.) amusement at the bottom of a pint of Phish Food. I've even been steering clear of magazine racks lately just because looking at photos of couples actually gives me the blues. And it's not because I want to be in one. It's because I don't know what I actually do want. Whatever it may be, I can tell you what it isn't-- settling. I'm done settling, and I hope you are, too.

XOXO

4 Times A Woman Is NOT Trying To Be A Crazy Bitch

"And it's not your fault, but mine; and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked things up this time, didn't I, my dear?" These may be the lyrics of Mumford and Sons' "Little Lion Man," but they aptly describe the feeling that women get when we realize we've made a social mis-step of some possibly Crazy Bitch proportions. And so, I give you, so we can be clearer about this in the future, the four times women are not trying to be a Crazy Bitch.

Situation 1.) When you give us disappointing news, the silence on the phone line is not a bad thing. We are not trying to make you feel any worse (...slightly). We're just trying to juggle our disappointment with the fact that we know you already feel bad and try to temper our instant bitchy and self-centered response with something that sounds more like, "Well, that's really a shame," instead of "This is all your fault!" Because we actually know what's fair and what's not, and when you've tried versus when you're actually not trying. If you're not trying, we're bound to be a little more insistent and lay on a little bit of a guilt-trip, but if you've done what you can, we're taking time out to not be a bitch about it. We really hate being a bitch to you. Really.

Situation 2.) It's only been 24 hours, and my name has popped up on your phone not twice, but 4 times. I know how this looks. This doesn't look good. In fact, I'm pretty sure that this qualifies for what is known in the vernacular as "blowin' a G's phone up." But hear me out. If you weren't quite so hard to get a hold of, and if I wasn't calling for some really, really pertinent and time-stamped information, we wouldn't be having this problem. I am not purposely trying to be annoying. I am not trying to hunt you down over Verizon's phone lines, though, it's starting to feel like it at this point, even to me. Women are warned off their entire life so being so persistent, as we're told it often comes across as "needy." But the deal is, I don't necessarily need you--although that would be nice-- I need the answers that you hold. Please accept this as an apology, and call back ASAP so I can stop looking like I'm about to boil a bunny at any moment and you can get back to being un-harassed by me and thinking, "Wow, she's actually a really cool girl. I haven't heard from her in awhile. Maybe I should call," and not "Oh god, it's this crazy bitch again-- she can't get enough of me. I'm turning my phone off NOW. Die, bitch, diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!"

Situation 3.) It's The Morning After, roughly somewhere between the hours of 8 and 10 AM. We are currently undressed, unwashed, just awake, and the remains of yesterday's make-up are smeared in 20 directions from center. From the instant our eyes open, we are aware of 4 things:
1.) You have other stuff to do today than entertain us.
2.) We were sleeping with our mouth open, which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and winning.

3.) You're probably wondering when we're going to leave so you can get on with said day.
4.) Saying goodbye is going to be awkward. There's always the Great Hug vs. Kiss debate.
We are also then aware of the next 4 following things:
1.) Certified, we will have no clue where either our bra or underwear have gotten to. (Always check under the bed!)
2.) We cannot stumbled onto the street looking like this. It's a small town, and there are children and possibly people who know us around.
3.) We're going to have to commandeer your bathroom for about 10 minutes to get presentable. We hope you don't mind or think we're taking a massive shit.
4.) It's rude to just fuck and run, so what's the most well-mannered way to execute this morning? Is this a "breakfast included" affair, or at least a lukewarm cup of coffee? We're not looking to stay for lunch, but a cigarette would be nice. A half an hour to an hour of waking up, lounging, fixing everything north of your neck and checking out the situation south of the border is in order, and some casual morning conversation is not completely out-of-line. We're aware. We're not staying forever. We know you would like us out at some reasonable point. And we'll be gone with nearly everything we came with in about an hour, as long as we can actually find the underwear that has been spirited away to the Twilight Zone.
(Side-note: If she know the roommates, she's gonna be in there a little bit longer. It's just rude otherwise.)

Situation 4.) When we tell you what we really want. Be man enough to ask rather than jumping to conclusions. Be man enough to listen. Be man enough to care. Because when you don't, that puts you in a situation in which you become a Massive Dick, and, in fact, totally null and voids us from being a Crazy Bitch when we call your ass on it. It's kind of like how a red-card throwing a player out of the game negates his personal foul.

There you have it. Realign that thinking.

XOXO

Ghosts: Night of the Living Undead Relationship

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, when I was a freshman in college, new to smoking and growing my hair out, I danced around mutual attraction with a senior for 7 months. Toward the end of the year, playing indoor soccer in the hallway of the dorm, he knocked me over and gave me a massive bump on the head. A week later, I was in his bed. We swapped music, laughs, bodily fluids, and he told me adventures from abroad as bedtime stories. He was the first guy I fell in love with. I’ve loved other people since, but I will always have a somewhat softer spot for him, just like the tender and swollen flesh on the top of my head that he caressed after he picked me back up.

To this day, we’re still more-or-less in touch. If he comes back into town, he calls. We’ve met for coffee dates and spent a few evenings together. Usually, I’m busy and/or seeing other people, but if I can, I’ll make time to catch up with him. After the summer that he graduated and some hard feelings, I’ve gotten to the point where it’s not hard to pick up the phone or send him a message to contact him anymore.

It’s always a fine line between surprise and the inevitable when I hear his ringtone go off, usually right in time with the seasons. I can say to him, “Sorry—I already have a date tonight,” and he’ll respond with an “Ok, what about tomorrow night?” Unfortunately, at some points in the past, I was ambivalent about the person I was currently seeing as a full-time adventure, and so I said “yes” to his part-time adventure. Not one of my proudest moments. It’s not exactly fair, but it’s one of the complications of life.

In the past few months, he and I have finally progressed from the weird holding pattern we were in. He figured out that although I will always find his big blue eyes and puffy lips tempting, I’m not quite the same girl I was 3 years ago. And I’ve figured out that although the girl I am now has no problem moving past the past and keeping up with him, I’m also moving past him.

It’s always hard to see him. “No” is a word that I struggle with sometimes. As I once said to one of my roommates after coming home from coffee with him, “He was supposed to be fat and balding and unhappy, not tan and fit and cute.” But that’s how past relationships work—you’ll never quite get rid of them. They will always be people you look at and think, “I spent a month/2 nights/6 months thinking you were the best thing on Earth, and I know what you look like naked.” It’s a hard act to juggle. He came to Florence first. He was the one who first planted the seed in my mind, and I’ve been following his ghost all over Italy. It’s in the same places we visit and in the same photos I take that were hanging on his room’s walls. It’s something that I look for, almost unknowingly, when I’m out and about. My breath still catches when I think I see him. Ghosts haunt. Not all of us have exorcists on call. And like Casper, not all ghosts are unfriendly. But ghosts do hinder you—other people don’t want to come and play in your little fright-fest. It's not fair to ask other people to put up with your undead companions. So I have since been learning how to say “No.”

I made my choice (moments of weakness notwithstanding,) a few months ago and decided to keep on growing up and moving on. You can’t keep your future open if you’re still keeping your past on speed-dial as a crutch. We’ve more-or-less both moved on, but are still both past and present. In the past, he was my lover. In the present, he’s someone who I have no qualms asking for advice, or sharing coffee, a few beers, or laughs with again. We all have skeletons in our closets. The true test of character is how you deal with them and bury them again when the Bad Voodoo man comes to call and you know zombies aren’t exactly great playmates.

XOXO

Necessary Evils: G-Y-N Does Not Spell F-U-N, But Being Clean Does.

There are some things in life you just shouldn't be subjected to. The ad for sheer men's thongs of yesterday's entry, for example. Particularly horrendous in-laws. Obscene amounts of child snot (though this is manageable after one gets over the initial disgust. Believe me-- True Life: I Was A Nanny. I know. This may also be why I always have a zip-lock baggie of tissues with me. Always. Because you never know when someone else's baby is going to start leaking from the nose on you. And because I am basically like Mary Poppins with my Big Red Purse of Everything You Could Ever Want. I could entertain a child with the contents of my purse for hours [and I have] as long as you let me keep the cigarettes).

Back on topic. More unfortunate things: Running into and having to make awkward conversation with people, particularly exes or friends of your parents, in inopportune places: specialist doctor's waiting rooms, in front of the condom selection in the grocery store, any time anyone involved is blatantly drunk. (However, if it is an ex, I have a handy script for you. For doctor's offices, it goes: "Well. I guess I know where I got THAT." In front of the Trojans: "Yeah. I'm bangin' like a rabbit ready for spring. And how are you lately?" No one ever said I was tactful.) That totally unnecessary and stoke-inducing pause between when someone says "We have to talk...about who's picking up the cat," or something equally mundane. Lines at the DMV. A long winter walk without gloves or a hat. Staying on hold for more than 5 minutes. Purgatory. (One could argue the DMV and hold are lesser forms of Purgatory. I'm all for that argument and so anti-Purgatory it's not even funny. You don't just wait around after you die. Something, other than waiting, has to happen, even if it's nothing. Life is not about waiting and then going on to die and wait some more.)

But the number one thing you shouldn't have to endure? Totally pointless invasive procedures. First off, I have never had to wait so long for ANYTHING after getting naked. And at least, once you're there, get me ready by asking probing questions before you actually PROBE. This time round, there was no peeing in a cup. (Another thing I loathe. I am not a man. Peeing into and/or on things is not something that I pride myself on.) Hence, I could have toked my little self silly this morning to take the edge way fucking off instead of panicking and cold-sweating into one of those ridiculous open-back robes while being talked through that day's activities. (On the downside, this also meant no super-quick and accurate medical pregnancy test.) There was also no asking me if I was sexually active (guess the cat is out of that bag), when the last time was, about partners, etc. I mean, that's like, my bragging time. Call me immature, but after years of appointments occurring during dry spells (programmed like clockwork for the most emotionally-stunting impact like every. single. "I am alone but I really shouldn't care about it anyway" Valentine's Day,) and pregnancy tests run with me in the background going, "No, really-- it's been six months. I think even I'd have noticed SOMETHING right now. And if that comes back positive, either that sucker had some Olympic sperm, or call the freaking Pope and tell him it's happened again, and to a PAGAN," nothing makes me happier than to announce "YES" like a child who has just learned how to tie her shoes. And generally, I only let people down there for a good time, and I don't exactly call getting pried open by the Jaws Of Life "fun." Also, quit talking to me like everything is normal. This is a fucking awkward situation. If a guy I was with looked at me mid-act and said something like, "So, what are your summer plans?" or "I was thinking of repainting the walls," I'd ask him to kindly shut the fuck up with the small talk or dismount so we can talk about non-sex-related things like civilized people while not trying to accomplish the task at hand. Or...well. You know.

Can't we all just agree that if you take a look and it looks good, it's probably good and you don't need to get all up in there? I know there are few of you out there going, "Tsk tsk, Carissa-- this is exactly the sort of thinking that will wind you up dying a slow and painful death from syphilis. STDs are a serious matter. You can't just self-diagnose! Eye-balling it doesn't answer everything!" Believe me-- when I was 16, I thought I was going to be the first and only person ever diagnosed with Brazilian Vagina-Eating Disease (the country, not the wax job,) due to some young, naive--FINE, they were mostly just STUPID-- mistakes I'd made; I am all about getting a clean bill of health. (Important for both partners, people. If one of you has something, chances are, the other's gonna get it, too. It's like magnets; it's just how those parts work.) But really-- if it is a trained medical professional or specialist saying everything looks good TO THEM-- do we really need to continue to do the rest of the song and dance and swabbing? "Everything looks great!" should mean "We're stopping now." Only if you hit a "Damn, that's certainly not normal!" should it mean "Full swab ahead!" I mean, the "oww's" I am saying are not for theatrical effect. "Oww" means, "it used to be fine in there, and now you're fucking that all up!" There is no lying back and thinking of England. There is no fooling yourself about what is going on. There is just lots of squirming and manically checking the clock. Though, I am pretty sure, with catheters and all that, you guys have it much worse off. Ha. Hahaha. Small consolation prize for us being stuck with the whole childbirth thing.

My mother told me last night to stop being such a baby about it. "It's not like it's your first time," she correctly pointed out, but then she said what made my heart sing and snarky wit sensors start vibrating (...maybe this is not the best post to use the word "vibrating" in...oh well. Damage is done,) and churning. "It's not unlike anything else that goes in there."

I was practically salivating at the mouth by the time I cocked (...another unfortunate word choice...) an eyebrow at her. "I'm pretty sure I've never been with a guy with a metal penis."

Ew. Ew. Ewww.

But yeah. Getting tested is important. Do it at least once a year. Like any well-functioning machine, making sure all parts are clean and in order is para...mount. (Jesus, I don't even try, I swear.) And though it may be one of the more awkward conversations of a relationship (or evening), it really is important to make sure your friend isn't bringing other "friends" to play-- his ex who gave him herpes, the one-night stand with the clap, or some exotic STD from playing abroad. A clean bill of health in one of the most important things you can bring to a night (or nights) of fun, otherwise, well, it's not going to be fun when you have to make or receive that angry phone call, is it? So, suck it up, because if I, Miss I-Faint-At-The-Sight-Of-Needles-And-White-Coats Syndrome can do it, so can you. Make an appointment. And if you're lucky, (and clean, and someone is on some other form of preventative birth-control, and monogamous, and not totally worried about it,) maybe you can play without the raincoat. Which, I will admit, even from a woman's stand-point, is so much better. But until you see a doctor's signature or the emotional wounds from an appointment, be safe and wrap it, kiddies!

After this emotionally taxing morning, it is nap-time for this big baby.

XOXO

P.S-- No Brazilian Vagina-Eating Disease yet. Thank god. In my mind, it's akin to Audrey 2 from "Little Shop Of Horrors." Sheerly terrifying.

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

"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

The Art of the Hook-Up, Parts 1 & 2

Part I:What’s a Girl to Do?

Having previously been one of those “good girls” who have only been intimate in relationships, I recently found myself in the awkward situation of wondering how to go about that infamous art of sex-- the hook-up. Was it as easy as going up to the random acquaintance and saying, “Hey baby, you’re cute, let’s sex,” or was there something more I was missing? Are there social rules for this sort of thing?

Wikipedia, that source for everything you want to know about, and that which you don’t know you want to learn about yet, defines hook-ups as “…a slang term for courtship, especially of a short duration. Also a term used for casual relationships, or casual sex.” Where I’m from in the boondocks, we used the term to mean the full-shebang (quite literally), while over the mountain and forty minutes away, my friend said that at her prep school it just meant making out. So I guess how you use it depends on where you’re from. For all intents and purposes, I’ll clarify and lay down the line. Ladies and gents, hooking up means having sex. Capice?

My interest piqued, I picked up the phone and called a promiscuous friend of mine, curious about how she made her conquests. When I told her my take on it, there was a minute of shocked silence on her end of the line before I was bombarded with a rush of “oh honey, no no no no no’s.” My little guru then went on to give me a veritable checklist of appropriate pick-up lines, as well as things to do while on the hunt for what qualifies as a suitable hook-up partner. (There are qualifications? I thought the beauty of this youth ritual was waking up next to someone and wanting to chew your arm off to get away, a la Coyote Ugly style.) But no. I was being told to flirt. To scout the room. To talk to numerous men to figure out which was the most stable and unlikely to either be immature about the act or cling on afterwards. I was obviously way in over my head, and the advice I was getting was starting to seem like marriage negotiations from the Middle Ages. I mean, if I was cruising for a hook-up in the first place and this is all the work it took, I might as well just start a freaking relationship and save myself some time!

Being the impulsive person I am, I decided to throw the rulebook I’d been given out the window and do things my own way. Screw the two-step; I wanted to get straight to business! I developed a list of fool-proof pick-up lines ranging from smooth to utterly cringe-worthy and passed the idea by my friends on campus. It elicited both cheers from the girls and groans from the guys as I tested out a few of my lines on them and they made me promise I’d bring someone with me for my protection while I was out scouting the campus for the brave men who were willing to take on my challenge.

So here I was: pick-up lines memorized, wearing my big-girl pants, grabbing a hold of my proverbial balls, evil gleam in my eye. I was ready to take on the male population. But, where to start?

Part II:
AKA: I’m Not a Slut. Really.

This article started off simply enough. Girl gets curious about the “hooking-up” phenomenon. Girl does her research. Girl goes out to find (read: harass) men. That’s where you all left your (slightly) fearless authoress. What has happened in the two weeks since then?

With a rapidly rising frustration level due to the unattached, unsatisfied, fabulously flat-broke and single lifestyle I’d been living recently while people around me floated in and out of each other’s beds, I decided that couples whining about dry-spells should be shot. You know where your next lay is coming from. It’s not a dire disaster. Think of all us single people who are out there throwing ourselves under the wheels of the bus of Possible Disaster trying to make a connection- any at all that will suffice.

There was that slacker in one of my classes who I considered bribing with sex to get him to go to class, but re-thought that really quickly. Then there was that adorable under-age boy at the bank that I just couldn’t bring myself to tease. There was that one guy that I accidently shut down in the middle of a pain-induced haze. Let’s not fool ourselves; it wouldn’t have been good, but you’re more than welcome to try again. Really. Please. (Hint to the male population: I know you love us to make the first move, but most women are old-fashioned. Please, you have the balls. Grab a hold and ask us what we’re doing tonight. If we have to let you down, I promise we’ll be flattered in the first place and do it gently.)

In the meantime, I’ve been running my pick-up lines around to test the waters as to what works and what induces a panicked escape reminiscent as if you stood on a table and screamed “GET YOUR HERPES HERE!” (Somewhere, my mother is not pleased about my focus topic.) Here are our winners, so feel free to go forth and use them, but I am not to be held responsible for your success or failure. It’s all about the natural charm, charisma, and lip gloss.

1.) “Hey baby. You’re cute. Let’s sex.”
Strangely, men seem to like this one. It’s direct and flattering, a deadly combination that hits right in the pants. Ahem.

2.) “Are you free tonight, or do I have to pay?”
Bachelor #1: “You have to pay, but I’m cheap.”

3.) “Can I hold your virtual self?”
Bachelor #2: “What?” I guess the target has to either be a freshmen required to read the text by the same name, or possibly an e-game major who’s hoping to meet a girl who shares similar interests.

4.) “I’m easy. Are you?”
This is EXACTLY, it seems, what all men want to hear a woman say. Not “dinner’s ready.” Not “I Ti-Voed the Celtics game for you.” Not “I really don’t need a two-carat princess cut diamond ring, or that pair of shoes.” Men just want to hear that they can have their way with you. How is this not surprising?

5.) “Grab your jacket; you’ve scored. Let’s go.”
I thought guys would like a direct approach with a sport-themed twist, but it seems pretty evenly split between those who like it and those who don’t. This makes me ask: Is it because a woman saying this makes it seem like she’s the one calling the shots? And so you want us to make the first move, but let you take the lead. Ok. No mixed signals there.

6.) “I think I could fall madly into bed with you.”
This is funny and witty enough across the boards. It always gets a chuckle.

7.) “Why don’t you surprise your roommate and not come home tonight?”
This was deemed not impressive enough and in one case, seemed to be an insult that the subject was always in his room, unsocial, and never got laid. Needless to say, it was not a score. However, it seemed to appeal to younger guys, probably because they really do want to get out of their dorm rooms.

So, ladies and gents, did I get my fairytale hook-up? No, but if I had, well, that would have made me the literary equivalent of Gene Simmons, wouldn’t it? In the meantime, I’m waiting for my own white knight to come and sweep me off my feet saying, “I’m a writer. You’re a writer. Let’s get together and put poetry in motion.” Ah, yes. So smooth.

Author’s Note: I highly recommend www.linesthataregood.com as a good source for pick-up lines, as well as for wasting a few hours trying to hold in your embarrassed laughter. There’s even a count for how many times the moderator has tried the lines, and how many times they’ve actually worked. Fascinating.

XOXO