Love In The Time Of Negitivity

In addition to being a shoe addict (5 pairs in Italia and counting), I am also a hopeless Love junkie. I love a lot of things. There is no real happy-medium for me-- I either love it, or I hate it. Ambiguity is not really my thing. I try to hide it underneath the beer talk and the football game scores, but no matter how hard I try, sometimes it’s just obvious. My roommate Raquel had me pegged by the second night we spent in the Hotel Baglione in Florence. “You’re so into the idea of Love,” she said to me.

Maybe it’s because I can’t understand it. I have never said it. I have never had it said to me. I’ve felt it, but I’ve remained silent, which, in hindsight, was probably the best thing. Just like Carrie in SATC, I’m looking for crazy, outrageous, inconvenient Love. Love that leaves no room for anything else—no doubts, no fears, just firm knowledge.

I listened to one of my roommates one night as she stood in the hallway outside my door, crying. “Love is a fairytale,” she said. “It doesn’t exist.” As I listened to her, I felt my heartbeat shudder a bit. Not because of the fact that she was obviously upset, but because of the fact that she didn’t believe. It pains me, deep down, when people profess that they don’t believe in Love. What, then, do you really have to live for? ‘What does that mean for me?’ I remember thinking. ‘That’s sad and all that she doesn’t have faith for herself, in herself, but what does it mean for me that there are other people out there who don’t believe in Love like I believe?’

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a young teenage girl traveled down to Florida with her family. While she was there, she met a dashing young yacht captain on the docks one night. They went out to dinner the very night they met, and by the time they kissed goodnight and the room spun as she saw fireworks, she was sure that she wanted to be with that man forever. Fate intervened. They both happened to be from New Jersey. He quit his job on the yacht after the last trip, moved back to New Jersey, and two years later, they were married, two days after she graduated high school. About another seventeen years later, pretty much unplanned, they had a child. 35 years later, they are still together, still very much in love. These people are my parents.

This is not to say it is always perfect. As the child of the union, I can tell you—there are fights and disagreements and disappointments. As my mother explained to me, it’s not so much of a constant state of Love—it’s more of an “I will always love you, but I don’t always have to like you.” It is not a ‘happily-ever-after’ fairytale all of the time. Sometimes, it is shoveling the snow off the deck and balancing the familial checkbook and swapping cars to get oil changed. Sometimes, it is planning your life around someone else’s and deferring to their hopes and dreams and aspirations because you love someone enough to know that they need to take a chance and that your own hopes and dreams and aspirations can be put on hold for a moment in order to support theirs. Sometimes, it is putting up with the mundane and the tedious and the frustrating. But, other times, it’s just—it. A sure feeling. Love. Bliss. As easy to love someone else as it is to breathe.

I used to think that this sort of perfect fairytale ending was not achievable for me, based merely on the fact that if my parents were so lucky, how could I ever be doubly lucky as well? Between Disney, the rigors of our societal traditional roles on young women, and growing up around two people so obviously in love, I started to feel jaded. Once, I told a guy I was dating this fear—that because my parents got this, that I never would. He looked at me from the passenger seat as I drove, horrified. “Why would you ever think that way?” he asked me. “Why don’t you think about how that’s what you’re supposed to find, instead?” Even if the relationship was caput, the advice was sound. After all, as a long-time family friend told me, “It wasn’t always a fairytale, after all. The first few years were downright nasty.” As it can be. Love isn’t just a fairytale, as my roommate was finding out. It’s fickle, and it’s difficult, and yes, it will make your cry sometimes. It’s not for the faint of heart, or for those who don’t like getting back up again, dusting themselves off, gluing the pieces of their heart back together, and trying again. It’s not for those who can’t speak their mind, or don’t know yet what they want. It’s not for those who don’t believe they want to find it.

The more I see of this world, the more sure I become that there’s some sort of equation to love. The amount of effort you put into finding it, cultivating it, and maintaining it is directly proportional to the amount you get from it. As my own mother, she of the 35 year+ relationship says, relationships aren’t two people each putting in 50%. A real relationship is two people both putting in 100% of their effort, while at the same time, not feeling like it’s an effort. As I have found, sometimes it even requires 110, or 115.5%, without even realizing it, just because that’s what you want to put into it. There is no Golden Rule to love and relationships. You just need to know that you are doing everything possible to find it, make it work, or to move it forward in order to know that you should be getting something out of it.

If you are a Disciple of Love, does it make you one of the chosen few more apt to find it? If you really believe in it, can you make it come true? If you are a true romantic, no matter how closeted, does that make you more entitled to your own Happy Ending? Are there really any promises?

I have met Romantics off all different shapes and sizes—the Single Girls who are doing their damnedest just searching high and low for Love. The guy who wants both the physical and mental connection. The military couple who doesn’t let distance, jobs, and danger get in their way of always, always thinking about a ‘tomorrow.’ And those eternal ponderers, always questioning if Love is really for them while just hoping to get an answer back from the great void that is the rest of the world’s dating population. Patience. Perseverance. A perverse sense of humor. If not today, then maybe tomorrow. The one thing that all these people have in common is the fact that just like my parents, they believed that they were supposed to find Love; that Love was something that they are entitled to, if not owed. There is no settling; there is no giving up. And when it comes down to it, that’s exactly what you have to remember—you are, in fact, Loveable. Guaranteed, there is someone out there who will find your quirks and idiosyncrasies—the way your voice register drops when you’re asking for a favor, how everything laid on a flat surface has to be diagonal, how your peas and your carrots must never touch—helplessly loveable. There will be someone who will care for you enough to forgive most every mistake you can make. There will be someone who can think of nothing better to do than just sit and breathe with you; just stand still with you. The trick is being patient, waiting, and keeping an open heart of your own. Don’t miss that knock. And once you find it, don’t let it go so easily. All good things are worth working for—and not just 50%. Give it 110%.

XOXO

Jersey Blunt: This Is Just To Say...

...That I am going to miss you a hell of a lot. I thought of you this morning in the shower, and I was going to call you today to chill over this weekend, because it had been way, way too long.

And then I found out this morning that Jersey Blunt passed away at 4 AM today.

After a night of partying, he was heading home when he had a seizure, fell, hit his head, and died in the hospital this morning from complications and trauma. Yes, the seizure was probably drug-related, but, you know what? I don't give a fuck. He was probably happy. That's all that matters.

Jersey and I met in the fall of last year, under dubious circumstances. He was a 20 year old freshmen, after having to put his college career on hold for a year for parole, and I was his advisor. He was handsome-- Italian, 6 foot, 4 inches tall with black hair and bright blue eyes, a big nose, and a wide mouth that smiled easily. He was charming; cunningly, stunningly intelligent; rib-achingly funny, and had a heart as big as his hands. Being the oldest and most experienced in the dorm house also made him the most popular. Unlike most people, Jersey never turned anyone away from chilling with him-- the awkward, the unpopular, the underdogs-- all were welcome. He was kind. He was polite. I have never, ever seen that kind of respect and caring from an alpha male, and I probably won't see it again for a long time. He had a set of manners on him that would have made his New Jersey Jewish mama proud. He ironed his khakis before going to meet with his parole officer, for chrissake.

Though he had a shady past, he was trying to turn as straight and narrow as a natural-born hustler can. I got involved; maybe a bit too much, but that's a part of my life that made me learn, made me grow, and taught me invaluable lessons. He was possibly the most protective and caring guy I have ever even loosely been with-- he protected those around him fiercely, in quietly assertive ways. He made me promise to buy only from him, so he would know what I was taking, and would know the quality, where it came from, how much, the effects, and the dangers. He was the first there to watch your back. He was the one who would call you right back when he saw a missed message, even for something not important. He was the one I called when I was tripping hard, panicked, and didn't know what to do. He took care of me. Calmly. Soothingly. Totally. When he left for the summer, I quit that lifestyle, and the few times I saw him this fall, it seemed like he was brushing it off, too.

I saw him last week, when I was running to a meeting-- met him coming down the stairs I was going up with another one of the SoHo boys. We chatted for awhile, catching up, making plans to party together again. He asked me to let him know of any jobs I heard of that could be interesting. Dealing had stopped being his main income. He was moving on.

Some things, however, would never change. His jaw looked a little funny. Did he get punched? Was it swollen? A toothache or dental procedure? I peered at it until I couldn't help but wonder any more? "Lookit me for a second," I asked, and when he got squirrely and started blushing and fidgeting, I knew I had him.

"Awww..." he started, but I persisted-- "No, no-- look at me!" He bent down so I could see him better, and we were almost in the same position as that afternoon at the beginning of us last fall when he tucked me up to his chest and under his chin on the sidewalk as people and cars passed and snowflakes drifted down.

"Are you...chewing?" I asked him.

"Naw, I'm not chewing," he said, his eyes darting around, not looking at me, a sure sign he was embarrassed and trying to get out of it. "I'm not like Graf and spitting all over the place, but yeah, I have a lip in."

"Ewww. Why?"

"I dunno. I used to chew. I got drunk last night and bought a tin. Don't want to let it go to waste."

The guy could deliver an Oscar-worthy act to professors, faculty, friends, and members of the judicial system, but he still could never,ever lie to me. Not about drugs, not about girls-- not even about homework.

He still was into personal use of drugs, however.

He explained it to me this way, as we stood on the porch one night, smoking and debating String Theory. (Yes...String Theory. He could have gone Ivy. He made me feel ridiculously slow and dim.) "It's like that-- like String Theory. Everything I do, opens up my mind a little more. It stretches limits and makes me grow."

He was happy. He knew the risks. Knowing him was to know to expect something like this. Loving him was to love all of him, bad habits and all. Since last November, I have always awaited the phone call saying he was either back in jail, or had died. It has always been a possibility with him, but that's ok-- that's how he lived his life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Not a second was left not lived to the fullest.

He introduced me to Purple. Gave me free beer; gave me the chance to beat him funneling my first time ever; always had sick new music to share with me; was always dependable to open the front door, help out with the other boys, or offer to lend me a few (hundred) bucks when I was struggling. Taught me what "mugobs" were, and that you should be able to depend on a man to get in touch with you, and never failed to tease me in the most delightful ways. I will always regret what I wasted when I did the "professionally right" thing and didn't get with him. Let that be a lesson to me-- take those chances, and live like Jersey did. That is a 6'4" gap in my life that no one will ever fill. I will never hear that "Bonita Applebaum" ringtone again.

He was 21.

Keep it easy, killah-- I will always, ALWAYS remember you.

The biggest XOXO of them all, for the biggest dude.

S.O.S-- Save Our (Relation)Shipping: Care Packages From The Killer-Cool Not-Girlfriend.

So, another dilemma calls for another mass poll. I'm sending Perfect a care package at college. That much has already been decided. Mainly because I texted him this afternoon for his mailing address. Some flirting and trying to weasel out of my what I was sending him later, I got his address. He didn't get any hints as to what I'm sending other than me saying "it's totally you and I don't think you could/should live without it."

At the beginning, the care package consisted of the book that sprouted this whole idea, The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, and a card. It's true-- the WCSSH lived on my bookshelf for awhile, and has been lent to a couple exes and boys in the past, but when I looked at it with fresh eyes a week ago, I was like, "Damn, that is so perfectly Perfect. How to land a plane? How to fend off a shark? How to deliver a baby in a taxicab? How to jump off a bridge into water? Hey, wait-- this may keep him alive longer and safer when jumping off concrete barriers at the Mills!" I am all for keeping him alive longer.

So we started with the book and a card. As of 3 PM this afternoon while I was texting him for his address, that was what the care package consisted of. But give me time to think, money in my bank account, and the challenge of being the world's best Not-Girlfriend, and I get dangerous.

"I need another little something," I thought. So while card-shopping at Borders (we'll get to the card itself later), I picked up a few Vermont postcards thinking of scrawling a "Greetings from Home!" on the back of one if I could find one of Montpelier.

I one-upped myself.

Almost right after I finished that thought, I picked up one of a beautiful rural town in winter and flipped it over to read the location. Worcester. I can take a sign.

So we have the book, the (soon-to-be-infamous) card, and the postcard of Worcester/home. But no-- this wasn't cutting it. I needed something fun. I needed something that Spencer's Gifts didn't sell because I wanted something neither beer- nor sex-themed because I don't want him A.) drinking his way into another girl's vagina with the help of my loving gift, or B.) in another girl's vagina with the help of my loving gift. Melissa suggested a mini First Aid kit to go with the WCSSH. Perfect. Helpful, and themed. I loved it. To EMS we went.

But as we're standing in EMS debating over small First Aid kits, I get struck with a thought. I don't want to be considered the (gasp!) Mommy Girl. I don't want to be thought of as the girl who's constantly telling him to be careful and watch out and oh go, don't do that! I want to be the fun girl who sends great care packages. I want to be the best Not-Girlfriend there ever was. I needed...something fun. And a mini battery-operated light-flashing frisbee was fun. There was only a moment of worry about the fact that while I can palm it comfortable, Perfect's hands will eat it up-- what the hell? It's a mini light-up frisbee! It's great! It's...dare I say? PERFECT.

At the register, after forking over my debit card for the umpteenth time that day, the guy behind the counter looks at me. "Hey. How are you?"

I huff a sigh. "I'm good."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Well, I'm just trying to put together a care package for my guy and spending more time and thought and money on it than I thought I would be originally. But I guess it's a good day if you're having a hissy-fit over being generous."

And then this total stranger said something while ringing me out that made my ears ring. "Hopefully he's not out drunk and hooking up with another girl."

Ummm, EXCUSE ME? I worry enough about this on my own time. Aren't you paid to make your customers feel GOOD?! Thankfully, after seeing my glazed and then bitchy expression (the bitchy more at the thought of what if Perfect is out getting some other girl off rightthissecond), Register Dude calmed his shit down and assured me I was putting together a kick-ass care package a guy would love. Thanks.

So...we have the WCSSH. The Worcester postcard. The mini First Aid kit, which will totally be used, with Band-Aids and athletic tape and aspirin and alcohol wipes...yeah, I feel good about that one...and the mini light-up frisbee, which is a great homework breaker and roommate bonder. (Melissa, my roommate of the past 3 years, bonded over a light-up rubber ball our freshmen year. Anything light-up and toy-themed is apparently the key to roomie love in college.) And then...there's the card.

Oh, the card. I have to say, I'm not really posting this to sway my mind about sending it. I'm posting this to see the responses I get A.) about the care package items and if you think Perfect will like/enjoy/use them/love me a little more for sending them, B.) to see how many of you think I'm totally off my rocker for sending this boy a care package, even though I send EVERYONE car packages, (They're kind of my deal. I make bitchin' things to send to people. Although it's usually to my girl friends and that's why I'm freaking out so much about this particular very "boy" care package,) and C.) to prepare for what Perfect may think about the card. Regardless, that card, and it's message, are going into the care package box tomorrow. Perfect knows my humor. I know what he takes seriously and what he doesn't. If I can get away with telling him one of my other lovers took the sexy pics of me, I can get the point of this card across in the way it's supposed to be-- funny college sexy humor-- and not the way I wouldn't want it to be taken-- I want him to follow the directions on it because I'M SO IN LOVE WITH HIM.

I'm not. To clear up any questions. I adore him with all my heart, and I do love him, but I'm not IN love with him. I still haven't had enough time or time with him to see if he's someone I could be in love with. My gut tells me that yes, given time and the chance, I could, but my mind is telling me I've had neither time nor the chance.

...Although it was pointed out that we have now known each other for 5 months and been more or less together for all of it. (I'm going for the "less." True, for the first month we were solidly together, but June and July were iffy and weirdly polite and formal and non-thrilling. August and September are shaping up well though as to the Return of the "Us.")

So. The card. It reads on the front: "How to please a woman? Love her, die for her, take her to dinner, miss the football for her, buy her jewelery, be interested in what she has to say... How to please a man? Show up naked; bring beer."

The inside is blank. In it, I plan to write, "Sorry-- couldn't ship any beer."

See? Funny. Light. College. Not crazy wannabe housewife and babymama. No pointed hints that I want him to skip the football or buy me jewelry. In fact, I would yell at him if he turned the football off, and my father the goldsmith and jeweler is the only man I accept jewelry from, thanks. I also plan on writing some other little stuff about the contents, like "Have fun, and the First Aid kit is for when you need to stick yourself back together after jumping off those buildings and wrestling those alligators," (referencing inside the WCSSH). Keep it light. Keep the front of the card and him thinking about me, naked, with beer, and the inside calm, cool, collected, sweet, and funny. The best Not-Girlfriend there ever was, in other words. The kind of thing that will make him want to take this Not-Girlfriend and tear the "Not" right off of the beginning.

So, loyal readers, what do you think? Is this a winning care package? Will my dyslexic Prince Charming be so taken with the survival guide's quirky subject matter that he'll maybe read some parts of it and keep himself alive a bit longer and not succumb to a random drive-by shooting or shark attack in quintessential, land-locked New England-town Fitchburg, Mass? Does this score me major boy brownie points, and, as I screamed in the parking lot outside of EMS to Melissa, not realizing that there were families waiting to get into the Italian restaurant next door, does this at least deserve getting fucking laid next time I see him? (The amount I have spent will remain a secret known only to me, but in any case, the sex would be worth it. I don't expect a care package of my own back, unless you're counting the package inside his jeans, and then, YES PLEASE.) And, how do you think the card will go over? Hmmm? Hmmm???

Tell me. I'm all ears.

...And eyes and lips and arms and legs and boobs. Of course. Sillies.

XOXO

"To Be Irreplaceable, One Has To Be Different." Fall Fashionista.

Yesterday afternoon, I watched the Lifetime movie "Coco" about Coco Chanel. One of her immortal lines happened to snag my ear like a dog on the end of a chain.

"To be irreplaceable, one has to be different."

What works for fashion works elsewhere, too. Self-marketing in both your professional life and in your relationships is incredibly important. For me, as a writer, it's asking myself: "What makes me a different writer people want to read from the thousands of other writers? What is special that I have to offer?" I know what the industry is like for writers. How many other young women are out there writing about love and sex and relationships? Thousands. Millions. How many of them can also write about fashion and review books and movies and food and music? How many of them can edit? Know how publishing works? Can run a staff? That is where my strength lies-- not in my content, but in the parts that make up my character and experience.

In relationships, the concept of being irreplaceable probably means more to me because the thought of being replaced leaves me terrified, with a deep, wrenching hole in both my heart and stomach. "What sets me apart from the other girls?" is what you have to ask yourself, especially when you're dealing with someone like Perfect, who has a veritable harem. So I call and text less-- not every day, maybe every two or three days. Sometimes I let it go five, long enough for him to notice my absence and wonder what I'm doing. I flirt harmlessly with other guys, letting it spill out to public places like my Facebook wall, where he can see. (Jealousy is a trait I've have just started to realize will motivate Perfect. Being an illogically jealous person myself, I can work with this.) Sass him back when he needs to be put into his place, because you can be damn sure no other woman is sassing him back. The boy can get a bit big for his britches, and those are some big britches in the first place. Make him work for it. Friday night when he was begging for pictures of me, I didn't send one, even though it killed me not to. He's used to things coming to him easily in life, and having to wait and work for something makes it so much more delicious when you finally do get it. Extending the suspense is both seductive and invigorating. As another quote Chanel said to one of her lovers, "You can be very cruel."

"Like anyone who is in love," he replied.

And to get back to the fashion segment of the Chanel quote on irreplaceability, sometimes it means not following trends. Acid-wash may be a huge look for fall, but I absolutely abhor it. Instead, I counter with the idea of plaid and denim: a red plaid shirt with either jeans or cut-offs has that rustic fall look that appeals to me so much. A bright red plaid shirt with light jeans and black boots has the same "BAM!" factor of acid-wash, without the bad 80s flashback aftertaste.


Another look I'm loving right now is the color combination of hot pink and gray worn together. I own a cute little colorblock dress with a hot pink ruffled top and a hair-waisted gray skirt, but a more casual example of this combo saw in the newest Victoria's Secret catalog completely blew me away, but realistically and stylistically. A long, hot pink hoodie or sweater worn over gray leggings with Uggs is the perfect relaxed fall outfit. I'm a college student-- I strive for the least amount of fuss necessary. This is right up my alley, and it looks cute while still remaining supremely comfortable. It makes you looks like the girl who rolled out of bed, ran a hand through your hair, out this on, and waltzed out the door. Which you did. Men love this "relaxed chick" idea. But please, if you're going to rock a laid-back look like this, do do more than rolling out of bed and pulling it on. Doing your hair and wearing some more attention-grabbing makeup than normal can turn an outfit like this into something downright striking.

Layering, especially in climates like Vermont in the fall, is essential. Pairing relaxed boyfriend jeans with one of your short summer dresses and an oversized or long cardigan or sweater and flats transitions you from warm climates (buses, cars, restaurants, your apartment,) to cooler climates (outdoors, classrooms, movie theaters, your boyfriend's apartment).

Right now, I'm finding myself wearing more and more men's-wear inspired pieces. During the Current's Layout Weekend, it was actually one of the shirts I bought for Perfect but haven't had a chance to give him yet. (Plus, I'm enjoying them.) I wanted to feel comfy and warm, and hey, now it will even smell like me when he gets it. Win/win. A few days later, it was one of the small V-neck men's sweaters I bought on sale at Old Navy, dark skinny jeans, and metallic gold ballet flats. Yesterday, it was a striped button-down shirt belted at my hips that looked like I was wearing one of my (nonexistent) boyfriend's dress shirt, but in reality, it was just a long button-up. Men love seeing you in their clothing. Wearing clothing that gives the illusion that you're already wearing a man's clothing makes other men wonder what their clothing would look like on you. Cute. It's literally dressing to flirt.

I call these sandals the "jewelry for my feet." They are so cute, so sweet, and so adorable that they instantly make me smile and put me in a good mood every time I look down at them. Plus, the leather is so soft it doesn't feel like you're wearing straps, the tassels are fun to play with when I get bored and need a distraction in class that isn't texting Perfect, and I most definitely got my pair for $20 at T.J Maxx. I win.

I recently went on a massive sweater hunt, stalking the ever-illusive perfect light-weight fall/winter sweater. I found this one at Anne Taylor Loft, which was made in the exact fabric and flattering cut that I like-- I swear that this cut makes you look RIDICULOUSLY slender-- but the three-quarter sleeves weren't exactly my thing. If you're going to wear a sweater, you might as well have long sleeves, right? Push them up if you get hot. It's better than if you get cold from missing that extra four inches of fabric. Then I found these at American Eagle. I liked them because they were full-length sleeves, and I felt the stripes made them young, sporty, and flirty. But they were cotton. Surprisingly, cotton is not my favorite. It sticks and stretches and doesn't breathe well and...well, I'll end up getting the purple and blue striped ones, but only because the colors look really good on me. But then...then I went to Pac Sun, and found Nirvana. In clothing, that is, not the grunge band sans infamous lead singer. These sweaters are made of the same light-stitch fabric as the Anne Taylor ones, but in full-length! And they're striped! It's like ATL and AE had beautiful sweater babies! I was so pleased with life.

As far as relaxed, lazy weekend t-shirts go, I like the message in this one. It's cute, it's sweet, it's flirty. However, why anyone would wear this shirt, even if it applies, is faaar beyond the scope of my understanding.

Dressing for an occasion excites me like to other. Halloween is coming up-- dress for the occasion! During the day, this may be black-and-orange themed, or something whimsical and slightly costume-y if you can get away with it at work or school. At night-- dress the fuck up! Go for a stroll around the neighborhood in costume even if you're too "old" to still get candy when trick-or-treating. I'm sure, if you're in the twenty-something crowd that I am, especially in a college town, some of your friends or local nightlife establishments will have bitchin' themed parties. Get back in touch with your childish side. Buy candy. Get lost in the magic of the holiday. And if dressing up is not your cup of tea-- good news for you-- basic black looks good on everyone and it's right in tune with this holiday.

I'm starting to think about taking Cait down to surprise Perfect for his birthday in December, and asking John, Knight in Shining Honda Armor, to also meet us at Perfect's college, converging on him from all friendly sides. I recently bought this dress, and and thinking that this may be, (at least for now,) the outfit I'd wear to surprise him.

Then again, I just got this top, too, which I'm a big fan of. I'm not used to wearing drapey shirts, but I like it. And that's Miss Alli with me, looking all hot.

We were off for our first Kitchen Bitches 2.0 restaurant review, so look for that here soon! In the meantime, ciao, bellas, and remember-- be irreplaceable!

XOXO