And Lead Us Not Into Temptation.

As I may have stated previously, I am an extremely monogamous and loyal person. And though I'm currently not in any committed relationships, it genuinely makes me question my morals when feelings for two disparate people are happening at the same time. To me, the girl who always has a favorite of everything, and a firm opinion on why it's the best one, it feels like...emotional cheating.

The problem is, when things aren't "new" and "fresh" anymore, or, if you aren't getting what you need from someone, you're susceptible to anyone else who comes along and can offer you what's missing. This is where things start to get sticky. I have an incredibly fine line between "happiness" and "being kept occupied." It's hard for me to differentiate between the two, because, for me, being kept occupied makes me happy. What is always shocking is when I finally do separate if I'm happy from if I'm just spinning my wheels to be convinced that I am happy. Am I being kept occupied right now? Yes. Am I actually happy? No. Because I'm a big fan of the human connection. I like to be able to talk about random things, life plans, or share music, movies, or news with the people I think will enjoy them. In a functional relationship, this is great, because it means there's always something to talk about. But, when it's been awhile and the lines of communication are stunted for one reason or another, that's what I miss the most. And then along came an answer, and it sat down beside her.

What did I say? What did I say? Every time Juggernaut Ex comes into town, my current relationships are in for a change, either progressing, ending, or introducing someone new. Jeeesus. I'm getting too busy and too ambivalent for this shit.

Let me count the ways that women fall for looking elsewhere for what they're not getting:

All the women I know prefer to be pursued. All my bullshit about not wanting to be taken out is exactly that-- bullshit. I can't wait until some guy sees through it and just DOES it. Let's face it, if you looked at me and said, "Let's go get something for breakfast," or "Let me buy you a few dollar drafts," I'm not going to stop you. I am, after all, human, and therefore, need to eat and drink. And if I can eat and drink while casually talking without someone I am genuinely interested in, that sounds kind of like a win-win situation for all. And I do think that the definition of that example is a "date." And if you're clever enough to not say the word "date," and instead, ask me to "do something" or "see something" with you, well then...all the more power to you.

Though I was about 15 minutes of conversation, or one day (whichever came first) away from asking him out for coffee to get to know him better, he beat me to the punch when he suggested watching a highly contentious football game together. (I'm an Eagles girl who considers Michael Vick in his second-coming as the Jesus of football, and he's a Giants fan.) I knew that my love of football and Star Wars would eventually pay off with men. I mean, jesus, it took this long for someone to ask me to watch a game. What sort of inherent no-brainer is that? While I was perfectly comfortable and confident in asking him to grab a cup of joe, the fact that he put an offer out on the table first showed initiative and self-confidence. Both sexy traits.

They compliment you. Seriously. When was the last time that you said something legitimately sweet or complimentary, straight-out, to someone you've known or been with forever? You don't. That's the issue. At first, you're all about letting someone know that you're into them, and vice-versa. After awhile, you think it goes without saying that you think that they're the bee's knees, but we all still need to hear it sometimes.

Help. He asked about my writing program, and then went on to offer help facilitating contact with professionals in the food industry if I ever needed quotes or ideas for an article. Women, even if they say they don't need it-- and I'm a huuuge example of this-- still like to be offered help. It's like having a safety net behind us; if we fall, we know that someone's got our back.

Scintillating conversation. He had my interest at "microcosm." Once I find out that a guy has an over fourth-grade reading comprehension, yet is still kind and unpretentious, then he actually has a chance with me.

But how many players are you allowed to have on the field at once?
As my oldest friend Caiti said, "It's just ingrained in society that the man makes the first move. But girl, this is 2010. Welcome to the 21st century. I say if we can vote a man into office, we can ask him to be the only man between our legs."

What do you think? Where do you draw the lines of loyalty? Can you juggle being attracted to two or more people at once? What is your personal cut-off point when it comes to acting on it? How do you avoid temptation?

XOXO

The Young and the Restless

There are 2 types of people who can't sleep: The genuinely not tired, and those who are being kept awake by their thoughts that are too loud. Lately, I've been one of the latter. Granted, I've never been someone who kept up with a solidly respectable sleep schedule-- I'm more of a "night-owl and sleep until noon" person, myself. But when it's your fifth night in a row pressing the lighter side of 4 AM face-down in your bed, rest nowhere to be found and utterly restless, it's time to face facts:

One.

There is no one you can call or go see at 4 AM for a good limb-entwined sleep. There may have used to be. But there is no longer. And granted, you may have all sorts of friends to call on: Friends to drink with, friends to dance with, friends to discuss literature with; friends who will cook for you and go on drives with you and will lend you ten or twenty dollars in a pinch, but there is no one really who you can call, wake up, and say in that hesitant low voice that needs to be specially reserved for hours after 1 AM, "Hey, what are you doing? Can I come over?"

Two.

This may be what's keeping you awake.

Three.

You may be in mourning.

Four.

Every morning.

This is one of those times where you realize, yet again, that some aspects of being single suck. I've had, most of my adult life since the age of 16, someone handy to share a side of a bed, or, in the case of the small and cramped college extra-long, extra-narrow mattresses, a whole bed. Or, in other cases, the downward tilt of the mattress and the wall. And for the first time, I find myself, a grown girl of modest means, with her own new bed, most everything she could wish for or desire, with scads of experience and options, realizing that all that doesn't mean much unless you can get a good night's sleep. For which, apparently, my egg-timer of sleeping sand has run out, and all my trains have left the station.

Humph.

Is there a service for this sort of thing? A bed companion? A room-share? If it would cut down on the rent, that would help, too.

XOXO

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

The Ever-Elusive Hunt for Fireworks and Love. (Or At Least Something Easy.)

[“I have a loose interpretation of the word “easy”.”]

Fourth of July:

What I really like about being in college is the fact that you’re young, working, and starting to think about economics and how they pertain to your life for the first time. Which leads to all sorts of fledgling grown-up conversations. At this point, though, they’re mostly still about things like drugs and making money quickly the easiest way possible. (For awhile, I was planning on making a t-shirt that had a picture of a rotary road-sign in the middle that read: “I’m unemployed because I live on a rotary,” on the front, and on the back followed up with, “There are no corners.”) Tonight’s conversation dealt with the pyramid scheme of the drug world, and how when it comes down to it, it still follows the basic laws of economics and can learn from basic Human Resources.

“I went there because although the price was higher, the quality and customer service were better,” I told my friends of my favorite (now ex-,) dealer.

“But the customer service wasn’t as good as you would have liked,” Madison followed up doggedly, remembering the fiascos and escapades surrounding my infatuation with Jersey Blunt.

“Yeah, it wasn’t full-service,” Alli followed up.

Economics and innuendoes. Who ever knew they went so well together? This is one subject I could get passionate about if it lets me speak tongue-in-cheek. Flaccid economy, stimulus plans…really! My night was made when I was able to work “I’d like to horizontally integrate with him,” into common conversation.

Third of July:

Last night, on the third of July, I got to hang out with (almost) all of my old Soho Boys. They may be bona-fide juvenile delinquents, they may be terrors to society, and they make smoke and drink and swear too much, but they’re MY boys, and I love them all. Deep-down, they’re all really good people.

Some, I love more than others. Jersey Blunt happened to be up from, (you guessed it,) the Dirty, and it was the first time I’d seen him since I propositioned him stoned via text at the end of the school-year. It was interesting to see him again—I got the familiar jumpy stomach that indicated suspense and pleasure, but not the same rabbits-gnawing-on-my-stomach-lining excitement that Perfect gives me. We slipped back into Ebonics easily enough, something that I had to try really hard to drop when talking with Perfect as the confused looks indicated that words like “wylin” and my common greeting of “ayo” did not compute in his Vermont farm-boy language. While Perfect is wholesome and wheaty, Jersey is nefarious and so Italian white-bread his caterpillar eyebrows beg to be wiggled up and down insinuatingly, as they are so often.

This did not stop me from letting him give me the biggest and warmest hug I’ve received since, well…Perfect almost a month ago. This also has not stopped me from deciding that Jersey Blunt goes on my Sexception List. You know—the list of people you’re allowed to sleep with even if you’re with someone else. Though technically I may not still be “with” Mr. Perfect, I am a very monogamous (go figure,) girl and usually can only withstand deep and abiding and usually sexual feelings for one man at one time. Hence, why I am probably one of the safest girls ever to not be worried about cheating on a guy.

But Jersey. There’s so much unfinished business there—he wanted me, I deferred due to job circumstances (I may have been his advisor at the time…) and then by the time I rolled around to deciding it would be ok to sleep with him on the DL, he had gotten tired of waiting and moved on to greener and more easy pastures. Still, all it takes is one look to realize that that person would still love to go hog-wild with you.

Jersey is that person for me.

And speaking of Mr. Perfect…

The name of the game is LIMBO, as called by two outside witnesses. He’s got me totally bent over, and not in a good way that I like. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not 100% out of one either. We waver somewhere between 60 and 40. Some days, I am pretty sure that he’s absolutely trying to cut me completely out of his life, possibly to make room for one of the visiting French girls who took pictures of him stripping down to go skinny-dipping. (Every time I log into Facebook, I see his naked ass, clearly taunting me, saying “haha—you won’t be seeing me anymore!” On the up-side, though, I have now seen him naked from every angle due to this picture, so I suppose I should be thankful.) On these days, I am pretty sure he’s sexting them, saying things like, “I have never been with a French girl, but I have always wanted to!” (Just like my “I have never been with a girl who has garters, but I have wanted to!” that he sent me. Exclamation point for my heavy-heartedness!) Other days, when we’ve spent a few hours texting each other back and forth like normal, The “how low can you go” thing works really well, too, seeing as the man just makes me want to drop all of my standards and feelings to the floor to be allowed to keep some sort of closeness with him. A relationship? I was willing to sacrifice it for the sex. Sex? I was hesitant by coerced into letting it go for continued friendship. My dignity? Pretty much gone already.

…And The Future:

And oh? Did I mention? I get to see Perfect for the first time in both 22 days and since we decided to no longer be a continuing entity. But the best part of all this? It’s going to be in his hometown. And we’re going to be swimming. Yes. Me, tanned, toned, and slightly starved for both food since I’ll be wearing a teeny bikini and starved for sex—I’m going to see Perfect and his perfect body dripping wet and the second most-naked I’ve ever seen him (I don’t even need to imagine the rest anymore…I know what weapons he’s hiding). I’ll consider it a success if I don’t either burst into tears upon seeing him or scale him like a tree.

Star Wars, or Why Am I Single?:

Spike TV has been making my life lately. Yes, the TV channel “For Men” is really serving me up a great schedule of keep-me-happy programming. For the holidays, they’ve been Star Wars marathoning from 3 PM to midnight every day, and starting tomorrow at 9 PM, they’re playing the 100 Best UFC Fight of All Time.

Some explanations on why these things make me so happy I squeal with joy are needed. A.) My daddy raised me as a Star Wars girl. When the local movie theater re-released the original Star Wars movies a week apart when I was about seven or eight, on the way home, I’d sit behind my dad’s driver seat and hold on to the headrest, pretending it was the guns of a fightership, as he, the pilot, steered us through enemy territory in deep space, and we blasted out way out, sound affects and all. He also bought two retractable plastic lightsabers so we could duel on the front lawn on summer nights, which was my first foray into fencing. (My dad’s an accomplished ex-Marine. I always beat him in duels. He’s never let me purposefully win a single thing in all of my life. Needless to say, he’s a proud poppa.) When the newer trilogy came out, he was the one who drove me and my un-licensed best friend to the movies and sat a couple rows back from us. Yeah. Don Daddy—he’s pretty cool.

And B.) As for the UFC thing—really. They’re very muscular, very testosterone-fueled men grappling in tight little shorts and beating the fuck out of each other. I am a red-blooded woman. I love that kind of shit. I’m the kind of girl who tends to go for the tall and muscular guys because I’d secretly love to see them knock someone’s head against a table defending my honor or, you know, my stolen bar seat.

But during my recent Star Wars watching, an over-whelming desire has grown on me. It’s the weirdest little fantasy, but it’s tenacious like English ivy in old brick with crumbling mortar. (In this analogy, the ivy is the fantasy, the brick is my moral fortitude, and the crumbling mortar is my will-power when it comes to not mounting the next man, or chair arm, I see.) I really, and I mean, REALLY want to just go down on a guy as he watches Star Wars. Maybe it’s Han Solo running around on the screen (I’ve always had a soft spot for Harrison Ford located somewhere south of my belly-button and north of my thighs), but I find myself alone in my apartment, wistfully looking at the foot of the empty couch and wondering, why, why, WHY is there no guy sitting there who will think he’s the luckiest man on the face of the planet if I were to seductively slink closer and unzip his pants while he gets to watch Luke Skywalker defeat the Dark Side?

Though irrational, obsessive, secretly needy and easily jealous and angered, I am also small, cute, well-dressed, in shape, and very out-going about my sexuality. (Obviously.) Why is that invisible man not real and on my couch? Maybe it’s like an old elementary- and high-school classmate of mine once said: maybe I do intimidate men with my quick mouth, straight-talking, and zero-bullshit approach. (Eric was six-foot-four, well over 200 pounds of football and rugby muscle, and going into military college. Eric has been shot at. Eric is also no dummy—he was an honor-role student for the 14 years I’d known him. So him saying this to me was an accomplishment, although maybe not a good one for me.)

This may be something I have to look into. Am I really that hard to approach? Do I, gasp, need to soften up a little?

…This could be disastrous.

Also, about the title and a fun fact pertaining to the festivities of the holiday: All the women in my family supposedly see fireworks when the love of their life (and in most cases, future husband,) kisses them. My grandmother, my aunt—my mother stills claims she gets the same sky-rockets and room-spinning feeling she got the first time my father kissed her, 35 years of marriage later. I now spend every lead-in to a first kiss with a guy, that sweetly awkward few seconds where you make eye contact and start to lean in, hoping for the best and no head-bumping, closing your eyes and wishing your lips to find each other’s smoothly and softly, wondering, “Is this it? Is this going to be my fireworks” Talk about pressure. So far, the only thing I’ve seen is the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I will admit—Legs could make the earth move from under me with some of his kisses, but no bottle-rockets; not even any sparklers. Perfect gave me a sensation and taste of sugar and cupcakes and everything sweet. And so, the waiting continues.

Ciao, or, maybe to those French girls with the unabashed cameras, salut! (Please, you can’t go back home quickly enough for my liking!)

XOXO