When Women Re-Enter The Cave

One of my more endearing quirks is the fact that I'm one of those girls who always goes over to a guy's place, rather than having him come to me. A great way for my guys to figure out how I feel about them is if I invite them over or not: If I ask you to come over, I'm not stressing about you seeing where or how I live. In other words, we're great buddies. I'm comfortable around you. You can totally see where I sleep. But if I drag my feet about having you over more than George Clooney drags his feet about getting married; oophf, I may like you enough to not want you to see my dirty dishes, what science experiments my roommate and I are growing in our fridge, and be worried about you finding out how many pairs of shoes I really do own. (Ummm...it's a lot.)

The last man I had invited into my home slept in my bed, broke some bedsprings (yeahhh...let's not talk about that...) ate my food, broke my ottoman, and left his proverbial scent over everything I owned. I saw traces of him everywhere I looked, in my own things. It took a long time after the break up for me to be able to sit in my own apartment again without feeling like shit. It also took me a long time to get ready to invite another of my guys into my living space. So, in the meantime, I went out to their places a lot.

Women's mags would have a field day berating me for this (all that yadda on going into a space where he's in power, etc., etc.,), but there's something that I really love about being in Man Space. I like talking to the roommates, and admiring the attempts at interior decorating. I like drinking beer that isn't mine, and reading books I don't have on my own bookshelf before he wakes up in the morning. And I really, really like waking up in an apartment that isn't mine. A joke that really isn't a joke that I recently told a friend is that the shittiest part of a break-up is the fact that you can't retreat to someone else's territory when yours is hostile or boring. There are some nights you just want to not be home, or some ungodly early mornings that your landlord wants to come in to do some reconstruction work. Those are the sort of nights that it'd be nice to have enough money for a hotel, but, in failing that, would like to have the option of using the person you're sleeping with's bed instead. So, figure, spending the night at a guy's house is like going to a 2-star hotel with a prostitute. But in a more romantic, less illegal way.

I found this article from Glamour online today, and it was like it encapsulated everything that I love about going to my guy friend's places. While she may have liked the fact that when a dude is home, she knows where he is and with who, I like the whole "gather around the man cave" concept for another reason. One of my favorite parts about not staying home is being able to go over where a dude is hibernating at home and hang out with his buddies. At home, it's me, it's Alli, and it's His Little Shit Nicolai la Citta, who, having NOT been neutered and in retaining both of his furry balls, is probably the most testosterone-ridden thing we see around regularly. And as should probably be splashed across the headlines as it is so NOT breaking news in any sense, it's pretty obvious that I'm a really big Guy's Girl. I drink beer. I have a football team. I can out-quote you on Star Wars. I can identify how many cylinders a car has by sound. I sleep between to a collector's edition Batman comic book and a life-size cut-out of the Joker. I do pretty well for myself with guys, and I really love getting to know their friends.

But unlike the author, I like the man caves as much as the men inside of them, and obviously find it a huge turn-on when a guy has so thoughtfully "pimped out his man cave." It shows that appearances are just as important to him as they are to me and that his cleanliness is close to him being godliness. I was actually with a guy for awhile who had the most spectacularly neat room I've ever seen other than my own, and thought that this was the norm until I met one of his longtime girl friends who promptly spilled the beans that that was NOT true, and it appeared as though he'd been cleaning before I came over. I do the same thing. I was charmed. She thought it was hilarious.

One apartment full of men I know is decorated with the findings of one roommate's antiquing and flea-market finds. (Having side tables gets you far with me.) Another house of 4 guys has a cleaner bathroom than we do at Heaven on Union, and HANDTOWELS! One of my female friends lives with two of my guy friends, and together, they stock and share a refrigerator I am truly envious of that consists mainly of beer, expensive foreign cheeses, and meats. I clearly have such awesome guys in my life. Why would a girl NOT want to spend time in man caves like these?

Oh, right-- that whole asking to come over thing always sucks.

XOXO

Men Are Just Breathing Machines

Nicco and I are curled up together on my bed, being stoned and blissful, listening to music, because that's what we do, and his little body rises and falls against the side of my head and face, lulling me into and even deeper daze, when it hits me:

Maybe it's just the feeling of someone breathing beside me that I've missed.

XOXO

Pillow Talk and Bed Partners

For as long as I've owned them, I've always had this thing about cats sleeping on my head. I'm not ok with the concept. Maybe it's the fact their little feet, which step in their litter box, get into your face. Maybe it's because I used to be allergic to them and hair on my pillow meant an eternal runny nose, multiple sneezes, and puffy eyes. Maybe it's just because I'm really particular about how I sleep.

Regardless of the reason, for whatever matter, my track record in following through with this personal preference rule is abysmal. My oldest (and now dead and decomposing) cat, a devotee of my dad, kept his thinning hair covered at night with her calico pelt. The first night I spent over at a guy's I used to see, I asked specifically if his territorial cream-colored she-beast was prone to staking her nighttime claim around his pillows. He said never, but the next morning, I woke up to her nesting quite contentedly in my hair. As I reached up to move her, she bit me. That is what you get for taking another woman's pillow, apparently, even if she's not the same species.

Nicholai la Citta (pronounced "NEEK-o-LIE la CHEETA), aliases "Nicco," "Piccolo Niccolo," "Raccoon Cat," and when annoying, "The Whiny Pussy," with a name much longer than his body-- Nicholas the City, when translated out of Italian like his namesake-- sleep exclusively on my pillows on the nights I have cat custody: First, the ones of the right side of the bed, and then on mine.

Evidence.

I share. This may be because he's growing up so fast, and as I said wistfully to Alli and Emily yesterday, "Sometimes I wish he needed me more." As they say, cat people thrive on rejection.

XOXO

The original Nicholai, head waiter of Coquinarius in Florence. Small, dark, a fan of cigarettes, and with entirely too

much energy for someone that small and sprightly. Exactly like the cat. Exactly why we named him after our favorite Itai.

Celibacy and the City

A friend of mine told me the other night that she made the conscious choice to be celibate for the last year after she took a long and hard look at her hook-up history and felt less than pleased.

"Hey, that's cool," I told her, to which she scoffed.

"Oh yeah, Miss Sex-Blogger?"

I can't fault anyone for thinking that I'm pro-sex-- for sure, I am-- but it's more about her deciding to do something, and less about the fact that it's about not having sex. Right now, I'm going through the process of deciding what I want this summer to be all about, and I've come up with something that is just as interesting as her choice to be celibate:

I want to wake up every morning with expanding possibilities. I want to not be afraid to play. I want to stay loose. I want to keep things casual. I want to not let the past affect my future. I want to soak up the sand and lake's water equally. I want to not have to miss you any more. I want to be civil and someone who you'd want to miss. I want to be young. I want to be allowed to do as I please. I want to come and go and not have answer to anyone. I want to sleep the best I ever have. I want to go to concerts and movies and hiking and camping and sailing and road trips and swimming and expand. I want to become more professionally-proactive than before. I want to be able to change as often as the summer breezes. I want to not be figured out. I want to be allowed to just be.

And here's what I don't want, although it's exactly what everyone seems to think I should want: I don't want to date.

And I don't want to be tied down.

Maybe that's the root of the problem-- I came back thinking that's exactly what I wanted, and was too stunned to react with any sort of aplomb when I started to having sneaking suspicions that that's exactly what I actually don't want right now.

Would Carrie think wanting to be single is acceptable? I think yes, absolutely. People are fighting and clawing to get into relationships-- I want nothing more than to NOT be in one right now, taking a break and cooling down. What about you? What do you want this summer? Are you waiting to get into the "In" door, or are you running for the "Exit"? For now, the only man getting the right side of my bed is Nicco. The kitten.

XOXO