Ready, Willing, and (On Occasion) Able.

Good morning, lovelies and creepfests, alike. (Remember that Google Analytics post a little while ago when inspiration hadn't struck in awhile, and I felt it pertinent to post about how through using stats and simple Sherlock-Holmes-approved process of deduction, I can figure out who is reading this blog and what they're looking for? Well, let's just say, I'm HOT in Russia right now, and I doubt it's for anything good. Or literary. Sigh. One of my biggest fears is that I'll come home one day and unlock my door to find a massive Russian dude sitting on my sofa, waiting for me in full bondage gear. Because that's what I live in fear of. I don't want that. AT ALL. What is Russian for "no"? Nyet. That's right. Sometimes my life is a little too bizarre for me to take logically.)

Anyway, I had a rather productive weekend, complete with a random dude who thought that walking with me in the general vicinity of my apartment on Saturday night constituted "walking me home" from a party and asked for a kiss in return as if we had just agreed to swap his Oreos for my Dunkaroos over the 3rd grade lunch table. I realized, in hindsight, that I should have colored the story about a "friend" of mine that I'd told him 2 minutes previous with the word "boy" in front of it, and headed off the whole debacle so that I literally wasn't stopped in mid-stride up my front steps when he said that like some cartoon character straight out of Looney Toons, did an about-face, and really awkwardly went: "Um. Wow. I have an, um, guy, sorry, but uh, props to you for having the balls to ask. More guys should do that. Uh, so yeah. 'Night," before running inside and slamming the door behind me. My cardinal rule is that-- now, pay attention, ladies-- IF YOU DON'T WANT A GUY ASKING OR TRYING TO EXCHANGE SALIVARY GLANDS WITH YOU, EITHER EMBELLISH YOUR CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS, OR MAKE A BOYFRIEND UP, AND DROP HINTS, CAVEATS, AND STORIES ABOUT HIM DURING YOUR CONVERSATION. I really didn't think this guy whose opening line was "Do you like Pop Tarts?" (again, 3rd grade,) and progressed to "Do you read Chomsky?" the second time he made a pass at me needed to be headed off at the pass. Especially because I hadn't showered in 2 days, smelled like another man, was subsisting on about 6 hours' worth of sleep, couldn't raise my arms past shoulder height for a really embarrassing reason (not even to SMOKE), and was generally disinterested in anything but eyeing my cell phone's clock until 1 AM rolled around and I felt like I could bow out of my friend's house after enough sufficient bonding time with the boys. It's good to know sometimes that you're still attractive. And sometimes, I really just feel like people have much lower standards than I'm comfortable with.

It's just like when women go out to the bars: It does not go, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, you are now entitled to sex with me. It goes, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, this means that we get to spend the time while I drink it together learning more about each other and if I would ever sleep with you, or if you even really still want to sleep with me. I'll admit it-- sometimes I accept a drink, and then spend the next 10 to 15 minutes sabotaging myself and acting like the most asinine, alarming, unappealing woman ever so that they'll run away without even trying to make a bid for sleeping with me. What can I say? I'm dead broke.

So all in all, I'm beat, and not feeling particularly creative. Instead, I give you this blog post from The Redhead Papers on oral sex. Here's an excerpt to get you started and prove why you need to read this: "I’ve had a handful of serious relationships (if by "serious" you mean "seriously dysfunctional") and more than my share of casual sexual encounters and I’ve only rarely come across a man who simply just won’t travel to the nether regions. For the most part, they’ve been ready, willing and, on occasion, able. What they lacked in knowledge and experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and a desire to please at all costs. This enthusiasm isn’t always, shall we say, preferable, but it is welcomed."

Erin is much more witty and eloquent about the topic than I could ever be today, and I laughed so hard while reading parts of this that I nearly snarfed my hummus. (For those of you fortunate few out of the know, "snarfing" is when you have a liquid or a solid in your mouth and get so suddenly surprised by something funny that you forget that you're currently engaged in masticating or swallowing, and when you suck in to go to laugh, said liquid or solid gets partially sucked up your nasal passages. In some cases, this results in aforementioned liquid or solid coming out of your nose, if you're really unfortunate. It is mostly a painful process, and much funnier when it happens to someone who is not yourself.)

Neverfear, I'll be back soon with something more substantial than stories of how women lie to men about having boyfriends because it's easier than giving a flat-out "No." I know. We're evil, devious, fickle creatures. I'm sorry. It's just in our biology. I can't help it.

XOXO

Rules of Attraction

I was recently at a friend's moving-away party, which was definitely more of a sausage-fest than an equal-opportunity kegger. Probably not surprisingly, this is exactly the way I usually like my parties-- heavy on the dudes, light on the other women. As I teared up while hugging my friend good-bye for probably the millionth time at 3 AM, I explained it to the girl behind him who was getting a kick out of my theatrics. "If one of my girls moves away, fine-- we'll talk, and hey, I'll see her later. But losing one of my boys is like losing a member of my family." Not having them around anymore is like a gaping hole in my life. Local anaesthesia just doesn't cut it.

But enough of the Kleenex-laden emotional bullshit. On with the stuff about sex. As a budding so-called "sexual anthropologist," the other nice thing about dude-parties is that they give you a chance to watch men in action as they try to pick chicks up-- sometimes, you being the bird, and sometimes, other women. Here are a few of the fail-proof tricks of the trade to keep an eagle-eye out for the next time you find yourself wondering if a guy's hitting on you, or if he's just seizing in your general direction:

- Male or female, if you're interested in someone, you turn your body in toward them. Women tend to point with their chests, because hey, that's where we have distracting goodies located, while men tend to point with their pelvises for the same reason. Elvis totally understood this rule.

- Take this one with caution: A man who'd feeling you (or who'd like to be feeling you up later,) will invade your personal space like nobody's business. Consider it a basic test-run to see if you have chemistry together. There are some people that I can't stand in the same room as, let alone next to, without feeling like there are sparks jumping off of my skin. Conversely, there are dead fish whose company I would feel more warmly about snuggling up to than some other people. You just can't fake attraction and chemistry. So if you're you're sharing the same airspace, take a moment to consider how you feel, because chances are, he's doing the same. HOWEVER. Drunk people also invade personal space because they don't know any better. As for drunk people who are attracted to you, just throw your hands up and assume both.

- Combining these last two hints, if you're worried that he's about to start dry-humping your leg because every time you breath out, you're smooshed together in a way that is not PG-13 and is basically sex while both of you are still wearing your jeans, it's either really packed in there and he'd rather touch you than the 250 pound dude with an "I Hate Mom" tattoo across his forehead who's behind him, or yes, he's hitting on you. If his belt-buckle is getting personal, he'd like to be, too.

- Everyone's favorite topic is themselves. If he's asking you 48 questions about yourself, he's trying to prove that he's really interested in YOU, not talking all about HIM. Though I'm sure he wouldn't object if you started asking him things about himself. It's called "good conversation," and most not totally socially-inept people find it very flattering.

- So your conversation has ended, and you've turned away to mingle with other people. You notice he's stayed put close by, and is alternately casually chatting with other people, or just, um...hanging. This one's sneaky: Now that you've moved on from him, he's watching to judge if you were really into him too, or if you were treating him the same way you treat everyone else. Women do this all the time, too. (Generality ahead, but backed with evidence as we notice when you do it, but I'm pretty sure you don't notice when we do it:) We just tend to be better at disguising what we're doing so it doesn't freak you the fuck out. Pouring a drink? Checking our phone? Talking in low voices with a friend? No, we're really not. Those are all things we could do with our brainstem unattached. We're really listening in and making furtive glances in your general direction to keep tabs on you, while being as least creepy as possible. (I just royally broke Girl Code in divulging that and probably just shot myself in the foot, but bahhh. It's a random Monday in the Writing Center, and I'm bored.) No one likes looking up to see someone boring holes into them with their eyes from across the room. Unless you find that sort of thing hot, which it can be, unless you look like Jack Nicholson in "Wolf."

XOXO

Good Morning, Amurika!

I'm really digging off-the-shoulder tops lately. It's a nice way to show a little extra skin, and is so much more unexpected than showing more cleavage or back. If your neck and collarbone are sensitive, it's sure to get some blood rushing.

I bought 3 cheap pre-made o-t-s tees and a regular crew neck Rolling Stones men's tee the other day, brought it home, and DIY-ed it into an off the shoulder with "Can't Get No..." emblazoned across the back. The first thing I ever DIY-ed (we're not counting the misguided attempts at making my own deconstructed/reconstructed clothing held together with more safety pins than sewing when I was a pint-sized punk-rocker in middle school who refused to "conform to The Man" by, I don't know, wearing jeans and clothing that did not have holes in it?) was what was in it's previous life, an XL white Hanes men's crew neck tee. Now, it's an off-the-shoulder tie-dyed tailored shirt-dress with peek-a-boo holes cut down the spine. Hey, who said I got rid of my holey obsession?

I've been partying a lot lately, and unlike the sophomore bitties who go all-out in dresses, heels, hair and full make-up for a house party to only sit on some guy's couch that's still squishy with spilled cheap beer, my formula for parties goes along the lines of fun, functional, funky, comfortable, and easy. Face it ladies, if the party is happening on the roof or in the basement, and you can't get there because you dress doesn't allow some minor acrobatics and your heels and non-functional, you're not going to be have a fun time.

This is a Kirra scoop-neck, loose-sleeve tunic that I tug over my left shoulder and go. It looks very Parisian over skinny black pants, or hipster-chic layered over a tight knee-length shirt, and under a plaid button-up. You can even belt it at the waist to give it some more shape, but as it already tapers, I'm pretty cool with it as is when not under something less form-fitting. Worn best with lots of jewelry, unwashed Cali-girl hair, and a whimsical attitude.

And the hat? Red Stripe. "Don't worry; beer happy."

XOXO

Broke in Burlington

As if floundering about (read: sinking) in my love life and getting let go from my summer job wasn't enough, I recently overdrew my bank account (rent) and worked my way into a goodly sum of overdraft (again, imagine the cost of my rent,) and down to the last $5 in my wallet. "Stressed" and "rough patch" don't even begin to describe the situation I'm in. I've prostituted myself to every worthwhile job position I could find, and spent an afternoon seriously considering debuting in porn after seeing the dollar amount tacked on to the job. (But just like egg donation, I nixed that idea. Porn because, well, though I may watch it, I don't really want to be so interactive in it, and the egg donation because for the rest of my life I'd be doing double-takes at every blonde, blue-eyed child, wondering if it's mine. And with the smoking, I'm not exactly an ideal candidate. Like every other job, so it seems.) I already sold all the clothing I could to Plato's Closet, and unlike last summer's period of saintly rest from the wicked, I don't have the spoils of my bad habits to exchange for cash. I'm using them myself. I have to. It's what's brightening my days.

The good news is, there are 22 cigarettes, 9 beer, half a tank of gas, half a bag of cat food, and half a box of kitty litter left. There's food in the pantry, so I'm playing the game of "what can I make with what's left over?" But you can only get so far without milk, meat, or chocolate before you start to feel, well...hungry. And deprived.

So, what's a girl to do? Well, eat/beg/borrow/steal smart. Everyone knows the age-old trick of eating the food samples at Costco's as a lunch staple, but in order to do that, one actually has to have a Costco card. (Actually, I have an old one, and I doubt they look too hard at them until you actually buy something.) Instead, improvisation rules your meal times. I've been using my good grace and the love of my friends and their food as much as possible. Any food invitation you get, from a homemade mac and cheese dinner to pizza and cake to a handful of chips, you take. For the more discerning palates, there are other options. When I was a sophomore, I read a great article in the Champlain Current by Ian Frisch about how to use City Market's good intentions against them and make a meal for under $3. It involved buying a banana, the ends of meat and cheese that are sold for a song, and using their free bread, condiments, and water in the buffet to make a sandwich. (They also periodically have fuck-ups price-marking the food that are worth looking for-- I got a $4, not $12, pork roast once, and cheese for 22 cents that should have been $5.22.) I

walked into Great Harvest Breads on Pine Street to inquire about a job, and though it was filled already and I left still unemployed, I found something nearly better-- they give you thick slabs of free bread samples, which you can slather with as much butter as you want right out of a crock. A slice of bread and butter from there is enough for a lunch on the run. Bring your own water, though-- the bread, while fantastic and addicting, especially the Honey Oat Wheat and the Mediterranean Olive Loaf, is dense, doughy, and dries your mouth out like the best herb money can buy. Only you're getting dry-mouth and a full belly for free. Cheese Traders, Lake Champlain Chocolate's shop on Church Street, and farmer's markets are always good places to cruise for free samples of tasty little delights, too.

Speaking of that other thing, beggars cannot be choosers, and should not be above using people to smoke their shit when down and out. Everyone does it at one time or another. Especially to people they just met and will never see again. (Read: dudes intent on hitting on you hard-core at

parties. Plus, it makes them bearable.)

For broke-ass fun and entertainment, it takes a little more settling. I've resigned myself to the fact I won't see Inception until it comes out on DVD, and that barring friends lovely enough to buy my drinks-- that's you, Emily and Nora--the bars downtown are going to have a rest and recovery time from me until the end of August. However, walking down to the waterfront to watch the amazing sunsets over the Adirondacks is just as good as any cinema, and there are always parties to go to in Burlington. If you're sick of all your movies, you can always watch new ones online, or start a lending group with friends. (You can actually also start a cooking circle with friends so that you can eat up to 4 dinners a week for free and only have to cook for everyone else once.) Church Street is always great entertainment, too-- I walk down to listen to music performers and go to Borders to stand in the magazine section and catch up on articles I've missed and harass them about hiring me. And you can always get more cultured and stroll into Frog Hollow or the Bern Gallery or some of the small local art galleries and peruse some fine arts for not even a nickel. Check out Seven Day's calendar for more free goings-on around town, too.

Happy mooching. And any food/dollar/alcohol/nicotine donations out of the kindness of your heart are more than greatly appreciated, too.

XOXO

Playing With Boys

I have two traits that can be extremely useful in meeting men: When I want to be, I can be extremely charming, and I am what could be called a "guy's girl." I generally tend to like men-- it's easy to be in their company; I'd rather chill with some of my boys than have a girl's night. I think it's just the level of energy-- women, as a general rule, require more energy to keep up with than men do. This is one reason that I can understand why a man would rather be single than have a girl. This is also another reason why I hate being stuck with needy men.

A good indicator of this is someone who tells you 4 times in the span of 20 minutes that "you're a real chill girl, you know that? I really like you."

And then, my friends, is when you know it's GAME. OVER.

Last night was one of my friend's birthdays. We got to her place over an hour late, and walked into a mixed bag of people-- some familiar faces; some not. Normally, when out and about, especially with people I don't know, I'm quiet and more reserved than I am with say, my circle of friends. But last night? It was like a switch had been flipped, and I came out swinging, feisty, and quirky, climbing on top of a dresser to touch the textured ceiling, and begin my hostile takeover of the men from a bird's eye view. Last night, with some wine lubricating me, it was like I was playing jacks with men-- by the time the ball dropped, I wanted to have as many as possible in hand. And this worked, apparently, because I landed not one, but two.

...That may not have been the best metaphor I've ever crafted, but you get the point-- juggling men. One had green. The other showed up and had a dog. I traded stock real fast after literally burning through the first. As I hopped over the porch railing to get down and play with the dog, leaving my smoking buddy on the other side, I remember saying, "You have a dog? I'm your new best friend." I have never said I was extremely loyal to anything with testicles.

"So, how was your evening?" Alli asked as we walked back home.

"I have no idea what got into me," I told her.

"ME." She's right-- it was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Normally, Alli's the out-going, friendly, flirty one with strangers, and I'm standing somewhere in the back, rolling my eyes, going "When he's blowing your phone up, I'm going to be saying 'I told you so'," and passive-aggressively drinking myself out of conversations-- you know, that move where people take a sip of their drink so they don't have to answer you as their eyes scan the room, looking for some way out? HELLO. I may not be the most optimistic, equal-opportunity dater. I was a part of receding-hairline-affirmative-action once before, and when I got home, after the sauvignon blanc wore off my eyes, I realized there is absolutely no way I can forsake, as I called them, "those thick, luscious locks you can fist your hands in." (Bachelor #1.) Or a vocabulary that extends beyond the words "bro" and "right on." (Bachelor #2.) So while I may have had a productive evening, it ended up this morning as a wash.

And this is why meeting people and dating makes me long for the good old days when every. single. thing the guy I was with for actually over a month did drove me fucking nuts and to chain-smoke. Because despite the "thrill of the new," there's nothing better than someone's old quirks that you know and are used to. I forgot how hard finding someone you actually like is.

Fuck.

XOXO

"Cock-Block" Is An Active Verb.

Last night, my name was Amy and I was 22. Maybe I should explain.

My lovely Ghibellina Girl Erin turned 21 the day after Easter. Due to things like school and the fact NOTHING in all of Italy is open on Easter Monday save for McDonalds, festivities were postponed until Tuesday night.

We started off at Salamanca, a Mexican-inspired bar whose signature drink is pitchers of the world’s best sangria, served with straws over half the length of my body so that no matter where the pitcher is on the table, you can still reach it and so, enjoy getting absolutely wasted.

Nearly 20 women to 2 Australian boys, 5 pitchers and some snuck drinks in (thanks, Erin—thanks, Aussie Boys), some dancing on the tables, and general wildness (there are photos so I will bypass explanations), we decided to head to a club so we could dance on something OTHER than the poor establishment’s tables.

Finding a club when you’re drunk is harder than one might think. An hour of wandering around Firenze later, we found ourselves at Twice. And as is said, once you go to Twice, you’ll never go twice.

Now, there are a few things in life that I love. Good beer. Fast cars. Women’s magazines. Sunday football. Green-eyed men. Palm trees. Full moons on the beach. Puppies. And dancing. But, as I have tried to explain to people back home, clubbing in Italy is something akin to throwing a half-naked girl into a small enclosed cell with a bunch of starving sex-maniacs. Oh, wait—that is the definition of clubbing in Italy. The Aussie Boys looked around and were slightly aghast. “It’s all American girls. And the Italian guys who want to get with them,” they noted, correctly. This is why I preferred clubbing in Dublin—you don’t have to turn around every five minutes and say “Hey, get off of me!” To quote the eternal words of every dance movie ever made, I just want to dance.

However, nothing is ever that easy. And so, inevitably, hands creep around your hips and then start moving all over your southern extremities. I looked at Erin and mouthed, “How are my standards?” She checked out the dude grinding behind me, and gave him the ok. “He’s cute.”

If there is one thing Italy has taught me, it is tolerance. And so, I danced with my new Italian lover Andre and lied my ass off to him until right just about when I felt him sweep the hair from the side of my neck and nuzzle in with his lips. I spun around, held up my left hand, and pointed repeatedly to the half-carat diamond on my ring finger. (Thank you for that foresight, Daddy. My father is a wise, wise man. ) “You have boyfriend?” he asked me.

Lies don’t count if they’re to an Italian man in a club. “Yes. I do.”

“Where is he?”

“Home. In America.”

“America is very far away.” You have to love Italian logic.

The second time I was grabbed by the hips, I just looked at Kara and asked, “How bad is it?” She took one look, said something quickly to her Italian boyfriend, and then grabbed me and spun me bodily away from what ended up being a Slavic-looking man pushing 40.

By now, Erin and Kara were otherwise occupied, and had left me alone on the dance floor with the Aussie Boy of my ulterior motive intentions. Because of our proximity and dancing together, the Italians took the hint that I was a no-fly zone, but juuust as I was about to put my arms around the Aussie and ask, “Do you mind?” Kara realized her wallet was gone.

As shitty as it is, I’m going to go with Kara losing her wallet as the Universe’s cock-blocking me and a sign that maybe, sometimes, my vindictive judgment should NOT be ruling my actions. Saved by the thief?

Other lesson of the night? Cage heels may be stunning, but they are not meant for walking all over a city and then dancing at a club for two hours, unless you want your feet to be purple, swollen to twice their normal size, and have a lovely chessboard pattern on them.

Oh, Italy and 21st birthdays. What you teach me.

XOXO

Debauchery: Adventures Abroad Include...

A brief synopsis of the Good, the Bad, and the Downright Ugly:

"Il Treno E In Retardo": The day before my mid-term exams start, Alli and I decide to go hike Cinque Terra. After hiking from Corniglia to Vernazza and indulging in the world's most orgasmic cannoli at Il Pirata, (where bar-keep Massimo declared, "Si, the clams are closed--they're shy. But they're like women; to open them, you just have to charm them. Then they melt like ice cream,") we realize that we can either A.) Go on to dinner in Montorosso since we're STARVING, or B.) Hop our last train to La Spezia and Florence and starve.

Well. We are not the Kitchen Bitches for nothing. So after trolling Montorosso for a store still open to buy a blanket-- none-- and contemplating stealing some hotel's towels off of a drying line-- couldn't reach-- we indulge in a 3 hour long dinner, then head to Fast Bar, proceed to make friends with everyone from the 30-something American tourists to the bartender who is Sealy Booth's Italian twin, drink ourselves warm, and then went and sat on the beach for the next 3 hours until our 5 AM train came, hiding from the carabineri and over-eager local guys from the bar, drinking wine, and having reflective heart-to-hearts. (Which I don't remember.) This day also includes: "My depth perception sucks." "Try mine." "No. I saw yours.", public urination, our first encounter with Italian men who don't know the meaning of the word "no", taking three exams with possibly the worst hangover of my life and only an hour's worth of sleep, and finding out that a classic corkscrew is pretty much a sobriety test in itself. (It takes two drunk blondes to open a bottle of wine, if you were wondering.)

"Ok, You Can Bring Him Back To The U.S With You": For Thursday Night Girl's Night, the girls, Alli and I went to Coquinarius. Feeling bad about us having to wait an hour for a table, Nicolai brings us all out complimentary glasses of wine, then shuffles us inside to a table ASAP, ignoring other waiting customers. At the end of the mean, we all get free glasses of vin santo and biscotti, and when I went up to the register at the end of the meal to "grazie mille" him profusely, he "prego"d and kissed me on both cheeks. As I stumbled back to the table where Alli and Arielle were waiting, I think I said something along the lines of, "He kissed me! Did you see that?! He kissed me like an Italian!"
Alli: "I know! I saw!"
Still in the high-pitch of a five-year-old: "HE KISSED ME!"
Alli: "I am in full support of you bringing him back to America with you."

"...And A Left At The Horse's Tail!": St. Paddy's day, Alli and I decided to go for apertivo at the swanky and fun Kitsch bar, where I proceeded to order a Mai Tai, even though it's first ingredient was rum, and, as we know by now, rum makes me DUMB. This was proven right yet again as we met up with Robin to find the Irish pub we were going to, and my usually impeccable sense of direction appeared addled, right until the point in time I stopped in the middle of the street, picked my nose up into the wind like a spaniel on point, thought for a moment, and then took off like a shot, muttering, "...And a left at the horse's tail!" Let me explain. We had been past the pub only once before, when looking for another restaurant about a month back, and the guidebook's directions to it were literally "take a left at the horse's tail of the statue in the piazza." 3 minutes later, I bring Robin, Alli and I out right in front of the pub. Where I proceeded to drink green beer and get further schnockered to a point at which Alli and I ended up recreating Rape of the Sabine Women in front of the statue, or, as I call it, Rape of the Champlain Women's Dignity. And then Sassy Drunk Carissa came out to play: "Oh, my boyfriend is playing with a balloon. I pick them so well!" "I have a watch. Do you know what time it is? Drunk time." "30...40...50...60 in my cash cow. Do you have a cash cow? I don't think so!"

"Abusement-- That's When You Beat Other People For Fun": Alli and I go to Perugia, where we encounter a metrorail that nearly dropped us into the compacting abyss-- "Alli, I don't want to go there!"-- and then made it better by soothing me with a familiar rhythm-- "Oh, this is a familiar rhythm." "Yes?" "It is. It's the same rhythm."-- Men Who Don't Know The Meaning Of The Word "No", a Romanian knock-off of George Clooney, a Very Small World episode in which an Australian who one of my best high school friends from the Netherlands lived with who Alli met her first time through Perugia, who introduced us to a friend who introduced us to a Middlebury grad student studying in Florence, and a houseparty that could have been straight out of the Burlington scene. I kept looking for the junglejuice and familiar faces. Quotes from that night include: "I think...you want to kiss me." "You want to touch my body?" "He means 'cock'." "It's impossible? No! Come dancing with us at the disco!" "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. NO." Also, Alli gets an 80 year old boyfriend named Sergio. I think it's time to start investing in Viagra.

"Just Call Me Molly": The Button Factory, a Dublin club, is having a 90's themed night. I conveniently forgot all my 90's themed clothes...in the 90's. Instead, I substitute cleavage for theme, because as Jamie says, "You have boobs. You don't need a decade." And it's true. Also, let it be stated here and now that Irish boys are far nicer and more polite in clubs than Italian men are. They actually ask you if they can dance with you, unlike Italian men as JD put it so eloquently, "will fuck you right on the dance floor."

"Gone Wilde In Dublin: One Morning In The Life Of": "Raaaaaaaahhh!" "Reptar?" "If I start humping something on the street, just keep walking." "Oh yeah. It's so much better not inhaling pressed powder." "Well, in the dark last night it looked relatively clean. Though that's been said about things before and proven wrong."

And "Two Pints Cheap-Date Night": Dublin was fun. Real fun.

"Get Me Home. Right Now": On the way to class yesterday, on the cramped Italian sidewalk, two days into coming back from A Land Where They Speak English And I Don't Want To Leave, after seriously considering just flying home from Dublin and hiring people to move my stuff out of my Italian apartment for me, I reached my threshold for Italian tolerance when a man straight-up grabbed me by the crotch. Now, yes, this is Italy, and yes, shitty things happen here all the time, but this was no mistake, and it was downright violating. All I saw as I went to angle my body to pass between him and the people on the other side of me was him smirk, and then it literally knocked the air out of me when I felt him plant his hand and felt finger through my jeans. I was too shocked to do anything than keep walking. After telling some of my friends about it, we realized that this was the same man who has done this to numerous girls. If you are reading this and are a girl studying abroad in Florence, beware a 30-something, brown-haired man about 5'10" on Via Nazionale with a wandering and very purposeful right hand. Give plenty of room to people on the sidewalk, and seriously, if it happens again, take him out. God knows I'm planning on it.

Spring Break Activities: Went spelunking in caves. Rolled down the hills of ancient fortresses of the kings of Ireland. Same old, same old.

And A Collection Of Recent Quotes: "Well, that's how I FEEL!" "Well, I'm sorry, but if you can't commit, I am totally free to eat other men's sandwiches." Sleep rambling: "I feel like a turtle."
"You feel like a turtle?" "Yes. my bed's all warm and I feel like I'm in my shell with only my little head sticking out. I'm a turtle." "Spending the night at a guy's apartment is like going to a one star hotel with a prostitute." "Places to go. Things to see. People to do." "We were basically a room full of people who sounded like we were in the Witness Protection Program." "So basically you're only druggie friends because you use them for their amenities." "Lush-- it's what women call themselves when they want to make alcoholism sound sexy."

So. Eurobreak and studying abroad. This is all what it's about. 45 days until I come home.

XOXO

An American Girl Shows Her Stars And Stripes And Cosmopolitan Ingestion

So this past Tuesday night I was a stunning disgrace to the American culture. Or, rather, I was a total and utter portrayal of the classic American abroad student, and so, a stunning disgrace to the Italian culture. My Tuesday nights are to what everyone else's Thursday nights are. I don't have class until 6 PM on Wednesday, so this leads to all sorts of night-time free-time. This is why I needed internet access so badly. Without, I am forced to resort to this sort of depravity.

I went with my friend Erin, her roommate Kara (Mama Kara,) and their friends to Be Bop, a fun, dive-y little basement bar with live music. Tuesday night is Beatles cover-band night, and let me tell you, they were actually good. You know what else was good? The drinks. Roughly 2 Euro cheaper than I am accustomed to paying for, on top of NO COVER CHARGE, heavy on the liquor, large on the size, and quick to be served. I seriously had a White Russian like m'boys used to make back home. After seeing an Amazonian Italian woman wearing as a shirt the same black sheer blouse from Zara I was wearing as a dress, I resorted to knocking back a Cosmopolitan and a Ruskie, after hardly eating and two glasses of wine in Pairing Food and Wine earlier that afternoon, and was toasted like 10-grain bread in the morning in about 30 minutes. This may have lead to some very loud singing along to the band. It may have even-- for shame-- led to some dancing. In places one should normally not dance. I was eyeing a table-top.

Sober Carissa apparently does not want to get laid. My interactions with the local gents (collectively either still in high school, or 30 years old, or American abroad students-- nothing in between,) went something like this: A tap on the shoulder, a hand on the back, a slap on the ass. I turn around. "Ciao," says Mr. Italia. "Ciao," I say back. "Mi chiamo Simon/Antonio/Charlie." "Mi chiamo Carissa." And I turn back around. Ohhhhhh. Shut down. End of story. Go away. I could be French for all I am so disinterested in you. Lesbians even care about you more. Really. Go take your wandering hands and wander somewhere else.

Drunk Carissa, however, appears to be the 180-degree opposite of Sober Carissa, because I found myself leaning over to Erin, pawing at her, going, "Hey! Heyheyhey! Did you see that guy at the bar?! I only saw his ear and the back of his head, but I think he's cute! I really think he's hot! I'm going to go over and-- ohhh, wait-- he turned around...no, not that cute. Definitely not that cute. Well, maybe, if you look at him from this angle..."

Erin: "What the fuck are you talking about? He is hideous."

Drunk goggles: Helping less fortunate Italian men get some since 1989. While we're here, can we please take a minute to conduct a poll? Because the question was, ahem, raised if Italian men stuff their Armani and Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Because I have been around the block a time or two, and I may have been known to date men who wear tight jeans, but NEVER in my life have I seen anything quite like what was on display at that rooster show. "Quarters-- lots and lots of quarters," was the only excuse Erin could come up with. To me, there is no excuse. Just eye-sear-age.

Towards the end of the band's set, I was really, really cravin' me a Double Cheeseburger like the good ol' times across the Atlantic, so we left Be Bop to find some tasty American victuals. Sad times-- the Golden Arches were closed, but the kebab shop right down the street was not. I took off running in un-straight lines as fast as my little gold flats would take me, smacked into the sliding glass door, and did my damnedest to open it. Nada. I looked in plaintively at the man behind the counter, who was watching me, obviously unimpressed. "Are you open?" I mouthed at him, and he nodded, miming at me to push the door to the side. You know, like how sliding doors are supposed to go. I put my hands flat on the glass and gave it a shove. Uh-uh, little drunk girl. Try again. Finally grasped the little indented handle. Gave a mighty yank. Lost my balance, and staggered in with a triumphant "YEAHHH!" As Erin said, "At least you're a cute drunk," because after those antics, it was the only thing working in my favor to get me served my kebab. That, the fact that I thought Mr. Kebab Man was totally smokin' in that dark skin/dark hair/light eyes way I am extremely partial to, and the other fact that I was still dancing along and breaking it down to their Middle Eastern rap music. ...In the middle of the kebab shop. Yeahhhhhhh.

It gets better. Oh, it gets better. Have you had enough? Are you cringing yet? Are you totally disappointed at the mockery of civilized and decent human behavior when inhabiting a strange and foreign country? Because if you aren't, I am at the memories of the night. At this point, black-out would be preferred over remembering the self-travesty. I am not proud of myself.

So, huh, funny thing-- I forgot how when you're drunk-- like, really, really drunk-- you forget things. Like the fact you gave your friend 2 Euro for a White Russian of her own earlier and so are short-changed after buying a Doner kebab at 2 AM. Which leads to things like finding yourself standing in a packed kebab shop, contemplating if anyone will see you take your kebab and run. And then just saying "fuck it," digging in and devouring said kebab in a beastly manner that not even your close friends can contain their disgust as you demolish it in under 2.2 minutes, losing a french fry down between your cleavage in the process. (The act of fishing dropped food from down there, in case you were not aware, is called "spelunking." As in, "I totally went spelunking after that fry while everyone watched. No fry left behind!")

After the Destruction of Kebab Shop on Cavour, I toddled my way home, chain-smoking and weaving, to wrestle out of my clothes and fall into bed, full make-up still on. Woke up the next morning protesting sunlight, street noise, raccoon eyes, and my continued existence with a massive hangover. Lesson learned.

So let's here it for America, Americans, and American students abroad! Land of the freely drunk, home of the blazed.

XOXO

P.S-- You can probably find me at Be Bop next Tuesday night. Repeat performance around 11. Less drinking this round, though. But probably equal parts dancing and singing.

Italian Escapades: My 18th Night of Mayhem in Italy, Gone Native in Carnevale, And Other Assorted Excitements

For my 18th night in Italy, I went to see The Wailers in concert, smoked Italian doobies, got caught up in a front-row mosh pit, touched 3 of The Wailers and got an autograph, ran across a 7 lane highway on the way home and was almost hit by a speeding moped, jumped some Jersey (Sicily? Do you think they would be called Sicily barriers over here? Is Sicily the Italian equivalent of New Jersey?) barriers, and coined the term "Unholy Cannoli." Just another day.

Robin and I got to Flog Auditorium (quite roughly the Italian version of Higher Ground-- same size, same atmosphere, but much more relaxed, in fact, non-acting, security,) an hour early, and stood in possibly the most miserable weather conditions I have ever waited for doors to open. And I waited outside for Busta to start in just a t-shirt last April in Vermont.) It was damp and drizzling. The trees dripped down on us. I went to go find a beer to find to improve my general disposition, and was greatly relieved when I got back to find that whelp, this being a Wailers concert, it was incredibly easy to score some weed. So score away. Also, once inside, our early arrival resulted in center-stage spots 1 person back from the stage. And this put us right inside the center of the cloud of smoke as the audience proceeded to hot-box the auditorium.

Second-hand smoke at concerts has got to be one of my favorite things. I love getting high on other people's time and money. So sue me.

If I had questioned it previously, I now know where I can find every Italian man I find attractive: At a Wailers concert. From dreadlocked, to hipster, to the young Italian Johnny Depp look-alike who was tripping on E and loved everyone and everything with a sort of infectious child-like humor that reminded me of the bastardized lovechild of Devendra Banhart and Russel Brand, who I spent the 3 hours of the concert pressed up against (3 hours well spent), it was a collectively attractive and fun crew. Until some of the drunk soccer boys and tripped-out electro-scene girls thought it would be a cute idea to start a mosh pit.

Now, there is a place and a time for a mosh pit. At an alternative or punk or metal show, yes. If you're seeing ICP or Sick Puppies or MOP. If you're under the age of 18. If you're a 185 pound man over six feet. But if you are a 125 pound woman under five-foot-four, mosh pits are not fun scenes. Losing my Gianni Depp in the melee, I locked myself to the jersey-clad back of the soccer boy in front of me, and shoved elbows back into the bodies that crushed up against me, fighting to keep standing. (First rule of mosh pits: DON'T FALL DOWN. Unless getting trampled seems like a good time to you.)

However, this mosh pit succeeded in pushing me even closer to the stage (literally back-humping this poor boy,) so that I was able to A.) touch the lead guitar, B.) Shake hands with the keyboardist, and C.) Get an autograph. So. I can't say that it wasn't a huge pain in the ass, overall.
Cabs were nonexistent from the concert, so Robin and I hiked the 2 miles back to our apartments. Thanks to the weed and the drinks, I couldn't feel my knees (long story short: years of horseback riding and jumping is not conducive to good cartilage in your knees, which is not conducive to all the walking I've been doing here, which results in massive amounts of pain and me hobbling like some of the black-clothed bubbies here), which came in handy for the sprint across the 7 lane highway in which a speeding moped nearly mowed me down, and again when we had to jump two lanes of concrete barriers to get across said highway to our street. Robin nearly drank from a dog's water fountain in the park. I had massive munchies and was trying to convince him that it was a good idea to go to the Secret Bakery to get "Unholy Cannoli" and "Debonair Eclairs." I thought it was HEE-LAR-IOUS at the time. The next morning when I woke up, very slowly and fuzzily and in lots of pain, I was really glad he put his foot down and said no.
Saturday morning found me waking up at the ass-crack of dawn at 5:15 (after going to sleep at 3:30 AM) to pack, have a quick wake n' bake session, and get on a bus at 6 AM for a weekend in Venice. I was able to buy gummybears, my favorite munchie food ever, at the rest stop, took pictures of the sunrise, and slept some more before walking up and stumbling onto a boat to Venice. It was also a good thing I slept through most of it because I have realized something: If I die while over here, it will not be from a kidnapping/rape/murder. It will be because of Italian drivers. Take a Boston driver. Make him snort copious amounts of speed. Perform a partial lobotomy. And then put him behind the wheel of a BUS. That, my friends, is terrifying. And I am living in a country full of them. Crossing streets and getting in cabs and buses and the such. I am literally playing Bussian Roulette.

This is what you need to know about Venice: It is easily one of the most beautiful, unique, and creepily romantic places in the world. It is so old and seeped in popular lore that at night, when lights reflect on the moving water in the canals, you will believe without a doubt that you are in a Poe story. Especially if it happens to be Carnevale, and all of humanity is running around in masks and costumes in Italy's mashed-up version of Halloween, April Fool's Day, and prom. I bought a mask, and my roommate Raquel, Robin and I took to the streets at night to find a restaurant featured in Bon Appetit and get in on the fun. We ran into a desk of cards, a set of bowling pins, an army of walking garbage bags, sperm that I ran away from, and some attractive young Ghostbusters that had it all over Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd. As soon as I heard the theme music coming from the boombox one of them was carrying, I was off and running toward them, camera flying behind me. They were young, charming, funny, friendly, sweet, and tolerated our photo shoot with them. In short, they are my new best friends. Almost everyone we met, excluding only the really drunk twenty-something men who only approached Raquel and I to ask if we were with Robin, as in, if he was our boyfriend, and walked away when we quickly repeated "Si" a few times (Robin was big pimpin' that night, fo' sho'-- male friends make the best joint bodyguards/decoys), was incredibly nice and friendly. More English is spoken there; less cigarettes smoked. Carnevale is basically one big, deliciously decadent and light-hearted romp. I was so glad I got to be there, and am definitely going back again at some point in my life. Actually, I would live in Venice for about a year, easily. I fell in love with it, even more than Florence.
My un-Valentine's Day was perfect. I tried to remember what I did last year-- I think a Girl's Dinner and then I went home, smoked straight to my face, and passed out early-- but it is one of those many Lost Memories. (This hints very strongly that smoking copious amounts of greenery was involved, even if dinner out was not.) This year, we were on tour boats to Murano and Burano and Venice for most of the day, and once we got to Venice, Robin, Raquel, Brian and I ran off to find calamari and a gondola ride. The gondola ride around sunset was easily one of the most un-romantic romantic things I have ever done in my life, (squeezing my gondolier's biceps included,) and as we took the tour boat back to the bus station (after almost missing it and being stranded in Venezia-- not the worst thing that could happen, in my opinion,) the sun set in rainbow hues with a blood-red, huge sun setting on the horizon. Blissful couples were unapparent. We took the bus back to Florence, and I crawled into bed with Pineapple Express, Baci chocolates, and more gummybears before passing out. In other words, unadulterated, Single Girl bliss.

Looking back, I find that I've been surprising myself numerous times. Probably one of my favorite things-- surprising myself. Usually, I am exceedingly hard to surprise. (See: Jaded. Cynical. Guarded.) Usually, I would die to be actually (positively) surprised. It just doesn't really happen for me. But there I was, finding myself surprised as I watched a hand-- my own hand-- reaching for the door of a cab last Thursday night. And like an out-of-body experience, leaning in, and asking the cabby in pidgeon English/Italian if he could take us to Flog Auditorium, and for how much. There I was, forefinger and thumb pinching a tight little jay as I inhaled while listening to "Everything's Gonna Be Alright." There I was, dancing with a room full of totally chill strangers and listening to the late, great Bob's songs in a cloud of haze. There I was, drunk on wine and life by 2:15 PM. There I was, in a gondola, looking up at the golden light on marble palazzos. There I was, flirting with a Ghostbuster holding a leafblower. There I was, eating some of the most delicious ravioli in a butternut squash sauce with sugared black truffle in a restaurant that Bon Appetit called "the best in Venice." There I was, flying by the seat of my pants, running from cars and mopeds and for trains and boats and buses, asking absolute Italian strangers for directions and tickets and ganja and photographs and phone numbers and recommendations. I'm living a charmed life, I know it, and I'm grateful for every moment of it.

I am finding that I am doing nearly everything I said I wouldn't do in Italy. And it's thrilling. The moment I stopped sweating it was the moment the world opened itself right up to me.

XOXO

...And For Halloween, I Was Ballsy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told him.

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

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

"Oh no! Flash harder?"

"Unhelpful. Can you pull me in?"

"They know me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PC: "Absolutely."

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

PC: "I do!"

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

PC: "Fuuuuuuuuuuck..."

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

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

"Yeah?" he asked, eyes fluttering open.

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

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

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

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

"I can shut the blinds," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swear-- I am a girl.

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

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

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

"OH," was Greece's response.

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

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

"Good morning, Carissa."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope your holiday was just as exciting!

XOXO

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

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