Go With The Flow

What's more hip right now than vampires? Tampons, obviously. Let's talk about vaginas, shall we?

I'll admit it-- I'm a bit of a brand whore, and I'm as loyal as the Labrador Retriever you grew up with when I find a product I like. I've worn the same American Eagle jeans since I was in middle school, because they're the cuts that fit me best. I've washed my hair with Garnier Fructis since I was a senior in high school. I only ride in Dansko paddock boots, and Ariat tall boots. I buy Barilla pasta (if it's good enough for the supermarkets in Italy, it's good enough for me). I pitched an ungodly fit when my local pharmacy changed my straight-from-the-brand Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo to the generic birth control alternative, and had it promptly changed back. (Part of that may have been because the generic pills looked like they had been pressed by some enterprising young meth-head in his back-country trailer park, and also the fact that I am NOT willing to risk my fertility on the cheap shit, because babies are HELLA expensive.) And I have always, ALWAYS used Playtex Gentle Glide tampons (fresh scent,) for as long as...well, for as long as I've been cursing being born female and fertile.

However, this is not to say that I can't occasionally be lured away from a specific product by the seductive siren song of another. While I may be very, very loyal and monogamous in my relationships with people, my relationships with products have a tendency to sometimes end up polygamous. Take, for instance, the last time I found myself journeying down the "feminine care" aisle of my local Rite-Aid on a last-minute "Dear god, like the three bears, my bathroom cupboards are bare and Goldilocks (Little Red Riding Hood would possibly be more apt?) has come to town!" mission. There they were, right in front of me-- the pink box with the familiar script, the reassuringly large "S", the vague floral scent wafting out of the box already. But, three boxes to my right, something caught my eye. It was black. It was colorful. It was modern. It was aggressive! It was a box that said, "Hey, cool lady, let's kick this period's ass like it's past 4 AM at Bungalow 8 and you're on Andy Warhol's arm!" Someone had obviously done enough market research to pick up on the fact that a black background with bright color accents just pops off the shelf (can't express to you how many books I have mysteriously ended up owning based on the fact that my brain sees bright pink on a black cover and instantly equates it with the next Great American Novel and NYT best-seller...which never, in fact, ends up happening), because after some hemming and hawing over the comfort of the familiar versus this bright new interloper, the box of regular-weight U by Kotex Click tampons had popped right into my basket. Women will endlessly be attracted to the shiny and new.

After two trials of "Why could I not have been born a Brandon?" use, here's the list of pros and cons that I've compiled for this new product in regards to how they stand up/fill out/carry their (water) weight against my beloved Gentle Glides. As always, every woman (and her flow) is different, so just because I found it a certain way doesn't mean that you necessarily will, too. Just keep that in mind. Now that we've got that across, here are my VERY opinionated views:

From an aesthetic point of view, the box and packaging of U have it allllllll over Playtex. The tampon cartridges themselves are much smaller, which is convenient because trying to fit a super-weight Playtex tamp in the pocket of a pair of girl's jeans is pretty much like trying to shove an atomic missile into hiding inside of a lycra catsuit. You know something is in there. The U's small cartridge, ever so tiny enough to fit a handful in my summer clutch, also expands to click into place (hence the name, Kotex Click) rather neatly. I got the first box of U's when they offered blue, green, orange and yellow colors instead of the rather sickly purple they replaced the blues with, but hey. Still, they have much more personality than Gentle Glides. And I always thought a woman's tampons told you a lot about her personality.

The thinner plastic cartridge (I never understood why ANYONE, including my mother, would have ever used the cardboard cartridges; I mean, I get that they're more environmentally friendly, blah blah blah go hug a tree, but the sensation of trying to use one is like trying to insert the corner of the box of Annie's Organic Mac & Cheese you just ate for lunch into your down-undah. NO THANK YOU!) also equates to an interesting other plus for Kotex-- you know that phenomenon that happens as you get towards the end of your Time of Bleed when your vagina just kind of shuts down like a government building under attack and stops accepting any foreign bodies into it and is all, "PENIS OR BUST!" and for the life of you, you cannot plead, cajole, coerce, or force another tampon comfortably in there to save your life, or your new pair of underwear? Well, with the very slim plastic cartridge body, the U just kind of...slides by your vaj's defenses unnoticed, like Bond. No struggle, no teeth-gritting, and no more crying and pleading while in a public bathroom stall that distracts other people around you. Solid.

However, the U does fall short of my beloved Gentle Glides in a few places: Namely, the fact that the regular-weight U's are about half the size and absorbency of the regular-weight Gentle Glides. They don't expand as well to fit and leak-proof your lady-bits quite as well as Gentle Glide's cotton protection does, either, probably due to the fact that Gentle Glide's cotton tamps are roughly the same softness and fluffiness that newborn baby kittens are, while U's tamps are made of something that feels suspiciously like yesterday's newspaper that's been lining your kid sister's hamster cage overnight. It's kind of stiff, kind of hard, and has this weird...well, this weird almost shell to the cotton, which acts as kind of like a primary defense system that your bodily fluid have to breach before the damn tamp will begin to absorb. Not, generally, the best thing that one looks for in a tampon.

All in all, this one's kind of a wash. While I continue to buy my Gentle Glides for their vastly superior protection, I've also started making sure that I always have a small box of the regular-weight U's kicking around for either those really light days when my vagina decides that it's on maximum security lockdown, or for those special occasion events like summer weddings, outings on boats, or barbecues when I need either my small clutch instead of a large purse, or don't want to look like I'm smuggling Cuban cigars back into the country in my denim short's pocket. So, U by Kotex Click-- worth the fancy-shamancy hip packaging, but not worth it to entrust any new pairs of underwear to provided that like Victoria, you should want to keep your little monthly visitor a secret.

XOXO

Mad Men and Madder Women

I'm a little bit behind the curve with some things: I've (thankfully) never heard a Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber song; I've never felt the urge to pierce anything on my body; and before Sunday night, I'd never watched Mad Men. Despite being told numerous times that I should. I figured it was kind of like flossing-- everyone says you should do it, but when it comes down to it, if you brush as much as you're supposed to, it's not really necessary.

Well, here I am, bowing and scraping and saying "mea culpa"s and "You were right." That is one hell of a good show. It's smart, and fast-paced, and not too far-fetched while at the same time not being totally predictable. It is, in fact, a very human show-- it showcases the workplace, the home life, families, relationships, how men act with other men, how women act with other women, how men and women act together, and men and women behaving badly, either together, or apart.

In other words, it's truthful and realistic.

When I was in Florence, I realized, for maybe the third time, but the most painful and hurtful time, that the guy I had left behind at home was still seeing the girl he had slept with while we were together. I felt vindictive, and devil-may-care-and-take-the-hindmost, and like there wasn't some glass ceiling for him that seemingly wasn't allowed to me, who had just hit it, and why the hell was that?

It was my friend's 21st birthday, and after lots of sangria, we ended up at a club, with two Australian guys who were in town for the week around Easter. They were great. One of them was cute, and reserved, and funny in that smart way that's more about plays on words and maybe hints at humor than of sheer smacking wit. I was hell-bent on ending that night with him to settle my invisible score; to understand what makes you go from one person to the next; to have more secrets to tack on to my list so that inevitably, when all was revealed in the in digressions on the home front, I would have one more ace up my sleeve, one more circumstance to smack in his face and say, "This is what neglect and looking elsewhere so carelessly and blatantly will get you."

It was, and still is, very petty and childish. "Evening the score" is not exactly the answer to equations like this. But regardless, that night, just as I was about to make my move, my friend Kara appeared at my elbow. "Someone stole my wallet," she said, and just like that, the spell was broken. The Aussie walked me home that night, but in the moments between my insecurity and having to grow up and help someone else's crisis, I realized that my own sleeping around wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't teach my Lothario anything. And while the Aussie may have gotten a good night of fun out of the deal, he'd be gone the next week, anyway, probably to never be seen again.

So what, then, was it all about? Human beings are remarkably complex. Just as the characters on Mad Men are never truly translucent in their actions, but rather opaque, so are real people. You can see action-- you can watch someone jump ship, bail like a seasoned sailor, and pour themselves from one cup of their life to another for fear of becoming solid or stagnant. You can watch someone slip away from you, or lash out. You can watch someone burn bridges and go down in flames. And you can watch yourself do things you're not proud of, just because you're human, and you can't help it. But the logic behind the actions? That still remains in the dark, unknown even to your own heart.

Seems like we haven't changed that much since the '50s, after all.

XOXO

The Kitchen Bitches Do Bobcat Cafe and Brewery.

Alli: Bobcat Café and Brewery is nestled on Main Street in Bristol, Vermont. Bristol’s mission statement reads something like: “We aim to be the quaint, Rockwellian, New England town where all our residents know each other’s names, our town hall meetings are always full, and our picket fences are always freshly painted.” It’s a picture-perfect scene on a chilly October night in small town Vermont.

Carissa: As you’ve probably already read from Flannel vs. Flannel’s review of Bobcat Café and Brewery, this Bristol hot-spot in infamous for its homemade brews. But Alli and I decided to tag along for the ride with the boys after we got a tip that the food was equally exceptional. Seeing as I was raised “on Kobe beef and pâté—since the womb, trained to only recognize good food,” as the Arts and Entertainment editor of the Current noted, I had to get in. Plus, being with the boys of Flannel vs. Flannel and Friends, we got to witness Man Law in action—pint glasses are ok to share a sip out of, whereas drinking out of the same beer bottle would be a “no.”

Alli: All of Bristol’s fifty or so residents are either tucking kids into bed or congregating in the brewery. In our twenty minute wait for a table big enough for the six of us, we saw a whopping three cars drive by. The only sound in town is coming from inside, the glowing light spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of the big windows marking it as the warmest place on the street.

Carissa: The ambiance inside Bobcat was Vermont woodsman meets French Provencal bistro hostess. Rough-hewn table surfaces were polished to a high shine, and the lighting was dim but cozy.

Alli: This is my domain. Carissa gets her fancy-schmancy gastropubs and French fusion cuisine. Bobcat, the kind of place that plays Nickel Creek and serves down-home, New England country cooking, is mine. For God’s sake, our table is literally my childhood kitchen table. The whole café feels like home, and I suspect that it’s not just a product of the furniture. There’s a steady volume of chatter and laughter and a sense of amity floating through the peppery air. The wait staff laughs and jokes with the diners, and doesn’t say anything when the 21+ portion of our dinner party shares a sip of site-brewed beer (all in the name of a good review). If there’s one thing that Bobcat does exceptionally well, it’s good company (and great beer).

Carissa: The curry in the butternut squash soup I got as my appetizer was a kick to fall’s ass. It opens your nasal passages right up, and the great slightly sweet bread they offered, when dipped into the thick, bisque-y soup, tones both down nicely.

Alli: Carissa’s curried butternut squash bisque kicked a little, but it’s the kind of warm that you want on a brisk fall night, like holding your fingers almost too close to the flame after coming inside on a cold day.

Alli: I started with the Vermont apple and cheddar salad. I can legitimately call this a “cute” salad. A fan of perfectly sliced apples and an adorable little pile of toasted walnuts framed a hill of greens. I got soft-eyed when I knocked over the lettuce and saw the cubes of Vermont cheddar hiding in the corner. The greens were crisp and flavorful but not bitter or strong, and the ginger cider vinaigrette was phenomenal. The sides paired perfectly with the salad, adding a crunch or a bit of crisp sweetness or a hint of sharp creaminess layered throughout bites, adding the depth that I’m convinced every salad should have.

Carissa: As the queen of the “baby salad with extras,” I really enjoyed the apple and cheddar salad. Slightly warm and limp arugula in a ginger cider vinaigrette appeased me, but I am not a fan of warm nuts…roasted nuts, that is. The roasted walnuts that accompanied the salad were no exception. After having one, and then another for benefit of the doubt, I left the rest on the plate.

Carissa: The broth of the steamed littleneck clams we got to share as I took Alli’s clam virginity exploded in my mouth and knocked me outta this world. It was cheesy, and salty, like seawater from the same bay they got the clams from. The clams themselves were sweet and both soft and chewy, with pale pink flesh. However, the slices of garlic clove in the broth were not my favorite, though the chunks of bacon were a nice flavor additive.

Carissa: Henry, our Arts and Entertainment editor from Maine, dug into the bowl of clams with his fingers. “I don’t know what anyone ever taught you—you eat steamers with your fingers.”

Alli: As an entrée, I ordered the Misty Knoll Parmesan Chicken Lasagna. First rule: throw out everything you ever thought you knew about lasagna. Otherwise, you’ll be confused and potentially disappointed by what will be placed before you. It’s lemon parsley ricotta, roasted vegetables, roasted vegetables marinara, and misty knoll organic chicken between lasagna noodles, topped with a small pile of greens slightly wilted from the rising steam and grated parmigiano reggiano, with a balsamic demi-glaze circling the plate.

Alli: Now, let’s get this straight: this ain’t yo mama’s lasagna. This is Vermont harvest lasagna. The roasted veggies gave it a hint of wood smoke to contrast on your tongue with the zing of the demi-glaze. The marinara was heavy and meaty from veggies pureed with a thick red sauce. It was so good that I forgot about the chicken until I cut into it—right there, in the center of my lasagna, was a breast of fried chicken sprinkled with sea salt. Yeah, fried chicken. Like I said, forget everything you ever knew about lasagna, because the crispiness of fried chicken in between sheets of pasta smothered in smoky marinara with chunks of roasted vegetables is genius. Absolutely phenomenal, especially because it wasn’t heavy; all the crisp, none of the grease. And, even better, the portion is home-style, too.

Carissa: The braised duck I ordered for my entrée was so succulent. So moist. So pink. It was almost like a pulled pork, but it was duck, so, SO much better. The orange and cranberry preserves crowning it were almost as good as the jam at the Bluebird Tavern. The mushroom crepe under it was a new idea to me, and well done, the woodsy, earthy flavor complimenting the sweet and savory-ness of the duck.

Carissa: Since we went with the Flannel vs. Flannel crew and Company, we occasionally got sips of what they were reviewing. Though I found heaven on beer, or beer on heaven with the fizzy Heller Bock, my favorite was the Porter “Twan” got—it started out with a bite, smoothed out on my palate, and then came back for a second round of deep, almost chocolatey taste and gave me goosebumps with its goodness. Is it any surprise women want the sweet stuff?

Carissa: Speaking of which, Alli and I split a maple crème brulee for dessert. It was so maple, so Vermont, so lovely, from the torched sugar top to the custard that overtook the crust when broken into like an oozing lava flow of dessert. It was sinful. I would have sold my soul for more. The texture was so smooth and light, unlike some brulees that get grainy. The maple taste waited until after the crunchy sugar dissipated to tickle your taste-buds like a particularly teasing French maid. I myself was called a tease for only offering a small taste after raving and moaning about it.

Alli: The maple crème brulee is like the soft, slow stroke of a fingertip. The more you explore, the more you uncover. Thank God there’s a church next door, because it’s sinful and I’m going to need absolution.

Carissa: Final verdict? By the time Bobcat started closing down around us—yes, we shut the place down—and I threw in my napkin, I was blissed-out on comfort food. Comfort is what Bobcat provides, from the food, to the atmosphere, to the friendly and accommodating wait staff with a good sense of humor, to what the boys were feeling after a few pints. It is warmingly good, honest food—but we’re never going with the boys again because they’re far too distracting.

Alli: By the end of the night, I had dropped my silverware an extraordinary number of times, we were all stuffed, our sides aching from laughter, Flannel and Flannel & co. had enough to be a little buzzed, and us Kitchen Bitches were drunk on good company. That’s what you get at Bobcat. Great food, great beer, great atmosphere, and great company. It’s well worth the drive.

VISIT IT.

XOXO

"More Porn, Please." A Ladies' Guide To The X-Rated.

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Kitchen Bitches Do The Bluebird Tavern: Twice As Tasty

The Bluebird Tavern, 317 Riverside Avenue, Burlington, VT

Carissa: The Bluebird Tavern opened this pat July, owned by Sue Bette, with Aaron Josinsky, previously sous-chef at Shelburne Farms, taking a head chef position in the kitchens. In what was previously “Tortilla Flats,” a rambling, brown stucco building, The Bluebird Tavern has made its new nest. The lighting is low; the atmosphere relaxed, like you just fell off the road and into a little English pub tucked up against the pavement and river. Sit on the patio, if you can—even though we’re going into nights that are getting cold and would require you to eat with your coat on, like I did, there’s a delightful Vermont jungle feel as the sun sets over the wrought iron and brick walls with wide windows that overlook trees and greenery.

For a menu that changes every day, I noticed that a few of the “share” entrées and the “snack” appetizers were dangerously similar in meal composition: who is to say that the “snack” of lamb meatballs, harissa, and yogurt would make less of a meal than the entrée of Bluebird bacon, turnip greens, and apple cider? The wine list, however, would make my father drool and my under-21 self weep.

Alli: I didn’t grow up in a foodie-family like my lovely co-Kitchen Bitch. I wasn’t raised with lamb and fancy cheeses. I grew up on chicken pot pie and burgers, apple crisp and whoopee pies. Walking into Bluebird, sitting down, and taking a look at the menu was intimidating. I didn’t know what the hell kohlrabi was—by the way, in case you don’t either, I Wiki-ed it; it’s a German Turnip and supposedly like a sweeter broccoli stem—and, much to Carissa’s dismay, I’m not a particularly adventurous eater. It’s just not the way I roll. She might drool over the prospect of chicken livers, veal tongue, and fried rabbit, but I’ll stick with things that don’t scare me at night, thanks.

Carissa: I ordered Boylan’s Black Cherry Soda to go with my lamb ribs—the soda looked like a deep red wine on ice, and I thought it would pair with the lamb well. Lamb and cherry; you just can’t go wrong with that.

I was surprised when our waitress didn’t ask me if wanted my lamb dripping blood off the bone, or charred black. Trust the chef? What? What if he—gasp—cooked it well-done? This Romanian Princess doesn’t do well-done; I like my meat wet. Bloody, dare I say.

Alli: There were plenty of things that didn’t look too scary, though: poutine, fried herbs, and gravy; mackerel, chorizo, and olive oil fingerlings—those are fingerling potatoes, not appendages of slow waitstaff—double burger and frites; papardelle (turns out it’s pasta!), lamb sausage, tomatoes, and mint. And, thinking back on it, the kohlrabi-gingered apples-walnuts-mossend blue meal probably would have been a kickin’ choice that I’m going to dream about longingly tonight. If you didn’t learn from Carissa’s anecdote about how trusting the chef turned out to be the best choice she’s made all year, let me assure you: it will be the best choice you make all year. If you don’t know what to order, ask your server to recommend something and just say yes, no matter what it is. Or you could even tell the chef to surprise you. Trust in Aaron Josinsky is trust well-placed.

In the end, I went with flatbread topped with house labneh, arugula, a grated, hard cheese, and falafel. It all paired perfectly with my Pear Ginger Ale, and, in case you’re wondering, pear is the perfect ingredient in ginger ale. Whoever discovered that is, in fact, my hero.

Carissa: Our bread came out accompanied by the eponymous little round circles of Vermont Cheese & Butter Company cultured butter. Bluebird gets two thumbs up for that choice alone. It’s butter that will change your life. Children, we are in Vermont. We are surrounded by cows and dairy agriculture. There is no reason to be eating bland butter when you can eat butter that tastes like grass and milk and cow and sun and snow and autumn foliage.

Alli: The very fact that we both recognized a couple pats of butter on sight and visibly lit up with excited approval demonstrates the truth to our claim that it truly is life-changing. You’ll never again think of butter the same way.

Carissa: The cheese board came to us on what looked like a fraternity’s long-lost spanking paddle wielded by an old friend as I instantly recognized Vermont Ayr’s signature rind and a salty bleu cheese that my father had brought home one or five times. I am at home with cheese. Cheese is one of my (many) delicious vices, and there was cheese to indulge in. Two hard cheeses, one a cheddar; two soft cheeses, including a triple-crème that was divine; and the bleu were accompanied by cranberry-sized pickled yellow tomatoes that burst with flavor, an oozing honeycomb, and an otherworldly fabulous plum jam that hit all the right notes of tart and sweet on my tongue and kept me licking at the corners of my mouth. Some of the honey had made its way over to the salty yet delicate bleu cheese, and the salty/sweet combination complimented both beautifully, making me believe one should not exist without the other in the future.

Alli: The flatbread was served on the same sort of spanking paddle the cheese came on, and, at first, looked…like nothing particularly special. Good, yes. It looked good. There’s only so much you can do to make falafel flatbread as gorgeous as this tasted, though. The bread was good and sturdy, something that held up well. There was a beautiful bite to the arugula, a slight sharpness to the cheese, and a creamy zing to the labneh that culminated in what can be described in no other way than moaningly fabulous.

Then there was the falafel. After much debating and studying, I figured out how Josinsky made the falafel: it involved magic. What he does, you see, is search out all of the most beautiful Lebanese women and he collects them in his kitchen. He then waves his spatula at them, says, “you are now falafel,” and puts it on your flatbread. I’ve never had more delicious Middle Eastern flavor, and I’ve had Middle Eastern mothers cook for me. The spices—cumin, coriander, and God knows what else—were difficult to indentify (not that I cared; you reach a point where it’s just so good that the ingredients don’t matter) because the original explosiveness is then tempered with a mysteriously complex subtlety that can only be explained by my gorgeous-Lebanese-women theory.

Carissa: The tomato jelly served under my lamb ribs started sweet like…well, jelly, and ended with a kick in the back of my mouth like a particularly feisty pepper had booted my tonsils with steel toes. The house yogurt was a little salty, but toned the tomato jelly down. But I quickly abandoned both of these to focus on the real star of the show—the lamb. The tomato jelly and yogurt were soon dismissed. The lamb could stand alone.

It arrived the lovely, hearty and moist red I love to see in my red meat. And as I picked it up, it fell off the bone. Right off of the little rib bones, and into my mouth. The gristle and fat make a lovely savory crackle in my teeth, flavor exploding every time my teeth clamped down to try to catch some more of that taste. I wanted to suck on the bones. It was the best food decision I’ve made in the past year. I had to send my compliments to the chef. They were, truly, the best lamb ribs I have had in my life. And I’ve eaten a lot of lamb ribs in my 20 years. Lamb is my favorite red meat. And he gave me a foodgasm with his. In short, he is the Casanova of the kitchen, the Ron Jeremy of my dining dreams. I have a food-crush on the cooking. You may notice we use some scandalous word-choice in here. It’s just that for us, food and sex are frighteningly similar. They make you warm, taste good, fill you up, and leave you spent and glowing. When they’re good, they’re really, really good, and when they’re bad, it’s so depressing.

Alli: Carissa was nice enough to share a bite with me. If I’d been standing, my weak knees and tingling toes would have knocked me on my ass. I refused to speak immediately after from the fear that opening my mouth might distort the dreamy aftertaste.

Carissa: Being women, we couldn’t settle on one dessert, and so, ordered two to share.

Alli: Carissa told me not to look at the menu as she read the top three desserts aloud. Resisting the temptation took serious restraint, and was a little like being tied to the headboard: frustratingly gratifying. The desserts we ordered were the mind-blowing orgasm to the menu’s foreplay.

Carissa: I could taste the espresso in the espresso-whisky torte, which was drizzled with a crème and caramel sauce, whisky-infused. The End of Summer fruit tart was…summer. On a plate. Sweet, from the thick but waffle-ish almond tart base soaked in the honey-sweet juices of the fruit, to the whipped mascarpone top. Though I was leaning more toward the fruit tart in personal preference, I wouldn’t kick either dessert out of bed for eating crackers. And the espresso torte could probably keep me up all night and happy, as Alli so kindly pointed out. See what we mean? Food and sex—all feelings one in the same.

The only snag we ran into was having to ask for our French-press coffee to be brought out again after we ordered it with our desserts. You’re not going to walk away stuffed, as is the usual American dining expectation, but you are going to walk away well-fed.

Alli: Regardless of our raving, I’ll give you the skinny; it gets pricey. I’m pretty careful about where and how I spend my cash. Unlike Carissa, I hold onto the balance in my bank account longer than the week after I get my paycheck. Normally, getting the check at the end of a meal at a place like this would send me into momentary cardiac arrest. The cheese board alone was thirteen bucks. Shockingly, though, I didn’t care what the bill was—I was so enamored with the food and the man making it that I would have gladly emptied the entirety of my bank account, just as long as he kept cooking. Please, God, keep that man in the kitchen. I’ll be his bitch.

The Bluebird Tavern is Vermont Fusion at its best. The wait staff had that friendly, attentive Vermonter manner, never without a warm smile. Speaking of the wait staff, I wouldn’t mind if the waiter who brought our cheese board was dished up and brought out on one of those Bluebird serving boards. Regardless of how intimidated I was originally, the atmosphere was undeniably comfortable. There was wrought iron and exposed brick, charming French-country yellow and blue on tiles with patterns straight from Seville in the bathroom, well-dressed folk laughing over wine, and gentle candle glow lighting. There was also a football game and a fútbol game on the two flatscreen TVs behind the well-stocked bar, a man in an Iron Maiden t-shirt right at home at the table next to ours, and Petty, OAR, Jack Johnson, Hootie, Dispatch, and Dave Matthews playing softly through the audio system. It was, simply put, a chill place.

Carissa: The Bluebird Tavern does what Magnolia tries to do, and in my opinion, what Magnolia fails at—taking local food and produce, using a few other simple ingredients to enhance the natural flavors already there, and then leave it alone to speak for itself. At Magnolia, the food tasted a bit bland. At Bluebird, they rocked it, Vermont foodie-style.

Alli: If there was nothing else I could say about The Bluebird Tavern, I’d be able to say that it gave me my new happy place. No more wide open fields of flowers and ponies; oh no. The only frustrating part was trying to concentrate on my own food over Carissa’s rather vocal foodgasms.

Carissa: I’m not normally clumsy, but instead of scoring by Michelin stars, we’re going to score this meal by how many times I dropped my silverware with a clank and rattle onto the china and it slipped from my fingers. And I dropped my silverware 4 times.

XOXO

The Bitchin' Kitchen.

"Please, sir, can I have some more?"

I am, in my normal double-life, a pretty rockin' cook. Maybe it's the genes that were passed on to me by my foodie father, who's the chef in the family. (My mom is a strictly meat-and-potatoes type of cook, though she does make mean buttered noodles.) Maybe it's the fact that I was raised in a food-centric family for whom Anthony Bourdain is close to God and the brunches of my childhood were spent in places like Tavern on the Green and my father thought nothing of feeding me escargot at the age of 9 or taking his 14 year old daughter to Nobu. Maybe it's the fact I like to eat good food, and this past summer, being on a limited budget, found myself cooking my own meals more often than preparing them from a store-bought option or eating out. Because of this, my body has aligned itself firmly in a newly-healthy capacity: foods with lots of preservatives, chemicals, or high fat content now make me mightily nauseous. I'm used to knowing what I'm putting into my body now, mainly because I'm making my own food. It's good, yes, but it also requires dedication to actually cooking.

I. Love. Food. Hence, I also love going to the gym. You can't have one without the other, unless you are one of those fabulously lucky people for whom your metabolism does all the work. or you're a man. My metabolism decided that body-heat and burning ALL of those calories were superfluous jobs. Mainly, my metabolism sits around on the couch and watches the Food network.

Being a college student on limited income made this fact very apparent early on. It's not unheard of for me to spend over $30 in the specialty cheese section of City Market, stocking up on Vermont's own Lazy Lady Farm's goat milk cheese, fresh baguette, and pate. (Pate, sweetbreads, and foie gras top my favorite foods. If it used to be in an animal-- dear god, I love it.) My father used to say that he was raising me on a diet that I would find out I was not able to afford on my own. So true. The childhood dinners of surf-and-turf, chicken carbonara, fall-off-the-bone spare ribs, chicken cordon bleu and lemon-white wine-and garlic infused scallops may be gone, but I have become a pretty good cook in my own right.

Don Daddy's proud.

I recently finished reading Julie & Julia, and I suggest that you leave your computer this very second and go buy, borrow, or steal-- yes, steal-- a copy of this book. (Actually, finish this post first, please.) Any book that contains the line, "...Reading Mastering the Art of French Cooking was like reading pornographic Bible verses," is sure to be a winner with me. And it was. Julie Powell made me think about food, and blogging, in a way the likes of which I've never seen someone devote such loving, foul-mouthed, laugh-out-loud funny tragedy and triumph to before. I have not seen the movie, but as always seems the case, I can't imagine it can be better than the book. Julie's prose is so witty, poetic, and shocking by turn that I can't ever imagine the movie's script doing it justice. You just can't fake love like that. Pornos have proven this.

Both my recent adventures in the kitchen and Julie & Julia inspired me to compile a list of the best recipes and cooking advice I have for single (slightly broke) college girls. (And men, if you guys cook, too. If you do, let me tell you, your stock with women gets a significant boost. A boost that's right up there with having the body of Paul Walker. None too shabby, fellas.) From the quick, simple, and heart-and-stomach warming, to the dinner to make him propose (marriage, sex, a relationship,) to you, here are my tried-and-true recipes for a life well lived in the kitchen.

Creamy Rice:
This is great for cold or chilly days when you need something that sticks to your stomach and bones (in a non-fatty way,) and will warm you from the inside-out.

(It should be stated right now that I cook by feel, taste, and instinct. (Thank you again, Dad.) I refer to it as "cooking by the seat of my pants." This means that sometimes, I won't include measurements, because honestly, I don't know how much of something I put in. At times like this, I expect you to add the ingredient to YOUR taste-- see what works for you. That's what I do. Cook for your own taste-- not someone else's who just happened to get a cookbook deal or has a few Michelin Stars next to their name.)

Rice-- 1/3 cup is enough for one big serving. (I prefer white jasmine rich because if it's more delicate taste and floral smell.)
Water-- 3/4 cup.
Butter- 1 tablespoon or pat.
Milk or Cream.
Garlic Powder.
Pepper.
1/2 of a Chicken Bouillon Cube, or Chicken Stock.
Oregano.

Bring the water and butter to a boil in a pot. Add rice, cover with a lid, and turn down to a simmer. Allow to simmer for 20 minutes, or until the water has evaporated. (Most people will make you swear on your mother's grave to not lift the cover or your rice will DIE. I'm not like that. I am impatient and a visual learner and have a bad habit of burning my rice if I don't occasionally lift the lid to check it or eve-- god forbid-- stir it around a little more. So I'm not perfect. Sue me.) When rice is done, turn off heat and add your milk or cream, garlic powder, pepper, oregano and chicken stock. Stir in until creamy, or, if you use a bouillon cube, until it has thoroughly disintegrated. Enjoy!

Spaghetti and Chicken Parmesan:
This is one of my favorite quick dinners, and gives me a great energy boost before going to the gym without weighting me down and making me feel full. Protein + sugars= short and long energy boosts.

Spaghetti (store-bought is fine-- I like Barilla, or whatever is cheap but still looks like a decent noodle.)
Spaghetti sauce (store-bought, or homemade, either way is good. I don't have time to make my own usually, so I go with Prego. I'm not a fan of chunky sauces, and Prego's not chunky. I even used to make my dad puree his homemade spaghetti sauce for me, but then, I would eat his sister's chunky sauce with no complaints. It made no sense, but she married an Italian and makes one hell of a homemade spaghetti sauce. This marriage is also the reason I can my father "Don Daddy." My Italian uncle died, and if you follow Italian criminal history and family genealogy, you understand why.)
Chicken.
Breadcrumbs.
1 egg.
Butter or olive oil.
Garlic powder.
Oregano.
Rosemary.
Basil.
Salt.
Pepper.
Your favorite type of cheese, shredded, or Parmesan cheese powder. (I like both, because I love my cheese.)

Start by putting water in a pot to boil. While water is reaching boil, crack your egg into a bowl and stir the white and yolk together. Coat your chicken in the egg, then dredge in a mix of salt, pepper, garlic powder, oregano, rosemary, basil, and flour. Put that now-breaded chicken into a hot pan with butter or olive oil coating the bottom, routinely flipping it so that all sides cook equally. Add spaghetti sauce to this pan with chicken when the chicken is almost fully cooked (should be the color of your skin in the center if you cut it-- not pink or shiny). Add spaghetti to boiling water-- cook until done. After draining pasta, put on a plate, and arrange the chicken and sauce over the top. Sprinkle on shredded cheese, or Parmesan.

Rotisserie Chicken, or "All The Possibilities":
I love buying a rotisserie chicken at the supermarket occasionally. During middle school and high school, I had to drive 45 minutes one-way to the barn where I kept my horse to take lessons and ride at least 3 nights a week, usually more like 4. (True Life: I Was A Competitive Equestrian. Now, I ride for fun, but there was a time in my teens of A-rated jumper shows and regional championships.) Because of this, dinner had to be on-the-go, and preferably, not always McDonalds. So my mom started buying a rotisserie chicken and bag salads from the grocery store, so I could have a somewhat nutritional meal in the tackroom after my lesson, and so I could eat before 10 PM. Once I hit college, I fully realized the possibilities of this chicken on my meager budget-- you can stretch it for DAYS. A rotisserie chicken usually costs between $5 or $7, which is cheaper than actually buying your own chicken and roasting it yourself. Since there's no cooking involved, here are your options on how to use your bird:

Night One: Rotisserie chicken and a bag Caeser salad, my old favorite stand-by.
Lunch for Day Two: Use some of the leftover chicken to make a chicken salad sandwich. I like adding hard boiled egg, shallots, and salt and pepper to mine on crusty artisan bread.
Dinner for Day Three: Use the rest of your leftover chicken to make the Spaghetti and Chicken Parm recipe above.
Voila! Chicken for 3 days or more on $5! That's what I call "Frugal Fancy."

Wedding-Ring Worthy Steak and Parmesan Oven Fries:
This is like gold, ok? This is like La Perla lingerie or men's Kryptonite. USE IT CAUTIOUSLY. Be kind. Be gentle. It's not fair to cook this for every Tom, Dick, or Hairy Dick. Other girls who don't have this recipe need marriage proposals too, ok?

Are you ready for this? No, you are not ready for this. But you are possibly more ready than the man about to eat it is. You know what's coming. He doesn't. Brace yourself. It's such a simple recipe with such a strong affect.

Steak. Go big. Go Sirloin. If he's going to feel like buying you Tiffany's or Harry Winston, you can afford to give the man some Sirloin.
Potatoes-- I like Yukon Golds.
Parmesan Cheese powder.
Salt.
Pepper.
Oregano.
Rosemary.
Dried Basil.
Curry powder.
Garlic powder.
Olive oil.

Take your steak, and rub in salt, pepper, oregano, basil, rosemary, and garlic powder onto each side. Put in a pan coated with butter or olive oil set to low heat. Cook to preference-- rare, medium rare, well-done, whatever. (I'm a rare or medium-rare girl, myself. I like to see it bleed a little bit. Scary, I know. What do you want from me? The family's from Austria-Hungary/Romania area. I can't help it.)

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Lightly coat a sheet pan with olive oil so your potatoes won't stick to the bottom. Cut your potatoes into quarters length-wise, and then cut them again to about the width of half of your thumb. (I generally get about 5 potato slices per quarter, if that's any indication.) In a large bowl, combine a decent amount (around 1/2 to 3/4 of a cup) of Parmesan cheese with salt, pepper, oregano, rosemary, basil, garlic powder, and enough curry powder to give it a little kick. In another large bowl, coat your potato slices with olive oil. Gradually sift in your Parmesan/herb and spice mix until most every potato slice is coated. Arrange your potatoes on your coated pan so that they are touching as little as possible. Bake one side for 10-15 minutes, then flip all the potatoes and bake the other side for 10-15 minutes, or until cooked through.

This looks like a ridiculously easy and simple recipe, I know. This doesn't look lime anything grand. But it is so man-tastic. As soon as you start smelling the steak and potatoes cooking, you'll get it. Believe me. I once had a friend's boyfriend taste just FRY and tell me that if he wasn't already in a relationship, he would have asked me out then and there. And then he proceeded to ask me out. He was kidding...mostly, I think. It's true-- men do think with their stomachs, and they go crazy for this dinner. I say reserve the right to only use this after you're serious about keeping a dude around, after the 5th date or so.

Bitchin' Brownies:
Not so much of a recipe-- more of a guideline. In high school, I was famous as the girl who would make brownies for my guys. (I also baked a new dessert in increasing difficulty for every Thursday AP European History class-- starting with brownies and ending with French puff pastries with a hazelnut creme filling and shaved Colombian chocolate dusted across the glazed tops. There were 7 of us in the class {my favorite teacher, Brownell, and my senior year boy included,} so it wasn't like I was making 24 of these babies. I would have killed myself.) That was my mark of ownership. I made you brownies-- you were my boy. Unsurprisingly, most guys went along willingly with this. The secret to my bitchin' brownies was in the process of making them; from scratch will always be more involved, but it doesn't need to mean better than store-bought. Sometimes a girl just doesn't have the time to do all that work. So, regardless of if you're making it from original ingredients or from a box, here's the rules to follow:
-2 eggs, not 1.
-Stay somewhere between cake-like and fudgey; still thick, but not totally dense.
-Do not bake them to death-- people like warm and slightly gooey brownies more than fully-cooked bricks, err, brownies.
-Icing is over-kill. This is not cake. This is not a decorative cookie. Plus, icing gets messy when you're pushing papers around or trying to flip pages at the same time, like all my boys were.
- A cool and more portable way to make brownies is to fill paper cupcake holders with the brownie mix in a cupcake tray and make brownie cupcakes. (Great for road trips. I like to make them for our Montpelier and Worcester outings.)

Chocolate Chip Cookies:
Men love chocolate chip cookies. Women love chocolate chip cookies. EVERYONE loves chocolate chip cookies, but these little bitches are my Baker's Kryptonite. I can make a homemade terimisu to DIE FOR and the most angelic angel cake, but I can't make a decent batch of C.C.C's from scratch to save my life. If they taste good, they are not cookie-shaped. If they're cookie-shaped, they are over-cooked, and not gooey in the middle like I like them. So, I cheat. I use store-bought batter. I'm a Pillsbury girl. If, like me, you don't like to admit defeat, bury the wrapper in your trash and no one needs every know that the little giggly doughman in white is the real chef behind your stellar, perfect, cookie-shaped and just-gooey-enough masterpieces.

I hope you were able to get some ideas to feed yourself, and your men if you have them. Or, and I'm sure they'd appreciate it, too-- your girls. Enjoy. I'm glad I can maybe help feed more than just your spare time.

XOXO

Can Ya Dig It?

There seems to be this Universe phenomenon where when you’re either in a relationship, or are in the confusing place either before or after a relationship, it suddenly starts raining men. Far from a “Halleluiah!” it’s usually more of a “What the fuck—NO!” I don’t know if it’s pheromones, or maybe if once you’re off the market men start to think of you as a “hot commodity”—that whole supply and demand thing—but for some reason, un-single girls never seem to have a problem finding interested men. It’s when you’re single that you feel like you’re going through a drought and possibly one of the most uninteresting, unattractive, unlovable people ever in the history of the world.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re happy that men pick up on. Certainly, people in a just-budding or going-well relationship have the certain je-ne-sais-quoi about them that seems to exude that all is right with the world. Who wouldn’t want to be with that? Also, Murphy’s Law might have something to do with it—when you want ‘em, you can’t find ‘em, and when you don’t need ‘em, they’re there.

During this marathon “What Are We Doing?” silent battle between Perfect and I, I’ve gotten two other advances from guys. Normally, I would be flattered. Now, I’m just frustrated and exasperated. The first was one of my Soho Boys—we briefly touched on this a few posts back. Anyway, feeling the need for some male company in my life, as I crave the presence of testosterone like pregnant women crave pickles and ice cream (“I have to have it NOW!”), I texted him last time I went to the beach solo to see if he’d like to keep me company. His response is a good example of why I equally adore and despair of my Soho Boys—“Well, I smoked so I’m feeling lazy, and we’re drinking before my roommates go to work, but after they leave I’ll let you know.” For background information, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. (Although I’m really not one to talk. I found myself in bed one morning with a 2-month-old bottle of wine and a cigarette at 10:30 AM after Perfect came down sick and had to cancel a visit to Burlington. It was not one of the proudest moments of my life, but it certainly was a special one.) My Boy didn’t end up joining me at the beach, but it became obvious that I had unleashed a younger monster when he proceeded to text me all afternoon to “check in.” Cute? Yes. I figure as long as I drop in enough “dude,” mans,” and “yo’s,” to keep it platonic, I can stave off an awkward conversation long enough to casually mention I’m “trying to work things out with a guy I was seeing” before my Soho Boy gets any real ideas.

The second guy was a little ickier than my (relatively) harmless ex-advisee. The ex-boyfriend of one of my freshmen-year dorm-mates and friends, he sent me an email at 1 AM the other morning. It started out fine, with the usual, “hey, it’s been awhile since we hung out,” which is true, and then quickly got much more awkward. “I think you should know I’m quite attracted to you,” he said. “Maybe we should talk about it. IM me sometime.”

Firstly, I don’t think I’ve seriously used Instant Messenger since high school, unless it’s to keep up with my friends far away at college. Secondly, I really wanted to nip this in the bud. I sent him back a very prompt and business-like email, basically saying that yes, it had been awhile—life has been crazy, I hope his summer’s been going well; I’m flattered, but there’s someone else and no hard feelings. Oh, and, yes, I already have his screen name. Hopefully, that’s the end of that. Men who try and date around an exes’ group of friends just make me feel nauseous. (The Flaky Artist successfully ruined another dorm-mate friendship of mine after he started dating a girl down the hall after he broke up with me because he was “still in love with a girl from home.” Yeah.)

And it’s not just me getting onboard with this “once you’re taken, you’re wanted” idea. A friend of mine in a long-term relationship has recently been getting (rather hilarious) advances from another guy, who knows, after being told, time and time again, that she already has a boyfriend, who she’s quite happy with, thanks. And Alli discovered the magic of multiple male attention on a Greyhound bus ride from Boston to Burlington. She started out with one phone number, and had collected three by the end of the trip. That’s what we call “quick work.”

---

Because I also like to give hints and tips to keep other Single Girls (or Bored Girls In Relationships, too, I suppose,) busy and happy, here are a few things that have really been rocking my world lately. Hope you get some inspiration! Also, I’d really love to get some feedback from readers about things that they like or do for fun and entertainment, because I have four weeks of summer vacation left, and am rapidly running out of both ideas and funding. The cheaper or more free the idea, the better!

(I also welcome general reader feedback. For those of you who have commented, thank you so much—your kind words and interest are what keep me going when I’m feeling too tired, too bored, or too uninspired to write. For those of you who read but don’t comment, really—I’d love to hear from you! Tell me what you like, what you don’t like, what you want to see more of, etc. Frankly, I’m amazed I haven’t gotten any comments back from people telling me I’m a crazy bitch for all the drama with Perfect. Just keep in mind—downright rude or spiteful comments will be deleted—only constructive criticism, please.)

For my birthday, I got a tube of A&W lip balm. Yes, A&W as in, the root beer. And let me tell you, it’s fabulous. It tastes just like the real thing, sticks to your lips even after swimming (!) and is a nice tan color that really makes a complimentary nude-colored lip balm that accents your natural lip color. Plus, it comes in a really cute little tube shaped like a can of soda. Lotta Luv makes it—it’s one of their Lip Sips collection. Unfortunately, I have no idea where you can buy it around town. Maybe CVS or a local pharmacy?

How To Be Single—A Novel, by Liz Tuccillo. You may know Liz’s name from He's Just Not That Into You, the single-girl almost-Bible she co-wrote with fellow “Sex and the City” writer Greg Behrendt. Her first foray into fiction, Tuccillo examines the relationship between five (thirty-something) single women in (surprise) New York City, and the relationships that they go through with other men, from the two yogis getting hot and heavy in a supposedly celibate ashram to the trek around the world that the main character makes, trying to decide if anywhere in the world, women have got the hang of being single and happy. From poignant to hilarious to introspective, How To Be Single draws from experiences you can certainly relate to to make you feel as if you personally know the characters. Honestly, reading this, I felt like I was out for a girl’s night. It’s engaging, smart, and will really make you think about the single lifestyle, love, both platonic and love relationships, and what makes you truly happy. (I read books with a highlighter in hand to mark down passages I particularly like or find interesting as I feel it’s good practice as a writer to identify what works. I killed a highlighter on this one novel. That’s how well-written it was. Never once do you feel like you’re being lectured to—it’s more like listening to a friend tell you about her last night out and give you advice about the guy you’re seeing. I got a lot out of it. I’m looking forward to what Tuccillo does next.)

I am brown as a roasted little chestnut from going to the beach this summer, and I love it. Previously this spring, I was paying $6.95 per visit to the tanning salon—Body Le Bronze on Pearl Street; it’s really nice and clean and calming, plus you’ll smell like coconut oil after you leave even if you didn’t use any—but now that I can be on the beach and rolling around on my towel like I’m roasting on a spit every nice and sunny day, I’m getting my color for free. Plus, I get to go for a dip right afterward to escape the heat, and let me tell you, Lake Champlain is warmer this year than I’ve ever felt it. It’s heavenly. Get thee to the beach!

Summer is the time for road trips, and as the New York City set moves out to the Hamptons in the summer, my group of friend and I drive 45 minutes to Montpelier and Worcester on the weekends. We started out in Stowe, but it was too small and touristy for us; plus, we didn’t know the local spots. Having Cait, a ex-Worcester resident, really opened up all the backyard swimming holes to us, as well as spot-on restaurant recommendations for eating before the drive back. (Dairy Crème is a must-go for their enormous soft-serve ice cream cones—a medium cone is enough for dinner, believe me. I prefer the classic Twist with rainbow sprinkles.)

This Sunday, Emily and I, and maybe Cait if she’s not busy, are going to make a day of exploring Montpelier. As a native Vermonter, I’m ashamed to say that before this summer, I’ve only been to the state capital once, in fifth grade on a fieldtrip to watch bills get passed in legislation. This was also during my bloody-nose phase, where, at least once every day, my nose would randomly unleash a waterfall of blood at the most random moment. (It happened to my mom during puberty, too, so I guess I only have the genes to blame.) One moment, I was sitting in a plush chair, watching gray-haired men push paper at each other and wave pens around, and the next minute, I was clutching both hands to my nose to try and pinch the flow closed. Business on the State House floor stopped as aides and my homeroom teacher rushed me to the closest ladies’ room. It was mortifying. I literally stopped legislation because of the amount of blood flowing from my tiny little fifth grader’s nose. When it stopped twenty minutes later and I walked back to my seat to join my classmates, there was a single nickel-sized spot of blood from my deluge staining the carpet. Suffice it to say, I made my mark on the politicians enough to not be considered for a page.

Hopefully, this Sunday will consist of coffee at Capitol Grounds, a nice sit-down on the State House lawn, some window-shopping at the trendy clothing stores like Salaam, a dip in the Pots possibly accompanied by Perfect and John, getting naked on the side of the road as tradition insists while I change, eating ice cream at Dairy Crème, and no bleeding. Here’s crossing my fingers.

I picked up Dear G-Spot: Straight Talk About Sex and Love by Zane at Borders for $4 during their book sale this past week. I figure, as someone who writes about love and sex, I also need to read up on what other people are reading about love and sex, right? Assess the market. See what works, and what’s lacking. Carve a niche, and all that. The low sticker price was what originally caught my attention, and I figured that even if it wasn’t so great it would be worth the four Washingtons. It’s actually quite good. Zane, probably best known for her erotica, is a straight-shooter who holds nothing back from her advice. Opening every chapter with a short essay or reflection on the content, she covers letters written to her asking for advice ranging from cheating to communication problems to oral sex to orgasms to how to ride a man like a rodeo star. (My favorite chapter? “Relationship Confusion.” Of course.) At times explicit, but always truthful, honest, and well-intentioned, she had me hooked at her disclaimer: “Warning: If you are sexually oppressed, sexually repressed, or have any sexual hang-ups whatsoever, please put my book down and slowly walk away from it. It is too damn hot for your ass.” Zane is a woman after my own heart.

I absolutely adore wearing men’s clothing: wifebeaters, boxers, hoodies, t-shirts, boys sport shorts for the gym; over-size rolled-cuff button-up shirts belted with a cute belt to give it a feminine flair and some shape; boyfriend-cut jeans, preferably rolled or cuffed in the summer; girl’s boxer briefs, etc. I’m the kind of girl who’s ridiculously happy wearing a guy’s wifebeater to bed and nothing else, or a clean pair of boxers or shorts around the house while reading the latest issue of “Cosmopolitan.”

I own a few pairs of “girl boxers” bought from the Aerie line at American Eagle (also known as my Place of Longest Employment,), as well as a pair of real men’s boxers. (Don’t worry—I bought them new for myself.) I tend to finagle to keep or steal a few men’s shirts or hoodies from my guys—sometimes it’s as easy as asking male friends if they have any clothing they’re thinking of getting rid of, and sometimes it’s stealing a t-shirt from the guy you’re sleeping with. (So worth it.) I also, as previously stated, have the bad habit of buying clothing for my men, and so usually end up with a few items I can’t part with in the end-run, like the large purple hoodie I bought for Jersey Blunt and then decided to keep. (He made a good bid for it one night though, hoping I’d forget it in his room, but I remembered right before I walked out the front door. It’s like my second bathrobe and favorite thing to curl up in with nothing underneath because it’s so warm and snuggly.)

We’ve been seeing a big influx with men’s-wear inspired clothing in the fashion industry lately, which I like. Just remember—keep it feminine. If you’re going to be wearing a large button-up, belt it or wear nice jewelry. Pair your boyfriend jeans with a fitted top and painted nails. The best (and cheapest) V-neck rugby shirts I ever bought were from the men’s sale racks at Old Navy—classic, flattering in the drape and fit on a woman’s more curvy body, and CHEAP! I bought a cashmere sweater for $20, people!) Wear a strand of pearls and tight jeans, and you have the perfectly relaxed, yet put-together preppy outfit.

There is almost nothing men like to see more than a woman in their clothing, or clothing like theirs. When Perfect slept over, I furiously pawed through my underwear drawer to try and find an acceptable pair of undies to sleep in while he was in the bathroom. My time ran out, and as I heard the toilet flush, my fingers closed around my pair of girls’ boxer-briefs that I bought in London, complete with a British flag on half the ass. I yanked them on as Perfect opened the bedroom door and then stopped dead. “Yeah?” I asked. “Hot,” was all he managed to say before staggering in and pulling me back to the bed. When not entertaining, and as an added bonus, boxers are possibly the most comfortable thing to lounge around in since, well, being naked, and certainly more roommate-friendly.

Burlington used to have The Second Floor, a nightclub that while decidedly a little seedy, was also the place where under 21 clubbers could go to get their groove on. Ok, so, it wasn’t the best place, but it was the ONLY place to go clubbing without a fake ID. Unfortunately, it closed in January. Lift opened in its placed, newly revamped, redecorated, with better music and DJs, and more high-class, with stricter dress codes, and more selective about who they let in. This was good; this was nice; this was what Burlington needed. BUT. Lift is almost an exclusively 21+ establishment. Obviously, for reasons such as alcohol and predators, this is safer, but at the same time, unless it’s a special event that’s 18 and up, (which happens about once a month or so,) the 20-and-under college crowd is getting STIFFED, and stiffed HARD. I, personally, love dancing. I love getting dressed up, getting a bunch of friends, and going and shaking my thang at night. I will pay to do this, too, as will most of my like-minded friends. Right now, Lift is seriously missing out on making some serious dough as well as having a hand in further cramping the nightlife of under 21’s in a city that already doesn’t have much of a nightlife during the non-school year if you won’t have a driver’s license pre 1988. What do you say, Lift? Rise to the challenge and let me and my friends come and rip up the dance floor? You won’t regret it, I promise.

That’s it for now—I’ve got a shower to take, an outfit to pick out, and places to be and people to see.

XOXO

The Proposal: Time, Work With Me For Once, Please.

Hind-sight being what it is, maybe "The Proposal" wasn't the best movie to go and see today, on the 1 month anniversary of my "I Feel That Way, Too...But I Think We Should Just Be Friends" conversation. Yes, the movie was funny, and sweet, and everything that you would expect from Anne Fletcher, director of both "The Proposal" and the previous "27 Dresses." At one point, as Sandra Bullock waved an adorable fluffy white Samoyed puppy at a golden eagle in exchange for her Crackberry, I found myself doubled-over and shaking in hysterical, breathless, noiseless laughter. (The last three times I've gone to the movies I've ended up in hysterics this way, even if it wasn't a particularly funny movie. I cracked up in "Watchmen" because of Malin Akerman's chin-mole, otherwise known that night as her "second profile, or Pale Mole Rising." She was yet again in Fletcher's second movie-- you may know Akerman as Katherine Heigel's entitled younger sister in "27 Dresses" as well. Apparently, Fletcher has a director-crush on her.) Not an overwhelmingly "chicky" flick, as Ryan Reynolds plays someone a little bit more downtrodden and submissive than most leading men tend to be, and there are no "shopping spree" fashion montages, but a really solid showing at a movie about men, women, and how complicated relationships can sometimes be-- can you imagine marrying your boss so they can get their green card? I don't think so.

It seems like I'm destined to spend the night of the 18th of every month around 8:30 feeling queasy. Last month, it was because as soon as I heard my phone ring with Perfect's "3 AM" ringtone, I knew it-- I knew I was losing the relationship, the sex, the plans we'd made for things like travel and visiting and motorcycle rides and roughhousing. I stood in Cait's kitchen, staring at the ID on my phone's screen before even flipping it open and thought, "here it all goes." I was so uncharacteristically quiet during our relationship negotiation (or "downsizing") that Perfect asked not once, but twice if I was ok, still there, and handling it. Both times, it took me a moment or two to fight back the "end of relationship and sex" nerves and nausea and answer him. I remember staring at my feet a lot, and once, leaning over the sink, thanking god I was so close to it if that's what it came down to.

This month, I gorged myself on about half my body weight's worth of popcorn to try and stop my feelings, which were simmering all throughout the movie, from actually exploding in a theater full of middle-aged strangers. (Lots of middle-aged women friends in groups of two or three, and a few middle-aged couples...Alli and I were officially the youngest patrons at the showing.) For the day, the circumstances, and the tender yet never overly mushy moments in the movie, it may have been a bad choice in casual Saturday afternoon flick, as it put me on the warpath for love to conquer everything. If a tyrannical book editor can inspire love in her beaten assistant, I should have no problems convincing Perfect that my feelings + his feelings= let's try for the best, you fucking dumbass. Right? Wrong. My life script wasn't written by Pete Chiarelli, and I do not have Sandra Bullock's capacity for wit and grace under pressure. I just tend to pop, like I was ready to, both emotionally and physically, by the time the lights came back up at the end of the credits.

"That may have been a bad movie for me to watch," I confided in Alli. "And the popcorn made me sick."

"Yeah, I was thinking that it was a little positive with the whole love-conquers-all," she said.

"I really just want to call him now and be like, "look, this is what I feel, and this is what you feel, and we can make this work, and WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?!"" My voice raised progressively higher throughout this diatribe. "But I know I can't, because then I would be proving every Crazy Bitch or psycho woman stereotype he ever had true. Do you know how many miles stand between me and a bad life decision?" I held up my fingers. "Four. Four miles between Perfect and I right now. And a whole lotta words."

"I feel like leaving this theater right now would be a bad choice," Alli conceded.

"Yeah. A.) I would probably get sick, and B.) I would make a Bad Life Decision. Again. Can we start abbreviating these to BLDs?"

And do you know that the kicker of the movie's moral was? When you love someone, you do whatever it takes to let them know. You fake a heart-attack. You try to stop a plane. You run from Alaska to New York City. (Not really, but you know, you hurry via private boat, plane, and foot.) Walking out of the theater, a clever mix of the smell of popcorn invading the entire theater and sidewalk in front of it and raw emotion and frustration made me want to vom. Why, WHY, I do not understand, can I not get my own "love conquers all" Hollywood ending? Why can't I even get a meeting with Perfect to discuss this? Why does Father Time in cohorts with The Universe keep making our schedules opposite and therefore, us unavailable to each other? Why were we even allowed to meet in the first place, and "click" and have one of those (previously thought to be fable-like to me,) instant connections like "I need and want this person, and this person needs and wants me, and the Earth drops from under me when I see them"? (Apparently, love-at-first-sight comes in a few different varying degrees, and I achieved one of them, maybe known as "I Care About You At First Sight. And Find Myself Ridiculously Attracted To You, Too.") If this is a test of patience, decidedly one of my worst-honed and almost nonexistent virtues, I like to think all this practice and good behavior while waiting is going to pay off in the end. Pay off BIG.

In the meantime, what they usually all say to you during your whole "I'm broken-up with and hurt phase"..."Times heals all wounds"...fuck it, it's all a big, fat, bleeding-heart lie, and you know it as well as I do. Time doesn't heal all wounds-- time just makes you forget a little bit and not think about it as much. Every time you do remember it, it smarts just as much as it originally did. There is no "getting over" some things-- first love, big betrayals, hurt feelings, crushed dreams, favorite memories together, or sometimes, just the scent of the deodorant someone used.

Some things are easy to quit: one day, I woke up, thought "I'm going to quit smoking weed," and POOF! Haven't felt the need or urge to sense then, and I'm the girl who used to host Weed Wednesday and Tweaker Tuesdays. Some things are harder to quit: drinking when your body tells you there's no need to stop yet, and in fact, another, please--; driving on the left side of the road oversees when you're used to driving on the right; dialing a friend's old phone number. And some things are nearly impossible to quit: obsessive-compulsive habits; using your dominant hand to to everything; and for me, having Perfect be a Big Thing in my life or getting over him. Maybe the fact that I'm having such an impossible time cutting him out means something. I've always been one of those girls who finds it much easier to just cut-off an ex when the relationship ends and then feasibly never talk to them again-- in fact, The Flaky Artist is the only one I was able to salvage a manageable working casual friendship with after a year. But Perfect? Perfect's just THERE.

He was there for me on my birthday; there when one of my best friends found out she was pregnant and I needed someone to go to who wouldn't judge either of us for freaking right the fuck out. He watched me brush my teeth, and put on deodorant and acne cream the next morning without even a flinch. He politely said, still reclining on my bed in just his boxer briefs, to say "hi" to my mom for him when she called after we had had sex. He always, still, lets me know when he'll be in town, even if we won't get a chance to see each other, just so I know he's in the area. (This is more than any other man has ever done for me. Usually, I hear, "Oh, yeah-- I was in town that night," two weeks after the fact.) He somehow, through leading by doing, got me to be more honest and open with him than 99.9% of the other people in my life by being open and honest with me and then asking questions and being persistent about them while still supportive. One of his favorite things to tack on to the end of a question if it looked like I was stalling with an answer was "I'm sorry if it's too personal; you don't have to answer it." But I always did, anyway, no matter how personal the question was or how loathe to part with the answer I was. I don't think I have ever once flat-out lied to him. I have never had a man be so solid, so dependable, and so there for me. Well, there within reason. I have to admit, now that we are no longer "us," it feels a lot different to not be able to just expect him to drop everything and show up to see me. I don't like the way it feels, but I'm coping, more or less.

In the end, of course Ryan Reynolds gets the girl. In the end, I ended up being able to keep my over-indulgent popcorn down. In the end, Alli and I got home safe without any side-trips or phone calls or freak-outs. In the end, I may not see Perfect tomorrow as we had hoped, but I will see a friend of his in Worcester, and that will hopefully be enough to keep me present and in his loop. And in the end, I may not get my rom-com ending, complete with swelling chorus of violins, but maybe, just maybe, I will be able to get the chance to salvage this relationship. And that's all I'm really asking for.

XOXO

P.S: And, oh-- no Perfect and Baby Mix illicit bro-love sightings. Of course. Silly.

He's Just Not That Into You, or "Don't Expect Me To Ever Call You Again After This Movie."

Right now, the movie adaptation of He’s Just Not That Into You, the best-selling self-help book based on relationships, has reached the second-place spot in box offices across America, and is being touted on TV as “the perfect date movie”. But I ask you, what sort of guy would take a girl to see a movie that will blow the cover wide open when later that night, he tells her he’ll call her soon, and never does? Taking a date to see this movie is kind of like ripping a band-aid off quickly so that it doesn’t hurt; I would feel as if my date was trying to prove the point that he doesn’t really like me all that much and was trying to head me off at the pass so he could avoid the calls I would leave on his answering machine for a week afterward. Which is why I went to see it with four of my favorite single girl friends.

From the beginning, it should be noted that the movie is not a strict follower of the book, mainly because the book is a self-help guide, and therefore, has no characters. What the writers and director of the movie, (Abby Kohn and Marc Silverstein of Never Been Kissed writing fame, and Ken Kwapis of The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants and NBC’s The Office,) did was to take the basic scenarios of the book and create characters who go through the experiences, including “He’s just not that into you…if he’s not calling you,” “he’s just not that into you… if he’s not having sex with you,” “he’s just not that you…if he doesn’t want to marry you,” and last but certainly not least, “he’s just not that into you…if’s he’s married (and other insane variations of being unavailable.” (I actually just quoted those examples from the table of contents of the book, which I own, and which I read, if that gives you any further reassurance that I’m confident about what I’m talking about here.) The basic plot-line weaves a tangled web of would-be romance and intrigue: Gigi (Ginnifer Goodwin) just wants to find a guy and takes Alex’s (Justin Long) advice, while her co-workers, Beth (Jennifer Anniston) and Janine (Jennifer Connelly), respectively can’t convince their men Neil (Ben Affleck), and Ben (Bradley Cooper) to either marry them or not cheat on them. Meanwhile, sultry singer/yoga instructor Anna (Scarlett Johansson) is fooling around with Janine’s husband Ben, and slighting her wannabe-leading man, Conor (Kevin Connolly), friend of Alex, who just happens to meet unlucky-in-love Mary (Drew Barrymore).

Besides featuring an obviously star-studded cast, the movie also boasts some wonderfully cheeky lines, such as when Anna tells Ben he has a “dry-hump-able ass,” and some cringe-worthy moments of truth that viewers can relate to and feel for Gigi as she throws herself on Alex, only to be rejected, yet again. But what fascinated me most about this movie was not, in fact, the movie itself, which has received moderate reviews, (it scored 6.6 stars out of 10 on IMDB.com, as well as 2.5 out of 5 possible in the New York Times’ review section,) but rather the people who came to see it. I went, as stated, with a group of single girl friends, all of us well-dressed, articulate, and (I would hope) averagely attractive. Other groups of similar college-aged women peppered the audience in groups ranging from twos to seven or eight, who all “ooh’ed” and “aww’ed” and laughed and groaned at the appropriate times. A few couples cuddled together and smooched loudly through the decidedly mostly unromantic movie, which really made me wonder why they had come to flaunt their together-ness in a dark theater full of single women to see a movie about why men are such douche-bags and why women are so crazy about emotions and overly-analytical. Oh, and did I happen to mention this was on Valentine’s Day?

The sort of guy who takes a girl to see this movie on Valentine’s Day is also the sort of guy who, as Ben does in the movie, would tell his wife in the middle of Home Depot that he’d slept with another woman. I sat there, stunned, in the dark theater, and then actually murmured out-loud, “But there are power drills there. And power saws. And staple guns. Why would you tell her that somewhere she could easily hurt you with large, expensive machinery?” Not well thought-out. Unfortunately, the writers decided to take this scenario somewhere I would never expect it to go in real life if it involved a woman with any self-respect or sense of vindication, and instead Ben’s wife, Janine, takes a moment to mull this information over and responds with a bland, “We’ll work through this.” The writers seriously missed a chance for some good, realistic, full-blown action here.

On the other hand, the sort of single girl who goes to see this movie on Valentine’s Day is a closet masochist who just wants to quickly run through why she is single again while she internally panics while wondering if she and the delusional Gigi are really so alike, but brings friends to remind her of what to do, and what not to do, next time she goes on a date. Also, it doubles nicely as an intervention meeting. If you have a friend who just can’t get out of her own way love-wise, just pay eight bucks for her to see the damn movie and hope something sinks in. While Greg Behrendt, main man behind the whole “He’s Just Not That Into You” philosophy can be downright depressing at times, some things he does seem to get right across the crossed lines of gender-miscommunication: if he’s not calling you, he’s not interested, so don’t waste your time calling him, ok?

Otherwise, the movie was visually pleasing: attractive cast, with someone for everyone. (Ben Affleck has aged really well, by the way. Like fine wine. Or maybe whiskey.) Good lighting, bright and cherry in some scenes, and dark and moody in others to reflect the feel of the current action. Nice setting and sets—night shots of Baltimore after dark were a refreshing change from the glitterati of New York, while the apartments and offices of the characters told you more about their characters, from the obsessive-compulsively color and modern architecturally schemed construction going on in Janine’s new house to funky Mary’s eclectic and warm-colored advertising agency’s headquarters. Other than the odd choice of putting Scarlett Johansson in t-shirts tucked into high-waisted and chunkily belted jeans (blasphemy!), costume and make-up was classy, classic, and well-done. In short, the men were well-dressed and rugged, and the women looked like they had been ripped out of the pages of the latest J. Crew magazine.

My humble advice? If you’re a single girl who wants a reality check and will take any excuse to ogle Ben Affleck or the quirky and humorous Justin Long in the dark, grab a couple friends and go spend the money to see this on the big-screen. And if you’re a guy, do NOT bring a girl to see this movie no matter how much of a good idea she thinks it is, because buddy, after 120 minutes, your shit has been blown wide open, and you’re going to have a suspicious date glaring at you when the lights go up asking, “You are going to call me, right?” Ouch. I hope you weren’t planning on getting laid.

XOXO