This Is Just To Say...Men Rule*.

I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I have to be That Girl today and write something potentially disgusting that some of you, my lovely, loyal readers who I honestly lose sleep over trying to think of new ways to appease, may hate and thus boycott this blog. But it needs to be said. If I was not currently at work, I would traipse up to the top floor of the library to sing it from the outdoor patio, but alas, leaving the office during hours is frowned upon (even while blogging, reading Cosmopolitan, and taking personal calls is not,) and I'll have to settle for spreading the good word here:

Last night, after taking my second 50 milligram dose of Zoloft (in the future, please look for a really fun post that will more fully detail WHY I am now being medicated for clinical depression [finally,] as well as how to deal with depression in your relationships), I promptly ceased to retrieve messages fired from my neurons and washed it down with two glasses of a very tasty Malbec (...red wine, for those of you not obsessed with all things vino), which I will NEVER do again (or, at least, not until I really, really, RULLY want a $5 house margarita at Miguel's), because, suffice it to say, I ended up brushing my teeth while leaning at a 45-degree angle between the bathroom door and wall and then passed out mid-scene while Buffy and Angel were cuddling in bed in Angel: Season One while spooning my cat and WHO REALLY DOES THAT. Anyway, I learned my lesson re: anti-depressants and depressants and that's what really matters. That, and the fact that after receiving "Giant shark vs. mega octopus?" as a response to my 12:30 AM "I'm a dumbass who mixed drugs and drinking and I may not be alive in the morning due to the fact that my heart currently feels like a epileptic trying to dance to dubstep and isn't it always said that heart attack signs are so much harder to diagnose and tend to go unnoticed in women? so I just wanted to let you know 'cause I thought you might care" text to TGIS, he texted me back again this morning while I was (alive) (un-heart attacked) (sober) at work, just to see how I was feeling (and concernedly chastise/advise me about my medicating and self-medicating actions in the future like I was sitting in a high school chem class while he pointed to a pie chart labeled "Bad Life Decisions You Have Made Broken Down Into Things That Contain Chemical Symbols", but that is an after-thought besides the point and sir, you need not worry. Lesson LEARNED.)

...Or possibly maybe just to see if I were still alive or if he is now a free agent. Men. But that's the point...Men.

There. I'm sorry. I had to brag. Sometimes, men are the best. And in my honest opinion, he is the best of the best.

XOXO

(*Qualifier: "Sometimes." Amazing how easy seemingly insignificant little things can be, yet still make a woman sing a guy's praises, isn't it? Please note, dog-ear, and favorite this notion for future use, you of the Y chromosomes.)

6 Quick Tips To A Better Relationship

Clear space out in your life for them, literally. Yes, yes, we all heard first-hand from me what a bitch it was to lump all my tank tops and long sleeves together in my closet, but making a shelf for the guy I'm seeing has ended up not only being functional so that the extra pairs of socks and shirts he keeps here don't get mixed in my my cast-off clothing, but also, a great visual reminder behind my closet door that it's not just me and my girl clothes in there anymore. Even when he's not here, his stinky socks are, which is strangely more endearing than it sounds.

Spend the night where you normally wouldn't. I had an important doctor's appointment last week in the morning, and it's a 2 hour drive from here to my hometown. Fortunately, TGIS lives basically halfway between my college home and my permanent, parental address, and offered to have me come down to him and spend the night before there so I only had to drive an hour in the morning and could get some extra zzz's (in theory, at least). It was charming and enlightening to be in his world (and house) for the night, and to sleep in his bed and watch his TV shows. If you never spend the night at his place because, ick, can you say man-cave?, I'd suggest you woman up and do it, if just for one night. Not only is he in his comfortable territory, but you both get to do something new. If you already swap nights between your place and your S.O's, go somewhere else overnight like a B&B or hotel or offer to house-sit for a friend who's going out of town. Moving your relationship somewhere it normally doesn't exist gives you a fresh perspective.

Uphold your couple habits. I've said it time and time before-- you shouldn't have to talk to your S.O every day. And yet, I'm currently involved in a relationship, as shown, that it's weird to not at least send at least a single text in every day. Case in point: I've been going through a lot of personal things lately, and have talked to the guy I'm seeing about how I really need support right now. Yesterday was kind of a down day for me, and I didn't hear from him, which didn't make me feel any peppier-- until he sent me a completely random, inside-joke text at 1:42 in the morning. I may have been juuuust about to fall asleep, but knowing that he reached out before I did let me sleep so much more soundly. The key here with communication is to uphold without going overboard or smothering-- You don't want to be the type of girl who dominates his Facebook wall, and you also don't want to horn into his time with the boys, though I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you posted random, funny things you find on Youtube from time to time, or if you sent him a single "thinking of you, you great big stud-muffin"-y text or a risqué photo to remind him what he's missing on boy's night. Moderation-- as with in things like drinking, drugs, and shopping-- is the key.

Shower together. During that time of the month, extracurricular relationship activities come to a slow-down for me, and showering together is one of the things that I've found that you can do that's a little romantic, a little sexy, and great for bonding. You don't even have to start anything-- just the feeling of your two naked bodies in a close space doing something most people don't get to see promotes feelings of trust and intimacy. Plus, it's environmentally friendly, blah, blah, blah. Just don't, like, shave with him watching or anything. That would kill intimacy, not foster it.

Cook dinner. If he can/wants to help, that's icing on the cake, but more than anything, you can really get off on a big relationship boost of providing for someone's basic need: to eat. Have a few quick, under 30-minute go-to recipes mastered that you know you both enjoy-- I make a mean risotto that I learned in Italy that TGIS calls "bitchin'," so if he's over and hasn't eaten dinner yet, I make sure I always have the ingredients to whip it up. (No one is EVER getting my secret special recipe, but you can find a similar, definite man-friendly risotto with bacon recipe here.)

Enforced bonding activities. This may not sound like much fun, but if I could, I'd make EBAs mandatory in relationships. They're the things that really aren't fun, but prove to each other that you're willing to put up with them when the shit hits the fan. Cases in point: Retracing steps and keeping a level head when they lose their credit card. Digging each other's cars out after a winter storm. Meeting the parents. Attending your S.O's work functional as their +1. EBAs prove that when the chips are down, you're by their side and not going anywhere fast, which is possibly one of the most heartening and affirming things that you can do or receive in a relationship.

What are some of your best relationship tips?

XOXO

Growing Pains

There are some things in life that are just naturally painful. Root canals. Cute shoes that are unfortunately too tight. When your friend pinches you to shut up after you say too much. Spider bites. And talking to your exes about your current relationships.

I may have been clear in the past that just talking to your exes in the first place is probably painful enough, as you've got some colorful history, and sometimes, it's just easier to pretend it (and that person) doesn't exist. But there are some exes that you can't just wish away or out of your life, because, let's face it, at one point, you loved this person, and even if you've since fallen out of love with them and/or moved on, you still bump into them, or you still have mutual friends with them and still occasionally wander through each other's social lives. Or they still keep showing up on your cell phone's screen.

A few weeks ago, I was riffling through the kitchen cupboards on a raccoon-like rampage at 2 AM for something sweet when I heard my text ringtone go off back in my bedroom. Thinking it was the current boy, as we share insomniac tendencies and are prone to late night conversations, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie, and ate half of it in the time it took me to take my sweet time getting to my room, grabbing my phone, and sauntering back into the kitchen to prepare a response. When I flicked the screen's lock up and saw my ex's name instead, I froze. Cookie crumbs dropped from my hand, as well as the pit of my stomach, not to mention anything about my previously ravenous appetite. I texted back, more incited with his extremely casual text than anything else, and had to take a seat when I realized I was dizzy from this sudden turn of events. Our conversation quickly boiled down to him asking if I'd come over (and believe me, SOMEONE wanted to enjoy some cookie that night other than me), but other than establishing the loss of desire to finish the rest of my cookies and being saved from my sweet-tooth, it also established some odd revelations:

1.) I was able to turn my ex down, something I previously did not know I was humanly capable of. I deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor for this. You may not think so. You don't know my ex.

2.) This meant I liked the guy I am currently seeing a lot more than I previously realized. Oh. OH.

3.) In the moment of having to explain to my ex that I would not be coming over this time, or any other time in the foreseeable future, I felt a sudden wave of extreme tenderness and empathy toward him. It can't be easy, I thought, to reach out to someone you haven't seen or spoken to in awhile, let alone slept with, and admit that you need them for one of your basest desires. I certainly know how hard that is for me, and knowing that I was about to be turning him down made me feel incredibly caring toward him, in a totally platonic way. It made me wonder, what is the least painful way to talk about your new relationship with your exes?

It feels odd to be sympathetic with your ex, and nearly even protective of their feelings again, especially if you haven't interacted with them for awhile. But there I was, finding myself asking how he was after telling him I was seeing someone else, wanting to make him feel like it wasn't a total loss to go out on a limb, wanting him to know that even if he lost the girl, he hadn't lost the friend, instead of saying, "I wasted a year on you, to have to cheat and lie and use me, and now, NOW you expect me to roll over from a guy who's actually treating me like a princess, just because you finally decided on your own accord that you want me?" like I would have wanted to a few months ago, when I was still raw and fresh and sure that I would never heal, that I would never find someone to right the wrongs. Surprise.

A half hour after his initial text and being turned down, he surprised me by texting back and asking if my new S.O was a good guy. I told him he was, and thanked him for asking. I thought this was a good move. I thought it was classy. And then I got another text from him last night. And this time, I had to be firm about it and tell him clearly that I was currently monogamous with someone else, even after he offered so gentlemanly to pay for my cab fare over to his place (the first time he ever offered to pay for anything in the last year and a half we've known each other in a romantic sense). "Well, if you wanna take me up on that let me know. Anytime, probably," he told me, and it was suddenly like I was back in Italy and had to be very straight-forward about the fact that nothing was going to be happening, while still being polite as to not start an international incident.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm pretty happy right now."

Strange, as he used to be the person I was thinking of while gently turning other men down. I was caught in a sudden kaleidescope of time fragments, thinking about how I used to hold out on other guys for him; how he and I had our own falling out; how I was now holding out on him in favor of another man, while at the same time learning how to put aside my feelings of disappointment and disgust about our dissolution in favor of seeing him as a real person again, a real person who went out on a limb with no promise of a safety net, whose feelings could be crushed, who was trusting me to at least let them down gently-- which, to my surprise, I found myself doing as I thought of him as my friend and the man I once loved for reasons I once knew well, and not just an X in a box for "been there, done that." Oh, how times change. And how YOU change.

XOXO

The Shape And Size Of Relationships

Relationships come in all different shapes and sizes and styles, like any good department store's merchandise. Some relationships are only made to fit you for a season before you outgrow them, where as others are cut so versatilely to go from brunch with his mother to the football game with his boys. Some are itchy and uncomfortable and don't get worn for long before they're relegated to another home, via consignment shop, while yet others are so luxuriant and sensual that you can't help but wearing them over and over and over again, even when it's not an appropriate occasion. Some relationships are made to only fit one couple, while the tradition of dating seems to suit thousands, even millions, and be coveted by still others. The point is, however much we might think we look good in one particular style, no single relationship is the same as another couple's or looks the same on the people who are in it as it would with any other person in the same equation. They're all individual, all unique, all a wonderful one-of-a-kind piece of couture. No one can declare any sort of "relationship fashion."

Some of us need to see the person we're with everyday. Some people would prefer being single. Some iPhone couples run a constant chat conversation with each other, 24/7, even if they're just in the other room. Some couples only meet once or twice a month, and still see other people. Some husbands and wives sleep in separate beds, even separate bedrooms (though the idea of sleeping in a separate bed, let alone room, sends my insomniac bed-partner-loving self into a state of panic). Some girls prefer not to call their long-term partner their "boyfriend" because it sounds childish, even though some unmarried 40 year old women love calling theirs that for the sense of nostalgia. Some couples move in together quickly, after only a month or two, while others wait until becoming engaged, or married, to share a lease. One of my friend's fathers lived in an apartment in New York City for work during the weekdays, commuting to Connecticut from Friday night to Monday morning to live with his wife and children, whereas my mother, used to having my father around for the past 37 years, hates to spend a single night alone without him, feeling odd when he's not there. And as I previously mentioned, I hate sleeping alone, while I always sleep the best the night AFTER whoever I'm currently sleeping with leaves. Those are just examples of 11 different relationships, and none of them can be considered a "classic."

I'm currently seeing someone who demonstrates this point perfectly. We live in different towns, and have different circles of friends. I go to college; he works long nights. But I knew he was worth a little bit of impatience and the extra effort to see him when he kept making it a priority to see me, at least once a week, and despite of everything else. We now spend one or 2 day chunks of time with each other when we can; other nights, he can only make it into town for a few hours. The point is to maximize the quality of your time together-- if we're going on day 2 in a weekend of co-existion, I don't feel bad taking an hour or two here or there to go to my class on campus or do my homework while sitting side by side with him in bed in the morning. If we've only got a few hours, we keep things focused-- we stay home, eat together, catch up, spend time relaxing and talking, and watch a movie to give us some bonding time. In between visits, we keep in touch electronically, through either text or chatting-- though talking on the phone might be a more intimate ideal, I can't help but preferring the written word mediums; I am such a writer. All in all, we get to spend about a third of every month together-- 10 nights in 30, a few more days here and there. But it works perfectly for our needs-- while I have time to write so I don't miss (many) deadlines, he has time to do the things with his guys that he wants to and time to chill at home. I'm more happy seeing him when it's possible than I ever was seeing someone frequently a few days a week who while only physically 10 minutes away in town, was light years away from me emotionally and in terms of effort and desire. It shows. I look happier. I'm dressing differently.

I'm also learning new things, one of the benchmarks of any good relationship, platonic or otherwise-- the perennially Single Girl who struggles with feelings of independence when letting a guy pick up all of the tab, I'm learning how to wear the perfect balance of gratitude and grace when it's his Amex on the counter and back account digits rolling back; how to adjust to someone else's quirks and sleeping style and snoring and eating habits; and when to gracefully admit defeat and need of assistance and call someone to be waiting outside the front of the club for me because I am too drink, drank, drunk to get to him. I'm even learning when to take someone's arm when offered so I can lean on it, because there is someone I can finally lean on. And to my surprise, it's not even cramping my "single and fabulous" style. In fact, it's evolving to become part of myself, a newer version, this year's It model. And it looks damn good on me.

The point is, it is not the title on the relationship or the label that you give it or each other that counts-- it's the time, effort, and emotion that you put into and get from it that really matters. Never let anyone else dictate your style, either. If you're wearing a casual relationship when nothing but a wedding gown will do for you, you're always going to be uncomfortable, but as soon as you find the right match and become your own designer, I'm sure you'll find something that you can make work and will look beautiful wearing it. As Samantha once said, "...The true test of a relationship is if it makes you feel like this (frowns), or like this (smiles beatifically)." Be with someone who makes you smile, if not all the time, than most of the time, and I promise you that you will always feel like the luckiest and happiest girl in the world.

Other than me, of course.

XOXO

Text And The City

I send texts. You send texts. We all send texts. Everyone's doing it. But are we doing it...wrong?

There is nothing quite so degrading as when you realize you're giving your phone the evil eye, waiting for it to ring after you send someone a text. I mean, for chrissake, it's an electronic lump of plastic, and here we're thinking giving it the look that would freeze hell over will galvanize someone miles away into action, manipulating them to reach for their similar hunk of plastic, and redeem all of human kind to us. We all know, I think, how often this actually happens. The opposite of what we'd like to happen happens more often than we'd all like.

Wow. Our expectations and misplaced steely stares are grossly over-sized. So, how do we learn how to text...better?

First, we need to recognize a fundamental fact to communication between the sexes: Women perceive their relationships better than men. A study done by Hebrew University of Jerusalem showed that after surveying 97 couples in the United States, women are more perceptive than men in describing their relationships. The study, which was published in ScienceDaily, reported that women were much more accurate in describing the perception of their partners than men. Sometimes this hurts more than it helps. This means that, technically, a woman texting should know the situation that she's getting into and the sense of decorum that it comes with. Is this always true? Fuck no. How many of you ladies have sent those texts that as soon as your thumb lifts off the "Send" button, you start cringing? I start shaking, myself. Like I have palsy. It is tres, tres attractive, I'm sure.

I really, and I mean really hate the phone. This should be apparent by now. Which is exactly why I've spent so much time and off-the-mark texts researching what the best ways to compose and send them are. And this is what I've found:

We all have options about the way we have text. There are easy options, ambivalent options, and leave no pris...I mean, hard options. Most texts are usually ambivalent options. If he says he's got other plans when you ask what he's up to tonight, you probably won't be heartbroken. The general variety "Hey, do you wanna go get a drink?" or "What are you up to now/later?" are ambivalent options. Ambivalent option texts are usually safe texts to send and receive because the sender generally wants little other than some sort of contact with another life form for the sake of feeling not so bored and there's not so much pressure. Unfortunately, these are the sort of texts least likely to get responded to. It happens, though it still really pisses me off, primarily because like stated, they generally aren't threatening texts at all, merely curious and mostly seeking beer or other forms of entertainment of a purely friendly kind, no ulterior motives. (Well, ok, I mean, everyone always has ulterior motives of one kind or another.)

But sometimes, you need to hardball. Sometimes, you need to put you first. Maybe you had plans you need to know are definite. Maybe you forgot the notebook with your calc notes in it at his place after spending the previous night, and you've got a test in 2 hours. Maybe you really need advice on a matter, and value their opinion nearly more than your mother's. This is when you hardball. You don't want to force a no-options text when you think you want to spend the night. That's like using The Force for evil. That's turning over to the Dark Side of being one of Those Girls. (Pink lightsabers are not good lightsabers, people.) Text "I have to get my _____. What time will you be home so I can get it?" No options. You're getting that _____. Today.

A "soft option" or "easy option" looks like an ambivalent text at the beginning. It usually starts with a "Hey, what are you up to?" or something equally breezy and conversational, then it gets to the point after the "Not much, what about you?" response. A "soft option" then gives a time limit and easy out for the recipient to say either "yes" or "no" to, no pressure. "Can you chat for 5 minutes?" DON'T use "talk." NEVER use the word "talk" in a text in the context of "Let's talk," or "I want to talk to you" or "We need to talk." This makes sirens go off, and if you seem overly seriously, it's another no-no. They'll run for the hills. Seriously. Always stay light and informal. Now is a good time to be delicate about asking for things. This makes it a "soft in," because there are good chances that you'll get that in for 5 minutes or an invite. The main difference between an ambivalent text and an easy option text is that an ambivalent text is very direct and to-the-point without being overly polite or seeming like you're asking for a favor, like an easy option text usually takes the form of. The point of an ambivalent text is that you really don't give a fuck, which you do with easy option texting-- which is why you're making it an easy option.

Some other rules of texting thumb and phone etiquette:

- Always ask yourself, what am I trying to communicate in this text? Is it clear? Can anything be misinterpreted? Unfortunately, the answer to this last question may still be "yes," but at least by now you've done your best.

- Keep the text to one point. Abbreviate what you can, without it looking like a 14 year old wrote it. Keep it classy, and abbreviate using shorthand. "With" becomes "w/." "Because" is "b/c" or "bc." "And" becomes my favorite symbol, "&." "At" is "@." And although I really hate it, and it's the last thing I abbreviate, and only then if I really can't help it, "you" can be "u." God. I feel so awkward and tweenage all over again. And unless you're texting your best friends, keep it to one text page at a time. Getting slammed with a consecutive 2 or 3 in a row is so overwhelming.

- If you want a text back, a good place to end is on asking a question. A pertinent question. People are more apt to respond back to questions, even if it is only with one or a few words.

- Sass is hard to pull off without sounding like a bitch unless the other person knows your humor as well as you do. Watch ya tone.

- Use a fresh opener that other people won't. A "ciao" means it's from me. Conversely, using a gender-bending opener like "Yo" or "Dude" is great for fending off the advances of men you think of sheerly platonically, or alternately if you want to make your guy friend feel more comfortable with the informal tone of your text.

- Only if you call and don't leave a voicemail message can you text a "voicemail message" instead. I actually suggest this, as it's clever because it means your name is seen twice, and if they didn't answer the call because it wasn't an appropriate time, I think we all know that by now, texting mid-conversation, or at least reading a text, is considered de rigueur. That means twice the chance that they'll know to get back to you.

But always remember-- when in doubt, and if it's important: Call.

XOXO

The Mystery of the Missing Man in the Morning

Just when I was getting comfortable with the whole morning-after routine, the dealer throws a new card. Or, in this case, no card, no note, no nothing when I woke up the next morning, to not only find him gone from his bed, but gone from his house as well. There's this one extremely hilarious moment in which a woman, still fuzzy with sleep, reaches over to the other side of the bed, and feels the mattress palm-down to determine if it's still warm, or at this point, cold. It's like playing Sherla Holmes, Detectivette.

Sex and the City did not prepare me for this. Carrie never sat down at brunch one morning and said, "Hey, girls, the oddest thing happened this morning-- I woke up, and Mr. Big was gone to work, with no note!" We never discussed what to do when you are left with bedroom carte blanche! I WAS NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS. No one, it seems, has ever given much thought to this situation before, or at least, not thought of it as an issue that needed any forethought. We all know, at this day and age, what to do the morning after. But what do you do when you're the last person left the morning after?

There are common-sense general perimeters for this sort of case-- don't still be there when he gets back, because that would mean that I would have slept in...for another 6 hours; pick up and lock up after yourself; and for god's sake, don't snoop!-- but I still was wobbling between secure and frantic now that my training wheels had been taken off. Good sign? Bad sign? Indifferent sign? Maybe he just didn't feel like having to go through any early morning shit-chat today, you know: "How's the weather/What are you up to later/What are the headlines?" Or maybe he just didn't want to have to share breakfast.

So, like Carrie does with Miranda and Charlotte and Samantha, I turned to what I supposed was my best hope for a second opinion: two of my girlfriends, one in a committed relationship, and one committed to having lots of relations with lots of different men, for advice on time frames for sleeping in more and if I should text when I left or not. After echoing each other-- "No note?! Well, at least he's comfortable enough with you to leave you alone with all his things," (I certainly would never leave anyone alone in my room for more time than they could get in trouble in,)-- they came through with the same answer: you should be able to sleep in for at least another hour, but after that, leave quickly, and text to let him know. Done, and done.

On my walk home in bright sunlight and the gently drifting downward leaves of late fall, I was caught between reveling in my extra hour of sleep and worrying. I liked it, being left to my own devices, to wake, dress, and go home at my leisure on my day off. Was I supposed to like it? Or did I really want to be woken up and said goodbye to, properly? Or do I really love uninterrupted sleep more than waking up and having to fit some logical puzzle pieces together to solve the mystery of the missing man? Was comfort a good thing, or a bad thing? And most of all, why had no one ever pulled us aside before, like your girl friends did when they first discovered orgasm, and gave you the play book? Why did they never tell us that this was a situation to prepare for? Who had the answers before this morning? Who still doesn't have the answers?

XOXO

Close Encounters from the Girl Kind

What are the five most awkward or nerve-wracking situations a girl can get herself into today? What are the things that make us lose sleep at night, or break into cold sweats at sweltering house parties? When are the times that you can actually see fear in our eyes like the look that a guy gets as he walks up the front steps of his date's house for the first time? (Always thought that was a hilarious and telling moment to watch.) Here are the top 5 situations that a group of women I polled at work agreed on as the things that we worry about the most, and the quick, sweet fixes for them. You're smart, you're pretty, now how about being a little less awkward?

Situation 1: Close Encounters of the Girl Kind

It's always awkward when you bump into a girl who used to see or sleep with the same guy that you're seeing. There's always that implicit understanding of who's doing what or who's done whom. I'm nervous and defensive by nature, but I learned quickly that being a bitch gets you nowhere-- it's always better to smile, say "hey," and ask them how they're doing. The thinking is that if you're nice, it's hard not to like you-- if something is still going on, they'll feel worse about it (believe me, I've been on both sides of this one), or if it's all over, it's always easier to concede defeat to someone you actually like. Make sure you always smile, wave, or say hi first. Ask them about something going on in their life. Be interested. Your confidence will shake anyone with lesser confidence off, and appears as if you're perfectly in control of the way things are, even if you're not. This can also be called "gesturing," "peacocking," or "being alpha bitch."

Situation 2: Hold The Phone

Even Ron Jeremy agrees that when someone he's with is texting constantly, it makes him, King Dong, worry about the presence of another dude. “If I see men’s cologne in a girl’s bathroom or if she is texting constantly, it’s a big turnoff." Same goes for women. Nothing makes me more morbidly curious than a cell phone vibrating on a nightstand at 2 AM. Maybe your dude friends are insomniacs too, but I doubt it. Maybe it's because I'm under the general persuasion that since bars close at 2, that's a late-night drunk booty call, because, let's face it, we've all been the one sending that text, but honestly, nothing makes me feel less likely to get in the mood than wondering what the fuck is going on and if someone else wants to be in my place on my side of the bed. So...if I can be cognizant enough to either tell the other men I'm talking to to stop texting me past midnight, or to turn my ringer and vibrate OFF, I really feel like for peace of mind and in an active effort to not kill the mood, it's not too much to ask that other people do it as well.

Situation 3: The Rag's a Drag

I think we can all generally agree that when you're turned on, you're turned on. For men, this isn't much of a problem. For women, Mother Nature has other plans for us a week out of every month. Some women don't mind having sex while they're menstruating, but for others, it's a definite "no." Unfortunately, biology fucked us ALL over, because when a woman is ovulating or during her week long of Bloody Sundays is when she's at her most attractive. Our faces get brighter and shiner. Our hips swivel more when we walk. We smell better and our hair is softer. And, to quote my drunk-ass self, we have "luscious tits." Understandably, men find us attractive. So, how do you turn away a dude who wants to be all up in your business when you're closed for business, without having to go into the gory details and make a pick-up a bad B-rated bloody slasher movie? Simple-- tell him that you'd love to, but you already have made other plans (for that night if it's not too late, like at 1 AM, or for the next morning, like a breakfast date), and then tell him you'd like to make a rain-check for another time. This implies that you're interested, yet not flaky, and are open to things happening...just at another point in time, like when Trojan has replaced Tampax as your best friend. Actually, in cases other than that time of the month, the sandwich of "I'd love to, but I already have plans for early tomorrow morning...can we make a rain-check?" is a winner. Memorize it. Practice it. Use it.

Situation 4: Don't Mention The War!

Speaking of sending 2 AM texts... So you sent a text you maybe shouldn't have. It was late; you were impaired; you were lonely; your vibrator had broken. You wake up the next morning after being either ignored or turned down flat, and you kinda want to kill yourself, or at least relinquish rights to your phone and your snatch. Rather than taking a vow of chastity, there's an easier and less sucky way to remedy things: Just don't call or text again for awhile. People forget things easily over time, and even if you were coming off as presumptuous or needy, NOT being in contact like it ain't no thang for awhile will rectify that view. Give it a week, live your life, do your own thing. Buy a new vibrator. Next time you see or talk to the text's recipient, act nonchalant, like it never happened and you, too, have experienced mild amnesia. Be like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers-- "Don't mention the war!"

Situation 5: Bringing Up Exey

Sometimes, you just can't help it. Sometimes, you talk about your ex. Sometimes, it comes up in conversation-- they ask for more information or about where it went wrong, or, like me, you get people confused and end up looking at your current S.O and saying, "Are you the one who slept with night lights, or are you the one who's afraid of roller coasters?" Yeah. It can get a little awkward. Possibly MOST potentially awkward, however, is the fact that the memorial tattoo I'm planning on getting shortly partially includes the last name of a guy I was romantically involved with for awhile, though first and foremost, we were close friends. Things like that, however, shouldn't be hard to explain. You should be able to say, "I loved him, and I lost him, and this is my way of honoring his memory." If someone doesn't get that, then they're a jackass. What can be harder, however, is when the person you're seeing asks you, "Was that the best sex of your life, or what?" When this happens to me, I'm honest. I keep very close tabs on what I consider the best sex I've ever had. I don't suggest this approach to everyone, however. What usually is better in this situation is a non-committal "mmmm" or an "of course!" if it really was the best sex you've ever had...with them. Sometimes, white lies are fine. Generally, people know the best sex of their life when they find it. Lying doesn't cover anything in that aspect.

XOXO

P.S-- For more advice for anything from what cute flats to wear at the office to how to be a better friend, visit Molly at smartprettyandawkward.com.

A Potent Publican Primer: Red Square

Nora couldn’t get the name of the bar right to save her life. It was “the Red Hexagon.” “The Red Parallelogram.” “The Red Circle.” It ended up being fitting. Madison couldn't close her tab without another shot of tequila. We came full-circle from drunk to drunk.

If they have a live DJ, it is probably the best place in Burlington to dance, other than at a show at High Ground or Nectar’s. The sleeze category of Lift or Rasputin’s stays at Lift or Rasputin’s, and the place is smaller, more intimate. Dress ranges from 30-something women in their J. Crew “going out” dresses to college students who wander in in the same tank and shorts they wore to North Beach earlier in the day. The waitresses are good. Capable. Veteran. They have to be.

Bouncers are another story. The bouncer looks at my ID, then back up at me. “You just made it,” he tells me. I want to fist my hands in my hair and scream. It’s been this way for the past few days. Kind hostesses wish me a happy belated birthday; bald and beefy security men eye me up and down and offer me a gruff “Congratulations,”; and these tall and weedy pricks at the trendy bars make a huge fucking deal about the fact that 2, 4, or 14 days ago, they would have gotten to bounce me out on my size 6 ass. I want to tell him I was probably drinking before he was. (It could be true.) Instead, I smile tightly and slip into what Alli has dubbed the “heinous bitch” demeanor.

Over a week later. Same bar. Could be the same bouncer, but then again, they all look the same, as if their high school basketball starting-forward days were the best they ever had and ever will have. Same dilemma. “So how’s it feel?” he asks me as I retrieve my ID from him and start to slide in the front door. I decide this jig is up and I’m tired, like so lately in life, of being continuously run over and pretending to not care.

“Well. I just came back from 4 months in Italy, so the bar scene is not new. And I figure, I just now legally get to do everything I’ve been doing since I was 14, so, it’s no big deal, right?”

He looks confused, like he wasn’t expecting that much information, and then just nods. “Yeah.”

The problem with the Red Four-Equilateral-Sided-Shape is, it’s where everyone wants to see and be seen under the mortician’s red lighting. The seats that spill into the alley and onto Church Street are prime see-and-be-seen territory. Some of my older friends, who I used to consider helplessly cool and aloof and just slightly affected in that way that all college students hope they come off as “worldly”, become much more human to me as I watch them shell out three bucks for a can of PBR and perch on the wrought iron chairs, trying, and failing, to look like it still isn’t a big deal. They are, like me, much more at home in the darker, quieter, wood-paneled bars, but if you are over 21, and if you’re in Burlington, you still feel this inexplicable need to go to Red Square, where the drinks are overpriced, the cocktails are almost too heavy on the liquor, the lighting is atrocious, and yet, you can’t help but wanting to be a part of it all.

And at the end of the night, what are you left without, other than an impending hangover in the morning?

Intextication. It's what happens on your cell phone when you get drunk. Luckily for some of us, the quick text link to Twitter is right beneath other phone numbers in our Favorites list, and we end up sending some of those texts to Twitter instead of the intended recipient. Rendering us a little less annoying, and the Twitterverse a bit more amused.

Intoxuation. It's fleeting infatuation that only occurs while you're slurring. So, texting things like "I miss you" at 3 AM while fueled with beer and rum is not the best idea. Because you can guarantee that when you wake up the next morning, you'll still be mad, and not only still mad, but now mad and mortified.

There hasn't been a dryspell like this since Jagger sung "I can't get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!" In the end, I even kept space between me and George.

XOXO

Miss Communication

Communication is a funny, funny thing. But like any one-sided joke, I feel like one side of the conversation is always left hanging and unamused.

Some people are great communicators. Some people can talk and talk and talk about everything from the weather to their job to their passions to themselves to what the next door neighbor did this morning with his wife to their own desires to what other people desire. Some people are bad communicators. Some people are good listeners. Some people are me and will gladly pull teeth before they start to converse about their emotions. Some people are awkward communicators.

And then there's men.

This recently came up while talking to a friend who was wondering why a guy hadn't responded to a text she sent him.

I thought about what she said for a minute, weighing in with my personal experience before responding, and trying to be as helpful as possible. "I would have said something more than 'Happy Easter'. I 'Happy New Year' and 'Merry Christmas' and 'Happy Thanksgiving'-ed, and never got responses back. Many men have never responded to my holiday greetings, and both men that I have and have not slept with. I think men just look at those texts, grunt, file it away, and move on with life. Or devouring whatever cavebeast they just managed to maul and kill."

Personally, I think we women would get a lot further in keeping their attention if our clothing designers started using bacon as a fabric.

This frame of mind is pretty much the only thing that makes me keep my shit together when I myself send messages that never get responses or aren't returned. Though I am pretty sure at this point that it is standard male procedure to read messages, respond to them in their mind, and then go back to whatever it was they were previously doing, sure that the telepathic message will get through, no bad feelings meant, nothing makes me want to sit in front of my computer more, fuming, and then scream like a she-banshee and bash the stupid little "no messages" or "empty inbox" icon with the closest heavy object. (Most likely, a shoe or the Murano glass ashtray.) Here is a thought: Sometimes, even if it is not required, or you don't think it's so very important, a response is not only nice, but proper good manners.

No one is perfect-- at the moment I have three outstanding messages to get back to, and one is over a month old-- but it's the effort that really counts, even if all it is is an "Ok" or an "I'll see you then." One of my favorite guys of all-time was the best friend of a guy I was seeing who never once failed to respond to a message, even if it was a text back saying, "Hey, I got your text." When I met his mother, I gushed about what a great guy and great communicator he was for a solid five minutes. She was astounded and proud. I understand. It's a rare thing these days.

Little things like that make all the difference to some people. Like the person who just sent you that "Happy Easter" text or that "Hey, here's a reminder" email. So, um, here's a hint-- RESPOND if you care for that person or your previous and continuing relationship with them just even a little bit. Thank them, wish them the same, then end the conversation when you tell them that you're busy with your family on the holidays instead of leaving them guessing. If you're too swamped with work to take the time to answer their questions and write back, a brief "Really busy-- I'll get back to you ASAP," will suffice and give them better peace of mind. Yeah, you shouldn't have to jump to it and constantly be responding to texts and emails and messages, but really, when someone takes time out of their day to wish you good feelings or let you know that you're on their mind or that they want to check in with you and make sure things like your 8 PM dinner appointment are still on, take a second-- just a brief second-- and let them know that you care, too. It can be a three word response, but it's still an acknowledgement. Don't push people away or upset them when it can be easily remedied. Life is too short. People mean too much.

Agree? Disagree? Want to tell me how we shouldn't be chained to our personal messaging devices and be expected to wait on them hand and food? Tell me. C'mon. Respond. That's what that comment box is for.

XOXO

Can You Hear Me Now? GOOD.

Possibly one of the things that we hate most about being a woman (other than the PMS and the bloating and how hard it is to lose weight,) is that we have this innate desire to KNOW. Know what's good. Know what you're up to. Know what restaurant in town is now "hot." Know what our friend said to our other friend. Know whom is sleeping with whom. And most of all, know why you aren't calling or texting or emailing us back.

It makes me feel like such a traitor to my usually-relaxed personality when I realize I've turned into one of those harpy bitches staring at her phone like, "Um, hello? I sent you a message. RESPOND TO IT, PLEASE." Usually, I am not like this. Usually, it is my mother who is the one being like, "Have you heard back from so-and-so? When was the last time you talked to Nora? How's Matt? Have you called your grandmother lately?" while I sit in one of the barrel chairs and make the universal "calm down" motion with my hands, and be like, "Chilllllllll, mama. All in good time. People are busy. I'm not stressing, so why are you? If they have something to say, they'll call. Why would you call if there's nothing new to talk about?"

But sometimes, despite best efforts, we all succumb to this. As I outlined briefly in a recent previous post, I know that part of my personal issue with it comes from the fact that one day, there was no getting through to someone I cared about; the calls and texts and responses stopped for absolutely no reason, leaving me hurt and confused. The other part is just general woman-worry. Really, when it comes down to it, I really don't need to know THAT MUCH. Half of the texts I send are completely useless and don't demand real responses and are of the "I am bored and looking for you to distract me" variety. Which can be hard when their recipient isn't bored and isn't looking for distraction and in fact, YOU are distracting THEM.

But, the eternal harpy in me protests, really, how much time does it take to send a quick response back?

I should be the last person to be pointing fingers. Communication isn't one of my strong points in the first place, unless it suits me, as most of my friends, family, and men could tell you. I'm notoriously horrendous at A.) first and foremost, actually picking up my phone, B.) responding to messages, and C.) responding to my own texts, and yet, I find myself flipping a shit, or, ok, not really-- more accurately, cocking the eyebrow of heavy judgement and tapping my toe waiting for a timely response. It is so one-sided. I enjoy being in the wind; what I do not enjoy is the person I'm trying to get a hold of being in the wind. It's not being high-maintence-- I am not one of those girls you have to call every day, or even every other day. When this happened to me, I was baffled. You mean, people-- they actually call just to see how your day was? Really? I liked this. What I don't like is that feeling of mandatory check-in, like a telephonic prison-break. Call me every day expecting conversation time or for absolutely no reason, and you've got yourself onto the fast-track of getting sent straight to voicemail. Yes, I am guilty of it, too.

But having free time, usually something I don't allow myself because I consider it destructive in large and unstructured doses when paired with boredom, proves itself the downfall of many smart, perfectly sane women. Multiple times this break I have considered flinging the goddamn phone into a snowbank off the deck, because then, by god, it would have a legitimate reason not to ring, that I know about. (I have always been a big fan of practicing proactive offense. And proactive defense. And being passively-aggressive. It is one of my less charming and more aggravating quirks.) My advice to you is this: STEP AWAY FROM THE PHONE, and no one gets hurt. Leave it somewhere. Don't cart it around with you; the lack of ringing will be all that more apparent. Unfortunately, in East Gomorrah, my phone is the only contact I have with the outside, civilized world. I am chained to the thing I hate the most. Freud would have a field-day.

I try to be fair, really, I do. People are busy. There are far, FAR more important things to do than respond to a text, like, save children, be on vacation, not interrupt the rest of a movie theater, be out of service or like two of my closest friends be travelling internationally, be "busy" with a S.O, buy that $12 cashmere sweater before some other bitch does, actually focus on your job, give all your attention to your driving and not cause a 12 car pile-up, and celebrate a birthday or holiday with friends and family actually present and in front of you rather than staying glued to your cell phone. As Miss Molly Ford of Smart, Pretty, and Awkward noted, "People standing in front of you are always more important than a text message on your phone."

But still, like any other woman, there are times that I worry that I look like this chick, right here...

None of us mean to, I promise. None of us mean to nag, or complain, or make you feel like any less of a good friend or sibling or cousin or guy. (In fact, we are trained from the time we are still in diapers NOT to nag, because nobody likes a nag. And it's true.) It's not you-- it's us. It's us worrying why that guy never called after we gave him our number, or after a first date, or after he said he would, when really, it's clear. It's us worrying about how you used to call every day or text us for at least a half an hour every afternoon, and now that things are comfortable and you feel like you don't have worry about us running off with a new best friend/other sibling/new guy without you, you've stopped "just checking in." Well, here's the doozy: just when you are feeling comfortable enough to not have to talk to us everyday or every other day, we have gotten used to it. We've (wrongly) grown to depend on it. No one can keep that sort of instantaneous gratification up, and we are just starting to realize stamina's limitations. We're just feeling smug about the fact that we found someone who knows the importance of good communication, and then you go and pull the rug right out from under us, wrap your line of communication up in it, throw it off the wharf, and call it a day.

It's bizarre; I know. I suck at being a caring niece and granddaughter and even daughter and calling my family ANYWHERE near regularly enough, and I'm not the person my friends would ever call in the middle of an emergency for some quick action because lord knows I may not even pick up my phone or, god forbid, send them straight to voicemail, but I expect you to respond to me promptly, and what I am good at is casually staying in touch with the people, like, once a blue moon, and still having it be ok. Maybe that's what spoils me. I can not call my best friend or close friends from high school for months or even a year, and yet, when one of us finally does, we just pick it up right where we left off. Yet, with the people that you see regularly, you can't. That level of familiarity isn't there yet. You're still wondering "Does he like me? Does she like me? Do they miss me? Or are they off cavorting around town with my new replacement?" Women, as a general rule, love making worry-monsters in our brain. We're hard-wired for it. Some of us have managed to preform partial lobotomies-- years later, I'm rid of the "I'm being cheated on RIGHT NOW!" monster day-dream, but still working on sawing off the connection of the "They are having so much fun without me" one-- but we still all have that faint, wiggling suspicion that you really might be better off without us. Which would just suck.

But-- BUT-- good luck finding the woman who will actually admit to you that she is fine not hearing from you. Really. I've been thinking about this: is there any way to broach the topic without sounding like a completely whiny, insecure-- yes, nagging-- bitch? No. No, I really think there is no proactive way to approach this, save possibly the "destroying your own phone" tactic I've been contemplating, there is not. There is no possible way to say, "Um, hey, I've sent you a few text messages; not sure if you got them, because you haven't been responding to them...know you're busy, but it'd be nice to hear from you..." without sounding like a total ninny. (By the way, that is totally my speech. You can steal it if you really think it accomplishes anything. I don't think so.)

And so, women deal with it different ways. This is the one major deciding factor between Carrie Bradshaw and myself. As any half-assed Sex and the City watcher could tell you, she actually had the balls and/or lack of caring about sounding a little pushy or questioning to pick up the phone and make that sort of call. I, on the other hand, take the chicken-shit route and figure that I'll sleep on it and tomorrow, won't care so much. It works, in theory. Dorothy Parker immortalized the tango of phone hate and women best-- "It'd be such a little thing; just RING!"-- in her short story "A Telephone Call."

Parker wonders, much more eloquently than I ever could, (and most women echo,) "Suppose a young man says he'll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn't. That isn't so terrible, is it? Why, it's going on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what's going on all over the world? Why can't that telephone ring? Couldn't you ring? Ah, please, couldn't you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. Damn you, I'll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I'll smash your smug black face in little bits...Oh, what does pride matter, when I can't stand it if I don't talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I'm not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That's true, I know that's true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides."

Would it kill you to call first and not wait on them? No. But it's always better if they do. Would it kill me to actually form and enunciate the words "I miss you"? Probably. So instead, I hope it's implied. Will we actually ever tell you when we've been acting like a crazy person by the phone? No. We'd voluntarily die by our own hand or painful self-inflicted torture first, screaming "I am an independent woman!" the whole way. Could we ever make that speech asking you if you've really been too busy to text? Probably not. We probably don't even need to. Deep down, we know that there's nothing to worry about. We trust you. We know that you probably won't discard us like a used tissue for the next friend/sibling/woman. Deep down, we just masochistically like to have something to fret over. When something is naturally easy, no drama involved, self-fretting is the only outlet we have. We try and hide it. Well, most of us do. This is pretty much the equivalent of letting my freak-flag fly high and proud. I hope a get a few "amens!" from ladies to back me up, here, so it's not just me. (It is SO not just me. In fact, it is RARELY me.)

So what can you do for us so that you don't have to worry that we're going Parker ourselves and sitting and staring at the phone and stewing in our own self-disgusted juices and you are secretly getting blasphemed for honestly being just busy? It's so simple. It's almost stupidly simple. When you do get two seconds, call or text back. Honestly. Nothing makes someone feel better than a call saying, "Hey, I am really not neglecting you; I really am busy." And nothing, in a pinch, fills that gap like a quick text back to let us know you really are paying attention and care and aren't off having crazy adventures with the entire kick-line of Rocket City Girls and a guy mysteriously named "Fuzz" while we are painting our nails for the fourth time for tortuous fun and trapped in the house in a blizzard counting snowflakes. We really want to look like this girl when we're talking to you, and not the other ones.

In the spirit of reciprocation, here's what we pledge to do for you:

- Always say "thanks for getting back to me," and let you know that it, and you, are really appreciated.

- Let you know how happy we are to talk to you. if we don't say it out-right, we promise to sound it.

- Not take your communication for granted.

- And never, ever lead on to the fact that two minutes before your ringtone started, we were holding our phone up and making crabby faces and mocking it like a child. "Really? Really? You're really going to play this game with me? Ring. Ring, or I will tear your face-plate apart and make your wiring squeal for mercy while I disassemble you. Ring, dammit! RI--SHIT!...Uhh, hello? Heyyy! How are you? No, no, don't worry about it; I'm really busy, too!"

So, love us. Love us, anyway. We are women; this is what we do; and we can't help it any more than you can help the fact you grow manly body hair and still think farting and poop-jokes are hilarious. And to each his or her own.

XOXO

...And it just rang. I am not even shitting you. Twice during the writing of this, I got those coveted responses. People. Stop being so good. (No, really-- keep it up, please! I don't like feeling needlessly neurotic. And I can say it; you can't.) If I could fill an entire post up with the words "Thank You" and get away with it, I would. You deserve to be appreciated.

Get A Little Public.

So, this is going to be an interesting little (Aha...HAHAHA) post. I'm sorry for my lack of presence on the blog/in my apartment/in classes. I must have a new boy. Detrimental to sleep, seeing my roommates, and accomplishing things.

Operating along the lines of "better safe than sorry," this is a HUGE WELCOME to any men I know personally who happen to stumble upon my blog. Southern Charm, that's you-- though I told you after allowing you to follow me on Twitter to either NOT click the link to my blog, or to never tell me that you did-- so if you're reading this now, I suppose than you're going with the "hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil" route. Gypsy, you oh so adorable online creeper, this goes for you, too. (Ladies-- if you're a private person, steer clear of the Information Technology men. I'm pretty sure that when I ignored a "follow" request from Gypsy on Twitter and then sent him a Facebook message saying, "No, I'm sorry, but no-- you cannot follow me on Twitter," even though he said, "Fine, be as secretive as you want," he also cracked his Computer Digital Forensic major fingers and got down to business finding out why, exactly, I was being so squirrely. And as any of my Twitter followers know, I link my blog and new posts on my Twitter page. Hence why it's locked. Hence why I'm picky about who I let follow. But, I have the feeling that things like passwords and firewalls mean absolutely NOTHING to him. Oh, well.)

So, HELLO BOYS! This is my blog! Welcome to my huge embarrassment! And if you ever speak to me about it, I will deny, deny, deny till I am blue in the face, and then I will hit you over the head and hiss at you, "Alright, FINE, yes, I did say that about you in total and sincere honesty, now SHUT UP!"

Again, as Stephen Stills said, "There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature." And I don't believe in being sexist, so I round the figures out by writing about you, guys.

I've been spending a bit of time out and about, as I alluded to, getting to know Gypsy. (Being in that apartment has just further affirmed my firm appreciation for Greece Lightning as well. What an easy-going, personable, chill person he is. Why did I forget to associate with him sophomore year?) It's going well-- I spent not last Saturday, but the Saturday night before that there with Emily (hence that blog post, car being towed, all that fun stuff); last Thursday night from 11 PM to 5 AM at their apartment; and last night from 10:30 PM to 1 AM. NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. I'M BEHAVING. In fact, I may have looked at him on Thursday night (a wee bit intoxicated, hence the sauciness and forwardness) and said, "I'm making you work for it."

His response? A solid "Ok."

Thursday night he actually texted me and asked me to come over. I wasn't doing anything, so I went over and was immediately introduced to two of his close friends. I'm not so used to this whole "meet the friends" thing. Most of the guys I date are in the frame of mind that introducing me to their buddies is not a good idea because A.) I am a huge flirt, or B.) they (rightly) don't see things working out with me for too much longer. I'm also not so used to the fact that he has obviously given them marching orders to be nice and interested, because one of them walked me to class the other day after running into me in the coffee shop, and another struck up random conversation at the bus stop. I love how "bros before hoes" mentality turns into "I like her, so you've gotta give a fuck about her, too" with guys. I feel like women are a whole lot more careless about these things. Your girls don't like the guy you're seeing? Ehhhh. Guess who's going to be seeing less of you around the TV on "Grey's Anatomy and Margarita Night"? It sucks, and it's so not right, but women are so much more likely to not listen to and ditch voices of reason and think below the belt for themselves and go forth and do douchebag dating and mating for the hell of it. Because we think it's ok. Truth. I said it.

The game plan Thursday night/Friday morning was to stay up all night and then walk to my 8 AM class on campus. Gypsy and I were in for the long haul, while Greece Lightning went to sleep not long after the friends (and the world's two sweetest but dumbest freshmen girls,) left. When Greece heard I was planning on staying, he furtively texted me. "Oh, so you're staying? Five bucks on where you think you're sleeping."

True, I HAD thought about it, but I'm being good, dammit, and there's nothing like someone calling my intentions into question to make me stand by them. So thanks, Greece, though Gyp might not feel the same. "Well," I texted back while Gypsy unknowingly and blissfully made PB&Js for us in the kitchen, "I assume this movie will be about two hours. I have to move my car at 6. And I guess I'm going to be napping in this chair between 6 and when I leave for my class at 8."

Greece Lightning circumvented my prudish logic and went right after the heart of the argument. "I think you should go for it. It's a pretty sure bet."

Well, thanks for the words of encouragement. And I'd love to be a fly on the wall of that apartment to hear what was said when it came up that I left at 5 AM, 2 hours after Greece went to bed, but no-- I stuck by my guns. I did not go after it. I. WILL. BE. GOOD. (Godammit.)

Gypsy moved seats from across the living room to next to me, and he and I stayed up, eating our PB&Js and half-watching a movie and talking to each other, doing the whole families/growing up/interests "getting to know you" talk. I learned a lot about him; he probably learned too much about me. It was basically the criteria you go over on a first date-- only we were sitting in stolen chairs in his apartment with our feet up on his "coffee table"-- a cable wire spool. In fact, how would I describe the decor of the apartment? Hmm. Stolen. Road signs and signs deck the walls. A pizza delivery car's roof light adorns the radiator. I love it. It's so "boy."

Though he offered again to have me spend the night, I thought about what Greece Lightning had said and decided to remove myself from the temptation. "Spindly sleeps over on it," Gypsy told me in a last-ditch attempt to have me make peace with the extra mattress. "Blowdryer Boy sleeps over on it. It's for friends who don't live nearby. It's not like we're trying to lure girls over to sleep on it." Nice, but I was more worried FOR him than ABOUT him.

So he walked me the three blocks to the place where I had (finally, after 20 minutes of driving around Fully Booked Parking, College Slum Central, Burlington,) found a spot. I gave him a ride back to his apartment. He said goodnight, got out, and then ducked his head back in. "Can I see you again this weekend? What are you up to?"

Be still my heart. A man, planning ahead? I swoon.

"Umm, my parents are coming up for Parent's Weekend, but they know I have a life and are going to be gone after an early dinner. I don't know after that."

"Ok, I'll call you or you call me."

"Sure. Night!"

"Yeah-- you, too. Drive safe!"

About 20 minutes after I got home, at 5:55 AM, my cell rang. It was a text from Gypsy. "Make it home ok?"

Again, adorable, and I swoon. Repeat.

"Mmmph. Yeah. In bed. Trying to warm up and pass out."

"Same here! :-) Two comforters does well though."

Oh, the cute just about kills me.

We were supposed to meet up on Saturday after my parents left town after dinner, but he ended up being tanked by 8 PM and too inebriated to coherently explain to me where he was. ("Sami's" doesn't quite cut it. I need a street address here, people!) Oh well. I watched "The Goonies" for the second time in a week with Melissa and went to bed early. (The Goonies Said: "Booby traps?" "That's what I said-- booty traps!" Melissa Said: "Awww-- they're skipping!" I Said: "Stripping?!" M: "SKIPPING." C: "STRIPPING?" M: "NOOO-- SKIPPING!!!" I apparently hear what I want.)

Monday, one of my roommates came down really ill and her parents drove up from Jersey to bring her home. (No Swine Flu...no worries.) To give them time and get out of their way, I hopped around campus and Burlington all night, catching up with the lovely Miss Mercure and eating KKDs. I also texted Gypsy to ask if need be that I could crash on the infamous extra mattress. "I may not need it-- I may just apartment hop until I sneak back to my apartment after they all go to sleep. What time is a no-go for coming over to chill?"

"Whenever. I'll most likely be up late. And I'd wake up to let you in and set up the bed for you. Doesn't matter."

Can we just give him a medal already?

So, hmmm...Gypsy. He's intelligent, articulate, funny, sweet, and cute as all hell. Basically a five-year-old in a man's body. A bit of a drunkard and a player, yes, but the more he gets up and walks around the apartment, the more times I just want to sink my teeth into his ass. (Alli. You are so to blame for this. That, and that summer day We Shall Never Speak Of. Again. Ever. Starting Now.) He's certainly used to being an older brother and "protector" which I will admit I like as it makes me feel all taken care of inside and go girly. I am so used to taking care of myself that when other people do it for me, I just tend to...love it. Last night, he walked me to my car-- again, parked 3 motherfucking blocks away-- and as I beeped it open and threw my purse in, he craned to see over my shoulder. "No one's hiding out in your car?" he asked, looked for himself, and then, content that I wouldn't be mauled to death by Birdman, or another one of Burlington's vagrants in my own car, declined my offer to drive him home, saying, "Naw-- I'll walk back," and then put his arms around me. I nearly ate a shoulder full of red and black plaid flannel but composed myself long enough to do that awkward thick-winter-coats-between-us-like-fat-padding embrace.

Oho. We're onto hugging, now. I almost looked at him and said, "Man up and kiss me, already."

As Greece Lightning would say, I'm "a sure thing."

I've never really been the one pursued before. This hit home again when one of my friends was talking to Gypsy randomly two weeks ago and my name came up as someone they knew in common. "She's hot," Gypsy had said. Though I admit it, I may have grooved a bit when I heard this like someone had just told me I was getting a lifetime's free membership to the Victoria's Secret Vault Of All Things Sexy, I'm still kind of baffled. ("Baffled" is an EXCELLENT word for what I am, actually.) Usually, things go like this: either I, A.) meet you, decide I want you, and go after you with varying results, or B.) we meet, we like each other mutually right off the bat, and we fall into bed and a sort of quasi-relationship together. Usually, I don't give the guys that like ME the time of day-- I'm after the ones who I like: the hard-to-reach fruit on the Tree of Temptation. Things like the apple-pie guy who came from the Tree of Temptation liking me usually don't happen. I don't think I can say I've ever had to sit there, talking to a perfectly cute, perfectly nice guy before and think, "Hmmm, do I really like you? Would I sleep with you? Would I ever want to, GASP, date you? Be in a relationship with you? How do I REALLY feel about you? Could I see/let this thing happen?"

So bizarre. I don't know how you serial daters do it.

I also like the way Gyp says my name. Usually, I pronounce it "CA-rissa," but there's this phenomenon that happens with Vermont boys, I've noticed. The soft Vermont accent turns it into "Crissa." Catholic Boy did it. My trainer's husband does it. Some of my native friends are guilty of it, too. But that's all very girly and neither here, nor there.

But god, he's opinionated and set in those opinions. I just want to shake him up a little and say, "Jesus Christ, open up your mind think about it from the other side for once!" Also, let me tell you one of the stupidest arguments in the world: "Well, I only do [dangerous things] when I'm alone. Because hey, if it goes wrong, it's just me." Yes, Gypsy, this is directed at you and your quote. But it's NEVER "just you." It's you, and your family, and your friends, and everyone else who would be left behind if you killed yourself in a moment of young adult male stupidity.

As someone whose life has been affected by far too many losses and far too many "stupid moments," let me tell you-- nothing sucks more than being someone left behind. So don't put the people you love in that position. Think. Texting while driving, or while on a motorcycle, is ridiculously dangerous. People react 18% slower to break, swerve, or speed up when texting on their cell phone. For every 6 seconds that a person spends texting while driving, roughly 4.6 of those seconds are not spent looking at the road. Nearly 25% of all wheeled accidents occur because of texting or talking while driving. Over 2,600 people per year die because of accidents related to dialling or texting on a cell phone while driving. Another 333,000 are injured. Yes-- I am guilty of occasionally texting while driving. I try not to-- driving a standard takes the two hands I already have. Pressing buttons at the same time is really pressing it for me.We all do at one time or another. But really-- we shouldn't. Don't become another statistic.

See? I can do a well-meaning public service announcement other than "use a condom!"

Now LISTEN.

XOXO

Taking Back "Slut": Self-Marketing and Dating in the 21st Century

King of Couture Valentino once said, "I love sluts. They're some of the kindest people I know." I have to say, I'm rapidly gaining on appreciation of this quote. First, it was when my mother looked at my profile picture and said, "You're looking a little trampy again, dear." Then, it was when Alli looked at me the other day and said, "I don't get what you find appealing about being a slut." Am I? Am I a slut?

Webster's dictionary defines "slut" as, "a slovenly woman; a promiscuous girl; or a saucy girl." I decided to look up "slovenly," just to be clear-- it means "sloppy in appearance." I then looked up "promiscuous"-- "not restricted to one sexual partner."

Well, in this case: A.) Yes, some mornings, like yesterday, I do feel extremely sloppy in appearance. I do believe what I actually said about it was, "Wow, I feel like such a scrub today."
B.) Well, I have not been restricted to one sexual partner.
And C.) A saucy girl? Damn, you got me there!

So, I guess I am a slut. But in today's world, "slut" seems to be used synonymously for "whore," and this is where I put my foot down. I am not having enough sex to be considered as the modern version of a slut. I really wish I were, though. In fact, I am not having sex right now, period. I go through self-imposed dry spells far too often to be considered a slut. I'm also notoriously choosy about who I kiss, let alone sleep with. If you can please point me in the direction of all these men you think I am sleeping with, I would love to shake them by the hand and say "congratulations!" And also, possibly-- "do you want to make the rumors true?"

But if we take the attributes of a slut-- the provocative clothing, the bluntness of sexuality and a frankness in talking about it-- then yes, I might be what people would call a slut. Dating, relationships, and especially sex are important to me. Those are the things I find fascinating, but also find most people don't talk enough about truthfully, candidly, and personally. Sex is how the human race continues-- relationships and dating are what gets us there. (Most of the time.) (Unless you really are a big slut.) (I love you.) I can't tell you how many times people have said to me, "the same thing is happening to me" or "I'm so glad you said that because I never would, but I feel the same way." Furthermore, I write a blog called "Sex and the College Girl." Would you really take me seriously as someone who knew what she was talking about if I looked the same way I do on any given day in my profile picture, or is that same infamous picture that makes my mother cringe what helps give me my credibility? Is my cleavage helping you trust in me? Is my cleavage giving me credibility?

...That makes me giggle every time I write it. Obviously, I don't take myself too seriously. Another reason why I'm (for the most part) fine when someone calls me a slut.

Most of life today is about selling yourself as something-- in the workplace, in your education, in your personal and love lives. Self-marketing (to go back to the Chanel quote from the "Irreplaceable" post,) is what sets you apart. I've run into situations in life as a retail employee, as a student, and as a girl someone was dating in which self-marketing became a paramount focus. In dating itself, a woman has to market herself as many things, as Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, and Meredith Brooks all explored-- you must be virginal and farm-fresh when meeting parents; laid-back and boy-like yourself with chillin' with a significant other's buddies; and by turns ferocious or soft in the bedroom. Meeting your S.O's parents for the first time? All about self-marketing, because believe me, a good job selling yourself as "such a nice girl" does a lot to cancel out the fact that his mother knows you are also the girl sucking her baby boy's dick. Women, it appears, are marketing geniuses.

There are different levels to selling yourself, I have learned, and they can be used interchangeably between your professional and personal life. Meeting someone to talk face-to-face trumps any other way of communicating to get a point across, be it a raise, or asking the guy you're seeing what is going on between the two of you. It is much harder to be turned down in person-- this is true, and this is the A-bomb in your arsenal. No one likes to disappoint anyone to their face. If you want something from someone, you have to get in theirs. From there on, voice-on-voice interaction on the phone is personal. Tone carries. People get attached to certain voices. Text is good in a pinch because it's nearly instantaneous, but then, it's just your thumbs touching, or "thumbs fucking," as my same mother who despairs in my profile picture, calls it. (If she only knew how much literal "thumb fucking" Perfect and I have done via text...the text charges would make sense to her.) Email is the worst way to try to prove a point (or the grandparent of email-- letter writing,), because so much time can lapse between the events of it being written, and it actually getting read. And then, you are separated by time and place and distance. You will never know how the other person actually took it when they read it. Sometimes, seeing a person's eyebrows flash in the moment of reading will tell you more than the formal and well-thought-out response they will give you, if any at all. Instantaneous satisfaction and knowledge is the difference between vocal and written communication.

How do women market themselves, you ask? What is selling yourself in dating? (And no, I don't mean prostitution.) How can someone use marketing techniques to further their dating game? How does it apply?

Easily. Be the hottest commodity out there. Assess your competition (other women), the needs of your client (the man you're after), and then explore how you can fill those needs not offered. Dating itself is favorably marketing yourself. What services do you offer? What are the benefits of being with you? I'm not suggests you change yourself to become "more desirable" and become someone that who you're not-- instead, conduct a mental revenue list of what is so great about yourself that it draws men to you and makes them want to be with you. Work on improving areas you're not so hot in-- communication, for me. Work even harder in areas you already rock in so that you blow the rest of the competition out of the water, and possibly, even out of the scene.

The concept of selling yourself brings you back to the concept of being a slut. Maybe I am a slut for how well I market myself as a sex, love, and relationship columnist. Maybe I am a slut for how well I appeal to men-- not just as a girl to date, hook up with, and have sex with, but also a a friend. You can argue that any woman who markets herself as a favorable dating candidate or a successful business woman is a slut. If so, then I'm going to say it loud: I'M PROUD TO BE A SLUT.

XOXO

And Not-So-Sweet Goobyes.

Please allow me to make up for all the time I didn’t post with the most epic of Epic-Posts.

Back-story:

Tuesday, Perfect strayed back into the territory of “We Might As Well Be Dating” when he sent me a picture message of the 1 pound hamburger he devoured for lunch. He was so excited about this feat of digestive strength, the excitement continued through the rest of our afternoon discussion. Every text was promptly responded to. He was sweet. We were funny. It was great. I felt, again, like I had my boy back.

Wednesday afternoon, while I was on a ropes course with the rest of my Peer Advising staff, being piggybacked and carried around by men for hours, getting my ass groped by my friend, and watching people hang suspended by rope on a high-wire far above my head, I got a text from Perfect. Actually, my cell phone, which was located in my bra cup because the white spandex leggings and old blue soccer shorts I was wearing didn’t have pockets (oh, such a winning outfit!), received a text from Perfect, making my right boob vibrate like it has never vibrated before. There was some spastic movement to get it out, but it was worth the whole shocking endeavor when I read that he was coming to Burlington on Thursday, but didn’t know what time yet. He was driving home, and by the time I could respond to him, was out of service. Boo. So later that night on Facebook around 11, I caught him on Facebook chat right before he signed off and went to bed to tell him that I was in training until 3:30 and please, pleeeease could he come in the later afternoon/evening? “Ok, I will try hard,” he told me.

“Ah, yes—thank you,” I said. “Now g’night with you.”

“Nighty night,” he said. I wished him sweet dreams and in response he gave me the sort of Perfect answer that one must imagine him saying with a suggestive tone, possibly with an undercurrent of, “yes, sweet dreams about you and me having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex.”
“Oh, I will.”

Or maybe it was me that had the dreams about him and I having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex. Guilty as charged.

What Should Have Happened:

Perfect, by all accounts, should have gotten into Burlington around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Because Cait and I had already discussed the fact that she wanted to go shopping with him, and I wanted to give them their alone time so he and I could have our alone time later, she was supposed to go home quickly after training, drop her stuff, and meet him on Church Street to take him away-to-college shopping. (This is one of their things they’ve been doing together for years, shopping.) Around 5:30 or 6, when they were done bleeding debit card money to Burlington’s retail establishments, he was supposed to come over to my apartment so that we could have some chill time alone together and catch up. Just really laid-back, fun stuff. We can’t shut up once we get on a roll, and plus, I wanted to take him on a walk to the underpasses to show him the amazing graffiti there, because I know that’s something he’s interested in. At some point, when I felt comfortable, I was just going to say, “Look, last time we talked seriously, you pretty much told me what you thought was logical and what you wanted, and I agreed to give it a try. Well, I tried, but it’s not working for me. I still feel the same way I did about you in May and June, and I honestly think we should just give this a try. It doesn’t have to be serious—in fact, I would be great with it being casual. But if we try and it works, then it works. If it doesn’t—no harm, no foul. But I think we’re missing out on a lot of fun stuff we could be doing, and I’d like to give us a try again.”

If he said yes, let’s give this another solid effort, theoretically, we would then fall madly into the closest possible bed, (hopefully, mine,) and have earth-shattering sex. Then I would whip out my trusty planner, we’d schedule our first visitation weekend, and then celebrate by having some wet and wild shower sex. (This is that “fun stuff” I alluded to earlier: sex. We basically have a relationship without the sex and this point, so wouldn’t that be fun to add?) I would visit him, he would come up to see me, it would be great, the sex would be amazing, and life would be generally beautiful.

If he said “no, I don’t feel that way,” then I would counter with a very polite, “well, then I’m confused, because that’s not what I’ve been hearing from our friends,” and delve a little deeper into the Is-He-Scared-Or-Is-He-Just-Over-Me? debate. In the end, if this were my answer, I would know to shake hands and call us good friends, get back up in the saddle, and start looking again. But he would know. And that’s all that would really matter.

What Really Happened:

Perfect and I kept in touch all day Thursday with check-ins and planning. I wasn’t sure if Cait knew he was coming, and she wasn’t sure if I knew he was coming, so by the time we both spoke up and but our heads together in joint effort with Perfect around 1 PM, I thought we had a pretty good plan worked out. Cait would meet him at 3:30 when we got out of training downtown. They’d shop and get their time together to catch up and say their goodbyes. Then Perfect would come to my apartment so we would get out alone time to catch up and try and work things out and say goodbye. (And, again—possibly fuck our brains out.)

Instead, when I texted him at quarter after 5 to check in and see if he was being close to done with Cait, I got an interesting response. “Cait’s on her way now.”

Ummm, excuse me?

Apparently, Cait had decided that today, yes, TODAY, THIS AFTERNOON, while Perfect more or less patiently waited for her by wandering around Church Street and bought two shirts at American Eagle, it would be a good time to get another piercing.

“I don’t know if I will be able to get over there!” Perfect texted. “I got a late start!”

“What time do you have to leave?” I asked.

“I was hoping to be home at 7, but that won’t work, lol,” he answered. It was, by then, almost 6:30.

“Uhhh, no, I don’t think so—hahaha—but I’d like to see you regardless of where you are, so please don’t leave!” I, um, I guess I almost begged.

“Well, if you want to come to Church Street real quick, I can say hi and bye.”

“Livid” does not begin to describe my emotions. In fact, “livid” now needs a new definition, because I far surpassed its limits.

“Oh my god, this is bullshit,” I texted back before I could control it. “Where are you; I’ll meet up with you.”

“Me and Cait are just walking out of Urban Outfitters. I need to leave soon. This was a real quick trip for me, sorry.”

I looked at Emily, who had happened to come home with me and witnessed this entire debacle, and I swear to god I felt smoke trickle from my nose and ears.

“This. Is. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT!!!” I screamed while applying more mascara, grabbing my keys, and forwarding those texts all at once. “That’s IT! This is IT!”

I slammed out of the apartment, into my car, and rocketed downtown while blasting some…I can’t remember what it was—I think Matchbox Twenty. Yes, that’s right—“Push.” Because I was damn tired of being pushed and pulled around like this.

“Where are you?” I texted Perfect after parking at the top of the parking garage.

“The mall on Church Street—Pac Sun.”

By the time I got to the mall, I still hadn’t calmed down. People were visibly avoiding having to be near me. I could feel the anger crackling around me. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shutting lights off, something I normally do when my body’s energy gets out-of-control mad. (Yes, I’m a power gremlin. I can’t wear watch batteries, use motion sensor-activated sinks, toilets, soap or paper towel dispensers, and I occasionally turn off store- and streetlights.) I took a quick trip to the ladies room for one last look. And that look was manic. I called Emily to try and have her calm me down as I walked to Pac Sun, listening to her soothing voice and thinking Zen thoughts. I walked into the store, and did a lap. No tall, hulking manbeasts. No mutual friends.

“That’s it,” I told Emily. “This is going to be his balls on the floor of Pac Sun.” And then I turned around just in time to watch Perfect and Cait walk in the door behind me. Perfect looked wary and possibly, a little scared. Cait looked oblivious. Also, significantly more dressed-up than she had looked a few hours previously. So, she spent her time while she was supposed to be with Perfect going home, showering, changing into a cute dress, doing her hair and make-up, getting stuck with needles, and then commandeered my time. Great. What friends are for, right?

“I’ve got to go,” I told Emily. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t kill him,” were her last words to me. “I don’t want to have to visit you in prison.”

As I looked at Perfect, looking at me, I was struck more by what hadn’t changed than what had. He still had the same look in his eyes the day he did when we saw each other after sleeping together—that looks of, “hey, I really like you,” along with a look of, “we’re here; what’s going to happen now?” But it was pushed back further and hidden with wariness, and dropped eye contact. We both circled around each other, almost sizing the other up as we did our, “hey, what’s up?”s. He became infinitely interested in a clothing rack. I lifted up a hoodie’s sleeve. We existed in the same place as each other, just standing there, soaking it in, our little psychological feelers testing out the waters, the vibes, the attitude. No one spontaneously exploded. He tried a hoodie on. I tried on a coat.

“That fits you really well,” he said. We looked each other dead in the eyes, the first lingering eye contact since we’d been together. I saw them, then, really, and it was as I suspected— nothing had changed. He may have gotten a little sharper and a little more guarded with me, but then again, so had I with him. But when it boiled down to it all, it was him and me. It has always been him and me. Cait drifted around, either clueless or pretending to be. I calmed down a bit.
And promptly got worked up again when after buying said hoodie, Perfect turned around and announced, “I’ve got to get going. I was supposed to be at John’s house at 7.”

“Ok,” I gamely said as we walked out of the mall. “How is Mullett?”

“He’s good,” Perfect said as we all stood on Church Street. “Man, I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Cait said, rubbing her stomach. “Well, I’m staying downtown.”

Perfect looked at her. “Hey, I need cash for parking,” he told her, and she goggled at him for a minute before cracking her wallet open. I was impressed at his balls, but then again—only fair. If she made him wait for longer than the 2 hour free parking, then yeah, she should pay for it.

Money now in hand, Perfect and I both vacillated. “I’ve got to go back to the parking garage,” he said as he and Cait traded bags so they had all their individual items separated and in hand to leave.

“Oh, which one? I’m parked at the top of that one,” I said, pointing.

“So am I.”

“Great—walk back together?” I asked, and Perfect and I both looked at each other. A loaded look. Yes. Our five minutes alone.

“Yeah, great,” he said. We started to turn in unison.

Cait saw. “Hey, Perf, would you please drive me to Flatbread? I’m meeting Heather there for dinner.”

We both turned back and gave her the sort of incredulous look that people usually only make in movies. My mouth may or may not have actually been hanging open. This was the most aggressive semi-cock-block I’d experienced of my life. “Are you shitting me?” I wanted to say, shaking her. “Flatbread is one block down the street. You’re going to make him drive you there so that he and I get no time together? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

Instead, Perfect gave a shrug and a look and said, “Yeah, sure.” Ok, so I can sort of understand this—you never deny your best friends something. If Nora or Alli or Melissa or Caiti were to say, “hey, give me a ride from your mailbox to your house?” I’d shrug and say whatever and get my car keys out, too. But really—am I alone in thinking this is completely unacceptable, childish, selfish behavior THROUGHOUT on her part?

So our (un)merry gang of three trooped up the stairs to the parking garage, chatting about tattoos and college and how I was going to throw Cait off of the parking garage roof the first chance I got. (Not. But I would have loved to somehow work that into conversation topic.) Perfect led us to a Jeep Wrangler, and I stood behind it, looking at it a bit unlovingly. A.) The Douche drove only Wranglers, making his way through 4, and B.) it wasn’t the loved/hated 4runner.

“New car?” I asked as Perfect put his bags away.

“Naw, it’s my dad’s,” he said, turning back around and coming to stand closer to me where I stood on the driver’s side of the car. Cait, who I had thought would at least have the decency to get in the car and give us some quasi-privacy, stood at the other side of the bumper. Perfect started playing with the rubber that lined the frame of the car door. Cait got the hint and put her bags away.

“So,” I started. “I really would have liked to get a chance to hang with you, but oh well. When do you leave, again?”

“Saturday. School starts Monday.”

“Oh, well,” I said, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable as he watched me. “I’ve got Orientation to work at, and then classes, but I’ll call you when things settle down. Pass on my wisdom and stuff like that, ok?”

“Ok,” he said. “I’d like that.”

And then he came up to me, hunkered down, and gave me the best hug of my life. For two people separated by a solid foot of height and a proverbial elephant in the room, we mesh together so perfectly, it was hard for me to let go as he held me and rubbed my back. As always, one of his massive hands spanned my entire back, warm and comfortably heavy, just so there. I clung on to his shoulders, and closed my eyes, breathing him in, the scent of boy—clean laundry, forest air, soap, deodorant, and musk. The same smell that still lingers on my sheets and in my pillows. The same smell I’d know anywhere. We stood like that for a good thirty seconds, and then like little cracks fracturing us apart, let go, little by little. It felt like a sculpture being chiseled apart. Or maybe that was just my heart.

We said goodbye, and I walked across the roof of the parking garage to my car. The Wrangler revved to life, and I stood by my car, pretending to look for my keys and waved back as Perfect and Cait drove by, waving—Cait, enthusiastically; Perfect, a single deliberate rotation of one hand from right to left. Goodbye. And then, they were gone.

I sat in my car, gulping down dry sobs because the tears wouldn’t come, blasting “Kiss The Rain,” and wondering if this was it. I turned my engine over, drove up to the Admissions building of my college that sits conveniently overlooking Main Street, and ran across the parking lot to sit on the porch and watch cars drive by. I knew Cait—she would dawdle saying goodbye to Perfect when he went to drop her off at Flatbread, and traffic was bad. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I watched the Wrangler chug to the top of the hill and looked across at Perfect, sitting so solid in the driver’s seat, a bit like a salmon in a sardine can. And although that bitch may have gotten his last minutes, I was the last person to watch him leave Burlington.

I went home and ran two miles in the trails by the river about, mad at him, mad at Cait, mad at the situation, and mad at myself. Alli and Dan found me an hour later and took me out for ice cream, or rather, a stirring rendition of “This Is Exactly Where I Was Three Hours Ago,” complete with “we’re parking one spot over from where Perfect parked,” “we’re walking down the stairway we walked up,” “we’re standing on the street where we stood,” and “oh god, I feel like shit.” When a lady accidentally stepped on the back of my foot in Ben & Jerry’s, the only thing that kept me from turning around and taking her out with a flawless right hook was the fact she looked like my mother. When two college guys hooted after me and my short shorts, I almost turned around to harass them back.

“Do we need to take you to Mr. Mike’s tonight so you can get in a fight?” Alli asked me.

“YES,” I answered vehemently. Something in the way I said it or looked when I said it must have made her reconsider.

“Maybe not,” she amended nervously.

With help, I drafted a text and sent it to Perfect at 9, not expecting a response back until the next morning. “So I’m not gonna lie,” it said. “I was a little disappointed about today. I really would have liked a chance to spend a little more time with you. Would you be free to meet tomorrow in MontP middayish?”

As I was driving Emily home around midnight, I got one of the great shocks of my young life. At 12:11 AM, Perfect texted me back. “I got to get college stuff going! What do you need to talk to me about?”

“It wouldn’t take long, I promise,” I texted back, while driving. (Very dangerous—don’t follow in my example.) “I’d just like a chance to actually see you before you leave.”

“I don’t know! Can we talk on the phone?”

“I’m driving my friend home right now and I’m hella tired after last night…I’ve got the morning free so it would just be easier if we could make that work. And I hate phones, if you can’t tell by the texting, hahaha,” I replied, trying to keep the tone light.

“I am busy, though.” Stubborn. Obstinate. A little bit mad and peevish. This is both Perfect and I I’m talking about by this point. It was like 12 rounds of passive-aggressive text-boxing—I’d punch him with a “visit tomorrow,” and he’d counter back with a “call me now” punch of his own. Neither one of us were giving in, so I dug in.

“When are you not super-busy tomorrow, or if you have to go into town for anything anyway?”

“Atta-girl,” Emily coaxed from the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t let him win! Don’t give in! Don’t give up!”

“I am at home packing and have plans with friends and need to take care of the dogs! So we can’t talk on the phone? What’s so important? You’re creeping me out! Lol.”

Now, for any men reading this, telling a woman she’s “creeping you out” is pretty much the recipe for an instant fight. Emily watched me puff up and tried to deflect. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” she said. “You know, like ‘freaking me out’ or ‘making me nervous,’ not creeping like "creepy"!”

I’d give her that, and looked over at her, flushed and hot with nerves and anger, but voice still droll and sarcastic humor still intact. “Well, he just saw me. It’s not like I’m trying to tell him I’m three months pregnant with his child. Or going to profess my undying love to him. So I guess no, I’m not creepy.”

Instead, I texted this back: “”Well, you’ve been freaking me out, so join the club! I just want to clean slate before you leave and I’d rather be able to do it in person because it’s easier for me than calling.”

And then Perfect made the mistake that broke the argument’s back: “Clean what slate, I am really confused and drunk right now with friends.”

Ok, so, not only are you admittedly DRUNK, but you’ve been furiously texting me for the past hour now in front of your friends, so, excuse me, but wouldn’t that appear a little awkward? “No, we’re not together, but I’m going to text her and ignore you and get into a very couple-esque argument about seeing each other over here in the corner while we’re supposed to be out chilling together.”

I hope his friends are as confused about us and I am, because that way, I’m not alone in this.

“Then this definitely isn’t the time to debate this. I’m tired and driving,” I told him with finality.

And then, Perfect did something I would have never expected from him. “Ok, drive safe, bye,” he said, and then he turned his phone off. End of conversation. Firstly, he NEVER tells me to drive safe—that’s my line to him. Last-ditch effort to say, “I’m mad at you but I still care.” Secondly, Perfect NEVER gets mad. And thank god, because I bet he can Hulk up really quick. But no—Perfect does not get angry. Perfect gets mildly annoyed. It is mind-numbingly hard to get a rise out of Perfect, and him turning his phone off is the equivalent of another man yelling and throwing things. Or storming away for “a drive” as some prefer to do. I have to admit, I was a bit perversely pleased that I was able to get a rise and response out of him like that. If I could crawl under his thick skin enough to instigate that response, it’s got to mean something, right?
And in other news, that was out first real fight. Spats, we’ve had before. They blow over, but the next morning when I texted him to say “Hey, good morning, I’m up—let me know when you have coverage so we can continue our 12 rounds,” and watched the little green Verizon check-mark appear ten minutes later when he got coverage and the message was received but not responded to, it was obvious that this wasn’t just going to “blow over.” Whatever. I was still pissed. The “creeping me out” comment still stung, hard. And I didn’t have much riding on the chance I’d get to see him again before he left, either.

So I was surprised that evening when in the middle of a dorm’s first hall meeting I was attending during freshmen Orientation when my cell rang and it was a text from Perfect. “Hey,” was all it said. But “hey” is how Perfect makes up for all our little disagreements. He always texts me back first to try and make up before I text him, and his “hey” is a joint “I’m calmed down” and “I’m sorry.”

I love his “hey”s.

“Hey, I’m in a dorm meeting for my job—can I text you back when it’s over?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

After the meeting, I sent him a text back. “Hey—so I think we had a massive communication breakdown last night. I was just really tired and cranky and wasn’t communicating well to get my thoughts across.” (And that’s as far as I’ll get to saying “I’m sorry.”)

“Ok, what did you want to tell me?” Perfect asked. “Just go for it.”

This is where my little brain started to churn to life. Why the need in Perfect to talk and for me to say something? All I ever asked for was to hang out/chill out/see each other in person. Not once, and you can check back in the texts, did I ever say something like “we need to talk” or “I need to talk to you.” The closest I came was saying I wanted to see him to clean slate. He was the one who came up with all the talking. Huh.

“No, that’s the thing—it was more of a chill thing since we didn’t get to really see each other yesterday. But, you know, I’m sure there would have been talking, otherwise it would just be weird.” Again, trying to keep tone light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he apologized for it again.

“Yeah, it kinda sucks. Will you be in coverage later? I’m eating but I’ll call you after.”

“I might be.”

“Ok. It’ll be like, 10/20 minutes.”

So, after eating and generally gnawing on my fingernails and cold sweating, backed up by the lovely Marissa who so nicely agreed to patiently sit on the stone wall behind East and watch me pace on the phone so if anything went wrong I wouldn’t be alone afterward to do something drastic like lie down in the middle of the pavement and wait for a car to run me over, I called Perfect. That’s right, my little fingers went down the contact list in my cell phone, found his real name, which, for the slow of you out there, is not, in fact, really “Perfect,” and pressed send. He picked up on the third ring, and I was yet again reminded that his voice starts somewhere around his kneecaps—possibly, even his ankles.

We chatted for six minutes, about this, that, and everything, except for US. Now, this may not seem like such a stellar performance, but let me remind you it only took us three and a half to break up. We talked packing, or lack thereof, as he got called into work; roommates and worries (how he and two other guys are supposedly going to fit into a men’s double with one shared refrigerator;) my day; about my “fun and weird” little quirks (his words, not mine,) when fire trucks with sirens blasting passed him on his end of the line and I had to tell him that due to my sensitive hearing I’d have to hold the phone away from my ear until they were gone; how we were both bummed we didn’t get to spend more time together and was he sure that he had no time this evening? (“No…I’m on my way to dinner with my parents now and then I have to pack, and tomorrow morning I’m going over to John’s house before I leave to say goodbye to him and his family,”) and just general other little things. He told me his game-plan for heading to school, when he started classes, etc. I told him about working freshmen Orientation and how he better participate in his icebreakers because they’re a bitch to organize.

It was funny, though—he was audibly nervous, stuttering a few words, “umm”ing all over the place, and repeating statements. It was sweet; it was cute; it made me light up and go flirty. We both worked hard at bringing “us” back to normal and making up, and by the time he told me he was at the restaurant and had to go, I felt good. “Ok, good luck with everything. Safe trip. And I’ll talk to you soon,” I told him. Though I didn’t get to give him the speech, it had occurred to me halfway through our conversation that it was ok—it was more important to make sure we were ok than to further rock the boat. I’d wait a few days—let him settle in to college, let me get through my first week of classes, and then we’d go from there.

After I hung up, Marissa looked at me from across the parking lot. “I could hear him,” she told me. “He’s got a sexy voice!”

“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Whales can hear him it’s so low.”

Truth.

The thing that drives me crazy, however, is that one night, I’ll go to bed sure that it is over and done, and that was Perfect’s final chance and he’s made it clear that he’s over it all, over me—and then the next day, it’s all sunshine and smiles and hard work and apologies from him, and I rest my head on that same pillow that 24 hours ago I was sure was my Bed of Pain and this time, am convinced that he is one of the best people in the world and I adore him. (All considered, though, and I’m not saying this just because I’m dick-whipped, but he is a pretty stellar human being. And I’m sure he’s even better-seeming if you’re not romantically involved with him and don’t have to deal with the hot-and-cold bullshit.) It’s all so very emotionally taxing. My feelings aren’t used to this much whip-lash. Normally with my men, it’s cut and dried: they’re dicks who don’t really want to work for anything, so don’t expect much. With Perfect, it’s almost the complete opposite: if something goes down in a way not planned or doesn’t end well, he’s perfectly contrite and willing to meet me somewhere half-way to make up for it.

…Most of the time.

What’s Happened Since Then:

So, it’s now the third of September. Perfect has been away for six days, and, strangely, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him. I’ve sent him three texts that were received, but not responded to, and I know he’s alive because he’s been on Facebook posting. I get that life is different. I get that he’s adjusting. I get he’s busy with classes, and I get that his family was apparently still there on one of the days I texted him. But honestly, this is scaring me. because I also understand that he’s off meeting new people, and some of those people will be cute girls who will just be dying to get with him, and I can get a little insecure. The longest we’ve ever gone without talking was for six days when I ran away home and then to Saugerties because I was so mad at him I COULDN’T talk to him. This is weird.

I thought we were ok. I thought we had made up and were back on track. I thought he wasn’t mad anymore. But honestly, I have no idea what’s going on with him. Alli brought up a valid point that maybe, he kept bringing up talking because he knows EXACTLY what’s going on and wanted to hear me say it. Emily seconded her with another good point:

“If he’s the one who broke up with you, and he wants you back, he’s not going to want to be the one to say if first and look like an idiot who made a huge mistake. He’s going to want you to say it so he can then agree and he can save face. He may be scared to look like he was wrong. And you’ve been so chill with him and staying friends that he may honestly think it’s ok with you, and that you don’t want more. And by you saying you just wanted to “hang out” and deflecting all of his attempts to “talk,” it might really seem that way to him.”

Huh. Apparently, I may have been too cool of a cucumber. If that’s the case, and he does think I feel only platonic for him, the silence can be explained by him being away and trying to get back over me. What do you think, dear readers? Is he wanting to talk so we can banish the elephant in the room and he can straighten things out by saying, “no, I think we should just be friends,” or could he also be waiting for me to say the words “I want you back,” first? I’m honestly at a loss for this one.

Or, he could just me mad at me. But WHYYYYYY?! What does this uncharacteristic silence mean? I may have to actually ask Cait, who I’ve been generally avoiding due to latent anger and grudge issues since her stunning little immature performance last Thursday. (Oh, it’s been a week since I saw him. Ohhhh.)

Anyway, I’m calling him tonight if I don’t hear back from him before then. Even if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll still get to leave a message on his answering machine and ask what his damage is. Marissa and I will be downtown to meet her beau, so it would be a good time to be somewhere where I can’t flip the fuck out.

I’ll let you know how it goes, and until then, darlings,

XOXO

P.S-- And of course right as I publish this, he texts me back, but then doesn't answer the next text I send asking if I can call him later because I'm running off to class...of course. So confuzzled. As I said to Alli, "At least I know he's alive, unless he's figured out a way to text from the grave."