"You May Have Changed Me, But I Made Me."

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things that make us. Nothing existential—I was done with the practical knowledge of physics after CP Physics senior year of high school, and I’m a lethargic pagan with Zen tendencies and religion usually gives me a throbbing headache. More like, the little (and sometimes not so little) things that makes someone up—the little pieces/parts that are unique yet universal.

Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been home so much lately. Going back to the house I grew up and seeing the people I grew up with and sleeping in the same room I did for 18 years of my life (even if I wake up bolt upright every first night home now mid-panic attack because I don’t know where I am,) makes me think about the person I am and who I’m becoming.

There are the little universal things: most daughters use the same brand of make-up as their mothers because that’s what they started experimenting with when they hit middle school or puberty, whichever came first. (To this day, I’m a Clinique girl—foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lip color and all. Thanks, Mama.) Most people still eat at the same time they grew up eating dinner—I’m stuck around 8 or 9 PM because that’s usually when my dad’s wonderful culinary ventures were finally done by. Fathers remain, as John Mayer said, the “god and the weight of their [daughters’] world.” My father is still the person I seek the most approval from—he’s the one I desperately want to like the guys that actually make it home.

(Hmmm, interesting side-note: you know how Freud and psychologists always say that women look for partners like their fathers? I tend to disregard this claim, but this last little endeavor of mine got me comparing notes. Perfect’s birthday is the day before my father’s. My dad also threw discus quite spectacularly in high school. They both like wood-working. They both hunted in their youth. They’re both painfully logical. They both have far more female than male friends. And they both like things THEIR way—their timing, their plans, their deal. They both seem to be hopelessly good at anything they turn their hand to. I believe they are what you would call a “Jack Of All Trades, Master Of All, But Bored Very Easily In Their Pursuits.”)

There are the things you’re born with: a predisposition for warm weather, cool drinks, and good music. A love of cities and men with hazel eyes. Short calves and shorter stature. The same blue eyes, blonde hairline and forehead that everyone else on your dad’s side of the family has. A tendency to talk quickly, even more so when you’re either A.) mad, or B.) in Jersey. The way you sleep on your right side at night and curl up in the fetal position. How you laugh. What words you stutter—“rural,” “tinted windows,” and “Hawaii.” A love of jewelry and cars. Luck at the racetrack and the blackjack table. Baby toes. Dry humor and an inquisitive mind.

There’s the things that are harder to explain: how you can always, always—road blocks, detours, maps lost, bad directions given—find your way home. Like a homing pigeon. I can always point you in the direction my home is. I can tell you how to get there from the east, west, north, south, and which way is bound to have bad pot holes in the road.

Home seeps into your veins. Both my parents are New Jersey transplants, but I’m a Vermont Girl through and through. My night vision is phenomenal from running through fields at night, holding a beer bottle in one hand, and the can of gasoline for the bonfire in the other, or holing up in a playground’s tunnel tube with a polar fleece blanket and bottle of vodka in the middle of winter with the Twinny. I’ve ridden in the bed of a drunken friend’s truck and gone muddin’ and field driving. I could drive a Gator or Kubota before I could handle a gold cart. I drive better on dirt roads than paved ones. I own a pair of Carhartt pants for the winter, and I slip into the Vermont vernacular of “hun’nin’” and “fer” and “yer” and drawling out long and flat vowels as easily as I picked up contra dancing and wearing plaid. (That was “hunting” and “for” and “your,” for those of you who don’t speak Backwoods.) I cleanly killed a 150 pound doe on the opening day of fall hunting season, even if it was with my car and not a rifle. One of my favorite prom memories was when they played Big & Rich’s “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy,” and the glittery and well-coiffed and be-tuxed dance floor turned into a massive hoe-down.

And I’ll admit, there’s something appealing to me in the date described when they sing, “‘I’m a Thoroughbred,’ that’s what she said in the back of my truck bed as I was getting’ buzzed on suds out on some back country road. We were flyin’ high, fine as wine, havin’ ourselves a big and rich time, and I was goin’ just about as far as she’d let me go. But her evaluation of my cowboy reputation had me beggin’ for salvation all night long, so I took her out giggin’ frogs, introduced her to my old bird dogs, sang her every Willie Nelson song I could think of, and we made love.” (I think I actually may have done something like this—one of my high school beaus knew to cut the engine of his Wrangler a hundred yards from the end of my driveway and coast to the mailbox, where I would meet him after sneaking out around midnight with a six-pack of Bud and the knowledge that my parents were fast asleep, thinking I was on the other side of the wall in bed.)

And then there’s the things you accumulate along the way: Your education, or what you so choose to take with you from it—to this day, I can relay physics theorems with you and the major players in the American Revolution and positively OWN a five paragraph paper complete with opening paragraph with thesis, three supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion paragraph that ties them all together in air-tight and faultless detail, but get me a calculator for simple math.

The people that helped shape you: teachers, friends, authority figures. Alli, my riding trainer, is my second (much younger, much more entertaining) mother, and the person other than my father who guys should really go out of their way to impress, pulling out all the stops—handshakes, “yes ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” “pleasure to meet you,” and all. If I bring a guy to the barn, that’s when they know I’m serious about them—not when I bring them home. My parents I can survive you meeting without much of a to-do, but meeting my horse and my trainer is like meeting my child and therapist.

Past relationships you bring with you—scars, lessons, and all. Every new guy I date has to deal with the damage and triumphs of previous boyfriends. After the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend, I acquired the need to know, in brief terms, where, with whom and what guys were doing when not with me. (That’s what a cheater will do to you.) After Catholic Boy, virgins were nixed from the dating list. After the Douche, men who followed through were given priority. The Flaky Artist started the Tall Boy Obsession. Legs taught me what abandonment feels like. Jersey Blunt gave me a taste of what a real guy is supposed to do—call back, text you first occasionally, and like to include you in what they’re doing, even if it is helping him sell his wickedly good weed. And Perfect gave me that guy that every other boy in the future will despise: that ex that’s still around, on my phone and a few towns over, who did everything right; the Golden Boy; the one I still can’t say one bad thing about, even when pressed. I can give a shrug and a “He drove me crazy, but he put both toilet seat and cover down, what more do you need to convince you?”

I recently pulled my senior year book out again, feeling a little nostalgic at the end of another summer as I watch people getting ready to leave for their first year of college. I remember that newness, that feeling of “thank god; I’m finally outta here!” and the fears that came with it: Will I like my roommate? Will I make new friends? Will I be homesick? Will the classes are too hard? Will I get caught partying by the cops? Will the girls be cute? Will the guys be hot? Will all my stuff fit into my dorm room? Will I have to share a bathroom? Will my roommate sex-ile me? Will I be sex-iling my roommate? Will I get good grades? Will my professors like me? Will I like my professors? Will the food suck? How often will I get to visit home? Will my friends from home stay in touch? Will I like it there? Will I grow up?

I now look back on this, and I can give a firm “yes” to all of these things. And if at first it seems like “no,” give it another try.

In my senior bio, my future plans and quote were wise beyond my years. Somehow, my 18 year old self knew back then that College Carissa would need to open that page up, and see something other than the fact that it is never, EVER a good idea to include your current boyfriend or girlfriend in your bio—something I failed at, mentioning Catholic Boy and our romps in the Tech Room twice. Instead of focusing on this, I left myself two pieces of gold: “‘I’ve done the math enough to know the dangers of a second-guessing.’- Tool, and future plans: conquer the Amazon with a mongoose, and when that’s not exciting anymore, raise sheep in Ireland with a gorgeous farmer. (Or go to college, be happy, and love one man, or many.)”

It was telling already, even then. Along with the picture of me accosting a life-size Beef-eater bedecked teddy bear with a leg and am arm over it like it was a giant, furry stripper pole in London that accompanied it as my senior portrait.

I’ve always enjoyed a bit of shock value. That remains the same.

XOXO

Can Ya Dig It?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

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

For Finding and Keeping

How To Be A Stellar Girlfriend, Or, Ways To Make It Virtually Impossible For Him To Leave You Without His Buddies Killing Him And Jumping To Line Up For You:

#1: It starts simple—the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. If you can, cook for him. Or if baking’s more your thing, bake yummy things that will make the entire house or apartment smell edible. Even if you think you’re a horrible cook, just seeing you doing something in a kitchen hits a man in some primal part of his brain. Baking brownies from a box is remarkably simple and hard to screw up—try it sometime when he’s around. Or, invite him over for a dinner. I have a fail-proof recipe for seared steak and parmesan oven fries that very well could inspire fights, marriage proposals, or un-ending relationships. (Though you may say, “then why are you still single, smarty-pants?” Well, I haven’t gotten the chance to cook it for any of my men, yet, although a friend’s boyfriend DID have some of the oven fries and declared that if he weren’t an already taken man he would ask me to be his girlfriend. And that was just the fries! Imagine what a good steak could to do a red-blooded man!)

#2: Sneak their favorite treats into their car, gym bag, locker, refrigerator, office, apartment; whatever. Whether it’s chocolate covered gummy bears, like one of my exes, or a six-pack of their beer of choice, a new set of tongs for the grill, a pack of the condoms he likes, or the newest issue of Maxim or the movie he’s been waiting to come out on DVD, when he finds it, he’ll instantly think of you and how considerate you are.

#3: Treat them out to dinner, a drink, or a movie, like they would normally take you out. It’s a cute way to reverse roles and seem like you’re saying, “See? I’m with him. I’m proud of him.” They’re so used to being expected to pay for the women’s way , or at least attempt to offer if you normally go Dutch, that he’ll feel like he has a girl who’s really happy to be with him, and not with his checkbook.

#4: Ok, so, this one is a bit cliché, but so true. Give them head while they watch their favorite movie at home. The only thing that could possibly make “The Departed” more is if his dick is getting sucked or whacked off while the mobsters onscreen are getting whacked, too—just in a different, more Italian, Cosa Nostra way.

#5: Go buy something new from Victoria’s Secret or your favorite local lingerie shop that they’ve never seen you in before so you can spice up a night with the newness of it. Bonus points if it’s something you don’t normally wear, like garters and a garter belt, a corset, or a teddy. It will give him a new sort of thrill to see you in something new to both of you. Plus, hey, you both get to christen a new item of clothing. Ahhh, memories.

#6: If you live farther apart, make sure you split drive-time to visit each other equally. Gas is expensive, and plus, no one wants to feel like the host all the time. Swapping who drives each visit shows that you’re willing to put in your share of time, mileage, and gas to make this thing you two have going work—that you will physically drive to see him.

#7: Bone up a little bit on his favorite sport. Wikipedia is a good place to start for quick information. Really, if during a game you can tell the difference between a three-point shot and a free-throw attempt and what it’s worth, he’ll appreciate your effort and enthusiasm. Also, it might behoove you to know what the real definition of a “tight end” is.

#8: If he’s going to be spending nights at your place and needing someplace to wash up in the morning, get a couple extra toiletries to make him feel more at home. Get some manly soap so he doesn’t have to use your girly shower gel and then go into work, or worse, use nothing at all because he doesn’t want to smell like magnolias and jasmine. Buy a spare toothbrush in case he forgets his; believe me, this is a godsend to you, too. Make sure there’s an extra-big towel in a gender-neutral color that he can use—blues, greens, browns, and reds are good. No man wants to have to use your pink, you-sized towel, because let’s face it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from laughing when you see it wrapped around his waist like a dishtowel from the kitchen.

#9: Respect the “guy time.” Like you need your time with the girls without him so you can tell them all about your life with him, he needs time with his boys without you so he can either tell him about life with you, or actually not have to talk about you for once because you’re not there. If you do want to be included in the guy-time, ask him if he wants to invite the guys over to your place for a movie-night or casual Friday night. Offer to cook or provide the snacks as an incentive. Once they’re there, don’t monopolize conversation or try to distract them for the real reason they’re there: the movie, the beer, and your boyfriend. Let them do their thing. Watching the dynamics can be interesting and educational because you get to see your guy in his natural habitat—with other guys.

#10: If it’s not a big deal, and you can realize this, don’t tell him and try to make it his big deal, too. I see so many girls who make drama because they can’t help it and then drag their guys into it, which then drives him nuts, which then she can’t understand why he’s freaking out at her, too. Really—if you can work it out for yourself, lady, you do it. If you can’t handle it, then go to your girl friends. Only if you can’t help yourself, or can’t turn to your friends or mother for advice or an ear to rant to, then you go to your man. Half of the crap, yes, crap that is going on in your life or your friends’ lives he doesn’t want to hear about. The other half he’ll be more open to hearing and helping you with if you don’t burden him with made-up drama. A hiring, firing, pregnancy, win, loss, or piece of insightful personal information is worth sharing. A chipped nail, missed or lately-responded to text, misplaced ATM card, bicker at work, or jerk that cut you off while driving home isn’t worth the raised-voice, flapping hands spill-fest. Don’t be the “fulla drama mama.” Yes, there are some exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, dudes dig cool chicks, and that goes for laid-back personality. To your friends, roommates, and parents you can be a mess—to the guy you’re seeing, relaxed is a better mood to go for.

If you have any other tried-and-true tips, tricks, or hints, please, write in and leave a comment! I’d love to get a long, interactive, and informative list going that can be referred back to in times of confusion or need. Really, I need your help here, reader. You must have at least one fail-proof trick, you captivating creature. And guys, you’re not exempt. Let us know if something we “swear by” is complete bullshit, or if there’s something that would send you over the moon if your girlfriend or the girl you were dating did for you.

As Magnets Don’t, Opposites Attract Me:

Couples are a touchy subject for me, if you haven’t figured out by now. Just about the only couples I can stand are either ones I know, and not even then in some cases. I try to spend as much time in couple-free zones as possible. (Emily and Travis may be that exception, but they also have figured out the perfect blend of cute couple-dom while still retaining separate and non-overly touchy-feeliness around other people.) However, I can tell you what couples I do like. Couples who are complete opposites, because it always makes me wonder what brought them together. Couples who are mismatched in height. Couples who do decidedly un-coupley things, like skeet shooting or kayaking. Couples who just stay in and don’t feel the need to inflict their couple-ness on other un-coupled people. Couples I am a part of. (Ha. Ha. Of course.)

I’ve learned a few things from the couples I find cute. I’m a notoriously hard-to-peg person when it comes to having a “type” or categorizing what I like in a man—really. Let me take you on a written slide-show. First, there was the Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend—24 (I was 16, hence the moniker), red-headed, beardy, five-eight, with no real defined hobbies or interests other than ultimate frisbee, cooking, and working on expanding his beer-gut and bedding younger women. Then there was Catholic Boy, a grade below me in high school—dark, tan, soccer-boy fit, five-six, ten pounds heavier than I was, and into art, country music, and obeying his Mommy and priest. Then there was the Douche, half a year older—a short, stocky, and swarthy Italian with a Beatles haircut, who played the guitar, loved classic rock and partying, and never followed through with anything he said. The Flaky Artist was tall—six foot and one inch—had just shaved his head and looked like a lanky neo-Nazi and twenty days younger than me. He was into drawing, alternative music, cuddling, and videogames. Then Legs, a graduating senior in college when I was a freshmen—five-ten, 185 pounds of stocky soccer-body and those infamously toned legs, big blue eyes, pouty Cupid lips, receding hairline, baggy-casual clothing, hip-hop music, photography and a snowboarding and World of Warcraft addict. (You wouldn’t have ever known it looking at him.) Jersey Blunt was older than me while a year in college behind due to a probation stint, six-four with black hair and bright blue eyes, thick and expressive eyebrows, a nose with character and a mouth that matched it with what came out of it, and lanky while still managing to be broad in the shoulders and muscular; a button-upped dealer with a gangsta lean. He owned Timberlands, but he also owned a really nice pair of khaki Dockers which he ironed out. He loved his “mugobs” or “gobbies”—what we would call “sunglasses” and owned pairs made by such insignificant people as Dolce and Gabbana, as well as a watch by someone called “Movado”. And then, Mr. Perfect. Six-three, six months younger and two years behind me in the college adventure time-frame, 204 pounds of broad and thick muscle, floppy brown hair, clean-cut Vermont farm-boy attire like the classic broken-in jeans and waffle-thermal longsleeves in colors like muted lake blue, bright hazel eyes that always seemed to laugh, cheekbones that could cut glass, eyelashes a girl would kill for, a strong, straight, “perfect” nose, and a smile that could stop crime. Yeah. Obviously, this guy did, and still does nothing for me. Yeah, right. Hubba hubba.

There are some similarities. I’ve dated more men with brown or hazel eyes than blue, and I don’t really like blonde men—I prefer brunettes, usually with longer-ish hair; you know the cut: it comes down over their ears, the back of their neck, and their forehead resulting in a need for them to flick or toss it out of their eyes when they go too long between cuts, which is often. But I love it. I seem to be partial to Italians or darker-complexioned men, or men who at least tan well in sunlight. I also much prefer tall men, and they have to weigh more than me. I like muscles, quite a bit—after The Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend, I decided that was one thing I could be shallow about. I tend to be attracted to men whose physiques do the classic “V” of broad shoulders and slimmer middles and hips, although Perfect was a “perfect” rectangle, and I loved the sense of broadness and solidness he had. However, I seem to attract blue-eyed men with criminal records of average height and pot-smoking habits. Hmmm. Other than that though, personality seems to be what really draws me in. None of my past relationships really share looks or personality in common, so it seems to be a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about a guy that pulls me in.

So what does this have to do with me and couples? Well, dating all these diverse guys has made me realize the things I find adorable in couples. One—I love height-mismatched couples, especially if the guy is really tall and masculine and broad and the girl is really small and cute. Being with tall guys always made me feel more tiny and feminine than I do normally, and I have a “big personality”, so this is usually hard to accomplish. Most of the time, until I need to reach a shelf, I think I am about five foot and ten inches. When Jersey Blunt could tuck me under his chin up against his chest, or the Flaky Artist would draw me up next to his body and tuck me into him under and arm and rest his head on top of mine where I cuddled in his nook on the couch or Perfect could lift me up and move me around , or carry me piggy-packed for over half-an-hour, I finally got to feel like the petite girl I really am. This directly correlates to my behavior—you can visibly watch me become softer, sweeter, more girlish and less dominant. I bat my eyelashes more. My voice raises an octave, and my mannerisms become more delicate. When I see couples like this—him clearly masculine, her clearly feminine—it reinforces this idea, which I love to see; two people, so comfortable in their roles and with each other that he gets to feel like The Man and she gets to be quiet and lovable and light and airy. Call me traditional, but I can’t help it—when I see these couples on the street, I always think one thing: Love.

I also like couples who are complete physical opposites in their features: he’s dark and she’s light, or vice-versa. If he has really heavy features and black hair and dark eyes, and she’s refined-looking and pale and has wispy and almost silver hair, I think of things like the evil prince and the peasant girl who melts his heart from my childhood story books. (I’m a sucker for storylines, especially in couples.) Or if she’s all sultry and mocha, and he’s icy and cold, it makes me wonder how their opposites attracted. (Again, with the storylines.) The couples that look alike, like they’ve been together so long they’ve started to become one another; they don’t interest me so much. It’s the ones that look so striking together that get me thinking, wondering, and liking.

Where The Wild Things Are:

Every week, an alternative newspaper called “Seven Days” hosts an iSpy section along with the personals. Like a little kid with Christmas presents, I know which one I want to open up to first, but I do love the delicious sense of putting off desire, so instead, I pretend-casually flip through the first section, read all the pertinent area news, open up the second section (getting warmer now,) and read through all the club listing, checking out who’s coming into town. I then read the personals, just for fun, and to play “Guess That Person” because it is, after all, a small town, and finally! On the next fold, the iSpys.

An “iSpy” is basically an ad someone takes out with a description, time, and place that they met someone they want to reconnect with or meet. Or, it can be a shout-out to a friend, a thank-you to a dear lover, or a general note to a group of people or establishment. To me, the iSpys are the ultimate Valentine. Though not especially a fan of Valentine’s Day myself, as I have always, always, always been single and generally tried to avoid the masses of happy and money-spending couples, there is something so fantastic, so novel about a witty and clever blurb in an old-fashioned, black-and-white newspaper whose ink rubs off onto your hands as you turn the wide pages.

I desperately want to be Spied. Every time I go about town, I dress in something distinctive to mark me out from all the other short, small blondes across Burlington with blue eyes. Every week is like a new birthday or Christmas—my heart speeds up and as I get closer to that page, I always think, “Maybe this will be it.” Who would Spy me? That’s half the fun. What would it say? Would it be smart, or would it be totally corny? (I guess this boils down to “what sort of total stranger would I attract?”) How would I respond? Would I respond, or would I take it as the most flattering thing of my life, move on, and never read the iSpys again, mission complete?

I don’t think so. As this hasn’t happened yet, I instead read the iSpys to see what sort of people DO get Spied in my place, or what particular towns are particularly Spy-heavy. Montpelier, actually, attracts a lot of Spying. There’s one blonde, 30-something worker at the Meadow Mart with a great smile who was getting consistently Spied in a bunch of consecutive issues this past Spring. Sometime when I’m in town next, I’m going to stop by and try to find her and see what all the fuss was about.

And an Honorable Men-tion:

A special thank-you tonight to Will, who still gives me the best relationship advice a straight guy can give his female friend, not sparing the gory details of the inner-workings of the young male mind, always sticking up for the manliness and spirit of the guy I’m trying to force into submission to make me see it from his point of view, and for saying the hard things even when he knows I may not want to hear it though it’s the truth—all of this even after the completely unfounded rumors going around campus that we were hooking up. Now that’s friendship. (Also, if anyone knows where/how those rumors started, feel free to fill us in, because we’re clueless. Though I’m sure anyone overhearing us in the cafeteria as I ask him something like, “Hey, what do guys think about when they’re watching porn?” or say something like “I had the most amazing orgasm last night,” would think they knew what’s going on. But honestly—that’s how I talk to all my friends. Aren’t they the lucky bunch?)

Goodnight!

XOXO