Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of A Relationship.

You do things for relationships that you normally wouldn't be caught dead doing, right? I mean, after all, we always hear about how "sacrifice" and "work" are the two hot-button words in the game of being a two-some. For some women, that means learning how many minutes are in a quarter of football (that's 15, if you were wondering,) and what player's names to scream at the TV. For others, it means learning how to dirty-talk, or indulging in that odd vinyl fetish. For me, it apparently means sacrificing life, limb, and new Urban Outfitters' dress. After watching a 20-something guy hammer a screwdriver into his motorcycle’s locked gas tank, I’m literally sitting here, writing this to you perched on top of an old black plastic milk crate, listening to a neighbor say “I took my dad’s bike to go meet my girlfriend in South Burlington; I met her in Kmart’s parking lot, ‘cause that’s where she was, Kmart…” Why? In the name of male bonding.

Now, there are three things I love, and three things I really, really love when in conjunction with each other: Men, beer, and oil grease. An elusive and usually sheltered sacred act, I found myself out of Burlington and in the wilds of Winooski after I was promised by the S.O some Steel Reserve and a chance to watch men physically pull apart a motorcycle; I jumped on that shit. But much like taking the pants off of a new beau after a Beergoogle Olympics night out at your local dive bar, I wasn’t ready for just how hairy things could get in a land where the Y chromosome had replaced a fun time for logic and was wailing away at a gas tank, cigarette dangling from lips. While any half-way intelligent person would be running for their life and diving behind the closest Jersey barrier, here I perch, on my milk crate, listening to four men talk about guns, bikes, engines, cigarettes, and penis length.

Well, maybe not penis length, but close enough. This could not get any manlier if Hulk Hogan suddenly showed up in a Ford F250 and promised to teach them all some top-secret wrestling moves and how to get into a scorecard girl’s booty shorts.

Any time when men and women coexist in a non-professional setting, a few differences between the genders become self-evident: 1.) Grooming techniques. 2.) Conversation topics. And 3.) What is really important and constitutes a good time. For women, these things include some strong drinks in martini glasses, the receipts from the last shopping trip’s spoils, and the latest gossip. For men, it seems to be beer, anything with an engine, and anything BUT gossip or recent headlines, possibly other than, “Did you hear about the Royal Wedding? Prince William—what a bitch now.” They ask about family, mutual friends, recent car accidents. They talk about the price of things—TVs, motorcycles, cars, cell phones. They compare the quality of beer, cigarettes, knives, bikes, cars, and housing. After three hours on this milk crate, I feel strongly in the validity of my statement when I say—men and women don’t like the same things. While my S.O and I both have subscriptions to GQ and I’ve watched him flip through the pages of my Cosmo, and we both have an affinity for expensive clothing and fine food, I have finally found an area in which I can’t follow him in—it seems to be, after all, a man’s world, and I suddenly feel like I should be asking if anyone wants me to make them a sandwich.

...Aaaaaaand my very white-collar boyfriend just craned his head around his shoulder, and spat. Oh yeah, Toto—we’re not in college or the Hill Section anymore. Time to get out of here.

XOXO

Be a Girl Scout; Be Prepared.

I'm a girl who likes to be ready for anything. I carry a big wallet (an embossed alligator 5 Euro flea market find from Firenze that can hold my passport,) and I make a point to always have condoms on me, because hey, you never know when the opportunity is going to present itself, if you will. In fact, at any one time, there are usually 5 condoms within close distance of my person. I told this to a guy I was sleeping with, and he seemed awed. "That's more than I have. That was my last one."

I'm highly optimistic.

Possibly even more useful than carrying protection, however, is carrying something for when you've passed to point of protection and now need to go on the offensive: Not Plan B, but a small packet of at least 2 painkillers and a few Band-Aids. Painkillers to soothe all your little roughnesses in life, and Band-Aids for everything from paper cuts at work to covering developing blisters from your cute yet painful flats. Truth be told, I always end up reaching for those two things more than the condoms.

Now, if only I could find a way to fit a shot of vodka in there for those times you need either liquid courage or a bracing moment, we'd be in business.

XOXO

Bad Romance

I'm not the most romantic girl in the world, but there are definitely some things that get me going. Conversely, there are some "classic" romantic moves that make me feel like I just gagged on about two feet of Spam. One ex of mine made me melt every time he called me "Babygirl," while another drove me away with his constant holding of my knee while he drove MY car. To this day, if you touch my knee while I'm in the passenger seat, you can watch my skin crawl. Moral of the story: I am, possibly, one of the most quirky people you may ever meet. (Which is why I think a large majority of the men I have relationships with go on to date extremely normal, sometimes borderline boring girls after me. I acknowledge that I can be exhausting.) But what works for one girl may not work for another. Same goes for men. Some like their facial hair being stroked, and some have such thick hair follicles that it hurts. Make educated moves. Though most of these are angled as romantic moves for men to make, there are certainly some that can swing both ways, so ladies, sit up and pay attention. I'm talkin' to YOU. If he's squirming (in an unpleasant way,) while you're trying to grab ass in public, it may be time to stop. There's romantic, and then there's creepy.

Romantic: Home-cooked meals.

Creepy: That thing where you leave a trail of rose petals that leads to somewhere. Maybe I'm just jaded in that I've seen too many thrillers and TV shows about abduction and murder that start that way. But if I came home to a trail like that, I'd pick up the closest long, blunt object and run out the door again, screaming.

Romantic: Playing an instrument and/or singing to someone.

Creepy: Staring intensely into their eyes while doing it.

Romantic: Getting an animal together. (If, you know, you're in a long-term, committed relationship together that involves at least significant cohabitation. Otherwise, get a fish.)

Creepy: Training it to recognize your significant other as "Daddy" or "Mommy." I had an ex who trained his beagle to run to me when he told him to "Go to Mommy!" I liked the dog more than the man.

Romantic: Cleaning. I hate cleaning. I consider it very sexy when a man cleans. And if you know what bleach, is-- WHELP, get ready for some lovin'.

Creepy: Cleaning in a French Maid outfit. If you're a man.

Romantic: Calling "just to check in."

Creepy: Calling "just to check in." 3 times a day.

Romantic: Holding hands.

Creepy: Pet-names so nauseating that they would make the Pillsbury Doughboy swear off ever eating sweets again. Stick to the classics: Babe, Baby, Baby Boy, Baby Girl, Honey, Hun, Sweetheart, Love, Cupcake, etc. No "Schnookie-wookie Lovie-kins." Jesus.

Romantic: Choosing "your" song. Together. No executive decisions, here.

Creepy: Giving jewelry before you hit 6 months together.

Romantic: Being a little public about your relationships. Not as in mad PDAs, but periodically standing or sitting next to each other, or doing some light petting: a hand on a lower back, arm, or shoulder, or leaning on each other.

Creepy: Having to be touching at ALL TIMES. Touching something. Anything. Even things not rated PG-13 in public.

Romantic: Showing up unexpectedly (or, I guess, expectedly,) with something small: a six-pack, a single specimen of their favorite flower (mine, coincidentally, happens to be hot pink Gerber daisies, if you were so wondering), a McDouble from McDonald's ($1! And no onions, thanks), or a movie, CD, or book. (This is also a good gesture to make with friends, too. Everyone likes feeling special and thought of.)

Creepy: Stalking. I shouldn't have to go into detail. If you're wondering about it, you're stalking. (But no, Facebook does not count.)

Romantic: Fact-- nibbling on some body parts, like earlobes, jaw lines, etc., feels good.
Creepy: Coming up from behind someone. And biting them. (You've been watching too much True Blood. I've been watching too much True Blood.)

Romantic: Doing things you both enjoy together, or inviting the other to something if you know they'd be interested. Cases in point: Hikes, concerts, trips to new restaurants, parties, game nights, TV events (read: football), local festivals or events.

Creepy: Leaving things around the apartment of someone you're not actually seeing, unless you're an extremely frequent house-guest.

Romantic: Surprising someone when they get home by being waiting there for them.
Creepy: Surprising someone when they get home by being waiting there for them.

It really depends on who it is doing the waiting.

And I'll amend this one from my past thoughts:

Romantic: Cuddling all night long in the winter. (Maybe that's just more self-serving for me, but yes, I do enjoy body heat.)

Creepy: Cuddling all night long. During the hottest days of summer. With no air conditioning.

XOXO

Editor's Note to Men: If you're wondering what the lady in your life considers "romantic," I have to level with you-- a lot of the time, she'll have already told you. Maybe not in so many words, but women drop hints like the Air Force drops bombs. (Equally devastating.) I know that while intuitive listening and remembering seemingly small and insignificant details may not be your thing, it'll really get you far. And if you'd enjoy getting laid "just because," I'd listen in a little more. (Yeah, that is how we reward. True story.) As for you guys, I know the majority of men I've been with come right out and say when they either dig or really don't dig something, so thanks for being easier and more up-front with that. I guess women just prefer to be "surprised" by these kinds of things.

Dates I Might Actually Survive

See this? I would go on a date for a dish of what is to your left. Really. Let me explain.

I spent a wonderful Sunday morning a few weekends back having brunch with my mother, when I looked around Penny Cluse Cafe and realized that I was actually enjoying myself, out and about, before noon on a weekend morning. I then noticed the couples and tables of friends sitting around us, and reached a startling conclusion over a bowl of the most fabulous chicken and biscuits I have ever had: I would let someone take me out to brunch. In fact, I'm pretty sure that a brunch date would be the best date that you could ever hope to have me agree to.

I know, I know, I know-- I self-professedly hate dates. Dates make me as-- if not more-- uncomfortable than my yearly visit to the gynecologist. Like, you could not pay me to go on a date. (Well, I don't know. I have over a cool half-grand in vet bills to pay right now, so you probably could auction me off. But that is besides the moral point.) But here are the fine points on why a brunch date is an ok-by-me "real date" alternative:

A.) I don't actually like most breakfast foods. But you can bet the 6 dollars and 50 cents that it takes to buy a large serving of Penny Cluse's chicken and biscuits that after a night of um, exercise, I wake up damn hungry.

B.) If you're being a gentleman and driving me home the morning after, if you suggest a brunch spot on the way back to my place, I will usually be up to making that stop. Unless I am ridiculously hungover. And then please, don't even talk to me. It's not you-- it's my headache.

C.) Brunch is usually cheap. I will purposely order something under $10 to spare you. I honestly feel like spending more than $10 on a meal for a date in the morning is insane. I also honestly feel like spending $20 on a date's meal in the evening is equally insane. Also, asinine.

D.) The coffee is usually better than what you make. Or, more conveniently for me, they actually offer me coffee, if you don't.

Possibly the only downside to this whole brunch-date idea is that the morning after, I tend to look like someone who was just released from an intervention program, I smell like a pleasantly shameful blend of latex and you, and I'm wearing what I wore yesterday, just a little more stretched out than it was the morning previously or should be. Not generally my favorite time to make a foray into public, but really-- for those chicken and biscuits, I would. (You should be sensing a theme by now. Even if you don't go with me, go try those. Actually, on second thought, please take me with you. Look-- I'd date you. Maybe just that once, and maybe it's just my latent Southern heritage from my mom's side of the family coming out, but still. That's progress!)

What are some other dates I would willingly go on? Art gallery openings or shows. Concerts. If I were comfortable enough with you to see me red, panting, and sweaty outside of the dark of a night-time bed, hiking. Probably the best way to win my heart would be to take me dancing. It's one of my favorite things, but because I have never had a partner, I've never been able to learn the forms I really want to: Latin, ballroom, tango, etc. So you guessed it-- take me to a tango class, and I would literally be putty in your arms. If putty had two quick and nimble feet and hips made for swiveling, that is.

And even if I were on the fence about you, I would definitely attend a live football game with you. Especially if I could drink beer while there. I would whole-heartedly invest in those 9 hours or so to figure out how I really felt. I'm not promising anything here like someone could go from a frog to a prince with 2 Pats tickets, but I certainly would let you give me your best shot at changing my (then open) mind.

XOXO

Normalcy Sucks.

Cosmopolitans. Good beer. My monthly women's magazines. Men's facial hair. Expensive leather interiors of expensive European cars. Bubble baths. Sunday football. Snakes. A few of my favorite things.

Writer's block. Or, more accurately, having absolutely nothing of interest to write about. Not one of my favorite things.

There comes a moment in your life when you've laid the past just enough to rest that you're more "more" over it than "less," and in a sort of gray-zone about where to go from there. This moment generally comes around when you've progressed to being friends with your ex; when you have decided that you are perfectly content with the way things are (for the most part); or when you've committed to keep sabotaging yourself or others for the stupid fun of it, but in a very small way. This moment is called A Love/Sex/Relationship Columnist's Nightmare.

I'm the sort of person who could never be happy in a perfectly functioning and progressing relationship. In order for me to remain happy and interested, there's always got to be some small level of drama-- something for me to tear apart over and over again in my head. Average just doesn't cut it for me. That's why I'm so notoriously picky. There aren't many guys who can keep THAT intrigue up. And when there is no drama, no intrigue, and no new news to report, it means that there is nothing for you to read.

So if you've noticed a downswing in the amount of content on this blog recently, sorry. I have no one, and nothing, to bitch about. Boo hoo. Normalcy sucks. I'll try to pick it up. Anyone know an attractive, emotionally unavailable, intelligent man with a casual style and psychological, misogynistic, and mommy issues with an charismatic and addictive personality who just happens to be misguidedly looking for the love that he will never be able to maintain? Kind of my specialty. (Not much of a specialty.) I need a project.

Or a new hobby, possibly less destructive than this.

XOXO

Good Morning, Amurika!

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Apartment In The City

The Bat Cave, named due to the $1 curtains.

Also, see if you can spot the stolen items in our living room.

Hint: Road crews hate us.

The ceiling was painted years ago by a previous tenant who was an Art student at UVM.

So I guess they are good for something.

The long hall.

Our shared walk-in closet.

My closet, also known as "The Spoils of Italy."

Our back porch, complete with our neighbor's cat, Otis.

XOXO

Pillow Talk and Bed Partners

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

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

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

Evidence.

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

XOXO

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

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

How To Love A Wild Thing

Today was one of those late-sleeping, 4-PM-beer-drinking, lazy days in which I'm still wound for sound at 2 AM, and the only thing left to do for fun and excitement is wash the dishes, pants-less, while listening to Blondie and The Raconteurs, singing along while sudsing. Though we've come a long way from the homemakers of the '50s, I'm hoping that one day, I'll find a member of the opposite sex who appreciates this method of housekeeping more than the former.

Speaking of the '50s, Alli and I started compiling a list of the old movies we have to watch: Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Glass-Bottom Boat, The Maltese Falcon, and Creature From The Black Lagoon.

"I still haven't seen it," I told her. "It's my dad's favorite classic monster movie." Before she could say anything, I cut her off. "And you can lay off the Freud."

"I wasn't going to even touch that one," she told me.

Conversation, as it is apt to, turned then to our hot neighbor, who I'd run into earlier in the afternoon. "You know, he's supposedly really, really smart," Alli told me. "He was working on some genetics thing in Jamaica when he was there. That, and goat farming."

I ask you-- isn't that some sort of excellent? It brought up the question to me-- What sort of man do you want to end up with? If Freud is right and all young women are really just looking for another father figure, I'm going to need to find a jack of all trades, and master of most with a fantastic taste in cinema. If Alli and my not-so-innocent Mr. Roger's Neighborhood crush is any indication of the sort of person who stops us in our tracks, it's going to have to be someone with beautiful eyes. Someone real intelligent. With quirks.

And what about me? Is this smart, savvy, debonair jester

going to want me, singing Blondie at 2

AM as she finally,

finally, FINALLY does the dishes? A girl who names her cat after her favorite Italian waiter and can't say no to a dress in a particular shade of pink? Who stutters "rural" and sasses police officers when drunk? Who will never NOT be able to have an opinion on anything, but hopes her charm and colloquial vocabulary makes up for it? As Holly Golightly said in Capote's novel the movie was based on, "Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell...You can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

This is all I can say definitively on the subject: It ain't gonna work unless he's nocturnal, too.

XOXO

P.S-- If you already haven't, pick up a copy of "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Holly is a true original.

Have Some Patience.

This is my friend Patience.

Patience can play. See Patience play. Hear Patience sing.

Patience can write. Listen to Patience's lyrics.

I just got internet in the new apartment and need to do about an afternoon's worth of research before my next post, so, until then, I fully encourage you to check out Paish's stuff. Because she's kind of amazing. And I'm not just saying that because she barks like a dog for my benefit and is the sort of girl friend who always will appreciate the wackiest things you do, like hanging over the back of the couch and pulling funny faces and being publicly awkward. I'm saying that because her songs get stuck in my head and make me sing or hum along and then I feel like a really awkward personal friend groupie. So if it makes me a complete fool, guaranteed you'll probably enjoy it, too.

XOXO

Giving, Getting, And Graduation

My birthday is coming up, (in over a month, so um, don't get too excited,) and it's got me thinking of gifts and gift-giving lately.

About the only thing I really need is a bed for my new apartment, and my extremely loving and gracious family is making that dream come true for me. I am going to have the first queen-size bed of my life; in fact, the first bed larger than a twin. I am beyond excited, because this means that I will have all sorts of room to starfish out and share the bed with George, my faithful body-pillow. However, I already know that I'm still just going to sleep on the edge of the bed pressed up against the wall, like always. So it's the thought that matters; not the practice. Also, I guess this also now means I can have guests over in comfort, and not in hot and sweaty enforced spooning sessions. To this, I say hell yes. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good cuddle, but sweaty summertime spooning at night is not something that I am a huge fan of.

Also, Erin and Arielle recently introduced me to Regretsy, where I found this, a penis chapstick cozie. I have to admit, I was very taken with it. It's me in a very comic, non-serious way. For any other jokesters out there, this is a perfect gift. (Regretsy is also the perfect place to find really weird, really stupid, one-of-a-kind gag gifts for your friends with a discerning sense of humor.)

But penis chapstick cozies aside, this little keychain is probably what I want the most. Some of you might recognize it from the Sex and the City movie and think that it's a little tacky, but I think it's just fabulous. I love the idea of having a constant reminder on me. Also, it's large enough that I won't lose my keys or won't be able to find them at the bottom of my huge purses. It's just something so little, and I want it so bad.

Also, because it will be, yes, my I'm-a-legal-drinker birthday, I finally get to enact the plan I've been thinking of since I was (no lie) 16. (I've always taken my liquor very seriously.) A 21st birthday is the perfect time to start a really great liquor cabinet, and I've always held that the mark of a truly great host or hostess is that they have the liquor necessary to create your favorite drink. So, instead of asking for "stuff" or letting people take a shot in the dark, create a "liquor cabinet" list like an alcoholic's wedding registry, and let your friends bring you a bottle of each needed liquor. It doesn't have to be Stoli when Smirnoff will suffice, but you still need your basics: vodka, gin, rum, tequila, Triple Sec, scotch & whiskey (though I am never drinking it EVER. AGAIN), and a bottle of champagne. Insta-party. Oh, and a few 6-packs of good beer-- Blue Moon; Long Trail's Blackberry Wheat; Magic Hat's #9, Circus Boy, this summer's Odd Notion, and Braggot, if you can find it; and a good seasonal beer. You must NEVER forget the beer.

Graduation time is now, and there are always graduation gifts to be bought. Thankfully, being in Italy makes that pretty easy for me, so while I'm all done on the grad-shopping front, you may not be. Here are some of the things that I've stumbled across recently that might just make the cut:

For other writers out there, I've been obsessed with Smythson's writing goods since I was (not joking) about 7. I've received journals, ink and pens, and art sets from them, and I have to say-- cost is quality, especially in this regard. What about some personalized business stationary? An embellished leather business card case? Or a journal with advice emblazoned on the cover? Depending on the sentiment of graduation, you can go with "Now Panic and Freak Out," "Keep Calm and Carry On," "Work Hard and Be Nice To People," or just the classic, possibly even personalized. Nothing says "You've made it" like something from Smythson for the new grad.

Anyone who has ever worked a job that requires you to be up earlier than your 9 AM classes can tell you how important coffee is in their life. For this reason, a coffee maker is a great gift for grads. I have used many different coffee makers in many different jobs, but this one by Keurig has to be, by far, the best coffee I've ever had out of an electric coffee maker. Plus, it comes with control for brewing three different cup sizes-- which I like to think of as "good morning," "Good Morning!" and "GOOD MORNING WORLD, I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU UP TODAY!"

For a more sentimental take than screaming obscenities at the world in a caffeine-induced haze, Dr. Seuss's classic book, Oh, The Places You'll Go!, with a personal message written on the inside cover, and a road atlas for all the adventuring that they'll be doing.

For him, a really kick-ass personalized beer stein, pint glass, or beer mug.

For her, a get-away weekend. For some ladies, it could mean a weekend in New York City for spa treatments, cupcakes at Magnolia, shopping, dinner at one of the hip new restaurants, and drinks at a fabulous bar. For other girls, it could be a weekend camping trip, complete with gourmet s'mores, guitar jam sessions, henna tattooing, and kayaking. Only you know what your friend likes-- be creative!

If all else fails, I found this site to be helpful, if not slightly cliche at times.

And last but not least, money. Money is always a fool-proof gift for grads, because, chances are, they don't have it, and they're gonna need it.

XOXO

Shake It Up.

<--- Bad dating material. But great music. It's what's getting me through right now.

There are some things that for some reason or other, slip your mind as something you like to do. They can be little things-- like painting your nails, or a specific yoga position. Or they can be big things-- like a particular smell, or a memory from childhood that when you finally do remember it, it seems like yesterday and you can't help but keep a smile off your face. It's strange how the mind works. We're so busy that we have a tendency to lose the things that keep us grounded.

Believe it or not, I was a hardcore metal/punk tween. We're talking, perpetual sneer, only wore black, refused to wear jeans as they were "conforming to The Man," studded belts and bracelets, heavy eyeliner, made-my-own-ripped-up-stitched-back-together-held-on-by-safety-pins clothing. About 5 people who read this blog can assure you, I, Miss American Eagle, Miss I-Love-ELLE-magazine, Miss I-Look-Pretty-In-Pink, am not lying to you, dear reader. I can actually trace it all back to the fact that in the tender year of fourth grade, I thought Fred Durst was the sexiest man alive. (Not surprisingly, this was also the year I started swearing.) From Bizkit, I ventured to Korn, System of a Down, Rage Against The Machine, Tool, Renholder, and all the usual suspect popular bands of the time. I branched out, with some help of some like-music-minded friends, and pretty much did a lap all over the metal world.

This was when I discovered the Deftones.

The Deftones have always been near and dear to me. But now that I'm more of an alternative-folk-rock girl with some hip-hop and R&B leanings, I kind of tend to forget that a large part of me still likes hardcore music, very much.

At the moment, I'm in the midst of trying to wrap up half-a-semester's worth of homework for an online class. Unfortunately, Italy's internet connection, or lack thereof, pushed me far behind, and I've been keeping nearly U.S hours-- going to bed at 4 or 5 AM here, sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon--trying to get it done, along with updating my resume for a job that may have, just may have literally fallen out of the sky and into my lap (knock on wood), and starting my end-of-semester papers for my Italy classes and basically driving myself absolutely bat-shit crazy. (I'm rationalizing sleep deprivation as me getting ready to enter U.S Eastern time again.)

It takes a lot for me to get motivated, and music is one of those things that can usually do it for me if I can't get my hands on some extra-caffeinated coffee, Red Bull, or some speed. (I joke, I joke...) I listen to Hed PE (Thanks, Nora,) when I run at the gym. I have been known to headbang to stay awake during finals time. (Melissa can attest. Sorry for that. Our freshmen year dorm room was really small.) And now, I have rediscovered how listening to power-chords and thrash really makes me want to DEEEEEEESTROYYYYYYYYYY. (Otherwise known as, get shit done.)

This is basically what I have to keep as an internal soundtrack-- keep that whip crackin'.

So Deftones it is. I know we're all in crunch-time right now, so from me to you, here it is-- my secret: Root, Engine No. 9, Cherry Waves, My Own Summer, Minerva, Good Morning Beautiful, and Passenger, because the unparalleled, otherworldly, and overall man of my musical dreams Maynard James Keenan helped with the vocals. His voice does terrifying things to me. I can't help but love everything that comes out of his mouth. I once said that even though he may be one of the most disturbing people on Earth, I would marry him for a lifetime of wifely servitude gladly if he promised to just never speak and sing everything. And I mean everything. Like, I would want to hear a melodic, "Honey, can you pass the butter?" in the morning over pancakes. (I think part of it is the fact that he reminds in a very roundabout way of the Joker, and, as we're doing all sorts of admitting, here and now may also be the time to say that I am, quite possibly, one of the Batman universe and Mistah J's biggest fans in the world. I own a cardboard cutout that lives in my room. Comics. A special edition of "The Killing Joke". I sleep with a Joker plushie. My car's name is Mistah J, for fuck's sake. It's not so much as a problem as a "fun quirk" and selling point with the opposite sex. At least, that's what I tell myself.)

I know I have some issues. Now may not be the time to discuss them. Please get back to me re: having a weakness for most-probably clinically unbalanced men after I get through exams. Basically, what I'm trying to get at here is that we tend to lose little parts of ourselves-- in fact, we let them get lost. These are parts of us that may not be influential to our whole being, but they're things that made us happy at one time or another. They're not things that we should let go of so easily. Embrace where you have been, and what's made you. Don't lose your childish enthusiasm. In the meantime, just enjoy the tunes and crank. out. those. PAAAAAAAAAPEEEEEEEEEERS!

XOXO

Two Summer Essentials; Lots Of Ways To Wear Them.

Wow. It's been awhile since I've done a fashion post. I mean, a while. And I know what you're thinking-- 'You're in Italy, you idiot, practically fashion capital of the WORLD.' And you're right. But after the initial month-long period of integration here in which I snapped up every black/gray/dark blue, shirt/sweater/sweater-dress, wool/cotton/wool-cotton-blend in sight trying desperately to fill the holes in my wardrobe, blend in, and gain some semblance of warmth since I had been EXTREMELY optimistic in my first-non-Vermont-winter packing and so, was subsequently freezing when Italy ended up not being quite as balmy and sunny as expected...well, I kind of gave up. There's only so many times you can haul yourself out of bed at the ass-crack of the morning, shower, do your hair (15 minutes) and make-up (10 minutes) and then stand in front of your closet in your undies and bra, shivering, going, "Ok-- what's going to make me look like a chic Italian today?" (a totally unspecified amount of time before inspiration hits) before you find yourself hitting snooze to sleep instead of shower, putting your hair back in a bun and headband, smearing on Burt's Bees face cream and chapstick and slipping into (Italian) jeans, boots, and a basic t-shirt or, on my more homesick days, a plaid flannel shirt and walking out the front door like a gigantic "FUCK YOUUUU" to the whole Italian fashion-obsessed culture. Unless, of course, you are a New Yorker and already used to this daily beauty-and-fashion grind. You lucky, lucky bitches.

I daydream about the days I used to be able to put on sweats and drive to class in my slippers.

It's not like I haven't been shopping. (Oh, no-- my bank account balance and debit card statement will prove that I have been.) But it was just boredom shopping, happy-accident shopping, hey-whatever shopping. Nothing I was really thrilled about or really could get excited enough to post about. (Though if you need to know how to dress to look native, unspecial, and disinterested with life in Italy, I am your girl. Black. Lots and lots of black.) Until today, when, in the full sunshine-60+ degrees swing of summer's-promise bliss, I found the two essentials to my summer wardrobe. (And a few other incidentals that went along too well with them to pass up.)

First and foremost, a pair of shoes I've been dreaming about since I tried them on at Peluso nearly a month ago: brown strappy wedges that are honestly some of the most comfortable things I have ever put on my feet while still being devastatingly beautiful. (Seriously. I feel like I could hike up a mountain in them, perfectly fine. And being a Vermont Girl who runs better in her stilettos than in hiking boots, I probably could. And they make this "Thumbellina" as a very tall soldier called me the other day, tall and leggy for once in her life.)

I have never, EVER bought brown leather shoes before, and was a little hesitant about what I would wear them with at first. Being an ex-American Eagle sales associate cult member, I had the denim notion down-- they'll work well with light wash skinny jeans or a denim skirt or shorts. But brown to me says "summer," especially brown wedges. So, what else to pair them with?

I was distraught that I would forever be a fashion Don't in my beautiful brown wedges and mis-paired outfits until I wandered, like by automatic pilot clothing hypnosis, over to H&M, wedges in hand, and Arielle there to guide me with fashion advice. And there, amongst the international low-price clothing, I found it. My Summer Look.

Starting from the feet up, I paired my wedges first with a pair of pseudo-destroyed, medium-wash denim shorts, with extra detailing around the hem and double-pockets. Then I found a loose-fitting see-through white lace t-shirt, much like this one, that looks great either loose, or half-tucked into a pair of cuffed and relaxed boyfriend jeans or denim shorts with a good statement belt and the wedges. Or, take the wedges and the white lace t-shirt, and tuck the shirt into a brightly colored and oh-so-summery floral pencil skirt like this one,

Visit hm.com

also from H&M, which also HAS POCKETS and a gold zipper half-way down the back, and you have a flirty, fun, very seasonal look. OR, you could also take fun and colorful printed dresses (strapless is best at saying "summer"), and play up the dress by keeping the brown wedges practical.

Perfection. Everything was just as comfortable as my jeans/t-shirt/boots regimen (in fact, they're still the same jeans), but was so much more fitting for the new, nearly beachy weather and is almost disconcertingly fashionable with minimal effort. So feel free to mix and match-- you get a great Cost Per Wear with these summer staples that finally, FINALLY will be the happy-medium between my relaxed comfort and the end of the Italian's desire to throw me in front of a speeding moped for not trying hard enough with my attire.

However, I am now on a 50 Euro a week stipend because of my shopping, but I guess it will make me more frugal and also, hey-- if I have to do without food for a day or two, at least I'll fit in my new clothing better.

Ciao, bellas!

XOXO

A Life Lesson In Gender Relationships

A girl must have her girls.

But when in doubt, when you're feeling very small and unsure and scared and alone...

Call on your boys.

Have a few good, solid, hearty guys in your life who you know will always pick up the phone. Who will always sound like hearing from you is Christmas morning all over again. Who will sit through you having a crisis of faith in everything from yourself, to others, to the real estate market, to the state of your lungs and just listen and let you get it all off your chest. Who, when they say, "it's just a few more weeks," makes it sound not only doable, but enjoyable.

Because while your girls know what they should say to make you feel better, your boys can say things to you that make you feel like you're back at home in someone's living room in your warmest, most comfy sweats, passing a bowl and smelling spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke.

It may not sound all that glamorous or comforting.

But my god, it is.

So here's to the men in my life who pick up those calls and listen to all the small, scared thoughts and are intuitive enough to say things like, "We miss you too, muffin," which is pretty much the psychological equivalent of a giant bear-hug from across the Atlantic. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of this scared little unbeliever's heart. While I may have shitty luck in housing, the job market, and love, I am overly-blessed in my friends. And when it comes down to it, they usually have a couch and enough room in their life and love for your poor homeless ass, too.

XOXO

A Present For You.

To start your day right. My best friend told me about Dub FX, and I think that you should hear this before you head out to start your day. The right way.

"Well, I know it's late, and it's probably Fate that I can't get through to you, but I needed to hear your voice in my ear to start my day anew. But your phone was off, and I missed your calls-- now you're fast asleep. So when you get up and you're ready to rock, you can make my mobile beep. You can make, you can make, you can make my mobile beep. Oh, just make my mobile beep."



Well, that didn't work out QUITE the way I wanted-- the song quoted is "Wandering Love," which is NOT the player-- but I highly suggest "Wandering Love," "Love Someone," "Intentions," and "Love Me Or Not." Here is a guy who writes about emotions, and writes/lyricizes about emotions WELL. With a catchy beat. First houseparty back in the states-- guess what's playing?

XOXO

These Boots Were NOT Made For Walkin'.

It's official: Italian women are made of stronger stuff. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's grappa that flows through their veins, and not blood.

I just spent a day walking in their shoes (109 Euro, black leather biker chic heels by Letizia Ferrari, from Stefano e Sabrina on Via Nazionale), and let me tell you-- these dogs, they are a-barkin'.

Thankfully, I know the age-old secret remedy: a glass of good, bright, lively pinot grigio. Or two glasses. And putting your feet up on the nearest elevated flat surface.

Beauty is pain, right? Suffer for fashion, and all that? I really, really would like to see how men here walk in those insanely pointy-toed loafers. Thank an un-masochistic god that I have no men over here to dress.

XOXO

P.S-- I call this picture, "Still Life Of A Girl's Vices." Expensive shoes, cigarettes, a glass of wine, and, in the back, leather bags. I am going to die alone and destitute. But well-shod. And with lung disease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO