The Tell-Tale Heart

I know Facebook has ruined us. Do you want to know how Facebook has ruined us? Because for what was probably the past three hours of my sleeping life, I grappled with a dream which started out pleasant and involved two loves of my life: men, and pie, and yet progressed into something that made my heart-- literally, I felt my heart-- plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes when in my dream, I saw It. That thing that all girls secretly dread. The terror of the internet. The scourge of Facebook. "_______ is in a relationship with _______." That little pink heart has never been more ominous.

When I woke up, I promptly lunged for my laptop, just to make sure it wasn't true and I hadn't been sleep-web-surfing like how I sometimes have to wake up and grab for my phone to see if I really was sleep-texting or so-fucked-up-you-might-as-well-be-asleep-because-you're-not-gong-to-remember-doing-it-in-the-morning texting. The rest of the dream I could brush off as kinda ridiculous-- running down the road, looking in houses for someone you have no idea how to find (oh, that's telling!) and who remains, decidedly, not a character in the rest of this dream, but instead, a blue and white profile with a new pink heart on it; an 18 year old, baby-faced, cowboy hat-wearing new girlfriend who kinda looked like Bret Michaels had actually succeeded in fathering a child with one of his Rock of Love floozies, having a traumatic breakdown on my shoulder while the only decent thing to do was hold a tissue for her to blow her nose while consoling her because, "I know how he can be, sweetie." It rang so true I couldn't even get mad when she blew snot all over my toes and her parents told me how perfect they were together over what seemed to be a feast straight from Henry the VIII's table. I mean, there was a woman ladling split-pea soup straight into her mouth, for chrissake. How am I supposed to take a dream like this seriously?

The point is, I did. The point is, I woke up with a start, gasping and bolting upright, and then scrambled down to the foot of my bed and grabbed my laptop to check-- just because. Just because it felt so real. Just because I am that terrified. Just because it brought to my attention that any day, that could be a real possibility, and I am, as evidenced, nowhere near prepared for that. I guess what they say about dreams bringing out your subconscious fears and desires is true-- in which case, I am a mess. Facebook, you've finally fucked me over.

XOXO

P.S-- In other news, you have 5 days to become my 48th, 49th, or 50th follower. (Which is a great birthday present to me.) And there's $1.14 that stands between me and a check from Google, which would really be appreciated as I am currently investigating the laws of prostitution for some gray area and not quite the same severity as a sentence for robbery/forgery/extortion/embezzlement, as those are my 5 options at the moment to afford summer rent.

Not Boring-- Just Grown Up.

This blog used to be a money-making machine. My daily hit count used to look like the Mafia toll from the '70s. I used to write about things like oral sex and porn. It was as good as 2 AM access TV and your own local Girls Gone Wild infomercials. And then I went through some major life changes, met a guy I actually liked and didn't want to kiss & tell, and went to Italy. The campus dish stopped. You had no idea who these people I was meeting and hanging out with were anymore. Page impressions dropped. I get it. We got older, grew apart, and stopped having things in common. Now I write about things like communication between the sexes and how to handle your past-and-still-present exes and why visiting a gynecologist is mandatory for women (and should be for the men they're having sex with, too). Not exactly what you signed up for. Gone are (most) of the hot sexploits. In with the analyses of character. It's a bitch, isn't it? Things change. It's inevitable. And right now, this blog could more rightly be called "Celibacy In The (Foreign) City."

But hey. I'm still here. I'm still alive; therefore, I still have things to write about. It may not be the perfect oral technique (hint: our clit is there for a reason. That is where the party is. Introduce your tongue to it,) but some of it is still pretty pertinent. Guys, if you want to learn why your girlfriend is mad at you, I've got some advice-- ASK HER. (Also, next time, don't be so blatant checking that other chick out.) There are things you can learn here that no other woman would ever tell you about. It's like hiding behind enemy lines. (Hey, that thought appealed to you and your inner pseudo-warrior, didn't it? I get you better than you may think.) And girls, if you want to know how to build your wardrobe up this summer to mix-and-match as many pieces as possible while maintaining a professional edge for work, I'm your girl. (Khaki light-weight trousers, cuffed at the bottom, with a slight paper-bag waist and worn belted and matching with brown wedges and a slightly edgy tucked-in button-down like this leopard-print one, is a great fashion-forward interview outfit. [I call it "Office Safari." Just don't shoot your boss, no matter how tempting it is. There's not much I can do with day-glow orange.] And that white lace shirt from last post goes great with the khakis as well, or, if you want to tough them up, a interesting and slinky tank-top tucked in does the trick, too. And that leopard button-down makes not only the perfect beach cover-up, too, but also a cute out-and-about outfit when paired with black leggings, sandals, and belted at the waist. Like this girl in the photo proves.)

I'm watching a lot of my friends get ready to graduate, and subsequently freak out about having to prove that they can do something in the field that they want to go into. I'm pretty lucky. I started this blog of my own desire, and over a year and a half earlier than is deemed necessary to graduate. And I genuinely love this writing. It's kind of what I want to do with my life. I found my niche early in life, and it would take a lot to pull me out of it. This is how I think. This is how I write. And for better or worse, this is how I live.

But there's always more that can be done. If you really want to do something, I have this crazy wish that by my birthday on June 10th, I will have 50 followers and have cashed in the $10 check from Google AdSense. I'm at 35 followers (and I love EACH and EVERY one of you!) and over half-way to the dollar amount, so-- tell your friends. Tell your boyfriend. Tell your girlfriend. Tell your coworkers. Tell your mom. (Um, or not.) Spread the word. Check back regularly for new stuff. Between leaving Italy in 31 days, adjusting back to the U.S and American men, moving into my first Big Girl apartment, buying a queen-size bed, and trying to find another job, I'm more than SURE I will have plenty of new material.

We have just under 2 months, people. I'm just asking for a small and personal minor miracle. Not the peace for the Pakistan-Israeli conflict and the end of world hunger. Though those are perfectly acceptable things, too.
...And a man who does not utter the words "We shall see," which, as some long-time (like, since the Beginning of Blogging Time) readers may know, may be one of my most hated phrases above all others, right after "But there's something I need to tell you." I get it-- I know what it means when you say that. It's roughly the trying-to-be-polite equivalent of "Not gonna happen, sister!" THAT would be a major miracle. In fact, Jesus may have to intervene.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 3:

Women:
The Feminine Mystique:

In my Women in 20th Century Fiction class, we've recently been assigned reading material with a common theme: the idea of the central female character being "witchy" or "otherworldly" in some aspect.

As a woman, I can tell you that there is nothing that I hold more dear at my core than the idea that there lies within me something that even thousands of years into our being, has not yet been figured out or fully understood.

It can be the tangible that changes us: a new pair of boots, sexy underwear, a different haircut. It can be the intangible: love. Feelings and emotions and someone special in our lives, the novelty still there, the phone calls and butterflies still frequent. These things put a spring in our step and a sparkle in our eye, a feeling that we are not quite who we were yesterday, or even just a few hours ago. Women are constantly in flux. We are fluid and mercurial and we never quite feel the same way about something twice. We are made of leather and lace and contrasting actions and opinions. That’s the beauty to us: we are always new, always fresh, and ever exciting.

According to ancient philosophers, it worked something like this: "You see a woman. (Or a man.) You love her (or his) beauty. What you really love is the reflection of the beauty given to her (him) from above." But what does it mean to love beautiful things like this? Is it shallow? To what extent does my love of "pretty, smart things" reflect on me? Pausanias speaks of "vulgar love" in demeaning tones. Ficino speaks of "vulgar love" very matter-of-factly; as a way of life and natural human action that is to be accepted, or even applauded (i.e-- I see; I like; I get). Renaissance philosophers thought that one could achieve sanctity by their love for beautiful (i.e-- beauty given from above) things. If this is the case, if there is a higher level of being after death, I am all up in there. Often I have been known to say that if someone wasn't so beautiful, I wouldn't let them get away with half the shit I dismiss and decide not to pick a fight about.

The Audacity of Doing Nothing:

Speaking of not picking fights...one of my really good friends here in Florence has been with her boyfriend for two years. He's an active member of the Air Force, and was deployed for eight months to Afghanistan last year. They got to spend three weeks together, and then she left for Italy for 3 months. They're planning on staying together, and he's considering joining active duty, which means that she'll be following him around the world, moving every three years. As she said, "If he goes active duty, it means I go active duty, too." Over dinner after our Women in 20th Century Fiction class the other night, I asked her how she dealt with the distance and the fear and the worry and the missing him. She slowly pushed her penne around her plate before answering. "It's really hard, it is. I don't tell him a lot of what I think or what bothers me, because if he only has one 15 minute phone call to me a week, I don't want to spend it fighting with him, you know? So I try to be as supportive as I can be."

This is something that I have been struggling with lately. As women, we are taught that the best possible thing that we can do is ride a situation or argument out. But women operate on emotions more than men do. It’s true. While I shut down, close down quickly, I do feel harder than I’m sure most do. I hope for more. I want more. Things affect me deeper than I’d like to admit to. But even in cases such as these, I fall back on the same logic that my friend does: if you have limited time, you don’t want to rock the boat. It’s better to smooth things over, look the other way, or not bring it up in the first place. She just wants her boyfriend to not multitask doing his homework when he gets time to Skype with her. But will she make that demand? No. I want to say “I don’t like it.” But I won’t. I want to say “Stop,” but I don’t. Making demands appears to be something that we just are comfortable with. Being able to see things from both sides of the equation, as women can be good at, tends to make making ultimatums harder, or, in some cases, a moot point.

Women tend to be inherently self-less. We want to do more for others, especially those we love, than we would do for ourselves. And so we find ourselves avoiding the hard subjects; not asking the questions; not demanding the answers or courtesies. I was almost ready to give this trip up. I was ready to leave it up to Fate to decide if I was staying, or if I was going. I ended up going. For myself, I know it’s the best possible outcome. Already, I am discovering aspects of myself that I never knew existed. I can be fearless, opening cab doors and talking to strangers, not sure if I’ll be able to receive the outcome I engaged in the conversation for in the first place. I can walk into a store or market or classroom, and fight it out with finesse until I get through what I want, English or not. I will walk home alone at night, and feel confident enough in myself that I am not scared totally shitless. I am traveling to expand what I know, and how sure I am that I know it. I cannot hold on to who I was, because for that, I will always remain in the same place and be emotionally stunted. I should be feeling everything.

Not for myself, I worry about the repercussions that leaving had. I reached the conclusion last night that as far as I know, I am now the Other Woman. I am not dumb. I am not blind. And while I may not want to rock the boat and ask those questions, I can reach my own conclusions. Strangely, I felt better about this then I did when the roles in my mind were reversed. Perverse.

How horrendous is it that women will not stand up for what they want when they feel as if they’re stepping on someone else’s toes, or if we’re afraid of losing what we do have? Men, certainly, do not display this same characteristic. As I have noted, there seems to be a lot of having cake and eating it, too, in the men’s camp. And what are the women doing? Making those cakes.

Fucking stop baking and enabling. There is a place and a time to do nothing. You can play cool and wait it out, but only to a certain extent.

Doing nothing can be both good and bad. At home, doing nothing is no big deal. Burlington is Burlington. I’ve been there for awhile; I’m going to continue being there for awhile. I know what it is I like to do, and for the most part, I’ve done it all. I’ve settled into the sort of ambiguously lethargic relationship with the place that you have with something that you know will always be there. I can sleep the day away, wake up and sit in front of the TV or computer for the rest of the day, smoke myself silly, go back to bed, and rinse and repeat for days before I feel like I need to actually accomplish something. Here in Florence, temporarily (hopefully!) laid up by my knees that after years of cartilage wear from thousands of hours spent riding and galloping in two-point position and jumping decided to go on strike, limiting my amount of walking per day allowed, doing nothing is like wearing a hair shirt. It itches and irks me, knowing that there is a city out there that that Robin and I have already mapped out, but not yet explored, and it is only mine for a short amount of time. And I am sleeping until after noon so that my knees will hopefully let me get around Ultrarno before giving out again.

But there is a little-known side to the Audacity of Doing Nothing. It is the Beauty of Doing Nothing. Even just doing nothing here in Florence, making their strong café and going out onto the balcony to read and smoke a cigarette or two is better than doing nothing at home. Every night, I go out there and look over the city and clear sky at night, floodlights on main attractions, ancient chapels, churches, towers, and fortresses, full moon and familiar constellations, and am hit with the same overwhelming feeling: I am here. Even just doing nothing, I am existing here. And that alone makes it special.

XOXO

The Most Important Relationship You Will Ever Have

Yesterday, I opened up February's issue of Glamour to read a Letter to the Editor that resonated with me as if I had written it myself. It reads as follows:

"I just finished '6 Love Talks That Bring You Closer' [December], and its message, 'If you feel it, say it,' hit me hard. Too many times I've held my emotions inside, whether for the sake of a friend or for fear of scaring off a guy. Thank you for reminding women it's OK to voice their minds, because they may not get the opportunity to do it later." -Laura Kell, Ottawa, Ontario

As I may have glossed over a couple of times here, I am One-Month Girl. For some reason, right around the time of the one-month mark of seeing someone approaches, it usually ends. Either I get bored with them, or they have finally been driven crazy enough by something that I do to leave (there are many quirks), or the connection was just never really there and we just stop calling or texting to see each other and drift apart.

Curious about how true this statement really is, I counted. Out of 9 relationships I have had, only 2 made it past one month. (The first was 6 months, but I was young and too apathetic to actually muster the energy to dump him on his ass like I should have. Really should have.)

Recently, I went past the one-month deadzone with a guy I was seeing, nearly effortlessly. The date came and went without nearly any fuss, barely noticed. It went over a month and a half, and-- surprise-- I would roll over and still be looking at the same person. I can't lie. I actually enjoyed it. Very much so. I hadn't had that experience since I was...and I'm not lying...16. And I actually liked the person I was waking up next to this time around.

As I had not found in my past "monthers," there's a level of comfort that can't be fully achieved in 4 weeks. Or, maybe, it's just my hyper-awareness of the timestamp and expiration date that makes me so sensitive. But nonetheless, it brought up the curious territory that I hadn't encountered yet before: communicating about what was going on.

Most people will tell you that at one-month in, you should start doing the discussing. Because of my brief and checkered past, I had learned one thing about being with men, and one thing only: whatever you feel, don't say it, because they're not going to be around long enough for it to matter. And so, I remained quiet about what I was feeling and what I hoped for, odd in what was an extremely talkative and open relationship. As for my fellow co-sleeper, he was far more expressive. But for every time he did something that could have warranted a glimpse into what I thought, I thought it to myself, and myself only. I never said, "I love being able to talk to you about writing and the fact that you're just as passionate about it as I am, or, in fact, I love being able to talk to you about anything intelligently and receptively," or "I love that I can ask you for an interesting book suggestion, or in the morning, if I really wanted to, I could grab something off your bookshelf and keep myself properly entertained until you wake up because YOU ACTUALLY HAVE A BOOKSHELF. WITH BOOKS ON IT. THAT I WOULD LOVE TO READ," (sorry. Good literature is something I get really passionate about. Mix it with men, and I'm a goner,) or "I love being able to just sit here and do absolutely nothing and still feel like it's all good and we're actually doing something," or even "No matter how many times she bites me, I adore your cat, even if she hates me because I am the Other Woman to her." I think, maybe, once, I told him that I loved being able to use my full vocabulary around him and not have to worry about getting lost in translation after dropping "ostracize" for the first time. I was definitely teased for using words like "fetching", and I definitely teased right back when he said "Bully for you."

"I don't think anyone has said that since Teddy Roosevelt died," I told him. My first defense to feelings and emotions is always to be blase. I may have even said the words "Well, it's been fun, kid," while I was saying goodbye before Christmas break. A.) He's older than I am, so who was I "kid-ding"? B.) Who the hell did I think I was with that line, Mr. Big?! and C.) Whenever I may have to say something that might be hard or uncomfortable, like, say, "I'm going to miss you," I stray instead into the obnoxiously trite and banal, like this gem of a parting statement.

Basically, when it boils down to it, there were lots of "thank you for's" and "I love when's" and "I don't think you know it, but's" that I never said. I, the perennial Single Girl, highly cynical, sarcastic, jaded, abrupt, and blunt, was trying to do the thing I do best, and protect myself in the advent that it all went wrong around that one-month mark. After it didn't, I should have known. I should have known that there is a difference between when you don't really care about the outcome of something or someone, and when you're actually invested in it, and that as soon as you begin to invest, either with time, or money, or feelings, you need to do that talking, no matter how scary it seems. As soon as I realized that, I should have started doing the talking.

But I didn't. Instead, I fell back on my crutch, being a "Shower"and not a "Teller." I hoped that the nights spent together and the small gestures and the fact that the steel trap I call my mind came up with a fitting Christmas/Thanks For Being Dislocated College Student Crash Central For Me gift would do the talking so I didn't have to. Let me be frank: I don't tend to soften for people. I am a little stiff and awkward. So the fact that I loosen up enough to call you "babe" and try to be as charming as possible around you and your friends means something. The fact I actually let you snore instead of just leaving and going back home means something. The fact that I got used to you snoring and the crumbs in bed from your eating means something HUGE. Though he may have been the one who said "Don't try to change me," I was actually the one doing the changing. I softened. For the first time, I dropped all the guards and was 100%, totally, completely me, "that's what she said" jokes, stupid superstitions, and all. And I didn't worry about it, something totally foreign and new to me.

Last week, it ended. After much thinking, I have decided that the phrase "But there's something I need to tell you" should be struck from the English vocabulary. As soon as I heard those words, I knew that shooting me point-blank with a .45 would have hurt less.

While we were having our extremely calm and mature dissolution conversation (I'm not being ironic here-- we actually had a very low-key walk-and-talk-it-over, a first for me), he looked at me and said, "Carissa, you never told me how you felt or what you wanted."

True on both counts. I was the one who, at the very beginning when he called me to ask what was going on, was the one who preached "casual, casual, casual." But that's just me. I'm a pretty casual girl. I don't really do dates, and I'm much happier just chilling at home with you or your buddies than going to a big party where I only know a few people, though I will pull myself up by the bootstraps and be a big girl and do things like introduce myself to your female friend after she walks in on me in your bed. (That one goes down in the books as one of the "Ten Most Awkward Experiences Of My Life." Right before that time in high school I had to hide in a shower because I thought my then-boyfriend's mother had come home early. And if this doesn't sound awkward enough, let me tell you which shower: the one in her private bathroom in her room. Can't you just see that discovery going over?)

I can't put my finger exactly on when it went from "casual" to "I'm actually seriously into this." It was somewhere between the drunk texts asking for a wake-up call to not let him sleep through class and the hours spent together just being totally at ease and yes, this is me, so I'm going to say it, the great sex, and the horrible puns I actually enjoyed and getting used to the smell of the cigarettes that I came to realize that I actually really liked this person I was getting to know. But I didn't say anything because honestly, it was exactly the way I wanted it, and I didn't want to say anything and have it change. As always, I was afraid that saying something would equate change, and maybe not for the better. I wanted to keep everything just as it was, so I kept quiet. Broken logic states that if you don't ask, you can't hear the response.

For fear of losing him, I kept quiet, and partially because I kept quiet, I lost him. Ladies, I am sharing this with you so you don't make the same mistake I did. Like Miss Kell said, "It's OK to voice your mind, because [you] may not get the opportunity to do it later." And because I am sure you will read this at some point-- babe, I'm sorry, but thank you again for coming clean and meeting with me and, actually, for everything. "Better late than never" is not true, but I hope that this speaks far more candidly and clearly for me than I could at the time.

In the end, it was amicable. There is nothing quite like getting the explanations and respect you deserve to show you the difference between the absolute asses you have been with before and someone who actually doesn't want to hurt you. Obviously, I am not thrilled that something that I thought was so good is now over, but you have to respect it when someone says "I'm not ready," and when both of you have things that still need to be worked on before things can progress or get any better. When someone has enough integrity to say to you, "I erred, and I'm telling you," you better listen, and listen hard. And when that same person tells you, "And here's what you could have done better," take it. We all have things to work on. Some of us may not even understand the things we do to ourselves or others, but only one truth remains-- you have to keep working at it. That's all anyone can ever ask of you. You can't change the nature of your beast so easily. It takes trial and error, blood, sweat, and tears, and lots of time. It's not going to be pretty, and generally, it's better if someone doesn't have to live with you through it. Believe me. I know. I have alternately been the girl who's tried to stick through a guy's abusive drug use because I mistakenly thought I could help and be the rock, and the girl who tried to keep the guy through my own major life changes that rendered us both incompatible.

In the end, I can't tell you which would hurt worse. I've never been shot point-blank with a .45, but I have been left, a lot. More, I would hazard to say, then my fair-share. If there is one thing that so many dissolutions have taught me, it's that you always learn something about yourself. Even just the act of being with someone else is an incredible learning experience. Someone else will always be able to open you up, pull all your shit into the light, and expose you far better than you will ever be able to yourself. So what did I learn? Firstly, I am potentially even tougher than I thought. What doesn't kill you will hurt, but I'll get through it, because I always do. Secondly, there is still more work to be done on myself before I take the next leap of faith.

In the end, as I said to him, the only person you can control in a relationship is yourself, and sometimes, not even then. You're never going to be any braver than you are this very second, so now is the time to do exactly what you need to do. Speak up. Tell them. Do what you need to. Make the changes that will let you live with yourself and not have regrets. When it comes down to it, the most important relationship that you will ever have is the one you have with yourself.

And I hope that that relationship only gets better from here.

XOXO