Like A Bad Episode Of "Mad Men."

So, that new little widgety thing at the top of the page there, where it says "I Majored In Creative Writing, Why?" and has a donation tab? That's not spam, or an extremely fitting ad. That's what happens when your parents are supportive of your dreams and don't stop you from graduating with a B.S in Writing and no job. So, if you, dear readers, happen to be a little more flush than I am, and enjoy reading what I put up here, throw a couple of dollars at me, and help keep me off the streets and instead, pounding them and the parties and lives of the influential, funny people and writing interesting, informative, and sarcastic little witty things for you to read and be entertained by. Thank you, very, very much, in advance. (My adorable little cat who relies on me for food, shelter, and litter thanks you too, as he has grown very used to being kept in the manner of someone whose housing used to be paid for by college scholarships and is no longer.)

In other news, I am at the S.O's condo all evening, trying to polish off this extremely arduous next Vermont Commons magazine column (which resulted earlier in me cleaning said condo during a bout of writer's block), and roasting a whole chicken, potatoes, and carrots so that the S.O will have dinner when he gets home from work. With a nice bottle of Italian white wine, perfectly aerated. (Italy was possibly the best finishing school I could have ever been sent to. Cooking lessons, everything there is to know about good Italian wines and liquor, and how to extricate myself from a very vehement European would-be Don Juan while hurting no one's feelings. Now, THAT'S an education for you; you can hold my B.S!)

Like I said, between that, and listening to him and his friends talk business in posh bars while getting quietly drunk in the corner of the table, what is this, the freaking '50s again?

But no, babe, I love it, really! (Now would be a good time to let y'all know he reads SATCG, so, if you want to know if he has any cute, similarly considerate and funny, single friends [which he does], now would be a good time to send a shout-out in the comments section! Or just for doing a great job all around at keeping me occupied and happy.)

XOXO

Bringing Sexy Back

I frequently spend downtime at my job chatting with the guy I'm seeing when there's no clients, no pressing inter-office business, and no other busy-work to be done while I'm sitting at the desk, awaiting inter-collegiate emails. However, work and play overlapped in a way I didn't see coming yesterday that left me feeling a little shook not only about how my job and interests bleed into my personal life, as well as how "comfortable" isn't always a good thing in a relationship, despite the connotations of warmth, bliss, and utter lethargy. The conversation that started it all (lightly edited for content, clarity, and privacy,) is as follows:

He: "My friend who you met at ____ has been in one of they're videos."

Me: "Really? And yo' grammar. It's outta control."

He: "You can bug me about it, but I don't give a shit."

Me: "Good grammar is sexy."

He: "If I thought I still had to make sure I was being "sexy" for you online then I would, but I REALLY don't feel obligated to go back over every sentence I type right now, especially since I'm doing a couple things at the moment."

Me: "Real romance never dies. Proof-read so I can think more about jumping your bones and less about proper usage."

I work in a writing center, and I'm a professional writer. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the English language (and occasionally, other languages, so holla to you, French and Italian), and it's something that's obviously important to me. The guy I'm seeing knows this. It's no secret to him that I decided to give him a chance after he used the word "microcosm" in a comment on my Facebook wall-- he literally had me at "the world in miniature." Which is why it was such a bummer for me to see the wrong "their/they're/there" in something he typed-- when he was still working on winning me over and wooing me, everything he wrote to me was flawlessly edited for maximum correctness, and if he slipped, he'd immediately correct it. He knew I have a hard-on about grammar, so he put the time in to make it all look appealing. It meant a lot. To me, good grammar is sexy. Words are sexy. Which brought up the question today-- At what time is it ok for the sexy to stop? Is it ever really ok?

Granted, he has a point in the fact that we've now been seeing each other more or less for three months, and together for two, and it's hard not to feel comfortable with someone when they're leaving their clothing, their beer, some food, and have a toothbrush in your apartment, but I would hope that someone would always want to be sexy for me, regardless if we've been together for two months, or two decades. When the sexy stops is when the taking-for-granted comes in, and no one likes to admit when sexy changes from something that you do inherently as a means to an end (getting laid), to something that falls by the wayside because you're now comfortable with someone (and now getting laid regularly). As Carrie said in "The Drought"-- "There's a moment in every relationship where romance gives way to reality." And it blows. But does it have to? Does the sexy really ever have to stop?

True, it's a lot of work to maintain, but that's what makes a relationship go from "work" to "magical." So what if you have to spend a few more minutes proof-reading something? I'm not going anywhere. And so what if you've woken up next to me with sex-hair, or seen me in the shower with mascara running all down my cheeks? Just because I'm comfortable enough with someone that they've seen me looking pretty bad doesn't mean I still don't bust hump applying make-up, choosing the right outfit, and doing my hair for a good hour before I see them, still. Right now, it's still all smooth legs and thongs. But what if I decided I was comfortable, and let the romance die? What if I stopped shaving my legs regularly and started wearing more cotton full-coverage bikini underwear? I'm pretty sure there'd be some protests, if not some full-on Egypt-scale riots. Because really, those are two things I definitely DON'T do to keep it sexy for him. And both take more time and effort than using spell check does.

I don't mean to gripe, and I think at this point, we all know how deliriously pleased I am most of the time with the new beau and consider myself a very lucky girl, but I just think that this example illustrates the differences in men' and women's ways of thinking better than nearly anything else. To me, the romance, the effort, the spark (if you will,) in a relationship is really important...nearly as important as the good grammar I get paid to look for. If that means that I'm going to have to put in a little more work to keep things fresh and exciting and sexy, then yes, I'm going to do it. To me, comfort is letting you use my laptop without hovering over your shoulder paranoid you're going to go through my search history, or leaving you the keys to my apartment, not burping in front of you and occasionally being caught wearing something from Vickie's cotton college dorm-wear PINK line instead their Sexy Little Things collection. So no...no, I don't think it's ever ok to think that comfort with someone equals the fact that they're a sure thing and let the sexy slip away, because if grammar is the first thing to go, it begs the question of what the next thing to slack will be. The sexy needs to be nurtured, in moments like the Hollywood Kiss that took me by surprise one random night when he grabbed me and dipped me for a kiss (in the Top 3 Most Romantic Moments Of My Life, for sure), or when you spontaneously reach for the whipped cream in the supermarket or the new pair of underwear he's never seen before, or that random moment at 2 AM last night when he texted me, just to say "hi" and ask how I was doing. The sexy is what takes a relationship from normal to fireworks, and you best believe that I'm a fireworks kind of gal. I love fireworks. Almost as much as I love the Oxford comma.

XOXO

Sex And The College Girl...A Political Columnist?

I don't know how it happened. I really don't know why. I actually really detest politics, or talking about politics, or debating about politics, the product of growing up with a severely politically-rampant father, even though I have strong opinions about a few items-- namely, environmental issues, women's rights, and higher education. Maybe it just affirms my belief that I'm a whore for a by-line. But however it happened, I was asked to be a columnist/blogger for Vermont Commons newspaper, an online and print publication, and I accepted. Stemming from the idea that Vermont could better govern itself as an independent state than as part of the government, it covers everything from politics, to environmental issues, to the localvore movement in Vermont. And I now write for it.

Part one of my installment just hit the web a few days ago. It's called "SEX-CESSION," (of course, what else?) and here's an excerpt from it:

"Everyone has heard horrible break-up stories: The ones where there was lots of screaming and crying and breaking of things. But for everyone who’s thrown their used-to-be-beloved’s clothing out the window and onto the front lawn as the passers-by stopped and stared, there’s been someone who’s been calm and collected and respectful. I personally have not met or been that person yet, but I hear that they’re out there somewhere. Point being, there are good break-ups, and then there are bad break-ups. When you think about it, secession isn’t so much different...

...Sustaining something, be it a relationship between two people or a union of 50 vastly different states, is no easy task. What one person, or one state, needs is different from what another desires. Vermont sleeps next to New Hampshire every night, and while we’re one of the most politically liberal states New Hampshire is as politically conservative as they come. Unlikely bedfellows, yes; and yet the orders coming from the head marriage counselor (the U.S Government) expect that they’ll be treated not just as equals, but as one cohesive unit."

Follow this link to Vermont Common's website to read the entire column.

XOXO

Professional Opinion: The Case For Cliches

I just spent the last hour and 15 minutes of my life trying not to storm out of a room while listening to a man. It was harder than I thought it would be.

Periodically, for my Internship class, we have guest speakers come in and present to us what it is they do and how they have made their livings in the writing world. While I have thoroughly enjoyed some of these speakers and gotten new and innovative ideas on where I could potentially go with my career, some of them, like today's, signify to me all that is wrong with the writing industry and world.

I've been learning lately that the "Lemon Law" that applies to dating-- the idea that within your first few encounters with a new man, he will tell you exactly, but maybe not in so many words, what it is that is wrong with him-- applies to the professional world as well. Within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone in a professional setting, you can usually get an idea as to their bend rather quickly. Sometimes it's in their lack of interest, or in their blatant disclaimer that they hate hiring new people to do what it is they think they can do best themselves. Today, the head editor of a local newspaper that shall remain unnamed, along with the speaker, pronounced within the first 5 minutes of sitting down that "99% of what is on the internet is swill."

This may have understandably got my hackles up, but what ironies and flip-flopping proceeded to come forth from his mouth really cemented him as, in my mind, probably one of the least-favorite individuals I've ever met. And this is why.

"Get rid of your mannerisms," he told us. "The hackneyed phrases; the cliches. You won't unearth your personal style until you strip away this junk." You know, I've heard this enough from my professors and other professionals that I get the point. A lot of budding writers stick to the cliches and what they know is widely known an accepted because they don't have the tools to formulate those phrases or thoughts yet themselves. But just like some of the rules of traditional style have to be sacrificed for the sake of excellent poetry (e.e cummings, anyone?), and you have to know the rules of grammar in able to stylistically have the license to break them, I think that some of those cliches are so wide-spread because when used sparingly and properly, they can speak to people and be understood instantly and better than anything new possibly could. I use cliches. I actually really love the nostalgia of certain cliches. The turns of phrase are more elegant and sophisticated than what I'm capable of coming up with on my own sometimes, and they read more consistently across the board. "Misery loves company." "Footloose and fancy-free." "Free as a bird." "As subtle as a bull in a china shop." They're beautiful. Why shouldn't we be able to use them, when the right moment arrives?

Furthermore, your mannerisms, I believe, are what make your voice. My mannerism are what makes my writing unique and stamps it as my own like a thumb print. You cannot write with the same spin that I do. I can't mimic your writing, because I don't think the way you do. My vocabulary is not your vocabulary. We don't use those same phrases and cliches-- we have our own favorites. Strip that away, and you're left with what? Associated Press-sounding content. Yes. Because AP style is totally going to make my page impression count go up.

This came from the same man who handed out a packet of what he considered "excellent writing" in which the following lines were included in "Warrior's Requiem", which, first of all, is an incredibly pompous name for a news article. Ever since "Requiem of a Dream," I've been weaned off of liking that word. Anyway, here are a few samples of sentences: "convalescing from the storms and stresses," "like a sudden liberated vacationist," "the outpouring of the national heart," "under the wide and starry skies of his own homeland America's unknown dead from France sleeps tonight, a soldier home from the wars," and "Alone, he lies in the narrow cell of stone that guards his body; but his soul has entered into the spirit of America. Wherever liberty is held close in men's hearts, the honor and glory and the pledge of high endeavor poured out over this nameless one of fame will be told and sung by Americans for all time." Gag me. Gag me, now. I'm sorry. Was that clear? Concise? Direct? Not cliche? Was that good news coverage for the everyman? No across the board.

He then encouraged us to keep our writing to one thought per sentence, shying away from using commas to tack on another compound thought, and forgo using "and," "because," "therefore," "however," and "although." "Don't force readers to think [back in the text] by using words like 'latter' and 'respectively'," he then told us; personally, I think he could have stopped at "Don't force readers to think," and summed up his whole outlook on his writing profession succinctly and successfully. Scary, then, that this man is in charge of the content of local news, and champions charging fees for accessing archived information and moving some forms of electronic news over as apps for iPad and smart phone users alone. Maybe I'm just from East Bumfuck, Nowhere, and maybe it's just my radical, nearly Communist, liberal way of thinking, but I'm sorry-- is local news a right, or a privilege? When I hear about a shooting in the town I grew up in, try to access my hometown newspaper's website, and can't get any information from it because I refuse to pay a fee for what will be a once-in-a-blue-moon-or-disaster frequency, do you know what I have to do? Call my family and friends and ask if everyone is ok. Chances that they know exactly what happened to whom? Slim. This helps me, and communities, how? Turning it into a money-making venture from something that used to be so typically First Amendment American turns my stomach. I believe that that's one hell of a way to alienate your audience, as well as your community. Very few disillusioned souls ever went into the newspaper business to get rich. You pick your lot in life-- now deal with it. Not all of us will end up being wildly successful. If you're in the writing gambit, chances are, you should be more comfortable with the idea of living in a cardboard box than in a mansion. Or, at least, anywhere far above the poverty line, unless you have an incredible talent and natural proclivity.

I guess what got me the most up on my soapbox about this dude was the fact that he seems to be instilled in the fact that you must condescend to your readers, and maybe more so, finds this appropriate. This flies in the face of all that I believe and hope to achieve. Reading Cosmo isn't fun anymore. I've moved to Glamour for my monthly glossy reading, with supplements like The Atlantic, The New Yorker, ELLE, and Vogue. Reading Cosmo, in fact, makes me feel stupid-- like I can literally feel my brain cells screaming out for a compound sentence and shriveling up. What I'm trying to offer here, at its best, is an alternative to the recycled dumbed-down content for the thinking woman, and honest intelligent insight into women's thinking for the everyman. Is this achieved in every post I write? Certainly not. But I do my best. The wait between posts is a real-time example of the amount of time it takes for me to find, research, mull over, and develop a new idea, or a new spin on an old idea. It's not easy. It's not to be taken lightly. What it is, I hope, is fun, sometimes innovative, and thought- or opinion-provoking.

Unlike our speaker today, I think that it is a writer's obligation to expand their reader's minds. To not cater to the intelligence slums of the masses, but challenge their readers to think. Challenge them by doing what other writers are too afraid, or too traditional, to do. Trust that your readers are people as intelligent as you are, if not more. Trust that they have interests. Trust in their powers to infer, or gather more information if they don't think they have all of it. And if absolutely nothing else, trust that your readers can always find somewhere else to read if they're not giving them what they desire. We're not sheep. You're not sheep. I hope I give you enough to stay interested. Please let me know if I'm ever not, and, unlike our speaker, I'll do my best to make sure to provide something eclectic and invigorating for you to read.

XOXO

Conversations With (Not So) Hideous Men

When I was little, I used to despise getting up to go to elementary school, a sentiment I'm sure we can all relate to. In the span of time between the first time my mother came in to wake me and the second (because it has always taken me 15 to 20 minutes to wake up and get out of bed), I used to lie there and have waking daydreams about a place where people could lie in beds all day, in a room surrounded by books on bookshelves, do their learning and reading in bed, clack away at a computer from the comfort of under their down comforter, and have food delivered and eat in while still in their pajamas.

This is why I became a writer. I chose to be a writer so I could be doing what I am right now-- sitting upright in bed after waking up at noon, still naked, eating cold leftover lo mien out of the carton, answering work emails and making money. (Plus, if you haven't caught on by now, writing is just kind of what I do. If I didn't have hands, I'd write with my toes. And if I didn't have toes, I'd teach myself to hold a pencil in and write with my mouth. And if I couldn't learn to write with my mouth, then I'd go out and buy a tape recorder and wonder why I just hadn't done that in the first place. But you get the point-- it's an as uncontrollable love and reflex for me as breathing or eating Annie's white cheddar macaroni and cheese.)

I'm theoretically as lazy as when it comes to "real world" writing work as I am about exercise. I mean, I'll get up, shower, go into an office and put in my 10-6, just like I'll get on a treadmill and pound out a mile and do some chest presses and back extensions-- I'll do it if I know it's going to get me somewhere or get my 4-pack back, but it's not like I have to enjoy it. My father was self-employed for most of his adult life, and among other things, I take after him in that I'm happiest when I'm being my own boss. And I'm never going to be happy unless I'm doing something that I'm going to find useful.

Grad school is one of those "useful things." I recently and unexpectedly met one of the writers and talent scouts for Saturday Night Live, and before I knew who she was, had given her a brief run-down of my resume and objectives. After the fact, she commended me on my choices of schools, and my resume. "By the time you get your Masters," she told me, "Don't be surprised to be looking at $80,000 a year salaries in New York, if you keep doing what you're doing." (She also, by the by, used to be a sex, love, and relationship writer in college, MOM.)

Now, money is one of those tricky things for me, and as I am reluctantly growing up, I recently sat down with a projected list of living expenses, current bills, and my income. I figured out in order to live someplace in New York where I won't have to fear sharing a one-bedroom with an infestation of roach roommates, pay my bills and college loans back, buy the occasional pair of shoes and feed myself a few times a week, and keep my horse, I need to be making a minimum of $30,000 a year. So yeah. Grad school. It's gotta get me there. And if it can be with give-or-take $50,000 to spare, hey-- I'm not going to protest.

Because it's only mildly important in developing the rest of my life, I did the only reasonable thing I could do when faced with some questions about one college no GRE prep book or grad school website can answer: I called my ex. Having grown up about 2 hours away, I suspected he knew the area a little, and could give me a basic idea of what it was like, and if he could see me living and studying there.

Scary? Yes, a little. Weird? When you don't talk so regularly anymore, yeah. When he beckoned me into the other room, was I not sure if I were about to get verbally chewed up and spit out? No, I was considering it a possibility. After all, harsh words have been traded in the not-so-distant past. But did I follow him? Yes. Because when it comes down to it, there's one thing you have to keep in mind-- "I know what this person looks like naked." And that little thought is enough to make anyone seem more human and vulnerable again. When you can trace someone's moles from memory and know the stories of their scars, you can't help but remember that at one time, neither of you wanted to hurt the other.

That's the thing about maintaining people in your life-- if someone has been inside of you, they generally know other intimate things about you, like your likes and dislikes and have a pretty good handle on who you are as a person. And if they're good people, even after the whole "we are not together anymore" thing, they'll still try to do right by you. So when he said, "I can't really see you enjoying it there," I listened. I also listened when he said "You've got the ambition, and if that sort of networking is what you want, then it would be a good place to go."

I used to burn bridges and recklessly discard people and exes like used plastic utensils, but along with the whole "growing-changing-thinking-about-my-future" thing, I've also realized what a bad move it is. Some of them are people I'd still lay down a lot for-- why would you want to alienate that for yourself? Not the smartest move a generally smart person could make.

So play nice and work well with others. What you put out is what you receive back, after all, at running the risk of sounding like your Zen Yoda master.

XOXO

Hey, You Wanna Blog?

Well, it IS a four-letter word. For shits and giggles, you can even replace the word "blog" with "fuck" in this post and see where it gets you. Just, you know, if you don't want to take this seriously.

About a week ago, I was chatting with a friend of mine who recently graduated in the same major that I'm going to be-- Professional Writing. We were discussing how newly-minted grads can get their writing out when he brought my blog up, asking me how I found enough time to write so much, citing the fact that I obviously loved doing so. It wasn't so much of a time commitment thing, I told him. I can knock a post off anywhere between 45 minutes and 2 hours, depending on the length and if the subject matter needs any researching. I'm a first-draft-is-the-best-draft and quick-editing sort of girl. It's more about just being eternally curious about things.

I started blogging back in high school. Between my short attention span, lack of interesting content, experience, life subject matter, and being in "too small of a space," it failed. Also paramount was probably also the fact that I still thought I was bound to be a Great American Fiction Novelist, a fact that I now get a really good laugh out of, being the queen of short, question-driven format. I got back into it last summer, when, unemployed and in an unhappy relationship, I figured it would give me something to do, and a way to make pocket change. (Never underestimate the power of quarters in a coin-op laundry apartment dweller's life.)

Lately, I've been getting a lot of great feedback from readers, either from people whom I consider excellent writers themselves telling me I've got a good thing going, or from relative newbies asking for blogging advice and how to keep up the song and dance routine and make it into something showy. I've been kicking the following spiel around for awhile, ever since a professor last year fall mentioned he may have a class he'd like me to talk about blogging to, and then, again last semester, when an online class I was taking for my major challenged us all to create and maintain a blog as an integral part of our soon-to-be profession. I was a little saddened, I'll admit, when the class didn't seem to grasp the idea of having a blog. Granted, mine was already well underway, and in fact, an email had to be sent to my professor explaining that for professionalism's sake, I would not be posting any of my non-content related class assignments on SATCG. But when it became clear that not many people in our class of 12 were embracing the blog, it flabbergasted me. I really don't get the recalcitrance that some writers have about blogging. I mean, I know they're not for everyone, and there will always be someone who likes getting rejection letters from The Atlantic and The New Yorker more than publishing the "easy way." But even Hank Moody deigned to blog, for chissake. It's just easy. It doesn't take itself too seriously. It's a great starting spot. A blog URL is a great thing for a writer to include on their business card to hand to potential editors or agents or publishers to visit and get an idea of what you do. Eventually, a blog even gives you material to ship off to publications. (My Sexual Anthropologist's Portfolio is an example of this, and maybe one of these days I'll actually realize the fact that I graduate in under a year and need a steady and reasonably well-paying job and start sending things out.)

That being said, the following are things that every blogger really needs to carefully consider before or during their blogging experience. I'm a big fan of doing things and doing things as best I can, and nearly one year into blogging at SATCG, with 47 followers, a total of nearly 20,000 page hits, and almost my first check from AdSense on its way, this is the best blogging advice I can give you:

-Before you start writing, ask yourself-- What are you passionate about? It doesn't have to be a topic you can discuss ad nauseum-- it just has to be something you can run with. Do you even like to write? Ask yourself what do you like to write about, and how do you like to write about it? Do you take a more scholastic tone naturally, or a more conversational one? Do you tend to form essays with theses and answers backed up by research, or does free-form poetry suit you more? Some people keep blog diaries. Some people have news blogs. You need to be sure you're writing something thematic in a way that you'll be able to call forth any time you want to.

-Who you target your blog to makes a huge difference. Sexandthecollegegirl.blogspot.com gets between 80 and 200 hits a day, depending on recent posting frequency, subject matter, and timing. It is mostly unadvertised, mainly relying on my friends and word-of-mouth to spread. I got really lucky early on and was featured on Smart, Pretty and Awkward by the incomparable Molly, which helped my readership exponentially. My friends have also gone above and beyond the call of duty, posting the blog to StumbleUpon and linking it to their own blogs. Obviously, a blog based around the premise of a Sex and the City-esque column is going to attract mostly young women, but I was surprised at the diversity of my readership. Some are from as far away as Australia, Japan, and the Netherlands. Others are from as close as Albany, NY, to across the U.S. Some follow for the fashion, some for the relationship advice, some for the straight-forward girl talk, some for the salacious gossip. I also have quite the contingency of male readers, and I think they're all perfect dolls and will make some woman very lucky, if they haven't already (there is a shout-out to my professors). The name probably gets me a few cheap hits, too, but I hope they maybe stay and read a post or two and learn something.

(My other creative-writing blog, Juxtaposition, mainly attracts stragglers, a few die-hard readers that I love to pieces, and my mother. Probably because posting there is sporadic at best, experimental by nature, and takes a real particular taste to handle.)

-Some people blog once a day. Some people blog or Tweet 5 times a day. Some once a week. Some once a month. I blog when I have something to say. It is my soapbox. The point is, you need to figure out what a realistic posting schedule is for you, and STICK TO IT. Realize that if you have readers, you have people that want to read new content, not what you posted two weeks ago. Or a month ago. People are needy. Readers are devoted and needy and can only re-read something so many times, even it's your most stunning material. If there is constantly nothing new, they're going to stop coming back. If there is something constantly new, as you know, curiosity killed the cat, but it also made the blog traffic numbers soar. That is how you build your readership and blog traffic-- by blogging frequently. In the most simple way I can put it, posting = success. Do know that frequency of posts means more interest, better site traffic, and more money.

Oh, did I say money?

-Most people are shocked to find out that I make money on my blog. Yes, it's percentages of cents for every visit and more for every clicked ad from Google AdSense, but it's money all the same. And I make it doing nothing other than what I love and what I want to write about, and just whoring out about an inch and a half by five inches of spare space on my page. Apparently, in the real world, this is the ideal gig for a writer. It may be baby-steps and just dollars and cents right now, but I'm told that this model of write and get paid is something like what we writers should inspire to in the bigger picture. Tim Brookes also has some great money-making ideas for your blog in his article, "Equally Worthless?", as well as some um, familiar subject matter and characters. And whatever your motives are coming here, you're supporting me, so thank you. When my blog dropped on campus and shit got hairy, other than the support of my friends, knowing that I was making some nice dough off of all the site traffic kept me going. And what do you know? Life's good now.

-Speaking of things getting a little crazy, how many of you would dare to blog about your friends? People on campus? Your boyfriend or girlfriend or the person you've been trying to wrangle into bed with you for the past month? For awhile after the Great Blogging Debacle of 2009, I was unsure of how, exactly, one goes about a sex and relationship blog without verbally lambasting people or naming very transparent nicknames. Then I grew up, got smart, and decided to try skipping intimate details in exchange for broad strokes of thought and pointed questions and posts based around things that were happening in my life. Though it was a massive learning experience, it made me a much better, and much more interesting and people-friendly, blogger. (Also, this is a huge mea culpa for that debacle right now.) How many of you would blog about hot button issues, the things that other people don't want to touch because of controversy? And I don't mean just politics or religion, here. I come under fire regularly from my own mother for blogging about "trashy" material. But like I tell her, excuse me, but I can't be the only one wondering why women seem to give and not receive oral as regularly as men do. There has to be SOMEONE else out there wondering the same thing that just doesn't have the guts to come straight out and ask about it.

-This brings up another huge issue to consider: Is your blog going to be private, or open? A private blog means that only the people you invite can view your content. An open blog means that the whole wide internet world can knock down your URL's door. For fellow writers, I really don't see what you could ever gain from having a private blog, when having an open one is the best way to get your writing published and out into the world for free, no agents or publications needed. Take chances. Defending yourself and your writing is one of the most fundamental things you can learn to do as a writer. Stephen Stills once said something that I think I have quoted on numerous occasions on this blog-- "There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature." And as we're quasi-feminist here, I think women should be allowed to do the same.

-I cannot stress this enough: FOLLOW OTHER BLOGS. Start an RSS feed either here on Blogger, on Wordpress, on whatever you want to, but read other blogs with similar content to yours. Not only does this keep you in touch with what is going on and what has already been written on the subjects you're interested in, it's a great way to get "soft news" and to see what people want to know more about. I follow over 50 blogs. And blog etiquette says that if someone follows your blog, you should check theirs out, too, and if it doesn't seem like something totally outside of your interests, follow theirs. This is a great way to build a follower base, and I really wish more people would do this.

-Mesh your blog with your other writing endeavors and projects. This will make multi-tasking, or rather, re-using content, much easier. When I was writing for Moss on the Moon and the Champlain Current, some of what I published on hard copy worked great as an easy, pre-written filler post here, no extra work or writing necessary. I'd encourage you to pick up writing projects outside of your blog to supplement both your skills and your content bank-- if you're still in college, writing for your school newspaper or a campus publication is a great place to start. Also, never underestimate the ability for class content to be created of a similar theme to your blog. Last semester, I wrote two 8-page papers for Women in 20th Century Fiction on Penelope and Odysseus's relationship in the Odyssey, and a paper for Renaissance Theory of Love on what Renaissance philosopher's theories and modern women's magazines have in common in regards to views on love, got two As, and am probably going to do some editing to shorten and tighten them up and post them here. If you're already a young professional, find writing competitions in your area and try to make a quick buck while you're at it; see if projects at work could overlap with your blog.

I hope that something in there got stuck with you to chew over-- if not, I've totally failed my goal. In the meantime, if you have any other questions or noticed topics about blogging that weren't covered, drop me a line, and I'll do my best to fill in the holes. Ciao-ciao until next time.

...And hey, DO you want to blog?

XOXO

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

Welcome "Juxtaposition"!

Like any good coin or Gemini, I've got two sides. One side revels in all things relationship, material, and shiny. The other side wants to suffer for her art and can't justify putting her creative writing in the same space as the writing that she loves to do for fun and pleasure.

Sometimes, one voice is louder than the other.

Because of this, I've created a twin-blog, Juxtaposition, for my more scholastic writing. (Yes; eight months a year, I am in classes designed to make me a better writer. Might as well have something to show for that 40-grand a year tution money. Some of what's created for class is actually passable enough for me to have designs for it.) Some of you close to me and with similar literary leanings may know, because it may have come up in conversations on favorite words and letters and the like, but I picked "Juxtaposition" because it's one of my favorite words. Also, I thought it worked well with the idea of having equal sides frivolous and fun and serious and striving.

Please check it out. It (purposefully, for the meaning of the title,) looks like SATCG's sullen older sister. At the moment, it's rather bare-bones, with four posts I've carried over from here: The Kitchen Bitches articles, the poetry post, and the recent "Snapshots". I have another poem that I wrote this evening that will be going up soon, and that will be published exclusively to Juxtaposition. (From now on, I won't necessarily be advertising what's new on "Jux," so if you like what you're reading, you may want to follow that blog, as well.)

For those of you worried about what this means for SATCG, have no fear. I absolutely adore what's happening here. I just need to stretch both of my writing wings, equally. I'm not just the Sex and the College Girl-girl; I'm also someone who reads Edward Abbey like a religion and thinks running away and getting back to nature is a viable option, a la "Into The Wild." As any Gemini such as myself will tell you, we need to feed both creative outlets and facets for ultimate happiness.

...Now, if I could just convince myself it's ok to bring those Tahari heels...

As always, thanks for your support and continued readership! And visit "Jux"!

XOXO

Snapshots.

The User and the Used

"I’m glassy-eyed in the mirror; that same vacant, pretty, coping stare Legs used to have.

My mind stutters on these thoughts, catching rays of sunlight and dust particles glinting in the air. My fingers cramp and release, heavy like my eyelids as I type on the black and white, trying to get the words down, depressing ‘backspace’ more and more as I realize letters are missing…
Overhead, planes fly people to their heart’s location.

My heart thumps heavily in the cage of my chest, bone and skin. The air is thick and smells like funk. I puff, puff, drag, feet resting on my windowsill, blowing the smoke out the window with the aid of a fan. My lighter sparks and catches, sparks and catches, and I wonder if this was how Legs did it, if that’s how he found his escape, like I am doing now. I buy, and de-seed and stem, and pack, and roll, and light, and inhale, and let the smoke trickle from my open lips like smoke monsters in the dark air, and I miss him, terribly, heart-wrenchingly, despondently, all at once.

It’s late, and I know I should put the laptop down, stop allowing myself free access into the confused sore that is my heart and laying it, splat, across the page, but it’s a masochistic exercise in life-lessons: you fall in love and let that person walk out of your life, and this is what happens. So you cry about it. You rationalize it. You get angry about it. You work at it. You smoke to avoid it at first, and then you smoke to embrace it. You mold it into something you can work with. You apply it. You find something that you can live with. You get happy about this, at least, and then you smoke more to continue. It’s a circle of use, misuse, and being used.

...The words tumble from fingertips that are dry and unfeeling on the keyboard, and I don’t even try to stop them. I can’t even stop my mind. Blink, there’s another memory I haven’t remembered since it happened. Flash, and I’m sweaty and I have a dry mouth and can feel everything around me in minute detail. Click, and I’m all the way gone on the sweet side effects of a love that doesn’t know better and a habit that shouldn’t have been allowed to grow. Snap, I’m back to square one."

(In)Pulse
Roused from my sleep,
I clutch pen
& grit teeth.
I cannot help when the words come
Anymore than you can help your addictions,
Already deep-seeded,
Or the singer can control her song
Or the bird his flight.
It is an impulse,
My scratch of pen on paper,
The snort of powder up your nose,
Much
Harsher
&
Methodical
As you cut lines,


Prepare your straw, ---Close one nostril, ---And make that
---------strange ---------snuffling ---------noise


That makes me cringe,
Though my back is turned to you,
Like it always is when I see you start your ritual.
The rise and fall of notes, much sweeter than this candy.
The feeling of air under a bird’s wing, much more free.
You are not sweet,
& you are not free.
But neither am I, chasing this trail of papers,
Always hoping the next one will be better.
You and I,
We aren’t so much un-alike,
Both of us with our willingness to fall prey,
To the things that gnaw on the insides of us.
It is to say,
“Because I can,”
& to do so.
It is to say,
“Who I am,”
& not resist it.

I tell you to stop using.
You tell me to shut the light off,
& go to bed.

Cold

"I’m warmest in sunlight. Not at night when you’re lying next to me, radiating body heat and safety and comfort, but when I’m walking in the cold air and the sunlight touches my face with rays gentler than your gentlest brush of fingertips. I think I have a gold-and-cream complexion (my nice way of saying what some call “pale” in tones reminiscent of disease and social awkwardness,) because I’m a sun-baby—my hair reflects it and my skin soaks it in, becoming almost luminescent. (Again with the “pale.”) I was born in June for a reason.

Your heat doesn’t stay long, just like your body—come the next morning, we part to go our separate ways and I’m cold until the next time you nuzzle your body beside mine, nook into nook, limb over limb, some strange sort of human pick-up-stick pile of us. The sun only leaves me at night, leaving me in your care, your heat, your warmth, knowing that you can never really replace it, even though you will try, and you will like to think that you’re the true center of my personal universe. But I say everything still revolves around one sun, and you, with your thin wrists and your love for sarcasm, are far too human. You are human, and you are cold.

Winter wind still blows even though the sun is in full shine mode. I tilt my face up at it through the smudged windows of the bus and close my eyes, seeing a disco ball pattern on the insides of my eyelids that dance like the free-love generation did on LSD. I’ve forgotten my coat at home, lulled by the sunshine into thinking that it’s warmer than it actually is, and you offer me yours.

The ancient Greeks’ sun-god was named Helios. The Romans called him Apollo. I call him warmth-bringer, light-maker, shadow-chaser. You call me sun-worshipper, heat-seeker, desert-baby. I call you mine, but I lie through my teeth when I say it. You are not mine, and I am not yours, not any more than I can claim to own the sun.

In the age of solar panels, people harness sunlight and bend it to suit their needs—heat, energy, power. I am just as much to blame, yoking you to my proverbial harness to suit my basic needs—companionship, entertainment, and because it’s convenient. You, I suspect, have done the same to me. We do it because it’s easy; because it’s what people expect of us. When you need, you need. It’s human to need, too human, and I have never been good at denying myself, the byproduct of a spoiled childhood. Although I have a hard time telling people out-loud what it is we’re playing at, I find it equally hard to be utterly blasé about it and say, “I keep him around for the sex.” What I don’t have a hard time telling them is what it isn’t. It isn’t forever. It isn’t immortal. It isn’t stationary, or reliable, or even planned. Just like the sun rises from the East every morning, it is predictable and we take it for granted. Once, you called me a frigid bitch. I didn’t deny it. I, just like you, am cold. That’s why I believe more in sunlight than I do in love."

Christmas, Tough-Love Style

"What do you think? Does it look good?"

"It could do without some of the more tacky ones."

"Like which?"

"Like that one, to the left of the middle. The lumpy red and green one that looks like a wreath."

"That is a wreath. I made it for you in Advent Workshop years ago."

"Oh. What about that white Styrofoam one?"

"That one, too. It's supposed to be a snowflake."

"The clothespin reindeer."

"Basically, anything you consider tacky, I made for you and Mom as a child."

Wounding people is so easy, we stride right on afterwards without even a second thought. We all do it.

There will always be that awkward tension between parent and child in the constant search for parental approval. Tides change-- though I will never feel quite up-to-snuff for my father, my mother now looks to me for my approval. I am off-guard and awkward, and don't know when and how to give it. This softens the dynamic of my father a bit, however.

But, then again, who am I to judge?

Choosing Sides

"Wall or nightstand side?" he always asks, even though the answer always remains the same. It's just the kind of guy he is.

He's already tucked in next to the nightstand. Half of me wonders what would happen if I asked for that side. Half of me chastises the other half for trying to make trouble when everything is exactly how I want it to be in the first place. Half of me sighs. All of me crawls up the bed instead.

"Wall," I answer. "Of course. That's where I always end up, anyway." Always between cool wall and warm body. I modulate temperature like a flesh thermostat. Always on his right-hand side. Just like how he always pushes me back down in his sleep to his arm and shoulder in the place of a pillow.

Whoever needed cotton and filling when you have a hot-blooded male, anyway?

After the third night, I wised up. If Manhammoud won't let you go to the pillow-mountain, you bring the pillow to you.

Drip-Drop

Part One:

Writers: Black depressions, over-active imaginations, mental illnesses, and substance abuse. We are an under-whelmingly cheery lot.

Bathtub and beer. Bathtub and half-bottle of wine. Bathtub and a vodka concoction. It's all the same to me.

I think writers have an affinity for bathtubs because there's always the possibility of drowning oneself if the mood so strikes you. I'm sure some author must have tried holding their breath a minute too long after an unfavorable review. (Note to Self: Research this.)

I lounge in the convex shallows of the tub, one knee propped up under the facet, regulating water temperature by feel, my right kneecap bright red because I like it scalding hot. (Might as well live if you're going to be alive.) I'm reading Abbey's "The Fool's Progress" and feeling quite foolish myself, feeding this writer's malaise of mine so indulgently. Later, I will try sticking my toes in the jets, reverse whack-a-mole.

Part Two:

I turn the radio on, but leave the lights off. The moment I step into the shower and close the door behind me, my hair instantly and decidedly curls up in the trapped humidity. (Fact: I have naturally wavy hair. You will probably never see it.) The Presidents of the United States of America remind me in "Peaches" (Fact: Meant to give that CD back...) that the acoustics of the shower are the best I've ever found for singing (Fact,) but these glass walls won't hear my voice today. Soap in silence. Shampoo in solitude. Condition in consternation. (Fact: Alliteration is one of my many writer's vices. Along with verbosity and cliches.)

"Must stop playing hermit," I tell myself. "That's a direct order. Cheer the fuck up."

Circa Bankruptcy

Christmas night. The dog is napping in the backseat, taking up the entire bench, and it's nearly midnight; not Christmas any more. I'm driving and smoking at the same time, because that's one of the things I do know how to do in full multi-tasking glory. I've got the windows cracked because, silly to admit, I am scared of harming an innocent animal's lungs. Mine are already damned. So my nose is cold so his lungs can remain free from any more second-hand smoke. Silly. But the windows are still down.

It's nearly dead downtown. I'm tempted to make a silent joke about the graveyard shift, but it would be almost too easy. I don't know what called me here, but I needed to fill my eyes with it. The sight of a sheriff's cruiser lingering at a red light reminds me I still haven't replaced a front headlight that's out. I skulk past and hope Christmas spirit is enough to get me out of a ticket. I don't have the time, money, or desire to pay for either a new bulb or a ticket. I'd rather just take Plan A and flee the country. Har har.

The streetlights that rise up around me are festooned in white Christmas lights that wind around them and wreaths. The old, retro buildings, once freshly painted and proud, slouch into their foundations. Half of the storefronts are empty; "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs are the only things that occupy windows. The city of my childhood is gone. Instead, hardscrabble has taken hold.

At seven, I used to walk the four blocks down the hill from the public library to my dad's shop. At twenty, I lock my car doors as I come to a stop outside the building that used to be my father's. No lights. No gold glistening from overhead lighting in the display cases in the windows. Everything is quiet; not even the whisper of falling snow to make white-noise. I'm caught half-in and half-out of the past and the present, the crossroads of What Used To Be and The Cold, Hard Truth. Somewhere in the last twelve years, I missed this all changing. You come home, an almost-adult, and you suddenly see it all. It's alarming. It makes you wonder where it went wrong; if there was something you could do; what signs you missed and how. And if a city can change like this, unnoticed until it's over, what else can?

The dog lets out a snore. Suddenly tired, I take a last long draw and then stub my cigarette out on my side-view mirror, the plastic burned and crusted from doing it so many times in the same place before. I pull a U-ey and head for home as the clock ticks in a new day.

"And miles to go, before I sleep, and miles to go, before I sleep," I remember as I roll up the windows and rub the feeling back into my nose.

Implosion

"I'm done with being looked through. When you look at me, it's almost enough to make me believe I could catch fire. Spontaneously combust in being someone."

---

Excuse me for just thrusting you into that, but one of my professors, a very wise man who is pretty much the reason I came to Champlain, once said that there is a time and a place for disclaimers, and in front of your writing is neither the time, nor the place. So I guessed I was wise to heed him-- his advice hasn't done me wrong yet.

The one good thing about being home and broke is that it's giving me lots of time to write. And write. And write some more. The above are some pieces of writing I've been busy resurrecting and breathing new life and words into for awhile (the first piece was an excerpt from a longer work from Creative Non-Fiction; (In)Pulse and Cold are both pieces I read recently at a gathering that went over well, and since people asked for copies, decided to put them here so I don't have to individually email. Laziness is a vice I posses.), as well as some short snippets that have come to me recently, as always, in the most awkward of places. (Mostly, the shower. In the shower, hands sudsy, not a pen or piece of dry paper in sight, is where I get all my best ideas. I have learned to play them on repeat like a broken cassette tape between my brain and my lips to remember them until I get out and run, dripping, for a flat surface and something to write with.) Muses be damned. They always come at the worst times.

XOXO

The Kitchen Bitches Do Bobcat Cafe and Brewery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VISIT IT.

XOXO

This Is What A Forty-Thousand Dollar A Year Education Pays For.

I swear I do go to college. Really, I am on my way to achieving a BA in a program dubiously titled "Professional Writing," which, if one takes these words at face-value, means that I will be able to find a job in which I "professionally write" after graduation, and not have to live in a cardboard box and slip slowly into a delayed and drawn-out alcoholic death because I have already deemed that I will in no way be possible of writing the Next Great American Novel. American Eagle may be looking at a future manager, but I would probably strangle myself to death with a cable-knit sweater.

With today's economy and job market, I have already started hoarding boxes so although I may have to live in one, it's going to be a motherfucking cardboard castle. My spacial reasoning skills and my father's dreams of me becoming an architect will finally be coming true, just in a very bass-akwards way.

Don't get me wrong-- I love what I do; I just am doubting the fact that it is financially solvent, and passion for something, without an outlet that offers monetary gain, doesn't feed or clothe you, unfortunately, which is one of the great injustices of life.

Anyway, let me walk you through the past 12 hours at good old Camp Champ. After this, if you have children, or are planning on having children, you may decide to no longer remit money for their higher education fund. I'm sorry. But really, as I was telling my parents last Sunday, I have decided that on the immediate surface, if you don't get into particulars such as effort, intelligence, and aptitude, the only difference between people who graduate high school and people who graduate college is that college graduates are over $100,000 in the hole, have some vague notions on Plato's teachings and writings, and have a sense of entitlement.

Last night around 10 PM, I remembered the fact that I had not one, but two writer's journals due for Copy Editing. On further investigation in my inbox to find the subjects of these entries, I also discovered a 7 page scientific paper titled, I am not shitting you, "Sandy deposits study offshore Lithuania, SE Baltic Sea." I tried editing it, really, I did, but around 1 AM, it started to feel like my brain was leaking out of my ears, and even the Long Trail Blackberry Ale I had picked up to self-medicate and help myself through the process was no longer holding any appeal. I ditched the "sandy shores" and "Juodkrante–Preila site" and wrote one of the journals, before my body decided to call it a night and close my eyelids for me.

As for an important interlude, let's be clear on what a college student's diet looks like: Between being warp-speed busy all day with study abroad forms and meeting, discussing finances with my mother (possibly one of my favorite things in the world, right up there with puppies and non-anaesthetised dental procedures,) class, and my, I don't know-- crazy desire to actually communicate and spend time with my roommates and friends, and having forgotten to grab food before leaving my apartment, I was subsisting on cigarettes. As I explained to a horrified professor, this past summer I came to the realization that smoking suppresses my appetite. Hungry, but have no food? Easy-- I always have a pack on me. (As my professor said, "That's horrible, but I remember that you were poor this past summer," which is possibly an understatement, but by June I had already figured out that even $10 for a pack of my Djarums was still cheaper than groceries.) Around 9, I finally got dinner, AKA: delicious honey barbecue wings from Wings Over. Not eating all day, smoking, and then ingesting half a pound of wings may not have been the best idea ever. But going home and chasing it all down with a beer was possibly the tipping point.

I woke up this morning, reminded of the painful, cruel fact that my body and artisan, fermented beer do not play well together. I liken it to what labor pains probably feel like, or your appendix exploding. Basically, fold up, clutching your stomach and gasping, cold-sweat, and writhe around a little. That's what I looked like. It's one of those great debates in life: I can drink American piss-beer like Coors and Bud and Keystone and feel fine, or I can drink something that actually has taste and craft to it and want to die 9 hours later. Seeing as I like to play a little game called "Me vs. My Body," (props to Meg at 2Birds,1Blog for that catchy title, as well as being the founder/a co-player of this game,) my tastebuds sometimes make the masochistic choice for me.

Between my death-throes, I looked out my window and then rolled over and looked at my clock, saying "Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkk," even before I saw the time. Sometimes you just know. Sure enough, it was 9 AM. My cell phone, which has been dramatically prolonging it's own death scene for the past week and a half, (first front display, then battery, then screen,) decided that the little part of it that would die over the night was the alarm. Otherwise know as, my alarm clock. I slept through Tech Writing and our new invention groups. It was one of those moments where you just sit there and literally hang your head in shame going, "I am a horrible student; Warren is going to be so disappointed, and I don't deserve to sleep in for this extra hour."

I thought that this would, in some twisted way, allow me time for the rest of the Copy Editing homework I had given up on around 2 AM. So I went back to the "sandy shores" of Lithuania, and promptly realized that I was utterly delusional if I thought I could slog through it all before catching the bus to class. Yeah, I edit a fuck-ton, but there is something about an academic, scientific article numerous pages long that just stops me in my tracks and demands to know who the hell I think I am. I am not a scientist. I am not even a great copy editor. I'm more of a big-picture person, and copy editors are all about minutia and the titles to parts of sentences that I was supposed to have learned back in the 8th grade when really, I was making Tyrannosaurus Rex arms with Nora across the classroom with our hands curled into the two-finger air-quote sign. (Yeahhh...good times.) But ok. Bullshit another journal entry, and call it a morning. Sometimes, like when you have a minimum word limit, being verbose is an excellent character trait to have.

When I walked into Copy Editing this morning, unwashed, bedraggled, and feeling an overwhelming urge to curl up in the fetal position on the floor and give in and say, "You win, Life!" my professor looked at me, concerned, and said, "You don't look so good." If she wasn't a genuinely nice human being, I think that would have roughly translated to, "Wow, you look like shit." I can't contest. I'm a wake-up-and-shower person. Foraying into public looking like something the cat dragged in and then gnawed on is against the very grain of my fiber, but sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

My professor then also asked me if I wasn't functioning due to lack of sleep. I looked at her, surprised, and said, "No, I actually got 6 or 7 hours!"

"Oh," she said. "You've got some really dark circles under your eyes and just don't look good."

This, people, is what happens when I actually do my homework. It literally makes me ill.

But my favorite thing about college has to be the people. Where else in the world would an acceptable, passionate, engaging conversation topic be "Can you drive from Champlain to Tibet?" And, only at our tech-enamored school would someone pull out a iTouch and actually search the possibilities on Google Maps.

The answer, by the way, is yes-- sort of. You can drive, but you also have to kayak, and jet-ski. All I know is that whoever got to write the directions for this trek has a sense of humor I would kill for. Also, a nice little subtly passive-aggressive gig going. Aha! This is one of those rare, mythical "professional writing" jobs! My life would be made if I could do something like this where your primary objective is to answer impossible questions in the most creative, smart-ass way possible, and still get paid for it. Possibly my favorite directive is #104: Jet ski across the Pacific Ocean.

Really?

...Really?

I made the argument that rather than lugging a kayak, car, and jet ski around the literal Earth, you could quite easily accomplish this 40 day trip with one prime piece of human ingenuity: The land/aquatic vehicles they use for tours of Boston called "Duckies."

And yes, this is life at college.

XOXO

It's An Editorial Illness.

I may have mentioned a few times that I actually have a life outside of the drama that you usually read about on this blog. It's sad, but true-- there are somehow enough hours in a day for me to be productive AND have some form of drama going on.

One of the many hats I wear is quite the jaunty one. I happen to be, through some fluke of moral ineptitude or momentary lapse in sane judgment on one of my professor's parts, the Editor-in-Chief this year of Champlain College's newspaper, the Current. Though I accepted this post with mild skepticism, no idea what I was doing, and a vague feeling of nausea in between bouts of giddy excitement and daydreams of bossing around freshmen newsy minions, I have to admit that though I will periodically find myself cold-sweating in mid-afternoon about if we'll have enough stories to make even a small first 8-page issue, I'm enjoying myself.

Other than page count and submissions, the other thing that makes me slightly lose my gourd is having to write my editorials. I am a love/sex/relationship columnist, for christsake. Editorials are deep. Editorials are supposed to change lives and perspectives and mean something. I generally write to try to get people to change the brand of condoms they use. (Trojans all the way, baby!)

So you see why I have a sort of mini-existential crisis going on. What can I write about, in my own tone, that's subject matter will be both informative and appropriate for an audience not only of college students (who I'm sure would have no qualms reading about why I curse Durex into the far corners of hell for being generally tiny condoms), but also for college faculty, alumni, and perspective students and their hovering helicopter parents? Also, I get into a little bit of a moral bind here-- first and foremost, this is a college newspaper. I want to make it interesting for the college's students to read. I want to make it something that they'll pick up; that they'll want to pick up. For the past few years, while it showed a REMARKABLE turn-around under last year's EiC, the Current has strayed into the gray territory of being targeted more toward the "adults" who read it, and not the students at the college. Lots of news, lots of interviews of "important" faculty members, lots of ass-kissing, not much fun.

(Ahem. Ever notice "faculty" contains the word "cult" in it? Hmmm.)

Being a hardcore lit fan in whatever media I can get it, I've been picking up the Current on-and-off for the past few years. Last year was the first year I started to see a more student-oriented vibe to it-- more reviews, more loose and informal editorials, less of the college-mandated ass-kissing. It was a start, but I really wonder sometimes if they're ready for me. I'm already slating beer reviews and advice columns and fashion articles and mountain reviews in the winter. Oh, and also, my editorials-- I'm trying to decide how many of them can be sexual in nature before I get ganked by faculty for lewd and lascivious conduct.

But hey. This is my dog-and-pony show. This is my paper, my editorial policy, and my editorial judgment. I'm putting my name and reputation on this, so it better be something I'm proud of and feel strongly about. And I do. I'm not sure if this is what Warren Baker had in mind when he told me he wanted someone in the post who wasn't afraid to "shake things up and had questionable morals and ask the hard questions," but I do believe I fill the "questionable morals" part of that equation. Today, my morals are pointing south, or, down. I'm horny as fuck, and some of these freshmen babies are looking awfully good.

So, without further ado, I'm subjecting you to my first two forays into the world of the Editorial. The first is the one that will be in the first issue of this year's Current, which is going to press this Tuesday morning! It's about college life-- real college life. Since the undercurrent (har har, excuse the pun,) theme of this first issue is about welcoming freshmen to campus, and we have lots of pictures of Orientation and tons of information about clubs on campus and event schedules and an advice column directed at freshmen issues, I decided to be the Big Voice of the Hard Truth. With some humor. A sort of, "what to expect now that you're here" guide. Yes, I reference drunkenness and drugs, but hey-- it's real life, people. Deal with it.

The second editorial is about relationships. Yeah, that's right-- I went there. I figure a big part of college is meeting new people and wondering where your next lay is coming from and if you're really dating and what the FUCK is going on, and there's this word being passed around more and more and more every time I talk about my love life or hear anyone else talk about their love life, and that word is "complicated." If "complications" are becoming more prevalent on the scene of our lives, I figure it's up to an editor to point this out and set the record straight, right?

Tell me what you think. Tell me if you think student's parents will swarm outside of my apartment with hot tar and pitchforks. Tell me if you think faculty will shrill my name to be ousted from the school. Tell me if you think the students are going to read it and give a collective sigh of relief that finally, here is an editor who acknowledges their interests and burning desire to know whether or not it is ok to cheat on your long-distance girlfriend if she is in another state. (Not ok, by the way. You're in a relationship. Grow up, man up, and deal with it. Same for you, ladies. You're with that other person for a reason, and a cute drunk freshmen is no excuse to forget that.)

Editorial One: "Camp Champ 101"

"I don’t know about you, but this past summer was an experience. My status as “unemployed” meant scheming up creative ways to pay for gas and groceries (cashing in Susan B. Anthony dollar coins for a quarter-tank of gas; debating between buying Oreos or toothpaste; hello, awkward life moments,) or growing in maturity while losing weight because it sometimes came down to choosing between getting places or eating. I’ve always thought that adventure feeds the soul, anyway. I hope your summer was less existential than mine.

Now that school is back in session, I’d like to formally welcome the Class of 2013 to our campus! Almost 550 new faces now reside here on the hill, the second-largest incoming class Champlain has ever had. Champlain also recently made good press with its inclusion in the newly-released 2010 edition of U.S News & World Report’s “America’s Top Colleges” as one of the “Top Up-and-Coming Schools.” This is good news for this year’s graduating seniors—more name recognition opens more job opportunity doors, something that I think we all realize the importance of in today’s economy.

But I realize that right now, the economy may be the least of some of our worries. For a lot of new freshmen, this may be your first time living away from home. There’s a lot you feel like you don’t get about “Camp Champ” and college yet, but even more that you think you do know. (By the way—“Ireland” and “the GBTC” are the same building, not separate ones as you may think.) I remember my freshmen year. (Mostly.) It was an exciting time—getting to move out of the sticks of rural Vermont, and getting to meet new people, a lot of whom I still am honored to call my friends, two years and many shenanigans later. They say that college is where you go to build your future. It’s also where you go to meet the people who will affect you for the rest of your life.

To this note, I’ve decided to dedicate my first editorial to you, Class of 2013. Both as a friend and cousin of people going away to their freshmen years of college, and as an upperclassman here at Champlain (how did that happen so fast?), I’ve compiled a list of what I consider the most important lessons you’ll learn while here at college. Learn from my (sometimes painful, sometimes gleeful, sometimes hilarious) mistakes, and spare yourself some hard learning. For our upperclassmen readers, I’m sure there are some points that will hit home for you, too. I mean, come on—I can’t have been the only one who actually thought wearing my ID card on a lanyard was an ok fashion statement.

The Top 20 Things I Wish I Knew When I Was A Freshmen:

- Your bed is not only going to be where you sleep (most of the time,) but it’s also going to become your couch, your homework area, your entertainment center, your personal phone booth, and even occasionally, your dining room.

- You are going to find out that every urban legend you ever heard about college cafeterias putting laxatives in your food is more or less true. You’re going to learn to eat sparingly at the caf because of the instant food-bloat you get from what you eat there. Gaseousness was never attractive to anybody.

- Quarters are not part of your personal currency anymore. Quarters are worth far more than a measly 25 cents, because that’s how your laundry gets done now. (I haven’t spent a quarter on anything but laundry for the past two years, and getting them back as change makes me SO HAPPY, it’s not even funny.)

- Girls go to the gym to work out. Please do not interrupt us, especially when we’re sweating it out on the treadmill, running a 5K. Guys go to the gym to do one rep of lifting, grunt, and then walk around and admire themselves in the mirrors. They think there is some sort of instant result here, or at least, they’re hoping for this. They admit to it. It’s just what they do. Pay no attention to them, unless they’re sitting on a piece of equipment that you want to use, and then, ask them to move nicely.

- You stay the same age. It’s the freshmen who get younger.

- Two people CAN fit in a narrow twin-size college bed. Just make sure this is someone you want to be this close to. Also, it helps to be creative about sharing space. (Also, be safe, please. If you’re gonna love, use a glove. Babies and STDs both top the “Unwanted” list for college students.)

- Ramen. Easy Mac. Chips. Cookies. Popcorn. Brownies. Pizza. Wings. Soda. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Anything that can be classified by its chemical compound and resides on the government’s list of controlled substances. Hamburgers. Chicken patties. Salads loaded with ranch dressing. Don’t kid yourself. This is what you’re going to be ingesting. Get yourself to the gym as much as possible, or that Freshmen 15 will be the Freshmen 30.

- Always set your alarm earlier so if it’s a horrible day out, you give yourself the time to debate going to class or skipping it to sleep in or checking your Mymail account to see if your professor cancelled class. But no skipping classes more than 5 times each a semester. That’s a recipe for failing out.

- Get involved with clubs or activities on campus. You need something to put on your résumé or grad school applications, and “partying every night” isn’t it.

- There is an equation for good grades and relative leniency from professors, and it goes something like this: participating in class discussions with valid, well-thought points and actually trying to achieve some level of academic conscious thought + staying after class to chat with professors + promptly responding to any emails from professors > than doing all of your homework/attending all of your classes/getting in all assignments on time. Believe me—I’m a Dean’s List student who hates doing homework and likes sleeping in.

- Walking around campus and taking the stairs are good ways to burn off beer calories. In fact, walk down the hill to Church Street and back up. Not only is this a great way to waste some time and burn some calories, it’s also a great way to get acclimated to the town. There’s always something happening—you just have to find it. Look in local newspaper’s Events sections and on bulletin boards around campus. You’re sure to find something interesting.

- So, ok, smoking is bad for you. Yes, we know this. But the chances of you picking up the habit in college are great. Promise yourself, your friends, your family, and anyone else who will help moderate you that you’ll stop after graduation. (In my case, after grad school.) Smoking a cigarette 2 or 3 times a week when you’re really stressed for 4 or 6 years isn’t like smoking a pack a day for 20. Yes, it will affect you, but I’m not planning on living past 75, anyway. But really, the easiest way to be healthier in general is to not start smoking in the first place. Be stronger than I was—don’t cave to the pressure.

- Alcohol poisoning is not something you want. Eat a good, high-protein meal before drinking, make sure to stay hydrated with water throughout drinking (a glass of water between drinks will do the trick, and looks like vodka if you want to save face,) and most importantly, KNOW WHEN TO STOP. If you can’t stop, then you have a drinking problem, my friend, and believe me, I know how not fun those are. In that case, know your trigger points: what your favorite beverage is, at what point or number of drinks down you start to lose coordination, sound judgment, or consciousness, and who your friends are who will look out for you and actually physically take your drink away from you no matter how much you swear or scream at them.

- If you’re a girl, be smart—don’t walk alone after dark. Even be aware during the day. Calling or texting someone to let them know where you’re walking and what time to expect you home is a good game-plan. Also, no iPod on at night. That really isolates your awareness.

- Guys—your masculinity is not directly tied to how good you are at beer pong or how many girls you managed to sleep with in one school year. Really. I promise. Chill out. Relax. Girls will like you more for it.

- Grown-up: Splitting textbook costs with your roommate for one set of textbooks because you’re taking the same classes.

- Not grown-up: Pressing your cell phone to your forehead and savagely whispering, “text me back, you giant idiot!”

- Long-distance love with your boyfriend/girlfriend at home does not mean the death of your relationship. It just means you may have to work a little bit harder. It’s up to you to decide if it’s worth it.

- Make a friend with a member of the faculty, be it a professor, or staff member. Having someone who will vouch for your character as either a job reference or as a friend is invaluable.

- Go to the job fairs. Get a job. Do work/study. Everybody loves money, and yes, it does make life easier. And if you haven’t taken a look at the total of your tuition bill and what you’ll be paying back in loans after you graduate, believe me—you’re going to need it. LOTS of it.

Best of luck to you all this year, and be sure to keep picking up the Current! We’re putting a lot of work into it this year to bring you the most interesting and informative content we can, from campus news to mountain reviews, articles on fashion to advice columns, sports events to movies, books, music, and food. Until next time, keep it easy.

And um, get to your 8 AM classes, lazybones.

Carissa,
Editor-in-Chief of the Champlain Current."

Editorial Two: "It's Complicated." "No SHIT."

"There's this stigma that's been associated with the term "complicated relationship" for so long, the mere idea of this Facebook relationship status sends shivers of terror into teen' and twenty-something's hearts everywhere. Tell a friend or relative that you're in a complicated relationship, and they're bound to give you a sympathetic look and tell you love is hard. Well, yeah-- it is. But honestly, complications are being given a bad rap.

This term is coming up more and more in daily conversation. Maybe it's because we're in the age of instant gratification and using technology to make the simplest things even easier for us, but it seems like everyone seems to be using the word "complicated" a lot more lately. I'm guilty of using it, too, but honestly, I can't think of a word that sums everything up better than "complicated." What is so horrible about complications, anyway? I like a little spice in my life, and without the periodic complications, relationships can get boring. It's almost as if complications are a relationship's natural defense from keeping us from falling asleep at the love-wheel and letting things get staid and us get lazy. Complications make us work. Complications make us learn valuable lessons.

Furthermore, a "complicated relationship" is almost an oxymoron. Show me an uncomplicated relationship, and I'll show you an unfunctioning relationship, or a relationship void of the two main components of why people get together in the first place: drive and passion. Some of the best and most famous relationships were complicated: John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, Johnny Cash and June Walker, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. They may not have all worked out in the long run, but they were the romances that captivated everyone. The ones that did work out were the ones that showcased the sort of togetherness that seemed effortless, a clever disguise that masked the hard work that goes into dealing with someone day-to-day even when you love each other enough to try to achieve that goal. Say what you will-- Yoko may have broken the Beatles, but John was willing to compromise that to stay with her. That's dedication despite the complications.

There's no such thing as a relationship that isn't complicated. People by nature are complex beings who want different things-- therein lies the complication. A relationship is about striving to achieve the best possible compromise between two people while still retaining your autonomy. One of the best ways anyone in a relationship can deal with complications is to be yourself, and let their partner be themself. This person (hopefully) loves you for you, weird little quirks, snoring, clumsiness and all. If they see that you're willing to stay chill through the long-haul, they'll be more willing to be tolerant, too.

Complications can include, and are not limited to:
- Distance.
- Differing opinions on what members want out of a relationship.
- Different attitudes, points of view, or habits and hobbies.
- Third parties, (friends or temptations).
- Self-made drama.
- Miss-communication.
- Not clearly stating intentions.
- Not speaking up about something you feel strongly about.
- Lunacy.

The only time complications become a problem is when you let them. (However, lunacy might be a deal-breaker if it's not just a fleeting emotional response, but instead, a real chemical imbalance.) If you're making a complication a big deal, then it's going to be one. If you assess it and decide that it's not worth the pain and panic to your relationship, then it won't be, because you're not making it into a huge thing. No one should expect a relationship to go off without a hitch. No one should expect to be happy 100% of the time they're together with someone. But you should expect to be happy most of the time. The only way to sort through your complications is to actually face them, head on, like an adult. Warning, this may involve actually having to talk to your significant other. But as long as you approach it calmly, reasonably, with a sense of humor, and and as a united front to work through it together, there's absolutely no reason why you can't say proudly, "I'm happily in a beatifully complicated and daily-evolving relationship" and mean every word of it.

So take that, Grandma. I'm not settling down anytime soon, and yes, I love all my "drama."

Carissa,
Editor-in-Chief of the Champlain Current."

I'm not totally thrilled with the second editorial, as I feel it's missing a little of my je-ne-sais-quoi, but I'll work on it more and be back with a revised edit. In the meantime, lovelies, I hope that gives you some food for thought. I'll be back with another one of my regularly scheduled life-posts soon, although I have to admit-- having Perfect away and busy and not in ever-day contact is killing my excitement, not to mention, my mood. I miss the boy, a lot.

XOXO