AIDS LifeCycle 2015 Celebrates ‘Red Dress Day’

OK, OK. So these two cyclists on the record-breaking 2015 AIDS LifeCycle are flaunting their red short shorts instead of a red dress on Thursday.

Gay guy calls his childhood bully, and it goes better than he could have dreamed

A gay guy has done what many of us, no matter how old we are, would be terrified to do: call up your childhood bully.

Twin Nation: Non-Identical

Fascinating Radio 4 programme about identical twins where one's gay and one's straight...

Prince Charming Meets His Match

We went for a date in Hell’s Kitchen a week later. I was just coming from a show, so I looked sweaty and gross and not put together, and he, of course, looked perfect.

Activist Filmmaker Gal Uchovsky on How LGBT Culture Changed Israel

When is a kiss more than just a kiss? When it changes the hearts and minds of an influential segment of a population—as did this kiss between two Israeli soldiers in the 2002 film “Yossi and Jagger.” Ohad Knoller, who played Yossi, told the New York Times in 2013, that the film changed the way....

Saturday, September 11, 2010

The (Boxer) Briefs

Because I am not, as some might assume, always plagued with romantic drama or spewing forth column after column (those things take work and hours and dedication and actually a topic or event to happen, you know), occasionally, to keep you readers in writing, I’ll be posting short(er) entries like this one with a “this is where I’ve been, this is what I’ve been doing, and this is what’s up” theme. There are always multiple things I can address, just not all of them in a longer format, so this is ideal. These sort of girl-about-town entries will be a mish-mash of either comments, quotes, short reviews on events, people, places, movies, books, etc; wish-lists, or just some social commentary. They’ll all be tagged under a “Girl About Town” file, too, so look for that.

Last night, I spent a Girl’s Night (plus Travis) at my favorite couples’ apartment. Some, (ok, I’ll be blunt, MOST) couples render me either squeamish, bored or murderous with their PDAs and sickeningly cute and happy togetherness. For a (newly) single girl, it’s like pouring salt and alcohol into an open wound and then sticking your fingers (or tongues) into it. The other night, one of the few exes I’ve remained friends with stopped by with his (non-fuctioningly stoned) girlfriend. As they cuddled on the floor in the living room, I fired off a text to my friend Madison. “They just kissed,” it said. “Someone is going to die and my sense of self-preservation is very great so I don’t think it’s going to be me. If anyone asks you, it totally wasn’t a premeditated double-homicide.”

Barring the couples that make me want to choke to death on my own vomit rather than witness yet another of their grope-fests while sitting awkwardly beside me, I actually have a few that I like. Emily and Travis (he’s going to be so pleased I’m writing about him—here’s your love, XOXO!) are one such couple. They’ve been together for over two and a half years, and have progressed past the point of the just-new and romantic to the sort of nonchalant closeness that can really only be achieved after you’ve lived together with someone for an extended period of time and share the same bathroom. Case in point: last night, after Emily made a gentle dig at Travis, he mimed jacking off and ejaculating at her. She laughed and mimed throwing it back at him. I mean, really. I love this. It’s perfect. This sort of playful sense of “you’re such an idiot but I love you anyway” is what I aspire to, one day.

My roommate, close friend, and part-time semi-personal chef Alli whipped up chocolate-covered strawberries and home-made hot cocoa for all of us (yes, this is the life I lead. I am blessed,) as we caught up over Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations". (If there was ever any question, I am totally and utterly besotted with that man. In fact, while watching him eat a mouth-wateringly good-looking sandwich in Brazil, I commented, “I could totally screw Bourdain and eat that sandwich at the same time. Totally. And you know what? He’s probably into shit like that.”) While Travis went to watch what will remain an un-named TV show in the bedroom, Emily, Alli and I all sat in the living room watching (irony,) “He’s Just Not That Into You” and discussing the sort of things women talk about while together: sex, men, porn, food, relationships, marriage (or lack thereof—both Alli and I are of the same school of “I want to live in sin with you forever and ever and ever rather than go through the white dress and pomp and circumstance and legal proceeding” thought), and other things. Here are the general findings of the night:

Sex and “Awkward Firsts”: The first time you have sex with someone is always the worst. You have no idea how the other person jives, what turns them on, or the little things they either like or can’t stand. I always have a problem figuring out how much noise my current partner can tolerate. (It’s a delicate balance, as I am almost unapologetically loud. Legs loved it, but with the much quieter Mr. Perfect I wondered if it was a little bit much.) And then you have to figure out if the person you’re with is a Listener or a Watcher. (A Listener gets off on sound and speech—aka moaning, panting, yelling, screaming and dirty-talk. A Watcher prefers to watch the act of sex and penetration. Most Watchers unsurprisingly have a pretty well-founded porn habit. When I asked Cait how Perfect spends his free time and she responded with “He likes to swim or bike; he spends time with his sister or his best friend who lives right by him; he has high-speed internet-”, I cut her off because that right there answered my question about some of his habits and explained a lot.) You break the moment during foreplay or sex (if you even succeeded in creating a moment,) to give warning notes and asinine information. You effectively sabotage yourself with your nerves. You destroy the very essence that is truly amazing great sex. And for what do you give these warnings about ticklish spots or apologize in advance for anything that either may or may not happen? So that you might hopefully end up having truly great, amazing sex. It’s basically shooting yourself in the foot. Or, more specifically, in the dick or vagina. The only way to really get to know how someone has sex or what they like is to keep having sex with them—something that I’m trying to figure out how to approach after my uncharacteristically nervous first time with Perfect that left me feeling as if I didn’t perform to my high standard and we have since decided to try “just being friends.” To my knowledge and experience, friends don’t shack up and there was no “with benefits” added to the end of that statement, so I have to figure something out. Plotting time is now.

Men, and How To Pick One Up: We came up with this jewel while discussing the heart- and panty-breakingly attractive waiter at a downtown restaurant. Alli started the conversation, and I tried jumping in when Emily cut me off, saying, “Wait! You have to hold your tongue!”

“I can barely hold my legs closed!” I protested, but it was worth it when after Alli came up with the pick-up line of “I just want to know what your mouth feels like. Is that ok? Can we do that?” I was able to come back with a “Possibly your penis in my vagina, too. Is that still ok? Does that sound good?”

Also discussed, Madison’s new boss at her summer job: a twenty-something all-American football-body type guy with the almost buzzed hair and bright blue eyes that bring to mind an apple-pie Marine or man in uniform. His nickname? Juicy McHotHot Boss. Oh yes. That’s one man that gives me office-sex thoughts, which is no mean feat seeing as I’m a journalist to try to escape the cubicle and be able to do my job from somewhere much more comfortable and private—namely, on my bed, in my underwear and a men’s t-shirt, like right now.

Porn, or Girl Porn 101: Some women hate porn. Some women love porn and will watch exactly what the guys watch. Some women have never watched porn. Some women have watched enough porn to get either sick of it or casual about it, because let’s face it—when it comes down to it, it’s just two people having sex. You can do that on your own time. I fall into that last category, but I recently stumbled across the equation for good porn for the every-day woman: foreign porn + a little bit of a plot + hot foreign men + 5 minutes’ worth of oral sex for the woman in it - a half-hour blow-job scene - anal sex or weird fetishes- ridiculous amounts of cum = good porn. “Field of Dreams” and “Cutting It Up In The Kitchen” come highly recommended. Granted, you can’t understand a word they say, but do you really need to?

In other news, summer weather calls for shorter hemlines on sundresses and afternoon plans. My favorite ways for a single girl to keep busy? The Self-Date. Dress up cute, but casual and comfortable, and go take yourself out someplace. (I, yet again, proved to myself that I am not a cheap date the last time I went out for tea and the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and ended up spending over thirty dollars on new novels in Borders.) Here are some of my favorite ideas for spending some quality you-time:

- Find a local tea house or coffee house that has a casual and relaxed atmosphere with couches or armchairs that encourage staying for awhile. Bring a book or magazine and treat yourself to a beverage while you read and relax. Dobra Tea in downtown Burlington has a great dark interior that suits brooding types and heavy thought, while the Vietnamese Sapa around the corner is brighter, more sunny and feminine, and serves not only bubble tea but some of the largest and best chocolate truffles I have ever had, in flavors like champagne, raspberry, crème de menthe, and espresso. Total cost should be somewhere around ten dollars if you bring your own reading material—more if you buy a new magazine for the occasion like I tend to. Also, some books I've read lately and highly reccommend: "The Wilde Women" by Paula Wall (blissfully snarky and sexy), "The Last Summer (Of You & Me)" by Ann Brashares (of "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" fame and possibly the best book I've ever read), "The Jewel Box" by Anna Davis (Carrie Bradshaw does the 1920s and London), "Girls In Trucks" by Katie Crouch, "Eat, Love, Pray" by Elizabeth Gilbert, "The Moonflower Vine" by Jetta Carleton (lost classic, but goodie), "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club" by Jessica Morrison, "All This Heavenly Glory" by Elizabeth Crane, and "How To Teach Filthy Rich Girls" by Zoey Dean (of "The A-List" fame).

- Go to the beach and get some sun! Now is the time for free tanning and bikinis! I’m a fan of working out the night before I hit the beach and eating a light breakfast that morning for maximum teeny bikini confidence—freshly worked-out muscle is visibly firmer. Bonus is that most beaches around Burlington are free if you just walk in. (At North Beach, park in Burlington High School’s parking lot if school’s not in session. I’ve even done it sometimes when it is. Shhh!)

- A veritable marathon of good new movies are out—I haven’t heard one person who’s seen it say one bad thing yet about “The Hangover” and “The Proposal” with Ryan Reynolds looks downright yummy if only for him. “The Ugly Truth” with Gerard Butler and the always effervescently lovely Katherine Heigal is coming out soon—a definite must-see. For one ticket, some either chocolatey or buttery snacks and a slushie, you should have yourself a fun time for about twenty dollars.

- Go for a drive, if you have the wheels. Small towns in New England are so charming to drive through. (Hint: if you’re in the Burlington area and planning a short road-trip like this, fill up your tank at the Cumberland Farms or Shell station on Riverside Ave. Gas there is the cheapest in the area that I’ve been able to find.)

- Have a Girl Night. My personal favorite is to hole up either in my room or on the couch with a few episodes of Sex and the City, a few pieces of expensive and good chocolate (Lake Champlain, Lindt, or the cheaper but just as rich and creamy Dove), and a beauty regime. As a true native Vermont girl, I like to mix the natural and the classy—I’m fond of Burt’s Bees: their Milk and Honey lotion, Dr. Burt’s Acne Stick (just as good as the prescription goop I was paying $90 a bottle for), Almond Milk Beeswax hand cream—also good for chapped elbows and knees and heels—, Rosewater and Glycerin Toner, Shea Butter Décolleté Crème—does wonders for firming up the delicate skin—, Marshmallow Vanishing Crème—so refreshing!—and the Evening Primrose Overnight Crème. (That makes the skin on my face so soft and smooth the next day I can barely keep my fingers from caressing it-- potentially awkward!)

Oh, and the title? For those gentlemen of you in the know, boxer-briefs are the way to go. They do for men what the Miracle Bra does for women—puts everything where it should be, makes it look visibly firmer and tighter and bigger, and says, “Hey—look at me. I’m hot stuff.” I’m particular to men in variations in black or dark colors and smooth or silky fabric, myself. While I know that they’re not for every man, I actually suggest doing what Legs used to do (yes, I’m telling you that something he did was right): on the mornings that you wake up and life feels really normal, wear your beloved boxers. If you wake up and feel like today’s a good day and something exciting or special is going to happen, whip out the boxer-briefs.

And if you’re a die-hard boxer man—solids, stripes, and tasteful plaids are the way to go. (Actually, I love a man in plaids.) Please, overwhelming patterns of things like hotdogs, crabs, surfing pigs, or bananas (if you don’t believe me, go to ae.com and look at the men’s boxer selection), are absolutely either crass or juvenile. If I were to undress a man and find “party pickles” on his boxers, that would be my cue to walk out the door. Just saying.

All My Single Ladies.

All my single ladies-- this is for you.


You're tired of being strong. You're tired of cooking dinners for one and cold, lonely nights spent hugging a body pillow and having to break open the pickle jar yourself and kill your own house- and apartment-invading spiders.

You feel, at times, like your train is never going to come in.


You watch your friends in relationships and want to execute a graceful mix of bawling and vomiting.

You really, really, really just need to get laid.

It is time, my friend, for you to face your fears and get back on that horse. Get out and meet people. Sitting at home on your ass in your favorite (ratty) pair of college sweatpants is not going to find you a man. Mr. Right is not just going to pop through your door one day, sent on a mission from God, asking, saying, "Oh, hey-- there you are! I've been looking for you! Are you still single?" No, little lady-- he is not. So dust yourself off, put on your party clothes, and go do something social. Outside of your apartment. Outside, even, of your apartment building. Possibly, outside of work and campus.

This is a good time to mention it's time for you to tackle another big-girl goal: going to a restaurant or movie solo. Yes. So scary. I too know that feeling of "Oh my god, she is totally judging me right now. She totally thinks I am a huge, single freak who no one loves," when you tell a maitre-de you want a table for one. But believe me, neither the maitre-de, nor the other people eating in the restaurant, nor the guy behind the ticket counter at the movie theater really care about your single status so much. It's you that cares. Only you. So time to start pretending that you don't care.

Believe me-- no one knows how you feel better than I do. I was (and still am, until Perfect decides to finally make an honest woman out of me,) the quintessential Single Girl. I did what I wanted when I wanted, drank too much, smoked too much, flirted too much, spent too much money, went out too much when I should have been home sleeping-- oh, wait-- I still do all of that. Some Single Girls can never break their solo habit. For some of us, it has become so ingrained and a part of us that without that Single Girl life, we feel lost. When I'm not in a relationship, I always manage to convince myself that I hate commitment, and would be the World's Worst Girlfriend. It's not until I'm back in a relationship that I realize that so many of my Single Girl qualities actually make me a killer girlfriend-- my independence; my sense of fun, spontaneity, and adventure; my desire for sex; my cooking skills; and my shopping skills, because it's more fun to dress your man than it even is to dress yourself.


But. And there is your big, hairy "but."

Maybe right now just isn't your time to be in relationship. Maybe, instead, you're going to have to focus on yourself, and your other, non-sexual relationships. Maybe now, while you don't have a man, is the best time for you to reconnect with your friends and family. It's almost October. It's getting chilly at night and is the perfect time to take some hot hard cider, grab your best girls, and hit a haunted mansion or corn maze and make some of your own, totally girly fun. Do the things that you can't do when you're in a relationship, and you'll find that when you're keeping busy and having a good time, you don't have the time to spend brooding alone about how you're single and want a man.

This isn't to say that when you're shrieking your head off being chased by a volunteer firefighter dressed up in a werewolf costume in a haunted corn maze, that you won't find yourself wishing that there was some guy whose hand you could be squeezing right now as he acts all manly and "protects" you, but...

That time will come, too. If you work for it. If you really do your best and make yourself the best person you can be and aren't afraid to go out there and take charge and ask for it. (Use any in-class or work group or partner assignments to practice your flirting techniques and being outgoing and aggressive. It's great time because you're forced to work with these guys you don't know that well, and a little harmless flirting never hurt anybody. Plus, getting group work done and dating is scarily similar-- you want to be just pushy enough to get something accomplished, but still be sweet enough that these people want to stay in touch and work with you again because they like you. It's like cold-calling someone. Same basic principals-- you're trying to be as nice and polite and winning and charming as possible. You don't want to get dumped or hung up on. See? Ta-da! Brilliant.)

You, lady, on your own, as a single, solitary unit, are far stronger than any other man or couple. You are a lean, mean, self-sufficient machine. So who cares if the random dude you met at the bar never called you? It doesn't mean you're unlovable. You know what, I love you. I fucking love you for how strong you are, and how optimistic, and at the same time, how fragile you can be. I love you for your hopes and your dreams and for what you deserve. I, a perfect stranger to you, maybe, love you for the fact that you're going through the same exact thing I am right now, and that means that I am not alone, and in fact, you are not alone either.

Excuse me if this isn't so Perfect themed, or happy-relationship-centric. I am a bit "egggggh" about relationships and him at the moment. No biggies-- just lots of little things adding up that are making me think. So I'm trying to steer clear of any big, forward-thinking Perfect posts at the moment. Hope you understand.

An American Girl Shows Her Stars And Stripes And Cosmopolitan Ingestion

So this past Tuesday night I was a stunning disgrace to the American culture. Or, rather, I was a total and utter portrayal of the classic American abroad student, and so, a stunning disgrace to the Italian culture. My Tuesday nights are to what everyone else's Thursday nights are. I don't have class until 6 PM on Wednesday, so this leads to all sorts of night-time free-time. This is why I needed internet access so badly. Without, I am forced to resort to this sort of depravity.

I went with my friend Erin, her roommate Kara (Mama Kara,) and their friends to Be Bop, a fun, dive-y little basement bar with live music. Tuesday night is Beatles cover-band night, and let me tell you, they were actually good. You know what else was good? The drinks. Roughly 2 Euro cheaper than I am accustomed to paying for, on top of NO COVER CHARGE, heavy on the liquor, large on the size, and quick to be served. I seriously had a White Russian like m'boys used to make back home. After seeing an Amazonian Italian woman wearing as a shirt the same black sheer blouse from Zara I was wearing as a dress, I resorted to knocking back a Cosmopolitan and a Ruskie, after hardly eating and two glasses of wine in Pairing Food and Wine earlier that afternoon, and was toasted like 10-grain bread in the morning in about 30 minutes. This may have lead to some very loud singing along to the band. It may have even-- for shame-- led to some dancing. In places one should normally not dance. I was eyeing a table-top.

Sober Carissa apparently does not want to get laid. My interactions with the local gents (collectively either still in high school, or 30 years old, or American abroad students-- nothing in between,) went something like this: A tap on the shoulder, a hand on the back, a slap on the ass. I turn around. "Ciao," says Mr. Italia. "Ciao," I say back. "Mi chiamo Simon/Antonio/Charlie." "Mi chiamo Carissa." And I turn back around. Ohhhhhh. Shut down. End of story. Go away. I could be French for all I am so disinterested in you. Lesbians even care about you more. Really. Go take your wandering hands and wander somewhere else.

Drunk Carissa, however, appears to be the 180-degree opposite of Sober Carissa, because I found myself leaning over to Erin, pawing at her, going, "Hey! Heyheyhey! Did you see that guy at the bar?! I only saw his ear and the back of his head, but I think he's cute! I really think he's hot! I'm going to go over and-- ohhh, wait-- he turned around...no, not that cute. Definitely not that cute. Well, maybe, if you look at him from this angle..."

Erin: "What the fuck are you talking about? He is hideous."

Drunk goggles: Helping less fortunate Italian men get some since 1989. While we're here, can we please take a minute to conduct a poll? Because the question was, ahem, raised if Italian men stuff their Armani and Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Because I have been around the block a time or two, and I may have been known to date men who wear tight jeans, but NEVER in my life have I seen anything quite like what was on display at that rooster show. "Quarters-- lots and lots of quarters," was the only excuse Erin could come up with. To me, there is no excuse. Just eye-sear-age.

Towards the end of the band's set, I was really, really cravin' me a Double Cheeseburger like the good ol' times across the Atlantic, so we left Be Bop to find some tasty American victuals. Sad times-- the Golden Arches were closed, but the kebab shop right down the street was not. I took off running in un-straight lines as fast as my little gold flats would take me, smacked into the sliding glass door, and did my damnedest to open it. Nada. I looked in plaintively at the man behind the counter, who was watching me, obviously unimpressed. "Are you open?" I mouthed at him, and he nodded, miming at me to push the door to the side. You know, like how sliding doors are supposed to go. I put my hands flat on the glass and gave it a shove. Uh-uh, little drunk girl. Try again. Finally grasped the little indented handle. Gave a mighty yank. Lost my balance, and staggered in with a triumphant "YEAHHH!" As Erin said, "At least you're a cute drunk," because after those antics, it was the only thing working in my favor to get me served my kebab. That, the fact that I thought Mr. Kebab Man was totally smokin' in that dark skin/dark hair/light eyes way I am extremely partial to, and the other fact that I was still dancing along and breaking it down to their Middle Eastern rap music. ...In the middle of the kebab shop. Yeahhhhhhh.

It gets better. Oh, it gets better. Have you had enough? Are you cringing yet? Are you totally disappointed at the mockery of civilized and decent human behavior when inhabiting a strange and foreign country? Because if you aren't, I am at the memories of the night. At this point, black-out would be preferred over remembering the self-travesty. I am not proud of myself.

So, huh, funny thing-- I forgot how when you're drunk-- like, really, really drunk-- you forget things. Like the fact you gave your friend 2 Euro for a White Russian of her own earlier and so are short-changed after buying a Doner kebab at 2 AM. Which leads to things like finding yourself standing in a packed kebab shop, contemplating if anyone will see you take your kebab and run. And then just saying "fuck it," digging in and devouring said kebab in a beastly manner that not even your close friends can contain their disgust as you demolish it in under 2.2 minutes, losing a french fry down between your cleavage in the process. (The act of fishing dropped food from down there, in case you were not aware, is called "spelunking." As in, "I totally went spelunking after that fry while everyone watched. No fry left behind!")

After the Destruction of Kebab Shop on Cavour, I toddled my way home, chain-smoking and weaving, to wrestle out of my clothes and fall into bed, full make-up still on. Woke up the next morning protesting sunlight, street noise, raccoon eyes, and my continued existence with a massive hangover. Lesson learned.

So let's here it for America, Americans, and American students abroad! Land of the freely drunk, home of the blazed.

Yankee Girls

Last night at dinner with the Ghibellina Girls, we were talking about how different girls from different parts of the U.S act...differently. We all agreed that a Brooklyn Girl can fuck you up in a New York Minute; that Californian Girls just want to have fun, and that Southern Girls are far too sweet for their own good. "Yeah," I said a little glumly at the end of our little exposee. "And then there's Vermont Girls. I can load a rifle and push a car uphill in snow. There's nothing cute about that."

But this morning, I was obscenely glad to be from nowhere else.

Already running late to meet my parents in their first day in Firenze, I hopped into the shower only to find that in this, the apartment in which SOMETHING is always wrong, today it was our hot water. Or, rather-- our lack of hot water.

I grumbled about it for a minute, cursing in a mix of English and Italian, because, after all, our landlord is Italian, and then did the only thing I could do, because I sure as hell wasn't going to go greet my parents two days unwashed and looking like I had been living on the streets of Florence-- not the way to convince them I'm A Big Girl Now. Instead, I went into the kitchen, found out largest pot, heated water, took a big plastic cup and the pot of water into the shower, and proceeded to take a manual shower. God bless all those times my father, an eternal DIY tinkerer, decided to fuss with the hot water heater at home and render us hot-water-less while he installed a new one; once, for an entire summer of pot-and-cup showers like this. (I had to plead with him to finish putting in the new once before school started.)

But those shower-less days at home paid off. I write to you, squeaky-clean and still in a towel, ready to go make today my bitch. Yankee ingenuity at it's finest.

New Faces, Deep Tans, Deep Ties

Align CenterI've met a lot of people while in Italy. Australian guys, New York girls, Minnesota couchsurfers, a Singapore traveler, and accidentally Vermonters. Without meaning to, I kind of stumbled right into the world of Couchsurfing.org when I made instant friends with a girl couchsurfing her way back through Italy and Europe. The day she left, I got a phone call from another couchsurfer, asking if I could show her around Florence. I wasn't expecting on doing anything that day other than eating Nerbone's lampredotto sandwich and catching up on all of my past-past-due Portfolio homework, but I broke down and said "sure" after listening to how enthusiastic and eager-to-please my new Florentine acolyte sounded. I grumbled about it all the way to the Marcato, but promptly fell right into friendship, just like always, with this fun, spunky girl from Singapore. I ended up spending the day with her and Arielle, just having Girl Time in our apartments and gelato shops across the city, and the homework remained not done. (Or even started.) This morning, I was reading one of my favorite travel chick-lit books by Jessica Morrison, "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club", which I brought with me for comfort reading, when I found this passage:

"These things may have happened only months or weeks ago, but it is our only history, so we hold onto every moment with both hands. It's all we have...Zoey and I promise to visit each other back home and to email constantly, but behind these promises we harbor the unspoken truth that the friendship we embraced so voraciously here-- for travelers, I have learned, must be voracious with their friendships-- won't be easily reconstructed. 'This was the best time, you know,' she whispers to me the next morning as we wait for her taxi to the airport to arrive. 'Nothing will ever be the same as Buenos Aires.'" (Morrison, 200-201).

Just like nothing will ever be the same as Italy. The people I've met, the new faces that I hold as dear from three months, or even just three days, as the ones I've known for years; the sights I've seen, the smells, the tastes, the things that whispered against my skin-- hot air, warm sun, soft fabrics, chilly water, ancient dust, cold stone, countless strangers-- the adventures with both old friends and new ones-- none of this will ever be the same. I may be counting down (27 days,) but the shifts that have opened up in me to rearrange to fit new people into my life are forever. Easter and exploding carts with Aussies. Drinking on a pebble beach in Cinque Terre at 3 AM with Alli. Thursday Night Girl's Night (dinner, drinks, dessert, dishing out gossip,) with the Ghibellina Girls, and our mutually-enabling shopping, chocolate, and lazy afternoons with Arielle. Missed trains with Naomi. A group of drunk 30-something Americans and a bartender with bulging biceps in Montorosso. Cannoli-slinging Sicilian twins Massimo and Jean-Luca in Vernazza with the best ricotta cream filling in the world and saucy wit. Equally frustrated Italian classes with Erin, dissolving frustration into laughter with sentences like "Albero e mio ragazzo," "Tu sei caldo come il pane," and "Io lavoro a banca," the last of which does NOT mean, as those of you who may have taken a few years of French like we did and be horrified, "I wash in the bank"-- instead, it means "I WORK in the bank."

Without meaning to, and kind of hesitantly, Arielle and I sort of became Couchsurfing's Florence mascots, but in the end, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Traveler's attract each other. That's the way it is, the way it should be, and the the way it has to be. I've learned more from these people about life, relaxation, indulgence, mellowing, making things happen, taking chances, Aussie slang, how women and men are the same the world over, and just taking life one step at a time than I ever could have by myself. I whole-heartedly encourage you to seek out other wanderers when you wander away from home, because you'll find that where they are, you and a feeling of home is, too.

Now, unlike some of my more genetically-gifted new friends, I am white-white-painfully-white. I'm a Northern European snow princess. But there is nothing I love more than sun and a good, natural tan. I've been spending two hours of every blisteringly sunny day sitting out on the balcony in my bikini, trying desperately to achieve a color other than "fish-belly white", to no avail. Today, finally aggravated beyond everything, I stomped back into the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel and the bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, and slathered myself in the oil like I was basting myself to marinate. And back out and marinate I did. Not only did the oil soak right into my Mediterranean-dried skin like an oasis in the desert, but the smell and the suppleness it gave to my skin felt incredibly sexy, like some sort of Grecian sun goddess. And I was browning nicely within ten minutes. Huh. I suggest this trick to anyone fed up with dry skin and slow tanning, an

The Montpelier and Worcester Diaries

I hate going to bed angry, and I am most definitely going to bed angry, worn down-and-out, and emotionally tired and drained tonight. I feel like the human equivalent of laundry—doused, cold, beaten around, and hung out to dry by my arms and legs. And, maybe in this case, heart.

Today, around 11 AM, I made the executive decision that I was going to Montpelier today. I was going on a day Perfect was working so we could drop in and I could finally, FINALLY see him, and I was going to take Alli so she could finally go into the rock shop she wanted to see, and I was going to go today when I didn’t have to worry about things like Mother Nature or timing or dragging other people along and making schedules copasetic, and I was going to the Pots because the weather was absolutely gross and hot and humid, and I was going now while I knew I still had gas and money and time to do so.

I was so done with waiting. I woke up impatient and restless, and goddammit, I was doing something about it. I was finally fed-up enough that I wasn’t scared of “invading Perfect’s territory” or feeling weird about dropping by. For almost as long as I’ve known him, we’ve had an inside joke that I always kid about while we text and he’s at work. If he complains that it’s been a slow day at the copy shop, I’ll ask him, “what? No one needs 500 copies of the complete works of Shakespeare?” Alli happens to own the complete works of Shakespeare. The plan was to lug the book into the copy shop, plop it down on the counter, say, “Hey, we need 50 copies of this…by tonight,” and then grin, lean across the counter, put my hands on his shoulders and say in a tone of wonderment, “So you do exist! How’s life?” All in all, I was only asking to take up maybe five minutes of his day. If he wanted to go swimming with us when he got out of work, it would be his call. I just wanted to see his face.

It seemed perfect. But almost nothing ever lives up to that expectation.

Alli and I tooled around (Ok, so maybe more appropriately, we skulked around, walking fast down the sidewalk opposite of the copy shop when we had to pass it. “What are you doing?” Alli asked me as I peered into a hobby shop’s window as if I had infinite interest in baseball cards and Beanie Babies. “Avoiding eye-contact with the copy shop?” I was.) stopping into shops and getting coffee before she finally smacked me over the head and told me to get on with it. “What’s he going to do?” she asked me.

“Charge out of the store and yell at us to leave Montpelier?” I offered.

She snorted in derision. “What, charge out of the store and shout, “YOU! I BANISH YOU FROM MY TOWN!”?”

We cracked up, and walked up the front steps to the copy shop. “You go first,” I told her. “I don’t want to be the first through the door.”

Stepping through the threshold, her face got a similar panicked look to what I’m sure mine looked like, and she pushed me in front of her. I scanned the store. A guy with sandy blonde hair was walking into the back. A pretty brunette manned (womanned?) the register.

‘Fuck my life,’ was my first thought. ‘He works with his type.’

“Can I help you?” Shop Girl asked us nicely.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling slightly foolish but using my own retail-friendly voice, an octave higher than my regular speaking voice, more girly and friendly and winsome. “Is Perfect working today?”

Looking like she was asked this question fairly regularly, she glanced into the back. “Sorry, but I think he just left,” she told me.

“Oh, ok. Thanks,” I told her before my silent partner and I beat a hasty retreat. On the sidewalk in front of the store, I dialed his number, waiting for the rings to count down to his answering machine with his startlingly low voice, making a face at Alli when he didn’t pick up.

“Hey, Perfect—you must have known we were coming, because Alli and I just stopped in to the copy shop with the complete works of Shakespeare for you. We’re in town because it’s gross out and North Beach was apparently a zoo, so we’re gonna go swimming at the Pots in about an hour. If you get this, call or text and maybe we can meet up, stranger.”

Two minutes later, sitting on the State House steps, my phone rang with a text from him. “Haha, I actually went to the store down the way and am back! Lol, but I gtg home to help my dad do money stuff online cuz he can’t do it himself! Lol.”

Manslation: “I’m back at work, but leaving soon to go help my dad figure out my financial aid, so don’t bother stopping back in.”

After decoding the Perfect-ese, I texted him back. “Ok, well, Alli and I are eating and drinking and kicking around town for at least another hour before we head to the Pots, but if you get your stuff done with your dad, head down and try to meet up with us, killer!”

Girlversion: “Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t have five minutes? But, ok, that’s a valid reason to go home. And at least you explained you weren’t hiding in the back of the store, cowering in a broom closet. And I appreciate the “haha’s” and “Lol’s.” But really. I want to see you.”

Perfect’s answer? “Ok.”

Manslation: “Don’t count on it.”

By now, I was defeatist and Alli was simmering mad. “Seriously. We’re 30 seconds away from his work. He really can’t stop by and say “hi” on his way out of town? I’m sure his dad wouldn’t care if he was 5 minutes later. You haven’t seen him in a month, and he is 30 SECONDS AWAY. Are you going to call him on this? You better be calling him on this. I'm done making excuses for him. I'm done being on his side. I'm done being nice to him.”

She was right. I knew she was right. So I followed-up with another text, gently insistent. “Or, you could stop on the State House lawn on your way out seeing as we’re 30 seconds away. Also, is John around?”

This is where I went wrong. This is where I should have learned from the same mistake I went through with Legs in the phone conversation after our cease-fire coffee date this past May. You never, EVER tack on another non-related note to the end of what you really want answered from a man, because, scientifically proven, they will answer the last and less important and pointed question and ignore the first. Ladies, learn from my mistakes—ONE QUESTION OR STATEMENT AT A TIME IF YOU WANT AN ANSWER OR IT TO BE ADDRESSED.

Sure enough, Perfect texted me back with a “Nope, road trip with his dad!”

Manslation: “I am ignoring your insisting and pretending that you never asked me that other thing which We Will Not Speak Of.”

Girlversion: “You’re being avoided. This is complete bullshit.”

I wear my anger well. Like designer clothing that took me a lot of time and money to get. And when I’m wearing it, I want to show it off. I have a red head’s temper in a blonde’s body, and I can carry a grudge like no body’s business. As this was the first time I’ve ever been mad at Perfect, really angry with him, I was beside myself. Yes, I have been pissed-off at him before, but now—now, I was ANGRY. Smoke-coming-out-of-nostrils, bodily-harm-inflicting MAD.

At this point, I knew better than to even text him anything back, because the Turrets-worthy deluge of derogatory swears coming out of my mouth were more than likely to come out of my finger-tips, too. Perfect was a “douchebag.” Perfect was a “fucktard.” Perfect was an “asshole.” Perfect was a “dickwad.” Perfect was, the most mild of them, a “jerk.” Alli kicked in her two cents with an “asshat.” We debated the merits of throwing drinks versus swinging heavy purses at his crotch versus throwing the complete works of Shakespeare at him versus hitting him with the Civvy. This continued all the way to the Pots. If he was driving home and we caught up to him as we were both going to basically the same place, was I allowed to tap his bumper? How quickly could we get out friend Kristen of the tire-slashing fame to get to Montpelier? If he was biking home, could we drive in front of him and then open the car door on him? As I stood on a boulder in the middle of the river at the Pots, I looked at Alli with a scarily contemplative face. “Where can I get a rifle really quickly?”

“You’re not planning on killing him, are you?” she asked, alarmed, and then finished her question with the statement that was the real cause for her alarm. “You can’t leave me stranded here to run from the law. I can’t drive standard!”

“I just want to threaten him with it. But I just remembered that he hunts and probably has more than one rifle in his house. Which could turn this into a Texas stand-off. Which isn’t quite what I’m looking for.”

All I wanted was vindication; not someone to get law-inducingly hurt.

Once the girl-crazies were over, we settled down into more lucid and logical thinking that didn’t involves de-balling or dismemberment. “Ok, so I’ve been nice up until now,” I said to Alli. “Now, I need to ask him why there would be any reason he’s avoiding me.”

“Right,” Alli said, nodding affirmatively. This month’s Cosmopolitan touted “Is there any reason why” to be the new Rosetta Stone for communicating with men. It’s a passively-aggressive phrase and addresses that there’s an issue while asking men to explain it in a way that they can’t help but give in to. If a guy just says “no,” then he looks like he is, in fact, avoiding you and avoiding talking about it with you. Which then leaves it open for you to say something like, “well, I feel like you have been, and…” If he says “yes,” then he’s also generally going to follow that up with the reason why. It’s seemingly the question that men can’t resist answering. I love it.

Alli and I decide that “Fuck You” is the theme of today’s adventure. We blast Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch,” because we might as well wear the song if it fits. (Fun fact: Perfect had never heard that song until I played it for him when he came over to chill for hours the day after my birthday. He got a shit-eating little-boy grin on his face at the lyrics “get the video; fuck you so good” that I could for-see a future request if we had stayed together. And then he played me Ashanti’s “Only You.” Go listen to it right now, if you never have. Seriously. This is why he frustrates me. I play him “Crazy Bitch” and he plays me a romantic song about wanting to be close to someone who you’ve never felt like this before about someone.) The pictures of the day all include middle fingers blazing. We instate Naked Tuesday on the middle of Handcock Brook Road (yes, Handcock Brook Road,) in an act of defiance. We decide to go fire-engine-red bras blazing and drive shirtless into Montpelier. We sit in the car at Dairy Crème, out of the now-steady drizzle, and stew. I go home and spend over an hour talking with Emily about what happened, what could possibly be going on, and how to fix it. Or, end it.

Still, though, I’m seething. Ok, so in my thinking, there are two possibilities to explain his behavior. One, and the one I feel as though most people, including my mother, are in agreement with, is that it’s O-V-E-R and his not seeing me is the way he’s trying to get this through and that He’s Just Not That Into Me. I do realize from a perfectly logical point of view, this could be very true. I always prepare myself for the worst. In my mind, he’s already off grinding on and fucking every pretty young brunette he can get his massive hands on and laughing with John about what a crazy bitch I am.

Option Number Two is the one that the closet, desperately hidden-away romantic in me is wondering about: that he’s still not over me and doesn’t want to exacerbate his feelings by seeing me. A month ago, this was the case. I understand the thinking, because when I see him, the undeniable attraction makes me want to dry-hump his leg at best, strip down and lie prone on the ground at worst. This would also explain the problem I have with Scenario One—when a guy wants you out of their life (and believe me as I know from Legs’s experience), they’re very good at totally alienating you. If Perfect was done, gone, moved on, over with it and didn’t want anything to do with me, he wouldn’t be texting me still. He wouldn’t be talking to me. He wouldn’t be talking with me for HOURS. He wouldn’t be flirty. He would be genuine with his “I’m sorry”s and “haha”s. He would be MIA—unreachable by phone, computer, friends, and satellite. Witness Protection might as well have swallowed him up. That’s how guys do things. None of this half-in, half-out bullshit.

So why no face-to-face? If there were to be one of us avoiding the other, by all rules of logic, it should be me. He was the one who ended it. I was the dumpee. I should be the one avoiding all contact and stiff-arming him like I do with the rest of my exes. From his side, either he’s much more deviously smart than I gave him credit for, or he honestly just has great excuses at perfectly inopportune times, but he has a perfectly good excuse for not seeing me every time t comes up—I’m not exactly going to say, “No! You can’t go to your camp with your family!” or “No! You cannot help your father with your financial aid!” So we’re at this odd sort of stand-off: he either can’t or won’t or refuses to see my for whatever reason—timing, busy-ness, latent feelings—and I’m hemming and hawing about getting down to business, buckling down, and actually talking to him like I have to. But still, in the over-all scheme of things—5 minutes today—was that really too much to ask for?

I am so mad I didn’t listen to his song, my lullaby. I am so mad I didn’t want to see his face on my computer. I am so mad I didn’t want to sleep in the bed we slept in together. I pop my iPod earbuds in, drink a Smirnoff, then another one, and chase them down with a flat beer, but at this point, I don’t care. I feel nothing. I feel nothing other than exhaustion and slight nausea and the headache starting from the noise outside, but I don’t think drunkenly screaming “Fuckkk youuuu!” out the window at the jackhammers on the rotary at 2 AM would solve anything. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and quickly turn. I look like someone who knows better wearing pain and regret and accusation plain as day in my eyes, on my face, in the way my shoulders slump and the corners of my lips curl gently down, let down but not expecting anything better. They were the smart ones. As I wash my hands at the bathroom sink, I know that my reflection in the mirror looks like someone I don’t want to be, so I look away. I fall into bed, throw my hands over my eyes, and just be in my hollow nothing-ness. Sometimes, it’s just easier to look away.