April 3, 2011


Being grown-up means having to accept that in fact, your actions have consequences, and I hate that. But I’m learning to apologize.

XOXO

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May 24, 2011


Attack Of The Pod People.

My childhood best friend is getting married shortly (a June wedding; classic, of course). Despite the fact that we’ve been largely out of touch for the past few years, my family and I were still invited. My dad bowed out— weddings aren’t exactly his thing— but my S.O gamely agreed to be my date, anyhow. What startled me the most about these upcoming nuptials wasn’t the fact that I actually have a date to a wedding; it wasn’t that my childhood best friend, one year older than I, was getting married; it was, rather, the fact that I remember sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks with her in 5th grade, laying on the carpet on our backs in front of the drink cart in my parent’s dining room, and planning out her wedding. That’s when it hit me as I read her wedding invitation and RSVP card—

We’re not playing little-girl games anymore.

And it shows. Lately, I’ve been feeling a sort of shift in myself and my desires in relationships that I thought was imperceptible to everyone but myself, until in the eyes of my first college roommate, I finally saw reflected a very different vision than the college freshman who used to slink back into our cramped dorm room ashamedly at 2 AM from her forays in the RA’s room, sex hair rampant. I was poised. I was graduating. I was in a functional, happy, mature relationship that was defined by the both of us in accordance of what we wanted, what we needed, and what we were looking for from each other. I was—Jesus Christ—in love. What shocked me most was when she commented after I told her that my current relationship was making me realize how much the past, less-serious relationships I had been in irked me in their undefined, let’s-just-see-where-this-takes-us-before-one-or-both-of-us-abruptly-jump-ship, laissez-faire attitudes, “I’ve seen how you’ve struggled and been hurt, even when you said you didn’t want anything that was serious, because I knew you’d figure it out for yourself, one day.”

Me? Actually be one of those girls her likes her relationships done defined with a side of seriousness, going in a positive, delineated fashion? Mais, non!

Mais, oui! As we stood on the corner of Church Street and Main last night, my S.O referred to me in passing to his friend as “my girlfriend.” And that’s when I realized— I haven’t had a guy call me his “girlfriend” since I was a junior in high school, and that’s also the same guy who ended up proposing to me. Since then, I’ve been “my friend,” “the girl I’m seeing,” “the girl I’m sleeping with,” or just plain “Carissa,” but never the “girlfriend.” Until now, when I’ve met the family and keep my pear-and-sugar exfoliating scrub in his shower and have brought him back to my hometown. It makes me wonder if all of this— the meeting of the families, the mature partnership and cohabitation, the giving of solid, concrete titles, the endeavoring to actually, I don’t know, BE TOGETHER— was what was missing in the rest of my relationships, and thus, why they all ended up failing. While watching an episode of SATC yesterday, it brought up the question: If men and women are like cabs, cruising around with our lights off while we pick up and discard all sorts of people until we finally decide the time is right— post-college, post-nearly a decade of dating debacles, post-living abroad, and now, pre-friend-in-the-same-age-group’s weddings— are our lights now suddenly on?

While pop culture knowledge may say that I should now be desperately plotting how to wrangle a man into my marriage bed now that my friends are starting to say their “I do”s, I say “I don’t”; I may not be on the fast-track to engagement or marriage (the only thing I like about engagements is the ring, because I adore diamonds, and the only reason I’d really like to get married is to put my Star Wars-themed wedding plans into action; both of which don’t quite seem like good enough reasons to do either), but there are some disturbing signs pointing to the fact that I may, quite possibly, be one of those “pod people” types who is actuallyhappy inside of her relationship, just the way it is. You know, those couples who are always together, just happen to end up wearing matching outfits, and constantly use the word “we” all the time? You know, pod people. “We” people. “‘We’ went here,” “‘We’ did that,” people. But then I rolled over this morning, and suddenly realized the novel “Chasing Harry Winston” by Lauren Weisberger was on top of my reading pile, while “The Bridesmaids” was on my Movies-To-See List, and my mother and I had recently debated the choice of my childhood best friend having her reception at The Legion and the S.O and I had ended up in front of the engagement display, comparing tastes, while on a trip to Periwinkles to find him a watch. I started getting suspicious. Maybe I was getting antsy. Meanwhile, in the formulation and brainstorming process of writing this post and getting into the “wedding” frame of mind, I’ve been trolling countless big-name jeweler sites, ring-watching. (If you don’t think it’s not a competitive sport for women, guess again.) And until I found this ring on Harry Winston’s site, which isn’t even an engagement ring, I was rather lackadaisical about the whole thing. Still no real drive to hear wedding bells. Still entirely loathe to put together a guest list (my own personal nightmare). And then, I saw the ring. Imagined what it could look like with a diamond crowning it, instead of a sapphire. Thought about how I could rope my father, a jeweler, into designing and making something similar. And I suddenly got it. The itch. The diamond fever. I realized that every relationship before now was wrong because we weren’t on the same page. They were all in the casual lane while secretly, unbeknownst to even myself, I was in the “Skyscraper ring on my left ring finger” lane. I started wondering where I could find decent flower arrangements and a hot pink Gerber daisy bouquet. Then, I caught myself. I almost, unknowingly, without being on guard, let myself slip into the “we” people zone again. The diamond almost got me. While I may be the sort of girl who has rediscovered that she cherishes being called “the girlfriend,” I’m still not the sort of girl who thinks picking place settings and napkin fabrics out is a good use of my time, when I could be, I don’t know, catching up on all the new episodes of Sons of Anarchy or creating a new, catchy acronym for inappropriate relationships (P.I.W.B: Professor I Would Bang, anyone?). So, while I may be discovering, through my relationships, through my friends, and through myself, what sort of pod person I really am, I’m also still not overly tuned into my biological clock or life plan. It was all the ring. The fucking ring. Weddings. They’re still on my “highly skeptical; treat as you would a leper patient” list.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG

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SATCG Marriage Ain't For Me Engagements Rings Wedding The S.O Growing Up Hindsight Labels Love Twenty-Something

June 1, 2011


I turn 22 in 9 days.

When the fresh hell did this happen.

XOXO

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July 26, 2011


A Better Woman Than You

One of the bad parts about staying in the same town that you graduated college in is that inevitably, you’ll run into people from your past who you would rather not see. Like today when I unexpectedly bumped into one of the ex’s little slips in fidelity. It had been awhile since I’d seen her; even longer since I’d seen her in the same room as myself and the ex. If counting my two relationships since him was any indicator, I’ve obviously moved on. I don’t wish her a quick slip and a bad fall anymore. I don’t spend my nights obsessively checking her Facebook profile to see what she’s been up to lately (answer then would have been, “having more of a life than you are obsessively checking her page, dipshit,”) anymore, either. In fact, it was kind of a shock to see her and instantly remember that, well, she exists. So I did the natural thing, which, in this case, also happened to the the right thing: I smiled genuinely at her, and said, “Hi, _____, how have you been?”

And she barely looked at me. She said a flat “hi” back, and moved on with whatever it was she was doing. For a moment, I was PISSED. Look, I’ve been the Other Woman (with the same guy, nonetheless!) in the past, so I know what running into the First Woman entails— You smile politely, but not too much, lest she think you’re mocking her. You speak first. You say a genuine, polite “hello” or “hey.” If she engages you in conversation after that, you stick to neutral topics— the weather, work, school, recent plans (that DON’T involve the man in both of your lives). You DON’T just ignore her. Because here’s the thing, if you don’t at least smile and say hi, then you’re being a bitch. And if you happen to the the First Woman, you end up having yet another reason to hate the Other Woman even more. Basically, I was mad because I slipped back into the thinking that if you have the balls to want to share my relationship’s bed, you BEST have the balls to meet my eye when you see me. Otherwise, I’m going to think that you’re a coward, not a threat, and start to question my partner’s interest in you in the first place and if you’re what he wants to run around with, than is he really the sort of man I should be with? There’s a very particular sort of woman who lurks around the outskirts of your life, looking in, wanting what you have, and is all bark behind your back and no real bite, and those are the women I can’t fucking STAND. And THAT is EXACTLY the sort of woman who doesn’t have the social grace or class to actually buck up, be a big girl, and converse like an actual person.

All of this flashed through my mind in about a nanosecond, dragging with it all the old feelings of spite and envy and mistrust and haughtiness. Then, something else happened— I suddenly realized that I had no right to feel ANY of those ways about her anymore, as I was no longer (obviously) with the ex, and neither was she, either. I realized that if she couldn’t even look my in the eyes now, over a year after everything between all of us went down, well, that was telling. About her, about her character, and about how she felt about the whole situation. And so, I kept on walking, letting it slide, and feeling vaguely protective of her, and the innocence and naivety that she exposed by not knowing how to do the right thing. Because, when it comes down to it, there are always going to be other women out there who are either trying to get a rise out of you, or you are trying to get a rise out of, yourself. (I would be lying if I said I was currently engaged in a game of electronic “chicken” myself.) We all have it in ourselves to be bitches. We all know exactly how to hurt other women. But that’s all rather childish, and should be behind us by now, like how I realized that what she thinks or does no longer has any impact in my life, not even if she refuses to respond to my greeting. What really proves who the bigger (and better) woman is is who smiles and says that theoretical “hi” first. And I am now DEDICATED to being that better woman.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG.

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August 17, 2011


Money:

If you don’t make it your damn self, it’s not yours.

Earning it isn’t just at your job; it’s by being able to be responsible when you’re given it.

There is no such thing in life as a Free Ride, and, if you think you find one, chances are, free is a relative term in regards to finding out what you have to lose for it.

This morning, I was at my favorite coffee spot when I noticed that someone had left a stray $5 bill on the counter. It wasn’t near the tip jar. It wasn’t near another person. No one but me had seen it. It obviously had been left behind. I eyed it like an AA member eyes a tall, stiff G&T, and almost reached for it. I had 37 cents, a Euro, a pound, and a few Canadian 2-cent coins in my wallet. My bank account was in the red. I had just pawned off three expensive pieces of jewelry that had been gifts in order to pay for this month’s rent. I had NOTHING left to sell, and a quarter-tank of gas. It was REALLY tempting to pick up that stray $5. But I didn’t.

I thought about the fact that in the not-so-far-away past, my spending habits and lack thereof money management had cost me a few things I dearly loved: I lost my horse. I couldn’t stay in Burlington. In one fell, fiscal swoop, I cleared out both the thing I loved most in the world, as well as a living situation that separated me from the slovenly dependent and actually made me happy. I hadn’t earned those $5 at ALL. If anything, I’d proved that given the choice between giving me, a college-educated, emotionally independent, proud contributing member of society the money, or a homeless, drunken lout the $5, you would probably be safe in assuming the drunkard would make a wiser decision in spending it than I would. And that’s when it hit me, and I pulled my hand back and away, and left it on the wooden counter for another, more morally and financially correct person to find:

If I have SO MUCH going for me in life, I should not have to be bailed out. Simple. I’ve proven to myself that when shit gets tight, I can find a way to make my talents and ingenuity pay for me. I REALLY don’t need to be asking other members of society for money that THEY earned, that THEY will spend in a much wiser manner than myself, that THEY get to decide what it goes towards and what it should not. I realized that if I took that $5, I would effectively be saying to myself, “You don’t have your shit together enough to not even be responsible for making $5 for yourself, so you have to take it from someone else.” And you know what? That was $5. I had an existential crisis over FIVE DOLLARS. Can you imagine what it’s like for people who go through their life always asking other people to pay for them to exist? I’m sorry, but the world is NOT a stage, and we should not be giving money to people in exchange for them nearly continuing to keep breathing. Our population is not that lacking. Instead, if you really need a benefactor to bail you out, find someone who’s willing to meet you fiscally half-way, given the fact that you first exhibit the drive to work for it by fronting the first half of expenses. That way, people will know you’re actually the sort of person who isn’t just going to shit money away on designer trash and frivolous “necessities.” Because in the end, if you do, you’re not even going to be able to look at yourself without being disgusted by your own blatant disregard for the fact that you obviously don’t care about the things you supposedly love and cherish enough that you should be responsible for taking care of.

Never reach for a dollar easily without thinking about what it’ll cost YOU. It’s not just a hundred pennies— it’s your own self-worth. You shouldn’t have to get it from other people.

XOXO

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September 4, 2011


This is why I love the symbolism of an anchor, exactly.
Also, when I saw the OP’s URL was the name of the two girls I nannied for who totally weaseled their ways into my heart through Disney movies, cuddling, and endless games of “The Princess And The Shopkeeper,” I took it as a sign that I should reblog. So, Morgan and Sweet Caro, this one’s for you. Now stop growing. It frightens me that you’re now on Facebook and this possibly means that I am getting…
…Old.
XOXO

This is why I love the symbolism of an anchor, exactly.

Also, when I saw the OP’s URL was the name of the two girls I nannied for who totally weaseled their ways into my heart through Disney movies, cuddling, and endless games of “The Princess And The Shopkeeper,” I took it as a sign that I should reblog. So, Morgan and Sweet Caro, this one’s for you. Now stop growing. It frightens me that you’re now on Facebook and this possibly means that I am getting…

…Old.

XOXO

(Source: eqqontoast)

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September 5, 2011


Now Is When I Start To Feel Really, Really Old And Sad.

A few days after I moved home, I got the rather sad news that the boyfriend (in a few seconds you’ll understand how old saying that makes me feel,) of one of the first girls I ever routinely babysat for died suddenly. In my mind, Caro will always be 8, so it’s quite a shocker for me that she’s A.) On Facebook, B.) My “Facebook Friend” in fact, and C.) She’s nearly 15 and DATING now! Furthermore, she was an active participant in a memory I fondly like to recall as “The First Time My Maternal Instinct Kicked In And I Definitely Knew That If A Stranger Ever Called I Would Beat The Holy Hell Out Of Him To Keep Her Safe” when she snuggled into me as she and I and her older sister sat on her parent’s living room sofa and watched “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

If you didn’t even get that fantastic scary move reference up there, you’re far too young to be reading this, and now I feel really, REALLY freaking old.

So it’s safe to say that as far as I’m concerned, my sweet Caro will always be 8 years old for all eternity, and I am ALWAYS going to want to kick the ass of whatever makes her feel scared, even if it IS Life-with-a-Capital-L or even worse, Robin Williams with a stuffed bra. So it hurts me that she’s hurting so much. I will openly admit I cried as I wrote to her, because, and now here’s the big, very un-humorous reveal— when I was a sophomore in college, one of my dearest friends and ex-love interests also suddenly died at an unfairly young age, and living through the aftermath of life without someone you always assumed would be there for you was NOT fun.

I know there are people out there who are thinking things like, “My childhood bestie and I had a HUUUuuuUUUUuuuUUUUge falling-out after she lost her baby-fat in 9th grade and I didn’t and she started hanging out with the popular girls and I wasn’t included, so I know what that’s lyke and I FEEL YOU, GURRRRLLL!!!” but let me tell you— that’s not the same. At all. And I just wish for you, desperately, that you do not and will never experience the sensation of dialing someone’s phone number automatically because you need them, and then listening to their voice on their answering machine in shock because they didn’t pick up for nearly the first time ever since you’ve known them, and that’s when you realized that you would never hear their particular tone of voice anywhere else again other than trapped for antiquity on a phone line that their parents hadn’t disconnected yet. Because the morning that I got the phone call, that’s what I did— I couldn’t think of anything else to do but call Mike’s number and ask him himself if he was dead or not. But he didn’t answer. And he never did answer again, not then, or the handful of times I called after that, just to hear him.

So I wrote to an innocent, precious little girl, and told her that I know a little of what she feels like, and that if she ever needed to NOT talk about it and go get a smoothie, or to know what life afterwards without them is like, she could contact me. And then I went on wrote on Mike’s still-active FB wall about how he’s taught me so much— both while he was alive as well as after his death— about love and loss and strength and living, and how wonderful it feels, even in such horrible circumstances, to be able to be there for someone else whom I deeply care about, because of what I learned from him. 

…Now I am bawling openly.

I feel old. I feel sad. I feel strangely blessed to have loved so deeply that I can feel this way about those things.

XOXO

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September 21, 2011


September 25, 2011


Since my junior year of college and moving to Burlington year-round, my interactions with the Nanny Family have been such that the last time I saw their “baby” whom I nannied for/was in cosmic child-love with, he was 2, and I was teaching him how to swim, say “lion,” “elephant,” and “bear,” and eating lots of Goldfish crackers, the seemingly universal snack food of toddlers (and nannies). Now that I’m back in the area, I picked up a dog-sitting gig (the Cookie Monster,) for them while they were out of town. So when I delivered her back today, my past (literally) ran into me again. Because my past is now three feet tall, he ran into me somewhere directly under my boobs. I don’t know which was more shocking.

My “baby” is now 4 years old, 42 pounds heavy, and told me that he could “swim across the ocean ‘cause I don’t need help swimming anymore,” when I asked him if he remembered me helping teach him to swim. Of course he was much too young to have any concrete memories, but, as he came out from hiding behind his mother, started poking me, then progressed to leaning against me (I am a helpless sucker for all dogs and children who lean on me), which culminated when he grabbed my hand in his and dragged me all around the house to show me his photos, see how much he weighed, and scale me like a human tree, time caught up with us. Carrying him back outside on my hip like I used to when he was much, much lighter, I felt his soft, spiky hair against my neck as he put his head down on the same crook in my shoulder that he used to. It felt so, so right, and it apparently did to him too, because he turned and mumbled in my ear, “I think I remember your voice.”

My heart felt like it suddenly fractured. I nearly cried with joy.

As I put him down in the driveway next to his mom to say my goodbyes and get back into my car, he clung to my knees, not letting go. He’d always been hesitant to let people leave as a toddler, but now, when he asked if he could come home with me and I told him he’d have to sleep under the bed with the cat, he thought about it seriously for a minute before responding with, “I like cats. But I’d have to bring a blanket.” He talks now. And he’s exactly the clever little person I always imagined he’d be.

Lovelovelovelovelovelovelove.

And thus SuperNanny Round 2 begins.

XOXO

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September 28, 2011


Baby’s First Murder Victim.

My little baby just killed his first mouse today and left it as a gift for me on the kitchen floor. A.) I’m really glad he knows where the food is prepared, and B.) GROWING UP (crazy catwoman sobs of joy and pain).

…When I lived in the city I was not like this. Close, by not quite.

XOXO

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October 1, 2011


22. Teething.

Again.

Wisdom tooth, I swear to god, either shape up, or you’re coming OUT.

XOXO

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October 10, 2011


Do you ever get really tired of being the grown up one, and just don’t want to anymore, yet you know if you stopped it might as well be as if the world were ruled by monkeys and chaos roamed free?

It sucks having to be mature. I just want to be able to get away with shit, too.

XOXO

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November 1, 2011


It took me over 20 years to realize it, but dating does not mean tying all your hopes and ambitions onto one person or one (relation)ship…it’s a trail-and-error process of getting to know people in response for the human desire to not be alone and so when you finally HAVE narrowed down all your options and preferences, you know the perfect person when they find you.

Working in the jewelry business where you’re frequently dealing with couples looking at engagement rings and/or large purchases tends to result in developing a kind of 7th sense for being able to identify couples who will make it, and couple who certainly won’t.

It terrifies me when high school students come in to buy promise rings; I want to say to them, “Do you know what ELSE is out there? Do you even know what YOU really want in a partner for the next few years, let alone for the rest of your LIFE?!” Yeah, break-ups and some relationships suck in the early years of dating, but once you’ve done it enough, it’s CAKE.

Do I know what I’m looking for? Yes. Do I know what traps and pit-falls to be wary of? Sure do. Do I know what I expect out of my relationships? Absolutely. Do I really, really know what I expect out of my relationships? Do you want a list? Because I can give you one. Do I know what I can live without? Oh, yeah. Do I know what I can’t? What about “types”— do I know who I should shy away from, even when my lady-bits are screaming, “YES; TAKE ME NOW!!!” Oh, especially. And am I making wiser choices, decisions, judgement calls, and moves because of all those years of dating a gamut of men?

You bet your sweet ass. Bring it on, single men. I got this.

XOXO

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November 15, 2011


I don’t know if any guys really grasp how nerve-wracking it is for a girl to call or contact them first…

…I am such a little chickenshit.

Like seriously, I feel like I am back in 6th grade again writing the note that says, “If you like me, check yes; if you don’t, check no.” Except, without the semi-colon. Because a 6th-grader would not use a semi-colon.

XOXO

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Girl Talk: What's My Age Again?

  • "I think you'll really like him. We chatted for over a half hour on the phone...
  • OH MY GOD, WRITING THAT SENT ME STRAIGHT BACK TO 5TH GRADE WHEN I WOULD TIME MY PHONE CALLS WITH S_____ B_______.
  • Kill me now."
  • Caiti: Hahahahahahahah I actually saw S____ downtown on Halloween.
  • XOXO

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