May 13, 2011


Live, Single Girls!

After my third friend in a row was recently dumped by her long-time partner in lovin’ crime, it started to put my ladies in the Burlington area in a bit of a panic. First, TGIS had gone MIA, then, one friend’s 9+ month f-buddy called it quits on her while citing the need to emotionally distance himself before moving to Beantown, and to top it all off, one of the longest-running couples I knew decided it was time to part ways, effectively rendering everyone’s general mood as if it were the end of Scrub’s era again. At the beginning of the winter, everyone was shacking up. Now as the season is almost turning to summer, it seems as if they’re all shedding us ladies like winter coats and beards. It’s bizarre, but it’s biological.

When I came home a few weeks ago late at night/early that morning from a successful date #2, I realized then that I haven’t been without at LEAST the prospect of a man for the last two years. I went from a summer fling to a feel-it-out situation, to breaking the feel-it-out situation when I slept with someone else who I then started an on-again, off-again relationship with for about a year, then finally ended up facing the music, the relationship’s downfalls, and the lack of my desires being unfulfilled when I met and started hanging out with someone else, and just kept going from there. So much for being a “Single Girl.” But it’s not my fault— there are men EVERYWHERE. The key to finding them, it seems, is to apparently not be looking for them.

While I may have achieved success (more or less,) in the really odd way of just continuing to date via the ex’s friend pool— not by choice; Vermont is just that small— the lesson that I’ve learned here is that “the end” does not really start the sentence “the end of the rest of your romantic life.” When I finally reached the conclusion on my own thanks to lack of any communication or response from him that my relationship with TGIS had run its course, I cheered myself up by doing two things— remembering that he himself had been a random stranger I’d met while intoxicated at a party (true life,) and didn’t remember until he popped up out of the blue and started talking to me on Facebook, ergo, that you NEVER know who’ll you’ll meet or click with, and secondly, taking my bed back by sleeping in the direct middle of it so it didn’t feel quite so big and empty and pathetic and lonely anymore. (Wait, are we talking about me or my bed, now? Hmm.) Partially thanks to that, and partially thanks to probably my Zoloft prescription, it was the least painful break-up I’ve ever had, even though the relationship in itself was probably the most involved and serious to date.

And then I was asked out again out of the blue. I wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t like I was planning on being a sex-kitten man-magnet right out of the emotional gate again. I actually intended to take some time off, be single, and re-evaluate myself and my life. But instead, I’m content to just feel things out, meet new people, and take things slow for now. Nothing, after all, is written in stone. Other, of course, than monuments, historical road signs, and castle dedications.

The other night, as the beau and I picked up the ingredients to make a late Sunday night dinner dressed in a motley assortment of “wow, laundry day needs to come soon” clothing, I looked across the self-check-out station at another young couple. He was in Timbz and sweats; she in jeggings, flip-flops, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that could have been identical to mine. She and I were bagging what was obviously going to be dinner for the night as the guys swiped it across the scanners, and suddenly, it hit me— this isn’t that weird; this is what people my age do. We date. We get in and out of relationships. We find out what we’re looking for in a partner, and we adjust our thinking accordingly. So, while I may eternally feel like that Single Girl, what I really am is a Normal Girl, one who goes on dates, gets into relationships, still deals with her ex’s drama, and more than anything else, is actively and eternally curious about learning what the words “love” and “relationship” really mean.

XOXO

—- 

- Excerpt from SATCG.

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College Life Relationships Dating Single Girls ILoVermont Love TGIS The S.O Twenty-Something

May 14, 2011


He’s a sexy beast. I, on the other hand, have got to get my act together.
XOXO

He’s a sexy beast. I, on the other hand, have got to get my act together.

XOXO

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The S.O Couples Relationships La Mia Faccia Disgustingly Cute

After a morning running around town like crazy, picking up groceries and wine and book shopping— I JUST realized Candace Bushnell’s new Carrie Diaries book was out!— I’m finally getting a chance to sit down and breath. Back in the S.O’s condo. Back to writing about how annoyingly awesome my couple-life is. Gag me now.

The S.O’s two younger twin brothers are home for the weekend, so tonight, he’s cooking us, them, and my two roommate’s (present, and past and future,) a big dinner at his place, full of cheese, wine, and beer. I’m making prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe slices and a salad; he’s making Gruyère-and-bacon-wrapped brisket, sauteed green beans and fiddleheads, and mashed potatoes…with more Gruyère in them. My roommate’s bringing homemade sangria. For dessert, I picked up blackberry Cabernet and blood orange gelato. We have bread and cheese. Hence, all the running around from farmer’s market to City Market to Cheese Traders back to City Market again this morning. As he handed me the keys to his Prius this afternoon to finish the errands as he headed to work, he looked me in the eye and said, “The is the ultimate symbol of a man’s trust in you.”

This is how I know it’s love. Cars. Not money, not expensive gifts or vacations or declarations— Cars.

XOXO

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Cars Food Life SATC The S.O Recipes

May 16, 2011


She Makes You Better Than Anything You’ve Tried.

The S.O’s come down with a cold, and I’m starting to feel the same scratch in the back of my throat, so I just subjected the both of us to a steaming hot shower, and put him to bed with cough drops, San Pellegrino, and a kiss so I could stay up, come downstairs, and write for SATCG. 

This is the first time I’ve ever been in a relationship where we’ve both come down sick at the same time. Baby steps toward emotional progress.

XOXO

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Life The S.O Couples Relationships Sick SATCG

Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of A Relationship.

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG

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SATCG The S.O Men Men vs. Women Bonding Relationships Dating Makes Me Want To Die These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

May 19, 2011


Have I yet mentioned that while I was shopping (read: fulfilling my addiction) in Victoria’s Secret one day, the S.O walked out of Williams-Sonoma carrying a bag, handed it to me, and said, “It’s for you.”
It was a Darth Vader spatula.
Tell me this is not love.
XOXO

Have I yet mentioned that while I was shopping (read: fulfilling my addiction) in Victoria’s Secret one day, the S.O walked out of Williams-Sonoma carrying a bag, handed it to me, and said, “It’s for you.”

It was a Darth Vader spatula.

Tell me this is not love.

XOXO

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Couples Star Wars Closet Nerd Disgustingly Cute These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things The S.O Gifts

Old People Say The Damnedest Things.

I had the MOST awkward experience the other night. While at dinner at the Woodstock Inn with the S.O, his father, his father’s girlfriend, one of the head professors of the Business major at my college, and a Business student who had just published a book and given a reading at the S.O’s dad’s bookstore, conversation turned to age differences in relationships. After regaling the table (minus the S.O, who had excused himself to the bathroom,) with tales of my 15 year old mother meeting my 23 year old father and getting hitched 2 years later, and the eerie coincidence of my first boyfriend being 24 when I was 16, I made some flip comment about how the magic age difference in my family is 8 years. This prompted the Business professor— one of my S.O’s leading professors and influential people— to ask what the age difference was between my S.O and I. I told him, truthfully, that the S.O is 4 months younger than I am. And he replies,

"Well, then this relationship is doomed."

The table PLUNGED into silence. Me, my S.O’s father, and his father’s girlfriend were in SHOCK. Finally, after some playing with my bracelets, I piped up with, “Actually, it’s going well, and is, um, my most serious relationship to date…”

To which my S.O’s father asks, “After a month?”

I ended on the stellar note, “I was a little bit of a heartbreaker in high school.”

And then the S.O came back, and I got to tell him the story over a VERY dirty martini later that night and we had a great tipsy laugh knowing that we’re “doomed.”

Long story short: Most awkward of awkwards.

XOXO

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Relationships The S.O Age Differences Awkward Open Mouth Insert Foot Life

A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

While my ex seems to be content with popping up on my cell phone’s screen at all hours of the night, now plagued with a need to reconcile after all this radio silence, my S.O’s ex didn’t seemingly take to the news that he was seeing someone new so well, which has resulted in such jewels as “Makes more sense now; Carissa is a whore’s name :),” popping up on HIS cell phone’s screen.

I Googled. There seem to be no whores named Carissa. At least, none with websites or internet access.

While it’s not the first time I’ve been called a whore— let’s be serious, this blog’s name is “Sex and the College Girl,” not, “Aeronautical Nuances of the 21st Century and How They Effected Young Women,”— it still bothered me more than I thought it would. I think the hardest part for me is that I’ve been on both sides of the equation that I currently find myself in, and so, I have empathy for my S.O’s ex, even if she did call me a slut. Her life was torn apart when she realized her ex had moved on and started seeing someone else, and I’ve been there, too. While she feels emotionally (and maybe physically) cheated on, I’ve also been both cheated on, as well as the cheatee, in previous relationships. All in all, it leads to a confusing war of emotions— part of me wants to land a good right hook on her nose for calling me a whore when I have done absolutely nothing wrong (or whore-like,) while the other, greater, more Gandhi-like part of me wants to help comfort her and work her through this, since I have the knowledge and experience on how to survive something like this from before. If we were men, it would be so much easier. We’d have a good rough-and-tumble fist-fight, and then we’d be best bros. Instead, it all just gets to be awkward and I get to live in fear of opening his bathroom door after a shower, dripping wet, naked, and vulnerable, to find her standing there when I’m home alone at his place. Have I mentioned that she apparently has 8 inches on me? Yikes.

But maybe, it’s not all so cut-and-dried. As I guiltily found out when the ex cheated on me, it’s easy to hate someone you don’t know. I was CONVINCED the girl he’d slept with was born with the express purpose to ruin my life, be a bitch, and look horrible in her Facebook profile photos. (There may have been many, many catty references to her resembling a wall-eyed bass. Not my finest moments.) But gradually, I started to realize that she probably A.) Had no idea I even existed, and B.) Was just looking for the same sort of love I was. Unfortunately, we were both looking for it from the same guy, but all the same, I couldn’t fault her wanting her happy ending. And so, little by little, I started to forgive. The other day, thinking about her, about me, and about my S.O’s ex in the current situation, I looked the ex’s indiscretion up again. And you know what? She looked good. She looked happy. And not even the least little bit fishy. Maybe it had just all been me, being a cat-fish.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t. The other night, at dinner, my S.O mentioned something inside-joke-like in passing about his mother, a different women than his father is currently seeing. I happened to be looking at his dad’s girlfriend when he said it, and I saw a look flash across her face as quickly as it was then gone. But I recognized it. It’s the same look ALL women, when the name of the woman who came before, or who they’re afraid will come after, adopt as soon as the syllables hang in the span of air between mouth and ear. As I sat at our table in the dining room of the Woodstock Inn and looked at my S.O’s father and his girlfriend, it hit me— The ex-girlfriends of our past and present are only going to become the first, second, and ex-wives of our future. And it’ll still be just as difficult, awkward, and confusing as it is now, so we just might as well get used to it, and get good at letting all the flack slide off of our shoulders. So here’s to turning the other cheek and waiting for the day when she knows better than to think I’m actually a whore, or that I ever meant to hurt her. Because I, possibly more than most other girls, know both the exquisite pleasure AND pain that comes from these sort of relationships past-yet-still-present. I’ve been in those tight size 8 shoes, and it’s not a fun trip, not in the least.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG.

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SATCG The Ex-Files Other Women The S.O Dating Makes Me Want To Die Love And War Relationships

May 21, 2011


Having a boyfriend means someone else will return your Comcast equipment for you when you’re too afraid of your outstanding balance to go in. That’s love.

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Couples Relationships The S.O Disgustingly Cute Boyfriend He Ain't Yo Boyfran'

May 22, 2011


I’m having a sneaking suspicion the S.O has been looking at flights to take me for a trip for my birthday. To Europe. What the FUCK am I supposed to do for HIS birthday, then?!

XOXO

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Couples Relationships The S.O Birthday Traveling WTF.

Still life of Man and Cat.
XOXO

Still life of Man and Cat.

XOXO

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The S.O Nicco Cats Men Stone Foxes

The S.O lives in a condo complex, affectionately referred to as “the bachelor community” because a large majority of the inhabitants are retired men who are divorced or never married.

One of my favorite things to do when I’m here is run around inside, up and down the stairs, and around the living room, naked, while the window blinds are up. The S.O is convinced his neighbors are going to think he has a new mail-order bride whom he has not bothered to buy clothes for. I am convinced I am going to give someone a heart attack.

Much fun, all around.

XOXO

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The S.O Apartments The Bachelor Pad Nekkid

May 23, 2011


Today, standing on the corner of Church Street and Main, arm around me, the S.O said something to his friend, which I can’t remember, because the last two words of the sentence were “…my girlfriend.” It was then that I realized that I haven’t been called anyone’s girlfriend since junior year of high school. In fact, the S.O is referred to as “the S.O” because I’ve felt like, in the past, I could have gotten in a lot of trouble for calling some of the guys I dated “my boyfriend.”

I turned around and told my S.O as much, because I have this really unfortunate habit where, once a thought gets stuck in my head that I feel should be said aloud, won’t dissipate until I actually say it out-loud. He looked shocked, and then said, “Well, I guess at this point it’s safe to say that you’re my girlfriend.”

Though I still really don’t know how I feel about the term “boyfriend” (meaning the connotation; I think Significant Other far better relates the levity and partnership of our relationship more than the same title a 16 year old has for her mall goth boyfriend,) I CANNOT express to you how unbelievably gleeful and appreciative it made me to hear him call me his “girlfriend.”

…I am such a sap when I’m PMSing.

XOXO

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Couples Relationships The S.O Boyfriend Girlfriend Moves He Ain't Yo Boyfran'

"I’ve been telling everyone who hasn’t met you yet that you have a porn-star body. Because it’s true."

Nothing like some kind words from the S.O to boost a girl’s self-esteem.

XOXO

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Period Week: Making couples realize if they could handle living together without the sex/in their old age since she hit puberty.

As the S.O and I were driving back to his condo from smoking hookah at a bar downtown and picking up a few things from my apartment and feeding the cat, I had a thought and promptly burst into giggles. Upon prompting, I reluctantly shared it:

"We’re driving home to make dinner, drink beer, watch two movies, and since I’m on my period, I realized that the time that would normally be reserved for sex can now be spent on starting my next column for Vermont Commons. I just realized that this is what life would be like with us when we’re 70— no sex, side by side in bed at night with our laptops on our laps. Actually, no, scratch that— I’m still going to be having sex at 70."

He, unsurprisingly, didn’t find it quite as hilarious as I did. I told him if he was good, he might get a blowjob. Same response as before: me, hilarity; him, slightly less enthusiastic.

XOXO

P.S— On a different sidenote, I haven’t gotten an Ask in FUHEVAH. C’mon, people, I’m ridiculously open and have an opinion on everything. Asks me the questions! Don’t make me beg for it; it’s just pathetic and indecent.

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