There seems to be this Universe phenomenon where when you’re either in a relationship, or are in the confusing place either before or after a relationship, it suddenly starts raining men. Far from a “Halleluiah!” it’s usually more of a “What the fuck—NO!” I don’t know if it’s pheromones, or maybe if once you’re off the market men start to think of you as a “hot commodity”—that whole supply and demand thing—but for some reason, un-single girls never seem to have a problem finding interested men. It’s when you’re single that you feel like you’re going through a drought and possibly one of the most uninteresting, unattractive, unlovable people ever in the history of the world.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’re happy that men pick up on. Certainly, people in a just-budding or going-well relationship have the certain je-ne-sais-quoi about them that seems to exude that all is right with the world. Who wouldn’t want to be with that? Also, Murphy’s Law might have something to do with it—when you want ‘em, you can’t find ‘em, and when you don’t need ‘em, they’re there.
During this marathon “What Are We Doing?” silent battle between Perfect and I, I’ve gotten two other advances from guys. Normally, I would be flattered. Now, I’m just frustrated and exasperated. The first was one of my Soho Boys—we briefly touched on this a few posts back. Anyway, feeling the need for some male company in my life, as I crave the presence of testosterone like pregnant women crave pickles and ice cream (“I have to have it NOW!”), I texted him last time I went to the beach solo to see if he’d like to keep me company. His response is a good example of why I equally adore and despair of my Soho Boys—“Well, I smoked so I’m feeling lazy, and we’re drinking before my roommates go to work, but after they leave I’ll let you know.” For background information, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. (Although I’m really not one to talk. I found myself in bed one morning with a 2-month-old bottle of wine and a cigarette at 10:30 AM after Perfect came down sick and had to cancel a visit to Burlington. It was not one of the proudest moments of my life, but it certainly was a special one.) My Boy didn’t end up joining me at the beach, but it became obvious that I had unleashed a younger monster when he proceeded to text me all afternoon to “check in.” Cute? Yes. I figure as long as I drop in enough “dude,” mans,” and “yo’s,” to keep it platonic, I can stave off an awkward conversation long enough to casually mention I’m “trying to work things out with a guy I was seeing” before my Soho Boy gets any real ideas.
The second guy was a little ickier than my (relatively) harmless ex-advisee. The ex-boyfriend of one of my freshmen-year dorm-mates and friends, he sent me an email at 1 AM the other morning. It started out fine, with the usual, “hey, it’s been awhile since we hung out,” which is true, and then quickly got much more awkward. “I think you should know I’m quite attracted to you,” he said. “Maybe we should talk about it. IM me sometime.”
Firstly, I don’t think I’ve seriously used Instant Messenger since high school, unless it’s to keep up with my friends far away at college. Secondly, I really wanted to nip this in the bud. I sent him back a very prompt and business-like email, basically saying that yes, it had been awhile—life has been crazy, I hope his summer’s been going well; I’m flattered, but there’s someone else and no hard feelings. Oh, and, yes, I already have his screen name. Hopefully, that’s the end of that. Men who try and date around an exes’ group of friends just make me feel nauseous. (The Flaky Artist successfully ruined another dorm-mate friendship of mine after he started dating a girl down the hall after he broke up with me because he was “still in love with a girl from home.” Yeah.)
And it’s not just me getting onboard with this “once you’re taken, you’re wanted” idea. A friend of mine in a long-term relationship has recently been getting (rather hilarious) advances from another guy, who knows, after being told, time and time again, that she already has a boyfriend, who she’s quite happy with, thanks. And Alli discovered the magic of multiple male attention on a Greyhound bus ride from Boston to Burlington. She started out with one phone number, and had collected three by the end of the trip. That’s what we call “quick work.”
Because I also like to give hints and tips to keep other Single Girls (or Bored Girls In Relationships, too, I suppose,) busy and happy, here are a few things that have really been rocking my world lately. Hope you get some inspiration! Also, I’d really love to get some feedback from readers about things that they like or do for fun and entertainment, because I have four weeks of summer vacation left, and am rapidly running out of both ideas and funding. The cheaper or more free the idea, the better!
(I also welcome general reader feedback. For those of you who have commented, thank you so much—your kind words and interest are what keep me going when I’m feeling too tired, too bored, or too uninspired to write. For those of you who read but don’t comment, really—I’d love to hear from you! Tell me what you like, what you don’t like, what you want to see more of, etc. Frankly, I’m amazed I haven’t gotten any comments back from people telling me I’m a crazy bitch for all the drama with Perfect. Just keep in mind—downright rude or spiteful comments will be deleted—only constructive criticism, please.)
For my birthday, I got a tube of A&W lip balm. Yes, A&W as in, the root beer. And let me tell you, it’s fabulous. It tastes just like the real thing, sticks to your lips even after swimming (!) and is a nice tan color that really makes a complimentary nude-colored lip balm that accents your natural lip color. Plus, it comes in a really cute little tube shaped like a can of soda. Lotta Luv makes it—it’s one of their Lip Sips collection. Unfortunately, I have no idea where you can buy it around town. Maybe CVS or a local pharmacy?
How To Be Single—A Novel, by Liz Tuccillo. You may know Liz’s name from He's Just Not That Into You, the single-girl almost-Bible she co-wrote with fellow “Sex and the City” writer Greg Behrendt. Her first foray into fiction, Tuccillo examines the relationship between five (thirty-something) single women in (surprise) New York City, and the relationships that they go through with other men, from the two yogis getting hot and heavy in a supposedly celibate ashram to the trek around the world that the main character makes, trying to decide if anywhere in the world, women have got the hang of being single and happy. From poignant to hilarious to introspective, How To Be Single draws from experiences you can certainly relate to to make you feel as if you personally know the characters. Honestly, reading this, I felt like I was out for a girl’s night. It’s engaging, smart, and will really make you think about the single lifestyle, love, both platonic and love relationships, and what makes you truly happy. (I read books with a highlighter in hand to mark down passages I particularly like or find interesting as I feel it’s good practice as a writer to identify what works. I killed a highlighter on this one novel. That’s how well-written it was. Never once do you feel like you’re being lectured to—it’s more like listening to a friend tell you about her last night out and give you advice about the guy you’re seeing. I got a lot out of it. I’m looking forward to what Tuccillo does next.)
I am brown as a roasted little chestnut from going to the beach this summer, and I love it. Previously this spring, I was paying $6.95 per visit to the tanning salon—Body Le Bronze on Pearl Street; it’s really nice and clean and calming, plus you’ll smell like coconut oil after you leave even if you didn’t use any—but now that I can be on the beach and rolling around on my towel like I’m roasting on a spit every nice and sunny day, I’m getting my color for free. Plus, I get to go for a dip right afterward to escape the heat, and let me tell you, Lake Champlain is warmer this year than I’ve ever felt it. It’s heavenly. Get thee to the beach!
Summer is the time for road trips, and as the New York City set moves out to the Hamptons in the summer, my group of friend and I drive 45 minutes to Montpelier and Worcester on the weekends. We started out in Stowe, but it was too small and touristy for us; plus, we didn’t know the local spots. Having Cait, a ex-Worcester resident, really opened up all the backyard swimming holes to us, as well as spot-on restaurant recommendations for eating before the drive back. (Dairy Crème is a must-go for their enormous soft-serve ice cream cones—a medium cone is enough for dinner, believe me. I prefer the classic Twist with rainbow sprinkles.)
This Sunday, Emily and I, and maybe Cait if she’s not busy, are going to make a day of exploring Montpelier. As a native Vermonter, I’m ashamed to say that before this summer, I’ve only been to the state capital once, in fifth grade on a fieldtrip to watch bills get passed in legislation. This was also during my bloody-nose phase, where, at least once every day, my nose would randomly unleash a waterfall of blood at the most random moment. (It happened to my mom during puberty, too, so I guess I only have the genes to blame.) One moment, I was sitting in a plush chair, watching gray-haired men push paper at each other and wave pens around, and the next minute, I was clutching both hands to my nose to try and pinch the flow closed. Business on the State House floor stopped as aides and my homeroom teacher rushed me to the closest ladies’ room. It was mortifying. I literally stopped legislation because of the amount of blood flowing from my tiny little fifth grader’s nose. When it stopped twenty minutes later and I walked back to my seat to join my classmates, there was a single nickel-sized spot of blood from my deluge staining the carpet. Suffice it to say, I made my mark on the politicians enough to not be considered for a page.
Hopefully, this Sunday will consist of coffee at Capitol Grounds, a nice sit-down on the State House lawn, some window-shopping at the trendy clothing stores like Salaam, a dip in the Pots possibly accompanied by Perfect and John, getting naked on the side of the road as tradition insists while I change, eating ice cream at Dairy Crème, and no bleeding. Here’s crossing my fingers.
I picked up Dear G-Spot: Straight Talk About Sex and Love by Zane at Borders for $4 during their book sale this past week. I figure, as someone who writes about love and sex, I also need to read up on what other people are reading about love and sex, right? Assess the market. See what works, and what’s lacking. Carve a niche, and all that. The low sticker price was what originally caught my attention, and I figured that even if it wasn’t so great it would be worth the four Washingtons. It’s actually quite good. Zane, probably best known for her erotica, is a straight-shooter who holds nothing back from her advice. Opening every chapter with a short essay or reflection on the content, she covers letters written to her asking for advice ranging from cheating to communication problems to oral sex to orgasms to how to ride a man like a rodeo star. (My favorite chapter? “Relationship Confusion.” Of course.) At times explicit, but always truthful, honest, and well-intentioned, she had me hooked at her disclaimer: “Warning: If you are sexually oppressed, sexually repressed, or have any sexual hang-ups whatsoever, please put my book down and slowly walk away from it. It is too damn hot for your ass.” Zane is a woman after my own heart.
I absolutely adore wearing men’s clothing: wifebeaters, boxers, hoodies, t-shirts, boys sport shorts for the gym; over-size rolled-cuff button-up shirts belted with a cute belt to give it a feminine flair and some shape; boyfriend-cut jeans, preferably rolled or cuffed in the summer; girl’s boxer briefs, etc. I’m the kind of girl who’s ridiculously happy wearing a guy’s wifebeater to bed and nothing else, or a clean pair of boxers or shorts around the house while reading the latest issue of “Cosmopolitan.”
I own a few pairs of “girl boxers” bought from the Aerie line at American Eagle (also known as my Place of Longest Employment,), as well as a pair of real men’s boxers. (Don’t worry—I bought them new for myself.) I tend to finagle to keep or steal a few men’s shirts or hoodies from my guys—sometimes it’s as easy as asking male friends if they have any clothing they’re thinking of getting rid of, and sometimes it’s stealing a t-shirt from the guy you’re sleeping with. (So worth it.) I also, as previously stated, have the bad habit of buying clothing for my men, and so usually end up with a few items I can’t part with in the end-run, like the large purple hoodie I bought for Jersey Blunt and then decided to keep. (He made a good bid for it one night though, hoping I’d forget it in his room, but I remembered right before I walked out the front door. It’s like my second bathrobe and favorite thing to curl up in with nothing underneath because it’s so warm and snuggly.)
We’ve been seeing a big influx with men’s-wear inspired clothing in the fashion industry lately, which I like. Just remember—keep it feminine. If you’re going to be wearing a large button-up, belt it or wear nice jewelry. Pair your boyfriend jeans with a fitted top and painted nails. The best (and cheapest) V-neck rugby shirts I ever bought were from the men’s sale racks at Old Navy—classic, flattering in the drape and fit on a woman’s more curvy body, and CHEAP! I bought a cashmere sweater for $20, people!) Wear a strand of pearls and tight jeans, and you have the perfectly relaxed, yet put-together preppy outfit.
There is almost nothing men like to see more than a woman in their clothing, or clothing like theirs. When Perfect slept over, I furiously pawed through my underwear drawer to try and find an acceptable pair of undies to sleep in while he was in the bathroom. My time ran out, and as I heard the toilet flush, my fingers closed around my pair of girls’ boxer-briefs that I bought in London, complete with a British flag on half the ass. I yanked them on as Perfect opened the bedroom door and then stopped dead. “Yeah?” I asked. “Hot,” was all he managed to say before staggering in and pulling me back to the bed. When not entertaining, and as an added bonus, boxers are possibly the most comfortable thing to lounge around in since, well, being naked, and certainly more roommate-friendly.
Burlington used to have The Second Floor, a nightclub that while decidedly a little seedy, was also the place where under 21 clubbers could go to get their groove on. Ok, so, it wasn’t the best place, but it was the ONLY place to go clubbing without a fake ID. Unfortunately, it closed in January. Lift opened in its placed, newly revamped, redecorated, with better music and DJs, and more high-class, with stricter dress codes, and more selective about who they let in. This was good; this was nice; this was what Burlington needed. BUT. Lift is almost an exclusively 21+ establishment. Obviously, for reasons such as alcohol and predators, this is safer, but at the same time, unless it’s a special event that’s 18 and up, (which happens about once a month or so,) the 20-and-under college crowd is getting STIFFED, and stiffed HARD. I, personally, love dancing. I love getting dressed up, getting a bunch of friends, and going and shaking my thang at night. I will pay to do this, too, as will most of my like-minded friends. Right now, Lift is seriously missing out on making some serious dough as well as having a hand in further cramping the nightlife of under 21’s in a city that already doesn’t have much of a nightlife during the non-school year if you won’t have a driver’s license pre 1988. What do you say, Lift? Rise to the challenge and let me and my friends come and rip up the dance floor? You won’t regret it, I promise.
That’s it for now—I’ve got a shower to take, an outfit to pick out, and places to be and people to see.