Jack Daniel’s or a Red Dress? Friday, Feb 12 2010 

The difference between how Nancy and I will be spending Valentine’s Day this year, is that I will be drunk, and she will be sober.  Nancy has a boyfriend, and I do not.  While I have the choice of Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, or Jack Daniel’s, Nancy has the choice between a pink or a red dress.

As we discussed our plans together for this upcoming Sunday, we could not help but reminisce upon some embarrassing Valentine’s Day’s from the past.  We can almost taste those disgusting candy hearts now…

Carly’s Collective Calamities:

  • Apparently I am the Karate Kid, because my boyfriend during my senior year of high school, “thought outside the box,” and bought me a bonsai tree.  He was not waxed on that night so he had to wax off.
  • To fulfill my parent’s worst nightmare, I was dating a drug dealer during tenth grade year of high school.  For the romantic occasion, my Keith Richards wannabe generously treated me to psychedelic substances.  Sorry, but acid is not a girl’s best friend.
  • In 3rd grade, I was married to a freckly boy with a pet worm.  It was a glorious reception, and freckle face tried to put the worm around my finger.

Nancy’s Notorious Nostalgia:

  • Freshman year my boyfriend approached me at the end of the school day with a half dozen wilted school fundraiser purchased carnations. They were almost as awkward to look at as he was, but I shouldn’t give him a hard time seeing as I thoughtfully got him a “license to bitch” from Spencer’s and a cat collar. I thought I was being funny. I hope I
    never come to a full realization of how awkward I was because I will never forgive myself.
  • In seventh grade on the blessed day I opened my locker to see folded papers fall to my feet. It was an intensely thought out love poem from “a secret admirer”. I almost got a little excited until I realized one of the analogies looked a little familiar. It read, “your eyes are like a diamond shining up through the sea”. My friend Leslie evidently decided to recycle her work from our poetry unit in English in her cruel v-day joke. Nice try bitch.
  • Last but most awkward Valentine’s Day occasion happened in the most awkward place you can be high school- band rehearsal. The super creepy first chair clarinet sitting next to me had someone leave a single- you guessed it- carnation on my music stand. When I got there and saw it he was conveniently busy away from his seat. There was a note attached requesting a date for the coming week. I managed to thank him for the flower but conveniently forgot to mention my availability.

Choose Your Own Adventure:

Last year, Nancy and I celebrated our Valentine’s Day together as two fun and single freshmen in college.  We curled our hair, slipped on bright red dresses, and shared a bottle of red wine, of course.  Our night led us to the villa’s apartments where we danced without a care in the world.

If you had told us then what we would be doing for this upcoming Valentine’s Day, we would have laughed at you in disbelief.

A very good guy has managed the impossible by making Nancy his girlfriend.  I give him credit for handling her sass and hope he can top our hazy night at the villa’s.  As long as he does not give her acid or carnations, he will be fine.

Although separated from my partner in crime, I will also be managing a surprising feat.  Besides last year with Nancy, I have always had a boyfriend to celebrate Valentine’s Day.  This year when I think about this romantic holiday, I wonder if anyone will confess their affections.  However since John Mayer will probably not be throwing rocks at my window, I have made plans to go tubing with friends.

Oh, and get very intoxicated.  Oops, am I repeating myself already?

Whether or not you are in a relationship or not, the trick to enjoying Valentine’s Day is simple.  Spend it with someone that makes you feel good.  Indulge a little just because it is a holiday.  Make love fun and turn the day into an adventure.  Whatever your circumstances, Valentine’s Day is what you make of it.


An Excuse to Wear Knee Highs Sunday, Feb 7 2010 

The pleated and plaid school-girl skirt: easy access, naughty, and irresistible.  No wonder fraternities enjoy being host to these themed parties.  Adding a dress code to a party is a delightful tactic to making fantasies come true.  Big shot CEOs invite all sex-crataries to pull him by his professional tie onto the dance floor.  Then it is time to get down and dirty for a jungle fever party.  A barely existing loin cloth and messy leaf ridden hair is a great way to swing.  Toga parties are classic.  The wonders of a bed sheet transform us all into Aphrodite’s’ and Hercules’.  We are all proud and guilty of getting into the spirit at at least one time or another.

One of my most interesting costumes was inspired by an, ‘Anything But Clothes’ party.  Called ABC parties for short, the object is to literally wear anything ranging from a potato sack to a caution cone.  If taken to the point, then going naked is also an option.  Feeling creative, I sacrificed my Twister board into a skirt.  The top was a bubble tape bustier and I was about the hottest bum around.  Throughout the party, people felt the need to play the actual twister game by putting their hand on my derriere as they apparently spun, “right hand red.” Fun, but wear at your own risk.

Later that night, I discovered that the ABC party theme is better than what any school girl party had to offer.  Tipsy from vats of red jungle juice, my date and I returned home to find that I was stuck in my twister geared costume.  Practically in panic to set me free, he used all his might to rip apart the bubble tape.  The pop-pop-popping sounded like a bullet proof vest was being put to the test.  As amusing as it was, the merciless tearing was a turn on.  Now I know what Ludacris was talking about when he said, “Rip the pants and rip the shirt, ruff sex make it hurt.”

Nancy on a theme:

It is interesting to note that the first time I met Carly in a non-calculus setting, it was at said school girl party. It is also interesting, but not exactly surprising that I watched her skirt fall off at least two times. Luckily she was wearing a conservative pair of white granny panties so no worries on the wardrobe malfunction.

I myself kind of love a theme party. Though I would never have a story about a boy ripping my bubble wrap bustier off in a fit of passion (does this stuff really happen to people?!) I am much more likely to go too far on a theme than not enough. Have you ever noticed that when you feel silly before you leave for a party you always wish you wore just one more layer of random stuff to make it a tiny bit funnier? Rule of theme party dressing: commit! And don’t even look back.

Themed parties are like acting in your own personal movie. You can become whoever you want with enough courage and sheer stupidity. For instance, observe the newest and soon to be oldest phenomenon: the Jersey Shore themed party. I was pretty excited about this so out came the cut up shirt, push up bra, teased hair, sparkly shorts, and yes… spray tan. I told you I commit. The next day one of my sisters told me at lunch that some of the boys we were with that night caught sight pictures and were literally staring at them minutes at a time, in awe of the trashy orange sex kitten I had become that night. I would be hesitant to believe this except for the fact that I literally received texts from one of them commending me on my efforts. How many times have you been approached the day after a party and been given accolades? Thought so. In conclusion, take the costume one step too far and then leap.

Text Message Copouts and Unconditional Affection Tuesday, Feb 2 2010 

I conducted an experiment. Test subjects A, B, and C consisted of three males.
Dependent variables were the modes of communication between myself and the subjects.

The object is to determine whether or not the communication of an in-person confrontation, a phone call, or a text message clarifies the intentions of the relationship.

Subject A (“Michael Phelps”) was swimming laps in the lane beside mine in the SRSC.

As we both took a breather, he devilishly smiled and challenged me to a race. Call me a sore loser, but because he beat me I did not give him my phone number. Afterward, when he saw me upstairs outside the pool, he insisted and I disclosed my digits.

Later that week Phelps called me and we shared an hour-long conversation and agreed on meeting for dinner Friday night. Like a gentleman, he picked me up and took me out to a sushi restaurant and we continued to date for four months.

Variables are that we met in a daytime environment participating in an activity. Other variables consist of meeting in a natural state without any maintenance of appearance. It was sincere and real interest.

Subject B (“Party Boy”) introduced himself to me at a party at his fraternity. In a loud music-blaring atmosphere, he offered me a drink and then brought me to the dance floor. Once the party was over, he walked me home.

Being particularly warm on this late night, I decided I wanted to go for a quick dip. We climbed over the fence and went skinny dipping in the outdoor pool.

Although he and I never shared much real conversation, we had adventure. We shared a different kind of intimacy that was unsuitable for a substantial relationship to function. Our relationship consisted of him calling me to his fraternity to party, and I never saw him when the sun was up. Our activity was fun-related and never serious. Efforts relied on exciting party perks.

It was quite appropriate that I met subject C during the day because we both happened to share the same weakness: day sex. In fact, we will call him “Mr. Day Sex.”

We met during a party in honor of the event of the Little 500 race.  I liked his style and did not ask questions as we walked back to his place to “hang out.”

Mr. Day Sex and I continued to meet in this fashion up until this semester, and I cannot tell you one detail about him other than how he is in bed. He texts me before a weekend is coming up and makes plans for us to meet.

That is all. No favorite color nonsense, nothing. Straight up sex.

I do not know what his voice sounds like on the phone. Factors are that our initial meeting was impulsive and effortless. We have a connection, but it is not meaningful, it simply satisfies.

The saying, “Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free,” applies to this experiment.

Funny how Michael Phelps and I started with a race and he chased after me. If he had simply texted me the way Mr. Day Sex had done, then I would not have beckoned an inch further. Texting is a pathetic cop-out and does not buy the cow. Because Mr. Day Sex and I started unconventionally, I accepted the texts. Mr. Day Sex had no reason to call me over the phone or spend time with me because I gave the milk for free. This was okay because I was getting milk too. Party Boy was a happy medium between the extremes and was fun. As long as all of our party pertained, there was no need to risk the moment.

It takes neither cow nor scientist to notice that what you give influences what you get.


My repertoire of test subjects were fun but would not be used in Nancy’s studies. She finds herself to be more of a chemical explosion than the guy.

OK, imagine that you are competing a rigorous obstacle course. The first stage is completely lit on fire. The second rains knives. In the third you have to swim through water just above freezing, and in the last stage, you go through an ordeal so terrifying that if you don’t rip your eyeballs out, you can date me.

Yeah. I’m pretty impossible. Some of the insanity that surrounds the way that I act with guys can be explained by how guarded I am, some of it may be because I don’t think you are worth it, and some of it is pretty much because I am a total psycho and I know it. I’m basically a scared little girl wandering around college land and I am not really sure of the protocol with dudes. I know that Carly has an entire system to pinpoint exactly the character she is dealing with. Not the case with this one right here.

I might be thinking about him constantly. Does he like me? What did he mean when he said that? Is he worth it? But the second that I actually am confronted with the very real possibility of seeing him, I will hide.

I mean I’m not going to spring into a bathroom or anything, but I will certainly keep my eyes down in the halls, and if I hear his voice I will probably go out the exit that is the most out of the way so I wont have to walk by him.

It’s weird. I know.

So if a guy likes me enough to physically restrain me and force me to talk to him and manages to find a day in the evening that I can’t find something I need to study for instead — maybe we will go on a date. After I get over that hurdle, it just gets worse for the poor boy. As we get more comfortable I will casually mention that I am a total psycho. That I can’t help but turning the nice guy into the a-hole. (I came to this conclusion over winter break whining to my friends “I just wish he would like me 10 percent less.)

If somehow that has not sent him screaming and I get a little more comfortable, then I might try to freak him out in other ways by letting some of my little idiosyncrasies — or reasons that I’m a huge loser — slip. I’ll casually mention the whole math team, high school marching band thing. Maybe throw in a story or two about how nuts my family is.

And if he still hasn’t gotten his cue and actually thinks that I am a datable human
being. There is one last way to find out if he is good for you. The Disney Movie. Just tell him how badly you have been wanting to see this and wait. Will he sit through it for you? Is he going to complain?

Find the guy that will hold your hand when King Triton wrecks Arielle’s secret treasure trove, and you have found a little gem of your own.

The Good, The Bad, and The Lovely Tuesday, Feb 2 2010 

Our most proud and embarrassing relationship stories all originate in college. Whether we whisper about it to a friend or shout it from the top of a building, there is a mind blowing story for all to tell. Every week, as sophomores at Indiana University, Nancy* and I share dirty details from both ends of the spectrum. We are now ready to kiss and blog from the world of a daring and eccentric party girl and a good and preppy sorority sister.

Let’s Get It On Monday, Jan 25 2010 

Zzzz.  The act of sleeping consists of shut eye accompanied by relaxed heavy breathing.  Then how come people often refer to the verb when explaining their sexual endeavors?  If you say you slept with someone than you certainly did not get much rest.  Then again, raunchy phrases like, ‘rolled in the hay,’ ‘made whoopee,’ ‘got in the sack, ‘bumped uglies,’ ‘tapped,’ ‘banged,’ or ‘shagged,’ explain the deed in terms not as serious as making love.  Whether or not we choose to define sex as exact or not, the act is conveyed and carried out under different pretenses and understandings.

In my pre-teen years when I had no idea what sex truly was, I deemed the entire action as an, ‘it.’  Whatever it was, one would eventually, ‘do it.’  Listening to Marvin Gaye in his seductive deep voice beckoning, “Let’s get it on,” made me blush.  Could someone actually make love to me one day, baby?  What would it feel like and who would it be with were questions that raced through my innocent mind.

Unfortunately, I had a bad start to the world of loving relations with the opposite sex.  The time was second grade and the scene was on the rough and tough playground during recess.  A game of tag with my arch nemesis, Michael Smith*, was interrupted by his lips on my mouth.  Completely startled, I pushed him away from me and kicked him in the shin.  He cried and I was met by my disappointed mother in the principal’s office.  The end.

At fifteen, the idea of cooties began to wear off, and my curiosity began to make way for adventurous pastures.  This urge was for reasons beyond being horny.  I have never wanted to go bungee jumping, shoot a loaded gun, or take acid.  Sex was something I needed to try.  However there were obstacles.  My virginity was sacred and at stake.  You only get one first time.  It was not that I placed my virginal value on a pedestal, but that I wanted the right partner.  I wanted it to be real.

My first opportunity was an utter disaster, except I did not kick him in the shin.  Incandescent street lights glowed upon the romantic cul-de-sac where my afro headed boyfriend’s Volvo was parked.  As we fogged up the windows for the umpteenth time, I knew he was eventually going to ask for it.  Like a freaking psychic, he looked me in the eyes and asked me if I was ready.  I guess my deer in headlights reaction was enough prompt for him to whip out a condom.  My head was light, and my limbs were jello.  In complete fear and everything in slow motion, I caught my bearings and backed away in halt.  He nodded silently and reached for his clothes.  I give him credit for simmering down his raging hormones and being understanding.

While I was in this young and excited faze seeking the right sexual venture, Nancy was on a different scheme and pace.

You know what I think is bullshit? That Taylor Swift song “Fifteen”.

“Cause when you’re fifteen, somebody tells you they love you, you’re gonna believe them?”  If someone told me at age 15 they loved me I would have done one of a few things:

    · Said, “mom… I love you too”
    · Laughed
    · Written his name down in my journal where I put all of the boys who were unfortunate enough to fall for me

But in all seriousness I was about as far away as you could be mentally from accepting another person into my life emotionally, let alone sexually. Carly took romps in the backseats of cars on her Friday nights, I watched Disney movies with friends on mine.

There are a few memories about sexuality that will always be vivid in my mind. One was when I was reading a “Seventeen Magazine” and there was a column where a letter written in was about a 16 year old girl who was having sex with her boyfriend. I was HORRIFIED! Just imagine, a sixteen year old having S-E-X? It was hard to fathom at the time, and looking back on it isn’t that when a lot of girls first did it. Another thing I won’t forget is having one of those girly talks with middle school mean girls that you could pretend for the moment were your friend since she wore a lot of Limited Too clothes. I posed a question, “Sure you can imagine having sex but could you actually imagine who it would be with?” It seemed like she was comfortable with some mystery man doing the deed but I couldn’t say the same for myself.

Its not as though I haven’t devoted a fair amount of time thinking about this subject and why the thought of sex made me so uncomfortable. Though I do consider myself a Catholic… I think all those years of Jesus School kind of messed with my head. “THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY!!!” I’ll take the late night showing of The Lion King over fire and brimstone thankyouverymuch.

I guess that is what gave rise to the fact that I am a notorious tease/flirt. It became ok to suggest, to joke about, to relish the attention from the boys. It would stop there. Once I got the attention, the awkward comment, the invitation to Homecoming , it was all over. “You want me. I win.” Messed up right?

When I was 15 and girls like Carly would get so caught up with boys I would laugh at them and think they were brainless idiots. I considered myself so above that silly stuff, but ultimately I wonder who was the more mature person about it now. We all have to go through the baby steps to get into the real deal relationships and Carly has it down pat. Me? Im still reading Seventeen Magazine.

Nails on a chalkboard Monday, Jan 25 2010 

Pussies.  From their claws and their fangs to their mysterious prowl, I hate cats.  Who knew this fear would follow me to college?

In the beginning of my freshman year, I dated a macho man with a ‘closet grandma disorder.’  He and his three cats welcomed me to his territory.  Upon entering his apartment for the first time and stiffening like a board as cats purred around my legs like sharks circling a victim, I contemplated dealing with the felines to continue dating Catman.  After about two seconds of torture, I came up with a solution: next.

Call me shallow, but I do not withstand certain qualities and behaviors.  I am not saying that I expect a stepford companion, however there are intolerable pet peeves that drive me crazy.

    1. The technique to eating spaghetti and meatballs.  Men who cut their spaghetti rather than twirling their spoon are criminal.  Even the dog from, “The Lady and the Tramp,” understands this phenomenon.
    2. Pinky Rings and Ponytails.  Pinky rings are completely unnecessary and were obviously bought in a 25 cent machine.  Do not trust a man with a pinky ring.  Pony tails are for sock-hops and horses.
    3. The goo-goo ga-ga of a baby voice.  Unless his lungs are filled with helium, there is no excuse.
    4. If he wears a smaller pants size than me.  I do not want to know that I can kick his butt.  Find a nice spot somewhere between Peewee Herman and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
    5. The blue ribbon champion.  A guy who lists his every achievement and trophy won only leaves me to assume one thing: small penis.
    6. Driving a yellow car.  Normally at this age we are lucky to get a box on wheels, however a yellow car screams obnoxious.  Taxi driver, what’s my fare?
    7. One’s appreciation of the most delicious and mesmerizing spice: garlic.  If he doesn’t like garlic, he will never be able to share a meal with me.  I would starve.
    8. Leg shakers and pen chewers.  I am easily distracted by someone bobbing their leg up and down and lose track of the conversation.  Nervous habit verses where that pen has been before is an unsanitary balance.  Your mouth, not mine.
    9. Kindergarten etiquette.  A bow and a pinky up is unnecessary, however the simplicity of opening doors and using a napkin rather than a sleeve does not hurt.
    10. High maintenance.  Please do not take longer than me to get ready.

Nancy’s nit picks:

    1. Due to a traumatic sixth grade experience of slow dancing with a boy in need of stilts, height is of crucial importance.  He must be tall to go on this ride.
    2. If he pulls the, “I am really smart, but I just do not try,” line, than he may please remove himself from my presence.  Security?
    3. Youtube Kelly would agree with me that his shoes matter.  If I look down and see the white slip on’s that my grandmother does her water-walking in than he might as well stop trying.  The Adidas with the three white stripes down the side do not fly either.
    4. In good fun, I expect to be matched after I dish him out.  Curling up into the fetal position after a harmless joke simply declares him the weakest link, goodbye.
    5. Trying too hard to impress me and listing your stats like a pro athlete will only convince me that I will most likely find you taking my order in a Burger King.  And no, thank you, I do not want fries with that.

The Award Winning Pick-up Line Monday, Jan 25 2010 

While at a tailgate, I was approached by a tall, decent-looking guy bearing a smirk that revealed sneaky intentions. His overconfident introduction sent up red flags but did not prepare me for what he said after our brief name exchange.

“So, after the tailgate, do you want to go and have sex?”

Stunned and insulted, I hastily replied, “How about, ‘Ride with me upon my white stallion into the sunset where we will make sweet passionate love by the fire? Try that next time, jerk.’” I marched off in dismay and found my girlfriends for refreshing company.

What happened to the debonair and suave James Bond-esque one-liners that instantly made a girl swoon? At this point, I would settle for a knock-knock joke.

Of course I understand the gulping guts it takes for someone to approach the opposite sex. Rejection is terrifying, and confrontations mixed with the opposite sex are disastrous ingredients to stutter and mess up your words. I had a friend in high school who used to write down everything he was going to say before he called a girl. It is hard, which is why we should give each other more slack. Standards are natural, but so are nerves.

I base my judgment on actions rather than their jumbled words. Factors like how close he is standing to me and how comfortable his smile is matter. Most important is where his eyes are. Thankfully, I usually do not have to worry about guys staring at my double A cup, but I still want to meet a sincere gaze. Within this initial greeting is a test or an audition where one determines the potential of the other person.

Nancy uses her magnifying glass to inspect a guy differently.

Shoes. Maybe due to my gargantuan height and the fact that I shrink away from eye
contact with strangers, I am always looking down. Maybe you won’t notice when we meet but trust me, I just looked at your shoes, and I just gathered 70 percent of my first impression of you. Granted, the shoes are not the only important thing. The rest of the outfit will be important too, but the shoes are the pivot point from the rest that I will assume about you.

Before you call me shallow, I would like to point out the fact that I am a firm believer that what I see on the outside is a reflection of what you feel on the inside. Therefore, I am really just judging the person you are on the inside, you just don’t know it.

The first thing to notice is the brand of the shoes. I am weirdly good at looking at any piece of clothing and telling you what brand it is.

I literally could not go into the intricacies if I tried, but what I can say for sure is that I met a boy the first day of freshman year in high school and we immediately bonded over the drumsticks sticking out of my purse, and he was pretty cute too. I glanced down and took one look at his black, slip-on sneakers, and I knew we would never approach anything more than friends.

I am still close with Jason now and he still maintains that those were his “work shoes.” But it was over before it could ever start.

Another thing that I notice is how well he can take my shit. I am a bit — and I wish there was a better word for this — sassy. I like to kid around and kind of be a jerk, and if you can give it back to me with as much sarcasm then shoes aside, I’m yours.

There is no exact formula to establishing a relationship. Whether we become friends or lovers, we must understand that nobody is perfect. A happy medium of communication can be found somewhere between a shy blush and an on-demand “do me.”

If you don’t have anything charming to say, or the mojo of desire, then simply be yourself.

Hello world! Monday, Jan 25 2010 

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