Paint Your Lips With Boys and Lies

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A Tongue And Cheek Satire About Dating, And The Art Of Laughing Through A Funny Little Thing Called Life.

Welcome to my blog! I am thrilled to share my stories about dating, style, and yummy, little concoctions. My blog starts in the Big Apple, and finishes in the City of Angels.

Disclaimer: All of my stories are in fact true, and names have been changed for my sanity. Enjoy my stories, laugh along the way, and please, don't take anything I write too seriously.

You think you know, but you have no idea. This is the diary of the Future Mrs. G!!

XOXO

NEW YORK, NY; 2004

Men in Manhattan are just useless when it comes to actually picking up the phone, and calling women who actually believe that they will call on a daily basis. My theory on the whole Alexander Graham bell ordeal was to just leave it alone, and wait until the 20-30 something year olds grow up and become even more invisible. The phone wasn't my best friend really...of course some like to think it is, but I'd much rather be with someone in person than have an invention, stuck to my ear. Some think love in New York is actually a state of mind that really is an illusion of happiness for possibly a Mila second. Was there someone out there for everyone or was I setting myself up to spend yet another ho, ho, ho with the Old Saint Knicks at court side?

An hour north in wholesome Connecticut, my mom was busy planning for Easter and the Jewish holidays that we all somehow love. We were hosting with the whole family that year, which was a huge deal, because that meant I actually had to be nice to certain relatives, who I only see once a year, and who still think that I'm 10 years old-with braces, non the less. Despite my mother's scramble to get everything ready for the family, she always somehow asked every other day, (through email), if I was seeing anyone. It became worse when she enrolled my dad on the band wagon. It was as if I was blinded, and it was a test to see how blind I really was to the subject of boyfriend searching. Of course my parents had met in college, when they were 18 years old, on another invention called a staircase. Back in the early 1970's, my mom and her roommate had a party in their apartment in Boston. My dad had gone to her party, and after that night it was history. There are millions of staircases in Manhattan-you would think I'd be able to pick one and meet Mr. Right. Through trial and error and working in a trendy restaurant as the hostess-with-the-mostess, I was only meeting Mr. Right Now, and even that didn't last forever because it got old after 4 Margarita's, and a shot of punch.

All the way uptown in the heart of the Upper East Side (formally known as my bubble), I found myself pondering the fact that my odds on going to a fashion school, with mostly girls, really wasn't helping my search. Sure I dated a boy who I thought was "the one". One in high school (who came out of the closet screaming, "Surprise!!" in 2003).

I didn't get it. My mom had told me that pretty girls finish last, because the ugly ones were desperate, and needed to find strength in controlling men who actually gave them the time of day. I had always seen myself as being a pretty girl with lots of drive for life itself. Sure 8 of my guy friends had told me that the boys not giving me attention were just dumb, and missing out, but why was it that those same boys were ones I dated once upon a time?

I have to say though, NBC studios pretty much wrote my life story already, and it seemed like it was pretty accurate. Take Will & Grace for example. Girl falls for a boy; boy turns gay, then boy dates flamboyant fashion guru named Jack. (My life). Next we have Friends. Ok, so I've been told that I look like Jennifer Aniston (my idol), but according to plans, Ross was never gay...his ex wife was, and there wasn't a Carol in my co-existing lifestyle. The Summer of 2002, when my life finally took it's time in upstate New York, I wrote a letter on my deck in an Adirondack chair to NBC thanking them for writing such quirky characters into the shows some of us could actually relate to. They never wrote back, but possibly it was because the writers were too busy coming up with new characters...and a baby named Emma.

I honestly didn't have anything to complain about in life itself. Sure the dating world is a crap shoot, but who was I kidding? A good friend of mine had told me to go to a trendy bar one night by myself, and order a white wine spritzer. I did just that, and sure I had boys stare . . . but were they staring because I was alone in a bar looking like a wine-o, or did the frat boys, I'm so attracted to actually find my vintage Balenciaga Blazer with my favorite distressed Seven’s hot? Probably not. I was in fashion mode again, and then completely and utterly realized that I needed a hot, straight, tall sporty guy to compliment my obsession with designer clothes. I had always talked to one of my ex’s about fashion, and how I think argyle looks so hot with a distressed denim mini skirt, a distressed t-shirt, 1980's style, and red stilettos I saw in the window of Manolo Blahnik's. At that point of the conversation, I knew it was time to abort the operation when he commented on how his new boy flavor of the week bought a Valentino argyle sweater (at retail) with a matching red belt. Sounded a little fem to me. Now, I know I've used the word distressed like a million times already in my blog . . . possibly because the vintage worn look, when worn right, looks gorgeous on the right blonde, with blue eyes. Blonde and blue, 5 foot two . . . now that's a whole other chapter...