Wednesday, September 2, 2009
This started at the age of twelve and a half when a glorious trip to the main street drug store ended with one of these bad boys putting a faded circle on my jeans pocket forevermore:...or rather, until they stopped making Candy Kisses when I was in college (tear).
I loved their sweet taste, their satiny sheen and their yummy smell. I doubly loved that my kissing buddies in high school noticed their deliciousness (my first boyfriend's nickname for me was "sweet lips" thanksverymuch, and no, we never went past 2nd base....oh the memories). He's also the one who introduced me to bonfire parties, which introduced me to my first taste of alcoholic beverages (ahem Coors Light, the drink of choice for backwoods Virginia circa 1998...) - during my first attendance, I met a gorgeous blonde, a few years older than me, who took my shy, self-conscious self under her wing for the evening.
"Here honey, have a drink!" as she grabbed a red plastic cup and filled it from the keg.
"Um, thanks..." (as I sipped and tried not to gag...remember the first time you had beer! Ulghchfg gross!)
Being the youngest person present, I didn't want to drink too much and go annoyingly loud or annoyingly barfy, so I decided to stay with one only.
20 minutes later...
"Hey, your cup is empty! Here ya go."
(okay, can't say no, but this is the last one...)
30 minutes later....
"You're shivering! Are you cold? You're not drunk enough!"
And that, my friends, was how I came home at 3am, doing drunk-driving road tests in my bathroom, giggling, trying not to wake up my mom (yes, she woke up).
Good times, that.
But I digress.
Back to lip gloss.
A boyfriend I had after college (who was a horrifical piece of work, lemme tell ya, but that's a TOTALLY different post) wasn't a fan of my delicious addiction, but he was a singular outlier in more ways than just one (ew let's not discuss it).
...But eventually, after I'd stocked up when I heard the company was closing and a year or two passed with me being happily dewy-lipped, I ran out.
No I didn't. I'm totally kidding.
Ok, maybe I did cry a little.
But then, after months and months of fruitless searches and tasteless greasy failed attempts to locate a new love, I found this:and all is right again with the world.
I figure, a girl needs one crutch, right?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
One of my best friends asked me to be her maid of honor. Tears were shed. And after the initial excitement...
Fear set in.
I want her 2010 spring wedding day to be perfect. The duties of a maid of honor are way more than I thought so I'm lucky that my beautiful bride-to-be has been patient with my busy schedule. But never did I imagine to be so knee-deep in taffeta and table cloths in my mid-20s.
We almost started crying while combing through gigantic wedding gowns at a bridal store. (Wedding gowns are HEAVY folks). We surveyed the beautiful Laguna Beach site and we fought those pesky tears while someone else's wedding rehearsal was happening in the background. We're also flipping through so many bride's magazines we are soon to be the reigning paper cut queens.
But in the end, I wouldn't trade this new, fascinating and stressful experience for anything. This is after all, an honor. If you have any fabulous tips for this first-time MOH, I'll toss the bouquet to you myself.
Like a Virgin,
of Make Me Blush, Drive Me Wild
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
(I mean strictly weather here, folks!)
(sure I do....)
Location: Gainesville, FL.
That, of course means that my definition of "summer" was April. Hot and sticky nonetheless - don't even think about picking up that hair straightener! There will be no point.
But I digress.
I was headed out on the town with my BFF Holly, who had evolved as such from being a previous Aerobics student of mine (that's what happens when you're the same age as those you teach...)
On the way to midtown in my silver Nissan Frontier (how I miss you!), rocking out to vintage hip hop and car-dancing like a pair of wild satyrs, we see blue lights reflecting off of the dash...
So we pull over, in front of all the clubs of course, being seen by many a Friday-night-bootie-shaker on the way to do just that (no kidding, later a fella friend asked me, "really? that was you? hahahahaha...."), and up walks up one of Gainesville's finest - a young, obviously bored one at that.
Turned out that my license plate had expired.
An assertion that a new sticker was in the mail (which was almost true) got us off the hook, but he still took my VA license,
"just to make sure you're not wanted or anything."
Then, this comes piping out of the shadowy passenger side from the lovely redhead next to me -
"oh, she's wanted, all right!"
As my hand covered my eyes in (semi-authentic) embarassment, he walked away. I snickered and turned to Holly, possibly calling her a not-so-nice name...
And eventually he brought me back my license (nope, no felonies, thanksverymuch) and we were on our way.
As this was in one of the heights of my intermittent male-objectification-pink-spoon days, the evening included making rounds, having drinks, dancing with various hotties (none of which we exchanged names with, thankssss), until at 1am, tired, sweaty, and goofalicious, we took a seat at the bar.
"How about this - we look over each others' shoulders, and I'll pick yours out, and vice versa."
It was on.
There were many suggestions and discards, with an occasional cha-ching! that got us a bit of conversation, perhaps a dance or two, but as it was girls' night, nothing more....
...when Holly's eyes widened as she gazed past my left ear. She grinned and nodded, and gave me a purposeful glance before her eyes returned to the prey.
At the perfect moment, my right hand snaked up and around, Indiana Jones whip-crack style, and caught hold of Mr. Mysterious' wrist. I slowly turned my head and brightly smiled at him.
"Hi, how are you?"
....as the next 1.892 seconds passed, I realized that Holly had made a grave mistake. He was a Monet! Oh no!
note: I have only a vague memory of my uncannily accurate aim that must've had to do with the Force being with me. The eighteen thousand malibu and pineapples probably helped with both my foggy memory, and my aim. That info is straight from Holly, circa the next day...
My smile never faltered, he said he was fine, and just as the glimmer began to appear in his eyes, I grinned and said,
"That's great! Well, have a good night!"
-and turned back around to the bar. (you'd better believe that H was apologetic)
Yikes! That was a close one.
And yep, I was one of those girls, in only that moment.
But hey, it happens to the best of us, right?
Besides, I still chuckle about it every now and then, and I don't remember a single word exchanged with any of the others, so in the grand scheme of things, Mr. Monet gets the most of the C-brain-airtime.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
In the movies we watched, the sweet, naive, gentle and gorgeous 16-year-old girl lives a quiet, pleasant life full of impromptu song and dance, no matter how unsavory her circumstances. Her flawless skin is ever so carefully painted, with the shadows going only in the flattering places. Her waist is tiny with no exercise, her eyes are clear certainly without enough sleep (given her life of servitude), and her feet are uncalloused, no matter how many hours are spent barefoot in the rocky castle yard or thorny forest.
The prince rides up, strong, handsome, full of character and goodness. He instantly falls in love with her, and she him. There may be a snag or two (never because of their compatibility, but because of an evil external influence), but in the end all ends with white silk, wedding bells and happiness trailing off into "ever after."
Girls in real life have pimples. We are not always good and kind and sweetly oblivious. And boys are not always full of character and effortless muscle, riding up on a big gorgeous horse and sweeping us away into a sudden life of perfect wedded bliss.
Unlike the beautifully drawn characters in the movies we often still love, even as women, we evolve. Our lines are not scripted from beginning to end so that we never lose our tempers, or make mistakes, or learn.
Rather than being a flaw, what a gift this is!
There are countless works of literature where it is said that the angels in heaven are jealous of us - of our messy and beautiful and poignant and real lives.
In truth, how can it be a bad thing that hardly any of us fall in love only once, at 16?
If we are not scripted and easily summed up into a half page, how in the world can we expect to just automatically
a) know who is best for us, and
b) find that person on our first try?
We should try love out, test it, glorify it, leave it when it is time to leave.
That is what the pink spoon theory is about.
Our mothers and grandmothers have paved the way for us to have this glorious freedom. In most areas, a woman no longer has to make herself into a man (more or less) to earn respect from men. We are coming at a time where you can be a woman, still feminine, and be just as successful as any man. No longer do we have to toss aside the womanly wiles that give us our unique strength and shoulder the common masculine qualities instead (not to mention the fact that they don't look good on us most of the time anyway).
Of course there are exceptions. Everyone should follow their heart.
But for many of us, this is our time.
We can finally approach dating, love, and life with a carefree nature - still being women, and discovering ourselves, our preferences, and our matches with as much freedom as men have always been able to.
The truth is, there are probably a few Prince Charmings out there.
And there's no reason in the world to settle for less. That's not saying, of course, that dallying for some amount of time with someone who makes you happy for whatever reason, although you know he's not the one you want to go into a 'merger' with, is wrong at all.
It's just fine!
Pink spoon to your heart's content!
And besides, after the wedding bells' ringing faded into the credits and the credits faded to a blank screen, we don't know what happened, do we?
Maybe things aren't as simple as they seem.
Of course not. They never are.
(cross posted at TPST)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I mean, the world would be a much better place if fake breasts and heavily photo-shopped women weren't staring at us while we purchased our bag of Lime Tostitos.
Sometimes I find men's magazines way more entertaining than women's (but don't get me wrong, I loooove my Lucky, Women's Health, Allure and Nylon). When I go to men's homes I like to flip through their Men's Health and GQ not only for the eye candy but to get the perspective of what men are telling other men. If you haven't done that yet, I suggest you do. You'll learn a lot and get an eye full of well-kept gentlemen.
I've also found an added benefit to reading men's magazines, they help me find amazing gifts for men, whether it's a $400 Nixon watch, a safe to keep their most valuable possessions in, Armani cologne-- those samples are your best friend when choosing the perfect scent, or a really good wallet that's under $30. Yes, I like men's fashion almost as much as I love women's.
I'm so glad there are blogs out there where lots of (you) smart women are giving yourselves a voice while looking ridiculously fabulous. It's just unfortunate that most magazines are so advertisement-heavy and superficial. So kudos to you if you're writing about real life.
This is my rant for the day... thanks for reading and enjoy the cover photos of David Beckham, I know I did:
of Make Me Blush, Drive Me Wild
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
This is coming (hot off the presses) from The Pink Spoon Theory:
Late Fall 2004
I came out of the side hallway as Ethan was passing the door. I caught up with him and slipped my hand between his arm and body, lightly resting my fingers right below his elbow.
His arm curled up automatically and he laughed.
"What, you need an escort down the hallway?"
"Yes. Yes I do."
Ethan was one of my few male friends. He was safe because he had a serious long-term girlfriend who he was crazy about. (He may have also been safe because the first time I saw him I thought he was gay....)
He was polite and charming and had a lightbulb smile. One of those grins that has a cartoony twinkle at the end: you can't help but imagine a five-starred animated bling come from their left canine. (Kinda like this guy - no they don't really look alike at all, but he definitely has the lightbulb smile I'm trying to describe.)
Ethan was a few years older than me (okay, 9 is more than a few when you're 21 years old and he's 30) and refreshingly calm.
Not that everyone that age is calm - another coworker within a year or two of Ethan did ask me whether my boobs were real or not the first time I met him, which had been about a month before...as the rest of the table looked on with interest...let's move on.
Since I above all, wanted a life free of romance drama, I was only befriending those men who were not at all available. It was a perfect combination - I had the testosterone in my life that I was wanting through friendships, and none of the backlash of crushes and flirting and feelings and kisses and such that I wanted to avoid.
So Ethan escorted me down the hallway.
I didn't notice a few days later when he stopped mentioning his girlfriend.
One night at a friend's house watching some ridiculous movie and eating as much junk food as possible in order to balance out all of the exercising that we health and fitness teachers had done all week with our students, Ethan offered to give me a foot massage.
Who in the world would pass that up? Not I.
So he settled himself on the opposite end of the couch and promptly sent me into a coma.
It was a great foot massage, and he knew it was great. He told me later that it was a well-planned-out way to get closer.
An hour later, the movie had ended and he asked me to walk him out to his car.
After the 'friendly' hug lasted for three minutes, I walked inside in a daze.
"What the heck just happened?"
I asked my friend (who's living room we were in) what the heck was going on with him.
That's when I found out that he and the serious, deeply loved girlfriend had been broken up for three weeks.
Oh, great. That's just great.
In another week and a half he was giving me foot massages on his couch on the other side of town, drawing hearts on my arches.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
We were fighting and I was mad. Really mad.
I was the kind of mad that makes you emphasize the "T" at the end of the word with a curled lip -
"No, it wasn'T."
(he recoiled a bit in fear after that one)
What were we fighting about? Oh, I don't know. A salt shaker, then ab workouts, I believe.
Obviously not the point.
I could feel my eyes flashing and sparking as I spoke, and I didn't try to reign myself in.
"You don't say whatever. You don't say whatever to me."
We were sitting on the bed, he was staring at me and talking softly and I was staring at him, feeling the strings and bonds of my anger thrumming right underneath my skin, and all of the sudden, I got the unmistakable urge to laugh - I mean a nearly undeniable grin pulling at my cheeks and eyes, like when I crossed my eyes at Amy during 12th grade physics and we laughed so hard that I got sent out of the room. I tried to fight it and couldn't. In order to stop the tide of laughter sweeping up from my toes, I had to break eye contact and look down.
Of course the right thing to do would have been to just lose it and grab him around the neck and pull him down onto the bed with me, making him laugh too...
But those bonds under my skin held me back from doing that particular right thing.
In the end, it's true, "whatever" has now been taken out of the vocabulary of "us."
And I may have cried on his chest for just a moment and apologized for being so effed up...
But that would be admitting defeat, no?
Either way, I did it. And I'm glad.
Sometimes, when you lose, you win.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
- Wear heels.
- Don't order a salad.
- Kiss him if it feels right, even if you "don't kiss on the first date." You aren't getting any younger, so playing by the "rules" just seems silly.
M.S.G: Can you really walk on the messed up N.Y.C sidewalks in high heels?
H.H.G: I can (and have) walked on the sidewalks of N.Y.C in heels. It makes me feel sexy.
M.S.G: Is honesty really the best policy?
H.H.G: Honesty is key, especially in relationships. If you can't be honest, then what can you be? The only time it's okay to be dishonest is if it's the first of second date and that Mexican food you ate didn't uh, sit well. Then it's okay to lie and say you have to go check-in on your dog who's been having non-stop seizures for the past week.
M.S.G: What makes you feel sexy?
H.H.G: High heels and skinny jeans make me feel like a hot piece of ass.
M.S.G: Who do you think is more relationship savvy, men or women? why?
H.H.G: I think the older we get, both men and women are relationship savvy. The more relationship "drama" you've been through, the more you know yourself: your wants, likes/dislikes, etc. In turn, I think this make people better at knowing what they need in a relationship.
M.S.G: What turns you on? looks, intelligence, witty, sarcasm?
H.H.G: Good looks is the first thing that turns me on. I know looks aren't everything, but they account for a lot. After that, personality is key. A guy who is witty, sarcastic, clever, and who can keep up with my sly remarks is super sexy. I also go for guys who are charming, but not in a cheesy way. If he tells me I look beautiful, and he is sincere, well then I'm putty in his hand.
M.S.G: Top 3 Don'ts for men on the first date.
- Don't talk about yourself the entire time.
- Don't wear too much cologne or anything that smells like something my dad would wear.
- Brush your teeth before the date. Bad breath is not sexy.
M.S.G: Top 3 Don'ts for women on the first date.
- Don't wear a dress/tank top/skirt without having shaved your legs/under arms. Maintenance ladies!
- Don't come unprepared: I always carry a few Pepto pills, just in case we eat something, that well, you know...
- Don't drink a lot...unless he is.
M.S.G: What was your worst date experience?
H.H.G: I met this seemingly hot guy and we had good conversation. I was attracted to him and things were going well. Then he told me he had to the National Rock/Paper/Scissors convention. I thought he was joking and started laughing and making jokes about it. Turns out, he was dead serious. Freaker. I have never been able to think of rock/paper/scissors as a kiddie pastime since.
M.S.G: We at "Five lipsticks (on your collar)" know how awesome your blog is, but for those few readers who have never read your blog let them know what they can expect from The High-Heel Diaries.
H.H.G: My blog is about me, relationships, trying to find a man, and basically, my numerous rants and raves about my life experiences. All wrapped up in with some sarcasm, of course!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A type to avoid going steady with is The Umfriend. The UF is someone who always introduces you as an acquaintance of nebulous status, as in, “This is my…um…friend.” Your companion may suddenly downgrade you from new girlfriend/boyfriend status to an umfriend when they unexpectedly bump into a recent ex who is either heartbroken-slash-psycho or someone your companion would like to get back together with (sorry, sucker).
To read about the other four types to avoid, go here.
Most people I know have been in this uncomfortable situation, myself included. There's nothing wrong with a "casual" relationship. But unfortunately, I see more casualties when confronted with the infamous 'umfriend' title. Although words like commitment and courtship make many cringe, there's a part of me that believes everyone is capable of it and deserves clarification when it comes to matters of the heart (or libido).
I guess it's all comes down to confidence and communication. All alliteration aside, I find that what was fun and casual soon becomes routine and expectations begin to surface. Unless you have a smarter solution, the second I feel like an insignificant other, I run.
Note: I'm not very fast... but I'm working on it.
I'm usually not one to solicit advice, but sometimes you'll read some thing that resonates...
Know your worth,
of Make Me Blush, Drive Me Wild
He's reclined on the bed, twilight making horizontal stripes across his chest as he slowly puts his book down and looks up at my quizzically.
I silently move towards him, kicking off my shoes as I walk.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking off your shoes..."
"...now I'm unbuckling your belt..."
"So this is what I get for watching The Bachelorette with you?"
("no," I think. "This is for being the reason I feel smug while I'm watching it.")
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Fresh from the city of sin.
And after a three days in a row of hanging out in Nevada, I found that the sexiest time of the day was in the afternoon. Why you ask? Two words: pool parties. If you haven't experienced a Las Vegas style pool party, I suggest you dip your toes into the chlorine and do so as soon as possible.
I've always enjoyed the concept of a 21 and over pool/lounge because I always come home with stories to make the devil blush. There is something for everyone even if doing naughty things under water is not your style. Just imagine the hottest night club, but with lounge chairs you can nap on.
Too much beer? You won't drown, there is no deep end, just shallow water where you can dance and drink. Parched? Just sit down and re-hydrate while you get a tan. Hungry? Grab the cocktail waitress in a thong and get an app. Your feet hurt? Oh wait, they won't because you're not wearing your stripper heels. (Although I'm certain there will be several females at the pool with 5" platforms and ankle bracelets).
The people watching from what I've experienced, is the best. The array of characters that step into the pool can become quite comical. I was recently at Wet Republic at the MGM hotel and saw women with false eyelashes, caked on MAC make up complimented with a curly coif. Faces began to melt and beads of sweat were surfacing atop layers of make up. So cute, right?
If you must put something on, just make sure it's waterproof. Clinique products will not let you down.
I don't know about you but I don't think I can bring myself to pick up a curling iron before a pool party in 107 degree weather. The water WILL hit my skin... and hair. And my sunglasses will be on. Plus, it's almost impossible to avoid drunken splashes from the pool and obnoxious people with water guns.
Another reason why pool parties are going to rock your world: at a club, ugly tattoos are hidden under dress shirts soaked in cologne. But at a pool party, if tribal bands and tramp stamps turn you off, the red flags are in permanent ink for your convenience.
This summer, pool parties are a must on my agenda. There are a few really good ones in Los Angeles, including the one at the Custom Hotel, that I'd like to make a splash at.
So here's hoping for a safe and sensual summer for all of you. And thanks for reading. I'll be back...
of Make Me Blush
and contributor to Five Lipstick Stains On Your Collar.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
What keeps us from taking the plunge?
no, not the emotional needy and ripe-and-ready for disappointment plunge once the object of our affection turns out to be unfortunately human,
-but the plunge to say, it's okay, I can give love, I can receive love, and I don't have to let it control me. I can enjoy it like I can enjoy the delicious smells coming out of the bakery window as I walk by it down on the Promenade, not mourning the loss once I've turned the corner and it is no longer taking over my senses?
For me, it is because I don't want to be wrong....how can I respect myself if I give my heart over to someone who doesn't stand up to every preconceived notion of the perfect man that I've ever dreamt up?
How can I consider myself loved if all of my rose-petaled fantasies aren't fulfilled?
How can I give love and not expect it to be permanent and lasting?
And, worse yet, if I do this thing and lose my heart anyway, heedless of my misgivings, and, in the end, it does fail and I am left alone again, how can I face myself? How will I be able to stand up to the torrential self-loathing I'll feel that I broke all of my rules that so intricately protected my heart once upon a time, and failed?
But, as my mentor once asked me, if I do all of these things, and experience love, vs. not doing them and staying closed off forever, will it have been a better life?
To feel the wind and currents and warmth and pinpricks of love and all it entails, or to stay wrapped in padding, impervious but unfeeling?
Which is better?
Which is worse?
We must all decide for ourselves...
But do - decide. Don't not think about it and later wish you had.