FIVE LIPSTICK STAINS (ON YOUR COLLAR)...

Different Ways to Rock It

2010-08-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I was walking down a Santa Monica sidewalk with Terry, and I came to a new realization.

"You know what?"

"What."

"From now on, I won't care what others think of my shoes. I think, usually, I care about whether people like or don't like my shoes. But I'm done with that. If someone doesn't like my shoes, I'll say - 'Fu*k you. These are my shoes. I am wearing these shoes, and I like them. If you don't like them, don't look at them.' I'm going to rock my shoes and not care about what anyone thinks."

"Okay."

Of course I wasn't talking about shoes.

And that may have been an anticlimactic conversation to some, but not me.

For most of my life, I've posed, literally, at, like, every second. I was raised the ONLY biracial child in my entire city (besides two others who happened to be my sister and brother), and the city was a majorly racist one. (Thank goodness I got out of there!) I was always worried about what people thought and what they would say, and for good reason - people in backwoods Virginia LOVE to talk smack. Then, in college, my boyfriend was the president of his fraternity and there were appearances to keep. And in grad school I was the youngest girl around (plus the only health and fitness instructor in the program who regularly got asked if she had implants - the answer was no, and yes, I was thankful for my biracial heritage on THAT one), so I obviously had to live up to the hype.

During all of those years, the only time the real me would come out when I was alone, and quiet, and calm (which didn't happen often).

Then, I was the badass manizer who went around taking names for a year or so, until I met Terry and fell madly in love, unexpectedly, kicking and screaming a little to boot. So then I had the appearance to keep up of a girl who hates majorly on marriage, and who had just found out that a few things she'd said with complete confidence were dead wrong. That was a pill to take, fo sho.

And then there were other appearances to keep up because of the relationship, because of work, because of whatever reason my mind gave me.

But you know what? I'll tell you a secret. All that is straight up BS.

Somewhere in the past year I've found my real self emerging more than when I'm alone, quiet and calm. And that real self is nurturing, and confident, and intelligent, and, yes, emotional. And I ain't apologizing.

Young women in today's world have a rough time. Our parents modeled their lives for us, sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad, but they had no clue what they were doing either because their time was completely different from their parents'. And here we are again, on the same wheel, trying to make our way which is fundamentally different from our parents' (hello, economy) and, as women, we want to be sexy. And loved. And respected. And smart. And successful in business. And, and, and, you fill in the blank.

But, I have a suggestion. A suggestion that comes from personal experience of fighting and struggle and self-doubt and self-criticism. Oh, the criticism.

So, here it is.
relax.
Take a breath.
Be yourself, just for a moment, and see how it feels. Look around with new eyes - what is in your world, really? If your life were a movie, what would it be about? What do you think about most of the time? What do you worry about? What do you hope for?
Now, the big question-
Is that what you WANT to be thinking about, worrying about, and hoping for? In that perfect-self image you have in your mind that you are constantly aspiring to, are these the things that take up your movie?

If so, rock it, with no apologies.
But if not, notice. Then, make a new intention, wait, and watch. Miracles will happen to get you where you want to be. But you have to pay attention to see them.

Good luck. Let us know what happens. And rock the hell out of those shoes.

love,
Charis

PS: Check out my brand new blog at www.rawkout.com!

Shiny Kisses

2009-09-02T14:27:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name is Charis (like 'carrots' without the T) and I am a lip gloss addict.

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.

And cried.

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?

I Do...

2009-08-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

Not Know What I'm Doing. Help.

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

Standards

2009-08-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

A girl's gotta have standards.

This weekend I spent a few frustrated hours at the beach late night style, by myself sitting in the dark. I worried my sister as she feared I would be abducted and end up on Dateline next month. I was thinking, talking to friends, texting and sending pictures of my feet in the sand to twitter.

Standards, standards, standards...it was all I could think about. The standards to which I hold my friends, my parents, myself, men...probably why I'm single.

A girls gotta have standards though.

Are standards black and white? When do we make exceptions? In talking to a friend who shared a similar experience growing up, I realized that the standards I once held my father to have changed...have they lowered? No, I don't think so. Have I realized that he's not who I want him to be...but instead someone I can love, learn from, count on in a different way? Yes. If I let myself.

I have to keep my standards when it comes to matters of my heart though, a girls gotta.

You don't get to choose your parents. But I will choose the next him. Hopefully the last him. I know I write about this a lot...and I fear gaining the reputation of sad single girl. I most def am not, blogging is more to me than posting pictures though...it's a release. I know, as so many of you have told me, that when you know, you know, that it will happen when you least expect it, and I'm cool with that, really, I am.

I can't help but wonder (hello Carrie Bradshaw, sorry), if my standards are TOO high. Is that even possible? I just hate that weird feeling, the red flags that so often I've ignored, the settling...the I KNEW YOU WOULD DO THAT fights, or thoughts..that have left me walking a mile down the Vegas strip alone at 3am in a mini and 5 inchers, being followed by creeps, afraid to call my friends or family for fear of " I told you so's..." because I already told myself so. Nobody is harder on me...than me.

Standards. I'm sticking to my standards. They're high. And when I meet him, and I just know, and it's when I least expect it, I won't have to lower them. If anything...he better raise me up, he's gotta.

XOXO,

Liz

Kung Fu Grip

2009-08-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

It was the hot and sticky summer of 2006.
(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...

Shite.

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.

Karma.

Some Day My Prince Will Come....

2009-07-30T09:10:00.000-07:00

We are taught as little girls that love is easy. And perfect.

image courtesy of www.freewebs.com

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.

image courtesy of www.platformfestival.com

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.

image courtesy of guardian.co.uk

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?

Rubbish.

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.

image courtesy of www.cartoonart.org

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)

Take Cover

2009-07-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or are there way just too many women on the covers of magazines these days? I wish more women's magazines had really hot, smart and funny men on their covers (and inside). That would be great to see when I stand in the check-out line at the grocery store, knowing that inside, there are articles about wonderful, intelligent men making a difference too.

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:

Get yours,

of Make Me Blush, Drive Me Wild

It is not a dream...

2009-07-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

My heart is pounding. I can hardly breathe, "I have to make it to the next terminal. I just have to." With out my body's consent, I begin running once more. People are staring. I can hear laughter and see little children pointing. An incoherent voice echoes through out the airport, "Flight...leaving for...will be departing in...." I round the corner. To my relief, the plane has not left yet. He has not left. My eyes eagerly scan the area. Looking for some familiar feature amongst the crowd, I hear his voice. His deep gravelly voice. I turn around, and there he is. I begin to call out his name, but find I have no voice. My lips form the word, yet no sound accompanies it. He looks happy. No, he looks content. His hand firmly holding someone else's hand. I could not quite make out her features nor her voice. They are enthralled with one another. As they walk pass, he suddenly looks up. They stop. His eyes widen, as if he had forgotten something. Then as quickly as the notion came, it passed. Whatever it was, he had no use or care for it now. He hands the tickets to the stewardess and they disappear down the corridor.

Hallway Escort (repost)

2009-07-16T14:08:00.001-07:00

Guess what y'all? Today I'm'a be lazy and double-post.
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.

Trouble.

Dirty little secrets...

2009-07-15T12:34:00.000-07:00

For some inexplicable reason, I have always wanted to have sex on the beach. You read correctly, "sex on the beach". Yes, even with the sand. Yes, even if it is beyond cliche. Yes, even if a sea shell somehow finds it's way up my ass. I really do not why the idea of me and some guy rolling around in the wet sand, gets me off. It just does. Watching Chris Isaac's "Wicked Game" video may or may have not had something to do with my infatuation. If you do not know what video I am talking about, we can no longer be blog friends. I have come close {ha, come close...} to fulfilling my beach sex fantasy. It started raining, and we were a tad too drunk. Not the best circumstances in the world. It has to be perfect. I know it is dangerous to have pre-conceived ideas about how my sexcapade will go down, but I can not help it. I am, after all, a girl.

However if I happen to find myself on some deserted beach with a guy, who closely resembles the above hottness, then all the planning and dreaming will somehow disappear into the void. Not really hard to see why...

For the Love of Lip Gloss, SHUT UP!

2009-07-08T15:21:00.001-07:00

We were fighting.

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.

The Butterflies

2009-07-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

These are THE butterflies.

Oh, I've been around, I know all the different kinds of butterflies. These are the ones that are so good I can't eat, can't stop thinking about you. These are the butterflies that leave me sitting on my bed wishing I could smell you, feel you, loose myself in you, missing you with an ache so strong I can feel it in every, single part of my body. The butterflies that don't just flutter, they whirl and tremble and quiver, and as my heart pounds, I think....yes. These are the butterflies that have always lead to something...something meaningful, and life changing. These are the you are more than just a one night thing kinda butterflies, baby.

He says things like "Just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking about what an amazing woman you are and how the thought of you warms my soul." I had a bad dream and he was there...He calls me cuppycake. We have plans made, things to do, everywhere I go I wish he was with me, and he consumes my every thought from sweet to scandalous. These are the butterflies where two end up becoming one.

These are also the butterflies that terrify me. The other kinds, sure they flutter, but I control them. Those butterflies are my bitches. The butterflies I have now...part of me wants to run but they will catch me, and I just want to run to you, anyway.

I don't fucking want these butterflies if they are slowly, painfully, one by one, going to drop from the sky and die. Maybe in 6 months, maybe in 3 years, whatever. I don't want them if they aren't going to fade into something better...something lasting, strong, healthy and safe. I want them to go away so bad sometimes.

But not as bad as I want you. Here. Now. Forever?

These are THE butterflies.

Shot for a Day: High-heel gal from The High-Heel Diaries.

2009-07-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

We are so excited to be doing our first installment of "Shot for a Day". Each month we will interview a guest shot. This month is Philly's very own, High-heel gal from The High-Heel Diaries.

M.S.G: What made you decide to write a blog?

H.H.G: A good friend urged me to start a blog because my e-mails to him were often witty, bitter, and true all in one. He encouraged me to share my crazy stories, but at first, I was skeptical. Then He sent me a New York Times article of a woman who started blogging about relationships and eventually, became famous. That was that. I began my blog soon after, erased it after a month of writing, then missed it, brought it back, and decided to go "balls-out" with my stories, which has since proven to be the best idea I've ever had.

M.S.G: How do you find time to keep your blog so fresh and interesting, and work a full time job?

H.H.G: Believe it or not, interesting things are always happening to me or someone I know. Plus, I am able to look at situations in very clever ways in order to make it something I think my readers would enjoy. Also, my job oftentimes is the subject of some of my stories (the good, the bad, and the ugly).

M.S.G: What does an average Friday/Saturday night look for you?

H.H.G: Well, the average weekend has kind of changed for me, especially since Wing-gal moved. When I was single, we used to go out drinking/guy scanning until we closed bars down at 2 a.m. It was probably some of the best times I've ever had, but we all know that changes once you meet a guy. Now, while I still go out quite a bit, it's not a necessity since I already snagged myself a great man-catch. I've definitely become a little more low-key in the past few months, but in a way, it's refreshing. Searching for a guy to date every weekend got exhausting. And my liver is probably thankful too.

M.S.G: What are 3 top dating tips?

H.H.G: Oh, I have many dating tips, but if I had to narrow it to three they would be:

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.

H.H.G:

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.

H.H.G:

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!

Take A Tip

2009-07-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

from wise women, Em & Lo

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

So Reality Shows Are Good For Something After All...

2009-07-01T14:02:00.000-07:00

I walk into the room, nudging the door closed with my hip, then leaning against it and gazing at him as I immediately flip off the light.

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?"

...silence...

("no," I think. "This is for being the reason I feel smug while I'm watching it.")

MAKE A SPLASH

2009-06-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

Suzanne speaking...
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.

Tonight

2009-06-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

I finally decided on an outfit. That only took me a week. I bought new shoes, but I'm not wearing them, I'm wearing my "You know what" boots, even though I don't think that's going to be happening tonight. Don't get any ideas.

Shower. Shave. Shaving takes sooo long. Exfoliate. Lotion. I used the last of my favorite juicy couture lotion because all the other men in life have said they liked it. I should have done a self tanner, but then again, what if I ended up looking like an ooompa loompa?

Blow drying. My arm is getting tired. Oh you're texting me...you're excited for tonight. Me too. I think. I mean, I'm a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here is on, and I have a bottle of cab to finish and I'm already exhausted. But no, no. God, I have so much hair. FUCK. My straightener won't turn on! Oh, it's not plugged in. God, why am I so jumpy? I updated my twitter "hot date"...ughhhh. Shouldn't have done that. Now everyone knows.

Ahhh that's better. This is a good Cabernet for only being $1.99.

Make-up time. Lots of concealer is needed, have I mentioned how exhausted I am? There...I look like myself again. I'm actually pretty. It's amazing what a little Nars Orgasm blush can do. Orgasm. That's funny. Not happening.

The underwear dilemma. Horrendous, cute or sexy? Sexy makes me feel...sexy, but then I might be more apt to do bad things. Horrendous...no, I mean we never know what could happen. Cute. Settling on cute.

Should I text you and have you call me when you get here so I can be outside waiting? Or what if you brought flowers and we have to do that whole thing? I don't have a vase! I should, a girl my age should own a vase. Don't bring me flowers, it's cute but it's just easier that way. I won't hold it against you if you end up being "the one."

I'm waiting. I keep putting extra mascara on and it's getting all clumpy and I am starting to look like that crazy evangelical woman, remember her? Putting mascara down...walking away. My heels click clack across the floor as I pace. Sounds like walk of someone who is hot. I sound like someone who has it all together.

Text! You're around the corner. Butterflies. You are really cute (from your pictures) and over email you're so funny and intelligent and you know the difference between "your" and "you're"...I would totally have your internet babies.

A little more mascara...why the hell do my eyelashes seem to disappear no matter how much Dior Show I pile on? Ok. Ready. I look good.

I just drank the rest of the Cabernet from the bottle. From the bottle? No vase and drinking out of wine bottles. I am a catch.

The door shuts behind me. There you are. Here we go.

An enigma.

2009-06-23T18:52:00.000-07:00

"Wow this is awkward... What now?"

He is in love with someone else. I can not and will not let myself comprehend it. If I do, my thoughts and loneliness will consume me. The rational-heartless part of me is, "fine", and the nonsensical-clothes ripping part is screaming at the top of my lungs, "Why can't it be me?!" I feel pathetic and invisible, while we make conversation. {Make being the key word.} Sometimes, I can see it almost touch it, and then he casually blows it away. I have sunk to a new low of low. Why can't our minds and hearts forget when they are rejected? I do envy the woman that can master the art of apathy. I want to be angry at him, but I can't. He did not do anything to deserve wrath or spite. That would be a "typical" guy move; and yet, he is not a "typical" guy. He is the 'writer'.

By A Thread

2009-06-22T14:02:00.000-07:00

What is it that keeps us hanging in?

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.

Let's get down to it.

2009-04-09T13:58:00.000-07:00

In so many words?

Yes! I am a huge fan of BOLD. How about you?