Once upon a long time ago, my best friend met her Parisian future husband at Pastis in New York City. One week later, he presented her with her first gift: a set of Agent Provocateur lingerie, accompanied by a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne.
Read more HERE!
Two months after I first arrived in Paris, I ended up at the Oberkampf apartment of a boy who deemed it romantic to feed me frozen carrots en lieu of dinner. Sometime in the midst of our post-veggie make-out session, he suddenly paused, looked me straight in the eye, and whispered seductively: “Je te désire.”
At that moment, I had to do everything in my power to hold in the snort that was threatening to explode frozen carrots and cheap wine all over his pleather couch. For some reason, the sound of a French man trying to talk sexy to me was possibly one of the funniest bedroom encounters of my life (second only to the time I could not locate my skirt at some hipster’s house and had to go to the office in tights and a trench coat.)
I have no clue what kind of tricks God and Susan Miller are playing on us, but lately I feel as if the whole world has lost its mind. Since I live in a current event-free bubble that floats somewhere between Style.com and my Instagram feed, by “whole world” I mean my friends. Ever since last Sunday, I have been bearing witness to some sort of mass heartbreak limbo, which entails all my friends getting dumped and then blowing it WAY out of proportion by engaging in ridiculous behavior. At this point, I feel like I’m operating a boutique mental institute, checking in on their status at least 3 times a day and keeping them all under the same roof, with one administered chaperone present. Luckily, my patients make for some really interesting case studies, which will make for even more interesting content for you guys! And so, without further ado…
Yes, I realize that this is a redundant topic and that this blog is in danger of becoming a Travelocity guide for single promiscuous globetrotters. You will have to bear with me on this one, as I recently returned from New York and am currently experiencing serious withdrawals, causing me to tear up during Project Runway zoom-ins of the Manhattan skyline. I suppose that deciphering the city’s male inhabitants is my attempt to feel closer in spirit.
Going back to New York, I occasionally question what it is that made me move to Paris in the first place. Suddenly, I’m in a legitimate first world city, with excellent customer service and people who don’t consider complaining to be a national sport! Fueled by super foods and Soul Cycle, my energy levels rise to turbo-speed, and I begin accomplishing more in one day than I do in weeks in Paris. The men, who suddenly come in all shapes and colors and sizes, provide a refreshing contrast to the monotonous Frenchies, in both their attitude and demeanor.
However, a few days into it, my acai-kale-hemp-fueled-high (what exactly is hemp, anyway?) begins to lift and I start seeing things from a slightly more sober perspective. Perhaps, the green juice really is always greener on the other side. Lets take a look.
The other day, my happily married friend sent me a picture of her adorable 6-month old baby. In a moment of hormonal weakness (tainted by being yelled at in French three consecutive times), I wrote back “I want one toooo!” This was an outburst I immediately came to regret, as the remainder of the conversation went somewhat like this:
Married Friend: “So do it! Get it done!”
(Cause its just that easy..)
Me: “How?!”
MF: “Stop fucking around. Stop tindering losers.”
Me: “Ok. Give me a game plan.”
MF: “1. Move 2. Stop it with the artsy fartsy boho losers. 3. Learn how to cook. 4. Stop going out with losers!!!!!!! Stop hanging out with them stop being seen with them. This is the most vital step. It cannot be repeated enough – 2 and 4 are key.”
As a single girl, I thrive on summer. It’s the one season where I have a distinct advantage over the coupled-up part of the population: the advantage of total freedom, of carefree vacation flings, of momentary lapses of judgment that make me feel eighteen all over again.
Read on HERE!
