French Men Overdose

Typecasting · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

You know that scene from Matilda when Miss Trunchbull makes poor little Bruce Bogtrotter eat chocolate cake until he gets green in the face and prays to God that he never sees another chocolate cake again? This is exactly how I feel about my love life at the moment. Particularly, my love life in France, in conjunction to French men.

What used to be a delicacy and a delight has become an all-too-familiar routine with a predictable outcome that I do not have the energy to re-live over and over again. Not only do I not like anybody, but I have actually reached a whole new level where I don’t want to like anybody. All the guys I have met in the past few months (Tinder – 5 / real life -1) have blurred together in one uninspiring package, leaving me feeling about as emotionless as a Xanaxed-out Beverly hills housewife.

How to Dress For a Date Like a Parisienne

DD x Vogue · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Every few months, a friend from New York City will come visit me in Paris, and every single time, they will ask the obligatory question: “What should I bring?”

“Nothing!” I tell them, hoping that this will ensure jeans and a leather jacket while eliminating all other unnecessary cargo (and preventing a life-threatening trip down my fifth-floor walk-up in Gianvito Rossi heels). “But what if we go to dinner?” Still, nothing. “But what if I meet a guy?”Especially then, nothing.

Read on HERE!

The Sista Code

Those Who Can't Do, Teach · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Ever since a Russian girl named Veronica saved me from getting my pudgy butt kicked by playground bullies at the age of 5, female friendships have been the driving relationships of my life. No matter how bleak my love life tends to get, I’m always comforted by the fact that I have a loyal team of girlfriends who have my back through thick and thin and merely bloated and potentially psychotic and whatever other state I happen to be in.

This is why I find it rather hard to trust women who have no female friends. Take Angelina Jolie – this is a woman who, despite her many virtues, publicly admits to having no girlfriends. This is also the woman responsible for the biggest homewrecking scandal of the 2000’s. See the link there? I think my dog Chloe could, and she’s more beauty than brains.

The Story of Zoolander

I Know How To Pick'Em · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

When I was about eighteen, I met a Danish model named Lars at some weird hippie trade show at Javits center. We would spent long winter evenings circling Astor Place, philosophizing about life, until I would get so cold that I would hustle him into Starbucks and buy us venti Tazo teas to avoid catching pneumonia. This is when I learned an important lesson that every self-respecting female should keep close to her heart: never, ever date models.

Which is why I have nobody to blame but myself for the disaster that occurred to me this past Thursday, when I decided, in the name of exploratory research, to have drinks with a 33-year-old male model, a gem I discovered in the vast reserves of Tinder.

Dbag Dating SS 15 Runway Report : Crack is Whack and ET’s Trending

Musings of the Mind · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

As many of you may know by now, Men’s Fashion Week happens to be one of favorite holidays, effectively combining my two main interests: looking at clothes and deciphering the male species. While I am not yet considered mainstream enough to get invited to the shows (as a true artiste, I prefer to keep an underground vibe going), I did spend this past weekend skimming through Style.com coverage of the various défilés permeating Paris, not to mention observing the peculiar species known as fashion boys in their natural Marais habitat.

Following last season’s post on the 8 types of men you will see at Men’s Fashion Week, this season I decided to evaluate the shows themselves, appropriating the proposed looks to the types of men they are best equipped for.

The Wedding Date

I Know How To Pick'Em · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

The first thought that crossed my mind when my best friend got engaged 1.5 years ago was: “There’s no f*cking way in hell that I’m going to this wedding alone.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those girls, the ones who refuse to attend social events solo, terrified of being shunned as the last single lepers standing. Come think, I don’t ever recall attending a wedding as part of couple, unless you count my girlfriend-slash-lesbian-lover, Loggy. (I’m kidding, mum.) Rather than fearing social judgment, I prefer to see weddings a prime opportunity to meet fellow singles in the magical setting of 30K flower arrangements and Frank Sinatra tunes.

However, this wedding was different. At this wedding, I would be the Maid of Honor, the secondary centerpiece of the affair, interrogated on my own romantic status by every Russian parent in the Tri-State area. En plus, given the elevated stress of hustling a wagon of Vera Wang tulle all day, I could certainly use a hand to squeeze (and hand me Klonopin when necessary).