I love Project Runway’s Santino Rice. As many of you know, I don’t typically watch TV because I don’t own a television in my home. But, I travel for work. A lot. And, when I’m on the road, I soak up hours and hours of TV time during the evenings at the hotels. During my most recent business trip, I watched a marathon of past Project Runway episodes on BRAVO. That’s when I met him: The Great Santino.

Santino Rice is a god. He sings. He dances. And, he does an absolutely marvelous impersonation of Tim Gunn singing “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. “I wanna, I wanna feel you from the inside … Designers. Designers. You let me vi-o-late you … You bring me closer to God. You … Andrae … Andrae, you bring me closer to God. When I look at your garment, you bring me closer to God. Really … Really.” He is absolutely fabulous! And, he is unequivocally the designer with the most personality and, possibly, the most talent. (Although, I must admit … I feel like a traitor because I’m secretly kind of routing for Nick, too.)

Do any of you watch Project Runway? Do you love Santino? Might I possibly have a chance of winning his heart? Or, is it possible that he’s gay and I’m barking up the wrong tree again (… first Nate Berkus; now Santino)?

By the way, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Santino is a fellow blogger like the rest of us. Click here to check out his blog.

Back story: James Frey writes a “memoir” about being an alcoholic, drug-addicted criminal who is wanted in 3 states. Oprah picks the book, A Million Little Pieces, for her Book Club. The Smoking Gun reveals the book is filled with outlandish lies. Oprah invites James on her show. He admits he lied. Oprah gives him and his publisher the smackdown.

Following Frey’s lead, here’s an excerpt from my “memoir” about what happened this past weekend. Needless to say, just like Frey’s “nonfiction” book, what follows is not true …

8:13AM on Friday. I awake to the sound of the NYPD banging on my door. Surely they are only here to bother me about yesterday morning’s diamond heist. “Fuck off, you donut-eating pigs!” I shout out to them. I look out the peep hole of the front door of my Fort Greene apartment. Damn! I thought they were NYPD, but they aren’t; the bastards called in the SWAT team. To get out of my apartment, I open my window, climb out, and leap 4 storeys down to the ground below. I look at my watch. Shit. It’s 9:26AM. I’m going to be late for work.

11:23PM on Saturday. I’m in the shower washing a crusted vomit/blood/urine mix off of my body. Why? Well, earlier, Mags comes in from Boston, right? Well, in broad daylight, we jointly rob the Citibank on the lower east side using only a 2-gallon water pistol (pictured) as our weapon. But, that’s not where the vomit/blood/urine mix comes from. After the robbery, we meet up with Bro and she sells us some really bad crack. I spend the whole day whacked out of my mind. When I awake, I am in a pool of vomit/blood/urine. Hence, the shower.

8:58PM on Sunday. I’m on a flight returning from the Middle East. After yesterday’s nice, warm shower, I have a brilliant idea: “They sure know how to party in Dubai, maybe I should fly there!” Instead of catching a cab to JFK International Airport, I use my own two feet. I run. I’m faster than any cab. I arrive at the airport and I don’t have to pay for the flight. I’m part-owner of Etihad Airways, the national airline of the United Arab Emirates. The plane lands in Dubai and I kick it UAE-style for a couple hours. I get into a bit of trouble but, after my jailbreak, I catch a flight back to New York City. Whew! It’s not even 9pm. I made it home in time to catch Desperate Housewives.

God bless the folks over at The Smoking Gun for exposing Frey for who and what he is. Now, here’s a questions for all of you: The Smoking Gun—expose journalism, investigative journalism, or merely an entertainment site?

“Oooooh, Lenny, you so sexxxyyyy!!” I’m not going to write a long post about my Lenny because, chances are, you already know and love him, too. For those of you who don’t know Lenny, you can check out the Wikipedia, VH1 or NPR photos & articles about him. I remember reading a recent article in Essence about Lenny’s strategically-placed piercing, but I can’t find it online.

By the way, to my straight male readers: I have no intentions of alienating you, my sweeties; I promise, tomorrow’s post will *not* be about boys. :-)

I can’t sleep. I am at the hotel and the movie Nine Months is on FX. I watch it. In the movie, Hugh Grant’s character discovers that his girlfriend is pregnant. The discovery ignites internal turmoil that, of course, is eventually resolved. Happy ending. I think it’s a crap movie. Although there are exceptions, in general, I tend to dislike chick-flicks. Nevertheless, the movie does make me wonder: has Hugh Grant had plastic surgery? If he hasn’t had plastic surgery, he’s doing something. He gets hotter and hotter as he ages. Maybe it’s the hair? Or, could it be the attitude? In his 1990s movies, he had that floppy haircut and he always played that wet-towel-spineless-puppy-dog guy. However, since About a Boy: Shorter hair. More spine. Cuter Hugh.

What is your opinion? For a moment, forget the fact that his lips completely disappear when he smiles and answer this question: “Hugh Grant: is he hot or not?” Straight men are allowed to comment as well, you know. There is such a thing as a man crush.

(TOTALLY UNRELATED SIDENOTE: one of my exes had the biggest man crush on Lenny Kravitz. Who could blame him? I think Lenny is one of the hottest men to ever walk on the planet Earth; I can’t wait to get my hands on this book.)

This weekend, I did something rather interesting: I aged. I celebrated my birthday with a fabulous crew of friends that I absolutely adore. I don’t really freak out about my age. Why not? Well, because the Fountain of Youth flows from the taps of the world’s largest metropolitan areas. I’m serious. I think people age differently in cities. Do you remember the show thirtysomething? It’s about a cast of 30-somethings who live outside of Philadelphia. On the show, marriage, babies and bad 80s hairdos abound.

Granted, if the show were created in the 90s or 00s, the hairstyles would have been different. But, chances are pretty good that the maritial status and the children would have been the same. Indeed, shows like Roseanne, Everybody Loves Raymond and other 90s and 00s TV sitcoms feature similar families. Now, contrast that with Sex in the City.

The cast of Sex in the City are in their 40s (and 50s?). And, they live in New York City. During the beginning of the show’s run, all of the women enjoy the single life and, well, have sex in the city. Toward the end of the run, husbands, life partners and babies begin to appear … but, only many years after the women close the 30-something years of their lives. Same with the show Girlfriends.

These sexy ladies live in Los Angeles instead of New York City, but the storyline is the same. Sure, one could make the argument that all three of these shows (thirtysomething, Sex in the City and Girlfriends) are just television shows. But, life seems to follow suit. The lives of my friends that live in Chicago, Los Angeles, London and here in New York City are very different from the lives of my friends who live in smaller towns or rural areas. Sure, some city people marry and have kids, they just do it much later in life. Citylife keeps you younger longer.

To be clear, there isn’t anything inherently good or bad about living in the city vs. living in other areas. I think the key is simply to find the place that best suits your lifestyle. And, for me, I choose to raise my glass and toast to 30-something in the city: The shows. The people. The decade. The life.

Yes, it’s true. I am at dinner with Le Canadien. And, yes, it’s true that he looks very nice tonight. And, yeah, sure, okay, I’ve had a little bit of wine to drink. But, no, I am not going to sleep with him. I’m not going to do it. I wrote a post about this a while ago, but just to recap … Le Canadien is one of my exes. Shortly after we stopped seeing each other, we started sleeping together, stopped sleeping together, made a pact to never sleep with each other and then started and stopped again. Whew, that was a mouthful! Then again, so is he. But, that’s a different story. Back to dinner. As usual, we are discussing relationships as well as the difference between men and women. Le Canadien has been single for two weeks and that’s a long time for him. I have been without a boyfriend, fuck buddy, or boy toy since April 2005. That’s a really really really long time for me.

“I’ve been thinking,” I start. “And, I’ve decided that I’m ready for a long-term relationship.”

Le Canadien shifts in his seat, looks at his plate and plays with his food with his fork.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I quickly explain. “I don’t mean with you. I don’t even mean with anyone in particular. I just mean that I think a nice, committed relationship would fit nicely into my life right now.”

Le Canadien considers what I’ve said. “You can’t decide what type of relationship you want and then slot a man into that,” he starts. “You meet the guy, first, and then everything else follows. At least, it always seems to work that way.”

“Hmm. I understand what you’re saying,” I say. “But, still, I think I’m ready. You know, the one-woman-one-man kind of thing.”

“Really?” he sounds surprised.

“Oh, yeah, I could do a committed relationship. I’m from the Midwest, you know. We invented the Committed Relationship, remember?” I smile and add, “I’m a good girl.”

Le Canadien immediately pretends to choke on his food, doubles over and gasps for air. “You’re a what?!?!?!?” he spits out.

“I am a good girl,” I say definitively.

“Woman, good girls don’t do [ … omitted to protect the completely and utterly innocent ...],” he smiles as if he’s reminiscing. “So, actually, you’re a good girl in a very bad way or a bad girl but in a very good way. That’s a good thing.”

Time passes. The topic changes. We finish our dinners. Later, as I’m walking home, alone, the words that he said are still running through my head. A good girl in a bad way or a bad girl but in a very good way. What the hell does that even mean?

I’m having a really hard time writing this post. So much has happened in the past few days that I could tell you one of three or so different, interesting stories. The first story is about my recent trip to Belfast as well as about how and why this little brown chick fell in love with Northern Ireland; the second is about snogging; and the third is about my very first, face-to-face blogger meeting! In the end, I’ve decided to let you guys choose:

(A) When I see the murals of the men wearing black hoods over their faces and pointing AK47s directly at me, I instantly know that Belfast is a different kind of place …

(B) To snog or not to snog? That was the question and I, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), chose not to snog …

(C) I feel myself grow nervous as I take the first steps toward the friendly-looking woman sitting on the bench. I know she is the right person when she cracks a very sweet smile and asks: “Are you Stolie?”

Okay, folks. Storytime. A, B, or C? Tell me which story you’d like to hear by leaving your vote in the comments section …