Sometimes I wish I could be the rail thin girl who can sit Indian Style at my peg legged dining table and drink Tennessee whiskey from a vintage Collins glass in my Cuban inspired kitchen. Listen to Serge Gainsbourg, smoke cigarettes and write the next “Reservoir Dogs”, then drive over to Culver City in my shiny Benz and hi-five my Rabbi on Shabbas. Wait, that is me. Except, substitute Moët in whiskey’s place and this column for “Reservoir Dogs”. Oh and I’m curvy. Diary of a curvy girl, read on…

“Such a sweetheart, I love your restaurant persona charismatic warm with just enough subtlety, don’t take this the wrong way (on two levels) but you have an amazing fascade.”

Okay, now wipe that perplexed look off your face. I got the preceding text message the other night from this total babe that I sat across from at my brother’s friend’s birthday dinner… WTF? Really? I later learned he’s married with 2 babies.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way on two levels” Is that one level for each child that you have with your wife who’s probably at home breast-feeding your newborn? Not only that but he can’t spell façade. What do all those words even mean together? It’s like a Long Island Iced tea of adjectives…and no, he wasn’t wearing Ed Hardy…but I think I may ask Ed to put him on my Chanukah list right behind Tiger Woods and Jesse James.

All I ask for is a really funny guy…but all the funny guys I know are gay. They are witty, sarcastic, they tell me everything I want to hear, cook well garnished meals, with mood lighting, watch Nicholas Sparks movies with me (no matter how bad they can get) on their Pottery Barn couches and they make me laugh so hard I may burn enough calories to be that rail thin girl I spoke of before.

Some nosh for thought to all you perpetually single guys out there—cheating is gross and if you’re going to send some sort of profound text: 1) Make sure you do a spell check, 2) Just call, or even better, 3) look in your vanity mirror (you know, the one you used to take shirtless pictures of yourself in so you could post them on your MySpace/Facebook profile) and say all those words out loud so you can hear how ridiculous you sound.

And to the women…don’t make it so easy for them! Their mothers should have done all the hard work so that we would get to reap the benefits. Let them rifle through the aisles of Barnes & Noble for self-help books because they don’t know how to open a door for a woman and wonder why you never returned the call. As my rabbi said, don’t fall in love, you could hurt yourself…you should walk into love, or do what I do and prance (maybe a little too slowly).

Isn’t that sweet?

I could write a book on text messages alone. Between all my strange suitors: I get them from Dr. Strangelove, who lives down the hall in my apartment building and is always dressed like he’s either en route to a 70’s prom or like he’s the captain of the love boat, depending on the day. Then this married guy with 2 kids and 27 adjectives...and then you’ve got these guys I meet at Teddy’s. Guys that are “with the band” and say they want to “hang out” but “you need to contact me, I won’t call you”…to me that says you’ve got low self worth and you’re using your friends to get laid and how is that working for you?

You make me about as uncomfortable as watching Kate Gossilen doing the Foxtrot on Dancing with the Stars.

The truth is, I don’t really care who you know…eventually you’ll start texting me anyway and I’m trying to remember what you look like, or whether or not you engaged me; I’m sure you didn’t make me laugh or call me to make sure I got home alright.

I would remember something like that...

Fashion designer, Carolina Herrera was on ‘The View’ the other day (my 10 a.m. guilty pleasure alongside a hot mug of Guayaki mate), she was offering career/life advice as well as showing her latest collection; she said to do the whole family thing first and career second. But she also came from Latin American aristocracy and got to raise her kids, among the jet-set, in a 65-room family estate in Venezuela built in 1590, thought to be the oldest continually inhabited house in the Western Hemisphere.

That’s f’’in romantic! I would do family first too, if I grew up there…I’d saunter in the secret garden, pull a Miley Cyrus and meet a hot, funny boy with his shirt open, who happens to live down the boardwalk and volunteers at the local aquarium then helps me rescue sea turtles to the left of my dock, we’d take day trips to San Lucia where we would frolic, then drink low-carb Mai Tai’s...and I’d get knocked up to the tune of ‘Nights in White Satin’ in the Ritz Carlton, Honeymoon Suite.

Of course it’s easy to say “family first, then career” when you’ve got those things. I’m just a girl from the San Fernando Valley who grew up in s#!t brown-carpeted apartments and a townhouse and sold sweet corn out of the back of a pick-up truck in Washington State every summer with my flour salesman father. I ate two bagels everyday of my life until I learned about carbs, and when puberty struck my hips were Shakira’s arch-nemesis… then I switched to Splenda and all of my wildest dreams came true.

I don’t mean do downplay my upbringing—it had its magical moments. And although I’m no Hererra, I can still eat Prosciutto in my Cuban-esque kitchen, drink champagne and make fun of boys who don’t know the meaning of chivalry. I’m on my way to building my own empire...and when it’s complete, then I can go to South America, buy my own damn hut overlooking the Caribbean and meet Don Juan…with no cell phone reception. Ahhhhhhhh!

And if Don Juan doesn’t work out, I’ll just fly all my gay friends over and make sure they stop at the grocery store on the way for some garnish.