The Hot Friend

“Is she the hot friend?” The what? “My theory is that women become friends with girls that are either super hot to increase their access to good drinks and hot guys or they choose a less attractive friend to make them always the hot girl. So, this girl you want to introduce me to, is she the hot friend?” This question was posed by a co-worker I was trying to set up. How can I answer that? The question anticipates that I know if I am in fact, the hot friend or the less attractive friend. Talk about the pandora’s box.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Right. Right? Right?!? Well in some ways – yes. But there are societal norms that tell us, nay, confirm to us, whether we or our friends are in fact, attractive. Weight, skin tone, whether we really don’t want to take a picture next to our buddy because it would take three of her power-aerobics teaching vegan-eating self to make up our mass – those things all seem to answer the basic question of whether we are in fact, worth the time of a man to pursue.

Hot by Comparison: One theory suggests that women choose friends or other single women to go out with in order to be “hot by comparison.” So if you’ve got bad hair and a small chest, you hang out with girls with no hair and saggy massive tits the size of a small metropolitan area to make you look hot by comparison. A variation of this is moving from a big city to a small town to get at the remaining men. Sure, there are few single guys to choose from, but their current choices are girls they turned down in junior high or their friends’ newly divorced mothers, and you, by comparison, are hot for Billings, Montana. You go girl.

If you’re the less attractive one: Look, practically every woman has her “frenemy.” The girl who you love for who she is, but who puts you in shadow every time she’s around by her beauty. She may be tall and modelesque, while you’re only tall enough for the tilt-a-whirl because of your three-inch-heels. She may have published two books on tantric sex and have posed in the classy suggestive pictures to show exactly how to bring couples to blissful ecstasy. Or maybe your prom date fell in deep, unrequited love with her and you just can’t let it go – yes still. It doesn’t matter- she makes you feel bad about yourself- and worse yet- you KNOW it’s NOT her fault- it’s yours for being jealous of her beauty when all she ever did was love you and tell you you’re great.

Ultimately, I think all these theories are wrong. Most women choose friends on the basis of common interests, shared experiences and a deep need to make sure no one ever knows about weekend freshman year in Tijuana. Friends worth having are ones who make you feel beautiful for who you are, not how you look. It’s our challenge to find our beauty in ourselves, despite the conversation that begins, “My jeans got wet!” and finishes with, “I’ll buy new ones,” with the subtext being, yours, eight sizes larger than mine, wouldn’t stay up on my skinny little hips. But that’s not her fault. It’s mine for not believing that love can find us both- straight or curly hair, ten or twenty pounds different, size 0 or 10, and always, when the time is right.

Statistically Speaking: Dating Divorced

“It’s so great you’re in your thirties now! You can get the guys fresh off their divorce from their first wife who are now ready for the right girl!” I stared at my mother incredulously. Really? You want me to date a divorcee? It’s a good idea? Or is it? Let’s look at the science shall we?

Pro: Divorced Men Marry at a Higher Rate than Single Guys: Men who’ve enjoyed the comforts of regularly available orgasms, sandwich ingredients in the kitchen at midnight, and a date who’ll smile at the boss at the office Christmas party are more likely to drag themselves back up to the alter than a guy who has never taken the plunge. Perhaps having gone through the singles scene at least twice taught them to love a rented tuxedo, bad shrimp cocktail and the chicken dance?

Con: Divorced Men are also More Likely to Divorce Again: Men who’ve been divorced once are significantly more likely to divorce again, as second marriages fail at a higher rate than first. Let’s face it, with a 50/50 likelihood of success the first time, and 1/3 less chance the second, that's a bet most gamblers wouldn’t touch six tequilas in at a Vegas casino. So I’m more likely to get married to a guy who has been divorced, but more likely to be divorced by him too – that or I'll divorce him myself while his ex wife screams from a mountain top that she tried to warn me but I wouldn’t listen because he told me “that bitch be crazy” and I believed him.

Pro: Self-Reflective Divorced Guys May Have Learned Their Lesson: My close friend refuses to date men who haven’t had long-term girlfriends. “Too much training” she says. A divorced guy who paid attention may now know he really does have to remember his wife’s birthday, be patient while she tries on dresses at Bloomingdale’s, and has stopped going out with the guys to strip clubs. But watch out- get them too soon out of the marriage cage and he’s likely to be a man on a mission t re-live his frat house days complete with keg stands and getting your number just to see if he can.

Con: Someone Else Found him Impossible: Oh sure he may have left her, except statistically speaking, women divorce men at a rate twice to three times more often than men divorce women. Did the man simply drive her to the edge to make her file so he could still be the “good guy” in his own mind? Did he have three girls on the side and a coke habit? Or was he simply unable to partner in a meaningful way?

Divorced guys scare me- I’m afraid to be next. But ultimately, if it’s the right guy, it’s the right guy. Statistically, if a man reaches 38 without having been married, he is unlikely to marry. So really, my best tactic is to snag an up-to-37-year-old who hasn’t married or a 38 plus who has been divorced. I like to gamble, but as a matter of course, I always bet with the house.

Review: Why Men Love Bitches

Welcome to the first installment of M. Bridget’s Book Club Book Review. I was given “Why Men Love Bitches” by a girlfriend six years ago. The subtitle of the book is, “From Doormat to Dream girl.” “But I’m not a doormat!” I protested. She looked at her shoes for a long, uncomfortable minute, then said, “just read it.” After my most recent breakup, my extremely high-powered female boss took me aside and said, “You need to read Why Men Love Bitches. It changed my life!” Apparently I am seen as a doormat. I can’t decide if it’s awesome or awful that I need to be a bigger bitch to find a man.

The basic premise: Author Sherry Argov believes that the “nice girls” in the world are doormats- constantly fighting for the time, affection, and commitment of a man, which invites mistreatment. She implores women to be a BITCH- the headstrong, self-assured, if you don’t like it someone else will kinda girl that doesn’t take sh*t from anyone. She uses bitch as a term of endearment, as opposed to say, the way you’d describe the crazies on Jersey Shore. You are, from now until your dying day, to be a “mental challenge” for a man- the kind of girl they can never quite figure out.

When he starts to treat you badly, ignore him back, go out with your friends, and don’t chase. He’ll come back begging. Um, unless, as I’ve experienced, he doesn’t and that’s the end of the relationship. But Argov says it was my fault- I wasn’t bitchy enough in my ignoring.

The best advice: Argov says you should give out your sexual favors from your "candy store" like juju bees- one at a time and slowly. A man must earn your sexuality – with time, attention, dinners out and commitment. She also advocates keeping your job and having your own money so you don’t need him to support you – although he’s welcome to spoil you all he wants.

The most questionable advice: “Humility? Don’t worry. It’s a treatable affliction, a mental glitch. If you catch yourself being modest or humble or any of that nonsense, correct the problem immediately.” That seems like it could lead to bar fights, law suits and a popular Youtube video you don’t want your parents to see.

My favorite quote: Argov describes a man going on a hunting trip. He kills a moose, drags the thing home, taxidermies it and puts it on his wall with pride. “If you were to drop a dead moose on his doorstep, he’d want nothing to do with it. It could be the very same moose he had hunted, and yet it could have a totally different effect on him. This is how the pursuit affects his interest in a woman. When a woman chases a man, it has the same effect as if she were to deliver a dead moose to his front door.” Ouch. I think I’ve delivered my fair share of dead moose over time. Must clean that pattern up.

Is it worth reading? Yes- particularly if you’re stuck in “nice girl” syndromes like calling all the time, making elaborate meals, nagging, and begging him to see you more. I have trouble being the bitch Argov would want me to be, but I have promised myself not to deliver any more dead animals to the doorsteps of the guys I like. Instead, I’ll deliver a live female dog. That’s, according to Argov, the animal that love is made of.

Little Encouragements

“Heeellloo beautiful. Oh I love you. You make my day. Even more beautiful than usual.” Sometimes it’s, “Oh my love! Hello todd-aay.” Sometimes, “Where you being mama? I misses you.” I hand him my keys every weekday morning. He gives me a valet card and holds my hand til I pull it away. He’s in his 50s, short, stout, beer-bellied, grey-haired, doesn’t speak English well, and has the nicest twinkle in his eyes.

Paco who owns the taco stand near my work- hairy, tall, thin, and barely able to do basic math to give me change – sometimes gives me a free Diet Coke because “he likes to sees me.”

I know they aren’t asking me out; we both know that. Perhaps they likes the way it makes me smile when they’re so nice. It doesn’t matter- the boost is like a quickly downed vodka-Redbull- it immediately lifts my mood and gives me energy to start the day.

Are they monogamous in his affection for me? Oh I doubt it. I’m probably the fifteenth tight-skirted, high-heeled, long-haired woman the parking man told he loves this morning. Paco the Taco guy probably gives free chips and guacamole to girls who cleave out of their shirts and give free lacy-bra glimpses while bending over to get jalapenos from the salsa bar. Paco and the parking guy can be polyamorous all day long. Unlike real love, I don’t need monogamy from those who fill my ego as part of their jobs.

In some ways the PC-requirements of being a modern-day urbanite have diminished major sources of little encouragements. OK it also diminished sexual harassment and work discrimination claims, but I digress. Having a bunch of sweltering, tight-shirted, big muscled construction workers pushing on jackhammers while hollering at me that I’m hot – at least in theory- sounds really nice. Six years ago, when I was in Italy, men shouted at me, “Bella! Bella Donna! Marry me!” Should have taken one up on it at the time!

I hold these little encouragements close to my heart, particularly when, like last week, I’d sent questions to 20 soul-mates on eharmony and only one responded. Actually, no one I sent questions to responded. Instead, Michael from Chatsworth sent me questions. I’d deleted him because his singular pictures was his corpulent self on a lazy chair, legs spread, with his package on nearly full display in tight white jeans. “This is what I’m doomed to!” I think to myself.

But my parking man thinks differently. Paco, who sometimes throws in extra cheese, doesn’t agree. He thinks I’m a goddess. And damnit, they MUST be right.

Trying Too Hard

Being so lovesick you don’t mind three hour meetings at work. Getting sexy texts and giggling so much your friends ask why you’re blushing. Knowing there’s a reason to take your damn birth control pills (thank you, Yaz! for reminding me every night that I’m not getting any, AGAIN). These are some of the delights of being in a relationship. Everyone wants to get there, but you just can’t skip the steps between “meeting” and “girlfriend.”

I met Overtry at a speed-dating event cleverly disguised as a “wine bar meet-and-greet for fabulous singles!” In the three minutes we chatted before the dating umpire shrieked the whistle, I liked him. Funny. Sweet. A little-dorky in that slightly endearing way. My girlfriend’s impression was, “Yeah, he was nice, but I think he’s super needy.” I gave him my card anyway.

The phone rang the next morning. “I know I’m supposed to wait three days, but I hate playing games.” Awesome! Me too, unless it’s at a casino and someone in a shiny leotard uniform is bringing me free cocktails. There’d be a happy hour date 48 hours later. I was already picking out my shoes.

He called again on 24 hours later “just to check in” and “to be sure we’re still on.” The day of our date he sent an email. “I love to kiss in the rain. At stoplights, I hold hands, gaze into the eyes of the woman I love and just wait.” Ummmm. Those things might be romantic to find out say, a month from now– but as a person who has known you four minutes in person, that’s waaaayyyy TMI. He called four minutes before our date was to start, on time, to tell me he was pulling into the parking lot and couldn’t wait to see me.

The happy hour was fine. He asked if he could see me again and I said maybe. The next day, he sent me six texts, including one complaining about the traffic and informing me he wasn’t going all the way to Santa Barbara because the 101 was a nightmare. He called twice on Thanksgiving (the day after). I chose to be Thankful for the ability to block his number on my phone.

I’m sure Overtry is a nice guy, but you just can’t skip the getting-to-know you part. Had he sent one less email, ten less texts and acted 70% more sure of himself, he may have given me a reason to go to my drug store for flavored, colored and/or glow-in-the-dark prophylactics. Besides, it actually makes you feel less special when someone who doesn’t know you at all tries way too hard to say you’re their princess in the tower.

I can hear the complaints now, “But you want us to show you we like you!,” “But you told us not to play games!” True. True. But there’s a difference between calling to set a second date and getting the boom box out to play “Every Step You Take,” the stalker’s national anthem, to someone you’ve known less than 48 hours. Maybe be a bit more, “It’s just a little crush,” than “Oh can’t you see, you belong to me,” you know?

Online Dating Pictures

Please upload photo. It's a simple instruction, but when unheeded or done badly, it can have unintended consequences.

Pictures are essential in online dating. There's no way around it. I entirely skip profiles that say "Request my Picture" - I'm sorry, why do I have to? Have you been trapped in the cellar of the Paris Opera House, face covered in scars? And if so, really, post a picture anyway - it'll give us something to talk about and I might feel sorry enough to write you back.

"I'm the 4th guy from the left in the third row." What? Where? Under the fedora? With the trench coat on? I can't see a shirt- wait- are you naked under there? And where's your hand anyway? I hate these guys- the ones that post four pictures, all of which need instructions so the viewer can connect the dots that "the one in black" is the same guy as "the one near the rock" in the photo of his fraternity dodge-ball team. The worst is when the first picture has two guys in it, and by picture four, it's clear the one with six teeth and a wife-beater on is the one who wrote you. Is it rude to write back, "thanks, but I'm taken, unless of course, your friend wants my number..."

Unintelligent T-Shirt Choices: I avoided responding to a cute guy who posted a picture of himself with his cat. The problem? His shirt said, "Hedonism II" on it. You're advertising yourself as someone whose been to a Jamaican swingers resort? Maybe the cat is in the picture so you can advertise how much, um, kitty you got while naked on the island? Click. Next! Or the guy with a t-shirt showing a girl on a stripper pole, above which was written, "Support Single Moms." Yikes. You stay classy, San Diego.

That's my Sister: Uh huh. The chick your arms are draped around sitting on your lap? The one in a micro-mini skirt you're dipping at a wedding? The one giving you what appears to be a lap dance? Your sister. Sure. Or your cousin. Don't even bother writing, "My best friend Angela" because I've already imagined you explaining to me how you've known each other ten years and only slept together those couple of times in the beginning and made out once last year when you were both in Cancun. But you're just friends now. Best friends. And she'll love me, you swear. Riiiiiggghhhhttt.

Just get one good picture. A smile and a clear view of your eyes is all I need. And go with a white t-shirt or button down. You don't want your "Priests rub me the right way" t-shirt ruining your chances.

An Experiment

Dr. Phil was giving love advice again. I know I should stop myself, but like a semi-truck stuck across all lanes dropping 1,000 pounds of baby carrots onto the 405, I just couldn’t look away. Now don’t blame me too much- it was Friday night, I was home, with my dogs, and a bottle of wine, and well, Dr. Phil giving me dating advice.

The woman on the show was 30. She said men were intimidated by her career. She owned a modeling agency. I figure her dates just want to meet her models, but that’s beside the point. Then Millionaire Matchmaker came out to give her advice- OMG- truly, it’s like the G8 conference of dating experts! She tells the woman to say, “I work in the modeling business.” “Don’t lead with money or your job – that’s intimidating and masculine. Be feminine and lead with what you need from a man.” Neediness as a turn-on? I’m set! But then Dr. Phil says, “If what you’re doing isn’t working for you, then change it.”

Oh God. My screen name on OKCupid has my job in it. My scary job. I go to change it. I am determined to scrub away every vestige showing I’m a smart girl who owns real estate and has a fully funded 401(k). I change my screen name to something totally unintimidating- something akin to happyLAgirl. (I really will create a high_income_big_tits profile soon, but that’s a whole different experiment).

I took my income range off – must not intimidate! I took off my education- entirely. This may be a problem since I search men by their education. I figure if they haven’t been through college, they probably won’t relate to me and my world very well. But I could be wrong- we’ll find out now won’t we? I leave my job as “legal field” and change “what I’m doing with my life” to “living it to the fullest every day.” That sounds like I start with Yoga, work for four or five hours, get two coffees and then play beach volleyball. Awesome.

I also change my body type from “average” – and I promise you “average” in LA is good – to “fit.” It’s almost true. I’m relatively fit, particularly compared to the national average. And I figure “average,” despite my completely truthful pictures, in most guys worlds means “fat.”

So we’ll see. Does being “in the legal field” with no education or income listed change my fate? Is it actively disingenuous or is it more, as Dr. Phil and the Millionaire Matchmaker would say, leading with my femininity?

I’m torn. Part of me listed my job and income range on purpose- a bit of a preemptive, “look, if you can’t handle it or don’t like it or don’t want a woman with a career or good salary, please go elsewhere and don’t waste my time making me feel bad for working hard.” But maybe they’re right. Maybe just showing who I am- the dog-loving, volunteering, world-traveling nice girl will be a better sell. Maybe they’ll be more apt to give me a chance. But then when the inevitable first-date question, “so tell me about your job” emerges, then what? Do they feel mislead? Betrayed? Excited to rob me?

We’ll see. And I promise, I will let you know.

The Male Biological Clock

I came across a profile yesterday where under the section, “What are you looking for in a partner?” the answer was, “Well, I’m about to turn 40, so I need one soon!” That was it. No requirement of physical attractiveness, kindness, or felatio skills – just female and willing to be with him. Which given his pictures, may actually be aiming high for this poor fellow. But it made me think.

Women are taunted with biological clock references from the time we are children. The game “Old Maid” was so much fun at the time- pair up all the attractive youthful people cards and the person stuck with the Old Maid- a grandmother-looking haggard woman with sagging skin, white-grey hair, and an unused uterus – was the loser of the game. We giddily played the game without concern for the social lessons it was subtly enshrining in our subconscious.

Men are seemingly impervious to this social pressure. But I’m beginning to think that’s untrue. When I was 21, I visited Europe and picked up Glamour UK. I remember an article written by a 38-year-old gent saying he had become self-conscious about being the only single guy at weddings (!), the only one of his friends without children, and the only person without a date for parties. He’d crossed over that chasm from “it’s cool to be single” to “that’s Bob, he’s kinda creepy- never been married” or “God isn’t it sad about Bob- can’t find a bird.” (Bird = girl in Britain)

A 35-year-old friend of mine said his (married) best girlfriend repeatedly told him, “once a guy hits 35, if he’s not married, he’s damaged goods.” OUCH. I don’t agree with her, but in some ways it’s nice to know that the other side of the aisle feels the pressure too.

What about the over 40s? Unless he’s George Clooney, he’s likely to start to be the neighbor your Mom tells the kids not to talk to because, well, he may be “weird.” And let’s face it, men over 40 in a bar or club just look pathetic. Trying to recover one’s lost youth while wearing a tucked-in red button down and loafers, asking if he can friend you on that web site, er, Facebook? Not attractive.

And if he wants kids? Lots of men do. True they can have kids at 70 but they won’t be able to bend over to pick them up. In most countries, single men (and sometimes single women) can’t adopt children by themselves, and despite that one guy who was pregnant on Oprah, men can’t go to egg banks and take one home to inseminate.

Amazingly, at some point, they actually may need us. Or even more amazingly, want us in their lives in a long-term capacity. It’s either that or be the “damaged goods” strange Uncle that no one hugs at Christmas, and frankly, I’d put myself on eharmony too if I were facing that.

The Bouquet Toss

“Your presence is requested at the nuptials of Smiley and Happykins, June 10, 2011.” Oh f*ck. Another wedding invitation. And another chance to catch the bouquet.

The Bouquet: “All the single ladies come out for the bouquet toss!” Sure- that’d be fun! I love being paraded along like a hump-backed freak through the streets while people shield their eyes from me, afraid that singleness might be contagious.

The worst part is that most of the “single” girls are now in their teens or early twenties. I stand there, a cautionary tale to them to never eat carbs or go graduate school, lest they end up the girl in the slightly too-tight cocktail gown swerving as she attempts to obtain the bouquet, as if, when caught, the flowers would morph into Ryan Reynolds down on one knee, professing his eternal and undying love, saying Scarlett Johansson was a bitter hag compared to me. Ah if only.

Me and the Ten Year Old: Three years ago I was at a wedding in rural Oklahoma where at puberty you’d better find a man ‘cause everyone’s married off by 21. I was 29, and when the bouquet toss was to occur, a ten year old girl and I were the only ones standing on the floor. I caught the bouquet (took some shoving! Ten year olds are fast!), and my boyfriend at the time caught the garter. He’s getting married in June. I suppose the bouquet legend could still be right. The ten year old won’t be legal to marry ‘til she’s 18, so I’ve still got at least five more years before the bouquet’s prediction could be deemed inaccurate.

Define “single”: No no no!!! Get off the floor!!!! (note to self- less vodka cran at emotional events) A year ago I found myself sweating and clenching my fists – two girls who HAD ENGAGEMENT RINGS went onto the floor for the toss. Look- YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED NEXT. I see the ring, I feel the light shards it produces as you dance ripping tiny holes into the very fiber of my being. I see you and your fiancé mouthing the words to “You’re the Inspiration” as you sway chest to chest while I refill my Cosmo and try to pretend I didn’t want to dance to my favorite love-song since the second grade. This is my moment. This is when fate sends thirty gardenias attached with chicken wire into my hands to quietly promise, “Miranda! Some day it will be your turn!” YOU’RE RUINING IT. Bitch I’m gonna hurt you!!!!

Dance it Out: At another friend’s wedding, instead of throwing the bouquet, she played the Beyonce “All the Single Ladies” song and had a dance-off for the bouquet. Whew! Finally a competition I could win. I wiggled and jiggled and shook my ass. I sung along. I did the worm. But I still wasn’t chosen. I came in second. Again. Kinda like life.

I’ve caught the bouquet three times in the past five years. I’m hoping it’s a sign.

Why are you still single?

One of my readers sent me the question, “Why do you think you’re still single?” In the movie Bridget Jones’ Diary, Bridget responds to a similar question with, “Oh I don’t know, I suppose it doesn’t help that underneath [my] clothes [my] entire body is covered in scales.” But really, why am I still single?

Because Men in Los Angeles Think They Deserve Models: The Millionaire Matchmaker posited in her book that even though there are more single men than single women in Los Angeles, and therefore, it is a statistically advantageous place to date, it’s actually self-esteem Death Valley, because there are so many Heidi-Klum circa 1999 women around here to compete with. It appears that every man who is a four or five in Los Angeles thinks he should have a nine or ten woman, and what’s worse, he probably has a friend who is a six dating a ten, which gives him HOPE to hold out for that rare Victoria’s Secret model that will appreciate his Star Wars collection and love of Carl’s Jr. Six Dollar Burgers.

Because my Job and/or Income is Intimidating: My mother once chided me not to be “too good” at sports because it would intimidate my high-school boyfriend. Luckily, I still serve under-handed and rarely in-bounds at friend’s beach or pool volleyball games and can’t hit a racquetball to save my life. However, I can’t hide that I’m good at my job, not once someone Googles where I work, and the immediate response to, “I’m a lawyer” can be found here.

Because God Hates Me: I occasionally tear into a Bruce-Almighty like-rant, cursing fate and destiny for conspiring to leave me with a head-stone reading, “Tragic Spinster, No Name Required because why would anyone care? 1978- 2065.”

Because I spent a long time in successful but-not-quite relationships: I dated one guy from college to my mid-twenties (five years) and another for four. My last relationship was a year and a half. I’m a long-term dater, and I suppose, if I’d left those relationships earlier, I’d have dated more? Kissed more frogs? Had more walks of shame out of fraternity houses in cocktail attire while carrying my five-inch heels and clutching my stomach after drinking all that Jagermeister?

Because I just Haven’t Met Him Yet: Yes. Maybe he and I have to go through ten life-changing experiences before we meet each other and can appreciate it. Maybe he needs to have his eyes deteriorate just a bit more to see me in a fuzzy blur so I look prettier? Maybe I need to break down and get that mail-order husband from the web site promising great-looking South American men who need a Visa? Maybe we both just bought concert tickets for next month’s New Kids on the Block reunion tour and fate has set our date? Wait, I want a straight guy… you know what I mean.

The fact is, I do believe in fate and destiny. Why am I single at 32? Because I’m supposed to be – at least that’s what I keep telling myself. That and the fish-like scaling and tattoo reading, “Terminally Single!” on my abdomen.

What I learned from Glamour this month

How do I love thee Glamour! The cellophane glistens whilst wrapping around the most amazing promises- “Your fastest way to lose weight!,” “10 Totally Gorgeous New Hairstyles,” and “1000 Men Confess! Naughty Answers to your Most Private Questions Ever.”

Wow. 1000 men confessing? What did they do, send the Glamour police to every Catholic Church in Manhattan? Even if they did that, they’d probably only find 10 men confessing under the age of 50. Which begs the question- really- where did they find the guys to answer this survey?

Look, I’m no academic researcher, but it can’t be easy to find 1000 guys to answer questions as personal as “Have you ever paid for sex?” (89% no, 11% yes—my answer would be “you’re damn right I paid for it! I paid for it for months after it happened- the crying, the anger, the self-doubt…) to “Would you ever be a Manny?” (for those of you unfamiliar with Britney Spears, a “manny” is a male nanny- 73% no, 27% yes)

But really, how truthful are these alleged “men?” Some questions are supposed to be answered the right way – “Would you consider voting for a female president?” (71% yes) and “Have you ever cheated?” (66% no). Really? 66% no? So my closest friends and I have ALL accidentally tripped across the minority 34% of guys out there that have cheated? I suppose it makes mathematical sense. Over the course of a month, if Cheaterboy has one girlfriend and let’s say three girls on the side, then at the end of the year, at least 37 women have been tooted and booted, while faithful Phil who remembers your birthday and says he likes your Mom is only at one.

This month’s Glamour has guest commentary from The Situation. What a great idea! Dos and Don’ts for dating the man with no soul, just great abs. If I take the Situation’s tips, I might end up with a supremely drunk Italian fighting blacking out as he drags me from the club at 3:00 a.m. for forty-five seconds of sex. That is not a Situation I want to be in.

But at the end of the day, Glamour left me with two useful tips: Ashton Kutcher said, “I think guys want to be with someone who believes in them more than they believe in themselves.” And Matt Damon, who I’m still mad at for not marrying me, despite the little detail that we’ve never met, said, “I guarantee you that any man worth his salt wants a woman who is smart and strong and secure in who she is.” Now that’s the Situation I DO want to be in.

I have to spend an hour with you now right?

The moment of anticipation is so sweet. There I am, dressed in my I’m-not-cheap-or-easy-but-I’m-sexy outfit, toes cramped into fabulous metallic pumps, perfume wafting, eyes darting side to side. My heart panics whenever someone opens the door to the trendy-but-not-overly-so wine bar I’m in. I’m ready. This could be it. This may be the last moment in my whole life that I say, “I’m single.” This could be the beginning of the story I tell my children about how their Dad and I fell in love over a bottle of oaky yet buttery chardonnay with hints of fresh cut grass and melon notes. This may be the moment my life as a Mrs. begins and my life of “I’ll pay the damn single supplement, stop asking” ends.

Oh my gosh! There he is. Wait. What? I mean, he looks something like his picture. Kinda. I recognize the hair, but instead of wearing the tux he was wearing in the picture at his best friend’s wedding, he’s in, God, is that flannel? With track pants? And mandals? This. is. not. good. Maybe he’ll walk by? Maybe that’s not him? Maybe I can pretend to not be me???

I hate that moment. I realize all the hoping and wishing and dreaming and planning is going to amount to an hour spent over a single beverage making small talk and wishing he would go away so I can start over in front of the keyboard, writing another anonymous email that begins with, “I liked your profile.”

On Sex and the City, Stanford was once left standing on a corner by a man with whom he’d exchanged emails who came up and immediately said, “I’m sorry, this just isn’t gonna happen.” Oh to have that cruel a heart! Or that honest a tongue! Instead, I end up saying, “I just ate” when asked by the waiter if I want food – no, no, no – food will prolong this trumped up waste of cocktails.

I’m not sure what’s worse- the hour of my life I’ll never get back, the small talk revolving around how he likes to be the Top Hat when playing Monopoly, or the disappointment suffered from dreams once again deferred. Now, it may be my fault that I’ve already figured out how this guy I’ve never met in person and I can make sure our inter-faith wedding doesn’t bother anyone by reminding them that Christ was originally a Jew, and isn’t the Hora the best wedding dance anyway? Who doesn’t love latkes and Hanukah candy? No, it’s the reinforcement that it isn’t happening. At least not now.

Back to the drawing board again. There are after all, plenty of fish in the sea. And I’ve got some damn fine bait.

Sympathy for Men

The following is (I swear to God) part of an email I got this morning:

"i bet when you enter the court room opposing male consule smereks,and thinks i got this one, that is until you speak,your sneaky,arent you and i think that you are a litagation lawer."

My first thought was, "I've got to get off that prison dating site." I'm kidding- my first thought was "is this guy mentally retarded?" followed by, "Maybe English is his second language?" and then, "It must be hard to be him." Yesterday my friend said it must be sooo much easier to be a guy than a girl dating in Los Angeles. People who write blogs called "Bitches Be Crazy" talk about scoring tons of chicks and using us as interchangeable penis warmers. But I'm not sure it's that easy being a guy.

HEIGHT: We all are supposed to want a man who is TALL, dark and handsome. Handsome can be helped with good hair and clothes, anyone can spray tan, but height just can't be changed. I've got one friend who won't date under six feet tall. She's only 5'3. Under 5'7 won't work for me- I'm 5'4 and live in minimum three inch heels. Blame Cosmo- in the seventh grade I read that heels make your legs look longer and therefore you look sexier and thinner. I'd never wear flats again. Dating someone shorter than me makes me feel bigger, and therefore less feminine. I feel for the guys who list 5'5 as his height, since he’s probably lying and is actually 5'3 in life.

HAIR (OR LACK THEREOF): Infomercials show men spray painting their bald spots with black paint and powder that will cling to their limp and dying follicles to make them appear to have hair. Some sign up to have patches of hair and skin forcibly removed from one part of their head and implanted into back into their scalp near their face to "grow your own hair!!!" Ouch. Nothing ages a man faster than balding, except perhaps graying and balding. And let's face it, women get their hair colored from the time they're in high school, but it takes a lot for a guy to summon the courage to pick up "Just for Men" hair color restorer, and then to pull out $20 bucks to buy it from the 17-year-old blonde princess smirking at him from behind the counter at Rite Aid Pharmacy.

JOB: Much of society, consciously or not, expects the man to make a living. I, as high-income, big-tits, just don't care if a guy makes a lot of money. If a girl wants to be a stay at home Mom though, this is critical for her. I get that - but I also get the pressure it must put on any guy who still lives with four roommates and has a foosball table where the couch should be. Then again, maybe that pressure is good for him!

So maybe it’s not that easy for the opposite sex. Or maybe it is. It makes me feel better to remember that they have their problems too. Unless of course they are tall, dark, handsome, have all their hair and a medical degree. Maybe I should consider writing back Mr. Can't-Spell -- nah- despite the fact that he had very cute pictures, I think I'll hold out for someone who knows better than to call me a "lawer."

So what do you do?

"So what do you do?" Don't answer that! It's a trick question! You're setting yourself up for immediate judgment about your entire life. Whatever you choose to do eight to twelve hours per day in exchange for money has immediate ramifications on your single self. I profess I have these pre-conceived notions of how the people with certain jobs are. It's not fair. It's not right. It's being done to me all the time. And yet I just can't stop.

The Cheaters: Police officers, surgeons, CEOs, talent agents, actors, directors, any musician or any man holding a guitar in a picture on anything other than his couch, airline pilots, athletes, construction workers, personal trainers, prostitutes and pimps.

If you’re in these professions, I imagine myself calling you for the eighth time after midnight when you went to have drinks with "your friend" Sheila at seven. Your phone ran out of batteries. She was sad 'cause her cat Fluffy died and you were comforting her with your thighs. You have no idea how the condom got in the backseat – aliens? Close Match...next...

The Egoists: Lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs, police officers, politicians.

So here it comes back on me. I fear men read my career (attorney) and think (1) she never leaves work, and would be a crazy cat lady, except the cats died from neglect, (2) she's an ambulance-chasing shark who aspires to have commercials for "Miranda 'the Hammer'" with accident victims claiming, "Miranda got me 2.1 million!" or (3) I'm an argumentative, belittling, testicle-strangling, stiletto-wearing ice queen. OK, I do wear stilettos, but the rest is off. Which of course means I never judge people who have egoist professions, right? Right?

The Hopeless Social Outcasts: Engineers, computer programmers, software developers, gamers and people who create video games, and let's face it, anyone who lists "World of Warcraft" under hobbies, physicists, scientists, lab technicians.

I imagine myself asking if we can get a little crazy tonight and he suggests spicy food or perhaps a Rated R movie. Not. Hot.

You're Always Gonna Live Off Me: Yoga instructors, novelists, anyone in fast food after the age of 22, food service generally, retail sales, poets, and anyone with a "slash" in the title (e.g. actor/writer).

I came across someone yesterday who listed himself as Librarian/DJ. Really?? So you're a hopeless social outcast and cheater? Well done! I may need to meet you just to enjoy the contradictions!

Ultimately none of this labeling is useful, and if you met the person in real life, the early judgments may be desperately inaccurate. But that's what we get in online life- quick judgments. I'm gonna go search out a nice veterinarian or real estate agent. I can get into that - unless they have a picture of themselves rocking out on a stage in Aquarius!, the slam-punk band they play in on weekends. I prefer to be the only groupie in my man's life.

Multiple Choice Questions

For the unfamiliar (lucky, lucky you!), eharmony starts its "guided communication" with a series of multiple-choice questions you can send to the lucky soul mate that Dr. Neil Warren Clark, founder of eharmony, has personally chosen for you using 29 magical dimensions of compatibility. You send the questions off, hoping for a response from the potential-love-of-your-life in pixels. Answering some of these questions is a problem.

Question 1: "How do you feel about premarital sex?" Wow - I don't even know your real name yet or whether that picture you posted in the Color Me Bad t-shirt was actually from now or from 1995 when you still had hair. I'm guessing this question came to me because I have a religion listed in my profile. But maybe not- maybe this charmer is screening potential women to be sure he spends no more than 30-seconds of his precious online life with someone unwilling to tell a stranger, "I'll immediately bang you harder than a drunk man with a hammer hanging pictures." The alternative seems equally bad - "when two people love each other very, very much, and are wasted on tequila, and when I have a big fat rock on my left hand, then and only then shall intercourse commence." I chose to write my own answer to this, "I believe in passionate monogamy." Apparently I got the answer wrong- he didn't write back.

Question 2: "What in your life are you least proud of?" How is it possible to answer this question? Is anyone really going to say, "cheating on my exams to get into Yale," "that ill-advised threesome that one time in college," "the time I poisoned Johnny the bully's fish?" And if you answer with, "I sometimes love too much," or "I can't multi-task" he'll know you're a big fat liar. I chose to go with, "I'm least proud of when I've hurt my family or friends." Mind you, I didn't say how I hurt them. One of them could be buried in my back yard, or I could have created a fake Craiglist ad for one in the "erotic services" section with their work phone number. That would hurting someone, right? Horrible question.

Question 3: "If no one would ever know and there were no consequences, what would you do?" I don't know- commit grand larceny? Try out being a porn star? Assassinate the president of Sudan? Sing "We Didn't Start the Fire" in front of 1000 people? Burn down the building I work in because someone stole my stapler? What kind of question is this??? The person who sent me this question was a cop. I think he was screening me to see if he'd have to arrest me if it didn't work out.

These questions make me question myself and the sanity of continuing in the online dating charade. They also make me wonder what answers the person who chose these questions could possibly expect. I keep my questions friendly- "do you like pets?" That's a far easier question to answer, unless the answer is, "only for breakfast," or "stuffed on the wall." Luckily, since we've only just begun at this point, I can click "Close Match" and continue my search through the other 12 perfectly chosen absolute and utter soul mates Dr. Warren found for me today. Thanks Doc!

It's not even February yet! (Valentine Decorations)

It wasn't supposed to happen yet. I wasn't prepared. I need more time! Yesterday I was blissfully heading to my grocery store when I stopped short. There in the windows were three giant heart-shaped balloons with the words "Happy Valentine's Day" plastered in big red letters on their puffy helium-filled lobes.

My breath quickened and my mouth went dry. I started to choke. I nearly screamed out, "WAIT! People on my street have their Christmas trees out on the sidewalk for recycling to pick up! The shop next door still has a stuffed Santa in it, and need I remind you, it's not even February yet!" It was a drive-by shaming. And like the black plague, or red plague in this case, once it starts, it spreads like wildfire and only gets worse.

I bravely walked through the doors and right into the flower displays. A dozen roses were still $12 -- hah -- clearly it isn't Valentine's day yet, 'cause those babies will be up to $120 when that happens. The signs read, "Remember your love" -- I'd love to remember him, can you introduce me to him first please?

I wandered through the produce then came across the "seasonal" section where cupid had thrown up - red, white, and pink everywhere. Lace, candles, and candies that read, "fax me" (no really - someone wrote the text for that candy in 1992 and apparently it's still in rotation) and "UR the Best."

When I got to the check-out, the man took a look at my alcohol collection asked me if everything was all right. No, no it's not all right! How dare your store spend more than an entire month reminding me that Singles Awareness Day, also known as "SAD" was coming so soon and I was destined to spend it by myself, as opposed to many of my friends, who spend Valentine's Day being disappointed and eventually either sulking or in a fight with their boyfriend or husband.

I told the checkout guy that I was "fine." He then asked if I was having a party with all this wine. "Yes, a pity party" would probably have been the appropriate answer, but instead I just said yes, then decided to go back to the produce section -- I heard somewhere you can meet guys in supermarkets. I suppose, like gimmicky marketing for nonsense holidays, hope springs eternal and you can never start too early.

It's all in the Name

Pick a Screen Name. It seems like an easy call. This will be the name you're known by on the dating sites until the moment someone actually contacts you and gets a response. There must be a good name out there, but judging by the guy's names, this is a minefield.

Truthful Names: Yesterday I came across a guy whose screen name was "Bad_Boyfriend." THANK YOU. You've seriously saved me at least six months- one month of getting to know you and swooning all over you, two months of wondering why you aren't calling as much and only coming by after midnight, and three months of wondering why you didn't like me while crying with my girlfriends. Was I too heavy? Too nice? Too mean? Did you hate the last dinner I made or that movie I chose? Thank you Bad _Boyfriend!!! I'll avoid you like the plague!

Everyone really should have to have an honest name - mine would be, "over-giving, people-pleasing, sometimes says stuff I shouldn't, but lots of fun girl." I tried that name but they told me it was already taken.

Sexy Names: I can't tell you how many guys I've come across on OKCupid that list "sex" or "good in bed" under "things I'm good at." Me thinks thou doth protest too much-- or let's face it, if you have to advertise, you're probably not selling stuff worth buying. Some guys use their names to show off their supposed goods- "Big_Wang75" or "Third_Leg." Look, choosing a porn name doesn't make me want to act like a porn star around you.

I'm considering "High_Income_Big_Tits." Truthful, but feels like a bit of a hard sell - and I'd actually like someone who likes things about me other than my income and chest size, but you know, this is a competitive game, so maybe I should reconsider.

Hobby or Job Related Names: This becomes tricky- what if I pick a dog-related name? Some people hate animals and therefore they won't even look at my profile. Or they'll assume I am a crazy dog lady with five Great Danes crowding me out of my bed, with a house that smells constantly of urine. What about a name related to my profession? Maybe they'll think I'm consumed by my job and nothing else - a blindly ambitious, overly-educated, cut-throat bitch.

I ultimately chose to go with something bland- "Smiley_M" - it's accurate, hopefully my picture is sexy, and it wasn't as hard to remember at log-on as "Hoping_to_find_someone_before_menopause_damnit."

Is this a date?

Sometimes it's hard to tell if what you've been asked to do is in fact, a date. Case in point:

It all began about two months ago when I was at an alumni function for my former graduate school. I was at the craps tables at the casino night event and semi-drunkenly struck up a conversation with a tall, Southern-accent-drawling, fellow-dice-rolling current graduate student. I gave him my card, he called, and we had what I considered a mentoring lunch to talk about his future. I asked him casually how old he was (guessing 28 or so) and he said....23, er almost 24. That's the inverse of my age. No go. He chatted amicably, but suggested we soon get drinks when I was off work. Huh.

He followed up repeatedly. He was gorgeous, but supremely younger than is reasonable for me, despite my protestations that there are "very mature" just-turned-24-year-olds in the world. Ahem. Anyway.

He sent me an email over New Year's asking me to go to dinner...on Saturday night....at 8:30. Hmmm... is this a date? I decided to go despite the hysterical laughter and statutory rape jokes that were emanating from my friends. I took a cab so I didn't have to worry about drinks. When I arrived at the location he had chosen (a romantic trendy restaurant with a great bar), it was closed. Damn New Year's Day holiday. He offered to drive me to another location. I got in the really-overly-nice car for someone who hasn't hit a quarter century yet and the radio was softly playing George Michael's "Careless Whisper." Date. Definitely Date.

Saturday night? Romantic dinner locale? Careless Whisper? Must be a date! Yay!

After finally settling on a great Italian wine bar and restaurant we killed a bottle of Zinfandel (the red kind that adults drink) while I tried to ignore his comments about wine in boxes and the fraternity he had been in, oh, two years ago. He was cute- did I mention that? Then he mentioned, and mentioned again, and mentioned again, his ex he was obviously still in love with. Sigh.

Ultimately I'm not sure if it was a date or not. He offered to take me upstairs at my house but I refused- mostly because I don't like competing with exes and I'd have to admit to said friends that the statutory rape jokes could have been apropos. I suppose I should stick to my general 28-40 age range with men- I got over boxed wine a long time ago, even if he were to bring it on a romantic picnic that I still wouldn't be sure was a date.

Thoughts on "I Work Out"

"I work out." "I love to work out." "There's nothing better than the feeling of working out!" It seems that there is an automatic opt-in under the "what I do with my free time" section that requires a guy to say "I work out!" in his profile. These people can generally be separated into three categories:

(1): Yes You Do: Good lord - three pictures with your shirt off? Really? Not that I'm not impressed- I am -- it's just, well, I have some idea of how much time that must actually take to maintain. Not only that, looking at well-sculpted abs makes me immediately think of how we'd look naked together. Or rather, how you'd look at me, with my extra bit of tummy love that's carefully covered whenever I'm out in public with a flattering top and jeans that don't press in too tight at the top. You'd run. You'd scream. Or, let's face it, you'd go on to the next profile immediately. Sigh. Fine, you're right, you're too good for me. Shit. And no, I don't want to go camping with you or spear fishing or multi-day triathaloning, so really, we just aren't meant to be.

(2): No You Don't: Look, sweetie, I can see your picture. You clearly don't work out. And that's cool - I only work out exactly as much as Oprah's latest trainer has said I must in order not to gain weight. But you aren't fooling anyone. Just list something like "fork-lifting" as your hobby and it'll come off as much more genuine and much better for you. And please, while we're at it, please don't apologize in your profile with, "I just started working out. I plan on losing like another 75 lbs. In fact, these pictures are probably out of date when you read this." Riiiiight...

(3): Like Goldielocks, you're Just Right: Ah the guy who looks like he would look good naked but doesn't actually take his clothes off in his pictures. The one who lists actual activities (running, surfing, skiing) instead of "working out" as his hobbies. This guy I can get into. Or let get into me. I understand this guy.

As for my profiles? I've chosen the #3 approach - listing hiking with the dogs, skiing, boogie-boarding etc. to show active but not obsessed. Which is actually true, and hopefully, more interesting to someone than, "I log at least 45 minutes on the treadmill a day."

I do have a special fondness in my heart for the guy who posted, "No, I didn't climb Kilamanjaro on my last vacation, I don't play semi-pro baseball and don't snowboard every weekend. Who are these people? I usually watch TV after work or play on the internet. If that's not OK, I hope you find your adonis out there when you're on the eighteenth mile of your fifth marathon this month." Awww- honesty. Gotta write that guy an email. Maybe he's my true love?

Today's Male Online Dating Profile Dont's

I'm signed up for three, yes three, online dating web sites. I told you I'm doing this full stop. Either that or I enjoy seeing how many times I can find the same single guy on each site -- it's my own personal warped "Where's Waldo" for Match.com. Look! There's Jimbo78 from OKCupid -- only here, he's BadBoyDanger. Wow, the other profile didn't say he owned a motorcycle.... There is a finite world of us singles out there. Luckily I'm in Los Angeles, so the pool is large, if not at all deep or full of any depth whatsoever.

I recently googled, "how to write a great online dating profile" and came up with mostly articles written for men. This intrigued me -- aren't women the ones always looking for dating advice? There have to be 50 love self-help books written for women on the shelf at Barnes and Noble for every one written for a man. Not that I'd know of course-- I don't own a copy of "Why Men Love Bitches" and it's witty sequel, "Why Men Marry Bitches," wait-- yes I do...

Anyway- I've been perusing online posts now for some time. A couple of my personal favorites: under the section on eharmony titled, "I am most passionate about..." someone recently answered, "maintaining a sensible diet." Huh? Really? How about travel, music, or sports? "Maintaining a sensible diet" makes me think this guy enjoys one Slimfast for breakfast, one for lunch, and then enjoys a sensible dinner followed by quiet missionary position sex and then going to sleep listening to Anderson Cooper in the background. Not. Hot.

Another online winner wrote in his profile, "If you're one of those girls who loves fashion that isn't practical, we probably won't get along. For instance, if you own those high heels that lace up your leg, they don't look good. Ladies, just because it's in fashion doesn't mean it looks good on you!" Um...sir...I'm pretty sure you just insulted me. And you don't know me. Nor will you ever. Nor will you know if I even have such a pair of shoes, nor if they look damn hot laced up my leg. And by the way- apparently you have nothing to say about yourself so you've chosen to criticize an army of hot-shoe-wearing women who apparently ignore you in bars.

New Year's Resolution for my single urbanite quest for love-- maintain a sensible diet and buy proper non-lace-up shoes. Hahaha- never gonna happen - I guess that's why it's a New Year's Resolution.

It all began on New Year's Day, My 32nd Year of Being Single...

"It all began on New Year's Day, my 32nd year of being single..." Such is the very first line of the movie "Briget Jones' Diary." I was 24 when I first watched that iconic film. I was fresh out of college, drinking white zinfindel in my second apartment in a semi-questionable area of Hollywood, smugly enjoying this movie about a semi-crazy single professional woman in her 30's. "It's so funny!" I said, "But that'll NEVER happen to me!"

I should have remembered never to give God a challenge. So yes, here it is - today actually -- today is actually New Year's Day in my 32nd year of being single. I'm desperately trying to find a turkey-curry buffet and or party serving mini-gerkins with toothpicks in them, but so far, my only plan is to take my dogs to the dog beach.

It's not that I haven't tried. When I was a self-satisfied 24-year-old, I had been with my boyfriend for three years. I didn't know at the time we had two more to go, followed by a break-up, immediate entrance of next long-term boyfriend (four more years with him) and then a long-distance beau that lasted a year and a half until...um, three months ago actually. Hence I find myself here, on New Year's Day, in my 32nd year of being single.

They say misery loves company, or at least someone to commiserate, so I'll be writing all about my world here as a singleton- online dating and its many perils, dating in the real world, going to singles events, meet-ups, church groups, blind dates - you name it. I'm nothing if not industrious and willing to put it all out there.

About a month after Bridget Jones' Diary premiered Oprah did an episode on people who called themselves, "just like Bridget!" How is it I joined that group? Perhaps this is my own online support group for people who yesterday ended up "shit-faced and listening to sad FM, easy listening for the over 30's." I suppose I should now welcome you to my diary...