Wednesday, December 16, 2009

#25 His (Not So) Secret Talents

Nobody knows exactly what this "x-factor" is that caused girls to scream and faint when they saw Elvis Presley gyrating his hips or throw their panties on stage at Michael Jackson.  I obviously don't get it, as I have never felt compelled to drop dead at the sight of Brad Pitt or sling my unmentionables at Justin Timberlake.  (Regarding the latter, they were a rather expensive pair of undies.  Sexy back, indeed.)

This je ne sais quoi transcends into what some single girls and single guys look for when they're dating.  I know certain girls who only date guys in bands while some dudes I know only date girls who look like supermodels.  Fortunately for them, we live in Los Angeles where struggling musicians and aspiring models are a dime a dozen.

For the rest of us not pursuing rock stars or models or rock stars/models, we know things can be just as thrilling when we're dating medical malpractice lawyers or corporate accoutants.

Or not.

Okay, who am I kidding?  I imagine there are very few things more exciting than dating a rock star.  (I wouldn't know, I've only dated a trumpet player who is obviously NOT a rock star.)  I mean, look at Courtney Love.  She dated and eventually married Kurt Cobain and their life together (and even not together) was anything but a snoozefest.

Single girls like to fantasize about dating rock stars and this is why we like (not so) secret talents. 

What qualifies as a secret talent?  The operative word here is "secret."  It's not so much as classified information if everyone on your Facebook page receives a status update broadcasting your latest victory at a karaoke contest.

An example:

I once dated a guy who started a business in college that eventually folded before he graduated.  The local newspaper wrote a story about this lesson in trial and error.  It essentially served as a huge "job wanted" ad for him, and he was soon hired as one of Bank of America's youngest associates in the private banking arena.

I found this to be quite the accomplishment, but what I really found remarkable about him is the fact that he was a champion go-kart racer as a teenager.  When presented with the opportunity to pursue this skill professionally, he chose to attend college instead.  Seriously?

Another example:

I was over at this other guy's house one night.  His place is immaculate, but not creepy immaculate like American Psycho.  You know how they photograph homes for interior design magazines and there is always that room with a book tossed haphazardly on the couch, but you know they put it there on purpose and it probably took them ten minutes to figure out how to make it look like they DIDN'T put it there on purpose?  Anyway, so this guy had a guitar placed just so on a chair by the window.

Assuming he knew HOW to play the guitar (I mean, what kind of dudes leave a guitar hanging around if they don't know how to play?  Oh right, douchey poseurs.), I asked him what he could play.  He then proceeded to serenade me.  Swoon worthy?  Yes.

A not-so secret talent doesn't neccessarily mean he has to play an instrument or drive go-karts very fast.  It's a skill that he is humble about sharing, but he knows his aptitude is better than the average bear.  He's showing us that he's not just some other beer-drinking, sports-watching, video-game playing dude.  We're catching a glimpse about him that some of his friends might not even know, and this makes us feel trusted and a bit privileged.

Maybe he's not the next Justin Timberlake, but we might still end up tossing our undergarments at him.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

#24 Holiday Shopping Hours

As most of you know, one pastime that single girls are especially fond of is shopping.  Not only does it have physical benefits as a form of cardiovascular activity, mental benefits include sanity preservation.  (Hence, "retail therapy.")

In fact, shopping is something we revere so much, a shopping binge at our favorite department store could be considered a religious experience for some of us.  Mental sanctuary or consumer temple?  Call it what you will, but shopping only gets better when stores and malls extend their retail hours.

Well, DUH, Single Girl 1.0, you're probably thinking. Of COURSE, girls love having extra hours to SHOP. It's like giving dudes extra points when their fantasy football QB throws for over 100 yards.

Well, not exactly.

You see, when single girls have a bad day at work or an argument with our mothers, we don't need a hug.  We need to shop.  What better way to distract ourselves from the injustices of life by lusting after the spring 2010 handbags at Gucci, followed by a corn dog at the mall food court?  Sounds perfect, right?  Not when there are throngs of holidays shoppers in our way. 

What happens after Thanksgiving is that department stores and malls turn into huge family clusterfucks. Apparently around the holidays, a family that spends together, stays together. So as much as single girls wish to partake in the yuletide cheer with the fake snow and Christmas lights, it's hard to get in the mood when our poor ankles and designer heels are constantly being nipped at by stupid baby strollers.

What was once a reliable refuge for us, our local shopping meccas become rife with plebians around the holidays. As much as we want to avoid the masses of people and families (and strollers!!), especially on Christmas Eve (oh dear God, that was the worst retail experience of my life - I am never again helping my brother shop for his girlfriend the day before Christmas), what can ever really stop us from setting foot into a mall? 

Thank goodness for the super genius consumer analyst (most likely a single girl) who was sensitive enough to answer our retail needs by proposing extended shopping hours around the holidays.

Did you know that at this time of year, some malls open as early as 8am and close as late as 10pm?  While non-single girls are rushing home at 8pm to tend to their husbands/boyfriends/children, single girls rejoice in those extra two hours we have to ourselves in our shopping havens.  Oh, holy night!  Peace and sanctity is restored, and all is well with the world.

Ironically, single girls don't enjoy holiday shopping hours because we're holiday shopping.  Oh no, we had all THAT figured out by Labor Day.  (What do you think we've been doing at malls and stores for the past forty weekends?)  We can't rely on men (not even Santa) to buy us what we want, we gotta rely on ourselves.  And seriously, with all those Christmas parties we're invited to, how can we possibly wear the same cocktail dresses in our closets when we've already been photographed in them so many times and subsequently tagged in dozens of Facebook pictures for the whole world to see?

Nay, at 9pm while all you poor schmucks are running around willy nilly trying to figure out what to buy for Aunt Edna, we're in a dressing room trying on a little black dress that may impress that guy Brett in accounting.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

#23 Epic Drinking Tales

One of the primary reasons why our non-single counterparts keep us around is to live vicariously through our infinite dating chronicles.  We all know what happens when a girlfriend becomes coupled, and she is no longer a "me" but a "we."  (I know, ugh.)  The level of mischief, mayhem, scandal, and debauchery in her life is severely compromised. 

And because of that, non-single girls like a reiteration of an epic drinking tale just as much as we like telling it to them.

An epic drinking tale is just that - epic.  Much like the Odyssey, our epic stories include key elements: endless nights, a melange of monsters, men who turn into swine, douchey suitors, questionable deeds, and an incredible voyage returning to sobriety.  (For Odysseus, he returned to his marriage, which some may consider a buzz kill.)  Of course, costume changes and some nudity may be involved.  (But hopefully unlike Odysseus showing up naked and disoriented on the shores of that island, Scherie.  Dude, how embarassing.)

Every narration normally begins with "So the night started off innocently enough..."  As the tale unfolds, the level of hijinks and hilarity escalates, usually proportionate to the number of alcohol units consumed.  I am in every way condoning binge drinking.  After all, epic drinking narrations involve the actual act of ingesting alcoholic beverages.  And really, have you ever had a dull evening when tequila shots were involved?  Exactly.

(Note: What I do NOT condone is vomiting, belligerence, or any other asshat behavior resulting from marathon drinking.  That, my friends, is completely bush league and single girls HATE anything bush league.)

An epic drinking tale that recently occured:

"My night started off innocently enough at a sports bar in San Francisco with my buddy D, watching a football game between my alma mater and our cross-town rivals.  There, we watched miserably as my team got its ass spanked by a melange of monsters.

"We were joined by a seemingly mild-mannered acquaintance who told of his experiences working as a television personality news reporter.  Our eyebrows arched at the thought of him as a "local celebrity" being chased around a grocery store by swooning girls and having his bill comped at restaurants several times a week.  (Man turning into swine?  Check, please.)

"After the game, I promptly replaced the t-shirt bearing the name of my alma mater, aka the LOSING team, (costume change!) before heading over to a gay bar where D's 22-year old cousin, T, was bartending.  T was gracious enough to supply us with several drinks (on the house, of course), introduced us to his roommate (a Mr. San Francisco Leather), spread salacious gossip about his bar patrons, and told us about his epic drinking night.

"The three of us then proceeded to a crowded dive bar in the Mission, which could be redundant since watering holes in the Mission are generally grungy gross shit holes divey, but then "too cool for school" douchey establishments like Medjool opened.  (God, I hate that place.)  Anyway, this particular dive bar was akin to a sauna due to San Franciscans never turning off their heaters no matter how warm it already is or how many bodies are crammed into one room. 

"Further digressing, as most of you know, the Mission in San Francisco is like the Silver Lake/Echo Park of Los Angeles, except with ugly people.  I rather enjoy being the prettiest person in a room, but once the dude next to me started scratching his dreadlocked head, bringing back memories of how itchy my scalp was when I had lice in fourth grade, we high-tailed it out of there.

"T thought it necessary to expose me to attractive people next so he took us to a club in the Castro.  He paid an $8 cover for each of us to walk in, use the restroom, and leave.  Well, that wasn't exactly his intention, but with all the talk about his previous night's events, T had a hankering for narcotics and had arranged with his dealer to meet him somewhere else.  Immediately.  (Yes, $24 might have been the most I have ever spent to take a piss.)

"On our way to this "somewhere else," I thought it necessary for another costume change.  Much to the delight of my companions, I stripped down to my undies in the middle of the street and pulled on a cocktail dress.  (Public nudity, just like Odysseus!  Well, sorta.)" 

Okay, so now at this point of my story, you're probably thinking: Sweet baby Jesus, what TIME is it ?!  Remember, an epic drinking tale involves an endless night.  But to answer your question, I believe it was well after midnight.

"While T was off buying drugs doing a questionable deed, D and I shuffled into another bar for additional libations where I received a text message requesting my presence at yet another bar not too far from where this night all began.  Leaving T for the evening, we raced to our last stop for the night before last call.

"And of course, no epic drinking tale can conclude without running into a former douchey suitor, which is exactly what happened.  Apparently, I was dating the only single dude in San Francisco.

"A shot of whiskey and a cocktail later, we began our incredible voyage home to sobriety."

As I end this account, most often I catch my non-single girlfriend gazing wistfully away, thinking about the glory days when she was once single. (She probably can't eat over the sink anymore or sit in front of the TV in fat pants indulging on a package of Oreos while watching Gossip Girl.  I may actually do that after I finish this post...)

We delight in telling such tales because sometimes we can't believe why we don't have our own reality shows like LC or Whitney or those guidos.  The shenanigans we find ourselves in aren't even friggin' scripted (we unwittingly run into ex-boyfriends while we're out on dates all the time!) but you don't see us making $20,000 an episode!  Kristin, Heidi, Audrina and those other Hills girls have nothing on us.  Well, except maybe boob jobs.

A single girl's worst critic is herself but a single girl's biggest fan is also herself.  There is nobody who loves ourselves more than ourselves.  It's true what they say about us: we are narcissists.  (Why do you think we spend so much time in the bathroom?) 

A narcissist will not let mortality get in the way of her infamy.  These epic drinking tales are often fantastical: absurd and astonishing, but also so incredible and far-fetched, we couldn't possibly make this shit up!  Indeed, legends are, and have been, made from such recitations.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

#22 Thanksgiving

Aside from Halloween, Thanksgiving might be a single girl's favorite holiday.

For Thanksgiving is an American holiday and if there is one thing that Americans know how to do right, it is EAT. Thanksgiving is a completely gluttonous holiday with food consumption as its ONLY priority (no presents, no religious obligations, JUST eating) so single girls may starve ourselves 364 days out of the year in order to binge on this special day.

Because we're eating (a lot, and in public, to boot), we say "no thanks" to Spanx. Single girls thanked our lucky stars when empire waist and tent dresses came back in style. And how can we forget Lindsay Lohan for her one contribution to society? Indeed, the second coming of leggings. After all, the glorious thing about leggings, besides pairing so well with tunics, is their elastic waistbands.

Now that our food belly can be safely concealed under something equally chic and unrestraining, Thanksgiving is the one day a year single girls will ignore our internal calorie counters. Instead, we think about Thanksgiving's health benefits: turkey is a lean meat and good source of protein, cranberry sauce is an excellent source of antioxidants, one slice of pumpkin pie contains more than 100% of your daily value of vitamin A, and it now appears that mashed potatoes potentially lower blood-pressure. Seconds? Yes, PLEASE!

While we're happily gorging on our Thanksgiving feasts, we might even humor our relatives with pithy responses to their relentless badgering of our (lack of) romantic pursuits.  To Aunt Betty who thinks we can't "find a man" because we wear "too much make-up," we might tell her that after our last boyfriend dumped us, we are seriously considering devoting ourselves to Jesus and becoming a nun.  To Uncle Tom who thinks we can't "land a husband" because we don't wear enough make-up, we might tell him that our "boyfriend" is up in outerspace on a special NASA mission.  Indefinitely.

On the other hand, Thanksgiving can be quite the bittersweet holiday.  Once Black Friday rolls around, it will be a rough three months braving the triumverate of holidays that single girls loathe - Christmas (mistletoe envy), New Year's Eve (midnight kiss anxiety), and the dreaded Valentine's Day (aka Single Awareness Day).  Not until St. Patrick's Day (a single girl's favorite drinking holiday), can we go about our merry (and unmarried) single way.
So single girls, between mouthfuls of your first slice of pie, think about the one thing we are most thankful for (aside from elastic waistbands) - our autonomy. 
Happy Thanksgiving!

Monday, November 23, 2009

#21 Business Cards

There are many conduits of exchanging phone numbers with a single girl.  Old school methods include cocktail napkins or the back of a receipt.  Commonly done today, we simply place personal information into each others' cell phones. 

Then there are those guys who prefer to hand a girl his business card.  While one of my male friends think this is rather "douchey," if done correctly, I don't mind when a guy discretely hands me his card in lieu of me reciting my number while hovering over him as he punches it into his Blackberry.

Single girls like business cards because these 3.5" x 2" pieces of cardstock harbor a whole lot of information about dudes. 

First, a card has his full name on it - and you know how much we love learning his last name.  Secondly, it includes his work information, and hopefully his occupation or title.  And this helps us grant him a nickname all that much quicker when we talk about him at Sunday brunch with our girlfriends.

Obviously, his phone number and email address are kinda important, too.

Knowing all this information about him immediately saves us a bit of time in front of our computers Google stalking - time that is preferably spent performing eyebrow maintenance on ourselves or examining our pores in front of the bathroom mirror. 

Single girls like efficiency and a business card helps us decide whether we really want to go out with a guy or not.  Depending on what he does or where he works, his card can either be a friend or foe.

You see, a long time ago, when a man handed anyone (not just a woman he wanted to hook up with) his business card, it actually MEANT something.  A business card said, "Hi!  I'm important!  My company spent resources printing out my name on little pieces of paper for me to give to strangers so they can call me at work!  I am a big deal!"

Single girls like big deals.  We like seeing "CEO" or "President" next to a name.  In this case, when a business card is a measure of your success, it can be your friend.

But then something happened that compromised the integrity of a business card.  Technology happened.  All of a sudden you can make your own business cards!  You can create them FOR FREE on the internet.  You can even go to your local Staples or Office Depot and buy those do-it-yourself kits from Avery that you run through your laser jet printers. 

Single girls HATE make-your-own business cards because it's cheating.  All of a sudden, anyone can be a big deal.  If you are NOT a big deal, don't PRETEND you are a big deal. 

Example: I met a dude who gave me his business card at a Halloween party.  I instantly questioned his legitimacy when he handed it to me after unfolding it from his wallet.  It has a picture of himself on it.  And he's not a realtor.  Oh no.  He is an "Actor/Writer/Producer."  Those of us who live in the City of Angels know that actor slash somethings or writer slash somethings are the worst kind - they aren't very good at one thing so they have to "creatively" compensate by becoming actors slash writers slash busboys.  His contact information included a link to his IMDB profile.  With his personal biography.  That saved me some time on Google. 

Another example: I met a dude who gave me his business card at an uber pretentious hotel bar on Sunset Boulevard.  I instantly questioned his legitimacy when I recognized the address of his "production company" as my old apartment address.  Changing "Apt. #202" to "Suite #202" did not fool me!

Essentially, we not only care about the content of a business card, we also examine its quality.  Whether it is embossed, matte, glossy, subtly off-white, or tastefully thick - or oh my god, is that a watermark? - we know when it comes from a professional printer and not the Epson sitting on the desk of a "home office."  Guys, do yourself a favor and don't cockblock yourself with a homemade business card.

Yes, it's true.  Modern society has caused us single girls to evolve into shallow human beings.  (Some of us should have business cards that read "Potential Future Trophy Wife.")  So if your card has you listed as an "administrative assistant," save it for your next networking event and try to win us over with your charming personality instead.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

#20 Elastic Waistbands

While Spanx gives us that illusion of looking like a size two when we are actually a size six, you have probably overheard a single girl complain about the discomforts of wearing such body shaping undergarments for more than three hours.  Especially since we only break out the Spanx for special occasions.  Like when champagne is involved.  And there is nothing that gets a girl bitching and moaning then consuming copious amounts of said champagne and pondering a way to relieve herself while shackled in Spanx.

For that reason, amongst a multitude of others, 21st century single girls would never trade places with our 19th century counterparts.  On a daily basis, we would be expected to whittle our waists down to less than 20" in steel or bone corsets.  While our ribs and internal organs are constantly crushed by such cruel corsetry, our torsos are subject to constant bruising.  We probably wouldn't even last for an hour before being carried away into a Victorian fainting room.

(Just for the record, the only time I'm putting myself in a corset is if it's being immediately removed, if you know what I mean.)

Single girls like - nay, LOVE - our elastic waistband pants, or "fat pants" as we affectionately call them.  Our fat pants are the first things we pull on at home after a long day in 4" heels and high-waisted pencil skirts.  Heck, "a long day" is completely subjective when you're tottering around on your tiptoes in ridiculous shoes and the waistband of your skirt is relentlessly digging into your abdomen. 

One reason why single girls are always hungry is because we can't, don't and won't eat anything when our stomachs are bound in skinny jeans (regardless of the 1% Spandex), strapless dresses, waist-cinching belts, and the like.  A perfect evening involves a night in our fat pants, of course, sitting Indian-style in front of the television catching up on Gossip Girl while stuffing our faces with chips and guacamole. 

For the love of fat pants, single girls can thank Thomas Hancock for the invention of elastic in the early 1800s.  But something unfortunate happened to prevent single girls from wearing our cherished fat pants in public.  The joys and comforts of wearing elastic waistband pants have been compromised.  For alas, elastic waistbands have become synonymous with grandmothers and nursing homes in Florida or overweight midwestern housewives and Walmart.

Three things a single girl never wants to be analogous to are: wrinkles, obesity, and Walmart.  And this negative stigma is the reason why our fat pants (and they are called "fat" pants for a reason) have been banished from the public eye and forced to stay within the confines of our homes and the gym.

Perhaps we can learn to appreciate our fat pants all the more since our time with them has been limited.  Perhaps too much of a good thing is bad for us.  Perhaps there is a blessing in this curse.  After all, did Cinderella meet the man of her dreams in a pair of sweatpants older than her last relationship?

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

#19 Nicknames

"So I had dinner with Mark the other night."
"Wait, which Mark?"
"Mark from Texas."
"Wait. Which Mark from Texas?"
"The one who drives the Ferrari."
"I thought Jon drove the Ferrari?"
"No, Jon drives a Benz."
"Wait. Which Jon?"

We've all run into this problem before, some of us more often than most. (Me? Definitely more often than average.) We meet a guy with an annoyingly common name (ie. Brian or David) and when we're telling our girlfriends about said guy during Sunday brunch, they don't know if we're talking about Brian 1.0 or Brian 2.0. This proves to be ingratiatingly confusing, especially after a few glasses of mimosas.

Sure, it's easy to name them David #1 or David #2, but things get a little tricky after you meet a David #3. Equally disturbing is when David #1 re-enters your life years later as David #4. (He claims to be a "changed man," ergo a new David.)

Those repetitively explanatory conversations can easily be avoided with nicknames. We have a vested interest in saving time and energy from differentiating Tim #1 from Tim #2 when there are clearly more important topics to discuss such as "What did Tim #2 REALLY mean when he said 'I will call you later.'"

Thus, single girls like nicknames.

Nicknames are designated using unique details about dudes.  A nickname is easily contrived if he comes from somewhere foreign like Germany, South Africa, or Alabama. Thus, his new moniker is "The German," "The South African," or "The Redneck," respectively.

Single girls also like unusual occupations. Not only does having an unusual occupation make you easier to Google stalk, unusual occupations make classifying him a piece of cake. (Mmmm...cake.) College basketball coach? Magician? Firefighter? Scoreboard technician? Butcher? Baker? (No, seriously, is there cake?) Candlestick maker?

Even better are foreigners with unusual occupations.  Argentinian opthamologist? French venture capitalist? Brazilian bikini designer? (Slightly redundant if he only designs Brazilian bikinis as he would then be a Brazilian Brazilian bikini designer.)

So he's not foreign and he's a "consultant"? Never fret, it might not be as easy, but we'll figure out a way to distinctly christen this newbie - whether it's from his choice of wardrobe, the car he drives, his political or religious views, or the man bag - excuse me, satchel - he's carrying.

But Single Girl 1.0, you say, since you love learning last names so much, why don't you just refer to dudes by their last names so you don't get all your Marks confused?

Frankly, some single girls have faster trigger fingers than others, and may be dating multiple guys one month and then going through a completely different batch the next.  Because of this high turnover, it's not worth the storage space in our pretty heads for us to remember that "Smith" = "Pilot" simply when "Pilot" = "Pilot."  So when we speak of dudes with our girlfriends, referring to him as "Smith" means nothing to them when there is no identifying qualifier. 

Plus, we know dudes like using nicknames just as much as we do. How else would their buddies distinguish ex-girlfriends as "That Crazy Ex #1" from "That Crazy Ex #2"?

Monday, November 9, 2009

#18 Our Crazy Girlfriend

Much like how we feel about Spanx, single girls have a love/hate relationship with our crazy girlfriends.  And much like Spanx, crazy girlfriends are oftentimes difficult to remove.

You know who she is.  She's the one we call when we're looking for more than just the usual humdrum Friday night sitting at a lounge bar sipping on martinis and trolling for dudes.  Sure, everyone knows where all the after parties are, but our crazy girlfriend knows where the AFTER after parties are.  Maybe we've spent all our cash at the strip club and ran out of money for a taxi.  Our erratic girlfriend has a way of finagling a ride home from some random guys.  So what if they're operating a truck from the Department of Water and Power? 

Clearly, our mentally unbalanced girlfriends keep our lives interesting and entertaining.  Most of our favorite stories come from nights spent with said girlfriends.  When we go out with a crazy girlfriend, we're following Alice down the rabbit hole.  Inarguably, a night of excitement and adventure awaits.

As awesome as our crazy girlfriend is, there are jawdropping moments when we realize how much of a double-edged sword she is.  For she is also the one who makes out with all of our male friends, the one who starts a fight with girls in the bathroom, the one who throws a temper tantrum while you're dragging her out of a bar, the one who calls you at 4am sobbing about her ex-boyfriend, and the one who has no recollection that any of this ever happened due to blackouts brought on by excessive drinking.

In short, this crazy girlfriend is a BIG MESS.  Our other girlfriends may be confused as to why we maintain a friendship with someone so sanity-challenged.  And really, isn't there enough drama in our own sad single lives?  Do we really need to inherit more craziness by association?

One word single girls like to use: standards.

You know those girls who keep less attractive. dumpy friends around them so they look infinitely more pretty, polished, and skinny?  When you're at the grocery store standing in front of the bread aisle (mmm, single girls like carbs), do you reach for the hot dog buns in pristine condition or do you think, "Hmm...look at these other poor hot dog buns that look like they've been stomped on and damaged.  I think I will take these home"?

Single girls like standards because our crazy girlfriend becomes a basis of comparison for our own sanity.

I was once friends with a girl who blew off an entire trust fund to pursue her dream of becoming an actress.  Ten years later, she is now one of those "accountants" you find on Craigslist.  Even more ironically, she once declared bankruptcy several years ago and had to buy a fake social security number and driver's license to lease an apartment. She says she wasted a decade of her life trying to become something she is not.  So she is now an aspiring singer.  She likes to drive her car smoking a cigarette with one hand and drinking a beer with the other.  She has no car insurance and doesn't like to wear seatbelts.  She is turning 31 soon and goes through several mid-life crises per week.

And here I thought I had issues?  Next to my psychotic girlfriend, I am the antithesis of crazy!

I understand that after all the crap that single girls have been through, we all need some form of professional therapy, especially since I've heard that love makes some people crazy.  Why are broken hearts not covered by health insurance?  Is Obama working on this? 

Those of us who can't afford therapy or do not have friends with psychology degrees may try a support group.  And then there are those of us who keep a deranged friend around to remind ourselves of our own mental stability. 

Keep in mind though: just because you are the sane one next to your crazy girlfriend doesn't mean you're not someone else's damaged hot dog buns.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

#17 Breakfast at Tiffany's

Note: This is in reference to the 1961 film starring Audrey Hepburn and directed by Blake Edwards, not the novella by Truman Capote on which the film was based nor the catchy 1996 song by Deep Blue Something.

Enter the dwelling of any single girl and you will most likely find a DVD of Breakfast at Tiffany's and/or a framed black and white poster of a scene from said film.

So what is it about Breakfast at Tiffany's that causes us single girls to idolize it so much that we have things hanging on our walls to honor it?  I will admit the plot of the film is rather silly and ridiculous at times, but the life of a single girl can BE rather silly and ridiculous more often than not.

Single girls love Breakfast at Tiffany's because Audrey Hepburn's role as Holly Golightly is a single girl's icon.  (And not just because of the Givenchy wardrobe.)

In a lot of ways, Holly is just like us: naturally flirtatious, commitment phobic, charmingly quirky, unabashedly shallow, and secretly vulnerable.  She throws random parties, dates guys for money, and sleeps with her neighbor.  She is leaving the dream!  And of course, she is "CRAZY about Tiffany's!"  Aren't we all?  She probably eats over the sink, too.

Who can forget the first scene in the film as Holly alights from a taxi in New York and nibbles on a croissant in front of Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue?  It is early morning but she is decked in a long gown (Givenchy, of course), elbow length gloves, giant pearls and a mini-tiara.  Her hair is immaculate.  Yes, she has sunglasses on, but wouldn't you?  I dare any other girl to look this amazing OWNING the walk of shame as Holly does.  Nobody can do it quite like Holly Golightly.

Like us, Holly isn't perfect.  She certainly has issues - she was once married to an older man, has been arrested, and is somewhat of a kleptomaniac.  Despite her flaws, she is still so captivating, her hunky neighbor chases her through the rain to profess his love AND helps find her cat in an alley to boot. 

Us single girls can only hope that we are alluring enough to be chased through the rain by a man worthy of our affection.  It gives us another reason to wear that trenchcoat.

Monday, November 2, 2009

#16 Dinner Invitations

So boys, you've read The Game and you've got "negging" down to a science, but you're not-so secretly tired of wearing that stupid bright orange shirt around town to "peacock" your way into a "set"?  What other impressive methods can you employ to eventually get into our panties? 

This may sound simple and completely obvious, but single girls like when guys invite us out to dinner. 

The key word here is "dinner."  A dinner invitation means 1) he is feeding us (single girls are always hungry), 2) he is paying (he did invite us, so we are his guest) and 3) it is a real date and not a pseudo-date. 

Pseudo dates are bullshit.  What is a pseudo date?  Examples:
  • Beers and "the big game" at a local sports bar
  • "Wine and movie night" at his house at 11pm
  • Barbeque hosted by his fraternity brothers
  • Cocktails after work but before he has dinner (without us)
  • Cocktails after he already had dinner (without us)
  • Anywhere his ex-girlfriend could potentially show up
  • Anything that involves meeting at his home immediately after a 2am phone call
Nothing frustrates a single girl more in the early stages of a courtship than half-assed attempts at impressing us.  We like real dates because a dude chauffeurs us around town, buys us dinner, and essentially treats us like the fairy princesses we aspired to be when we were five years old.  Inviting us out to dinner is a real date.

You argue that single girls are ALWAYS going on dinner dates and this mating ritual has become antiquated and cliched.  This may be true, but dinner dates allow us to properly assess you without any form of outside interference.  We want him to impress our pants (or skirts or shorts or dresses) off.  Literally. 

How are his manners?  Does he pull out our chair?  Does he stand when we leave the table?  Is he as funny in person as he is in emails and text messages?  Did he compliment our outfit?  Is he bright enough to keep up with our opinions on both American Idol and the election in Afghanistan?

Think of a dinner date like a job interview.  If he wants to nail the "job," then he needs to show us he's well qualified and a strong candidate.  And ask us good follow-up questions.

The other crucial aspect of inviting us out to dinner is how he asks us.  We like conspicuous requests.  You are one step closer to getting laid if he says these magic words: Would you like to have dinner with me?

Seriously, guys.  What is SO hard about saying that?  Why has Would you like to have dinner with me? become an endangered species in your dating vernacular?  Instead, you use verbally retarded and lame ambiguous expressions like: "We should hang out." 


I have seen dinner invitations in different forms.  Although we prefer phone calls, it could be as easy as a three-word text message: You.  Me.  Dinner?  It could be cute: Will you be hungry on Thursday night at 8pm?  It could be a hybrid of conventional and modern: a handwritten note on your personal stationary Fed Ex'd to our doorstep.  (That one was a little extreme but done by a Frenchman.  They always up the ante when it comes to romance, don't they?)

We know it's hard putting yourself out there all the time and risk getting rejected.  We know you have fragile egos.  But if you want us coming anywhere near your balls, you've gotta show us that you actually have some cojones.

Friday, October 30, 2009

#15 Halloween

Single girls like Halloween and not just because all our favorite candy is available in miniature bite-sized versions of themselves.  (Portion control makes for easier calorie counting.)

Halloween is to single girls what Valentine's Day is to non-single girls.  Both holidays call for sexy outfits and exposed lingerie in hopes of impressing a dude. (Or dudes.)  Everyone believes that Halloween is the one night a year where it is socially acceptable for girls to traipse around in slutty outfits. But isn't that what Vegas is for?  Besides, single girls know that Halloween is really an excuse for guys to wear make-up.  (It's true, we know guys developed an appreciation for eyeliner application after using it on their Jack Sparrow costumes last year.)

With this carte blanche for public indecency, leave it to single girls to figure out a way to create all kinds of "sexy whatever" costumes.  We've seen the sexy pirate, sexy pilot, sexy angel, sexy bumblebee, sexy Marie Antoinette, sexy Harry Potter - hell, I've even seen a sexy Freddy Krueger outfit.  (Halloween actually originated as a Celtic holiday where it is believed that costumes and masks were worn to ward off evil spirits.  Hence, a Freddy Krueger Halloween costume is totally appropriate, although the effectiveness of "scaring" an evil spirit with a slutty Krueger outfit is questionable.  Unless the evil spirit were gay.)  In light of this year's current events, I wouldn't be surprised to run across a sexy Balloon Boy or sexy Max from Where the Wild Things Are.

Single girls have loved dressing up for Halloween ever since we were fairy princesses in kindergarten.  Even when we were five years old, before we even knew what role playing was (just grown-up speak for "using your imagination"), we knew how thrilling role playing could be.  (Go away, Pedo Bear, I didn't mean it like that.)
When we put on that "sexy whatever" costume, we become this "sexy whatever."  We adopt opinions and behaviors of our "sexy whatevers" because you expect it and we can actually get away with it.  Are you a sexy UPS driver?  Do you have a package for me?  Are you a sexy police officer?  Hands up where I can see 'em, and spread your legs!  Are you a sexy referee?  Personal foul!  Tight end!  Are you a sexy witch?  [insert inappropriate remark about riding "broomsticks" here]  Are you a sexy devil?  Well...aren't we all?

Single girls are no stranger to costumes or role playing.  (After all, isn't dating a giant metaphor for role playing?)  Some of us have a Wonder Woman costume and/or nurse outfit hanging in our closets (next to the trenchcoat, of course).  But on Halloween, we go ALL OUT.  Tricks or treats, anyone?

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

#14 Scatological Humour

Talking about "potty humor" seems much more refined and ladylike when you use a multi-syllabic medical term and the British spelling of "humor" to refer to it as "scatological humour," don't you think?

Okay, who are we kidding.

I don't know about the rest of you single girls, but my girlfriends and I have the best time grossing each other out talking about our bodily functions and whatnot.  When speaking about defecation (poo), urination (pee), flatulence (farts), vomiting (puking) and the like, we are the shit. 

A potty humor face-off?  Bring it.

For one thing, girls experience something boys will never have the privilege of enjoying.  Oh, yes.  Menstruation.  On the whole (pun intended and ew!), this is a completely foreign subject to dudes.  There is a common joke among men that you can't trust something that bleeds for five days and survives.  (Just in case you weren't paying attention in seventh grade health class, some girls bleed for an entire week!)  This topic includes supplementary material: tampons, bloating, hooking up during "that time of month," regulating by way of "the pill," ovulation, and now we even have those new birth control methods that prevent blood loss.  (The latter most sounds convenient, but where exactly does it all GO?  Ew.)

A reinterpretation of the musical Ragtime?  We would have a field day.

Now whatever you do, don't ever get the pregnant girls or new mothers started!  When there is something growing inside of you for nine months, this exponentially creates all kinds of fodder for potty jokes.  Again, something else you boys will never understand.  Even the words "placenta" and "fetus" make ME nauseous.

Speaking of where babies come from, single girls love inappropriate penis jokes especially when talking about guys we have dated.  And yes, we do trade notes.  If you overhear us talking about pinkies or pepper grinders, we are absolutely NOT comparing penis sizes.  Nor in a quandary about proportions.  Why would you even THINK that?

In fact, we might be having a heated discussion about vibrators.  DIY projects aren't just relegated to the crafts store anymore.

You are safe to assume that when we make jokes of the scatological variety, we are just as immature about them as guys are.  For those of us who work or live in tall buildings, how often have our elevators stopped on a floor where someone has asked, "Going down?"  I want to giggle every time, thinking about the amount of action people get riding on elevators.  (Or is it just me?)  Elevator servicing.  Snicker.

I know, I know.  That's what SHE said.

Friday, October 23, 2009

#13 A Good Wing Girl

Hark!  The weekend is upon us single girls and this means another attempt at Operation: Manhunt is well underway.  The success of said operation is usually aided by the ultimate wing girl.  But just like the perfect pair of jeans, a good wing girl is hard to find.

A good wing girl is essentially there to assist us in finding our target: a one-night stand or the man of our dreams.  She is familiar with our flight patterns and won't let us leave the house without a killer outfit.  She is well-qualified to handle any form of turbulence or areas of low visibility.  She comprehends our flight signals and knows when to swoop in and abort a mission, when to take off, or when to send out a search and rescue team.

Single girls like being in good company.  Our favorite wing girl is attractive and charming but not glaringly MORE attractive or MORE charming than we are.  She can own the spotlight, but won't steal it from us.  She knows when and how to fade into the background.  She gives us that pep talk and a confidence boost when our last mission failed.  She has eagle vision and can identify a target from across the room, then strategize various access points in her mind, all the while ordering us cocktails at the bar.   She will attempt to extract incriminating information about a guy from his wingman (reconnaisance at its finest!) leaving the guy and I to chat about the World Series.  Essentially, our wing girl is the most awesome person in the room, aside from ourselves of course.

All single girls know that we would rather fly solo than travel with a bad wing girl.  I was talking to a dude at a club in Vegas a month ago, and my "wing girl" decided to clutch onto me like a backpack.  I literally had to get her off my back.  A good wing girl does not engage in embarassing conduct such as this - a blatant attempt at sabotaging a mission. 

Good wing girls know that being engaging and selfless on one mission means that karma will reward her when our roles are reversed on the next mission.  Good wing girls do not complain (out loud), regardless of how unattractive or creepy a guy's wingman is.  Nor does her Jewish faith cause her to resent us for meeting all the Jewish guys while she "gets stuck" with the Mormon ones when we are neither Jewish nor Mormon.  A true wing girl is always "takin' one for the team so her buddy can live the dream."

As the great chanteuse Jordin Sparks would say: Why does love always feel like a battlefield?  When we're looking for a partner in the trenches, we want to be side by side with a good wing girl.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

#12 Worst Date Competitions

Single girls would rather spectate at normal competitions (preferably of the men's beach volleyball variety) than actually take part in any athletic pursuit that causes us to perspire heavily in public.  Alas, we only allow our sweat glands to run amock at the gym during our yoga or pilates sessions.  And even then, we're not actually sweating but "glistening."

Our aversion to sweating and participating in sports causes us to engage in a competition of the unconventional sort: the worst date competition. 

We've all had a bad date.  To survive an exceptionally horrific one, we wear it as a badge of honor.  Worst date stories are our war stories.  After all, we're braving the wild and treacherous (in more ways than one) singles scene in our respective urban jungles.  Love IS a battlefield.

Sharing stories about our dates usually occurs during Sunday brunch.  (Single girls really like Sunday brunch).  At this reunion of sorts, there is at least one girl who has just been on a bad date that weekend.  This generally escalates into a deliberation of similar bad dates and even more abominable ones.  Before we know it, our Sunday brunch has become a "worst date ever" showcase. 

Sometimes some of us sit through what we know is already a terrible date, not because you are paying for the meal, but because you are providing us with fodder for our next worst date competition. 

My worst date story involves a questionably operated pick-up truck and a potential head-on collision with another vehicle on a Los Angeles freeway. I can honestly say that I almost died on a date. I was able to arrive at this punch line only after hearing my date talk about how he taught himself to surf, his experiences with drugs in Malaysia, his illegal escape from Cuba, and his tequila-infested week in Mexico.  I think I deserve a medal.

So why do we exploit bad date stories?  Because this is our form of amusement on Sundays when guys are watching football and grunting at a television.  Because this support group is cheaper than therapy (and God knows we need professional help after those worst dates).  Because we are evil bitches who feel better about ourselves after putting guys down.  Because this is our way of reminding ourselves: it's not us, it's THEM.

Now please finish reading this blog entry, turn off your cell phone, and return to your date.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

#11 Google Stalking

Single girls often have a bad reputation for being "crazy."  And to that, I argue: a) I have no idea what you are talking about or where this "crazy" idea even comes from! b) "crazy" is an extremely subjective term, don't you agree? and c) this remark is incredibly insulting to the "sanity challenged" and mentally unstable - and also to single girls. 

To prove my point, I just googled "number of male serial killers versus female serial killers."  It confirmed what is already common knowledge: the serial killing industry is donimated by males.  Serial killers are psychopaths (a fancy medical term doctors use to describe "crazy" people) who suffer from dysfunctional personality disorders.  Hereforth, since more dudes are prone to become psychopaths, it is a misconception that girls are "crazy," especially single girls.  Dudes are pretty crazy, too.

Single girls like being right, and Google is a great resource to us in this regard.

So speaking of Google, you say, we think single girls are crazy for stalking dudes on Google once you learn his last name

And to THIS, I have a story:

I went on a couple of dates with a magician about a year ago (no joke, this is a bonafide, honest to goodness true story, people).  I met him at a Halloween party and he introduced himself by his first name (as is common in our culture).  I soon learn of his profession (obviously, he was NOT dressed as a magician) and upon returning home, I googled "[magician's first name] magic."  The first two hits were a couple of MySpace videos, including his last name (jackpot!).  Now that I have discovered his last name, I googled his full name.  The first page of hits contained a number of news articles and criminal court cases of a convicted rapist and pedophile.  Fortunately for me, the magician was NOT said rapist/pedophile, but it is unfortunate for the magician that he shares a name with one.

Back to serial killers for a moment.  After he was caught murdering a number of women, did you know that Ted Bundy broke out of jail in Colorado, got on a flight to Chicago, took a bus to Ann Arbor to watch the Rose Bowl game on television (it was a good game for Ted: his alma mater won), then ended up at Florida State University where he killed and injured several sorority girls in their sleep??  If Google were around in the 1970s, girls would definitely never go on a date with THAT guy.

Aside from protecting us against serial killers and pedophiles, Google is a great way for us to measure a guy's success or notoriety (preferably the former).  We know that his accomplishments are in direct proportion to the number of Google hits he has.  As a result, this may actually help him.

An example: I went on a date with a writer a few years ago.  He was kinda dorky and awkward and at the end of the night, I just wasn't feelin' it.  (Plus it didn't help that I thought he were gay when I first met him.)  I then had the misfortune of googling him AFTER it was all said and done.  You see, if I had KNOWN that he was once president of The Harvard Lampoon (bonus points!), I probably would have given him a second chance.  A dating regret?  Maybe.

What exactly are our motives for Google stalking?  Why do we have this ridiculous curiosity to look him up and see how fast he ran the 400-meter hurdles in high school?  Or the origin of his surname?  Or what real estate properties his company has acquired?  Why are we snooping around for insight when we can easily learn about him on a date?

So much information about him is literally at our fingertips, Nancy Drew would have a field day.  Social networking sites also help A LOT.  Thanks to LinkedIn, we know where he works, have worked, and the names of his colleagues.  Does he like music and have an imeem account?  We know exactly what song he is listening to RIGHT NOW and what's coming up next on his playlist.  Is he an avid Yelper with dozens of reviews of his favorite eateries and watering holes?  Does he really want us knowing where he eats tacos every Tuesday after work?

Am I making you nervous?

If stalking comes from some form of pathological obsession or derangement, then maybe we are crazy.  I mean, I just googled a douchebag I once dated.  He now owns a really successful software company that designs iPhone applications.  AND IT DRIVES ME A LITTLE CRAZY THINKING HOW AN ARROGANT, MISOGYNISTIC EGOMANIAC LIKE HIM CAN BECOME A SELF-MADE MILLIONAIRE.  (Sorry about the outburst.  My therapist warned me not to indulge in masochistic activities such as googling ex-boyfriends.)

Don't even get me STARTED on Facebook stalking.  (I mean, who is this Amanda chick [yes, the one with the huge breasts!] who writes on his wall everyday??  I KNOW he doesn't have a "cousin" or "sister" named Amanda because I checked.  On Google.)

#10 Chuck Bass

After a little bit of fact-checking, we did confirm that Chuck Bass is indeed 18 years old, and ergo, there is nothing illegal about us single girls liking Chuck Bass.

Now some of you may be unfamiliar with Chuck Bass and to that, I say, "For shame!"  As the antihero of the CW's drama series Gossip Girl, Chuck Bass is a teenage billionaire and the Upper East Side's resident playboy.  He is charming, well-dressed, handsome, and although his salacious behavior is questionable, he is a single girl's guilty pleasure.  And did we mention he's rich?

Single girls are notorious for liking the wrong guys - bad boys, assholes, douchebags, jerks.  (Can we help it that all the "normal" ones are getting themselves married off on match dot com?  Idiots.)  Our grandmothers had Marlon Brando in The Wild One, our mothers had John Travolta in Grease, we have Chuck BassWho needs motorcycles and leather jackets when Chuck Bass has limousines and Armani suits?

Chuck's sexploits have become so legendary, Britney Spears dedicated a song to him in the form of "Womanizer."  (He's kind of a big deal, y'all!)  He may only be 18-years old, but Chuck seems to be quite the experienced young lad, and this is something single girls definitely like (especially since dudes reach their sexual peak between 18-22).  He puts the F in OMFG.

Chuck's pick-up line is simply: "I'm Chuck Bass."  And it works!  Every time!  You see, his (so bad, it's good) reputation obviously preceeds him.  Billionaires can be quite influential.  And clever.  And manipulative when provoked.  When Chuck isn't getting himself out of a sticky situation by paying off the NYPD, he's getting his friends out of sticky situations by putting them on one-way flights to South America (on his private jet, no less).  Bernie Madoff needed Chuck Bass in his corner.

Single girls like a guy who knows his labels.  Chuck was bred to prefer Dom Perignon over Cook's, Wolford over Leggs, and Valrhona over Hershey's.  Impeccably dressed (in a three-piece Prada, of course) and perfectly coiffed, when we meet a guy who can take care of himself, that leaves us more time to take care of ourselves. 

Ok, so what if he's a man-whore?  So what if he likes deflowering high school girls in the back of his limo?  So what if he has a douchey demeanor?  So what if he kissed a boy?  It's hard being a billionaire in Manhattan!  His mom died giving birth to him!  His dad has been marrried several times, and then died suddenly in a freak car accident!  He's an orphan!  His best friend is dating the girl he is in love with! His uncle is trying to steal all his money!  This guy has ISSUES!!  And let's not forget that his stepsister is Serena van der Woodsen.  She has even more issues than he does!  We give his "flaws" (understatement of the year) carte blanche because, he's, well, Chuck Bass.

I mean, really, how can we resist his smoldering glare, his chiseled jaw, his arrogant charm, and the fact that he owns a hotel?  What other "bad boy" will take us to Bendel's and Bergdorf in his limo while sipping on Dom the whole day? 

You know you love him...xoxo.

Monday, October 19, 2009

#9 Home Field Advantage

Single girls dislike striking out just as much as we dislike foul balls, or God forbid, breaking balls.  So how do we stay ahead in the count?

Overall, home teams have won about 54% of their games since the advent of the 20th century.  Last year, home teams won 57% of their games, a 3% increase from the year before.  With so many home team wins, is it any wonder that single girls like having home field advantage?

Single girls like playing at home because our "stadium" is generally better than his.  Our facilities bathrooms are usually cleaner, and we enjoy our natural grass and a softer turf 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton bedding rather than his Astroturf mismatched sheet set.  We understand his stadium might have gotten a little worn down with so many different teams playing - it's typical of multi-purpose venues like the Oakland Coliseum.  But we would be more amenable to traveling to his stadium if he does as the New York Mets did and move into a brand spanking new place like Citi Field.

Obviously, an advantage of being the home team (other than choosing our unforms outfits) is that we generally perform better at home.  Maybe we've been comfortable enough to get to first base and have even stolen second base several times earlier in the season.  But when we're playing at home, we really like to get ourselves into scoring position.  We want to round all the bases, get that home run, earn that squeeze play, and maybe even hit for the cycle.  (Hitting for the cycle is rare, though.  It has happened only 288 times since the late 1800s, and I was lucky enough to witness this occur in person two years ago with Mark Ellis.  Yes, that's what she said.)

Being the home team is also advantageous because of our familiarity with the playing grounds.  Single girls like to wake up in the middle of the night and navigate our way to the bathroom in the dark without worrying about tripping over foreign objects.  When we are traveling as the "visiting team," we may not have the luxury of popping out of bed in the morning before he wakes up to brush our teeth, smooth our hair, and fix our eyeliner and mascara before climbing back into bed, pretending that we just naturally wake up like this and not some raccoon-eyed, disheveled bedheaded mess with dragon breath.  (A serious error, right there.)  We think it's rather unfair that boys wake up adorably rumpled.

Not having to travel is quite a luxury, especially when it takes us hours to get home from a visting team.  (It's a nightmare leaving even the parking lot at Dodger Stadium!)  And one thing single girls seriously dislike is the "walk of shame."  We don't know what is more harrowing: walking around willy nilly at 9am trying to avoid his neighbors/roommate in a short cocktail dress and 4" heels with dark circles under our eyes, or trying to sneak out of his place in the middle of the night and figuring out how to unlock his front door without waking him after we went into extra innings.

So how do single girls feel about home field advantage in the postseason?  Well, I guess that depends on who won the All Star game.

Friday, October 16, 2009

#8 Counting Calories

I know what you're thinking. But Single Girl 1.0, everybody counts calories. Yes, I realize that fat girls count calories, and skinny girls especially count calories. But I do believe that single girls are way more diligent with counting calories than non-single girls. I mean, let's face it, couples who eat together stay together. How often have we seen a non-single counterpart let herself go once she was in a satisfied and secure relationship? Exactly. Don't even get me started on those pregnant girls.

I've seen those silly applications for iPhones that keep track of calories for you. Whatever. Single girls have been mentally counting calories since we gained the freshman 15 in college. Despite the fact that I only studied up to linear algebra my sophomore year, I have calorie counting down to a science. My internal calorie counter functions like the quadratic equation (take THAT, b-squared minus 4ac).

Who knows how single girls acquire this skill. I wish I could say it were an innate quality. For me, I was brainwashed I learned what my daily caloric intake should be and how to calculate such daily caloric intake in a nutrition class taught at the local community college. (This single girl is a smart cookie and finished all her general education courses during summer school.) It was also there that I aquired the uncanny ability to discern how many calories are in what.  (One average strawberry = 2.7 calories, one slice of cheese = 88 calories, one walnut = 26 calories.)

When non-single girls gain weight, they think Uh oh, gotta lay off those margaritas. After all, everybody knows there are 450 calories in each of those bad boys - margaritas are usually the first things to go when non-single girls start "dieting." (I stopped drinking them after I realized that the calorie content from one margarita is 27% of my daily recommended caloric intake. Words of advice: tequila shot = 100 calories.)

Single girls don't gain weight and we don't "diet" - because we are counting calories ALL THE FRIGGIN' TIME.  Some people count sheep before bed, we count calories.  We know that calorie counting is not just beneficial to our bodies, it also sharpens our math skills (ie. adding calories, multiplying servings, subtracting burned calories), memory retention (ie. what have I eaten already, what is my current calorie count, how many calories have I already burned) AND foresight (ie. what should I avoid eating, how many calories will I burn walking around the mall for an hour).

An example. Let's say I am allowing myself to eat ordering lunch today.  For the sake of simplicity, I am having my favorite meal at Chick-fil-A: a Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich (on a golden wheat bun, no pickle) with honey roasted BBQ sauce (one packet), waffle fries (size small) with three ketchup packets, and a Diet Coke (size small).  Already in my head, I am thinking 430 + 60 + (280/2 [I am sharing the waffle fries with a friend]) + (3*10) + 0 (yay, Diet Coke) = 660.  And because I ran six miles this morning (100 calories burned per mile = 100*6 = 600 calories burned) AND skipped breakfast (zero calories consumed), I have really only consumed 660 - 600 = 60 calories for the day.

Hallelujah!  I believe I have enough calories left over to consume several cocktails tonight!  (One vodka soda = 90 calories)

Thursday, October 15, 2009

#7 Hiding During the Bouquet Toss

It is hard enough for a single girl to attend a wedding by herself, let alone find some unlucky schmuck to be our date. Bringing a guy we are casually dating to a wedding has bad news bears written all over it, especially at the moment when the bride and groom are exchanging vows. This is usually the part where some of us get all misty-eyed (because our best friend has found the "love of her life" and we can't rely on her to take us out for cocktails anymore and talk shit about the guys we're dating because she is, ugh, MARRIED, and that just totally changes the dynamic of our friendship, so we're really mourning the loss of a good wing-girl), and our date gets all shifty and awkward like we expect him to drop down on one knee and propose right then and there. Note to wedding dates: we don't.

Weddings are generally infested with couples. The smattering of singles are banished - er, seated together at a table in the back of the ballroom. It doesn't even matter how we know (or don't know) each other, we are a grab bag of guests who have one lone thing in common: we are unmarried singles. You can usually see other guests glancing nervously at us, whispering, "Who are they?" Ohhh...that's the singles table. "Ohhh...tsk tsk."

Obviously, single girls are already a little sensitive, maybe even a little prickly, at the thought of being alone. And single. At a wedding. Is it not bad enough that you have sat us next to your groom's creepy co-worker with the mild case of halitosis? That we are getting lecherous stares from the single groomsmen? That now you want to single us out (pun intended) and shine a BIG FRIGGIN' SPOTLIGHT on us (literally and figuratively) in the middle of the dance floor so we can supposedly make a big fuss and clamor over each other for a bouquet of seasonal flowers that probably set you back $200?

Why don't you just make us wear a sandwich board that says "LOOK AT ME!!! I'M SINGLE!!! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!!! LET'S GET ME MARRIED!!!"

If by chance, we aren't hiding in the restroom or on the smoking patio or under the table, and one of your attendants has succeeded in dragging us out begrudgingly to the center of the room, notice how we are lurking towards the back of the assembled crowd of single girls - behind your little 12-year old nieces. Oh no, you are NOT trying to throw it directly AT me!

One thing single girls dislike is our married friends' attempts at having us cross over to their side. They waste absolutely no time.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

#6 Trenchcoats

In light of this "storm watch," I was inspired to write about trenchcoats. And not just trenchcoats, but what we have (or don't have) on under these trenchcoats and where we are going with said trenchcoats.

Yes, boys, single girls like to show up at your doorstep wearing nothing but a trenchcoat and lingerie (and really high heels). And you thought this was one of your sexual fantasies? Wrong! Single girls like to have fun, too. However, I believe this to be an underperformed cliche for many reasons.

Firstly, single girls don't just show up on any doorstep practically naked with only an overcoat. Oh, no. We might do this when we feel like he's deserved it - basically positive reinforcement for good behavior (there goes our psychology degrees working again). Has he been especially thoughtful/attentive/sweet? Yes? Good. We might do this when we're in a celebratory mood. Is it his birthday?/Did he just get a promotion? Yes? Good. Ultimately, he needs to earn it.

Proceeding, single girls worry about logistics. How do we get from point A to point B without literally exposing ourselves? No doubt, we will have our trenchcoats on, but single girls who live in metropolitan areas with subterranean transportation systems may opt to take taxis. Single girls with our own vehicles may choose to pack some clothes in an "emergency" bag, just in case. (Single girls like having "just in case" overnight bags in their trunks anyway.)

Next, the arrival. If he does not live alone, this poses another hurdle for us as we would prefer to show up on his doorstep without worrying about his roommate(s), or god forbid, parents answering the door. The last thing we want to be concerned with is an overly chivalrous male roommate who offers to take our coat upon entering his abode.

Even if he does live alone, we need to be 120% certain that he is in fact alone. A worst case scenario is showing up at his house on his birthday (or the day of his big promotion), almost naked under a trenchcoat, only to be greeted by the hoards of people he invited over to help him celebrate - and now we have five overly chivalrous dudes offering to take our coat. Classic Bridget Jones moment.

Who knew that arriving on his doorstep in a trenchcoat could be so difficult?
So why do we do it? Honestly, we're secretly thrilled to be almost nude running around town. Single girls like being exhibitionists (in more ways than one). We do it because once the trenchcoat comes off, that jaw-dropping, OMFG look he has on his face is so amazingly gratifying and slightly empowering.

Most of all, single girls aim to be the stuff of legends. We want to be that girl he dated who showed up at his doorstep in nothing but a trenchcoat and lingerie.

Monday, October 12, 2009

#5 Ambiguously Using the Phrase "Hooked Up"

There is an age-old belief that real ladies don't kiss and tell. But everyone knows this is complete bullshit. All girls kiss and tell, single or not-single, ladies or wenches. "Kiss and tell" is an archaic idiom that originated in the 1960s - ironically, at the height of the "sexual revolution" when "free love" was rampant and women stopped wearing bras after reading Betty Friedan's Feminine Mystique.

Single girls like talking about our sexploits or complaining about our lack of sexploits. (In fact, these are two of the most popular topics for discussion amongst single girls. Well, right behind world politics and our country's gross domestic income, of course.) Most of the time, it is even our non-single counterparts who encourage us to divulge our capers and misadventures as single girls because they apparently lack the sexual melange that we have, and hope to live vicariously through us. (I say "apparently" because I find it extremely odd that having a boyfriend/spouse means you have sex even less frequently than some of us do.)

By definition, the phrase "hooking up" is ambiguous. According to The Hookup Handbook: A Single Girl's Guide to Living It Up, "hooking up" could mean anything from "making out to doing the nasty." And it is this sense of ambiguity that single girls love.

Friday night dates and Saturday night shenanigans are usually discussed over Sunday brunch. (Single girls like Sunday brunch, much like single guys like Sunday football.) Sunday is our day to confess our sins - who hooked up with whom and how.

"So what happened last night between you and Michael/Jon/Brian?"

"Nothing, we just hooked up."

"Nothing, we just hooked up" is a perfectly acceptable answer. You're probably thinking: But this could mean anything! How does she know if you kissed him, gave him a blow job, or had a threesome with him? How is "nothing, we just hooked up" not infuriatingly ambiguous?

Some moron once said that your own worst critic is yourself. Wrong. A single girl's worst critic is another single girl. Between our monthly bouts with PMS and occasionally dealing with our single girlfriends mentally judging us (passive aggression at its finest!), single girls have it rough.

Maybe nothing happened, but we don't want to come off as a prude and have our friends psychoanalyze our "intimacy issues" again. Maybe something did happen, but we don't want to look like a slut and have our friends psychoanalyze our "low self-esteem issues" again. Some single girls think they can dispense (unwanted) therapy on us since they have degrees in psychology. "Nothing, we just hooked up" is our way of avoiding that.

Or maybe it's just a coy 21st century version of "I don't kiss and tell."

Friday, October 9, 2009

#4 Having Our Own Bathroom

Part of the challenge of being a single girl is that single girls don't like to share. I suppose we aren't wired the same way as our serially monogamous counterparts who have no qualms about sharing. Compromise? No thanks. Compromising just means nobody gets what they really want.

One of the biggest luxuries about being a single girl is having my own bathroom. I don't know how those Brady Bunch kids did it, but I stopped sharing a bathroom with anybody once I graduated from college several years ago (okay, maybe more than just several years ago) and moved into a charming two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with one roommate. (Note the 1:1 ratio of bathroom to inhabitant.)

There is a common misconception that girls don't have bowel movements. Contrary to this belief, we do occasionally have to go #2. But because of this ridiculous notion that girls "don't do that," we are irrationally petrified of doing anything resembling a bowel movement except in the privacy of our own bathrooms. (I know some girls who can't even do a #2 in public restrooms. Not even in the super swanky ones like at Neiman Marcus!) This is one of the main reasons why we don't like sleeping over at his house. The first time I ever went on a weekender with a dude, I booked us a suite with two bathrooms.

Not having to share a bathroom is more than just knowing the toilet seat is always down (where it should be). I can honestly say without exaggerating that single girls spend at least three hours a day in the bathroom. We spend at least 12% of our time in the bathroom! I know! This may sound nuts, but we have our reasons. And they're all very good reasons.

What are we doing in there?  I would say maybe 1% of our time is actually spent sitting on the toilet. The remaining time is spent buffing, shaving (in all sorts of nooks and crannies), polishing, moisturizing, soaking, lathering, brushing, moisturizing (under-eye this time), flossing (very important), tweezing, exfoliating, spritzing, waxing, moisturizing (anti-aging cream this time), and of course, examining.

The best part of not sharing a bathroom is unadulterated examination of our bodies. Single girls can spend literally HOURS of time looking at ourselves in the mirror. It's not what you may think. We especially like to stare at our pores, look for grey hairs, watch for potential wrinkles, poke at cellulite, pinch the fat on our sides, examine stretch marks and monitor zits. The bathroom is where we can look at our flaws and figure out what to do about them and how to hide them.

Single girls are consistently judged more so than our non-single peers. The bathroom is where we like to store things without worrying about prying eyes judging us - not for our preference in condoms, not for being on our period (single girls like to leave a box of tampons out during this "time of month"), not for having three different kinds of foot cream (those 4" stilettos are hard on our feet), and not for our poor eyesight (since contact lens providers like printing our prescription on those darn boxes).

Having my own bathroom is glorious. The only bad thing about not having someone yelling at my hair clogging up the drain is that I actually have to unclog my own hair out of the drain. Ick.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

#3 Learning His Last Name

Probably one of the few things you remember from learning Shakespeare in eleventh grade is "What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!" So what is in a name? (And why are we naming roses?)

Single girls LOVE learning his last name. Whether we meet him at a bar, at a barbecue, at the gym, or at the supermarket, we are SO thrilled when we can discover his last name. To us, it's like winning a prize.

How do we do this, you ask? Sometimes he makes it easy for us when all his old football buddies call him by his last name. (I guess it's some macho guy thing or something.) Sometimes we use our bionic ears to overhear him close out his tab at the bar (single girls like when he keeps an open tab, by the way). Sometimes he just literally hands it to us in the form of a business card when we meet him at a networking event. And other times, we resort to a little creativity. (Like having our cousin at the FBI run his license plate number. Just kidding! Sorta.)

So why is learning his last name so important to us?

First of all, programing "Holden (firefighter from San Francisco)" looks stupid in our phone. (And possibly slutty. Just because single girls aren't having sex with only one person doesn't mean we're slutty.) Plus, I went through a period in my life where every other dude I met was named Brian/Bryan, John/Jonathan/Jon or Michael/Mike. At some point, I couldn't remember which Mike I was trying to avoid, which Brian I had hooked up with or which Jon I had hooked up with and was trying to avoid.

Do you see how confusing it can get for us when single girls don't name our "roses" properly?

Secondly, learning his last name potentially opens up an entire gold mine of information about him, thanks to the magic of the internet. Mostly Google. And social networking sites like Facebook and LinkedIn. (In fact, single girls like Google stalking so much, it's going to be its own post!) Single girls like information. Knowledge is power.

Finally, single girls like learning his last name because we are already imagining ourselves potentially getting married to him. This may sound silly, but dudes don't have to worry about changing their last names. Now, some of us single girls have already made up our minds about keeping our own last names; but for those of us who are unsure, we want to know what our names may sound like after we exchange vows and fill out a thousand forms to legally change our names to his.

Remember "Marcy Darcy" from Married With Children? Or "Corky Sherwood Forest" from Murphy Brown? Or "Julia Guglia" from The Wedding Singer? We want to avoid that.

So what's in a name, Juliet? Well, a lot. I suppose you didn't know any better being only 14 and all. But did you really have to get all emo on us and die so tragically? Tsk, teenagers those days.