Thursday, June 11, 2009

Tricky Underwear

Why do we camouflage what we eventually reveal?

Andrew Christian, a celebrity designer recently featured on Bravo, recently came to San Francisco to promote his new line of goods. Smocks, frocks or pantsuits, you ask? Not exactly. Andrew Christian designs form fitting men's underwear. This was one fashion show I was not going to miss.

However, I soon realized that Andrew's products were not just for the well sculpted and even better endowed. Darn! Unlike most tight briefs that require an Adonis-like body to be flattering, Andrew designs a more "enhancing" version for the everyday male. Through innovative materials, Andrew's products firm the buttocks, hide love handles and promote the package. Although we may laugh at a new garment that mimics a sock in the pants, we also must acknowledge that men are becoming as vain as we are.

"Vain?!" my dear down-to-earth girlfriends exclaim indignantly. "Vain? Moi? I hike and bike! I don't try to change my appearance!"

I run to their bedroom and open up their top dresser drawer. "Aha - what is this we have here?" I say holding up two pairs of Spanx, the modern day girdle. The guilty Spanx were situated right by a series of cleverly padded bras.

I then run over to the bathroom and pull out multiple shades of under eye concealer, lip plumping lipsticks and expensive (yet strangely always ineffective) cellulite cream.

"And you say you do not want to change your appearance! Shame shame. And what is this?" I point to a 25 percent off tooth whitening coupon attached to the fridge by a magnet.

They all look shyly away, well knowing that we are all tempted to pay for the next trick to make us look less like we really are.

After booking my 3rd wax appointment for the month, I wondered if beauty has gotten the best of us. In this city of the slim and small pored, women and men alike are eternally on the hamster wheel trying to keep up. We go to all lengths to fool others into thinking we are a media image of perfection. But isn't it sometimes silly to pad and promote and suck it in when our main goal is just to get naked anyway? Should we stop false advertising and just be ourselves from the first date? For once the penis enhancing underwear is removed, all will know the true size of the member. And once my bra with its sci-fi industrial padding construction comes off, my date will discover that I am a far cry from Dolly Parton.

So on my next date I decide to forgo the accoutrements that add two cup sizes and force my stomach to twist inside itself. I may look less sculpted, but I will also be one step closer to being naked. And that is the real goal anyway.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Wax on-Wax Off

Spring has more than sprung…May is San Francisco’s entry into summer.

The wind ceases, the fog holds back, and the sun bakes every hill and valley. We all know this warmth won’t last long so we San Franciscans shed our layers, slather ourselves with SPF and scantily clad, prance outdoors as if there were no tomorrow.

As the clothing comes off, we become more aware of our grooming habits. In this vain city, body hair is an unwelcome accessory. Upper lips are waxed, eyebrows plucked, and the “down there” is given new special consideration.

For the hot weather doesn’t just inspire bikinis and Speedos, it also makes us want to um, take full advantage of the hot summer nights. Who wants unruly hair to get in the way of sensuality?

However, although lips, eyebrows, and backs are easy to take care of, I realized that there is no standard protocol for the regions below the belt.

Challenged to look sleek in smaller swimsuits, women left the bushes long ago. My friends' nether region styling ranges from tiny landing strips to '12-year-old bare.' They know that that anything more puts them 15 years behind the sexual fashion curve. In fact, many men I know consider bushes a deal breaker.

“I am not using a flashlight to help me navigate,”
says one. “Wax all that off!”

“Just enough hair to show she’s a woman…that would be about eight of them.” says another.

“A strip to guide the way, anymore, I won’t play,”
rhymes a third.

Whew. Good thing I have my bikini waxer on retainer.

Although men are very opinionated when it comes to women’s waxing routines, they are just starting to figure out their own. ‘Manscaping’ has only been in the metrosexual male’s lexicon for a short amount of time. Each man has his own manscaping practice ranging from a weekly comb to Nair. Over brunch I ask the ladies what they have seen and what they prefer: bald eagle, trimmed hedge, or the full monty (of hair, that is)?

Christi: (visiting from Europe): Men in Europe don’t even comb it. 'Au naturel'is the euro standard. Sadly, no one knows any different. 'Scaping' is considered gay. Although it would be nice to not have to bring dental floss on dates. …

Vicki: The less the better. I hate random hairs flying around. Seriously who wants to have to vacuum after sex? Plus, a solid shave makes their 'junk’ look bigger.

I am not a fan of no hair...that's just weird. But do I like a neat trim…it’s respectful. Otherwise I feel the guy doesn’t care. If you have people over for dinner, you have a clean house, right?

I do like a clean house. And a respectful male. Luckily right now I have both. If only it were hot in San Francisco all year round…

Sunday, April 26, 2009


Twitterpated—a quite odd behavior that overcomes humans as they become completely enamored with another human being. Victims of the Twitterpated bug describe it as an unmistakable feeling of becoming weak kneed, emotionally flighty, and prone to bouts of impromptu joy.

According to researchers on the subject, Twitterpated incidents usually occur in Springtime—the weather warms, dresses come out, flesh is revealed, and birds chirp romantically to newly budding flowers. Love is indeed in the air. Once they become Twitterpated, people are oblivious to the world around them and are often caught whistling “It’s a Beautiful World,” buying daisies and greetings strangers on the street citing random bits of poetry.

My dear friend Alexis is one of these people. She skips down the San Francisco streets with her arms in the air. She smiles and giggles and quite frankly, has lost her ability to appreciate anything dry or sarcastic. I have tried everything I can to bring her back down to earth with sobering tales of unromantic things. I mentioned the recent shooting in the Tenderloin, told her of the dire straits of Zimbabwe, and reminded her that our 401K plans were now 201Ks. Alas, nothing worked. Alexis had drunk the kool-aide of the hopelessly smitten and wore her perma-grin proudly. Hmmppfff……I cannot believe the Twitterpated epidemic has claimed one of my own.

Alexis is proof that yes, love is possible even among the alpha females and alpha males in this never-never land of a city.

I am happy for my dear friend yet also quite perplexed. This Twitterpated kool-aide frightens me. Although I once used to fall in love with anyone who had a foreign accent, I now have turned into a disbelieving curmudgeon (Down with Love is my favorite motto). I wonders if I will ever get there again.

It’s not I have not found someone Twitterpated worthy. In fact, the fabulous man I recently met is worthy of many poetic odes.

However, for some reason I am incapable of releasing and letting myself fall. Swooning, an act I used to perform on a regular basis just isn’t as easy a feat anymore. I am terrified throwing out my back. Or falling hard to the ground. Or making a mistake. Or losing my cool and collected composure and have that THING take over my body, weaken my knees and knock the wind out of me. Alpha females, after all, like to be in control.

My friends have three theories:

“Maybe he’s just not the right guy. I am a huge believer in ‘When you know, you know.’ Instantly. It should hit you over the head like a ton of bricks. Chemistry is unmistakable…and losing control inevitable. But trust me, it’s the best ride you will ever take!”

Mazz: "Hmmm…perhaps you are not allowing yourself to "twitterpate" because you are subconsciously attempting to protect youself? I think many women are so afraid of making a wrong choice or getting hurt that they don't allow themselves to fall for someone unless he is "perfect" or "their type." Juliet, "your type" in the past did write you love ballads and sail the isles, but he also turned out to be a manic depressive lunatic. Perhaps it's time to swap out a few "type" characteristics for some others? If you are sure to keep an open mind with this guy, you may be surprised at how quickly a non type twitterpates you."

Natalie: "Bah Humbug. Twitterpated is for the birds. It's a fleeting feeling that has no basis in reality. Getting to know (and fall in love with) someone takes time. Remember the time you flew across the world to end up with some crazy European that you came to despise? Rash does not equal love. Be patient. Do not force it, give it time, and nurture it to fruition..."

Which theory is correct? I guess time will tell. But one thing is for sure- even if it looks ridiculous, skipping down the street singing love songs sure does seem like fun!

Monday, April 20, 2009

I need a man...

Although my reader’s comments have been helpful, I was still feeling particularly perplexed by the blurred lines of gender roles in dating. Forgot splitting the check—there are far more important etiquette questions such as indicating interest, playing hard-to-get, and my personal challenge- remaining flirtatiously feminine after I sprained my ankle in boxing. Ack---I wish I could revert to 2nd grade and just pass the guy a note. “I like you, do you like me? Check box yes or no…”

Sadly I am no longer 7. At 30, dating is full of baggage, complications, and some defensive desire to remain cool and aloof. We hate games, yet everyone seems to tell us to play them. There is no knowing how much to hold back, how much information to give, and how independent we remain.

I had been seeing someone and had no clue how interested he was in me NOR if I should act interested in him. If we were 7 we would have sealed our love in a backyard game of catch-and-kiss. Instead we were both overanalyzing text messages trying to decipher the hidden meaning in poor punctuation. In taking the relationship forward is ‘less more’ or is ‘more more’? And in terms of 'the game' are my chances of winning better if I play coy or act smitten?

Looking for answers I went out with the boys and decided to take advantage of varying male opinions over good quality scotch. “Tell me boys, when newly dating, how much love should a gal show?” I got three different viewpoints from three different men.

Angelo: If I like a girl I am in her sh** all the time. There is no way I am going to give an opportunity for another dude to get in there and take what is rightfully mine. So Juliet, trust me, if he likes you, you will be overwhelmed with attention. I am talkin’ poetry at your window, love ballads played on your voicemail, etc. Stay coy-it’s enticing and will weed out the good from the bad. You do not need to do nothing, honey. In fact, do less.

Max: Well…the poetry may indeed come but only if the poor guy gets some buy-in. With the exception of Mr. Angelo here, many of us don’t have the mojo we once did. I mean ,women can easily substitute us for a piece of plastic in their nightstand drawer! We need to know that she’s into the real deal. You don't want to be the over eager beaver, but at least give us a hint. Not make us guess lest we guess wrong. That fragile male ego---we need cheerleaders to convince us to keep playing.

Charles: Juliet, I have known you for a long time. Honestly, I would hate to date you and your alpha female gang. You girls go beyond coy and star in this little intimidating one act show. “Look at me-I am in MENSA, I rock climb without a rope, I change my own energy saving light bulbs. ” Are you dating, Juliet, or just out to prove that you do not need a man? The men I know are not pompous jerks and frankly need more cheerleading along with that wonderful feeling that you NEED them. You do not seem to need anyone. Can’t you at least ask him to assemble a shoe rack for you?”

I was taken aback. I mean of course we don’t NEED a man. Or do we? I am lousy at assembling anything in my life and last time I tried to change a light bulb I fell off the chair and bruised my hip. I guess I need to stop pretending otherwise and let my guard down?

From boxer to Damsel here I go...

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Are we becoming the men we want to marry...

Tuesday evening my friend Alexis noticed a particularly interesting "thought" on her 'Deep Thoughts' daily calendar. She immediately emailed her closest friends a thought-provoking email with the deep thought du jour in the subject header. It was: “We are becoming the men we want to marry.”

A man? Moi? But I had little time to think about it as I was running late to boxing class. I picked up my sweaty 12 oz. gloves and felt my stomach to happily acknowledge the progress of my six pack. Hot—I was almost as tight at Matthew McConaughey. It never dawned on me to think of this as masculine. Can't muscles and dripping sweat be sexy on a woman in a Charlie’s Angels kind of way? Or did I resemble a testosterone infused beefcake?

Across town a much more femininely attired Mazz was debating restaurants. She was on date numero dos with Mac, and wanted to pick a place with the right ambiance and cuisine. It never occurred to her that HE should be the one picking the restaurant. In fact, given her Napa and Sonoma IQ, she expected the waiter to hand her the wine list as well. However, although Mazz was sure of her ordering savvy, she wasn’t sure what the new rules were for paying the bill. If we are assertive on the Syrah selection are we expected to be equally aggressive at grabbing the check? Are the days of females being romantically wined and dined coming to an end?

And somewhere between Mazz and myself, Eva was celebrating closing another big business deal that rivaled her husband’s. When they had children, would it make more sense for the family to have a stay-at-home dad or a stay-at-home mom?

I realized that somewhere the tables had turned-women were taking on roles traditionally reserved for men and doing a damn good job at them. Do we do this because we cannot find a man to do this for us? Or do we actually enjoy (the once deemed) masculine roles? And if we do, does this make us less feminine?

"I still want to be the girl," protested Mazz.

"And I can't help but act like a girl, even when it annoys me," responded Alexis. Indeed, I noted that even my most sure and powerful female friends still get girly and estrogen induced needy at times.

No matter how assertive we may be on selecting the venue for a date, we still turn into a quivering mass of pathetic-ness of the guy doesn’t call us the next day.

And no matter how strong our muscles are, we would be traumatized if they were larger than the those of the men we were dating. “I shouldn’t be able to beat up my boyfriend,” one girl commented, "he needs to protect me from the dangers of the world."

And although women like Eva gain glory from career success, they still are hesitant to take on the bread winner role in the family. “Is it wrong that I want to conquer the world yet still have someone take care of me?” another girl chimed in.

How do we balance our new-found Type A achiever goals with the pleasure of remaining feminine and nurturing? After all, romance is based upon deep sighs, wistful stares, and the feeling that we are beautiful and worth protecting. Romeo’s lines were NOT

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the alpha female dominatrix
Arise, fair alpha, and kill the envious moon with your boxing and powerpoints….”

No no…..Romeo was inspired by a fair maiden with eyes like the stars….and deep down we all want to be that type of inspiration to a man… while conquering the world at the same time!

Friday, March 6, 2009

When to Do the Deed

I was having a typical Friday happy hour in San Francisco—sipping overpriced bubbly and talking to well-heeled girls about dating wows and woes.

Jackie was perplexed. “I really like Alex,” she said. “We have been out several times laughing and smiling…but I am very hesitant to spend the night with him. I am fearful that once we sleep together he will lose interest.”

What?! Even though Jackie’s loins were aching to give Alex more, her carefully guarded mind wouldn’t let her for fear of being regarded as an “easy target” and immediately dismissed from relationship status.

But why? If two people are having fun, why wouldn’t the man want that to continue after sex? And if the sex is good wouldn’t that be all the more reason to come back for more?

Why is sex a trump card that can potentially end the game?

Alexis told her, “Jackie, I think you need to stop worrying. It seems like he genuinely likes you. And if you are aching to get naked, by all means give in to the seduction of the moment! I bet he’ll want MORE of you.”

I chimed in, “Yes, we shouldn’t have to deprive ourselves just because some an old fashioned woman with cobwebby loins wrote the book 'The Rules' and frightened us to frigidity.”

But I later realized that my words were only vacant mutterings.

With all our bags of experiences, giving in to the moment is increasingly challenging.

My 3rd encounter with an unnamed young man ended at my place at 2 in the morning. I was very excited to get this hot specimen all to myself. Now exactly what to do? Plan A: Show him my shoe collection. Plan B: Attack.

Plan B was initiated before we even closed the door. After all, weren’t walls invented to be slammed up against? However, executing the plan beyond the wall slam maneuver was easier said then done. Sometime during the bedroom tussle, my sex savvy faltered as Jackie’s words entered my mind. I was trapped in a scene from the movie “Love Actually” where the neurotic woman finally gets the hot guy (Carl) in her bedroom…only to be overly distracted from lovemaking by the constant chime of her phone ringing.

I had my own phone ringing—the crazy wheels of my mind. Although I appeared to be kissing I was really writing a list of profound questions in my brain.

1-What would happen the next morning? Would I still be able to make my morning spin class? Or would there be lingering? Is there a breakfast obligation?

2-Was I giving in too soon? Is a hot 2am hookup really saying sayonara to any form of relationship? But did I even want a relationship?

3-And regardless of relationship, if I were going to "do the deed" what was my assurance that it would be any good? What if he was a “wham bam thank you ma’am” type of guy? I certainly didn’t want to add another notch to my bedpost for a one-time 4 minute encounter.

Sigh. I certainly wasn’t going to solve the world’s problems that night. But the next day I made a new commitment to myself. Shut off the brain. Enjoy the moment. And pretend you are in love—even if it’s just for a few hours. If the man still leaves after an evening of sordid seduction, he wasn’t going to stay in the first place.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Dating is for the Disinterested

Last week a male friend of mine and I discussed how America is the only country that has this complicated game of ego and juggling we refer to as dating. Europeans don’t date multiple people at a time. Neither do Australians, South Americans, Asians or Africans. In other countries, courtship goes something like this:

1. Man sees woman he likes and gets weak-kneed.
2. Man, through ridiculous poetry or other gallant gesture, asks woman out. (Well, in France anyway. In Southeast Asia leaving a dairy cow on the front porch can be construed as sign of interest)
3. Woman says yes.
4. Man puts all his effort to impress this one (yes, only one) woman.
5. Woman spends her time wistfully thinking about this one (yes, only one) man.
6. After the first date the smitten two smile and sigh and build a couple-hood. They have no desire to meet anyone else…well, until the French man decides to take a mistress.

Minus the mistress part, why can’t we emulate the rest of the world? It’s romantic, it’s easy, and it’s a focused effort. Why do we feel a need to date multiple people and spread ourselves thin?

Theory Number #1-The Ego Boost:

Having multiple men interested in us makes us feel desirable and dreamy and puts an extra skip in our step. Never mind if it’s the homeless man on 6th and Market telling me I’m a “damn sexy bitch.” Attention, even from a crack pipe aficionado, feels good. Men, I believe, take this to another extreme. It’s an ego boost to have many women interested in them, yes. But if a man can master SLEEPING with multiple women….well, that must mean he is God. Even some translations of the Koran depict a man’s heaven as having sex with 72 (virgin) women. Of course here on earth any man that has 72 women sleeping with him likely isn’t that selective or have much else going on in his life.

Theory #2: “I don’t believe in love at first sight”--The Backup Plan

Gone are the days of falling in love with the dark stranger in the Starbuck’s cafĂ©. “Down with (immediate) Love” is the motto of the 30 somethings. As we get older and jaded we don’t trust a man after one or two dates and must have backups readily available. Even the book, “The Rules” advises us to have multiple dates with different men lined up so that we don’t become too attached to any one and risk a broken heart. The issue with the backup plan is that we never really are focused on one person, and always in the mindset that something better could come along. This lack of focus mutes any chance of a romantic success. During my FeDoo phase I double and triple booked men into my Saturday. God forbid I make one date special and prep with a bubble bath, blow out and Marvyn Gaye. The result was a frazzled FeDoo: frizzy hair, deathly tired, and no ability to keep the names of her daters straight. I realized that no man interested me enough to sacrifice my whole day prepping for, which brings me to Theory #3.

Theory #3: Disinterest.

Mazz was perplexed. One of the guys she had been casually dating wanted to spend time with her next weekend. But Wednesday-Sunday were designated for Happy hours, group dinners, singles parties, etc. “How can I find time to date this one boy when all my nights are filled looking for new boys?” she asked. Alexis responded wisely, “Perhaps if you are still dedicating time to find boys instead of going out with them, you haven't found the one you want to be with.” After all, even the douchiest of all douchebags are known to stop their philandering and looking for “something better” when they find someone they genuinely like.

Meet Stu—one legendary douchebag—now engaged. “I put the D in douchebag. I swore I would never settle. There were too many hot girls! But then I met Sarah. All of a sudden I started playing Louis Armstrong’s cheek-to-cheek and dancing with my broom at home. I daydreamed….. of us on deserted beaches, of us during the holidays, of us having a mini me. Sarah had none of the qualities on my long list of necessary attributes. (i.e. she wasn’t a Playgirl bunny, hated sports, and had a stuffed animal collection.). But it didn’t matter. I didn’t care about any list or dating anyone else that may “fit it better.” Instead of wanting to cast a wider net, I wanted to constrict mine around Sarah.”

So what’s a girl to do? Do we sit patiently until we meet a man that makes us want to dance with a broom? Or do we get out there and continue to meet men, even though some are about as interesting as a dirty sock? There has to be some balance. But I agree with Stu---the right person will make us throw our long “list” out the window. If only I knew where he was.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Quantity Vs. Quality.

Yes, there has been a lapse in blog entries…mainly because the new FeDoo’s life is jam-packed! In the past few weeks my girls and I have expanded our nets to meet as many available bachelors as we can. Although quantity, not quality was the motto.

Widening the nets meant three things---date younger, date older, and turn business into pleasure.

Dating older: In high school, age gaps were defined in terms of 1-2 years. Why, dating a boy a year ahead of you indicated a higher social status, automatically giving you access to the “cool circle.” If one year in high school got me "cool"—what about multiple years older now? Determined not to be an ageist, I decided that love had no upper threshold. This meant that yes, I did end up on a dinner date with a man who was in possession of a cane. And not the candy kind. The caned man, however was gentlemanly, thoughtful, and offered to take me to Paris for the weekend. He knew his wine, spoke of exotic places and had more romance than the entire striped-shirt Marina clan put together. Caned man put the “W” in woo. Alas, if only I were 60. I was tempted to accept the Paris offer but quickly thought of the SATC episode where Samantha ran out of the luxe penthouse at the sight of a droopy ass. All the wooing in the world won’t firm a saggy butt. I’m back to being an Ageist. Or perhaps a Firmist.

Dating younger: Back in high school, dating a boy a year younger indicated that you were a social pariah, not cool enough for a man with facial hair. Thanks to Demi Moore the tides have turned. Dating a younger man proves you still have a six pack.

The best thing about a younger boy is their sheer gratitude for dating you. Why, before they met you, these young men only had Saturday night dates with their right hand (a la the "reverse stranger"). In addition, these young pups are impressionable. Dating a young 20-something is like going to the store and purchasing a mix for “Create-your-own-man.” “Reduce the hoodie here, add a dash of Prada there, sautĂ© in fine wines”… get the picture.

Mazz met Bobbie out at a college bar. Never mind that he was born in 1986. He was chiseled and happy and eager to have a woman buy him beer. Mazz decided to pretend to be 23 as well….until the first date when young pup wanted to take the bus to dinner. And dinner was defined as $2 Taco Tuesday. Just like I couldn’t stomach a saggy ass for Paris, Mazz couldn’t forgo style for a tight one.

Business to Pleasure: Networking is the new black. In these recession times Rolodexes are more valuable than gold. But why use them just for business? At a technology launch party I met VC Savvy Eric. VC Savvy had a potential client for my firm. I was intrigued…and also curious if VC Savvy had potential for anything else. Thus we had a conference call on Wednesday and then a date on Thursday. The problem, I realized, with business to pleasure is the blurred lines. Do we expense the tab? Do we talk revenue projections or about where we grew up? And would a kiss interfere with my ability to garner more clients? Would I be seen as a girlfriend and less of a partner? I decided that in these troubled times, unless it’s true love, a man is not worth a career sacrifice.

So there you have it…. Lot of quantity and very little quality. I think I am about to throw in the FeDoo towel. It’s been a fun ride, but let’s face it, I’m a romantic. Surface level encounters are fun but too shallow for the wistful artist in me. In the spirit of Valentine’s Day I’ve decided to forgo quantity to wait for love…or at least a lot more “quality” lust. I am human after all.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Becoming a FeDoo (female douchebag)

In my hunt to further understand douchebags I dedicated the week to surrounding myself with the enigmatic species. Although my first inclination was to be judgmental of the D-bag way, I actually found that douchebags have some useful pieces of advice. The D-baggy men were on top of their game, made things happen and were leading pretty fabulous lives. What’s wrong with that? If Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City could “have sex like a man,” then why couldn’t I “date like a douchebag?” I decided to take some key douche bag traits and morph into a FeDoo-the female equivalent of our lovely male counterpart.

Top FeDoo Moves—stolen from the male douchebags:

Aggressiveness gets the prize: As previously mentioned, my flirting attempts are usually about as aggressive as a sloth in a coma. Douchebags are always aggressive though, even when approaching women that are clearly out of their league.

Therefore in an unnamed bar in San Francisco I decided to become an approacher of men. Not one or two but rather four rather attractive men were across the bar giving me the eye. At least one seemed to have an accent, my motivation for action. “Juliet,” my friend Eva said, “Go over there. You have nothing to lose. If you believe you’re hot, so will they. FeDoo it, honey.”

I downed a drink and trotted over while humming “Eye of the Tiger” for added confidence. “Hello boys,” I said. “Mind if I squeeze in here for a drinkie?” Hello boys. That’s all it took. Hours later the four Australians were still with us, flirting, chatting, and telling off color aboriginal jokes. The next morning the first text message to hit my screen was “G’day sexy.” Now...which hot Aussie to choose……or can FeDoos choose all four?

Equal opportunity: I have noticed that douchebags do not always have discriminating tastes. I have personally witnessed good looking D-bags make out with women that resemble old shoes. Not that I want to kiss aged leather, but perhaps we should be less selective, widen the pool, and see if anything good comes out of it? In a normal situation I don’t give a man the time of day unless I have measured his bicep circumference (yes, I carry a measuring tape in my handbag), gotten his IQ scores, medical records, and adequately quizzed him on Obama’s stimulus plan. 1.5% of the male population can survive my interrogation, which is likely contributing to my datus hiatus status. I decided to FeDoo it and be more open minded. If the guy can make me laugh, he’s in.

Make things happen: Douchebags make shit happen. They do not wait around for Lady Luck to play her hand. Rather, they spank Lady Luck on the ass. Some friends of mine had mentioned a male friend they had that I would likely get along with. “Platonic get along or naked get along?” I asked. “Perhaps both” they said. I could wait for the fates to bring us together OR I could give Luck a hearty ass slap. I propositioned my friends, “Here’s my photo, here’s my number. If he likes it, tell him to call.” I knew that if he had any douchebag in him he’d dial up. Over the weekend I got a ring. Score!

“Sooooooo…..I hear you like to eat and drink."
“Yes, I hear you like to eat and drink as well.”
“So what should two people do that like to eat and drink?”
Needless to say we decided against a walk in the park.
“Anything you don’t eat?”
I quickly decided not to list all my food allergies or pending diet plans. After all I was a FeDoo.
“Babe, I eat it all.”

Exaggeration does not equal lies: Douchebags don’t always lie but in order to get what they want they may exaggerate *slightly*. We all know too well that they are good at telling women what they want to hear in order to lure them into bed. So why shouldn’t we follow suit? If hot men guess that I am 25, I am certainly not going to correct them. In addition, if my job sounds too intimidating (for those 25 year old men, that is) I see nothing wrong with telling them I am a flight attendent. Men have a fetish for flight attendents. Therefore Mazz and I have memorized the entire United Airlines take off spiel so that we can repeat it in bars as proof of our employment status.

Hit on people you shouldn’t hit on: Douchebags hit on everyone showing no regard for social mores. Capitalizing on how douchebags go after every available female, I decided that I would go after every available male.

My brother was in town to visit his old b-school friends for a guys weekend. I quickly interrogated him on the status of each one –Single? Hot? Rich?

“ cannot date my friends—they are all douchebags.”
Little did he know that only piqued my interest.
“Well, your friend Arthur seems nice….”
"No." he said.

Obviously my brother was determined to keep me chaste for the weekend. Little did he know I was a new FeDoo and had no regard for morals. I decided to secretly scan his blackberry and determine the location of the male bonding party where I would make a "surprise" appearance.

Hours later I was dancing and grinding with Arthur. I distantly heard my brother's voice in the background.

“Hey who did Arthur pick up?"
“Oh, he’s with some 25 year old blond flight attendent.”
“She looks just like like……hey damnit Juliet!!!”

Once my brother discovered it was me I was promptly escorted off the dance floor and lectured. But not before I got in some “close dancing” and dropped off a phone number.

FeDoo-the way to live in 2009.

Monday, January 5, 2009

The Spectrum of Douchebags

As previously discussed, the alpha male quotient in San Francisco is low. And the few that appeal to us seem to be fondly referred to as Douchebags. Who wants a Douchebag? Certainly not me… but then again, there are some Dbag characteristics that we actually secretly like. After all, these men must have something good if they can snare so many women.

In the alpha male family there are multiple types of men….and all line up somewhere on the Douchebag spectrum. The trick is to find out where they lie, and ensure that you end up with one with moderate edge and not a million STDs. Yes yes, I am suggesting that a little Douchebag-ness isn’t all bad. My boss once told me, “Juliet, all men are Douchebags. You just have to find one that isn’t as much of one as the others.” Therefore, Mazz and I went to Aspen for New Years, possibly the Douchebag capital of the world, to do some research. Male confidence was high from either mass riches or the high altitude. Perfect research territory.

Minibag: This man is a Douchebag wannabe. He is a huge fan of Mystery, the pickup artist, and tries to learn all the secrets to attract women. He really has no game but pathetically tries to win you over by the pickup artist's #1 rule: first put you down and then build you up. Aspen is full of these men; those small-statured men that try to tell you how much better a skier they are than you. The Minibag may be confused with a Douchebag by his false air of confidence…but he will easily crumble. The way to determine his true wimp status is to remain aloof and disinterested. Only a true Douchebag will pursue you relentlessly. Whatever you do, don’t end up with a Minibag.... you'll be kicking him to the curb in no time.

Alpha Edgebag: The Alpha edgebag is the man that has minor Dbag characteristics. He is self assured, perhaps even cocky at times, and goes after what he wants. He is actually interesting and doesn’t allow his edge to go overboard to make you feel uncomfortable. Mazz and I spotted an Alpha Edgebag our fist night in Aspen. He approached us by saying he needed to sit closer to the fireplace for warmth. He then told tales of motorcycle trips, and through his Edgebag stories, managed to get Mazz to first gaze into his eyes, and then lock lips. This Alpha Edgebag assured Mazz he didn’t want to sleep with her, just kiss her…thus making her feel relaxed and well, more interested in sleeping with him. (For the record though, she didn’t—we were just here on a research trip and we never mix business with pleasure...). The Alpha Edgebag is delightfully smooth…..and has potential.

Moderate Dbag: The Moderate Douchebag is a bit more dangerous. His confidence is bullet proof and for some reason you never think to question anything he says. Aspen has many men in this category. The men that live for the highlife, immediately manage to plug into the most promising scene and are determined to be opportunistic when it comes to interchanges with the opposite sex. Some are more than opportunistic. They make things happen and women....come. One Moderate Dbag threw a very exclusive lingerie party in Aspen where women couldn’t get in unless they stripped down. Yes, the Moderate Dbag isn’t a relationship person…but thankfully never pretends that he is. However, the Moderate Dbag isn’t all bad…if you are okay with a 24 hour relationship.

Complete and Utter Douchebag (CUD): This is the man who would rather watch porn than have a bonafide conversation. The CUD isn’t always that attractive but through sheer will manages to sleaze his way from party to party, girl to girl, making inappropriate comments at all times. There is a legendary CUD in Aspen—Johnny Aspen. J.A. is mid-40s, never had one serious relationship and through shady wheelin’ and dealin’ made a shady fortune. J.A. doesn’ t care about meaningful interchanges or experiences—just material possessions and well-photographed parties. Through his non-stop hip gyrating and propensity to provide ‘party favors,’ he manages to get into every club and party. He also lies to women about his PJ (that's Private Jet for the Aspen illiterate) and/or his desire to get married to get them into bed. Beware of the CUD. Not only will you be duped, but you may not even have that great a time in the duping.

What type of Douchebag is right for you? Likely depends on what you want….long term, short term, no term. And remember that even the most endearing man with the courtesy of Carey Grant still has some Douchebag in him.