The Untaken Road

For all travel updates I have a new website!! Please go to www.theuntakenroad.com, a series of women's voices across the open road of America!

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.

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.

Mazz: 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…

Twitterpated

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:

Alexis: “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!

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...

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!

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.

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 café. “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.

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, sauté in fine wines”…..you 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.

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?

“Juliet...you 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.

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.

Single for the holidays

I love the holidays….I love the songs, the food, the décor. I like being able to walk around in a Santa hat and shout out 'ho ho ho' with good reason. I like being naughy AND nice. I enjoy the bustle of holiday shopping, trying to pick out the perfect gift for the perfect person. This year however, I had many less presents to purchase. And it wasn’t because my family turned Grinch. It was because... this year I was single.

I have no idea how I managed to snare boyfriends all the prior holiday seasons past….but I always had someone to wrap for, someone to snuggle up to, someone who knew exactly how I liked my eggnog spiked….if you know what I mean.

Part of me found my brazen singleness liberating…why, I could kiss whomever I wanted….bring on the mistletoe! In fact I could walk around with a permanent mistletoe swig attached to the top of my head! Fa la la la la…….

But then I remembered…There weren’t many available kissing options where I was going for the holidays----I was going to a small town in the great arctic north….where the odds are good, but the goods are odd.

So instead of doing what most women do, and try to score a date before New Years, I decided stay single rather than getting cozy with a grizzled one tooth wonder. I would use the time to reflect on my many months of singledom, and take the lessons learned into the New Year……with hope and aspiration for a better dating future.

2008 Dating Lessons Learned
1. Datus Hiatus is overrated. It does sound really cool to say that you are PURPOSELY choosing not to date and er…uh…“work on things” but really….how much celibacy can one take? It’s a cop-out. We all know it. No one wants a hiatus. Not from sex anyway.

2. Be bold. From Brazil we learned that if we want it, we can have it. Rashly kissing men is the way of the future. Initiating the first move is not only warranted, it’s being asked for! Being afraid of rejection is soooo 2008….in 2009 it time to seize the bull by the horns. What do we have to lose?

3. Try not to drink too much on a first date. Especially if you are like me and get chatty. Remember the escapade with Dr Love? Too many wines had me drunk driving him home…AFTER he heard my entire life saga complete with details from orchestra camp. There never was a second date.

4. Do not strive for stability at the expense of passion. You will undoubtedly get bored. Remember when Alexis was caught between two men, the stable planner and the crazy band boy? Well, let’s just say that stability is nice and all, but wears thin after missionary position #2,043. Get a guy to throw you up against a fence, please.

5. Learn to flirt. Don’t waste time on men you don’t like, but when a prince charming comes your way don’t stare at your toes. Look into his eyes. And wink. Or grab him. Whatever works.

And most importantly, when you know what you want go after it. Dec 31, 2008……find that someone you want to kiss. Kick off the new year right.

Bringing Brazil Bold to San Francisco

Coming back to San Francisco after being in the mecca of men was not easy.
And it wasn’t just the bronzed bodies that we missed….it was the brazen attitudes, the alpha male confidence, the apparent sexual desire, and the courage to do whatever it took to approach a woman. I don’t think I have uttered “damn, boy!” so many times.

Now, we have spoken about alpha males before. Yes they DO exist in San Francisco…but not only are they hard to some by, the few alluring ones are so focused on their own alpha male activities (corporate ladders and iron man titles) that we don’t see them out on the dance floor that often. In fact last time I went out on the SF dance floor I felt I had more balls than the entire male contingent.
Sadly, compared to Brazil, most of San Francisco’s male population is well…..just wimpy.

Luckily, I have a solution. What American men need to become bold is what Brazilian men are naturally equipped with….and no I don’t just mean an impressive banana hammock. What I mean is unbelievable confidence.

Yup, that’s right ladies…we need to do a little ego stoking. True, men do enjoy the hunt….but I think in this day and age they are so lost we need to give them a GPS, binoculars, and even some ammunition.

This means we must make the first move without um, making it look like we are making the first move. Tricky yes….but better than being stuck on the planet of wimps! Let’s transform them! Even if it means pushing a sock down their pants! Trust me, the world will be a much better place.

From Wimp To Alpha—Make the Man Bold Tactics:
Below are a few ideas….with a few options (SF bold or Brazil Bold). Choose the right method for the situation and man.

Touching: As humans we are programmed to respond positively to touch. It makes us happy, hopeful, and yes, even horny.
San Francisco Bold: Graceful touches on the arm, the thigh, any body part while in a conversation gives a man the signal he needs to take things a step further.
Brazil Bold: Go beyond a simple pat and stroke his thigh….and the pair the stroke with a smile or a wink.

Phone numbers: Give it first. What do you have to lose? Men forget to ask half the time. (remember my highly unscientific poll from before?—75% of men are grateful when a woman leads the charge). Next time you chat up a hottie, don’t leave without providing him a way to connect with you.
San Francisco Bold: make sure to always have enough cards on hand to doll one out. Even the skinniest of clutches should have room for a couple.
Brazil Bold: Write your digits on his arm. Offer him a special “incentive” if he calls you the next day. Better yet tell him you will fast forward that incentive to tonight if he programs your number in his blackberry and makes a date on the spot.

Leading the charge: Grab his hand. Seriously. Take his hand and lead him somewhere….
San Francisco Bold: Lead him to a quieter place to talk. Then talk.
Brazil Bold: Lead him to a quieter place….then kiss him. Ask his name afterward. (If the kiss warrants it, that is). A free kiss—unless you have a harelip, what man would refuse that?

Wear less clothes: Duh-no wonder Brazilian men approach women so fervently—Brazilian women don’t wear much. Like a deer caught in headlights the man can’t look away. Unless you are in an office environment, if you’ve got it flaunt it.
San Francisco bold: Figure out what your best feature is (legs, breasts, waist, etc). Design your wardrobe to show this body part off EVERY time you go out on the town….this best feature will become emblazoned in the mind of men. They’ll dream about it at night, they’ll discuss it with their friends. They’ll have to get to know it better.
Brazil Bold: Show off every body part. Let your breasts rub up against the chest of the man you are talking to. Bat your eyes frequently. Make excuses to bend over. Make the men crazy until they HAVE to make a move or they’ll split their pants. As Marvio (a very alpha Brazilian) told me….”Women are ruled by their heart, men by the dicks. If you want to control a man, learn how to manipulate that thing in his pants.”

Now to put my money where my mouth is….off to enjoy the weekend and attempt to Brazilify my town.

The Pursuit of Passion: Bold in Brazil

In efforts to shred all hesitation and be bold, Mazz and I skipped the usual turkey dinner and headed south. South America that is.

As we boarded the plane we stripped ourselves of prudish thoughts, work anxiety, American mores, and anything thing else that would hinder us in our hedonistic quest. We were going to Brazil and we were going to embrace oily tanners (risking skin cancer), thong bikinis (risking exposed cellulite), samba steps (risking humiliation) and a new-found lust for life.

Thong bikinis on overweight men are indeed noteworthy, but the thing that amazes me the most about Brazil is the smiles. Everyone is ecstatic to be alive...from the children playing soccer in the favela streets, to the 90 year old wrinkly grandmothers dancing samba, to the Brazilian models strutting their stuff down the sandy boardwalk. No one there worries about work deadlines, the economy or if their next date makes proper dinner reservations.

I realized the main reason behind the smiles…..sex. Sex and lots of it. No one waits until the third date here…oh no, they don’t even wait until they know your name. In fact, names are not really important at all.....

Getting to "know one another"

In brazil the process is beautifully simple. You walk across a dance floor in a club and two strong hands grab your waist from behind. You flip around and there before you know it, you are given the "Brazilian handshake," the typical male-female greeting of a tongue heartily thrust down your throat. Well hello there, mister. After a quick “is he is hot enough" check, you handshake him back. Depending on the handshake initiation angle, sometimes it is impossible to really see their face. Therefore many times a friend must be recruited to give you a hand signal indicating if you should go in or not. For Mazz and I, pulling the ear meant "oh yes, baby" and touching the nose meant "get the hell away from that dwarf."

If you are lucky and landed a hot one, after a dance or two you are thrown up against the club wall for the next step in "getting to know one another." Within one hour, you are asked if you want to go ‘down by the lake,’ code word for make dirty jungle love in the backseat of a tiny Fiat with no power steering. Sadly, Mazz and I have lived in the U.S. for too long. Going "Fiat" just wasn’t going to happen.

I tried to explain this to my stallion-like suitor. “But I do not understand you Americans," he said in his meshed Portuguese-Spanglish. “Us beautiful. Sex beautiful. Feels good. What’s the problem?”

What WAS the problem? Why can we be make-out whores but refuse to go much further?

In the age of condoms, birth control, and dental dams, what was stopping us? Do numbers on the bed posts really mean that much? Are we afraid of falling in love with our one night encounter? Or are we basically OCD with cleanliness?

Pushed up against a wall, Georgi and I were enjoying the Brazilian process for getting to know one another. As a hand crept up my skirt I was infused with passion and wildness…..but as the hand crept further up I couldn’t stop the American mind. "Where else has his hand been tonight?” “How many hoos has the hand ‘hooed’?” “Has he even washed it?” Dear lord where was the Purell when you needed it?

I had to escape….. I hastily gave out an illegible phone number and headed to the bar destined for vodka. Mazz was talking to an attractive stranger and all of a sudden captured in a mouth cleaning embrace (the Brazilians are not shy kissers). Ho hum….what should I do…I scanned the crowd not wanting to be left out. EVERYONE was making out! Seriously once the clock strikes 2:00 a.m. the entire dance floor is paired off. Thankfully a solo attractive approached me—the brother of Mazz’s new friend. And there we go: round two make out for the evening. It’s a stay-put lip gloss paradise. But once again unwilling to "Fiat," Mazz and I headed home….amazed at how much fun kissing was. We decided: we are bringing back making out to San Francisco! Full-on tongue at the local dance floor.

The next day Georgi called me asking me if I wanted to hang out again and perhaps resume our "getting to you know you." However, kissing Georgi seemed like ages ago…..and why commit to one when I was in hot surfer paradise? Time for another evening of boldness….

BE BOLD

Bold is the new black. It’s time to stop caring, take risks, and do whatever the hell feels right in the moment. Dating books are going in the trash, friends' advice on mute. For once let’s stop listening to our heart (too hurt from the past), our brain (far too analytical), and heed our gut.
Before, we worried so much about our flirting techniques we became paralyzed. We refused to look men in the eyes and stammered in conversation making sexual innuendos come across as knock-knock jokes. Our cool and “easy breezy” emails took four hours to compose (at least mine did). We over-thought the perfect balance of passion and stability and let ourselves become confused, wracked with indecision over what it was we really wanted. There. In the moment. We nervously wrought our hands as a man leaned in for a kiss, wondering how soft or how aggressive to be….or minds raced with “is he the one” “Is my lipstick rubbing off” and “what the hell does he think that tongue maneuver is” while we lost our sense of spontaneity and any essence of seduction.

Thinking too much is a bad thing. In our 20s we leapt into action and embraced NOT thinking. Drugged on cheap beers and youth we let guys sweep us off our feet with a mere accent or wink. I remember a younger me when my Spanish lover, Javier, and I rode up the elevator in an old building after a date. Javier suddenly stopped the elevator mid floor and asked me if I had ever made love in one. I said “Uh no…” He then asked “Pues, quieres ahora…Well do you want to now?” Ahh yes, back then romance moved too quickly for any second guessing. What are we so fearful of now? My friends and I decided to forget the past haunts and live life like we were 22 again. Bold and sinfully beautiful.

Tuesday night: Alexis, feeling too peppy to head home after a work cocktail hour, decides to step into a local brasserie for a nightcap. Yes, solo. It was filled with men. At first she wonders if she just should give up, go home and watch a Lifetime movie. But daring to be bold, walks up the bar and orders something dark red. She introduces herself to all the men, heartily shaking their hands and instantly becomes their best friend. All of a sudden the brasserie announces it was hosting the Top Chef Challenge. Alexis had managed to gracefully walk into one of the best culinary events of the year. Free chef-prepared concoctions for everyone! Alexis meets the men behind the masterpiece and dances on the tables with a plate of fois grois and her new friends. She left the brasserie 7 business cards lighter.

Wednesday night: Holly heads out on a date with a boring banker she is decidedly uninterested in. But inspired by a wave of boldness, she decides to change the course of the evening. Instead of making small talk about stock portfolios, she doubled the martini order and asked her date to dance. To Snoop Dog. She reports later, “I have no idea if I even like this guy but when the smooch time came I went into full force.” She certainly liked him après kiss. Apparently the boring banker was a rockstar with his lips. Who knew?


Thursday Night: Mazz's friend TK, on a flight from NYC to the midwest, engineered a more demure version of the mile-high manuever. As she was boarding the plane she noticed the young, handsome pilot. After a quick wedding ring scan (none, check), she strategized her move. The drink cart came by and TK tentatively held out her business card and asked the flight attendant if the pilot was single. "Jimmy?!?! I'll find out!" The attendant grabbed the business card, abandoned the cart and raced up to the phone to communicate with the cockpit. Just as TK was regretting her move the cockpit door swung open and the flight attendant rushed back with a note: 'Drink after we land?' A few cocktails later she and Jimmy officially became members of the "club." Well... if the Red airport lounge bathroom counts.

And what have I done, you may ask? Well, datus hiatus is dead, and I decided that since I am miserable at flirting (see prior posts) I’ll just skip that step. Tuesday: After chatting up an English man in a bar I realize I must leave for a dinner engagement. I give him my card and ask if we can ‘continue later.’ We are ‘continuing’ tomorrow. Wednesday: Out with an old friend for 1 am commissary cocktails he asks to kiss me. What the hell, I think. The whole friends-can’t-kiss rule is stupid. Thursday: Inspired by that logic I accept a dinner invitation by another friend (of a friend). Going in with no expectations or thoughts beyond the menu, I ended up having a wonderful time. Friends ask me if I worry about the friend dynamic and the 'group' and what will this mean. Why does everything have to ‘mean’ something besides the moment it is in? And yes, I know the cleverly named rule ‘don’t shit in the pool’, but hell, life is short. Keeping things clean, ironed and separated is boring. Time to get a little messy.

Knowing What to Do and When to Judge

I know when you are cozily settled into a relationship like a down comforter it’s easy to judge the frenzied singles around you. Why watch train wreck reality TV when you have single 30 something girlfriends? Instead of letting ‘Rock of Love' make you feel better about your life, just let us. Our drunken standups, our midnight maulings, our infamous “yes-no” dances to men that are blatantly wrong for us…..ahhh yes…..isn’t it all entertaining?

Laugh with us, advise with us, but please hold the judgment.

I have been accused of not giving guys enough of a chance. Mazz gets directed to give guys LESS of a chance. And Alexis is told she is discriminatory because she turned down a paraplegic.

C’mon people. It’s hard to figure out what the best course of action is. Give too much of a chance and you risk ending up in a long term dead end relationship. (i.e. the relationship with a truly ‘nice guy’ that you can’t have sex with unless you pretend he is Peirce Bronson). Give too little and you may too quickly neglect a potential diamond in the rough (i.e. sometimes all it takes is a new haircut!).

How much of a chance do you give? When do you really know?


In these delicate situations each woman needs to decide the best course of action for herself. I know one woman, Louisa, who told me that she seriously knows in two dates. Another friend of mine needs to give it two months. Men reveal themselves differently and women decide things differently. I, myself, have been rather impulsive and once moved to Europe for a man I knew for mere weeks. Was this stupid? Perhaps, but I certainly learned a lot from it (including a new language).

Deciding how traditional to be is also a personal choice without a right answer. My (lovely old fashioned) brother tells me to let the man make the first move on all occasions. One of my ('new' fashioned) gay friends thinks I should walk on over to a cute guy at a bar and give him a hearty crotch grab to indicate my love. I think letting things unfold naturally and traditionally is nice but I also think you have to give it a kickstart every once and a while and take risks. Crotch grab or maybe even a wink? In a totally unscientific poll we have found that for every time a woman initiates giving a man her number at least 50% results in a date. (less if number was given out while shooting tequila). In another very unscientific poll I asked my guy friends if they would appreciate it if a girl kickstarted the phone number game. It was about 75% and one guy even said ‘sometimes I just forget to ask and kick myself later.”

So coupled women…don’t judge us…let us be! I run marathons---I’ll probably never fall for a chain smokin’ guy who flunked gum class. And single gals…..get out there and start playing around with your own rules and kickstart a thing or two. Nothing ventured nothing gained....especially when no one is judging!

Keepin' it Casual

In the age where we video conference to avoid having to go to the office early and navigate driving directions on our small iPhone screen because we can't handle printing (it's sooo 2002), why would dating be any less lazy? Why would we ever think of making an extra effort to communicate with one another? Men have been known throughout history to do the bare minimum it takes to generate a positive response. And now with technology on their side they are doing less and less when it comes to pursuing a woman. When was the last time you had a moonlit serenade at your window? I see. Now, when was the last time you had an entire relationship based on text messages?

Yes, yes, so called technological "advances" are really setbacks when it comes to communication. It has sadly become socially acceptable to avoid any sense of personal connection and use only the short cut keys when engaging with one another.
For example, the old date necessity, the phone call, is dead. It has been replaced with texting, emails, and Facebook wall comments. And if you are so lucky as to recieve a bonafide email to your personal account (i.e., NOT a message on a social networking site saying "hot outfit"), it is likely less than one paragraph. I have not had a proper letter since my college boyfriend wrote me from overseas. Internet cafes hadn't quite made it yet.

COPY PASTE ME

In my short stint of internet dating I realized that many emails men sent me were form letters. Yes...men would actually write a generic email saying something like "you seem great, nice smile" and blast it out to a hundred women. Is it really that difficult to actually read a profile and comment on something you find intriguing? Apparently. Copy paste mentality goes beyond cyber dating. When men find a formula that works they seem to use it again and again. Says B, a male friend of mine, "I always take my first dates to the same place. The last thing I want to do is think about something special..."

But isn't thinking about something special half the fun?

FACEBOOK MY DATE

I have been asked out a few times on Facebook. No, not by those random Italian men in Speedos with small dogs who request to be my "friend" but rather by new confirmed "friends." When a guy likes you apparently it is easier to add you as a Facebook friend than ask for your phone number. Once you are confirmed "friends" he will then comment on some of your profile pictures before sending you a message like "we should hang out sometime." This Facebook banter will occur for a few weeks before an actual date is decided upon.


TEXT SEX

The last date I had (last night actually, but the whiskey-driven topic is for another blog post) was preempted by TWO WEEKS of texting. There was never a phone call or email between us.

Now, texting does have its upside:
-Messages are clear and concise as you only have 160 characters.
-You can text from any scenario, even from the bathroom while on another date.

But the pros stop there. It took 300 messages to actually agree upon a venue and time. Potential humor was lost in desperation to fit in wit with my 160 character limit. In addition I felt unimportant. Shouldn’t a date require more effort that "lol" (laughing out loud), nagi (not a good idea) and wtfait (why the fuck am I texting). A text makes everything seem so casual and in turn, unromantic. Flirting by text can work….but also easily backfire. I once sent a spicy sexual innuendo to my then boyfriend. Or so I thought. Texting (albeit carelessly) makes it easy to accidentally type in the wrong address. Like many, I have too many names in my phone and boyfriend B got mixed up with boss B. There was no more text sex after that.

Ahhh...communication. What I would give for an old fashioned love letter. But for now I must go—my message light on my Blackberry is blinking.

Filling the Pipeline

When I first started my "datus hiatus" I felt powerful. I felt I was in control of my happiness. Celibacy was a comfortable state of being. After all, in a pinch a sit-up or two will work to satisfy those uh...urges... Being standoffish and date free was almost fun...

Well, that "comfortable, fun" feeling has ended. My external body may be strong from yoga but my internals feel the tumbleweeds blowing around. Sit-ups or a sad quivering piece of rubber/plastic just won't cut it anymore. And instead spending Saturday nights sorting through my moldy chevre selection while reading 'overcoming overeating' or 'why being alone is powerful,' I would give my left kneecap AND a case of cherished vino to have a engaging dinner date with someone who, well, I found engaging. My socks want to be knocked off, and perhaps even my pants too! Enough failures--it's time to seriously tackle the pipeline.

Easier said than done. In some cities filling the man pipeline with decent specimens is easy for marathon-running, Manolo-savvy, and wine-literate gals like my female entourage. Not the case in San Francisco. Not only do most men stubbornly insist on staying in one of three categories: sensitive ponytail birkenstock man, overly-conceited triathlete guy, or gay (hey, love you guys but a girl needs some action!), but we seem to also mess up when the few good ones appear.

Task Number 1-Finding the good one. (you know, the straddle-worthy pipeline filler)
Task Number 2-Reeling him in (i.e., flirting: ensuring your cold shoulder bitch or dwarf lover tendencies don't scare him off)

Situation A: Task 1- Successful. Task 2- A bust.
Last week after deciding to have just "one more" glass of wine at a posh neighborhood bar, Alexis and I spotted a hot stranger sitting by himself. The 'stranger alone at a upscale bar' find! Woo hoo! "One more glass" turned into oh..."twelve more" as we delightedly made it our mission to keep the man company. However, much to my dismay, the wine took over my brain and I once again found myself overly chatty and talking Mr. Hot Man's ear off about orchestra camp and the desperate plight of 30 year old women in San Francisco. Alexis, alarmed even through her wine haze, hit me a few times on my left arm to make me realize I should stop talking. Now. Ouch. Getting hit by a martial arts black belt isn't fun. Mazz later heard the tale and told me that I am no longer allowed alcohol on first dates or first man encounters.....but I am sorry...how do you meet a man without alcohol?


Sitation B: Task 1- A failure, Task 2-Passed but wish it didn't
I decided to listen to Mazz and agreed that my next date would be tea after a hatha yoga class. Mr. Earthy (AKA 'Mr. I'm OK with no alcohol as I am on a cleanse') and I chatted about vegetarianism and politics and hiking. Interesting but *yawn* no sex appeal. Well for me. Oddly, this man seemed to have fallen in love with my random spouting off. I actually got propositioned for marriage. Truth be told, he needed to extend his visa to stay in the country. But he also wanted to see me every day for the next week. Yikes. I'm back to alcohol...at least it eases the pain.

So how do we execute both tasks....and remain (relatively) sober?

Besides that shady match.com site, where can we meet wonderful men that are educated, aren't afraid of alcohol (or afraid of me with alcohol), and like to hike, bike and paint? And then how do we reel them in?

A few ideas Alexis, Mazz and I are going to try out:

1. College sports game venues: Alcohol lovin' real guys that eat meat. Who cares which team they root for! We will wow them with our cheerleading abilities.
2. Art openings: The sophisticated intellectual or the poser who at least likes to look sophisticated and intellectual...we will brush up on the artists beforehand as to come across "learned."
3. Mingling at Whole Foods: At 'Whole Paycheck' you will find a man with a wallet who is produce savvy....I'll offer to help him pick out the 'ripe ones.'
4. This year's Halloween party: The only time when looking as slutty as possible works in our favor.
5. The line to vote at the polls: He must be politically savvy to understand all of SF's propositions...and I intend to ask everyone in line about them.

Once again I'll be practicing flirting. It's no longer a side hobby, it's a necessity for survival.

Flirting Take Two: Flirting Without Mauling

There is a fine line between acting unattainably mysterious and flirtatious. Apparently there is also a fine line between letting a man know you are interested (i.e. flirting) and flat out mauling him.
For some reason I have no idea where any of these lines are and just seem to make mistake after mistake. On my attempts to be flirty I have tried out different maneuvers and lines with new men. Sadly, they either come out 1)too standoffish or 2)freakishly stalker-like (alas my attempts to overcompensate for my "cold shoulder bitch" syndrome is not working). Below I have recreated snippets of conversations that detail both my pathetic attempts at wit as well as the lines I should have said. (you know the ones I think of the next day while in the shower). Read on and learn from my mistakes.

Topic #1: Hobbies
For some reason my hobby of writing has come up numerous times (second to the fact I played the cello in orchestra camp). However, I am unable to present this hobby well.

Unattainable: “Oh writing? Well, currently I write a dating blog that discusses how random ALL my dates are. Will you be featured on it? Perhaps….but there are just so MANY to write about.”
Plain Mauling: “I wrote a poem about you last night. I rhymed your last name with the Algerian term for love.”
Flirtatious would have been: ‘Yes, I do write on the side….maybe someday I’ll write about you. “(wink, wink).

Topic #2: Sports
Another topic that has come up is athletic hobbies. We all love our exercise...some more than others.

Unattainable: “I thoroughly love the San Francisco tendency to get into triathlons…in fact I know a lot of men that have done an iron man. Plain biking just seems wimpy now, doesn’t it? “
Plain Mauling: “I had a dream that we were on the same relay team for the Wildflower triathlon together. We had matching outfits……” (go into dream details…..)
Flirtatious would have been: “You like to bike? Well you DO seem fit….I bet you could do an iron man if you wanted!” (light touch on bicep)

Topic #3: Wine
And lastly the wonderful topic of wine…for no conversation in San Francisco would be complete without it.

Unattainable: (after going to bar solo) “ Ok—I have two glasses of wine for us…one a Syrah and one a Zin. If you guess which is which you get 10 points. If not….well….hmmmm….”
Plain Mauling: “Oh I’d love a second pour…..but I seem to have a low tolerance these days and may grope you if I have another….so in that case…..” (odd laugh)
Flirtatious would have been: “I adore deep seductive reds. Why don’t you pick out a good one for us?”

As indicated the “flirtatious would have been” lines were concocted in my head the next day. In real life, I either uttered the unattainable ones or the mauling ones or some terrible combination of both. It’s a mystery why I do this. When I leave the house in pearls and heels to meet my date I FEEL mysterious. I feel sexy. Then upon enterting the date venue, my confidence runs away (to the chocolate store for safety, no doubt) and I am left alone and helpless to utter ridiculous things.

How do we combat this? How do we become more appealing? Do we downplay our talents? Do we need to up play theirs? Or do we just need to make more seductive sighs and arm touches? And most importantly how do we gain the COURAGE to do all this? Is flirting really a confidence play or an art form? I think I know what flirting is when I see it, but I cannot seem to do it myself. For some reason I freeze up and cannot so much as touch the outer sleeve of a man's jacket to save my life. It is likely due to a fear of intimacy, the fact that my confidence is at the chocolate store, and my plain retarded-ness in speaking to another human being. No longer am I Juliet, who with “any other name would remain just as sweet.” Sadly no, I have transformed into the female Steve Erkle.

But practice makes perfect…..I have just ordered some dating books for outside help on the matter. Stay tuned for their learnings and more attempts to be coy and alluring. Of course, dear readers, any tips are welcome on the comment form here too!!

In the Waiting Room, Learning to Flirt

So... it's been three days since my first date w/ 'Dr. Luv.' AKA- the date gone awry. Awry aside, by now I still would have expected the usual invite for the second date, so I was becoming a bit unnerved after three days of radio silence. I debated my potential courses of action.

1. I could send a nice message with a thank you for the evening.
2. I could expand upon the thank you with explanations of why my friend Eva randomly appeared there and why I felt compelled to overdose on vino and stories about my childhood trips to Orchestra Camp.
3. I could do nothing…following the guidance of the bible “He’s just not that into you.”

I decided upon course of action number three. Mainly because this poor man is likely scared of me. But also because as is typical with most men, I am not really into them unless it is safely apparent that they are not into me…so even if option one or two provided a decent response I would likely find a way to self sabotage again. And with my current work schedule a second date wouldn’t be able to happen for another two weeks anyway. Sigh.

On Friday night my group male and female friends ordered a round of $2 beers and discussed why women self sabotage and the various self sabotage types:

The Cold Shoulder Bitch
This woman uses the cold shoulder as a defense mechanism. Even if she has been pining away for a man, reading Pablo Neruda poetry for months in his honor, she will appear about as interested in him as a girl in a orthopedic shoe store. God forbid he ever have the slightest clue that she may fancy him for more than a doormat. The cold shoulder bitch NEVER initiates conversation. But once in one, she may even go so far as to disdainfully make comments that highlight her indifference or even contempt. “Oh you graduated first in your class. Hmm…likely didn’t have a social life did you?” Or “So you think you are sporty? Well I bet you haven’t done an iron man like most of the men I know.” In conversations she may make a point to stare at her watch or out the window, anywhere but into the man’s soft brown eyes. Why, if she did that, she would lose all composure.

The Pathetic Introvert
The Pathetic Introvert is actually quite gregarious in other settings. But when approached by a man she likes she simply cannot stop staring at her shoes. When asked a question by her dream man she may mumble, stutter, and say, “Ack I am so sorry…..I am just such a word klutz today” and then dismiss herself to go to the bathroom where she will try to give herself self affirmations in the mirror before bursting into tears. IF she manages will wipe clean her mascara tracks and reappear she will be tempted to talk about the weather rather than anything cool, feeling it may be safer. ‘Soo…..it’s been really humid hasn’t it?”

The Dwarf Lover
The Dwarf Lover prevents herself from talking to normal decent men by getting engaged in conversations with dwarfs—or unattractive Lord of The Ring Enthusiasts — just because it seems a safe bet. The Dwarf Lover doesn’t want to appear rude and extract herself from the conversation, so she sits talking to them for hours rather then be whisked away by a shining knight. Oh yes, she will patiently listen to the dwarf's latest video game championship tales and fondness for Vienna sausages while trying to find something remarkable about her current predicament. If a non-dwarf (i.e., shiny knight) tries to rescue her, she won’t allow it, thinking that she will go to hell unless she engages in her fair quota of dwarf conversations for the week.

The Show Off
The Show Off masks her feelings of inadequacy by feeling a compulsive need to let her current flame know ALL her achievements. Oh no, there is no gradual ‘unfolding of the blossom’ in this case. On a first date the show off will let a suitor know her SAT scores, marathon time, favorite winery in Napa where they know her by name, as well as her fondness for daredevil stunts. She hopes to woo a man by intimidation and will never let it be known that she has two left feet on the dance floor or that it took her three years to be potty trained (well actually no one really does need to know that).

To figure out what type I was, my lovely friends (male and female) put me to the test. We picked out a cute guy in the bar and I was to “go get ‘em.” I thought I was having a great time with witty banter until my friends pulled me away.

“What on earth are you doing?!”
“You looked like you were at a funeral”
"Your hands were clenching the bar in distress"
“You made no effort to do anything flirty and did that annoying haughty laugh thing”

Oh. I thought that “haughty laugh thing” WAS flirting.

It was time for flirt remedial school. I was taught how to give light touches on the arm, stroke my neck, and look into eyes seductively. This was all done in a dive bar over Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. I was feeling ridiculous….but then again I have been single for a long time. If it takes dive bar flirt training to once again make my bedroom fit for two, then so be it.
I will put my lessons to good use this week. Touch, stare, laugh non-haughtily. Got it. Now how to multi-task? Hopefully I manage to find a few places to practice my 'come hither' moves inbetween my hectic work schedule, spin class, and of course blog writing! Boys, watch out!