Boy game and girl game are two very different things. Let’s be honest, I would never want to compete with the plethora of dating coaches/relationship experts that exist in the Bay Area because…I’m just not that kinda girl.

But I get it…heck, I’ve been there, I’ve dated a hobo in disguise too…well…reformed vagrant of society. Hers unceremoniously dumped her, mine bicycled off into the sunset becoming a born again Christian — it’s all very San Francisco. And I’m in love with San Francisco…the kinda love that makes you swoon and feel like a stampede of cart-wheeling bunny rabbits squealing “YAY!”. I love the ambiguity of the city and its people but it comes with a price. The admission fee into this carnival-esque scene means that I’m going to have to ask a lot of questions: Gay? Straight? Vegan? Married? Child-Support? Homeless? Do you like America?!?

So, girl game is essentially navigating the murky waters of the dating pool in 4″ heels. BTW please don’t pee in the pool. All the excess chlorine has already stripped many of their boldness (a common complaint of SF-daters). Where did all the boldness go? To the gays, who comprises 36% of single bread in the area. I completely adore the fabulously gay out-of-the-closet-down-the-hall fellas because they understand confidence — the ultimate aphrodisiac. Death to oysters, chocolate and whipped cream because NO ONE feels sexy stuffed to the gills like a beached whale. Is it no wonder that the growing rate of obesity and overweight Americans contribute to the dwindling 44% of those that feel sexually satisfied in their lives?

That’s right, I said it! After reading this blog post, you should get your tush to a gym and work it out.

Remember that almost crazy blind date that didn’t love America?

I couldn’t bring myself to actually go on a physical date with him because during the middle of our phone conversation I realized I was clenching my teeth and my knuckles had turned white — I was agitated. A higher power intervened and disconnected our cell phones with some heavy static. When he called back to continue our conversation I opted not to pickup. Instead, I sent a polite text message the next day:

I’m going to respectfully decline our upcoming date because all I’d do is argue with you. And that’s not a good place for me to be. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

It was short, simple, to the point and exactly the type of message I’d want to get if roles were reversed. Because I can respect a person who deals with life head-on, instead of the non-confrontational Houdini method of choice boys like subscribing to. However, I was utterly unprepared for the onslaught of words that followed:

1. Sorry you thought we were arguing last night. It was definitely not my intent to “argue” with you. So, I apologize if it came across as arguing.
2. But, I do like to discuss with people what the situation is and get their opinion. So, I thought we were discussing fashion, art, and design market dynamics.
3. That way I sometimes learn a new perspective…or other people learn a new perspective. I thought we were just dicussing the dynamics of fashion, art & design.
4. But, I must have conveyed the discussion poorly because you thought we were arguing. So, my apologies about that. I feel bad for making you feel that way.
5. I love to meet new people and learn new perspective, and we were discussing perspectives last night.
6. But discussing perspectives, I generally find that you’ll have a range of perspectives that differ. Then, you’ll find a range of perspectives which are similar.
7. So, somewhere there are also similar perspectives. So…if you prefer not to meet, I understand. But, I think it’s always fun to meet new people.
8. Who knows, maybe I can set you up with somebody you might life. I’ve set up about approximately 50 dates for friends in the last 2 years. Anyways…let me know.
9. Have a great day!

NINE text messages. In a row. I had to shut off my phone because I was in a meeting. Besides my own practical safety of not wanting to meet a crazy, I’m not sure I’d want to be setup on a date by a crazy. Because crazy people befriend more crazies and I’m crazy enough as is.

Dear Mr. Right (or Mr. Right Now),

We haven’t been properly introduced but I’ve dreamed about you ever since I was a little girl and old enough to wish on stars. You’re my star — knight in shining armor coming to rescue me, your damsel in distress. When we meet, I’ll know it’s you because I’ll be overcome with emotion equivalent to an asthma attack and you’ll sweep me off my feet, tossing me over your shoulder like a fireman…or pirate. I’ll exclaim to my girlfriends that, I’m gonna lasso that man, and marry him! because you give me goosebumps, heart palpitations and even come with joint healthcare!

You won’t need lines, or gimmicks, or routines, because you’ll have me at “HELLO” — actually words won’t be necessary at all. You’ll look deep into my eyes and fall head over heels where you’ll promptly whisk me away to our own private island / chateau in France / winery in Napa. Not only will you be rolling in dough from saving the lives of starving children in Africa, you’ll have made it big during the dotcom boom but have the sensibility to pullout before the Great Recession.

You’ll understand that when I say, “Do you want dessert?” what I really mean is “I want dessert, but I’m too much of a pig to eat it on my own.” But even if I gain 5, 10, 50lbs, you’ll still think I’m sexy and F*able. But please, never when I’m not in the mood…

You’ll throw rocks at my window in the middle of the night to capture my attention and hold a boombox over your head, professing your undying love in the middle of a thunderstorm. You will not be gay. You’ll burst in the chapel and save me from marrying the douchebag standing to my left, because you have the sixth sense to help me even when I don’t know it myself.

And I’ll wait for you because I’m a princess — my daddy told me so! From the moment I could comprehend, I’ve been force-feed feeble tales of Cinderella, Snow White & Pocahontas. The Little Mermaid ain’t got nothin’ on me because I already have both my feet. No flipper babies for us!

So, what do you say, Mr. Right? Let’s go get hitched and ride off into the sunset together…

Yours Forever,
A douchette baguette

There’s a phenomenon that happens during online dating, word of mouth dating and pretty much any type of dating where I’m not meeting them face-2-face in person during the round one bout. When hundreds of profiles are available at your fingertips, it’s common to sift through them like resumes — searching for accomplishments and passing judgement based on skill + qualifications. But if you’ve ever been on the hiring side of a job interview, candidates can be “good on paper” and bad in person.

I’ve met boys that go out of their way to tell me they’re “good on paper”. What is that suppose to mean?!? Is he trying to advertise his above average 5th grade reading level? Or is he telling me that he no longer lives with his parents? I can’t help but think that he’s actually looking for a gold-digger, but then becomes sufficiently miffed when the goldfish eats him out of house & home.

Boys tell me that padded bras are the devil’s incarnate because it amounts to a whole lot of false advertising. I hate false advertising too — there’s only so much guesstimating a girl can do with her hands.

Every generation is different and Generation Y (those born between 1978-1990) is no exception. We’re like Generation X on steroids. All the things that shaped Generation X: globalization & technology (Boeing 747), immediacy of information (internet), crumbling family structure (divorce) are reaching new heights. MTV has taught Generation Y to filter information at rapid pace and the iPhone not only gives us the power of google at our fingertips — we can take it with us in our pocket!

The prevailing parenting structure of Gen Yers had our elders letting us believe we could be anything we wanted to be. Many youth sports today incorporate a “no-cut policy“. We were winners if we just showed up for the game. People call it positive reinforcement. I call it bullshit.

The typical Gen Yer boy believes he’s the best thing since sliced bread. He’s a winner because he’s been told he’s special, different, and unique his whole life. And he probably is all of the above because his mother needed fertility drugs to help in his conception at age 35+. While growing up, he was coddled and cooed at as if he was the next Messiah. If I want to date him, I have to become Mary Magdalene. She’s the “penitent sinner” aka reformed whore, and the questionable wife of Jesus.

That must be why some girls dress like whores. They haven’t quite figured out the reform part yet.

I’m seriously beginning to believe that the art of conversation is going the way of the dodo bird. Because you and me…

We need to talk.

Did that sentence send chills down your spine? Are you frozen with fear? When your significant other whispers those four little words, does your stomach take a turn for the worse? Because all I’m asking for is a little conversation.

This is reason why I despise online dating and favor meetings in the flesh. Because I want the butterflies, the stolen glances, and the pregnant pauses in conversation. Somewhere along the line people forgot what good conversation could bring. It enhances any situation — job interviews are fun and even peace treaties are signed.

Back in the day, the saying was:

Men want to marry a woman who is a chef in the kitchen, a maid in the living room, and a whore in the bedroom.

But honestly, nowadays, you can hire the first two and just focus on being the third. Heck, you can probably hire all three! It’s less about conforming to the every mold. Each girl wants a boy she can, “have a conversation with…be on the same wavelength…I want him to get me.” These words are the new black. However, be wise with your words because I once read, “a pick-up line is as rude as a pinch on the butt, pushing for intimacy, yet leaving choice to the other person.” Don’t unclass yourself by giving a line, strive for the conversation.

Turkey day has come and gone, and I’ve got the texts to prove it! Because on Thanksgiving, I received text messages from a few different slices of bread — all wishing me a gobble gobble good day. I was feeling the love. But then it hit me, what if it’s a fake text?!? What if…I’ve been mass texted?!?

I’m sure you’ve heard that corny line: Don’t hate the player, hate the game. I effing hate the player AND the game — even the texting game. Because in the same time it takes to craft a sweet little message: “Happy Thanksgiving” it begins to wield the wordy weight of mass destruction when he presses SEND to his entire iphone black book. I’ve now become suspicious of all generic sounding texts. Even something initially sweet: “happy thanksgiving babygirl” has me thinking that he’s papi chulo-ing it all over the ‘hood. What happened to an old fashioned phone call?!? Because I give good phone.

It really comes down to being specific. I would love personalized messages every time I get a text. It’s really not rocket science, and here’s my quick n’easy formula:

• Greeting. Hey [insert name/nickname/pet name here]
• Personalized Message. Happy Turkey Day. Wish I could be there for some yummy tryptophan naptime.
• Purpose. Let’s have a picnic with the leftovers. I’ll bring the bread.

Just make sure after you go to all that trouble of personalizing a perfect message, send it to the right person. Being on the wrong end of someone’s cupcaking gives me the heebeegeebees: “Heeey Angela. I’m thankful for meeting you and…”

There’s entire schools of dating that say death to coffee dates. I vehemently disagree. Because I love coffee. I mainlined the stuff during college and it still makes regular appearances in my life every morning. It’s even good for you — it lowers your risk of diabetes, Parkinson’s, and colon cancer. Basically, it’s my number two food group after bread.

Here’s the common gripes I hear about coffee dates:

• Coffee dates usually happen in the day, and people aren’t hooking up in broad daylight. This date didn’t magically appear on your calendar. Hopefully you had the balls to grab the dykey bull by its horns to propose: “Let’s go on a date.” You can easily follow that statement with: “Anytime after 5ish works for me…”

• It’s too casual…so it’s unclear that it’s a date. If you’re not making your intentions known throughout the date then you’re wasting time. Who cares if the ambiance is casual? Because 97% percent of Americans own at least one denim item and the average woman has seven pairs of jeans in her wardrobe. So, deep down, we kinda dig (dark denim) sexycasualcool.

• There’s no alcohol, and I need some liquid courage. Bailey’s goes great with coffee. If you’re jonesing for the harder stuff and the kitschy-bohemian-cozy-sofa-coffeehouse you’ve picked doesn’t serve liquor then be prepared to whip out a shiny flask from your inside coat pocket. Sure, it might say: “I’m an alcoholic” but it also means you’re thoughtful enough to share your secret stash with me — and that’s kinda sweet. But seriously, if you need alcohol on a date…you’ve got bigger issues.

Here’s another lesser known fact about coffee dates. There’s a link between the physical warmth of a handling a hot cup of joe that can change one’s attitude toward a stranger. A warm cup = perceived warm personality. But if you’re positively sure your personality is smoking hot, then live dangerously — go for ice cream.

The hair is a disheveled mess of a mop and it looks like you rolled around in bed for the past hour…continuously. The clothes are a perfect mix of broken-in dirty wash and rumpled unpretentiousness. The makeup is flawlessly imperfect, smudged to create the perfect smokey eye…

But that’s my favorite look to rock on the weekends — day or night.

My walk of shame isn’t the typical one you’re thinking. Remember how I said that I live with a nice older couple? I might have conveniently forgotten to mention that I have a curfew. Don’t ask me to explain, it’s just one of those things I accept, but that doesn’t mean I’m entirely comfortable letting everyone know. The only way I can get through this conversation is to avoid direct eye contact and mumble the words quickly while praying the ground swallows me up on the spot.

So, my walk of shame is when I’ve got to depart earlier than everyone else for the night. Sometimes this walk of shame is short: down the driveway of a house, other times it’s a few city blocks through quiet and desolate neighborhoods and in worst case scenarios it’s a entire plane ride. I’ve made friends with security guards just so I don’t have to walk this stretch of darkness by myself. But most of the time, I find myself walking to my car alone, divorced from the party and even when I reach the safety of my car, it’s like being jilted at the altar. Do your friends / girlfriends / whatevers a favor…walk the girl to her car.