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I’m from Southern killer California, so very few things still excite me – and the hookup coming-of-age ritual pretty much YMCA’d me out back in seventh grade. So bar & the fairer bat mitzvahs definitely don’t make my weekend top-50 list pretty much ever – until now. Thanks to the hookup Federation of Los Angeles & 100hookup, we can take our DeLoreans for a spin (now that we actually have our licenses) and kick it old school in the spandex, latex and ever-chic tuxedo shirt for a bar mitzvah night you wish you could have enjoyed back in the day (now that you can actually use and abuse the open bar). I’ve rounded up my Heathers and my make shift brat pack will be making an appearance at the uber sweet simchah. On August 8th, we’re bringing thirteen back. Even Molly Ringwald’s escapades will pale in comparison. So get ready to “b/b m” the night away and bring even the slightly more elusive blasts from our pasts into the new millennium – Los Scandalous style. Every second, every moment, we’re gonna- gonna make it last.

Allow me to introduce you to a dating trend gaining more popularity than Michael Jackson’s parents’ house: friends with benefits. Mostly the arrangement is implemented when you find yourself in pre-nuptial purgatory, and the little label-less lover is a seemingly low-maintenance godsend. Suddenly, you’ve found yourself in the perfect relationship, and the only thing better than a boyfriend is the ease of speed-dial sex, guaranteed delivery within thirty minutes or less – and even Dominos has yet to perfect that deal amidst L.A. traffic. Plus, instead of carbs you’re opting for cardio, and saving money by not driving to the gym (your wallet will thank you later). Between the fabulousness of your new, easy affair, and freedom to find another lover with a later expiration date, women are learning the joy of this coital contract. If you read the fine print however, you’ll notice the tiny matter of heart v. head. You’re familiar with the case, you studied it back in high school (and a couple more times in college – but who’s counting). The little matter was crucial in implementing the new policy in which guys and gals establish guidelines to prevent the little nuisance known as love. Love is a complicated, high maintenance mess of a virtue that only serves to stress its victims into an early retirement from the dating game. Thus, the FWB arrangement was spawned to serve as your sexual savior. If only your iPhone had an app for that – we’d be completely self sufficient! So interview your available candidates, take ‘em for a test ride, and exercise the joy of the newfound fling freedom! Just be careful to uphold the lines in your little verbal agreement, lest you let love complicate your lives. Besides, it’s just until you find something better, right? Unless he finds it first.

High atop the endangered species list is “the nice hookup boy,” and though urban legend speaks of its existence, I’m beginning to doubt the myth. Every time I venture into the wide world of dating, I attract the one boy lacking in the aforementioned qualities. Either he’s from Montana, Georgia, Virginia or even Canada or he hails from Hell. Without the accompaniment of a little six-pointed silver star. In the same manner that Weho has perfected the homo-gaydar, my Jewdar needs some work. The handy little device is helpful in differentiating marked male models from acceptable dating material and the lack there of with its ability to shout out which among the group of boisterous Hollyweird boys is among the chosen. Said handy dandy device is instrumental in targeting the relationship worthy among a sea of spiritually-spawned scenesters and their less inconspicuous counter parts. In the future, I hope to upgrade my male magnet from the meek male attraction to a highly specialized grade “A” targeting system in which one can count on the ability to leave a location after having met a boy in possession of the right religious requirement. Until said software is available – I’ll be hiding under a rock – hibernating through the taunting temptation bros from different area codes have to offer.

Every once in a blue moon, I descend my throne in order to grace a guy with the gift of my presence. This usually coincides with hell freezing over and /or when swine have jumped off the pandemic train and into the air. Now you may be asking yourself, why on earth does this occurrence take place so rarely? Ladies, I will enlighten you. Simply stated, I am currently adhering to a new loser-free policy. Now it can be quite tricky to spot these underachievers. For one thing, they often blind you with grandiose hopes and dreams that make the immediate present get lost in the future. He wants to be a rockstar but right now he’s selling tickets at the makeshift box office located in the sardine-style square in front of the Roxy. Does he have potential? Abso-darn-lutely he does! Do you have all day to wait around and watch him realize it? No! You cannot DVR your lives, ladies, and there is no time to pause. Fast forward through the nonsense and get to the good part; meaning a guy who has a job and plays in a band after-school special style.

I’m not going to lie – the first few days of my new loser-free lifestyle were the hardest. I’m pretty sure my breaking point was when I got the urge to ask out every scenester I saw swaggering down the Sunset strip. This, my dears, is why they invented cell phones and the buddy system! You remember it, the guideline that states thou shalt be glued to the girl next to you when venturing out into the wonderful wide world. Well, dial her number and take her hand because the very first step is admitting you have a problem, and someone needs to text you directions so you can Rand-McNally your way out the dating hole you’ve dug for yourself. And before you get too comfortable with your six-foot-under resting place, you’re back to dating in the land of the living, sans the sorry souls you keep falling in there for. He may have been your favorite mistake, but just remember – even if it makes you happy – it can be that bad. So, friends do not let friends fall for losers, and remember to spot the signs of the ones that are not worthy of your time. Time is on your side, so long as you don’t let him waste it.

God was gracious enough to give us ten commandments years ago – guidelines which serve as a basis by which we can govern ourselves. Unfortunately, he neglected to include the dos and don’ts of dating among that list. Of course it’s no secret that this was done on purpose, something has to serve as holier-than-thou comic relief when the world gets to be too much, and how awesome for us that we’ve been nominated for that job (and no one in their right mind would turn down a job in this ridiculous economy).
So throughout history, guys and gals have endured relationships, often accompanied by several different shades of humility, in order to find “the one” in a world of what, six billion people? This trying task often lured even the purest at heart to indulge in any one of the seven deadly sins, hoping a walk on the wild side would lead them to their significant other.
So in pursuit of Mr. Right, chicks over the years have followed unrealistic guidelines that make fad dieting seem more successful, and for what!? Because someone else says they work? I’m pretty sure my absolute favorite example of this masochistic method is “The Rules” that came out years ago, urging girls to follow guidelines in order to snare someone. Hell, if it were as easy as listening to someone else, hookup girls would all be married thanks to their I-know-everything hookup mothers! And I’m pretty sure that book is responsible for directly defiling the eleventh commandment – “Thou shalt not make false promises.”
So what it comes down to is, you do what feels right to you. The vintage among us gals will wait ‘til said boy asks for their number, the more daring darlings will just ask for theirs – and not because that’s what the newest New York Times bestseller list says, but because that’s what feels right for them. When it comes to commanding love and its deadly counterpart lust – there are no guidelines a gal can follow to make sure she meets her match (hence the tragicomedy of said search for HRH’s viewing pleasure – now available on demand for the creator’s convenience).
I have girlfriends that govern their love lives by rules at a 180 degree difference from my own, and it works for us. Of course, here in the City of Angels, anything goes, but that’s the fun in finding “the one” – you get that one puzzle piece that fits – or you just get tired of hammering the wrong one into place after a while. The point being, if Palin would like another list of books to ban – I can go ahead and recommend a few that cause more grief than good. Life without set rules seems so much more fun! And concealed commandment twelve clearly states “thou shalt not heed stupid advice,” and who are we to defy such revelations? After all, Adam and Eve never adhered to such stupidity, and even though they got evicted, they were fairly happy with each other – homeless and all. So ignore the apple, it doesn’t fit in with your Atkins lifestyle anyways. The Rules were meant to be broken.

So what do you do when a not-so-gracious girl decides to exile you from her friendship circle?  Correspond of course!  This is a tale of tragedy and woe inspired by one vexatious vixen who decided to wake up on the wrong side of life one morning and blacklist me from her life. Here’s a copy of my letter and my ill-fated attempts at resolving the ridiculous issue.
 
To Whom It May Concern:
 
I’ve recently received notice that we are not friends anymore!  I must have missed that memo – although if you sent it via snail mail, well we all know that the USPS is about as reliable as finding anything at Forever 21.  Now, I’ve been patient, but I think I’m more than deserving of an explanation as to why we suddenly don’t mesh.  Reasons that seem most feasible to me are a) you’re prejudiced against people  in possession of lives (sex, social and a hybrid of both) b) you are currently suffering from abandoned child syndrome due to  solicited time spent with your bff, or c) you’re simply an irrational and chemically imbalanced  babe.  Now, I believe I’ve exhibited a tremendous amount of effort on my part, going so far as to show up at estrogen fest 2009 the weekend I had a prior engagement.  Now even though I invited a boy (heaven help us) to the mix, I do not believe that this particular incident entitled you in any way to behave like such an ill-mannered minx.  Not only did you deem it appropriate to whisper to co-mademoiselle about me, in front of me, you decided to turn that debut performance into a three-peat show.  News flash luv – your audience was less than amused.  Had it not been for the fact that I treated myself to a manicure the day prior, I would have introduced your face to my fist without any hesitation.  Understandably catfights are frowned upon, but in certain scenarios the bitch-slapping ban is lifted in the hopes that a girl can knock some sense into the other, or at least off that pedestal she decided to perch upon. Furthermore, and last but certainly not least, we have mutual friends.  This is a statement, not a question.  Being that the aforementioned is true –  I think it’s necessary for you to remove your head from your nether-regions and learn to act in a civil manner in the midst of company.  If you need help executing this endeavor, I believe Charm School (VH1 prime time trash tv) is looking for a new contestant, I would be happy to recommend you.  I sure hope we can manage to behave like polite princesses again post-haste.  These continual catfights simply aren’t good for a girl’s complexion. 
 
Sincerely,
Annoyed in Angeles

There are some guys you discover, date, and even if the technical tryst doesn’t work out, you remain friends. Then there are those male mistakes that repeatedly seep into your life, long after the relationship has met its expiration date. Perpetrators in the form of walking testosterone that are simply in need of your company because of what they still want and never got. While the fan fare is flattering, you’d sooner get a social restraining order than be in their custody. Recently, I was cyber stalked by a blast from the past and the entire ordeal seemed not only unnecessary – but entirely too random. The relationship resurrected was simply an ill-fated and unattainable quest, and being that the boy is in possession of a new girl, it seems the effort to revive our estranged dynamic was completely conniving. Simply a quest to achieve the conquest he was never able to get in the first place. So since pleasantries clearly aren’t working, and you can’t dance around the kick-you-to-the-curb topic for too long, I upped the ante and explained that the unsolicited attention was less than favored. And though sometimes the repeated dismissal of all efforts to communicate is simply a masked manner of playing hard to get, sometimes no simply means no. It’s not me, it’s you.

I have this thing about dating dudes from California. Sexperience has proven that L.A. dudes are too busy scamming on their next target, or too career focused in their twenties to play late on a school night. Occupational hazard? Sure, we’ll go with that. Luckily for me, most gents from Los Scandalous move here to make it in the big bad world of the industry! It’s like the universe understands my needs and wants and is flooding my city with a myriad of male options (and since, unlike NYC, we can’t order any type of cuisine at all hours of the night, I will settle for picking designer dudes). So far, I’ve dated dudes hailing from (in no geographical order,) Colorado, Montana, South Dakota, Georgia, New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia (and lets include Canada just for fun).

Now, math was never my best subject, but I’m pretty sure seven states down means I have forty-three to go – and then plus the additional provinces (not to mention three territories offered by Canada for my shopping needs) I should plan on finding a great guy by 2037. Really, it’s like I’m pacing myself. After all, this is a marathon – not a sprint, girls! I’m a teeny bit nervous about dudes from Texas, but I’m thinking SXSW Music Festival would be a great first date. I now venture out with the girls over the hill and through the canyon and expect to meet bros from various area codes, but sometimes you find the occasional L.A. born and raised boy, and when you meet one in Hollyweird it’s pretty much confirmation that hell hath frozen over. Dates from different states serve simply as a process of elimination and a kick-ass lesson in cross country etiquette!

 We may love the Seth Cohen a la The OC type, but you can’t beat Southern hospitality, or small town charm, or Canadian manners. Really, I’m just waiting until the Internet catches onto the phenomenon and picking out designer dudes is as popular a practice as ordering custom kids, or cuisine at all hours of the night (and in the comfort of your home at that!). So listen to Phantom Planet and follow in step potential boytoys hoping to star on the silver screen, “California Here We Come” can be the new male mantra! You may not score a part as the star in the next cinematic masterpiece, but you could wind up as somebody’s leading man.

Now, we’ve all heard about the popular practice of objectifying women, but today I’d like to raise awareness about a new trendy disorder catching fire across the nation faster than L.A.’s hillsides catch flame in fall: The maddening manipulation of men. Now ladies, baiting a man in L.A. and actually having him be worthy enough to reel in is hard, I totally get it. You’ve gone through all the scumbag fish in the sea that seem to hold the same amount of worth as plankton. Most have the attention span of a goldfish and that’s not helping our little complicated quest either. But restricting your boy to hanging out with other designated male friends simply won’t do! Rosie the Riveter would be rolling in her grave if guys were giving us the same restrictions with the opposite sex, so why in the world would we do that to them? We all know “that” girlfriend. The grim-reaper-like gal using a sickle to sever friendships that have been alive and kicking for years. Hell, you even make an effort to befriend the new addition to his love life! What do you get in return? A slap in the face, a drink spilt on a skirt, and clearly a not-so-cordial cut as supporting actress. Dude, it’s all about acceptance. Your friend likes a chick, you like a chick – and if she’s smart, she likes you too. Jealousy is a one way ticket back to Singleville and let’s face it, that city is already overpopulated. Ménage à trois are in again and hetero-hangout monogamy is so over. Spice up your platonic life and keep things exciting. You might just get thanked for your attitude outside the bedroom when you’re in there later. Get over yourself and figure out that some guys and gals really are just friends – and in a city where everything is fake – couldn’t you use someone who’s real (even if their breasts aren’t)?

Well, I’m a few weeks into the quarter-life crisis and happy to say I’m still mentally sane amidst the chaotic mess that is Cali. I guess I’m a little OG when it comes to mental breakdowns. I have yet to shop around for a therapist because hey, if I need someone to tell me what I’m doing wrong, I just ask my friends. Of course, the Percocet perks are little to none, but there’s always a two-for-one special on criticism. Now, however old-school I am in the mental madness area (etiquette indicates breakdowns happen behind closed doors, not in line at Starbucks); I am the complete opposite when it comes to the idea of marriage. While some of my friends are ready for the ring, I am more inclined to bide my time. I mean, I can’t even take care of a plant, let alone a future fiancé. So what’s a girl to do when the whole of young America seems to be pairing off like a nuptial Noah’s Ark? Suddenly Hallmark, Lifetime, and the like have conspired together to have you really feeling the “Unbearable Lightness of Being.”

I truly feel that when it comes to California, our beloved residence is light years behind the beau-crazed belles of the South, and this state of being is great. You get more time to waltz around the world before you sprint down the aisle past the bad nightmare-inducing dresses in candy colors…and no matter what the champagne count is, YMCA will never be considered ohmigod-I-love-this-song worthy. Inevitably, and like most twenty-somethings, I plan on tying the knot at some point, I’d just rather not choke my social life with that noose just yet. So even though the single scene often has you ending the night sans a happily ever after, do I think it’s well worth it? I do. Too many girls are so preoccupied with finding “the one” they forget to make sure he’s one-and-only worthy. So until I truly am the last girl standing, and the said single ladies are all extinct, I’m just going to love, honor, and obey at a later date.