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Now as any chic chicklet living in super sunny So Cal can verify, horrifyingly bad pick-up lines appear in daily conversation as much as Ryan Seacrest produces bad reality shows. It’s bad enough that all of L.A. has turned into one giant construction site where fluency in catcalling is considered a legit qualification for the bilingual label, but what do you do when these boys try to take their sad attempts to holler for a dollar on screen (and I don’t mean in a Romantic Comedy)? I’m talking about all those gents lacking in certifiable cyber savoir-fair, and more specifically the wondrous webcam question. The question of, “Do you have a webcam?” is neither a sweet nor innocent request. Though I totally understand and am all for a little pictorial preview of your soon-to-be babe, the brash inquiry is more capable of inducing a sickening feeling than it is of initiating a couple of notoriously well-known and craved butterflies. The window shopping has simply got to stop, or be taken elsewhere if you’re looking to hit it and quit it. The naivete is quite frankly so last year and ladies have learned not to sneak a peek because their online boytoy will be “hear” today, gone tomorrow in a matter of IM exchanges. Simply stated, if you’re looking for a pretty low maintenance peep show, I advise you to escort your shenanigans anywhere other than our beloved web of the world. Or at least come up with some more enticing opening liners than a webcam question mark. Because darling, the only answer you’ll be getting is from some chickenhead who, let’s face it, would go for anything with a pecker. Class always beats ass, and integrity, like my fave color, goes with anything.

Labels are complicated. Almost as complicated as stepping up to the plate to order a half-caf non-fat no whipped decaf concoction from your local barista. As soon as you label something, for example, your less-than-low-maintenance relationship, you find yourself and the beau to be on the fast track to turmoil. Why? Your guess, guys and dolls, is as good as mine. It has you switching up your Facebook status from “married” to “it’s complicated” and those following you on Twitter know the ins and outs of the latest cyber spat. I’m sure you know all too well the price you pay for donning designer dreads simply because of the complimenting label, and a rose by any other name would probably be cheaper. So it seems we’re all stuck between a rock and hard place, and the only way out is down. You found the right significant other to “insert witty banter here,” but as soon as you two exchange virtual vows and make it official on some cyber site, you end up tainting the terrific. Suddenly solitary confinement is anything but a sentence – it’s a vacation destination, and you want a one-way ticket. So, advice? Absolutely not ladies, that would be like the blind leading the blind, and the bruises I’d endure don’t match my couture. All I can say is I’m a happier girl when I scout something at the second-hand store, designer label-less, but with significant character. Vintage is the new, and mystery is the new black. So I’d refrain from the form of slavery known as relationship restrictions and keep it simple. Have fun and don’t worry about what to call it.

Once upon a midnight dreary, those in possession of various area codes left their nine-to-five fabulosity behind and headed to Hollyweird, better known as the belly of the beast. Saturday night’s a veritable playground for those whose appetite is not quite satisfied by continental cuisine, and in pursuit of all things unholy, twenty somethings congregate in carnal couture, consumed with their quest to eat, pray, love. So scandal and its cohort debauchery seep into the city and suddenly L.A. is a feeding ground for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free from weekly restraints, unless said restraints hold the promise of a little pseudo self-indulgence.

My fave nights to prowl around Hollywood with the girls often involve the sheer amusement I get from witnessing the hunt through a cosmopolitan haze. Girls it seems are just as guilty as guys in their sordid methods of getting what they want, even if it’s just a new number to enhance the mundane Monday through Friday scene. The scandalously-clad city of sin becomes this mockumentary from National Geographic and the urban jungle is less forgiving and much more cut-throat than the silly little Sahara scene. Guys lurk by the bar checking out the fresh meat and when the head-to-toe once over officially meets the kissing criteria, they pounce, hoping to go from Jane’s house, to my house, back to his house. It’s a funny thing to watch this guiltiest of pleasures, but those lucky enough to live in the valley of the dolls know it’s eat or be eaten, and girls on the Cali diet are always hungry.

It’s a race to meet Mr. Right, or sometimes – Mr. Right Now, and whether you’re aware or not, the city is swallowing us whole. But hey, something has to keep us on our toes.

The best part about dating in the L.A. area is the infinite amount of options a guy and gal have on how to spend their evening. Last week, in pursuit of a little something different, my date and I went from drinks at one of the many So Cal secret locales, to an underrated but ever trendy dive in 4.2 seconds flat. The mix and match of the two trendy staycation destinations of the night was a combo that went together almost as well as his hipster taste in music and my onyx-inspired nails.

The thing that threw me into a state of unwarranted shock was his apprehension about mixing it up. When he asked if I was up for a dive (which let’s face it, is just as trendy these days as the newest WeHo happy place) I was totally up for a little lowdown dirty adventure. A good girl never refuses a challenge, and in order to prove that a gal can hack it, even in heels, we embarked on a night that was more than fairly fun as far as first dates are concerned.

So, driving through the city around the midnight witching hour listening to The Kills and looking for our next target was no less an obstacle than navigating the 405 mid-rush hour. These little drinking diamonds-in-the-rough are a fabulous way to let your hair down and see what a girl’s made of. I can’t deny that as much as I love the high-class feel of watching the city from above in some elevated lounge, my rock and roll soul feels just at home in a spot where chucks and a black cami count as couture.

There are those dates where you undoubtedly want to leave as soon as your eyes meet from across Ventura Boulevard, and then there are those really great rendezvous where it’s you, the boy, and the city reeks with renewed fascination. You remember why you keep engaging in the masochistic mingling of these intimidating little one-on-one interviews, and it’s because sometimes when the stars align, and the background music sounds like a Coachella playlist, you actually have fun. Even if it’s in a bar stocked with Costco-style alcoholic accoutrements. “It starts sometime around midnight, or at least that’s when you lose yourself for a minute or two,” blinded by the kitschy neon lights, and the surprising fact that you can have fun engaging in a little one-on-one, in the company of The Kills, and the hills.

Girls are tricky when it comes to fighting. With gentlemen, the nature of said sinful little sparring match is put to rest six feet under with one swift right cross. Before the blink of an eye, and before one has time to assess who’s blood is coming from what body cavity, all is forgiven and forgotten. With girls however, the delightful little duel is an emotional knockdown, drag-out ordeal, filled with fantastical little snide remarks only to be countered with more below the belt back talk. The entirety of the mademoiselle v. mademoiselle mis-match is cleverly camouflaged behind Aquafresh smiles and flirty little hair twists, of which lure in the opponent. Then, just as soon as you think you’re momentarily safe, you’re getting slapped in the face with a flip of the hair. Ladies, our oh-so-daring-darling Miss Kathryn Merteuil was indeed divulging a divinatory adage when she advised each of her fellow Park Avenue princesses to “keep their friends close, and their enemies closer.” This World War III type of altercation has spawned several little allied armies among friends now divided. And, in the most dangerous development since apocalyptic style atomic bombs, friends and enemies have merged into a deliciously dangerous little hybrid. Frenemies, confused by all the tactical texting, severed smiles, and the inability to understand exactly which friends are still talking amongst themselves, are a highly enhanced form of party playmates always snarling behind their perfect little smiles. By the end of the undoubtedly dreadful exchange of faux-pleasantries, the frenemies have painted quite the “why so serious” smile on your pretty little face as well. The friendly fiend’s attempt at getting a girl down however has failed miserably. Because, with one hug (that feels remarkably similar to a death grip,) she’s out of sight out of mind until you hear the ‘she said, she said’ play-by-play the next day. The monsters always come out at night, and in a city filled with fallen angels, where skeletons hide in closets and men are from mars, an occasional encounter with an ill-mannered minx is inevitable. Just make sure you have those silver bullets in your couture clutch. Of course, being armed with a teeny bit of below the belt gossip isn’t a bad thing to have in your corner. Good ammunition never goes out of style.

I turn 25 in a couple days. The 24/7 college cocktail fests have faded into the more elusive and exclusive happy hour scenes, and even though these alcoholic sweet treats start off around five, it anything but qualifies us for the early bird special just yet. For as much as I complain about my mattel manufactured city, I love living in sun soaked So-Cal, even when I hate it. Although drowning in a sea of bottled-blondes and an endless parade of Ed Hardy accouterments can have a girl from the big city trading in her five minutes of fame for seven days of small town charm faster than your brother’s prom date. You’ll inevitably ask why, and the answer is quite simple- it is 21st century shower dating. You lather, rinse, repeat with the same (insert appropriate poison here). We are all so well practiced in the art of faux friendship, that it has transpired into this pre-matrimonial mechanical mess! Drinks and dinners are destined for disaster and star-crossed lovers are losing their luster in search of uncharted territory in every capacity imaginable. Big city suburbanites are trading in their Manolos for Montana’s mocassins, and Vanity Fair forsaken for Field & Stream.

On a couple night’s before the eve of my impending quarter-life crisis, I’m marinating on the idea (lord knows I can’t cook in any other capacity,) that if I parade around on another date with some Smith whom I’ve undoubtedly rinsed & repeated with before, I will pull out my signature pantene locks before they even have a chance to go gray. So, last year’s wish was for something different in general, but this year it’s to burn the blessed Barbie and Ken mold altogether, and make way for a new kind of (hopefully) not-so-fashion-forward fellow. I’ve been so preoccupied documenting the do’s and dont’s of hopefully happily-ever-after Hollyweird endings, that I’ve become completely unaware that the four horsemen of the apocalypse will be here in just a couple of days to carry me off on new adventures in this hell-ridden city of seraphs. Although, with my birthday wish pending, this could just be four prince charmings waiting to happen, but then that would be boring, wouldn’t it?

I hooked up my GPS system this past weekend, finally. I got it over a year ago for Chanukah and it took me this long to decide to hook it up. I kept blaming the fact that I was technologically challenged for my lack of motivation to take direction, but really I had simply no desire to spend an hour fighting with the less than environmentally friendly packaging in order to expel the teeny tiny device.

About ten minutes before I had to jet out the door and vacate the val for a date I had the epiphany that this would clearly be a great time to endure the laborious process and like a little blue collar worker bee I was about to start in the field of manual labor (which is similar to cooking, I assume). I literally flew up the stairs and into my room to locate my GPS that was inevitably fossilized under a layer of dust. After butchering the box with homicidal ramgage worthy scissors I was well on my way to a happy little union of future timely arrivals. I hooked up the travel-size mapquest and was on my merry little way over the hill in the capable but ultimately annoying hands of Mandy my GPS voice guide that eventually made Fran Drescher’s seem soothing. I was instantly reminded why I never hooked this GPS POS up in the first place; because clearly I know better, so what exactly was the point?

So everytime “Mandy” (although I refuse to acknowledge her by any name until she deserves one,) told me to do something with anything less than an indoor-voice, I would blatantly disregard the instruction with all the sassiness of a rebellious teenager- just because. She said take the freeway, I took the canyon. In the midst of all the direction being shouted at me at stereo strength surround sound, I still felt lost, annoyed, and irritated. The entire situation was completely reminiscent of my less than organized love life and when it came to hearts I never played the right cards. To appease several situations my friends and I have all been seen dating med, law, and whatever other grad students that qualify them as the good on paper guys that induce nothing but the urge to yawn at the end of the night.

So, in lieu of living a lie, we always end up meeting up for drinks with the guy we swore we would never date again. The faux fantastical hipster who makes the bad boy seem good again. The entire way there your GPS is yelling “are you crazy? please make next available u-turn.” You don’t though. You keep going until you have reached your destination, and you either crash & burn, or re-route to another address. Either way, you’re still young, and just along for the ride.

I adore going out dressed in couture, accessorized with stilettos I can barely balance in, and armed with the best gossip as much as any other girl from Los Scandalous. What in the world is a girl to do when sex in this city gets too haute to handle and she finds herself in need of a break from all the Lifetime movie moments? Head out for a night of drinking, debauchery, and endless Guitar Hero with the boys. This little sneak peek into the male psyche is more than enlightening, it’s entertaining as hell! When the gloves come off and the shots go down, it’s completely apparent that when it comes to life, love, and sex, guys and gals are more often than not on the same level. The problem is this little convo of ours involving twisted tales of past sexcapades was only divulged within our less-than-holy trinity. So Judas Priest, the son, and me, being paler than a ghost, sat at our very own last supper of sorts forgetting the gender roles expected of the fair sex and my bff’s best friend – in a manner so becoming of any Guitar Hero – prophesized point blank, that girls are the new guys. I can’t say I disagree. All-American girls from all over the country are transforming the dating game into a truth-or-dare scenario that may very well turn into seven minutes in heaven. But if Daddy’s little angel is hell-bent on messing with your male mind, don’t forget you can walk away too. All’s fair in love and war. So if girls are indeed the new guys and sex is a level playing field, then I suggest both genders see what positions and scenarios work best for them; because horizontal, vertical, from the bottom, or the top, you can only get stabbed in the back. Just depends who submits to whom, and who taps out first. I strongly suggest conditioning in the wonderful world of contact dating. Who knows, maybe Lifetime will look more like FX soon.

The dating scene in uber sunny So Cal is great for a million different reasons, namely the variety of options it offers its chic inhabitants when it comes to courting. This week, I suggest taking a break from those haute Hollywood nights and heading over the canyon and straight to the beach! Just because this swine flu sitch has utterly cramped my would-be sun-soaked Cancun extravaganza, does not mean it will keep me from enjoying a little fun in the sun. Come hell or high water, I am getting a tan this summer and I am trading in my porcelain persona for a not exactly redder is better type deal, thanks to industrial strength SPF. One of my fave parts about California is our thousands of hideaway beaches begging locals only to come and bask in the often too strong but oh-so-tempting UVA. Just make sure you and your date, or friends, stock up on the post excursion aloe, because getting high on sun stroke is a less then likely way to score a second date with your little beach bunny. See you at…well, I’m not giving away my favorite place to frequent, so find your own! I do promise a beachy-keen time, where the people watching alone is incentive enough- of course, that holds true for almost every Los Angeles locale.

Dating in my little city of angels is a lot of things– amusing, repetitive, and most importantly, masochistic. This little gem of an S&M situation is never with said mister of the moment however; no, no that would be sane! Ladies, let’s take a moment to think about all the medieval style torture we force ourselves to endure in order to look pretty hot and tempting for some dude who may or may not last longer than an L.A. minute. First on my list of trendy and torturous ways we girls accessorize ourselves? Stilettos. Now I know they make us look hot in all the right places but what were Manolo and his friends high on when they decided to raise the bar, and our height? Well, I hope they make it over the counter soon, because I’m going to need to stop at Rite Aid to make it through the night in those again. Have you tried driving in them? Navigating the 405 without a road rage induced collision is a challenge in restraint in itself. Add the slippery stiletto pedal to the metal sitch to the daily grind, and it’s a wonder women haven’t completely wiped themselves from the planet, or at least the freeway. The moral of the story is, the next time you dudes think girls have it easy, take comfort in the fact that there is pain radiating throughout their bodies from one teeny tiny torture device in the form of four inches. Oh, the things we do for love…like walking in the rain and the snow in really pretty, but evil shoes.