So it’s been nearly a year since our initial journey through the twisted trysts, loves, and lies started, and I’ve enjoyed divulging every dirty detail to you all. Los Scandalous has been (and I’m grasping for just the “write” word here) educational, if anything. I learned that nine times out of ten the mysterious monsieurs met at various Hollyweird hotspots are here to act. They more often than not (contrary to popular belief) do not end the scene with said script, and their character’s colors are revealed through various dating adventures. I learned that if you’re from some small town you may have manners, but my city will swallow you whole without stopping to digest the situation. I’ve learned that dinner and a movie does not constitute date night. I’ve learned that when you are roped into some mundane movie night (for the umpteenth time) you should make sure to lo-jack your ride, so you can GPS your way back to the getaway vehicle you can all-too-easily lose in the Grove parking structure (not that I’m speaking from experience, of course). I’ve learned that sometimes when you DO happen to bust a blonde moment, it is often an unexpected opportunity to be rescued from the knight, in shining armor.

I’ve learned that more often than not the swift sweetheart is from point blank, Oklahoma and you’re right back where you started. Rockstars, actors, and hipsters are often all the same breed, and you have to try on several styles to see which works for you. (But hey, if the flannel shirt fits…) I’ve learned that the dinkiest of divebars (I’m talking where Converse count as couture) can be the most fun locales for you and your plus one. I’ve learned that your very best girlfriends really will be with you through thick and thin, and even when you change your persona to see just what works for you, they aren’t going to hit it and quit it like a boy (shouldn’t) but might. Think of your gf’s as the Ralph Lauren of people – a classic that never gets old, and is always in style. Flannel shirts might I add, will soon be out faster than a Jersey shore grenade. I’m pretty sure the best pick-up line is being comfortable in your own skin. (Or “How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice. Hi I’m insert name here.” It’s a close call between the two.) Between all the “boyfriends” you’ve followed me over the canyon and through the The Hills with, it’s been one hell of a ride. Granted the ride sometimes moves at the speed of a special olympic hurdler but let’s blame that on the ever-unpredictable L.A. traffic.

I’ve learned that aside from your gf’s, you can ALWAYS rely on finding something at the Fred Segal and Nordstrom’s half yearly sales, and that there will be traffic on the 405 at any time during the day and/or night. I’d say there’s comfort in consistency, but really it’s just two aspirin waiting to happen. I learned that ER M.D.’s do not, in fact, resemble the McCast of Greys. What I have yet to learn is why girls listen to things like He’s Just Not That Into You and regard it as gospel. He’s just not that into you? Cool, kick Jo Shmo to the curb and move on to the next man. Time, ladies, stops for no (wo)man. It’s been an absolute adventure and I await many more to come in the following year as I give my regards to Broadway, Brooklyn, Austin and any other alluringly sweet city that holds the promise of something sin-sational.

Au Revoir dolls & dudes.

So, there comes a point when you look at your phone contacts and the address book no longer holds names, it holds the establishments of just where in the world exactly it is that you’ve met this Prince Charming of the moment. That girls, is when you delete like half of your little black book concealed cleverly on your blackberry and opt to start fresh, say, with a night out on Sunset with your faves. This excursion is always nothing short of entertaining, and considering the characters one is likely to encounter on the strip, it’s always a trick, and a treat. So after hiking from one end to the other, which is nothing short of miraculous in heels, might I add, four fabulous girls find themselves at Saddle Ranch. I apparently did not get the memo that since I had last been they’ve revamped the classy establishment into frat pack headquarters. So since these dudes are a dime a dozen, it’s safe to say anything goes. Anything includes this darling opening line I came up with: “So, you look like my ex’s little brother – do you have a brother?” Surprisingly, or considering where I was – perhaps not so – this charming little conversation sparker ignited an entire conversation of witty banter I couldn’t see coming if it was graffiti’d in front of my face. So, aside from the predictable exchange of info on the blackberry, it was nothing short of an entertaining night. Plus, a girl always needs to find new recruits before it’s been so long she needs to Wikipedia her way through a kiss, starting with GPS instructions to his lips. Happy hunting.

To serve as some sort of distraction from the various ups and downs of my love life, my beautiful best friend has taken it upon herself to thrust me head-first into a new hobby: maid of honor. While I am honored and appreciate said distraction, going from 0-M.V.P. in 6.3 seconds flat has me feeling slightly lost, and GPS is in no position to navigate me through the storm ahead. Aside from the various fun duties a.k.a., party planning, I get to bide my time with the teeny tiny matter of the dreaded bridesmaids’ dresses. I’m not entirely sure who initially thought that proper wed-iquette dictates that thou shalt dress in Pepto-Bismol-style pastels while skipping down the aisle, but thanks for that. People may confuse me with an Easter peep, but rest assured that pretty pink abomination is yours truly. Saving grace exists in the form of four other girls I get to share this time honored tradition with, so at least I’m not alone. And when I inflict this traditional torture on my fair friends in the future, it will be in black, because once you go black, you never go back.

Sometimes you meet the man of your mother’s dreams. He’s totally great on paper and pretty much bad everywhere else. So what do you do when Mr. Right is wrong right now? It’s like, if you’re not a starving artist, or wannabe-rockstar, please don’t call me. Clearly, I have the best judgment when it comes to dudes. So I have my friends on patrol, surveillance stalking me to see who and what I am hanging around. Here’s the thing – it’s not like I don’t try! I totally give Mr. Good-on-Paper a chance, and the third time may be a charm, but the fourth date is usually less promising. So what do you do when Mr. Right is all wrong? You turn him into Mr. Right Now and get on with your life. No matter how much your friends and fam complain, just remember, they’re not the one dating him! So get up and fix it. I’m a firm believer that you just know, so if you don’t feel right with Mr. Right – he’s clearly wrong. So postpone the happily ever after and take a hiatus. Make your love life “to be continued” and use and abuse the feeling. Hey, when you know – you know. You just need to get there – and clearly, my GPS is sorely out of service.

So listen, I have a lot of hobbies: krav maga, ice skating, eating, and rationalizing for dudes I should care less about. Well I have recently come to realize that this behavior is completely unacceptable, and clearly, a guy I have to justify for is simply not worth it. I tell my friends the same BS all the time. The whole rant about independent women, you’re too good for him, he thinks flannel is the new black….and hello! If I just took my own advice I’d be a damn prophet! So my New Year’s resolution in July (because let’s face it – one resolution is NEVER enough) is to stop rationalizing for the various starving artists I fall for and drop them like they’re hot. Strength is the new black (because hello, unless you’re living in Seattle – flannel is NOT). Thus, the excuse “my phone died,” is no longer a valid form of date avoidance, and certainly not for the sole purpose that Mr. Clueless thinks it’s too late to make plans and is hoping you’ll just GPS yourself right over to his house instead of going through the hassle. Well let me tell you – I’d rather sit in 405 rush hour traffic in order to get to some g-d forsaken dive’s happy hour in lieu of making monsieur’s make-out wishes come true. So, in conclusion, things no longer on my list of things to do include being understanding for said lame excuses, in addition to deleting numbers like it’s going out of style. Queen was clearly before their time when they said “Another One Bites the Dust” – or maybe they were just dating in Hollyweird.

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.