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The Wonderful World of Text Dating…

The Wonderful World of Text Dating…


In the magical realm of Disney fairytales where princes rescue princesses and love prevails over evil stepsisters, I must’ve missed the part where Prince Charming sends his lady in waiting a text message saying, “slaying the dragon, SMH, BRB – xoxo.”  I mean seriously, lol, ttyl, lmao, and rotfl are all suitable acronyms for a gal on the go, but is this an acceptable substitute for communication while dating?

A trend that seems to be emerging on the LA dating scene is a phenomenon known as “Text Dating.”  Text Dating:  The residual stepchild of phone conversation and online dating contributing to the further decay of traditional dating etiquette.  Guys love it because it affords them the luxury of perpetual location anonymity, meaning a man can text you from anywhere in the continental United States and tell you ANYTHING.  He can be on his way to a date and text you that he misses you.  As a matter of fact, he can be sitting at a dinner table on an actual date and text you that he misses you.  More importantly, text dating relieves men of COMMUNICATION, and we all know how much most men love to communicate (insert sarcasm here).   In text dating, communication is butchered down to 1-3 lines of ambiguous text that could be interpreted in a plethora of different ways.  For example: “no babe, when I said cool, I meant cool as in I wasn’t coming over last night, not cool as in I’m on my way.”  Uh huh, sound familiar?  I could literally start a whole chapter on these.

The central thesis (if you will) is that, during the phase of dating where definitive lines have yet to be drawn, text dating should NOT be taken seriously.  I cannot tell you how many women ask to me to help them decode some guy’s text message (word problems were sooo ninth grade).  My advice is always the same, “PICK UP THE PHONE”!

If 80% of your communication with a man is done via text, you might be fantasizing up the relationship (albeit probably not by accident).   I’m sure there were dozens of cleverly engineered phrases that lead you to believe that there were genuine sparks of interest.  Provocative cliffhanger phrases like, “I wanna see you soon,” “Just wanted to check in, ” and “I miss u.”  While these phrases do strike a genuinely sweet cord (even when sent over text), they are lacking one key component, SPECIFICS.   Remember Ladies! Men who are genuinely trying to see you and who genuinely “miss you” include DATES, TIMES, and LOCATIONS, even better would be a phone call (yeah, remember those???).

Whether your situation is committed, casual or complicated, if your beau fails to inject material forms of interest into the relationship with real words and in person, chances are, your romance is probably in your head.  And, unless your guy is moonlighting as an action hero outside of his day job, if he’s MIA most of the week, “checking in” text messages are not a sign of endearment.   People who are genuinely interested in building something with you typically like having conversations with you.  People who are genuinely interested use the text feature to send you directions to the art gallery that they want to meet you at or to the restaurant that they wanna take you to.  That’s how “it” works.  So, separate yourself from the vortex of unnecessary confusion and take control of an already black and white situation, TTYL – xoxo.




Drunken Hot Mess…

Drunken Hot Mess…


Public Service Announcement:  Drunken hot mess stops being cute after age 25. Translation, after 25 it is no longer acceptable to hurl in public or show off your latest VS collection boy shorts via peep show.  After age 25 you’re supposed to keep your composure and hug the porcelain Jesus in the privacy of your own home (like the ever-so-sophisticated 30 plus crowd does).  However, as with everything else in life, there are outliers.   Sometimes the wrong mix of cheap vodka and cream cheese French toast create the perfect storm during a Halloween party and you find yourself huddled in the bathtub of some strangers’ mansion slurring strange references to turkey patty melts from Mel’s Diner (but I digress).

In music videos everyone pops bottles all night long, dancing to hooks that often rhyme with Grey Goose, Patron, and Moet.  Therefore, it’s entirely understandable for women (and their male counterparts) to completely lose their ish when they happen to be holding a shot and that one song comes on talking about “blame on it the alcohol.”  Not that a song should ever be the catalyst for inebriated tomfoolery, but I do see the logic (and lack thereof).  Having said that, below are some guidelines to help gauge when you may be approaching your potential for public embarrassment.

1.       The bouncer starts looking cute:  Yes he’s tall, buff and in a suit, however, chances are he’s worn that same suit every night to work for the last 7-10 days.  He’s sweated in it, spilled after-hours club food on it, and ironed out the wrinkles from last night’s bus ride home.  To be on the safe side, disregard anyone wearing all black until you get home.

2.     The Guy whose advances you ignored for the last 2 hours starts looking cute:  Yes, compliments are wonderful.  BUT, when the guy who almost got slapped for landing a cheap feel on your lady lumps starts becoming charming to you, it’s clearly time for an intervention.   His breath didn’t get any cleaner, he’s holding the same cup of 7up over ice that he had when you got there and he’s still wearing the fake Fila/Prada sneaks. IT’S TIME TO GO!

3.     All of your sentences begin and end in slobber:  Even though it is quite an impressive feat to sing the entire Destiny’s Child catalog entirely in spit while doing the Dougie backwards at 3am on a Sunday, some talents are better left unseen.  Let the world peel back that layer upon request (please).

Remember!  Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, drunk dial, or dance drunk in stilettos.   Lastly, if your friend does not want to end the party (and we all have a friend that never wants to end the party), as a last resort, take them to a karaoke bar, where every drunk has their day and promptly passes out after a long-winded Celine Dion bender.

One Day it will all Make Sense…

One Day it will all Make Sense…

Romantic epiphanies typically happen on the big screen.  We’ve all seen the story, a girl sits on the couch eating a bowl of cereal, watching TV, pondering life, and then a commercial comes on.  Suddenly she realizes that the man of her dreams has been delivering her mail for the last two years.  How perfect, the man who has been consistent through rain, sleet, and snow is actually “The One.”  What’s even better is that she never knew he felt the same way.  Yeah, it totally happens like that in real life (NOT)!!!  It has probably never, in the history of dating, happened like that.   So maybe you don’t get the sign from above, the voice from within or the magical commercial on TV but one day something beyond the realm of basic understanding does click.  One day you will realize that the cool, elusive, emotionally unavailable guy that you’ve planned your entire fantasy future with is NOT “The One.”  All of a sudden your expectations shift and these characteristics are no longer attractive to you.   The universe aligns and you understand why all the “nice guys” are MARRIED and all the A-holes are driving nice cars or trying desperately to buy one.

The moment you decide to start taking yourself seriously and begin placing real-time deadlines on the acquisition of the things you hold most dear (be it marriage, kids, or career) is the moment you begin to see what a time suck the wrong guy actually is.  All the time and energy spent waiting for Mr. Wrong to morph into Mr. Perfect coupled with the “learning experience” of the imminent collapse of such relationships could be better spent on much more productive activities such as washing your hair, or stockpiling emergency earthquake items.  What I’m saying is, time spent doing absolutely anything else would be more productive than dating the wrong guy.  Luckily the universe doesn’t typically hold bad dating decisions against you.  Luckily you can make oodles of noodle head dating decisions in your twenties so that once your thirties approach you already mean business, the business of serious inquiries only.

I know this concept seems like a bit of a ruse but trust and believe that your first instinct is 99.8% correct.  If there’s a void of trust or in your understanding of how someone feels about you, be accountable for the fact that you’ve always known and somehow settled for this behavior (whether on purpose or by accident).  Approach your future relationships as you would a business deal.  Look at the presentation, read through the background and figure out if it’s best to move forward.  Make a 2-5 year plan of where you see your life going romantically and revisit that plan often, after all it is YOUR plan.  Don’t leave everything to chance and horoscopes.  Be present and the rest will start to fall into place.

Friend Politics 101: Rule No 2 – Sometimes One Monkey DOES Stop the Show…

Friend Politics 101 – Rule No 2:

Sometimes One Monkey DOES Stop the Show…


Los Angeles socialites are big proponents of convenient nightlife. That is, we frequent venues that are within an assumed non-DUI driving distance where the doorman is familiar enough with your face so as not to have you waiting in line all night. However, once in a while (or once every 3-4 months) we decide to break from our local watering hole routines and follow a very specific migratory pattern (via road trip, or 1-hour plane ride on Southwest). For over the bridge and through the woods lies a magical kingdom, an enchanted forest of drinking, dancing, flirting and whatever else you can squeeze into a 48-hour window of time. Yes ladies, in case you haven’t figured it out I’m talking about VEGAS!!!! Ahhh the joys of Las Vegas… you either love it for its non-stop, high voltage, billboard party life, and cigarette smoke filled casinos or you hate it for its non-stop, high voltage, billboard party life, and cigarette smoke filled casinos.


Upon arrival it is customary to throw caution to the wind and go with the flow (especially if you’re with a group of 3 or more people). However, going with the flow also pertains to “cash flow.” Meaning, if you’re not financially in the right place to take a trip it’s probably better to stay at home, do some laundry, and figure out a game plan so as not to be left out of the next trip’s festivities. Now, this is not to say that a person of modest means can’t enjoy themselves, you don’t need to be a “Baller” to have the ultimate Vegas experience. Plenty of folks drive up to Vegas on the “Baller on a Budget” $300 dollar vacation fund ($100 for your portion of the hotel for 2 nights, $25 on the gas tank, $25 on the magnum bottle of Grey Goose for the room and the other $150 for food, entry fees, etc.). Now that we’ve covered some of the cost effective ways to “do” Vegas, can someone please explain to me how it is that one determines that they will not be paying the $20 entry fee to get into the club only after they’ve bypassed all boot camp style obstacles of the velvet rope? I mean, isn’t this an executive decision that one makes in their head well before stepping out?


For example, it’s Fourth of July Weekend in Vegas, you and your friends decide to party at Jet Nightclub in the Mirage hotel. After chopping it up with the promoter, who you met on Twitter, the seas part and all of your friends are escorted through a crowd of jealous girls saving you an hour and a half wait. You reach the front door of Jet with the understanding that everyone still has to pay the $20 cover because of the holiday weekend. Knowing this beforehand, everyone is in agreement that Jet is the spot for the evening. Fully decked in your most bedazzled Vegas mini dresses, you and your girls are ready to pay the $20 and have an awesome time and an awesome hangover.


Three of you whip out your clutch bags, $20 dollar bills wrapped tightly around your California ID’s. Faintly in the background, Queen Victoria (friend #4) starts complaining about having to pay and how she NEVER has to pay in LA and how she doesn’t even go out if she has to wait in line. Her complaining turns into pouting, her pouting turns to blatant refusal and there you are, faced with the prospect of having to leave one man out. Let the rationalizing begin! You don’t really know the girl, she’s a friend of a friend brought along only by default so as to cushion the costs of the Double Queen Suite you booked at the Hard Rock HRH Tower. Fully prepared to leave her to her own devices, you pretend not to notice the mini conference that she’s holding with the other two girls. As soon as you extend your cash and ID to the guard, your BFF taps you on the shoulder to inform you that friend no: 4 has no cash to get in.  Your first instinct is to grab your BFF and head for the entry.  Of course, the inevitable domino effect, she feels bad for friend #3 who will be stuck with friend #4 at the Golden Nugget Bar and Grill fending off  local degenerate gamblers.  A rain cloud of disappointment appears as you’ve come so far only to have to turn around and do the walk of shame back down the red carpet. You feel retarded, like the static rewind button on a VHS tape, because SOMEONE decided that it wasn’t “worth it” to spend the necessary entry fee to party like a wannabe rock star.  Of course there are always other spots to go to in Vegas but everyone knows that the spot you didn’t get into is the spot that everyone will be talking about the next day…Womp…Womp!

Friend Politics 101

Friend Politics 101

Traci is my wingman.  We hang out all the time. But, lately I’d been keeping her out more nights than she typically tolerated.  So, when I called her to let her know my boy was throwing a “private party” for Lebron James at the W Hotel in Westwood, Traci wasn’t having it.  “Girl we went out Friday, Saturday and Tuesday, I’ve literally exhausted every rendition of my cutest outfits, and I haven’t worked out in like three days because it takes me two hours to blow dry, curl, and style my hair, give it rest mama!”  Who me?  Not a chance, not tonight! Didn’t she know that there were WINNERS at the W Hotel in Westwood?  I mean, what do you think the W stands for?  WINNERS of course!!

With Traci out of commission there were a few things to consider.  Friend Politics 101: I am only as fly as my crew.  There’s no sense in me getting cute and wasting my new YSL pumps if there’s a duck in my squad (yes a duck, quack…quack).  What I mean is… if I show up to an exclusive event with two other girls and one of them happens to be…shall we say… “challenged” in certain areas, then I’m probably not getting in.

Now I know what you’re thinking, that’s some real shallow LA shit right?  Right! Of course it’s shallow, but it’s also the truth ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome to my world!  I didn’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger.  Los Angeles social scene etiquette dictates that if I walk into a line looking fantastic and I throw up my perfectly manicured fingers motioning that there are two us, right away the bouncer notices me, walks over and says “who you with?” If I’m with a girl that looks like a hot, steamy, Avatar-mess, I am most likely not getting into the damn event (or Berry’s Pizza Cafe for that matter).  And guess what folks? I didn’t come out for all this! I did not get all dressed up only to have to walk the hall of shame and complain about it later at Mel’s Diner (where every tranny is welcome).  So, I devised a plan of attack.

Rule No 1:  My fat friends are for restaurants and concerts only (and no movies, people will think you’re a couple)

I realize you may be asking yourself, “What constitutes a fat girl? Am I a fat girl?”  To which I answer, if you have to ask….

You see, one night, I walked into the SLS Hotel bar with my dear friend Natalie.  Natalie is the flyest obese person you ever met.  I mean, she is gorgeous, and if we lived in Nebraska she’d be the Belle of the ball.  But we DON’T live in Nebraska.  We live in LA, home of the size 2 and the super-model diet (only 1 finger required).  Anyway, Natalie looked absolutely stunning in her knock-off DVF, Lane Bryant wrap dress circa 2009, yunno, the navy, exaggerated cheetah print.  As we entered the bar we overheard two guys loudly whispering as we walked by, “Yo man, I can’t even front on Mrs. Piggy-Beyonce over there, I’d F – her all day long.”  Paralyzed by my inability to calculate whether or not Natalie been complemented or insulted, I did what I do best and gave them my signature snub nose indicating that, while we did overhear the 12 year-old banter, it’s impossible to be insulted by anyone wearing Air-Force One’s to the SLS.  I sure told them, or so I thought, until I glanced over at Nat who looked as though the wind had been knocked out of her.

I immediately ordered two Grey Goose and Seven-Up’s for the table given that the night had already gotten off to a rocky start.  However, to no avail, Natalie wasn’t in the mood for conversation.  Now all Natalie wanted to talk about was her thyroid problem.  And, now Natalie didn’t want to hit up Industry for dancing later, like we’d originally planned, because she had to get to work early in the morning.   I felt bad for Natalie, I really did, because one ridiculous comment ruined our entire evening and I could not make it better no matter how hard I tried.

I began to get angry with her but I didn’t let on to it.  I couldn’t let her see me be frustrated with her weight problem (even though I truly was) because I couldn’t live with her feeling any worse than she already did.  I wanted to tell her that if she didn’t like her reality she needed to change it.  I wanted to tell her that her thyroid had nothing to do with the three cheeseburgers she religiously sipped down during her lunch hour every day.  But, instead, I pretended to be interested in her latest shoe purchase and her pretend boyfriend who was always out of town and whom none of us had ever met because that’s what friends do.