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Choosing Civility: The Twenty-five Rules of Considerate Conduct Blow Me Blow Me Half Broke Horses The Glass Castle Steve Jobs

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Welcome to my blog on dating in Los Angeles.  I hope you find my real life stories and anecdotes on being smart, sexy and single in the City of Angels as amusing (and tragic) as I do.  If you enjoy reading my posts, please share this blog site with your friends, family, loved ones, and less loved ones.  

Please check out my Sex and the City style novel Blow Me—available now in e-book and paperback on my website and lulu.com. Also available in ebook on amazon.com and Google books.


The Award For Best Actress Goes To...

Its Oscar season, and the nominees for best actor/actress in a social media performance are:

Kim Kardashian for faking her relationship with Kris Humphries to the point of buying herself her own engagement ring and pretending he bought it for her so she would not have to feel and look pathetic by still being single in her thirties.

Charlie Sheen for parlaying his personal rage into a show idea called “Anger Management” and acting sane enough to convince the FX network executives to give him a shot after he already berated and humiliated the network executives on Two and a Half Men.

Crystal Harris (25) for pretending she was in love with Hugh Hefner (85), who is old enough to be her grandfather, then having the common sense to call off the wedding five days before tying the knot.

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Wine And The Single Girl - Burgundian Babe

All too many times I have gone on dates with men who have said they love wine, and have been brutally disappointed when they order a bottle of some mundane California Cabernet like Silver Oak. I’m sorry, but I thought you were trying to impress me? Did you do your homework? Didn’t I mention that my cats are named Monte after Batard-Montrachet—the crème de la crème of white Burgundy—and Pinot Noir after, well, the Holy Grail of wines? You’d think a guy would have enough common sense at least to order French wine, if not something from the Burgundy region. Go directly to foodie jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. And, do not expect a second date! 

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How Hollywood Ruined Valentine's Day

I don't want to sound sexist, but let's face the simple fact that women are generally more romantic than men. Okay, maybe that's inaccurate. Maybe we're just more sentimental about romance. We remember first dates, first kisses, first texts and even first fights. We remember anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. What we can't seem to forget and wish we could are the countless birthdays, New Year's Eve's and Valentine's Days we have spent alone devouring a carton of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey (which is exactly what we'll feel like after we devour it) and crying into our pillow. 

In February 2010, Warner Brothers and Garry Marshall released a sappy movie about Valentine’s Day, unimaginatively entitled Valentine’s Day with a star-studded cast of heart throb men like Bradley Cooper (yum), Aston Kutcher (double yum), and Grey’s Anatomy’s McDreamy Patrick Dempsey to pull on the heartstrings of every single and unhappily married woman in America. Unfortunately, there seems to be money in making women miserable, so Garry Marshall reinvented the not so exciting wheel, employing some of the same ensemble cast, this past December with a movie about New Year’s Eve, aptly called New Year’s Eve. Genius! Who does give him the inspiration for his titles? 

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To Google or Not to Google?

You meet a new guy online or in real life and have his name and vitals. Do you Google him? That is the question. My answer: yes and no. Clearly, I have a love/hate relationship with Google.

First, why I love Google: it gives us instant access to any information we want. You want to know Madonna's 2012 concert dates? Google it. Want to know Rob Lowe's first son's name? Google it. Now, for why I hate Google: it gives us instant access to any information we want. Google violates our privacy and makes it ridiculously easy for psychopaths, blackmailers, and stalkers to research their targets. In some areas of Europe, Google Maps in not permitted to publishing aerial photographs of people’s homes. Often, the responsibility is on the homeowner to submit a request to Google by a certain date or one is assumed to have agreed to this lack of privacy. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Just because you have satellites in space doesn't mean you can take a photo of me tanning naked in my back yard and put it on Google Maps.

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Brr, It's A Little Nipply Out.

The cold weather is here and so are my nipples, and I am not going to hide them despite a recent article on EcoSalon declaring nipple visibility a fashion faux pas. I’m not some feminist radical Jane Fonda of the 70s type women, but I hate bras. I hate the way they feel. They are uncomfortable. They bind, they chafe, and when you have small breasts, they ride up. There’s nothing to weigh them down. I’d like to burn all my bras, but I’m afraid the stench of melting fabric, under-wires, and foam in my fireplace would draw unwanted attention by the police and fire department.

When I wear a bra it looks like I’m trying too hard—like a little girl playing dress up in mommy’s clothes and using lipstick as rouge all over her cheeks. I look better braless. All flat-chested women do. Jodie Foster has proven this point year after year by wearing plunging Armani necklines to the Oscars. 

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Stealing the Soap  

Since childhood, I have predominantly dated Jewish men. My first love was an eleven year-old boy named Jimmy who I met in Hawaii over the Christmas holidays. We were staying in the same condo development in Lahaina—a place where the non-wealthy vacationed, far away from the fancy hotels of Kaanapali Beach. On our last day of vacation, he knocked on the door of our condo unit and asked if he could kiss me. I said no. I hope I didn’t break his heart.

I like Jewish men. They tend to be educated, kind, intellectual, successful and respectful of women. One thing amusing I have noticed about Jewish men, is that no matter how much money they have, no matter how expensive of a hotel they are staying at, they always steal the soap and the little shampoos. I confess. I have a habit of doing this as well. I get the concept: you’re paying a few hundred bucks a night for the hotel room, what can it hurt to take a few bars of soap? I, however, am a discretionary soap theft. I only take the good stuff, like the Lemon Verbena soap at the Wynn in Los Vegas, the Molton Brown in the Peninsula Beverly Hills, or the Bulgari White Tea from the Four Seasons. I would never even consider stealing those wimpy little bars from the Sheraton.  I mean, they’re like a one use kind of thing.

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