And so it begins...

Ok.

How this starts is with me telling you that basically I am a new blogger. A new blog-girl. A brand new blogging beauty. I'm all fresh-faced and naive in the universe of spilling your guts to strangers online, and so who knows what the hell will come out in these little ramblings of mine. I have nothing to base them on, so that's always dangerous. Also, I am well aware that most people don't care what's going on in my life, and I am well aware that anything I say is probably unoriginal. Therefore I shall lie, as often and with as much hyperbole as possible.

I'll start by telling you: I am female. That one's not a lie, actually, that's true. Basic fact. I am a single female in the rough-and-tumble world of new millennium New York City. Fancy, I know.

The point of this blog is to complain. Mostly. I think. Also to entertain you with my superior wit and guile which really cannot be denied or overlooked. Thank god for spell check because the word guile could have been a serious disaster if I didn't have the luxury of computerized proof-reading. Wonderful thing, most of the time, unless you are one of those people amused simply by misspelling, in which case...I don't know what to say to you. You're borderline pathetic.

What I am going to complain about right now, friends (I call you friends despite the fact that I'm assuming I don't know you at all), is the crazy idea of dating in New York City. Crazy. This idea is crazy. Lunatic material, really, because I have yet to meet someone who wants to date me and does not qualify as a loser, a creep, or a liar in my travels and wanderings. Most guys in these parts have that look in their eye. You know that look, ladies. The "Hey baby don't you like what's in my pants?" look. The "What up, girl? My place is just around the corner," look. The patented, fascinating, and most-likely copyrighted "Daaaaaamn," look. Be honest, you know exactly what I'm talking about. And usually it doesn't matter how the hell hot you really are. You could be wearing sweatpants, a headband, and your too-big-for-your-tiny-face glasses, and still, somehow, someone, somewhere on some street corner will watch you walk by, call you "mami," and follow you for a block and a half before getting distracted by somebody else's booty. Ok that was me being hyperbolic, but still. It's sort of true. Like 87 percent. 87.4 percent. Let's call it 87.3 percent true, because the sweatpants are pushing it, really.

So it's 87.3 percent true and 100 percent irritating.

Not that I don't like the attention, I'd be lying (which I do sometimes but not about this) if I said I didn't like getting hit on by a guy lingering outside a 7/11. I love it. (That makes me sound soooo sketchy, but you all know what I mean...maybe) However, I am not going to hand this street corner guy my number. And I'm finding that in bars and cafes across the city even the guys in dockers and loafers are just using that freshly ironed khaki as a disguise to hide the patented "Daaaaamn" underneath. They're like Clark Kent stripping his glasses to turn into Superman, only creepier and without the cape. They take off their dark-framed specs to reveal that they mostly just want to lay you out on their futon and have their totally boring and unsatisfying way with you. I'm not into it, fellas, whether you're dressed in Ralph Lauren or not.

Truthfully? I'm beginning to think it is not the fault of these not-that-endearing boys in the city. I'm beginning to think it has something to do with the females folding like cheap card tables. We just wander around in our little skirts and knee-high boots like we're Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman BEFORE the makeover. Yes, I just called us all hookers. Except even Vivian had some guidelines she lived by. Some basic lines drawn in the basic sand. We, however, have just thrown rules and regs right out the window.

Some rules we've apparently forgotten to enforce, girls:

1. A girl likes a phone call. I'm not going to call you, dude, so don't give me YOUR number. Also, one night stands are really really predictable and expected. Live on the edge. Instead of sleeping with me call me the next day for dinner. I just blew your mind, didn't I? I know it's shocking.

2. On a related note, a girl likes to be treated to dinner. Please, god, just offer to take me somewhere. Pasta, pizza, McDonald's...anything. Seriously anything at this point.

3. If I'm out with friends don't take turns hitting on all of us. And worse, if I'm out with my SISTER...please don't take turns hitting on both of us. I mean, I thought this would be obvious, but...shows what I know. It's happened enough times that I figure I should mention it.

4. If you call me Baby, Mami, the oh-so-complimentary pet name of Bitch, or even, dare I add, Sexy, I will absolutely not answer you. Ever. Get in line behind the guys who ask me my name and remember it.

5. Stop trying to score. It's really unattractive and makes you look like some sort of untrained zoo animal. We're super smart, boys, we know a tongue hanging out when we see one.

There are more, I assure you, but I fear if I continue I will never ever stop, and you will be left with no reason to read this blog anymore.

What has happened to the rules in this dating game? To the level-headed approach we women used to have that kept our boys in line? Whatever happened to sanity, and normalcy, and seeing the same person on Saturday night that you saw on Friday without needing to duck into the bathroom to avoid the infamous one-night-stand embarrassment? Help me out because I am at a serious loss.

Dating in New York City. What a novel and foreign idea. Unfortunately I don't think the over aged frat-boys in this city know how to plan ahead, or call the next day, or even take a pen to paper (Hyperbolic. Of course they can write, I've just never seen it happen.) No, no, instead they just yank their pants up with one hand and pretend to type your number into their company-issued blackberries with the other, when really (according to the ever popular Dane Cook) they're just playing Tetris.

Classy.

Thank you gentlemen. I will now look for my life-long companion in some foreign country like Scotland or something because somehow American boys are just not doing it for me.

But (yes, this is the infamous but) by all means if you happen to be a guy in New York and you think you are the ever-sought-after exception to this rule...

I'm free on Friday.