#60 Girls' Night In

So it's Friday night.  Our girlfriends are rallying.  If it's a "who, what, wear" kinda night, maybe it'll be sushi and sake followed by drinks at the new hotel bar.  Or tapas and sangria, and then drinks at the other new hotel bar.

However, it's also the end of an arduous work week spent in high-waisted pencil skirts or slacks and pointy-toed office pumps.  The last thing we want to do is apply glue and false lashes to our eyelids, put on special underwear, squeeze into a cocktail dress and tiptoe around town in 5" YSL platform sandals.

Certainly by now, most single girls understand both the merits and disadvantages of a girls' night out (or GNO). On the positive side, many of our epic drinking tales are a result of the shenanigans, mischief and mayhem derived from a girls' night out. And what single girl doesn't enjoy a good chortle retelling such stories?

If the intent and mission of a GNO is to "meet guys," some single girls neglect to realize the size of their party is indirectly proportional to the level of success in meeting said guys.  With these expectations, failure to meet a definite caliber of male on a night out could lead to some, if not total, disappointment.

For example, when a large group of girls heading out to a bar together collide with a comparable group of dudes, one would hope this to be an opportune turn of events - until it resembles a junior high school dance in the cafeteria with boys on one side of the room sneaking fidgety glances at girls on the other side of the room.

Ladies, it's a simple formula of proportion and mathematics: we all know it's easier for two guys to approach two girls, not two guys to eight girls (much to everyone's chagrin).  Unfortunately, a girls' night out can become a complete clam jam session when too many women are involved.

Albeit, there are those nights where we abandon "Operation: Man Hunt" because we're not in the right mood to potentially meet the man of our dreams at a bar.  Maybe we're feeling bloated, maybe our favorite dress is at the dry cleaner's, or maybe we're just totally over "girls' night out."  (Gasp!  How could this be?)

These are the nights we step out of the house in leggings and tastefully oversized t-shirts with our favorite accessory (a bottle of wine) and head over to a girlfriend's house.  If she's the Martha Stewart of the group, she will have a lasagna, casserole or something equally starchy baking in the oven.  Otherwise, it's most likely she fake cooked or ordered take-out from somewhere calorically fantastic.

It's no wonder why single girls like "girls' night in."  Benefits include opening that fifth bottle of wine (when there are only four of us) AND indulging on a third piece of lasagna with nobody (really) judging us.  (And the fact that we showed up in elastic waistbands is no coincidence.)

The ability to converse on certain topics in the privacy and safety of someone's home is quite liberating (especially after that fifth glass of wine).  We can talk about birth control (because abstinence is not an option), Brazilians (not the people), penises (yes, we compare notes), blow jobs (yes, we share techniques) and battery-operated "boyfriends." 

We can exchange bad date stories, deliberate about the guys we're seeing or gossip about former sorority sisters without worrying about a bartender, waiter, busboy or stranger overhearing our blunt, and often bawdy, exchange.  Unfortunately, when a specific person is being discussed in public, there is always a chance that someone within earshot is acquainted with the subject, specifically in a small town such as Los Angeles.

Another advantage of girls' night in?  We can have our cake, and eat two.  Carpe noctem!

#57 Advisory Committees

Much to our chagrin, single girls are admittedly insecure at times and, more so often than not, seek validation from our peers.  We have been plagued with making bad decisions concerning guys in the past - putting up with terrible boyfriends or letting go of the good ones. Hence, why we are single.

Doesn't it feel like dating has turned into a "Choose Your Own Adventure" novel for us?  What decisions should we make to end up with the man of our dreams and not sinking in a pit of quicksand?  (My fate always concluded in the dreaded quicksand, hanging over an alligator-infested swamp or worse, marooned in a bar that has run out of alcohol.  That last one was obviously a lie.)

Because having just one confidante and one point of view is never enough, most single girls have compiled an advisory committee of our most trusted friends.  This esteemed group may include: the monogamous girlfriend, the old boyfriend, the jaded single girlfriend, the optimistic single girlfriend and the perpetually single dude friend.

Much like the Supreme Court, the importance of having a panel with such diversity is to enable us to examine a situation carefully with varying opinions and perspectives, and help us make the best comprehensive decision on how to handle such situation.  A situation can range anywhere from completely inane (ie "What does he MEAN when he said 'I'll call you later?'") to serious (ie "Is it time for The Talk?").

The best thing about having an advisory committee is that we not only act as its president, but as its sole ruler and queen.  There is no majority vote, and we have ultimate veto power over the final decision.  So why bother with such a jury?  (I personally have always wondered about this with the actual judicial process.)

Single girls like advisory committees for three reasons:

1) We LOVE over-analyzing EVERYTHING - it's just something we DO, we can't help it.  (He's just not THAT into me?  Or IS he?  Then what DOES he mean by "I'll call you later?")  An advisory committee allows us to over-think, over-examine and really scrutinize the hell out of any scenario that has our metaphorical panties up in a twist.  Making a certain circumstance even more complicated than it should be is our specialty.

2) We LOVE talking about ourselves.  ALL THE TIME.  There are few things more validating for us narcissistic attention-whores than having a group of five to six consultants discussing and focusing entirely on us and our (sad) state of affairs.

3) When our advisory committee steers us astray with an unsavory resolution (aka the wrong decision), we have someone else to blame for the resulting fiasco other than ourselves.  And you know how much single girls HATE being wrong. Unfortunately, even the Supreme Court makes mistakes.

Now if you'll excuse me, I just got into a "fight" with a guy this weekend, and the members of my council are waiting for me to present my case.

#42 The Fate Versus Coincidence Debate

As young, impressionable children, single girls once believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, unicorns and true love.  While our faith in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny has diminished, the dubious existence of true love has been perpetuated by romance novels written by Nicholas Sparks and romantic comedies starring Meg Ryan.  (Unicorns, on the other hand, are real.)

The idea of "true love," "love at first sight," "the one" and "destiny" has often been challenged by many single girls, specifically after a horrible break-up or a series of bad dates.  But our confidence in a "happily ever after" can easily be restored by accidental encounters with the (current) object of our obsession affection.

However, because some single girls have become a bit jaded with age, these seemingly serendipitous meetings are the subject of a great debate that pits fate against coincidence.  For example, if we run into a boy we are interested in at the supermarket, could one argue that this is fate and predestined to happen, or purely coincidental?

The case in favor of coincidence asserts that people are attracted to people with similar interests, so naturally bumping into him in the freezer section at Trader Joe's means the two of you love their mint icecream sandwiches.  (You even mentioned this on a date, remember?) 

So you run into him again at a rock concert?  Coincidence.  You obviously like the same band.

Additionally, a chance rendezvous at the local bar is an absolute fluke if the two of you live within a three-mile radius of each other.  (Don't forget, single girls like geographical desirability.)

Now, the defense for fate contends that these unexpected tête-à-têtes are rather remarkable, maybe even magical.  Think about it: an unintended and unplanned encounter translates to two people being in the same exact place at the same exact time. 

Would these "coincidences" still occur if you took an extra two seconds to apply lip gloss this morning or if he stayed in his car an extra five seconds to answer a text message?

Those mint icecream sandwiches at Trader Joe's?  Not only were you both at the same exact Trader Joe's at the same exact time (3:07pm on Saturday), you were both completely out of mint icecream sandwiches at the same time.  Is this fate?

So you run into him again at a rock concert, waiting for a beer in the same exact line (the one upstairs) at the same exact time (9:46pm on Thursday).  But neither of you know the indie band on stage - you're only there to support your friend who is in love with the bass player and he was invited by a friend who won tickets on the radio.  This is TOTALLY fate, right?

Another fortuitous reunion, but this time the two of you both happen to be in the same shitty dive bar in a completely foreign neighborhood at the same exact time?  What are the odds?  Is the world really this small?  And why does it seem to revolve around us?

Call it kismet, call it fate.  Whatever this is, it's not just a coincidence anymore.  Or is it?

#39: Trashing His New Girlfriend

Much like our unbridled affection for bad "reality" drama series such as The Hills, one thing that single girls like to partake in but don't particularly like to admit to is trashing his new girlfriend.  If, for whatever God-given reason, we manage to stay civil/cordial/friendly/friends/Facebook friends with him after a break-up, we will undoubtedly have something disparaging to say about his latest female interest.

For the most part, nobody loses more friends or raises more eyebrows (in a bad way) than those girls who make overtly catty comments about someone in public, especially among strangers.  (Save that for a reality show.)  But put us in a room with our closest friends, and after a couple of vodka martinis, we will eventually confess all of those nasty, resentful thoughts we've been harboring about the new girl our ex-boyfriend is dating.

Where does all this animosity stem from?  Whatever happened to sisterhood?  Sisterhood!  Ha!  Have you SEEN the way sorority sisters treat each other?  I know from firsthand experience (eating disorder rumors, anyone?) that being a girl, let alone a "sister," is not always sugar and spice and everything nice.  (There was also one summer a long, long time ago when I was at WAR with my actual blood sister over a stolen diary.  Bitch.  To this day, I still have no idea what she did with it.)

Anyway, where were we?  Right.  Back to the source of hostility towards the new girlfriend.  Basically, with any ex-boyfriend, we ultimately failed as a couple.  And there is nothing more a single girl hates than FAILING.  The new girlfriend?  She is our "replacement."

So it is with great despair that we come to terms with the notion that we are dispensable.  After hours spent on self-examination and running various masochistic "what-if" scenarios through our pretty heads, we turn our attentions to the new girl.  After all, the best way to pick a girl up (us) is to put another girl down (her).

Single girls are VICIOUS when it comes to judging and criticizing other girls - and we will especially NOT hold back when the new girl he is dating could potentially be "the one."  This results from a cocktail of jealousy, bitterness and resentment.  After all, it might not have been that long ago when we thought we were "the one" for him.

Thus begins the comparison study.  If the new girlfriend is stupid enough to have lenient security settings on her Facebook profile, we have a social-networking field day.  Every bit of information is extracted from her "Wall," "Info" and "Photos" tabs to such a degree, we could be FBI profilers.  There is some intial satisfaction in discovering that she could be older, fatter and definitely NOT as attractive as we are.  But this eventually brings us to question, "Well, what was wrong with me?"  This silly idea can be quickly and easily buried in the nether regions of our minds by clicking on a terrible photo of new girlfriend in a shitty outfit.

Okay, but what if she is younger, skinnier, maybe prettier than us with an Ivy League degree, working on her MBA and training for a marathon?  We can (and will) find something repulsive about her.  Like how her right ear seems slightly lower than her left ear.  That is WEIRD, right?

We hypothesize about all the bad sex they're probably having and all the diseases she's probably carrying (and sharing).  We discuss the cosmetic surgeries she should invest in or have probably invested in.  Spiteful?  Yes.  Therapeutic?  YES!

Admittedly, at some point of our single girl lives, we have all been the "new girlfriend," replacing an ex-girlfriend who may or may not be older, younger, thinner, fatter or prettier.  And while we smugly wrapped our arms around this new boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend was somewhere in the city with her friends trashing us and wondering if our boobs are real.

Karma is a bitch.

#31 Adverbs

Perhaps one of the most ubiquitous single girl moments of the past decade is that of single girl icon and badass, Kristin Cavallari, thoughtfully twirling a strand of her illustrious blonde hair while steadily chewing on a piece of gum and airily exclaiming, "Seriously??"

Yes, seriously.  What is it about adverbs that single girls love so much?  I mean, really.

Before I wholeheartedly embark on the usual circumlocutory explanation, first, a grammar lesson.  For those of you not paying much attention during your English classes in third grade, fourth grade, and/or fifth grade, you may be quizzically wondering: What is an adverb?

"An adverb can modify a verb, an adjective, another adverb, a phrase, or a clause. An adverb indicates manner, time, place, cause, or degree."

Particularly in the English language, while adjectives only modify nouns and pronouns, adverbs modify everything else including themselves!  Indeed, adverbs are suitably versatile, in all manners of speaking, and quite literally.  Well done, adverbs! 

Those of us with liberal arts degrees are understandably decrying the untimely demise of the adverb as they have undoubtedly become a regular component of our vernacular. 

You see, something invariably happened after the women's liberation movement.  Suddenly, women were no longer simply respected for merely being that of the fairer sex.  In order to find ourselves (un)ceremoniously "hitched," we were now expected to be disarmingly well-spoken and smart.  How dare they give us the right to vote!

Ever since single girls began eloquently signing our letters "yours very truly" in third grade (and brazenly "modifying" everything we wrote by dotting our i's with hearts), we eventually figured out that multi-syllabic adverbs usually create the illusion of sounding genuinely articulate.  Hence, we see the exponentially rising employment of grandiloquent adverbs such as: literally, obviously, really, totally, literally, and, of course, seriously.

Unfortunately, plebians with smaller IQs are not only incorrectly using such adverbs as literally (ie. "I, like, literally, died"), they often ingratiatingly shorten them with abbrevations like "totes" (in lieu of "totally") and "obvi" (instead of "obviously").  I find this obnoxiously ridiculous and rather self-deteriorating.

Our affinity for adverbs does not unconditionally end here.  Possibly our love for the adverb stems from our love for details.

Remember how we said adverbs indicate manner, time, place, cause or degree?  Well, this means they blatantly answers questions such as "how," "when," "where," "how much," "how often," "underwhat condition," and "to what degree."

This is incredibly useful for interrogating friends and dirtbags we are dating, especially when adverbs are used as intensifiers.

An adverb as an emphasizer:
Q. How much do you like him?
A. I really like him!  He's totally cute!

An adverb as an amplifier:
Q. What do you think about David 4.0?
A. He is obscenely douchey! 

An adverb as a down-turner:
Q. You said she was what???
A. I never said she was "hot!"  She is only mildly attractive!  No, I did not mean "attractive!!"  Oh crap...

Generally speaking, adverbs are unfairly underrated and have even been publicly criticized.  Can single girls save the adverb?  Undoubtedly, inarguably, and of course, totally.

#23 Epic Drinking Tales

One of the primary reasons why our non-single counterparts keep us around is to live vicariously through our infinite dating chronicles.  We all know what happens when a girlfriend becomes coupled, and she is no longer a "me" but a "we."  (I know, ugh.)  The level of mischief, mayhem, scandal, and debauchery in her life is severely compromised. 

And because of that, non-single girls like a reiteration of an epic drinking tale just as much as we like telling it to them.

An epic drinking tale is just that - epic.  Much like the Odyssey, our epic stories include key elements: endless nights, a melange of monsters, men who turn into swine, douchey suitors, questionable deeds, and an incredible voyage returning to sobriety.  (For Odysseus, he returned to his marriage, which some may consider a buzz kill.)  Of course, costume changes and some nudity may be involved.  (But hopefully unlike Odysseus showing up naked and disoriented on the shores of that island, Scherie.  Dude, how embarassing.)

Every narration normally begins with "So the night started off innocently enough..."  As the tale unfolds, the level of hijinks and hilarity escalates, usually proportionate to the number of alcohol units consumed.  I am in every way condoning binge drinking.  After all, epic drinking narrations involve the actual act of ingesting alcoholic beverages.  And really, have you ever had a dull evening when tequila shots were involved?  Exactly.

(Note: What I do NOT condone is vomiting, belligerence, or any other asshat behavior resulting from marathon drinking.  That, my friends, is completely bush league and single girls HATE anything bush league.)

An epic drinking tale that recently occured:

"My night started off innocently enough at a sports bar in San Francisco with my buddy D, watching a football game between my alma mater and our cross-town rivals.  There, we watched miserably as my team got its ass spanked by a melange of monsters.

"We were joined by a seemingly mild-mannered acquaintance who told of his experiences working as a television personality news reporter.  Our eyebrows arched at the thought of him as a "local celebrity" being chased around a grocery store by swooning girls and having his bill comped at restaurants several times a week.  (Man turning into swine?  Check, please.)

"After the game, I promptly replaced the t-shirt bearing the name of my alma mater, aka the LOSING team, (costume change!) before heading over to a gay bar where D's 22-year old cousin, T, was bartending.  T was gracious enough to supply us with several drinks (on the house, of course), introduced us to his roommate (a Mr. San Francisco Leather), spread salacious gossip about his bar patrons, and told us about his epic drinking night.

"The three of us then proceeded to a crowded dive bar in the Mission, which could be redundant since watering holes in the Mission are generally grungy gross shit holes divey, but then "too cool for school" douchey establishments like Medjool opened.  (God, I hate that place.)  Anyway, this particular dive bar was akin to a sauna due to San Franciscans never turning off their heaters no matter how warm it already is or how many bodies are crammed into one room. 

"Further digressing, as most of you know, the Mission in San Francisco is like the Silver Lake/Echo Park of Los Angeles, except with ugly people.  I rather enjoy being the prettiest person in a room, but once the dude next to me started scratching his dreadlocked head, bringing back memories of how itchy my scalp was when I had lice in fourth grade, we high-tailed it out of there.

"T thought it necessary to expose me to attractive people next so he took us to a club in the Castro.  He paid an $8 cover for each of us to walk in, use the restroom, and leave.  Well, that wasn't exactly his intention, but with all the talk about his previous night's events, T had a hankering for narcotics and had arranged with his dealer to meet him somewhere else.  Immediately.  (Yes, $24 might have been the most I have ever spent to take a piss.)

"On our way to this "somewhere else," I thought it necessary for another costume change.  Much to the delight of my companions, I stripped down to my undies in the middle of the street and pulled on a cocktail dress.  (Public nudity, just like Odysseus!  Well, sorta.)" 

Okay, so now at this point of my story, you're probably thinking: Sweet baby Jesus, what TIME is it ?!  Remember, an epic drinking tale involves an endless night.  But to answer your question, I believe it was well after midnight.

"While T was off buying drugs doing a questionable deed, D and I shuffled into another bar for additional libations where I received a text message requesting my presence at yet another bar not too far from where this night all began.  Leaving T for the evening, we raced to our last stop for the night before last call.

"And of course, no epic drinking tale can conclude without running into a former douchey suitor, which is exactly what happened.  Apparently, I was dating the only single dude in San Francisco.

"A shot of whiskey and a cocktail later, we began our incredible voyage home to sobriety."

As I end this account, most often I catch my non-single girlfriend gazing wistfully away, thinking about the glory days when she was once single. (She probably can't eat over the sink anymore or sit in front of the TV in fat pants indulging on a package of Oreos while watching Gossip Girl.  I may actually do that after I finish this post...)

We delight in telling such tales because sometimes we can't believe why we don't have our own reality shows like LC or Whitney or those guidos.  The shenanigans we find ourselves in aren't even friggin' scripted (we unwittingly run into ex-boyfriends while we're out on dates all the time!) but you don't see us making $20,000 an episode!  Kristin, Heidi, Audrina and those other Hills girls have nothing on us.  Well, except maybe boob jobs.

A single girl's worst critic is herself but a single girl's biggest fan is also herself.  There is nobody who loves ourselves more than ourselves.  It's true what they say about us: we are narcissists.  (Why do you think we spend so much time in the bathroom?) 

A narcissist will not let mortality get in the way of her infamy.  These epic drinking tales are often fantastical: absurd and astonishing, but also so incredible and far-fetched, we couldn't possibly make this shit up!  Indeed, legends are, and have been, made from such recitations.

#19 Nicknames

"So I had dinner with Mark the other night."
"Wait, which Mark?"
"Mark from Texas."
"Wait. Which Mark from Texas?"
"The one who drives the Ferrari."
"I thought Jon drove the Ferrari?"
"No, Jon drives a Benz."
"Wait. Which Jon?"

We've all run into this problem before, some of us more often than most. (Me? Definitely more often than average.) We meet a guy with an annoyingly common name (ie. Brian or David) and when we're telling our girlfriends about said guy during Sunday brunch, they don't know if we're talking about Brian 1.0 or Brian 2.0. This proves to be ingratiatingly confusing, especially after a few glasses of mimosas.

Sure, it's easy to name them David #1 or David #2, but things get a little tricky after you meet a David #3. Equally disturbing is when David #1 re-enters your life years later as David #4. (He claims to be a "changed man," ergo a new David.)

Those repetitively explanatory conversations can easily be avoided with nicknames. We have a vested interest in saving time and energy from differentiating Tim #1 from Tim #2 when there are clearly more important topics to discuss such as "What did Tim #2 REALLY mean when he said 'I will call you later.'"

Thus, single girls like nicknames.

Nicknames are designated using unique details about dudes.  A nickname is easily contrived if he comes from somewhere foreign like Germany, South Africa, or Alabama. Thus, his new moniker is "The German," "The South African," or "The Redneck," respectively.

Single girls also like unusual occupations. Not only does having an unusual occupation make you easier to Google stalk, unusual occupations make classifying him a piece of cake. (Mmmm...cake.) College basketball coach? Magician? Firefighter? Scoreboard technician? Butcher? Baker? (No, seriously, is there cake?) Candlestick maker?

Even better are foreigners with unusual occupations.  Argentinian opthamologist? French venture capitalist? Brazilian bikini designer? (Slightly redundant if he only designs Brazilian bikinis as he would then be a Brazilian Brazilian bikini designer.)

So he's not foreign and he's a "consultant"? Never fret, it might not be as easy, but we'll figure out a way to distinctly christen this newbie - whether it's from his choice of wardrobe, the car he drives, his political or religious views, or the man bag - excuse me, satchel - he's carrying.

But Single Girl 1.0, you say, since you love learning last names so much, why don't you just refer to dudes by their last names so you don't get all your Marks confused?

Frankly, some single girls have faster trigger fingers than others, and may be dating multiple guys one month and then going through a completely different batch the next.  Because of this high turnover, it's not worth the storage space in our pretty heads for us to remember that "Smith" = "Pilot" simply when "Pilot" = "Pilot."  So when we speak of dudes with our girlfriends, referring to him as "Smith" means nothing to them when there is no identifying qualifier. 

Plus, we know dudes like using nicknames just as much as we do. How else would their buddies distinguish ex-girlfriends as "That Crazy Ex #1" from "That Crazy Ex #2"?

#14 Scatological Humour

Talking about "potty humor" seems much more refined and ladylike when you use a multi-syllabic medical term and the British spelling of "humor" to refer to it as "scatological humour," don't you think?

Okay, who are we kidding.

I don't know about the rest of you single girls, but my girlfriends and I have the best time grossing each other out talking about our bodily functions and whatnot.  When speaking about defecation (poo), urination (pee), flatulence (farts), vomiting (puking) and the like, we are the shit. 

A potty humor face-off?  Bring it.

For one thing, girls experience something boys will never have the privilege of enjoying.  Oh, yes.  Menstruation.  On the whole (pun intended and ew!), this is a completely foreign subject to dudes.  There is a common joke among men that you can't trust something that bleeds for five days and survives.  (Just in case you weren't paying attention in seventh grade health class, some girls bleed for an entire week!)  This topic includes supplementary material: tampons, bloating, hooking up during "that time of month," regulating by way of "the pill," ovulation, and now we even have those new birth control methods that prevent blood loss.  (The latter most sounds convenient, but where exactly does it all GO?  Ew.)

A reinterpretation of the musical Ragtime?  We would have a field day.

Now whatever you do, don't ever get the pregnant girls or new mothers started!  When there is something growing inside of you for nine months, this exponentially creates all kinds of fodder for potty jokes.  Again, something else you boys will never understand.  Even the words "placenta" and "fetus" make ME nauseous.

Speaking of where babies come from, single girls love inappropriate penis jokes especially when talking about guys we have dated.  And yes, we do trade notes.  If you overhear us talking about pinkies or pepper grinders, we are absolutely NOT comparing penis sizes.  Nor in a quandary about proportions.  Why would you even THINK that?

In fact, we might be having a heated discussion about vibrators.  DIY projects aren't just relegated to the crafts store anymore.

You are safe to assume that when we make jokes of the scatological variety, we are just as immature about them as guys are.  For those of us who work or live in tall buildings, how often have our elevators stopped on a floor where someone has asked, "Going down?"  I want to giggle every time, thinking about the amount of action people get riding on elevators.  (Or is it just me?)  Elevator servicing.  Snicker.

I know, I know.  That's what SHE said.

#12 Worst Date Competitions

Single girls would rather spectate at normal competitions (preferably of the men's beach volleyball variety) than actually take part in any athletic pursuit that causes us to perspire heavily in public.  Alas, we only allow our sweat glands to run amock at the gym during our yoga or pilates sessions.  And even then, we're not actually sweating but "glistening."

Our aversion to sweating and participating in sports causes us to engage in a competition of the unconventional sort: the worst date competition. 

We've all had a bad date.  To survive an exceptionally horrific one, we wear it as a badge of honor.  Worst date stories are our war stories.  After all, we're braving the wild and treacherous (in more ways than one) singles scene in our respective urban jungles.  Love IS a battlefield.

Sharing stories about our dates usually occurs during Sunday brunch.  (Single girls really like Sunday brunch).  At this reunion of sorts, there is at least one girl who has just been on a bad date that weekend.  This generally escalates into a deliberation of similar bad dates and even more abominable ones.  Before we know it, our Sunday brunch has become a "worst date ever" showcase. 

Sometimes some of us sit through what we know is already a terrible date, not because you are paying for the meal, but because you are providing us with fodder for our next worst date competition. 

My worst date story involves a questionably operated pick-up truck and a potential head-on collision with another vehicle on a Los Angeles freeway. I can honestly say that I almost died on a date. I was able to arrive at this punch line only after hearing my date talk about how he taught himself to surf, his experiences with drugs in Malaysia, his illegal escape from Cuba, and his tequila-infested week in Mexico.  I think I deserve a medal.

So why do we exploit bad date stories?  Because this is our form of amusement on Sundays when guys are watching football and grunting at a television.  Because this support group is cheaper than therapy (and God knows we need professional help after those worst dates).  Because we are evil bitches who feel better about ourselves after putting guys down.  Because this is our way of reminding ourselves: it's not us, it's THEM.

Now please finish reading this blog entry, turn off your cell phone, and return to your date.