You Can't Win If You Don't Play

Have you ever dated someone who you believed was so out of your league, that you wouldn't care if this surreal relationship ended in a murder/suicide tragedy at the hands of your extra special someone? Neither have I. (Although I think I've come close to going down that street recently but it's temporarily closed for construction.)

I imagine that is what women who date George Clooney are thinking. Or at least that's what I would think if I were dating him. I would simply treasure the trips to Lake Como with Matt and Luciana and try to move on from the best 4-8 months of my life.

The reality of my life is that, according to about 79.8% of my friends, I have been known to date below my potential.  But I've always considered myself somewhat of a slutty Make-A-Wish Foundation. I've never really had a "type." I think of dating more like the lottery: You can't win if you don't play.  Basically if you have the ability to make me laugh, you also have the ability to make me take my clothes off.

For reasons I don't absolutely comprehend, my friends seem to have me on some sort of pedestal. (It's not very high.) Don't get me wrong,  there are a few who have tried to pawn me off to any and every unfortunately dull Tom, Dick, and Harry this side of Rancho Cucamonga, and those friends can no longer be trusted in 'set-up' situations. But for the most part, they seem to be on to me in the sense that I can't trust my own taste in men. Which seems to be where the problem lies.

Let's be honest, I'm no spring chicken. Things are starting to fall apart by the day, and I need to get my ass (literally) back into sextable shape due to one too many dozen chocolate croissants smeared with Nutella on my recent European escapade. If there was ever a time to lower my standards, it would be now. However, I've decided to turn this ship around and head for some greener pastures. I'm looking to start frying some bigger fish. I'm going to start playing for the jackpot instead of the scratch-off tickets, if you will.

How To Succeed in Europe Without Really Trying

Bonjour! I've been back from my European extravaganza for a week now, and while I do miss eating chocolate bread smothered with Nutella every morning, I'm glad to be back in the land of toilet seat covers and gay men everywhere. I would like to take this opportunity to share some observations/pointers from my experiences:

-If I told you I didn't experience any jet lag whatsoever would you believe me? It's true. Nobody understands how that happened... Including me. But then again, I'm also the person who runs a half marathon and then waits tables for 5 hours after. And the kind of person who does strenuous exercise, then gives blood, then drinks margaritas immediately after. (I've also been known to have a slightly mild case of narcolepsy.) But when all else fails, chase a Benadryl with a nice glass of red wine and zzzzzzzzz...

-The fact that I survived 4 cities in Italy with SO MANY TOURISTS and managed to come back without a foreign criminal record is an accomplishment I'm extremely proud of. I love Asian people, I really do. In a perfect world, I would produce an adorable set of boy/girl twins, and then adopt myself a future United Colors of Benetton catalogue with two different types of Asian babies. But the world isn't perfect. And neither are Asian tourists. They travel in large packs, they walk ridiculously slow, and they stare at things FOR. EVER. If you see a large group of them, do whatever you can to walk as far ahead of them as possible, or kill yourself. On the upside, if you need someone to take a picture of you, always ask an Asian. They are eager to please and always happy to help. (Which oddly enough is what also makes them great massage therapists.) Also, they are the least likely to take off running with your camera. God bless Asians.

-Europe seems to operate on a different "gaydar" frequency. I learned that the hard way when I was fondled by my waiter in Rome. I still thought he was gay until he made animal noises at me and demanded I meet him by the toilet. Fortunately, I was able to resist his romantic advances. From that point on, and thanks to my brilliant little sister, I decided to assume no man was gay for the duration of my visit. It turns out NO man was gay anywhere. Just European and, at times, just plain creepy. Nevertheless, I managed to return to LA with my vagina unscathed. Hooray!

-All of that being said, it never really hurts to show a little cleavage. Cleavage is a universal language and it can really get you out of a bind when you don't know how to buy a subway ticket in a foreign country.

I hope these little tidbits of wisdom will help in the success of your future European endeavors. Until next time.