The Duchess' Guide to Finding the One

Let’s be honest, maybe the “daddy issues” card is thrown around a little too often. It’s the perfect excuse for some troubled 19-year-old to get a saline set, a tribal tramp stamp, change her name to Electra and take off in her convict boyfriend’s Firebird. Instead of such a heinous term that is used to describe half of Maury’s casting calls... I like to believe that I have ‘vacation syndrome.’ Apparently my father was good friends with Forrest Gump’s sperm donor and they went on a little jaunt and have yet to return.

I’m not one to believe in scapegoats but I think the fact that my tattooed mortician father hopped on his motorcycle and took off while I was in middle school may or may not be a determinant in my reckless decision-making and thrill-seeking behavior. I don’t need Dr. Drew to map out the social stigma that comes with that one. 

With that being said, it’s hard for all of us who suffer with ‘Vacation Syndrome’ to find a stable, healthy relationship... and no, ladies. Cats don’t count. Even more troubling is to find a monogamous relationship worth writing to your sorority about on this condemned island. Let’s not kid ourselves, you cannot throw a stone out of your bedroom window without hitting somebody that went to third base with your best friend, and your cousin, and your cousin’s best friend and your sister’s hair stylist. Yes, it is indeed a pit of incestuous scandal where the pedigree of eskimo brotherhood grows longer, one SoCo shot at a time. 

I admit, I love being single. It’s a great feeling, but let’s not kid ourselves, nobody likes the feeling of spooning with a Bed Bath and Beyond body pillow while the Hallmark ‘Save-the-Date’ cards pile up on the coffee table. So what is a duchess to do? We can a. party like single rock stars and come home to your ex’s fraying Rush t-shirt and a bowl of frozen yogurt, b. plaster your face all over some dating website with the wishes that you won’t end up in the bottom of Buffalo Bill’s well or c. always have a full face of makeup and shaved legs whilst praying to the higher being that serendipity takes control, leaving you head-over-heels for the paramedic that responds to your frequent anxiety attacks (we all run out of our Xanax from time to time). 

With bad luck in almost all of those departments... no boyfriend of mine would own a Rush t-shirt, online dating scares the shit out of me and I don’t have good enough health insurance to ever call for an ambulance. Duchesses just have to have a set of standards to offset the apparent assclowns that will infiltrate your perfect existence. These are just some rules I’ve come up with along the way, from experience. Please, keep in mind that I have dated some WINNERS. 

Exhibit A. The partier. My ex boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. I’m just too lazy to come up with some run-on slew of words that will defame him and make me feel a little better about the fact that he dumped me during finals week. No-Name would come home from work, put on Wu-Tang Klan, pack his bowl, proceed to watch 007 marathons in a terrycloth bathrobe and a pair of snow boots while chasing left over chinese food with Miller High Lifes. 

This brings us to rule number one. Illicit drug use. Red flag. If he’s paying money for drugs, how is he ever going to buy you Yurman and take you to Top of The Hub for your anniversary dinner? I like to go with the basic rule that occasional pot use is ok, but anything more than that is a bit risky. If you find roaches all over his apartment and his car smells like a Grateful Dead concert, you may want to run. Anything harder than pot? RUN. RUN. RUN. You don’t want to fall in love with a guy that will be bumping lines off of a hospital toilet while you’re giving birth to his first child. Extreme, yes, but women are crazy and these thoughts WILL run through your head. The same goes for alcohol. It can be cute and romantic to drink a bottle of Knob Creek whiskey together and to giggle and partake in silly banter and political discussion... but if he’s doing shots of Jack Daniel’s until he wakes up looking and sounding like Ozzy Osbourne... you may want to vacate that situation. Also, never date a guy who drinks stoli-raz-and-soda-splash-of-cran, white wine, Long Island Iced Teas or Grand Marnier. The first three are extremely embarrassing and your boyfriend may as well have a sand-filled vagina. The last is on principal, my sister’s crazy ex boyfriend drinks Grand Marnier and we have vowed to put the italian curse on men who drink it. Nothing too crazy. 

Exhibit B. The fix-up. That date you get when one of your happily coupled friends swears “THEY HAVE THE PERFECT GUY FOR YOU.” Be weary. In my case, you could end up in a dive bar, on a Wednesday, with a halitosis suffering owner of a windowless van, skinny jeans and a lisp. Did I mention he had half sleeves that looked more like he were chased around the room by a pack of intellectually disabled baboons with sharpies? It was the most painful hour of my life... and I’ve survived a bilateral mammoplasty and jury duty. It was not worth breaking out the Nars lipstick and my favorite black blazer, I assure you. 

Here we come to our second rule: Don’t let people fix you up. It is people’s odd way of saying: I have a desperate person that would be a perfect match of desperation for my desperate single friend. Unless their last name is Kennedy, Vanderbilt or Kardashian (kidding) you want nothing to do with this. It is a cruel tactic that allows bored couples to create other couples for the sheer hope that all four of you can eat Mexican dip on a Friday night and play Apples to Apples. Gingerly refuse the offer. 

Exhibit C. The cash-payer. Sure, it is a great feeling when a guy takes you out and throws money around like he’s Henry from Goodfellas, but think again. HE’S MARRIED. NO DEBIT CARD=NO TRAIL=NO UNHAPPY WIFE. Get it? Let’s look back upon my 5 minute stint with slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche. He walked around with stacks of cash, used to pick me up in different company rental cars and shut his phone off after 6 pm. I did not have hopes of marrying this guy, but it stings a little to eventually realize that some poor woman is home sharing a bed with this creep and he is out on the prowl for unsuspecting duchesses. 

So alas we create another rule. If he is using large amounts of cash and trying to treat you like a queen, kick him in his nether regions, explain to him that he is a piece of shit, and try to quickly jog away without scuffing your FMP’s. Better yet, just hail a cab and cry in the backseat while explaining what happened. He’ll take you to a popular spot and maybe not charge you for the ride. Be weary if he starts tilting the mirror to peer down your grief-stricken cleavage. 

I guess the overall moral of this XX chromosome ridden rant, is that we must use our gut instincts. Don’t settle for anything that gives you an odd feeling. If you feel pangs of anxiety when you are going to spend time with him. Drop him. It is not worth it. It will age you and heighten your chances of developing Irritable Bowel Syndrome. You should be with somebody who would make out with you early in the morning after you had escargots the night before, buy you super tampons and a Three Musketeers bar during day 2 of your monthly visitor, tell you that you look fabulous when you have visible panty lines (boyshorts) and lipstick on your teeth and who will at least feign pretend interest in your family stories. That is a real winner, and let’s be honest. A duchess can’t settle for anything less than everything. Kisses.