You don't know me, you don't know where I live... Marie Claire...

I have never purchased a copy of Marie Claire in my life- until yesterday. I bought it specifically because I had read two articles online about a piece in this month's issue. The article in question is called "Where The Guys Are" and apparently is suggesting that you pack all your shit up and move to a city where you have like, a better chance of finding a boyfriend/husband whathave you. You know, because you have a vagina, and this is what's important to you (not like, your job, your friends or your life or anything). They also tell you how you should adjust yourself accordingly so that men in that area will find you palatable. You know, like if you're in Seattle (number one on the list!), you should wear flannel. Because it's still 1994 there, I suppose.

Chicago is number 15... and they suggest that to find yourself a man here, you don an embellished pencil skirt and a pastel blouse. Gross. I am all for pencil skirts- pencil skirts are hot. But pastel blouses? So wrong. If I wear pastel anything I look like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I would rather be single forever, and die alone, not being found until three weeks later, half eaten by my cats than wear a fucking pastel blouse. Unless I am starring in the Broadway production of 9-5. Then, and only then.

Apparently you are supposed to wear this because Midwesterners value the classics and are low key. Whatever. Last night I wore a gold lame skirt and a black wifebeater and everyone thought I looked fabulous. Then again, I was in a gay bar. But the stripper, who was quite the heterosexual, was all about it. Actually, I think I got him in trouble. This is another story. For later.

Oh, also, according to Marie Claire, dudes here are "wholesome-but-urbane Big Ten alums prowling for The One-- a Cubbies cap-wearing, God-fearing good girl with a shoe tree full of strappy heels" Which totally makes you want to kill yourself, right? Don't worry, Marie Claire also assures you that "the Art Institute churns out off-beat alterna-boys for whom a romantic date is dining alfresco at the Kebab Shack and all-you-can-drink Schlitz!"

I don't know anyone who goes to the Kebab Shack. I don't know any of these people, period. I never do. (Although, then you could be the most beautiful girl he has ever seen with a Kebab...)

The weird part are the nods to The Skylark and Rose's as possible husband finding grounds. Huh. The last time I was there it was just me, Rose, a dude I used to date that I was hanging out with again for a minute, and a Mariachi band. Talk about your options!

Oh, also, one of "his" other "haunts" (as they say) is apparently "the cooking demos at Green City Market." Really? I would bet you that's not true.

Your "prep," also, for finding a dude here involves "spending hundreds of dollars at the Lancome counter to acheive the Reese Witherspoon I-woke-up-looking-this-good effect. Rock a dewy face, score a second date."

Huh. I always heard you should wait until the third date to rock a dewy face.

On an upswing, at least we're not Columbus- because as they describe that place, it is in fact the 7th level of hell:

"Where corn-fed frat boys go to spawn. With biceps as firm as their Midwestern values, these gosh-darn-it good guys spend Saturday nights bouncing from bar to bar, plastic cups foaming with Bud, scouting for a low-key beauty with whom to make little Buckeyes fans (The average age for getting hitched in this town: 25). Forget brunch dates: His Sundays are reserved for God and football"

I think my vadge just threw up. You think that's not possible? That paragraph made it possible.

The moral of this story, I think, is that if you are willing to move to a different city and change everything about yourself to please a man, you will probably find one. More than likely, you'll both be terrible people, but you'll be terrible people together. And isn't that what's really important?