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seeing her for the rest of the night.
    “Thanks. You’re the best. I’ll be back by eleven.”
    We drop Kate off at Jack’s. She blows us each a kiss, and leaves in her best lingerie and sexiest black dress. But they’re going to break up. Really.
    Dawn and my eyes follow her out. The chauffeur closes the door, and Dawn turns back to me. “Okay, so back to your problems with men.”
    “Do you know that I read that the same hormone that is secreted when a woman is breast-feeding her child is also secreted when she has an orgasm?” I say out of the blue.
    “That’s sick.”
    “It’s called oxytocin. The hormone is secreted during breast-feeding to help her bond with her baby, to make her biologically fall in love with her baby. Only it is also secreted during an orgasm, biologically forcing us to fall in love with the man who just gave us said orgasm.”
    Dawn looks like she’s genuinely worried about me. “Promise me the next time you wander into the self-help section, you’ll call me. I’ll come get you. No questions asked. No guilt trips. We’ll just be proud of you for getting out before it got ugly.”
    “Seriously, it’s why we wait by the phone, pining over a man, secretly convinced that he must be in love with us as much as we are with him, because how could we have shared such an intimacy if he didn’t give a shit!” I blurt out.
    I lower my voice. “It explains why I don’t know a single woman who hasn’t been shattered by dating. Men can actually go get laid, and make themselves feel better. If we do it, we feel worse. Bottom line.”
    “Very un–Gloria Steinem,” Dawn deadpans.
    “You know, she finally got married?”
    “No! What is she, like, a hundred?”
    I begin my tirade again: “Anyway, that’s why we get so attached. It’s the damned hormone. And I, for one, am going back to chocolate.”
    “Chocolate gives you orgasms?” Dawn asks, incredulous at my knowledge of biological trivia.
    “No. Chocolate has phenylethylamine—the chemical secreted when you’re in love.”
    It’s rare to see someone not have any facial expression whatsoever. Sadly, I did it to my friend. “You’re right. You’re going to need a lot of drinks tonight,” she says.

Three

    If the hot spot you would like to frequent has a velvet rope—go somewhere else. You’re not paying $12 for a martini for the privilege of having a Gold’s Gym reject making minimum wage decide if you’re cool or not.

    This is actually one of the aspects of L.A. I like best. Other than movie premieres—which are all publicity stunts anyway—we don’t do velvet ropes here. There was never a Studio 54 in Los Angeles because if an Angeleno had to wait for more than ten minutes in line to get a drink, he would just go down the street to another club.
    Anyway, we arrive at a nightclub located in the penthouse of a skyscraper. It is one of L.A.’s current hot spots, complete with current sitcom stars buying drinks for current Sports Illustrated supermodels. Despite being a size 6, I am the fattest girl in the room.
    The theme to the bar is an underwater fantasy, so everything in the large room is blue and sparkly. A sparkly blue marble bar, sparkly blue cocktail tables, women behind glass windows dressed as mermaids. And the bar is known for its signature blue martinis, which were recently featured on Entertainment Tonight.
    Don’t eat blue food.

    Personally, I think it looks like people are drinking 2000 Flushes, but what do I know?
    Dawn and I do a trip around the bar to check out the hot guys. Maybe it’s the Veuve Clicquot Grand Dame talking, but I’m happy, and the guys here are so cute. Besides, I’m not going to sleep with any of them and secrete the dangerous hormone, so I can look all I want.
    Off to the side is a dead ringer for Ben Affleck. Upon closer inspection, it is Ben Affleck. Since he’s about three leagues out of my league, I move on.
    Dawn and I sit at a small, glittery turquoise table and order a