if you bake it, they will come

Boyfriend is a word I like to throw around in a hypothetical, imaginary context. “My boyfriend would be an excellent dancer, making me, by default, also an excellent dancer.” “My boyfriend would remind me about street cleaning tomorrow.” “My boyfriend would make sure no one kills me on my way home from that animal shelter by the airport I talked myself into volunteering at. He’d probably take home that three legged dog they still have.” You know– realistic romantic expectations of a bright future with someone vaguely my age with good social skills.

None of the boys I’ve dated have ever transitioned into recognized boyfriends. I keep wondering what I’m doing wrong, but I know that there’s nothing I’m doing wrong. I know that I’m desirable company. My hair looks good a solid seventy percent of the time. I love to have people over, I love to ask people thoughtful questions. I go to yoga a few times a week, but can’t wear leggings as pants. I spend most of the day in a big office building, and most mornings trying to write scripts, so like most metropolitan young people, this really only frees up my evenings for shopping for boys and Greek yogurt at my neighborhood Trader Joe’s.

In June of last year, I baked a cherry cake for my best friend Chrissy’s birthday, and ended up standing at the Edendale bar in Los Feliz for several hours, holding the leftover half. The cake was magic, because it made me a magnet; suddenly every boy within spitting distance was looking at me, silently formulating an action plan on how to come over. With cake, I was safer to approach and oddly, much more desirable. “What kind of cake is that?”, they would tentatively ask, pretending they hadn’t wanted a piece of cake all along. “You made this?”

Mouth full: “So good.”

Chrissy started joking that I should just go sit in bars with cakes to find boys. So 2013 is the year it becomes a strategy. This means I’m signing on to make about 50 cakes, go to 50 bars, and make small talk with what I’m hoping will be 50 non-serial killers. It’s all a good excuse to try new recipes, explore new places, and hopefully, find a person who meets the wished for postulations listed in paragraph one.

Please don't tell my mom.