Wingman Wanted

Let’s talk about Ruth and Naomi, two smokin’ hot babes who Thelma and Louised it from Moab.

Ruth could have ditched her friend to find a new dude. But instead, she played her “where you go I go, where you stay I stay” wingman card and schlepped across the desert with Naomi. My girlfriends used to be like that.

I used to have plenty of unhitched, “work all day, flirt all night, no sleep ’til Brooklyn” party pals. It was “where you drink I drink, where you flirt I flirt.” Whether it was Friday night at El Carmen or Saturday night at Jones, chasing men was always a group effort. My wingmen and I were a TEAM: Together Everyone Attracted More.

To catch Los Angeles’ top guns, we followed a “stay on my wing, I’m-taking you all the way in” game plan. See, Jewish guys hit the singles scene in packs, or at least pairs. Order a cute boy? Side of his hot friend coming right up. Look at Moses and Aaron, or Ben and Jerry. I’m telling you, where there’s a Will, there’s a Wayne. And since men stick by their “no mensch gets left behind” mantra, they don’t ditch their dude just to chat with a chick, no matter how shayna her punim.

That’s where my wingman comes into play. I need a friend for his friend, a babe for his buddy. I work bachelor No. 1, while my wingman takes what’s behind bachelor No. 2. We’re talking, “attention single shoppers, there’s a two-for-one sale on babes at the bar.”

But lately, I find myself flying solo on a Saturday night. Oh where, oh where did my single friends go? Seems the chicks in my clique are all dating, married or hauling around gargantuan diamonds. So they traded girls’ night out for couple’s night in. My fellow “fight for your right to party” gals have settled into committed relationships, leaving this Laverne without a Shirley. And where there’s no schlemiel, I’m not getting schlimazel.

So, I’m looking for a few good wingmen. Fellow bar-hopping, boy-hunting, unattached women who still want to make the most of their bachelorette lives. Problem is, in Los Angeles, cool chicks are as rare as real breasts. So I’m having a hard time finding fun women I actually like. When did it become so difficult to make new female friends? I don’t even know where to meet them.

When I want to meet men, I just pick them up. It’s easy. I pick them up at bars on Fridays, playing volleyball on Saturdays, watching my Bears on Sundays, even in the grocery line on Mondays. I can meet men with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. But women are less likely to respond to that. So I’m not sure how to hook this up. There’s no Speedfriending or JPal. And I’m not the “shop ’til you drop, oh I love what you’re wearing, let’s drink nonfat decaf ice-blended mochas and hang out at the paint-it-yourself pottery place” girly girl type. Maybe I should use the Jedi mind trick: these are the new friends you are looking for. Or perhaps I should take out a wingman wanted ad: Single Jewish female seeking fun female friends. Age 25-35. Must have appetite for adventure, no ring on finger and the ability to tag-team flirt with a dynamic duo. Applicant should have accurate bachelor radar, a thorough understanding of the buddy system and a quick response time to the universal sign for “please rescue me from this nudnik.” No plans for marriage in the near future preferred. A strong sense of loyalty and friendship a must.

It’s that last part that matters most. Despite the fact that the mind of the unmarried man says two blondes are better than one, I attract lots of guys when I brave the singles scene alone. I just show a little pupik, shake a little tuchus and I pick up a whole minyan of men hoping to dance the horizontal hora.

So there’s more to a wingman than the old dating “divide and conquer.” A wingman’s a fantastically fun friend who’s up for long chats, happy hours and chick flicks. She’s a confidante, an accomplice, a partner in crime. She’s a “laugh out loud, cry on her shoulder, lean on me when you’re not strong, girls just wanna have fun” gal. And, like Ruth, a wingman should be ready to accompany me on long treks across the desert, ’cause I’m a big fan of the spontaneous all-girl Vegas roadtrip.

So if you’re a fellow “fly by the seat of your tallit” girl who, lately, has found herself flying solo — you can be my wingman anytime.

Carin Davis, a freelance writer, can be reached at sports@jewishjournal.com.