One best friend replacement, please, and hurry

WANTED: Girlfriend. 30s-ish, outgoing, artistic but not flaky, good listener. Likes: eating out, shopping, museums, wine tasting, dancing to ‘80s music. Dislikes: Ron Howard movies, girls who wear pumps with their blue jeans. Gets: every reference to “Sex and the City.” Must have: sense of humor, love of travel, positive attitude. Nice to have: size 8 shoes, sweet pad within walking distance of the Hollywood Bowl, different taste in men from mine.

As you may have guessed, this ad was not written by a straight man looking for a love. It was written by me, a straight woman looking for a new best friend. My best girlfriend, Robin, is leaving town, and I am looking for a quick replacement. I have decided that instead of suffering through the typical long and unsatisfying grieving stages, I will do what many others have when facing the loss of a romantic partner: meet someone new.

I have never been able to move on so quickly after breaking up with a guy, but that’s probably because Robin was there to make sure I kept busy with movies, museums and weekend excursions -- instead of setting up house with the first age-inappropriate hottie who wanted to make out.

Another invaluable service that Robin provided was pointing out all the things I couldn’t stand about my exes when we were dating. I’d apply this strategy to getting over Robin, except the biggest thing that annoyed me about her is she lived near a crowded intersection, which I could spend up to 15 minutes in during traffic.

The trickiest thing about a speedy replacement is that we have a lot of catching up to do before she can attain Robin status. Robin and I have known each other five years and have been together through numerous breakups, bad haircuts, weight gains and losses, unemployment, re-employment and family losses. The boys alone would take weeks to recount.

But that’s where the “Sex and the City” references come in handy. For example, if I wanted to explain Carter, the dashing Englishman fleeting in and out of my life, always at the wrong time, I’ll say, “Carter’s my Big,” and she’ll understand what I mean. Or I want to tell her about Paul, a sweet but insufferably indecisive artistic type, I’d say, “Berger, through and through” and she’ll ask me if he broke up with me via a Post-it note (he didn’t, but close enough).

To explain my family (which any therapist who’s not into the cognitive stuff will tell you is the root of all demons), I might turn to literature. For their meddling, I would compare my parents with Mrs. Bennett from Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice.” Mrs. Bennett, desperate to marry off her five daughters before a social-climbing cousin, Mr. Collins, inherits her husband’s estate, will go to any lengths to achieve her goal -- even trying to marry off Elizabeth to Mr. Collins himself.

Though my parents have never tried to pawn me off on a distant relative, my trips back home are filled with chance meetings with friends and their thirtysomething sons who “just can’t seem to settle down.” All of this, of course, would be fine if I were attracted to these men, or didn’t have distinct memories of them throwing sand in my face at the playground decades ago.

But my parents are also New Yorkers and have that typical mix of sophistication and outright kookiness going for them as well. For this, I will turn to film, and compare them with the eponymous “Royal Tenenbaums.” Although there have been no instances of finger chopping or any record of a prodigy in recent generations, bizarre is something visitors can sense within half an hour -- whether it’s witnessing my father bursting out in an opera tune in the middle of dinner (and no one reacting), or my mother berating the cat for acting like a “hostile teenager.”

So, girlfriend, these are the sources of my neuroses. But what this means is that if you’re a bit of a nut yourself, I’ve built up a strong tolerance for you. I may even like you more for it, or at least “get” you. If I haven’t scared you off already, let’s meet for cocktails and a chat. But if you’re going to break out the Blahniks, please, match it with an equally stylish skirt and leave the Levi’s at home.

*

Hilary Hull can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.