They’re friendly.

They smile a lot.

They like Canadian boys.

They like to greet you with a smile and a hug.

They like to air kiss — a California kiss, I call it — when they hug you. Of course, it’s mostly all meaningless. After all, this is California.

They have spunk though. They’ll ride their own motorcycle — no bitch seat for them! When the riding day is done, they’ll look like a million dollars after only a few minutes of fussing, dusty face and all.

They take bike trips with men who have wives or girlfriends of their own, and then tell all about the two beds in the hotel room and how each slept alone.

Their current boyfriend isn’t really a boyfriend, but merely a friend, mechanic, insurance salesman, whatever.

They’ll tell you how much they want to go on a ride, and then, unbidden, you’ll end up with a phone number. When you call to cancel, they have no idea who you are.

The best part of that is the next day at breakfast, with friends. When she shows up, she’ll insist it was all a mistake and offer her cell-phone number. When you refuse, no amount of explaining will convince her that, since she didn’t know you the last time you called, the new number would be of no use.

Even California girls squirm.

They’re so fickle, and so obvious.

It’s plain that some haven’t had a broken heart in recent memory, and certain too that some have mishandled each one that’s been offered.

That’s why I like a California girl almost as much as I like a Georgia peach.

*     *     *

With sincere apologies to the fabulous California girls that I know and like.