CABS ARE FOR KISSING...... Be Bullish - It Ain’t All Bullshit

Dr. Dre raps with vigorous rhythm; the chandeliers teeter above the expensive champagne and indifferent chatter. It’s 2am and I’m nodding blindly to a handsome bloke in the lower east side. Brooks Brothers button down with silk tie, topped with Northface fleece, he reeks of a background with athletic lacrosse peppered with staunch politics, a valuable pedigree no doubt. A handsome ventriloquist, I assume he practices pick-up lines in his bathroom mirror, a day trader at Goldman Sachs I feel a bit sad he’ll go home alone tonight.

Denver is a decent dating city – but it can’t hold a lighter against New York. Lawyers, photographers, doctors, artists… if you’re on the market than there is no more an appropriate place to barter your soul. Trading securities for one-night stands, sacrificing fertility for money, it’s a hub of eccentric, ambitious, and if you put in enough time passionate success stories. There is a resurgence of available bankers (not brokerage), so if that’s the fancy you’re golden.

With energy he explains equities and derivatives, assuming I’m devouring his mouth-watering financial terms. Not an obtuse, gold-digging, blowjob giving robot incapable of comprehending simple elementary concepts, I throw him a bone. Rummaging for some Kantianism theory and stats from last week’s Economist, it’s just a ploy. A wicked way I entertain myself… I pretend to be smart. Don’t misunderstand– while not a mensa, I’m not stupid, I’m hungry for knowledge. But I can fake brilliant when I’m too sick of egos to give them that syrupy grin again and again, they’ve come to expect from women. The male brain might be bigger – one must not underestimate the size of a woman’s intuition. Swallowing the bitter taste of the gin & tonic, the smile of one particular person haunts me, and it isn’t the man standing less than a foot from my face, exhaling whisky breath, savoring the sound of his own Harvard certified verbiage.

The probability that I’m searching for viable material to exploit and analyze is guaranteed, but I’m now at a disadvantage. Now smitten, no conversation can be objective, every man is flawed, and while the world appears rosier – the control I once had over my schedule and bedtime has momentarily fled. And so there are multiple subjects I’m writing about that don’t directly relate, they are braided together by recent experiences that cannot be separated.

Are you in control of your life? Have you ever fallen in love with someone you're not sure if you should be in love with? Did you run away abandoning part of your heart; or rather did you give in, hoping chemistry will combust in due time? But I can’t imagine anything worse than involuntarily wasting time. It can’t be renewed, or reissued, purchased at a premium or a discount… It’s all risk and no return. Why the hell would we waste the one real resource we’re born with… handing someone undeserving a chunk of our precious life?

Hauling my red valise through the chilly air I climb inside a taxi off of 17th and Irving Street. The hint of red zinfandel lingers on my tongue and rather than nibbling on feta with friends I’m hauling my tired ass on an airplane.

“So you want to give me some advice?” I sigh.
“I charge extra.” He laughed. Mid-fifties with a authentic Brooklyn accent, I relaxed myself into the back of his cab ready to enjoy a conversation with someone I assumed I’d never see again. It was liberating to talk about myself without having to worry about the repercussions of secret-spilling, or making sure coffee dates are equally divided between all parties’ problems.

And while the love advice he gave me was sound.... I’ll get to the meaty part of our conversation…

“What are you doing in the city.” He asked.
“ Some meetings here, some meetings there. I write.” I responded.
“Articles and stuff?”
“Yes.” I shrugged; much too tired to explain the concept and the twenty-minute elevator pitch that came along with my answer.

“I write a blog.”
My ears perked, “Oh is that so?”
“It’s called “Cabs are For Kissing”… www.cabsareforkissing.com

Brilliant! And suddenly serendipity hit me hard and I had to run to make my flight....

Zero-Sum Game

Whoever said counting cards was breaking the rules simply was too stupid to learn how to count.

My Theory: Women are willing to do anything for men to a certain extent in order to avoid being alone. Men are willing to do anything to avoid not being alone (single) unless she is the right one, and then all bets are off.

It is only recently that I respect the hell out of cougars. These are the women who a take sexuality into their own hands, the reins of their libidos; their dayplanners completely liberated.

If he isn’t falling all over you, if he hasn’t called you, if he doesn’t hang on every word you’re saying, and I don’t care if you have kissed him, your boss set you up on a blind date, if he called you to listen to you talk about nothing, you know deep down in that sick and twisted and honest part of your gut if someone is INTO YOU… the same place those annoying butterflies swarm.

And guess what? And this isn’t being very fuzzy, or warm or domestic of me, but you’re doing yourself a disservice by allowing someone to walk into your life, if they aren’t obsessed with you. Essentially if someone isn’t treating you like the princess that you, thanks to your estrogen, your empathetic sense of nature, (and shoe addiction) are, well then he is isn’t worth your time. Because there is someone out there who can, and if you let him find you… will.

And what happened to calculated risk?

The movie “He Just Isn’t that Into You” made women out to be these pitiful heart wrenching losers. Losers are actually a really nice way of describing the disrespect they tolerated and sadly instigated out of self-consciousness. And for a republican (and trust me…republican women are either identified as butch and brilliant, or blond and mentally challenged)… Let’s just say that I highlight my hair and I make the occasional silly comment, but when push comes to shove I sure as hell shove.

I shall make it abundantly clear that if any of those situations arose, and any men treated any of my dearest women friends in the way in which those characters in that “chic flick” (which was really only a movie to illustrate our dire attempts to make men happy and a “sour puss” perspective into the vulnerable and fragile state of how our society perceives the world of dating)…. Well then I’d immediately insist upon some push-up bras, Chip & Dales, makeup sessions (and all other shallow ways to help you feel like you own your womanhood) to plump up the self-confidence. Because nobody deserves to be played or utilized as backup, ever.

If only the poor fools knew that the 99% of the women they dated were only around because it was easier than being alone… then what? When the hell are men going to get a reality check?

You can still be ladylike and not fall victim to sleazy and beyond cheesy pick-up lines… Don’t give men your phone number. Take their number, and if you like them... or fantasize about them using impressive vocabulary words, or you envision them feeding you chocolate cake then give ‘em a ring... That way you’re not left wondering what the hell? Until then, don’t forfeit your right as a non-retarded (aka: intelligent) female.

"Meet Market"

Finding “The One” isn’t always easy. Do you trust fate to drop him in your lap — metaphorically — or do you get proactive?

As I step into the darkened lounge, my eyes focus on 20 or so individuals with numbers pinned to blazers and blouses, nervously sipping cocktails. The awkwardness and tension is soon sliced by a cheerful voice: “Welcome to speed dating! Are you ready for the most exciting or most miserable five minutes of your life?”

I am a stranger to the world of speed dating. I silently pray tonight won’t include an unanticipated rendezvous with an old classmate or, God forbid, a former flame. Like many single professionals in Denver, I’m looking for the right man, one who prefers white to red and skiing to snowboarding, is addicted to golf, and is brilliant — with more than adequate culinary skills. (Too much to ask?) And if I happened to find him in five minutes, well, that would be fabulous.

Getting Personal
While there may be a number of men matching my above criteria floating around the Mile High City, I’ve yet to meet Mr. Right — or even Mr. Maybe. I’m willing to don heels on a Friday night and am game for the occasional blind date, but the sparkling optimism that a room abundant with singles once brought or the notion that a potential suitor will wink from across a bar in LoDo has lost its luster.

Lately, I’ve found myself growing less skeptical of the chemistry born out of Internet algorithms or professional matchmakers promising to connect me to a viable mate. Why should the most crucial aspect of life be left to fate on the off chance I’ll find love while taking tequila shots with the girls?

I started by logging on to both eHarmony and Match.com, curious to see if real love can be discovered virtually. Scouring my brain to pinpoint personality types and hobbies vital to my modern-day Casanova was fun. Three hours later, I had nutshelled my entire personality into 3,000 characters, uploaded a picture and browsed available men like I would shop for shoes on Piperlime. Headers such as, “Hot Woman with a Brain Wanted” and “Goin’ Fishin’ for You” made me laugh but were not enough to make me want to “see more.” Before signing off, I checked my inbox to find 13 emails from men aged 20 to 40, living everywhere from India to the Amazon River Valley.

Although the allure of the Internet playground was enticing, filtering through virtual profiles — half of which belonged to men living on the other side of the equator — would take forever. I couldn’t justify staying up all night to sort through this melange just for a coffee date. And while I can respect the never-married Helen Morrison for publishing the first personal ad in 1727, the possibility of being seen as single and desperate by one of my parents’ divorced friends was enough to make me deactivate both accounts. There had to be a more efficient way.

Relieving the Pressure
Melissa Jannetta from It’s Just Lunch called to schedule an initial interview. I arrived early (a first) and waited quietly until a beautiful woman in her late twenties emerged and correctly pronounced my name (again, a first). Melissa began by asking questions about my job and hobbies and then explained how her team personally interviews clients and then brainstorms potential matches. It’s Just Lunch felt safer than the online sites, and instead of handing me a cookie cutter of a man I’ve never met, Melissa took the reins and posed questions I never considered pertinent to defining “the one.”

Slowly, I unfolded the story of my life. An hour into the interview, her gentle interrogation bordered on the personal, but she listened intently and took notes until I fully articulated my responses. She empathized with my bar-scene frustrations. In another situation, I would have been uncomfortable revealing my failures in prior relationships or deep commitment fears, but our two hours together felt like a refreshing therapy session rather than a matchmaking assessment.

As confident as I was coming out of my interview, I was equally nervous going into my first date. Running into the restaurant, slightly disheveled with damp hair from the snow, I slid into the booth and broke into a big smile. The man across the table could not have been more handsome and seemed reasonably normal. Our conversation moved from the Broncos to golf courses to the tumultuous economy.

We didn’t discuss the trouble we each took to meet the other, but we shared an unspoken understanding that we both cared enough about our futures to go to such extremes. We exchanged a hug before bidding farewell, and while I don’t think either one of us is what the other envisions as our perfect match, we were each one step closer. The date reassured me that the type of man who bears the qualities I cherish does, in fact, exist.

Around in Circles
Of all the available dating resources, the one I dreaded most was speed dating. I cautiously entered the Jet Hotel, took my number and mentally prepared. The premise is fairly simple: Every five minutes, a whistle blows and a different man strides toward my small chaise and begins to chatter. I heard every excuse from “I’m interviewing for a new job and thought this would be good practice” to “I just moved to town and wanted to get to know people.” Overall, the men were gregarious and interesting, but after my final five-minute date shook my hand, I wandered out to my car feeling like a failure.

The next evening, I found myself explaining to a girlfriend just how exhausting the previous few weeks of dating had been. Two drinks into the night, we were both laughing hysterically, so much so I barely noticed the handsome blonde approaching us. People always say when you stop looking that’s when you find the one, but the truth is it wasn’t until I started seriously looking that I figured out who I was trying to find all along.

www.denvermagazine.com, Feb 2009 - Drawing by: Matt Vincent

Oh Drama is fabulous!

“If you’re bored – you’re probably boring.”

Just walked out of the drugstore and of course next to the gum and lighters were the standard Us Weekly and People. Those are glossies I veer away from (and sometimes sneer at), and while the juicy gossip (most of it fictional and apparently so) are delightful to indulge in – an outlet for the humdrum individual to tip-toe into a fantasyland where toned bodies and thousand-dollar handbags are the norm.

How does one separate the drama from our own lives and the drama in the magazines, the “FOX NEWS ALERT” some baby was born in Hollywood… the TV shows dedicated to excavating any dirt on the famous, digging through their rubbish and scrutinizing every ensemble choice… and how is that entertaining? Why couldn’t the energy we allocate to the energy we pay attention to these people… to something more, like ourselves? Or even better – the people we love?

Does one want to separate the drama off the big screen and now the music scene from the trivial drama that gives color and dimension to our lives (or mine)?
And then there is Obama and he was chastised for being a celebrity himself? When does it end… with us? Facebook and Myspace and Twitter and GPS cell phone tracking devices are only helping this addiction we have not just with each other, but a fierce addiction to ourselves. People now have the tools to create their own fan clubs (both real and virtual), but where is the line drawn, or maybe it’s better if it wasn’t… Is productivity a result of all this networking, or are these sites encouraging cultish behavior. Truly what is more alluring than being convinced by masses of people that our existence reeks of celebrity… which is really a screwed up way of saying we illicit curiosity... But I have to say that a spoonful of excitement never did any harm… in fact it’s a lovely, picture-friendly way to show you care about something, that you love them so much to get all dramatic.

I’m guilty: Opening the pages of the mag and when my eyes hit my byline, By: Auna Jornayvaz...A silly tickle starts at my toes and by the time it has snaked its way to my brain (Note: I don’t say ego- my managing editor puts me at my place with her red pen) … I’m focused on my next project, researching the next article, collaborating some sponsorship or scribbling some blog entry. The cycle of running away from the evil of boredom has already begun! And some have the nerve to call me a Drama Queen!

Musicians, Writers and Radio DJs the opportunity to code cryptic messages in lyrics, stories, or poems – privy to the mass public, so while strangers interpret and translate and entangle PERSON A's soul into their own life.... one wonders - what might happen if artists didn't let their soul bleed into the minds of the public? Those who seem to regularly read this blog (and readers who don’t- have voiced their thoughts- AND THANK YOU!!!). And without doubt I’ve exercised this blog in a myriad of ways, from dissing bachelors, celebrating Mark Cuban, missing Australia, but recently I admit the website has been a catalyst to voice my deep fears – not to navigate my way around serious conversations with people who are actually characters in my life, but because these emotional obstacles are ones I believe readers can identify with, and maybe won’t feel so alone when signing out. Emotions that we can rationalize our way out of tend to make us (me) feel isolated, and so if a twenty-something chic can feel the same way – maybe even if their is a solution, there is empathy? And while there is a bigger world out there full of “dancing with the stars” and the magazines and TV convince us our days pale in comparison to the celebs... The drama, the unanswered questions, and the confuisng choices haunt us just the same as any movie star (sans the medication and therapists).

The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I disagree… my biggest fear is boredom, and what is the opposite of boredom? Not relaxation, not a catnap or a break from the grind, or a round of golf… I’m referring to the type of boredom that strips people of genuine curiously, pushes them into dark, repetitive corners where years pass so slowly without pain or change. Some might say a color-coded day planner bursting with meetings, coffees, spinning classes, football games, dates and exclusive activities is the way to negate boredom…. and while I’m also guilty of that… my fear resides much deeper in my psyche… what if there wasn’t another story to chase? A stranger to befriend? A food to try, a country to visit, a song to hear and later dissect the lyrics - only to try and relate to an artist who doesn’t even know I exist. Who I’ll probably write a letter to only to tell them how much I adore their brilliance….And what would happen if there were no more books to read - the drama of others I can vicariously experience (and learn from)? Could we go back and rehash the past, relive every tantalizing detail – knowing we’d given it our all and our memories can keep us company forever?

Are these times contagious
I’ve never been this bored before
Is this the prize I’ve waited for
Now with the hours passing
There’s nothing left here to insure
I long to find a messenger

Have I got a long way to run
Have I got a long way to run
Yeah, I run

Is there a cure among us
From this processed sanity
I weaken with each voice that sings
Now, in this world of purchase
Im going to buy back memories
To awaken some old qualities – collective soul

Worthless Conversation:

Was it Actress A or was it Actress B that had the lip injections. I mean she was just so beautiful until that boob job and then the sun just did her in, and now well, the screen just isn’t meant for her. Poor thing.

Right. The sympathy we cannot seem to find when the whole world is way too amusing to poke, prod, scrutinize and hypothesize without any objective, other than to find fault. I don’t get it. I’m not pure, or all that Christian, I just don’t give a damn. The people I criticize are those that criticize others. Why the hell do you care how their broken heart lent itself to lazinss, and as a result failed to accomplish what could have been accomplished. It’s sad yes, but it doesn’t need to be talked about in a way that makes that person appear pitiful and failed – we all have our failures, but there is nothing more amazing to discuss than how people overcame their failures. Maybe I reside in a makebelieve world where people are optimistic as sunshine- and there is no concept of revenge. Maybe I’m particularly sensitive to gossip and bashing people because I’m guilty of that, or deeply frightened people have thrown stereotypes upon me like a blanket on a naked child. I love to talk about people – are you kidding? It’s what I do for a job. But to only speak ill of others for the mere purpose of entertaining our self feels like the glass isn’t half empty, but cracked and dry… and it’s sharp edges can cut.

Ex-Boyfriends are User-Friendly

I have this strange habit… whenever there has been potential for a new, blossoming relationship, and I realize that I'm only half-in... The guy isn't perfect and I'm now frustrated with humanity. I phone my ex-boyfriend. Not for advice, or to be reassured that my alluring and quality characteristics will stop any guy dead in his tracks… I’d slip into the city for a long weekend, comforted by his familiarity. Convincing me, “No Auna, you’re not insane.” Joking afterward, “but you should come with a cautionary warning.” And then I would laugh, now confident and strong, feeling acceptance by someone who already knows how I look naked, how I kiss and how I spoon. And after a plentiful night of rehydration I would return to foreign territory of the dating world, where I"m inherently awkward and it takes months to comfortable letting go - feeling nourished… knowing if another guy screwed me over, instead of moving forward… I could always go back.

Why bother making memories with someone you know down the road isn’t going to be around to remember those memories with?

For the experience? Enjoy the succulent temporal, live for the moment that now, has already passed. Those one-in-a-life experiences that razzle and dazzle your innards, jam-packing your suitcases, hitch-hiking across Europe only to catch the 2am titty show in Beijing.

I'm a bit tipsy in California and it's amazing what the brain can rummage up when all you have is a friend, lap top, suitcase and a bottle of vino to amuse you.....

Do it for the stories you can tell. But the bigger question is: Who the hell wants to listen?

The rambunctious and insane acts we do for the sophomoric single-syllable mind-game. Possibly born out of boredom, but truly spurred from too many bland starbucks meetings where ogling at your watch doesn’t seem to get the point across THAT YOU DON’T GIVE A DAMN.

And when the blind dates and the forgotten business cards grow old it’s so easy to resort to our exes. Do we think that another “roll in de hay” will cement the issues that once kept church bells from ringing, or rekindle the bond incapable of being unearthed at the dinner table, only found once tangled in the bed sheets? (It’s amazing how much easier it is to find conversation while making out, rather than rehashing politics over steak tar-tar). I honestly wish the enchanting weekends could have rekindled the happiness I see in our pictures, but every time I waved goodbye… I felt a little bit sadder that we’d not made it as an “us”. But rather two individuals just trying to get by.

And so while there are only a few sips left of my red wine … and after I shall retire for the evening. Tonight is a first when I haven’t a conclusion, simply a question. Are we afraid? Or tired? It’s so easy to trust what we know “almost worked” rather than perspire and selflessly try at the new relationship, which still has a small chance to actually work out.

There is something so cozy about nostalgia… it grows with us and absorbs the situations and mistakes that no longer define. The memories you no longer associate yourself with, but without them you don’t know how you made it out alive.

If I could have one more night with the guy who swallowed my heart several years ago, and only gave some of it back… I might. And while he is the closest to perfect I have yet to encounter, there is a reason we didn’t make it and a reason why I’d leave our bittersweet dialogue left on the phone.

I have to believe there is the right one out there... a guy who will want the rest.