CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMELESS... it's a screwy world...

Exposed skin, matte with dirt, the debris from unending days without a shower, thin hair framing sunken dark eyes, eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot begin to fathom.

Not more than 23. But limp shoulders suggest weathered years far more challenging than her young body deserves.

Walking down the 16th street en route to the magazine, in a hurried pace. Cell phone glued to my ear with my Burberry bag swung over my Marc Jacobs jacket I reek of shallow, and rounding the corner I almost drop my blackberry. Normally greeted with the older men grinning and drunk with crooked teeth and shopping carts spilling with garbage mixed with sleeping bags. My morning has taken an unanticipated turn, encountering this woman who stripped of her ripped clothing would be mistaken as one of my own.

With no dog-eared cardboard scrawled with a pitiful message, she wasn’t begging for money, but curled up against the cold brick. Already stopped, it was too late to walk back around the corner, and pretend to whistle my way around her. Barking bullshit moments prior into my cell, every item carved into my brain, stressing my afternoon out dissipated when our eyes locked.

It wasn’t envy, it wasn’t jealousy, not a strained glare making me squirm with guilt, but her gaze was a simple, curiosity.

This awkward exchange transpired in seconds. Unsure if I should dig through my wallet for whatever cash I had, or if I should quicken my pace past her, I quietly said hello.

She said, hello. And similar to two strangers riding on an elevator, whose lives cross too quickly to care, she intercepted my day in a way I cannot shake. Her gaze shifted back to her feet, which were neatly tucked under her tattered jacket.

Our shared moment was over and I continued to walk toward my office. My warm and decorated office, overflowing with excitement and creative energy, and designer bags, a place where we plan extravagant parties with the intention to rid the world of homelessness.

My gut now emptied of stress was empty with empathy. Not pity, nor distraught with the burden of trying to figure out how to save one girl, instead of Starbucks my afternoon was interrupted with sadness. A reality I’ve easily avoided. But I couldn’t anymore, a woman close to my own age, whose existence is juxtapose to my privileged life, cold and hungry huddled on the pavement ten yards outside of my office right now, and somehow be okay with it.

NAKED WARS: Part II "It Ain't No Catch & Release"

We're just two lost souls 
Swimming in a fish bowl - Pink Floyd

Don’t you want to lick every adjective off the tip of his tongue?

Don’t you want to drown yourself in her sharp observations and crackhead commentary?

How do you prevent yourself from ripping off clothes and indulging in animalistic, cataclysmic action reserved for “his and her only”? Isn’t that what relationships are for – the simple chore of dependable entertainment.

Several nights ago at a cowboy restaurant a cute couple, preppy, right out of a JCrew catalogue had such passivity engraved in their already stoic expressions I seriously considered them dead. I couldn’t figure out if they were on a church retreat thus appearing bored and conservative was part of the consent form, some sort of coming to Jesus. Or rather they were so apathetic toward the other they independently found staring off into space far more stimulating than idle banter?

I wanted to cry out… Why? Why? How could you have changed so much since that first date? The night she spent an hour straightening her hair? The morning he washed his car and changed his socks twice? How much energy has worthless arguments and bickering drained your soul of anything resembling human interaction. What had to occur so that you cannot bear even sight of each other, let alone ignore poor innocent conversation?

What happens once you’ve battled the commitment phobia and you’ve actually obtained a variation of public acknowledgement that you’re (and he is) off the meat market? The calculating games required to “land” have been mutually put away, and shoved under the bed for a rainy afternoon when the electricity has gone out (literally)? The giddiness of readily agreeing to eat your least favorite food has been substituted with nights nervously eating pasta impressing the parents. And obnoxious bars packed full of grizzly bouncers has been replaced with plaid pajamas and netflix.

The thrill of the hunt and the perfume in the air and the high-pitched girl giggle “hehe”… (Complimentary visual image from Adam Ferrara)… are gone. Because the only olfactory enhancer you smell anymore is deodorant, and if lucky, mouthwash. With no reason to be macho and cool, with quick-witted comebacks and impressive tales of heroic survival stories stuck in the Rockies, only for a phone number or a half-assed hug. Nope. No need to put on makeup, or plaster on an artificial grin after rush hour. Let it all hang out because why, why you’ve gone to the trouble of not being single. And what self-sacrificing fool would ever do that? Unless there was an upside… An empathetic ear just a phone call away, the obligatory booty call, a psychologist and travel partner, friend and foe all rolled up into that yummy and delectably delightful person you call “boyfriend”.

But once the above mentions have been met, what’s leftover? Not to insult the sanctity of relationships, but how do couples entertain themselves once they’ve already agreed to just be.

Why is it the cute couples in their forties and fifties you find cuddled up on a park bench, or walking hand-in-hand out of a Viagra commercial tend to be a product of round 2? Why can’t people get it right the first time? It makes finding the initial shot so annoying and daunting and most of all leaves me dubious of a way to keep the embers alive. It seems to me that once the fire dies down, the smoke has cleared there is just a bunch of soot and ashes asking to be cleaned up, or demanding to get laid at 8am on a Thursday morning when all you want is a snooze button. And where is the fun in that?

I ask myself why do we push for commitment, when once the fork in the road is behind us all bets are off? We’ve limited ourselves to a single-party democracy where equitable negotiations no longer equate to compromise, and swallowing your words is far more bitter than swallowing your pride. Pride was tossed out the window with lacy panties, polite conversation and god-forbid, flirtation.

The Secret promises that if you wish for something, write it down, chant it and do rain dances beckoning your deepest desires, it will somehow become your reality. So rather than blowing out birthday candles, praying to Judeo-Christian gods, more and more folk rely on the premise that the power of the golden rule, expecting good when good is given, reigns over all.

But I then ask myself… Are all relationships based on trade, GO ADAM SMIH ….or might there be the rare ones founded on something more? Give and then get and count thy cards? A spade is a spade, but if you trade it for hearts then maybe later your joker won’t be such an asshole and hit you back with a royal flush. The bottom line is: Do people get together so they get what’s missing, or is there an actual added value in 1+1? Aside from the luxuries of not religiously gyming it in fear of cellulite, and having a bed buddy whose snoring eventually becomes a therapeutic distraction, what other bonuses come with being tied down? Where is the advantage in having someone who odds are, will eventually bore you?

Why do we kill ourselves trying to find someone with whom we can relate, laugh and share fond outdoor activities? When a dog or pals can provide the similar companionship? Is there really this indefinable, seemingly intangible feeling we seek out when searching for that thing called love? Or rather are we kidding ourselves and really we’re thirsty for safety and unyielding acceptance that arrives with commitment? Maybe the mirage is a big ass white flag pointing in the direction of the most compatible, logical partner, equally eager for contractual committal trade?

Or maybe there are the few exceptions, when love beat logic. When all the numbers didn’t make sense, but the inexplicable rush from being together was enough of a reason to try. The couple whose laugh lines aren’t all G-rated, and the weathered memories aren’t all enchanting, in fact they’re full of intensity and passion and truth. The couples who fought through the boredom to keep feeling, never allowing the other to settle, always urging the other to reach outside the comfort of commitment, reminding all the while, that they’re not alone.

I don’t know how one prevents the onset of boredom. A debilitating death sentence so viral one must get vaccinated with regular footsie in restaurants, foreplay and the always-occasional banter…

Caveat Emptor: POWERFUL CAREER MY ASS

A touchy subject, a sensitive issue even to broach, especially for someone who isn’t yet subjected to the one double standard our society has set. Instead of pondering such debilitating and often painful truths I tried to rummage up something cutesy or funny, I even came up with this: Picture this: Blond hair (desperately needing to be highlighted) windows down, driving on University Boulevard in my 2008 Escape, I’m singing, pumping my fists, swaying my body to Flo Rider’s “Right Around”, which is the hottest rap song to hit high schools and subsequently waspy white girls’ hybrids.

Parallel parking in between a Jeep and a Jetta, both pimped out with ski and bike racks at Washington Park I’m reminded I’m in twenty-to-thrity-ville Colorado. The first day of spring and everyone including the birds and the bees, and the yellow and chocolate labs skipping alongside their taut owners, is happily bopping to their iTunes, a 2009 version of the first scene of “Sound of Music”. While a serious republican, I’ve finally fallen victim to believing in this whole scientific frenzy dubbed, “global warming”. The sixty-degree weather I’ve enjoyed since last March now has me concerned.

Boring right? Who gives a hell about global warming except for the mountain folk (and condolences to the mountain folk). Well I’m not in the mood to write about the sunny afternoons 90210 style, in fact dittying that diatribe only makes me want to get a personal trainer and locate a husband and/or burgeoning career pronto. So often I’ve said (and meant), “Oh if only I could be gender neutral, only if I could be A-sexual,” and my favorite, “My goal is to be so narcissistic I won’t want anyone.” Simply with the objective of avoiding this whole nasty, but sociologically fascinating conundrum… the two biological clocks. The female clock, which ticks disturbingly loud with a quota of “snoozes” and then the male clock, which is infinite as it is silent.

My Mom (who spent twenty years in television journalism, had her own company and her stories were syndicated nationally, oh right and now she is a portrait artist painting a president), but she is a freak example of someone who could pull off both the business card and the diaper bag. And those women I have SO much respect for... to love your kids enough to role model a career - but it isn't everyone who can pull off such a daunting feat. Not that anyone is holding a gun to my early-twenty-something brain demanding I give notice of my breeding intentions, but I’m witnessing my closest cohorts around me drop like flies, caring less about creating a “knock-em dead PowerPoint” which has now been substituted with, “he is obsessed with his nieces and neither of his sister-in-laws work. Isn’t that great!” again, choke, check out reflection, and proceed to vomit. But, I’m trying not to judge. Because I’m just praying my clock will wait quite awhile to turn on.

A friend (who owns his own company) mentioned that he cannot help but consider if a twenty-something employee will cut and run once a diamond has been cemented on her finger, but would he have the same hesitation about a man, no... And, even in the most equal opportunity of companies, how can an employer neglect the fact when an applicant vying for an engineering position (100-hour weeks) walks in pregnant? And the whole Sarah Palin thing? Do not get me started! Fascinating how 35,000 books have been written on the subject, and more than 211,000 websites pop up when googled, “Balancing work with motherhood.” What does this tell us? There is clearly a problem deeply entrenched in working America, and it isn’t if women can work and have kids, but rather how.

My concern isn’t the “Mompreneurs”, or the women fortunate to have husbands with the income to provide for her and the kiddos, but my real ethical concerns remain with the women who have worked their asses off in corporate America. Now in their late thirties and early forties they’ve reached the pinnacle, a point in their career when they can focus on something other than climbing the vicious ladder. And once surfaced (and callused) from heels and pantsuits they're ready to dive into the “sea of fish”, aka: the men their same age, who have a genuine desire to get married, produce 2.5 beautiful children and build a picket fence. But this sea might as well be a pitiful fish tank. And the men in the same position, well they’re just hitting up the twenty-something, fresh and eager to settle down with the more established men (who have toiled so they could financially provide). So what is an educated woman with drive, a passion to make a difference in her industry, and enjoys having the ability to independently take care of her own needs do? Logically, if it takes 10-15 years to get to the top… which is about the same time your clock will start running out…. That said, the women who care enough about their career to shove estrogen aside and bite the bullet - make it.

But, before you buy into your dream of becoming a powerful CEO of a major company, beware. The truth about having it all down the road is only as pretty as it appears...

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.