NAKED WARS

The impetuous process we call “Dating”

The game between man and woman dates back to our homo sapient era, when our ancestors were apes and bonobos. The ape is a violent and aggressive mammal – and the bonobo is the more physically affectionate. And somewhere several hundred thousands of years ago, the two species collided and thus born was the mutt: Aka: the modern day human. And what are we? Well, we’re a beautiful blend of violence and passion.

The brain games men and women heave on each other- trick and confuse the other with, are as important as they are entertaining. Call you tomorrow? Text me when? Touch me now! Oh wait I didn't mean that….. Oh my god, that’s my favorite author, entrée, pet peeve, fetish, color, and dog too!

The identical games we swear we’ll refuse to partake in, claim we'll abandon and dismiss, staking our vulnerability and independence, still rule our systematic (dare I say efficient) process. This is the brutal tri-dimensional brain game that we, as heterosexuals, seeking soul-mates succombed to.... And It's a cruel version of monopoly turned twister that Webster has defined as dating.

What is dating? Well, it can be titillating, or a lackluster filtering method to rid of the opposite gender who have failed to meet our perquisites. Yet, we still partake with the hope we'll find someone, and to possibly fill a photo album? Or dare I say, someone with whom to one day pro-actively procreate? Thus we aspire through this century-old archaic activity, sacrificing Saturday nights to unearth our westernized ideology, fantasy – aka: future of a perfect family. The man or the woman who will fit the bill (resume) will grace us with 2.7 perfectly engineered children. Whose combo of us and them produce genetics of genius, so the child will concurrently kick ass in soccer, spelling bees, and eventually attend Ivy-Leagues. Right? I don't have kids, so I could be totally wrong.

But before the birthday parties, where children bash piñatas and TV remote controls need parental control, a man and woman had to win, or in some case – they both had to lose. But however you want to phrase the copasetic agreement… there had to be a mutual “Gimme”.

This feat of finding "the one" is far more fierce and exhausting than any kind of sports playoff you can fathom – and I hate to admit, but your return on investment might not be as rewording as shorting a pitiful stock, hitting jackpot in Vegas, dominating fantasy football, or getting a Gucci purse at Saks for 80% off. No this is not only a game against the opposite gender, but it’s against yourself. A deceptive version of the tango, the perfect syncopation where drama is equally important as the irrational, and the only thing we can do....

is make sure we don’t send the last text, say the wrong thing, or pose the wrong question, and mostly not come across as totally not right

So in a culture when non-failing professionals making an above-poverty income boast individuality on a pedestal of power, what’s a single gal to do?

HAVE FUN!

Him or Her? He or She?

Before the world is split into multi-dimensional matrix – we begin with a simple pronoun.

Him or Her? He or She?

Are you a man or a woman? Can you imagine fitting into both, or fitting into neither? Or the very worst- being trapped inside the wrong body?

This following confession might sound wrong, but I pride myself on my collection of friends – my best friend is a mirror image of myself, family/background/etc, however she reeks of Type-A/Responsible, whereas I’m guilty of type Late/Laidback… One of my oldest amigos is gay, there is the wonderful woman who is a compassionate shoulder, and she is a lesbian, I have plethora of African-American, Chinese, Hispanic, black, you name the race- you’ll find it. Jewish, Christian, Muslim… Wheel chair bound and the most successful writer, I have the most loyal friend who has Asperser’s and he is a genius, a deaf friend whose photography is drop-dead gorgeous. A blind guy who’ll become a politician… A sensitive woman who opened my eyes up to autism, there are the young, the insane, artistic, logical, vagabonds, recovering drunks, overachievers, philanthropic and some a bit selfish – the accountants, the writers, the entrepreneurs, sports-nuts, or scholars. Each character plays a pivotal role in my life – they have challenged me to believe two things:

1. At inception we’re all the same – it’s after that the changes begin to determine who we will become.
2. There is nothing fabulous about not being special.

But in my life, and in my entire repertoire of relationships, I’m yet to trip across a transvestite.

Okay, and that term, well let’s stop beating around the obvious… is painfully an enigma, the three syllables are difficult to say, only because I’ve never been able to tie a personality, a character, a photograph or a friend to the title. It’s beyond my normal comfort zone, Friday nights and editorial meetings, classes and travels… I’m yet to meet someone who has the obstacle, nearly debilitating obstacle – reconcile your body with your brain.

But then again, each of us have methods in which to blend in with the masses, become one in a homogeneous sea of humanity.

And Michelle has done that with such grace. A thick mane of curly red hair, tall with a pink shirt and jeans- her puppy is calm and not annoying and nuts like the majority of the yappy dogs. Michelle tells me that her dog likes me, which is unusual since he doesn’t like most strangers, which is flattering, since I have an affinity for all things canine.

She moved to Denver on a whim two weeks ago after an explosive epiphany in Miami. A right-hand-man for Madonna, Paula Abdul and others, in LA…Michael moved to Miami where he decided to undergo irreversible procedures- invasive, a one-time choice, a decision forever. Michelle has been featured in documentaries, interviewed for features chronicling the lives of “transvestite.” And you’d never know by looking at her -

A man who decided to reconcile his body and brain – is now a woman, a happy, content, fulfilled and driven woman.

Poignant and empathetic, compassionate and kind, my heart reaches out to her – and my respect. I pray that she finds someone who sees her for exactly who she is –a durable, courageous, beautiful and accepting human.

Aside from giving me permission to write about her – she left me with a thought: “I love to hike… Life is one big mountain, we can all take various routes, different trails, see different things on the way up, but at the end, it’s the same view.”

Why Women Ought To Play GOLF

SEE THAT DORKY COUPLE? That too, could be you!

Okay ladies, Denver has been voted by multiple publications as “Top Town for Singles”, but the following information is crucial, it’s a proven fact that Denver has More Men Per Capita than anywhere else in the country!

One might neglect the vital prerequisites for a worthwhile date, and we can all agree men can be easily found at Washington Park throwing Frisbees, Rockies baseball games cheering with their pals, hell walk into Sports Authority and you’ll be greeted by masculinity galore. But while most of us independent, hardworking, and awesome women are relishing June sunshine, meeting lads at the expected locations, it’s true that summer might be more fun sans singledom.

This past February I scribed about Denver’s “Meet Market” … investigating the local speed-dating scene, submitted a profile to eharmony.com, even succumbed to a high-end service determined to introduce me to my soul mate via algorithms and personality tests. But now that my sweaters and skis are packed away until this winter, I’ve taken to a more traditional idea that maybe I’ll trip across Mr. Perfect out in the real world, or on the golf course.

Sure, Colorado offers world renown kayaking, hiking, sky-diving, but how many sports can you count offer the opportunity to drive around in a little vehicle, encourage Molson Coors, and considered a perfectly legitimate place to negotiate business. Not only am I stubborn, but I take pride in my femininity, I would never suggest you sacrifice hobbies you love to take on a sport for men, but there is logic to males dedicating weekends, spending thousands on Callaway’s and enduring weird tan lines, so there might be just cause is taking up this “wanderlust” pastime. So fellow femmes, I urge you to telephone the golf instructor and purchase pink Pro-Vs, if not for him, for you!

But back to boys: Golf is especially ideal if you’re on the prowl in cognito… The majority of men will be too busy respecting your appreciation for the sport, (which works to our advantage because let’s face it requires enough athleticism for someone, say John Daly can dominate) to notice you might happen to checking them out! I’ll be honest, the minute I figured out that it was cool when I volunteered to play a charity tournament, make Saturday trips to the driving range, and kick it at putt-putt, my only wish was that I had learned the game earlier.

Not to mention that etiquette has an integral role in every aspect of golf. From staying silent when your opponent is chipping, to yelling “FORE” when you’re about to hit someone with your drive. I’m serious, if your consistent complaints tend to sound like: Why can't men hold the door open? Buy me a drink? Stay quiet and wait patiently until I’m done doing whatever it is I’m doing (ask your beau how many “waggles” his swing requires), baby you’re not alone, and you’ve just found your game.

Solution: I am the first to confess, it’s wicked fun to be a woman in the “boys club” and there are few instances when it is embraced and encouraged, and thanks to our coveted Mile High City, there are hundreds courses in Colorado where you can be the only woman for miles, or more precisely, yards. So fulfill your deep desire to don adorable plaid petal pushers, sip that ice-cold brewski, and be in the midst of many men, khaki-wearing blokes in popped polos, all of whom will find your affection for golf, irresistible.

And if all else fails, they don’t call it fantasy football for nothing.


Some tips:

- Women’s tees are there for a reason. Unless you’ve been bench pressing 200 pounds on a regular basis, I highly recommend starting at the tees created for us.
- Even if he refers to it as a beach or sand trap, don’t be misled, it’s a bunker.
- Tip the cart girl regardless of her obnoxious and annoying flirtation with your boyfriend. He isn’t paying attention to her, he is bragging to his buddies that his girl plays golf.
- Never, NEVER, talk, cough, whisper, laugh or the ultimate no-no, ask a question while someone is putting.
- If you lose a ball, you have approximately three minutes to dig it out of a bush, weeds, wherever its hid itself, if you have no luck grab another ball and go.
- One practice swing. (Ask about the waggle.)
- Cyprus isn’t in reference to a television reality series.

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...

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.

How to Not Sound like an ASS on a DATE

Since I’m into the lists lately… I’ve got one more for you. If you’re single/interviewing for a job/trying to impress someone – here are some items you might want at the tip of your tongue. FYI: You’ll sound like an idiot unless interjected at the appropriate time.

***Solid Winston Churchill Quote: "A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on. "
1. Brilliant NO WAY fact: The SEC leads the NCAA in total major violations of rules since recording began in 1953 with 42 violations.
2. Fascinating Statisti: (you didn’t find in a Malcolm Gladwell book or that 29% of relationships end because someone is cheating): I’d stick with 40% of people own dogs, in comparison to the 38% who own cats. Which are you?
3. Sports Trivia: (women this impresses other women too): The San Diego Chargers of the NFL are named after a credit card.
4. Stupid joke: What's the difference between snowmen and snowwomen? Snowballs
5. Fact that makes you appear to be a subscriber of Rolling Stone: Before they were Led Zeppelin, they were “The Whoopi Cushion.”

If someone doesn’t know the following – it’s a sign that maybe there is a lot more they don’t know….
1. The only man to ever be President and Vice-President but never be elected to either was Gerald Ford.
2. The difference between THEIR, THEY’RE and THERE
3. The answer to, “Are you single?”

Traditional - not a transvestite at the Debutante Ball....

My date donned a Scottish kilt last night. No joke. Yes. In a flood of white Vera silk gowns, Armani tuxes, Channel frocks from the fifties there was a man in a kilt. The fete itself is downright incomparable to the modern parties thrown in honor of art/nonprofits/launches of any sort– and while this exclusive affair does donate to important endeavors for those less fortunate – it’s primal purpose is to present the recently arrived pubescent dames to the already-chosen-accepted-society members… To celebrate good cheer and good health- so visit with friends or foe from the past – or possibly encounter someone new- a sparkling transplant from Connecticut. Mostly these are the daughters, nieces, and cousins of those already mingling amongst the hundreds of close friends- familiar by Christmas cards, society pages and well country club gossip– politely sipping champagne while watching the marshmallow gowns descend the grand staircase. The girls, only nineteen or twenty years old smiling broadly at the flashing bulbs courtesy of all the local newspapers… curtseying, and sheepishly waltzing on the arm of their father… Truly it’s an honor as it is an intriguing experiment, ahem, I mean experience.

Now charisma can’t pull off a kilt alone… no not Halloween, or a rumination where men dressed up in their assigned cultural vetements, for a wedding or a parade. No, just something the decedents of Scotts do for only black-tie gatherings… And regardless of the rich history woven into a choice of this kind…Nothing can prepare someone for the “look” the kilt accompanies. The most shocking of questions came not from the slightly tipsy post-debutantes themselves, but rather several of the women from the upper echelons … the mothers to be more precise…who whispered in my ear so slightly I had to bend closer to hear their query, “Is he wearing underpants?”

“Um, excuse me?” Did I just hear this lawyer-gone philanthropist – the queen of society correctly?

She wasn’t the only foxy cougar taking aim under his kilt.

Ode to the Bachelor...

My most favorite friend from college is a man-whore.

I don’t type that lightly, or politely or pausing even momentarily. He was a slut.

The jokes heaved his direction edged on cruel, but never hyperbolic in the slightest. Woman after girl would saunter out of his room… disheveled hair, wearing one of his Belichick-ish ripped sweatshirts… plastered with that sideways smile that shows no shame. The deeds he has done (or at least the ones we know about) are not appropriate for this blog… or appropriate for even a blackmail attempt.

Back to Brian (woops I started to type his name – sorry if you’re reading this, but you’ve been warned the repercussions of being friends with a writer)… He was the best listener. He never failed to call me back, or invite me to the bars when I needed a dry white wine most. (He jokingly said I liked em’ dry like rubbing alcohol.) More importantly whenever (not that I admit this often) I needed someone to flirt incessantly with me at a party, play the role of the dapper date with the WSJ memorized at a company function, offer to share a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and never take a bite, or be the shoulder to cry and blow my nose on…. he was that guy. The guy that all girls dreamed of getting, well… except for the girls he got on.

Girls fell in love with him as quickly as he fell out of interest with them.

Thus arrives the puzzling conundrum. Who is this emotionally unavailable, but never for a shag type of guy? We assume them jerks and write them off as rubbish, loads of leftover baggage feigning sweetness with martini’s and syrupy compliments. But with lovely mothers, well-mannered female chocolate labs and cotillion on their resume… these men cannot be so hate-worthy. I mean they make fabulous, insightful and honest male friends. And they have friends… consider them an entrée to meet male prospects? I mean not all their friends can be the raging man-whores, correct? Or so I bluff…

It’s assumed a man who is famous for bachloresque behavior (which can be achieved by either dating many women at once, or sadly the same reputation arrives with never dating anyone at all)… he isn’t decent.

My dearest friend couldn’t have had a more affable attitude with a deep belly laugh making you feel you were born a comedian. I know the genuinely friendly and helpful bachelor-by-choice will forever be a befuddling and potent combination. A mixture of simplicity and sublime laced with complex…always served warm with a wink.