Santa Monica

Saturday, 1am
He noticed my girlfriend and I standing by the bar and navigated his way through the salacious silk scarves, the makeshift tops women wore. Approaching us, he hesitated, well-aware that he was outside the acceptable generational barrier. But I was bored, so warned him with the precautionary white-lie: I had a boyfriend and madly smitten, but would gladly accept the merlot and conversation. My girlfriend glared at me as she was on the prowl, whereas I was just a curious journalist sidetracked by a colorful character. Seemingly benign, he appeared out of place in the posh crowd. My Aussie gal was flirting with some bloke, so I sat on the leather stool with whom I learned; a graduate of MIT and Harvard. Now an international lawyer/investor, he specialized in the hospitality sector in China. Not a bad dude to ask for some advice re: my portfolio. Sure, we chatted about how easy it was for him to raise capital in America to invest in international real estate development, which was a bit disconcerting, which eventually brought us back to about two decades before, when he was married to a woman named Mary, She was also from a small city in Kansas. He paused. I paused. I texted Sarah, who’d, disappeared awhile earlier with some guy on the dance floor.

I started to give him grief for roaming a lounge intended for the 35-under crowd, but his sad eyes stopped me. Sure, men tell women random and wacky stories, sure they fake equity in this company, or a claim a faux degree from that college, but when you’ve got an educated and successful, grown man pouring his heart out to stranger and more importantly, he was completely sober, he must have felt alone. Not the type of alone attempted during a weekend away on a reprieve. I cannot imagine that the crowd around us made his gnawing loneliness better, until he said “My son died of leukemia when he was two. My wife and I ended up getting a divorce. In an effort to do something, anything I started building companies. Companies after company, from India, United Arab Emirates, Brazil, China … each merger or acquisition ate up more time, until I looked in the mirror and realized it had been fifteen years since I’d entertained the idea of moving forward. And that was last May.” And i realized that this man wasn't scouting out for the next woman of his life, or business partner or one-night stand... He was simply seeking out humanity at this late hour.

This poor, well, filthy rich man… Life could get ugly no matter how beautiful of clothes you’re wearing. I excused myself to the restroom. Hit his name into google to make sure he wasn’t heaving lies toward my empathetic ears. Sure enough, thousands of results popped up with his name - all legit. I felt like a jerk, but a resourceful journalist. Note: Thank you Blackberry.

Walking back to Channing, who was staring haphazardly out into the crowd of people decades younger, his expression was melancholy; he seemed more comfortable observing from afar, than attempting to join.

Tapping his shoulder lightly, he jumped. "Guess what?" I chirped.

More tomorrow…

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.

"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

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.

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.