The wrong type of luck...

Ralph Lauren’s model Nacho Figueras can be spotted weekly, Madonna vacationed here last summer; there are stories of Prince Charles, presidents and movie stars. A whole gammet of influential people really. It’s invitation only when cameras and gossip columnists are permitted at 3667 120th Avenue South. The address belongs to the International Polo Club.

My naked toes sink into a thick carpet of Kentucky blue grass. I sit on a blanket far away from the grand stands, but the sounds of muscular bay and chestnut horses galloping at full speed on the acres of manicured fields reach me perfectly.

I don’t know that later tonight a handsome guy in his twenties will be driving home to celebrate his sister’s birthday. His name is Scott Wilson. Also tonight there is a much-anticipated fete where the polo elite are expected. These parties last until the wee hours, until the valet pulls around every last porsche. And then the polo players and girlfriends and grooms stagger home. My sister is one of those staggering home with juicy stories and sore feet from dancing.

Right now I’m watching the last chucker of a twenty-goal tournament. Wisps of afternoon cloud are nearly invisible against the sapphire sky. I observe the battle with fascination. Gripping reins in one hand and swinging a mallet with the other, each polo player wears a brightly-colored jersey. The player and his horse are both sweaty and determined; they also share an equal love for the game. They move together as a single weapon.

This is no child’s play… this is the sport of Kings.

Scott is a soon-to-be engineer. He is kind and responsible. Police regularly patrol Wellington, Florida. The quiet streets are lined with gated communities and horse farms. The Wilson’s live in a safe neighborhood.

100-yards from where I’m sitting I spot the magnificent stands overlooking the polo fields. There are champagne flutes smudged with pink lipstick, and caviar spit out on linen napkins. The women are in white capris and hold onto the elbows of men with salt and pepper hair, who are smoking cigars and standing in penny loafers. My sister is with my brother and father – they know all these people. I don’t ride horses like everyone else, I’m just a curious bystander really… The palm trees sway with the cool breeze. This utopia hinges on surreal.

At 1am Scott will pause at a stop sign at 120th Street and then his car will be violently hit by a drunk driver.His car will flip over and land in one of the canals that snake between the walkways and driveways. The metal and rubber will drown and his body will be found buckled in the front seat tomorrow morning, on his sisters’ birthday.

But for now I’m just a spectator, my legs are outstretched on the blanket and I'm massaging my calves with lotion. I'm wearing a hat and sipping on lemonade. I’m one of the thousands of people who have had great fun at the International Polo club. The place is at no fault, the people here are at no fault - it is still as enchanting as it has ever been. A mistake and inexplicable luck is all that happened...

I might be exploiting a story by delving into its emotions face first, but I don’t care… breathe its angst, digest its lessons. Lately shit has happened. Sad stuff that leaves you hungry for understanding. The stuff that leaves you strangled with despair and eager to believe that there is something greater than us, A God - watching our back. But with this shit? How could it be so? So then we succumb to Darwin, or something else who convinces us we control our existence. We operate as mammals; fretting about this damaged earth. Animalistic in logic and emotional with irrationality, we try not to kill each other and ourselves in the process. We try to better the planet, smile and locate laughter whenever the comedy channel can be found. Oh there is glorious stuff; the home runs, relaxing over a candle lit dinner, or playing golf on a Saturday morning. Or blowing candles out with your loved ones singing around you. I must to unearth something to learn from this wretched blog post, or the disturbing articles. Even if it's just one more designated driver, or cab ride home next Saturday night.

The man who hit Scott left that party a little early. He put his key in the ignition and sped out of the parking lot and with one run of a stop sign, he changed hundreds of lives. He is a wealthy staple in this tight-knit community– his face is familiar and welcomed around Wellington. He is a gregarious and generous fellow – he is a father. Many extending far beyond Scott’s family will be deeply affected by this split-second error, an intersection of lives... the irony. The scars from shame and frustration – a missing parent now in his children's childhood. Almost self-inflicted in a way. Those wounds are tragic, but they still scar. It is unnatural for a parent to lose a child... that pain never heals. To know your child should never have been stripped of a plentiful and rich future was, dozens of years too early. That has to hurt.

There were countless people who survived 9/11 by chance, they were supposed to be in those buildings. They had dentist appointments, or chose a different route to work … experienced a little mishap, one of those that make us run a little bit late, the annoyances we curse until we realize that teeth cleaning or that iota of stupidity is responsible for saving our life. But what about when there is no mishap and we’re led directly into our own demise? They don't call it bad luck for nothing. Can we navigate our way around misfortune, can we?

What was the reason, if there could even be a reason? For now I'll watch the polo ponies knowing that nothing bad could ever happen in this chunk of peaceful, manicured land - the people around me, who live in these homes are responsible and nice. Here I believe, I'm far from violence.

At 1am the streets will still be empty of cars – restaurants will be closed and it will be too early for people to leave the nightclubs. Only stars and barely a sliver of moon, will leave the night pitch black. How will it be that the only two cars deserted on this road manage to find each other?

I was in bed during the car crash, but if the drunk driver would have left five minutes earlier, it might not have been Scott. Someone else was on the same road five minutes earlier... the person killed could have been my little sister.

ALICE in Afghanistan...

Remember when the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland was happily smoking his hookah? Hypothetically speaking, chances are that opium came from Afghanistan… No doubt, the metaphor is a stretch, but interesting, right?

Before I begin consider two things:
1. Afghanistan produces 93% of the global
supply of heroin.
2. Afghan heroin is estimated to kill more than 10,000 people a year in NATO
countries…more than five times the NATO troop losses from combat

Here is a report that General McCaffrey recently released:http://www.west-point.org/publications/McCaffrey~November2009.pdf

Just fyi: I’m writing purely from the civilian bystander... so I offer my thoughts only to illustrate what the average Homer Simpson thinks! AND btw: I’m a big fan of Orwell. Ak: Watch out for the animal similes and cynical outbursts. So take what I type with a bucket of salt. No doubt I’m a bit irreverent on the political front, but I must tell you re: General McCaffery- his comment “women are in many cases are merely abused property with less opportunity than a donkey,” in a scholarly document left a bitter taste in my mouth. Now if he could prove that statement up with some factual opportunity-cost/real estate based formula proving such a margin, it might be okay. That said, much of what he said really resonated with my inner journalist.


DTR: Let's define the relationship!

I've heard Obama speak it (and Blitzer and Bush and Gare- with a menagerie of vocabulary terms!) I want to hear that the military and Obama agree! We need to clarify any objective that taps into our own limited resources (the war has a burn rate of $9 billion a month), time, energy, blood. Obama needs to be honest here - It’s far too difficult to give Afghanistan and its 28 million residents a facelift, eradicate drug farming (which generated $200-400 million revenue to al-Qaeda last year), dispose of poverty (5 million starving children) and educate an illiterate population (70%), oh and wait hold peaceful and honest elections in the next 18 months. (Unless we were on amphetamines, but I doubt McCaffrey (a former Drug Czar) would be in favor of that.) If we’re going to have America “Fix” Afghanistan, we need to be realistic about revamping a country full of landmines and starving zealots. What resources beyond money/military should we seek? Hmm. Maybe we can start issuing Afghan treasury... kidding. But seriously, albeit the monetary concerns, can we truly figure out what is wrong? Why this particular country, a land that neither Alexander the Great or the Soviets could tame... has been screwed from the get-go?

WHO/WHAT are we fighting?
Are we (US, EU, NATO) just losing dollars and lives, or are we killing the infectious and rapturous spread of Al-Qaeda? Notice, how many times McCaffrey used the term al-Qaeda in his memorandum!! FYI: Once. He also seemed to vacillate between Afghans being warm and receptive to our efforts and then will quickly jump to how they stone their wives. It seems implausible one could institute in a 21st century-democracy in what is easily a 14th century violent land of religious babble? Now Iraq has worked, is working… but again, we were fighting a system predicated on “human-interest” while it was one human by the name of Sadam Hussein, and his own self-interest, he still didn’t want to die. I’ll throw Iran in there too, while Ahmadinejad isn’t one for compromise, at least he has an email address. Whereas we’re working against the Taliban, they are growing more fierce, not to immediately link them to Al-Qaeda but my question is: Does the military know who in the Taliban is harboring terrorists versus those who are just misogynist lunatics? Hmm... Is there such a thing as an Al-Qaedian mousetrap? I feel like that could be a decent joke.

Again, Sadam was archaic, corrupt and selfish - he lived in a castle. Whereas Bin Laden has clearly capitalized on every communicational device, uses viral networking and does splendid job advertising himself to the masses and still manages to live in a cave. Different scenario entirely. Media/Press need to better articulate the differences in this "warfare" it's easy to lump the Middle East together.

And from a marketing position (use Bush round 2 as the beta) it’s a hell of a lot easier to sell “PROTECTING AMERICANS” than spending billions of dollars helping starving and angry men see the light in micro lending (as I don’t see them jumping on Wall Street). And while Bush has definitely forced Obama to backtrack and reestablish our responsibility as it relates to spreading democracy. I’m a firm believer in instituting democracy and I think it can be done, in baby steps. America did it on its own, and we broke many of the our own “sacred text.” There was no British satellite surveillance or Red Cross workers. Resources were abundant. And what we really did wrong - we shoved/killed Native Americans out of our way, and we “in-sourced” a chunk of Africa. Democracy was not built with democracy, but something much darker. So we cannot expect countries to build what we did without the same resources, tools or bylaws, and abide by our strict regulations. So how does America compensate for this inequitable difference, or better account for it when we're reprimanding countries for not replicating our model?

NARCOTIC CLEANSING
Re: Drugs – okay, well first off let’s go ahead and check the “Why are upwards of 2 million people doing opium” off the list. Afghanistan is a miserable country, providing an even more miserable existence. McCaffery is right that we need to substitute opium farming 7,700 metric tons with any type of alternative - I want to talk about my new seatmate pal (international Cambridge humanitarian and James Beard winner) Frances Lappe, but will save that for another email…. Essentially, I agree. Let’s find the cost of burning down the opium fields (the fiscal costs incurred in addition to the risk involved- talk about creating some local jobs!) and THEN DO IT. IF we can legitimize taking a country over (ak: US Department of Defense plans on spending billions over the next decade building a police force) then we should be able to burn some fields. I’m serious – have they actually done this?

My personal solution would be a campaign on rebranding the enemy. Americans have become CONFUSED with who the Al-Qaeda is, Hamas that, Shiehks blah blah blah (okay, Sheikhs are a little different), but let’s not let people forget there is one group independent from the rest – those who are out to get us.

Okay, work with me: There is a joke that the only thing that will ever bring about world government is aliens invading.

And quite frankly it wouldn’t hurt people to receive al-Qaeda in the same vain they might look upon a lower-key “alien” invasion. They place no value on human life, thus their “soldiers” are dispensable.

Where is the bumper sticker that reads, Alien Invasion: translation: Al-Qaeda. They're after something that has nothing to do with salvaging, protecting, defending - they dont' even want our awesome land... their mission is like none other, it's inhuman. While I’d never suggest a world government, I would suggest that the world build an alliance. While these “Middle-Eastern Aliens” happen to have beards and turbans and appear quasi-human like, what does make them “intrinsically” the same as aliens is, they don’t blink at the face of death. So we (as democratic freedom fighters) need to strategize how to defeat one who operates without the incentive of life, health, prosperity, etc. Ak: While Hitler was a nut job, at least he valued Germans. And while I’d again never suggest a global order - a new type of "militia" I would hope the global media (Larry King and a few features on CNBC) would take the energy to revisit the notion that al- Qaeda is simply a leftover of angry Taliban who are sick of America liberties and exposed skin, but rather a cult whose cause reaches beyond human life, so much so, it can justify any resulting death. Not to bring China into the mix, however I want to point out that it wouldn’t shock me in ten-twenty years if al-Qaeda efforts were relocated. Not that China can boast the next Britney Spears, but they are communist and we already saw what happened the last time the Taliban were annoyed with fundamental Marxists. Anyway, it’s been argued we indirectly/underhandedly funded these guys during the Cyclone (right?) but isn’t it interesting how one could argue China is under handily funding them now.

That said, I really hope some economist out there is projecting how the world would operate sans American consumerism and our enthusiasm…. I mean what other country supports a filibuster to happen? We’d go back to the middle ages, where we all looked the same and spoke different languages.

At the end of the day (and the end of really long emails) I remember this old adage: “Put your oxygen mask on first before assisting a child.” In this case: Afghanistan is the child.


I’ll stop for now. But in brief:
1. Rebrand the enemy
2. Recognize the DRUG problem – MEDIA has faltered here. Farming illegal drugs are means to survival – and while a lot of that is poured into al-Qaeda there aren’t a lot of alternatives. This is where we can reach out globally and redefine who cares about drug problems, and what they’re willing to do – also an opportunity to tap into American brains. ***This is an arena where Dems/Repubs and the occasional Socialist can get along.
3. Be honest. A crucial, but simple point: Any Afghan regardless of how earnest and genetically wired to be grateful for US intervention will identify far more with a Taliban than an American, and changing that could take generations, if ever.
4. Annex Canada. (KIDDING... I just find it funny when people suggest that as a solution to whatever problem is discussed!)

Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist. - GC

Where did all the smart people go?

There was once a professional with an undiluted ethic. A genuine, tried-and-true, knock ‘em dead with brilliant, karate-in-the-groin, touché-my-ass, savant-skills.

But, these young, professional, awesome assets have seem to be hijacked by the lazy ingrown leftover businessmen, who, were on their way to being dismissed as archaic and dusty. However, I’ve recently realized these fogies are anything but benign, in fact, they’re using age as an alias, and exercising time against us young folk– and the penance we pay to survive in a pool full of potbellies, is our pride.

Recently endured/survived/subsequently sat through two meetings with two very prominent businessmen…now because this blog is read by Denverites, (and I have the utmost respect for these two individuals) they will remain nameless, and however their questionably shrewd business tactics shall not.

While this particular entry lacks coherence and possibly direction all together, there is indeed frustration swimming in the midst of my babble. I’m done with people not doing their homework before negotiations, so in the place of hard numbers and data, in which decisions should be founded, these men are pontificating about this and that circa 200 NOBODY GIVES A DAMN, just to frighten me off. No, their vacuous attempts to frighten are simply preposterous and annoying. And just because they graduated a few generations before me doesn’t equate to knowing how to penetrate a demographic they share zero commonalities (aside from breathing space). Seriously, intimidation only gets people so far, and then people actually have to practice polite manners and common sense, and god forbid an iota of logic.

And while brains occasionally require more effort than say, indignation, disrespect and apathy when someone says, “hello”…. It’s an ingratiated part of our society, that through this bearish economic collapse, climb, crash, rise again, us youngsters are supposed to buddy-up, hold hands and sing kumbaya. But, would someone please recognize that Generation Y being trampled by frightened and pride-thirsty baby boomers ain’t the most effective way in approaching business deals.

Yes, we’re younger. Yes, they’re older. Yes, there have been babies and mortgages, wars requiring global attention, and yes, days when you had to be strategic enough to function without google, blackberry, facebook, and navigate the opposite gender without match.com. WE GET IT.

That said, the two meetings this past week were brutal, and little blond Auna was bullied....not because the content or matter in which we were discussing was anything but mesmerizing to me (as I love the business model and strategy I develop), however I’ve never encountered men so frozen in their approach to people… and it was exhausting.

I just wish I could have a dinner with George Carlin. I have a feeling he’d make me feel better about all this....

Ask for surprise and baby, it will hunt you down….

Until it is exhaling fate in your face, it’s a surreal experience, and one stemming easily from energy.

Serendipity will smack you across your face when you have doubt, seeking answers, and when you’re about to abandon hope. It’s that little message saying, “hold on” the answer is almost, not quite, but soon approaching you… You’ve heard all the stories. You can trace the climatic part of your life back to a conscious choice, a song on the radio, a phone call, the person you met on an airplane, or ran into at the grocery store...

Fate isn’t random, it’s a simple negotiation – you’ve put a want out into the world and serendipity is signing off on it– with a little injection in the middle of your day. Nobody would know it were coincidence except for you – so somewhere in your subconscious you were asking for it.

I have this crazy belief that people cross your path for a reason -and sometimes the reason won't make sense for a long time after.

It was late October on a Tuesday afternoon, dark outside, it was after an accounting class and blizzarding. I was crutching through the snow as pathetic as you can imagine a girl with a broken hip could be. And I had called a yellow cab because a girl with a broken hip can't drive. And hobbling through the slush (this is truly a pitiful sight) the cab rolls away from the back of the parking lot, leaving me freezing and stuck at school.

Lugging my backpack inside the building, I huddle on a bench trying to get hold of the cab company. A lovely woman, a professor sees this desperate sight and offers to drive me home. Knowing she had an office next to my adviser, and having said hello before, I accepted. We got to chatting during the drive and I admitted while I loved numbers, words sorta turned me on as well. She suggested I meet her friend (an editor at a magazine- unnamed) for a cup of coffee. I was offered a job on the spot, and through word of mouth I found out about the magazine I'm currently at... landed that gig, and voila here is now. And I can't imagine being any happier...

I sometimes wonder where I'd be, instead of this chair,
writing this email, had that cab waited just one minute longer.

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

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

Jesus wrote a blank check, One I haven't cashed yet.... - Cake

Is there something you’d like to change about yourself? Throw an unhealthy addiction or detrimental habit, like French fries or procrastination to the wind? With the assumption that the garbage man will discard the nasty buggers with last year’s rubbish and you can move forward, stripped of any error. Or then, there is the category of change focused on “improvement” … where the newly purchased Nikes will lure you onto the treadmill, or your calendar will somehow create space to clean out your closet, the projects and image renovations on your “to do” list for the last ten years, will somehow magically get done? (I've had three bags full of goodwill clothes sitting in my car for weeks!)

The above mentioned without doubt can happen, whether it be a life coach, heart surgeon, or fashion trend, eventually the burdens on our mental check list will either become unimportant, we’ll survive around the gook or we’ll get fed up with our fat that we'll unconsciously eat less. But these things are trivial in comparison to the changes that make me curious… the change in how we perceive the world. How might we respond when someone a poses a question to which we haven’t had the courage to answer, even to ourselves. To swallow pride and ask for help, or advice, and then execute, without knowing how to calculate the risk. To acknowledge the chips in our shoulders, sandblasted by an old flame, which resulted in us being jaded, fickle and flawed? Knowing whether or not, if someone dedicated enough could ever heal those invisible wounds.

What about the endearing silly qualities that differentiate us, asking for an insane dinner order, an inability to parallel park, arriving a few minutes late (or too early), do they add dimensions of color to our already-matching complexions, or are they just annoying nuances that need to be shed. After being told that "everyone is special" 7-year-old Dash Parr from the movie The Incredibles replied, "Which is another way of saying no one is special. "

What would happen if we forgave? What would happen if we abandoned doubt on the curb and pressed onward unafraid? Never hesitating for a moment about the “what ifs”, the mistakes, the imperfections that humanize us? The things we say, and more importantly the things we choose to leave unsaid, what would happen if we let it all go? If we let fear go?

The fear of Christmas without our parents, turning into a homeless waste on the side of the road, being diagnosed with cancer, and god forbid the most debilitating phobia of them all… being happy. That maybe, the little pieces of life we envy from the couple still smitten walking their dog in Wash Park, the great-grandmother about to have her 100th birthday, the culinary wizard/marathon runner/soccer mom who is still hot, hell, Bill Gates, those little pieces are waiting around the bend. Maybe the daydreams that haunt us at 3am while slaving away, trying to make it.... might turn into tomorrow?

It’s frustrating to imagine that we don’t have control over our reactions entirely… Yes, the majority of our life we can scheme, strategize and plot each speculative detail. But we cannot anticipate who will waltz into our life, unassuming and unaware that they will have the capacity to change our course. Our internal compass, convincing us we're headed north, but calling it "north" is pretending there is no fate. Every person who crosses our path leaves something in our wake. Whether it a funny joke, a totaled car, the flu, a new friend, or your “other”… tomorrow is unwarranted. How do we change how we’ll react if we don’t have a clue exactly who it is that will run into us?

Lately the ability, no, actually the desire to change has been a subject up for debate. Should we change who we are? Should we be blindly accepted for who we are? I don’t think we should ever sacrifice or apologize for what we love about ourselves, but should we try to embrace the things which people love about us? Even if who we are is a mixture and combo of our backgrounds, blood type, books that have bled into our soul, a leftover of every person who has walked into our life and we have loved deeply....and the people with whom we allowed to love us and they chose to walk out.

There isn’t an answer to change. At sharp turns we’ll overcompensate, and at tough decisions we’ll underestimate, by default and preparedness, we’ll unconsciously self-correct and adjust, eventually becoming who we already are. And while a friend, or co-worker, or random stranger at a party, or that “other” can be so perfect at the start… the authenticity will start to surface, and the funny flaws somehow manifest into rational, quirky traits, and they’ve just whittled their way into our hearts. How does one probe without being offensive, or act without due diligence. How do we let hurtful words slide off our back without catching the chip on our shoulder? How do we not over analyze the warm and fuzzy thoughts articulated to us over text message, or while sipping steaming chai?

Next week I'll scribe about sex or drugs or something equally frisky. I promise.

Until then....I’m starting to realize the words that are supposed to tie a relationship into a perfect bow aren’t simple, black or white, or definable. Sometimes the prettiest bows require four hands, a YouTube video and a southern drawl. Recently, when someone isn't making sense to me, I try to see where it is they're coming from, and maybe where it is they want to go. I'm not hard of hearing, or eager for the world to chant kumbaya, I'm just a girl who is sometimes misunderstood, but more than that wants to understand.

The Art of Faking It

Normally speaking, I allow the days approaching New Years to become a spiritual journey into the depths of my brain. I leisurely take hours of afternoons selfishly mapping out the leftover of my life, with colored sharpies and stick-it notes. I dwell on the amazing moments tucked away in 2008 journaling with typos and adjectives. I dream big and eat bigger, and then justify it all by a long run (sans guilt from the doctors) listening to rap spiced with the occasional melancholy song, which remind me of old memories I refuse to let go of, and then as the clock breathes life into a new year, I swallow every last drop of nostalgia with a generous glass of wine. Because moving forward is rough, especially when everything behind was so perfect…


I’ve never been one to embrace change. But I’m damn good at faking it.

How many conversations have you had this past Christmas season at cocktail gatherings with friend, foe and strangers alike… The type where you’re teetering on uncomfortable heels, balancing your eggnog with awkwardness… silently pretending to be fascinated by someone’s verbiage… the nothingness that pales in comparison to your own nothingness… and yes, this entry is probably being interpreted as terrible of me to type, but seriously consider who you’ve offered your listening time to. Don’t you feel a wee bit better of your altruism for helping someone feel like they’re interesting enough that you’d voluntarily listen to them? Isn’t that all we want in life? To feel worth being heard.

Because regardless of how bored, or boring that someone might be, or the conversation they were droning on about… their nephew, boss, cat, terrible book they got through simply to get their mother-in-law to pipe down, there is certain energy, a light, a passion shared when someone is speaking about a subject in which they care- and then that boring subject suddenly starts to sparkle - and now that is subject is interesting - why? Why, because somebody cares!

Even watching their arms orchestrate through the air, hearing the octave change in their voice, like a melody, a contagious cadence- it’s infectious. Physics, the atoms exhaled and embraced are unstoppable little organisms in which we thrive off of… And what they're saying might have no value to us, but inside of their words… there is a person carrying this vibrant glow, and what they’re saying resonates even with us – and then we’re (I’m) not faking it anymore. I’m simply happy that someone has found something in which to believe in, enough so, that they're smiling, enough that they’re talking to me about it.

Mark Cuban... the Willy Wonka of America

He is the ornery, irrational and yet delightful Willy Wonka of America. And you can’t help but admire the guy, and then chuckle. Aside from the SEC’s recent and very legitimate allegations, Cuban is in so little words, someone I'm intrigued by.

What Mark Zucker did to the Rolodex, P. Diddy did for the popular vote, and Sarah Palin did for lacrosse moms (hockey moms are still in exile) Mark Cuban has done for the dorks. He gave them a reason to be cool. Gave permission for big boys to pursue the little boy dreams once assumed collecting dust with Babe Ruth baseball cards. Instead of having a fantasy team or a Playstation he plays basketball coach/commentator/pontificator. He has taken brown-nosing to a respectable level that includes philanthropy and learning how to dance the tango.

Might sound demented but hear me out. I love football. And sometimes when I’m on the elliptical glider and I witness Jay Cutler throwing an interception I sort of make frustrated sounds toward the television and sort of frighten the women huffing on the stationary bikes. Most people would play QB but I’d rather not be responsible for making the calls and being pummeled by 800-pound angry linemen. So instead the position of running back is preferable. Catch the touchdown pass and hump the field goal like Shakira (not that Tatum Bell has ever done that…).

Cuban would make the original Samuel Maverick proud (a 19th century Texas cattleman famous for not branding his animals). Cuban’s interactive NBA purchase isn’t just metaphorical for his actions in life, but every aspect of his biography IS the iconic America story. And if he has anything to do with it, his legend will be passed through generations for millenniums to come. He is the 21st century entrepreneurial hoodlum, a less satirical version of Winston Churchill. He quotes himself as he recently did in his blog, reminding readers how he should have listened to his own insightful premonitions about the ultimate failure of overzealous hedge funds just a year ago.

If he can’t be a basketball coach, he will buy a team. If his wisecrack remarks and millions of dollars fined by the NBA irritate anyone, he’ll justify his sophomoric behavior by donating millions to charity. (Nothing criminal about that.) If Hollywood won’t make him a movie star he’ll produce movies himself. He’s altruistic too… keeping an eye out for the insatiable hunger for unrealistic entertainment the American public is recovering from. In 2006 he hired six individuals to compete for $1 million by accomplishing insane and crazy things. Instead of keeping all the amusement for his own viewing pleasure, he suggested ABC create a reality show, so we could join in the fun.

When he insults refs by yelling, “I wouldn’t hire you to manage a Dairy Queen” and then receives an official complaint by the company, he doesn’t apologize or retract his remark. He spends a day acting as an ice-cream manager, ultimately generating an additional $2 million in revenue for Dairy Queen. He is able to monetize his silliness by responding the way people would at least expect a multi-billionaire to do. It isn’t fodder it’s genius.

Maybe sadly and maybe proudly if Cuban can’t unearth his next toy, he doesn’t invent it, hire someone to find it, he instead creates an industry, no an entire marketplace for it. Last year he innovated a website www.sharesleuth.com to nail CEO’s for their ill-mannered ethics, my hypothesis is so he could make more money off their malaise, proceeding to short their stocks… it all sounded so lovely. He makes O’Reilly look like a timid pussycat with blog headings such as, “The Stock Market is for Suckers.”

Serious journalists and equity boys are still haughty toward Cuban’s unpredictable and often precocious ways. But regardless of how staunch and boring their Brooks Brothers ways might be, they cannot make the argument that Cuban isn’t a sparkling personality, a mensa in the media world, or doesn’t make large monetary contributions to the community. And while he might irk the LA Lakers, Cuban has handed America something more than High-def TV or a good laugh. Whether his playfulness is benign or a disenchanting echo from our unregulated past....

Cuban has reminded us that the only rulebook we're really restrained to, is our own.