Taking a Brief Hiatus…
…While recovering from allergy attacks, hectic work schedules, and too many peeps in the kitchen! Be back shortly….I promise. (within a few days)
He’s Cute, But Not TOO Cute
Imagine my excitement when I strolled into my much anticipated ”latest” and sometimes “not-so-greatest” eHarmony date…saw my date “in the flesh” for the first time…and gleefully exclaimed to myself, “Yeah!…he’s cute, but not TOO cute.”
Let me set the scene: Running a fashionable seven minutes late (standard for Leaza)…dressed in my fave jeans…I waltzed into a Cherry Creek bar having NO expectations. (That’s a hard and fast rule in online dating..have NO expectations. That way if the guy is a dud…you can avoid devastation in advance.)
Anywho…..As I sauntered into the english pub and spotted “the guy” sitting at the bar, I delightfully discovered that while he was indeed “attractive,” Matthew McConaughey – he wasn’t. And THIS just made him more appealing. He was “cute,” but not TOO cute. In fact, while I thought he was cute, some of my friends would probably turn their cheeks. And I was OK with that.
I’ve learned the hard way that, yes, even in your mid-30s, hot players still exist. And embarrassingly enough, I’ve shed a few tears over certain assholes…in private and in public. You would think men would eventually outgrow the “playa syndrome,” but poll my single girlfriends and they’ll proclaim in unison the epidemic still lives. Typically the men carrying the strongest strain of this virus – are the ones EASY on the eyes…and HARD on the heart. They LURE you in with their handsome looks, and somehow you think, “Maybe he’s different?” But….he’s not. The lesson doesn’t seem to stick.
Sure, sure sure….appearance counts in the dating world. I mean who doesn’t want a hot guy to drool over? (Especially one who still takes center stage wearing a ratty shirt with a 5 o’clock shadow…) But my strategy is changing. Today, I’m focusing on overall health and physique. I call it the “gut check.” Is this guy going to have a large gut when he’s 40, 50, or 60? If the answer is yes, yes, and yes…usually my response to “wanna go out again?”…is No, NO, and NEVER. Not that I’m really opposed to certain guts….instead I’m more opposed to the “end result” of big guts: heart attacks, couch potatoes, an endless supply of Cheetos, and acquiring a large gut myself (since I’ll clearly be living an unhealthy lifestyle if I end up with this “type.”)
Also, in Denver…dudes have NO reason NOT to be in shape. You can ski, hike, or cycle almost any day of the year. If I’m out busting my ass to look good, why can’t these single guys bust theirs? Of course I’m not expecting my “Mr. Right” to mimic Lance Armstrong or David Beckham…but please don’t turn into Archie Bunker.
So in simple terms…I’m an “anti-gut” kind of girl. I don’t “do guts.” That’s my dating deal breaker for 2010.
By the way, I’m “cute”…but definitely not too cute………..this guy however, NOT SO CUTE!!
NO GUTS ALLOWED!!!!!
Exhausted from Pimpin’ Myself Out
You’ve heard the expression, “searching for a job…is like a full-time job.” Well, lately I‘ve been thinking, “searching for a man is like an overtime job with no benefits.” (free dinners don’t count)
I represent the NEW type of woman in this decade….the frazzled 30-year old single woman, able to single-handedly work full-time, drive home like a crazy woman dodging police officers, catch up on obligatory family phone calls, scarf down some food, walk the dog….then transform myself from working gal to “may get lucky” girl.
Oh, the agony. And the exhaustion. Truth be told, I’m tired of pimpin’ myself out in the name of dating! It’s time for someone else to wear high heels for a change.
First — the prep work. I “ain’t” no cover girl…but come on…this “beautification process” requires time and energy!….At least 30 dedicated minutes — of me juggling a flat iron, bronzer, hairspray, my latest and greatest makeup from Sephora…and I haven’t even opened my closet door YET. And let’s not forget about the times when I forget to re-apply deodorant…and find myself driving back home…wasting another precious seven minutes, then realizing I misplaced my earrings. I swear, if I could take all the hours I have “prepped” for dates, I could have conquered the Boston marathon by now.
Second — the date. For those of you NOT dating, imagine a never-ending sales call…with rotating characters. My friend Miranda decided to take a break from dating on the grounds of…“I can’t tell my life story AGAIN to anyone else!” I get it. It’s exhausting rehashing my past…again and again. I start repeating myself…as my eyes glaze over…losing track of WHAT I’ve said…and to WHO. There’s a popular expression, “everyone has a story.” Well, I’m pretty sick of sharing mine. Unlike a children’s book, I can’t keep reading my story over and over. If I have to “tell my story” one more time, I may just start making crap up and and call it a novella.
I’ve thought about making a flow chart – or a power point presentation – complete with the U.S. map and important decades. Perhaps a whopping big timeline to pass out to my dates? I can note “life stages” in green, “ex-boyfriends” in red, and “career highlights” in orange. Instead of looking at the menu, my date can just read my timeline. If he’s interested, he can stick around – if not – I won’t have to waste 1.5 hours making giddy yet intelligent small-talk.
And third — the goodbye. This is the MOST mentally exhausting part of the evening. I’m standing at a fork in the road. I either – A. Obsess about HOW to blow the guy off quickly and painlessly while running to my car – OR – B. Anxiously wonder if he will ask me out again – because he fulfills 9 out of my 10 requirements and I secretly dig him. Such pressure either way!
Then the cycle starts ALL OVER — as soon as the next evening. Ouch. It gets worse when you realize you only have 6 hours of shut-eye to prepare.
Yes, I know dating is a “numbers game.” But eventually, I’ll start billing my dates for overtime. All this “pimpin myself out” is costly and timely. And unfortunately, refunds don’t exist.
Well, gotta run and go plug in my curlers… only 45 minutes til my suitor arrives…and I still have to vacuum and floss.
After a night of "pimpin myself out"
Profile Pic Pitfalls…What NEVER to Post Online!
Often times, we only have one shot to make a good impression. Whether it’s in person – OR in the virtual world of online dating. It’s human nature to quickly judge based on appearance. We can’t fight it…nor can we hide it.
And truth be told, I am BEFUDDLED after perusing the pictures some Denver men choose for their online dating profiles. It’s as if their buddies secretly logged in to their eharmony and match.com accounts and played a cruel joke…posting a plethora of the WORST, most dorky, unflattering mug shots…borderline…blackmail material.
Some of my favorite RECENT “jaw-on-floor” findings include:
10. guy riding a donkey wearing a white “wife beater” circa 1992 (I felt sorry for the donkey and almost called PETA.)
9. smiling dude sitting in monster truck with gun rack mounted right behind his head (I bet you voted for Obama, right?)
8. anything that looks like it came from “Glamour Shots” in the mall! (Does that place even exist anymore?)
7. guy surrounded by his nieces and nephews to illustrate he “likes kids” (No, really you just look creepy.)
6. man dancing at a wedding with his poor date’s eyes “blacked out” (As if that conceals your ex-girlfriend’s or ex-wife’s identity)
5. guy wearing an earring of any sort! (Soooo Kirk Cameron and “Charles in Charge!”)
4. shirtless man covered in face and body paint standing outside Invesco Field displaying Bronco pride (You need to head to the gym after the game. And that wig isn’t helping either.)
3. dude dressed up as woman for “Halloween” (Which team are you batting on here?)
2. guy wearing spandex (ONLY acceptable if you’re on a bike!)
And the BEST/WORST of all:
1. man dressed in camouflage proudly holding up the deer he just shot and killed with his buddies (This isn’t the NRA website mister.)
It’s scary to think these photos represent the “best” these men have to offer. If these are the “good pictures,” what about the “bad ones?”
Yep, the old saying goes, “a picture is worth a thousand words.” In this case, though, I’m downright speechless. Mum’s the word.
What’s with the Foreign Accent? Because, I Really Want to Hear More.
I’m a sucker for foreign accents. Especially if the accent is coming from the lips of an attractive male, relatively close to my age, and clearly single. Ooo-la-la. Throw in proof of dual citizenship, a Denver address, plus a full head of hair…and this american kitten is smitten!
I admit I have dated a handful of foreign men. “Nic” was my first foreign love – an adorable German fighter pilot who I met early in my journalism career. Distance ended the relationship, but I felt lucky living up my own version of “Top Gun.”
No…I don’t go for the “dark and handsome” latin-lover look. (I’m tooo pasty white for those sun-worshipping types!) Instead, I prefer the slender European man, outfitted with refined stature, and topped off with “oh-so-sexy” high cheekbones. Yes, we would make beautiful children. The kind who end up in the J.Crew catalogue. Happy sigh. Or plastered on a Target billboard. Double sigh.
So imagine my delight when I bumped into a “certain someone” last week at sultry Second Home (lounge bar), in Denver. I had JUST put my coat on…about to exit the dark premises…when I caught a fixed sexy glance from a tall, classy looking guy. Instead of looking away like a schoolgirl, I stared right back, waited a few seconds, then sauntered over with purpose. I would either float – or sink- and I was willing to take my chances. After all, when you’re searching for Mr. Right, who cares if you get blown off by multiple Mr. Wrongs? (Having two strong cocktails certainly didn’t hurt either.)
He saw me coming and smiled. I then busted into his mini circle of men, and bravely said, “Heeeelllo…” Noticing my coat, he teased, “You’re not leaving already, are you?” I stopped in my tracks as his words floated out of his mouth, MESMERIZED by his “I’m clearly not from the U.S.A.” accent. Aahhh…my international man of leisure…right here in good ole Denver.
It only took me about .3 of a second to whip OFF my jacket and come face to face with Mr. International Man. Conversation ensued and he divulged in his syrupy accent, “I’m originally from Belgium, but I’ve lived in the states for 19 years. I live and work in Denver.”
Yes ladies, I love Belgian beer, and crave Belgian chocolates. But hands down, I could easily adore and get addicted to a Belgian boyfriend!
As we continued chatting, I became oblivious to his work colleagues – he became oblivious to my girlfriends. I was giggling – he was laughing…when out of the blue he asked, “So when do you want to go snow skiing?”
Those words, my friends – MUSIC TO MY EARS. Not just the accent part, but the “skiing” part.
He grabbed his phone, plugged in my digits, and it was a painless “done deal.” Looking over my shoulder, I noticed my galfriends…aka…loyal wingwomen…sprawled on a couch, bundled in their jackets, clearly ready to leave the bar since it was almost midnight on a school night. Miranda jumped up, walked over to Belgian Boy, then put him on the spot, “So, did you get her phone number?” He looked somewhat started by her directness, then answered, “Yes.” She looked at me and stated, “Good to know. Now Leaza, it’s time to go.”
As I followed Celeste and Miranda to our car, I smiled…replaying THAT sexy accent over and over in my blond brain. Maybe he thought my somewhat southern accent was hot in return? Hmmmm….Doubtful…but hopeful.
Later that night, I wondered….What if Belgian Boy was NOT from Belgium? What if he was from Chicago? Or hailed from someplace like Des Moines? Would I like him as MUCH “sans” the accent? Would I still be intrigued? Did his accent provide an advantage over american men??
Truth be told….I probably wouldn’t be AS smitten.
I look at it this way – a foreign accent is kind of like bubbles in a bubble bath. (Dudes, quit reading now.) Sure, you love a hot soak when you’re feeling tired or depressed….but add some bubbles, and suddenly things turn tastefully more fun.
Body Shop, anyone?? And don’t forget the Chimay.
******************************************
In case you’re wondering….Belgian Boy did call. And he’s a darn good skier….
I'll take a Belgian Man over a Belgian Beer!
Blessed with BFFs…not the Boy Kind
Last night, my date of the night exclaimed, “Wow, you have a lot of single friends.”
Yep, I do…and I covet every single one of them…the ones who live close, the ladies who I’ve left behind, and the ones I haven’t met – YET.
Before you criticize me for using a childish acronym to describe my divas in crime…consider this…My BFFs give me the courage to survive my PMS, my mom’s incurable MS, my stepmom’s OCD, my dad’s BADH (beating a dead horse), my younger brothers’ BS, and any and all dudes MIA or AWOL.
Where would I be without my girlfriends, AKA, surrogate sisters? Hmm…probably with a double muffin top, borderline insane, and watching infomercials on Saturday night. Lovely.
Finding all these lovely gals WASN”T easy. Making new SINGLE girlfriends in your 30s is similar to dating. You catapult yourself into a million activities, pimp yourself out in stylish clothes, make fun conversation – and pray you stick to someone else – or that she finds you completely hysterical and begs for your number.
In your 30s, it’s tough. Women are exhausted with their careers, family commitments, appearances at one-year old birthday parties (SNORE), work-out schedules (UGH), and oh yeah – DATING. And just like dating, sometimes you click – and sometimes you don’t. And there doesn’t seem to be a formula for either.
Last summer, when I moved to Denver, I found myself on the prowl for single galfriends. Like many Denver newbies, I joined meetup.com and bravely sauntered into several hiking, social, and outdoor groups. BINGO! When I showed up to my first event, I met about a dozen women just like me — lasses who dreamed of living and working in Colorado – and who followed their dream out west. Within a month, I met my “long term lady matches” – Miranda and Celeste. We often laugh that a last minute Friday night happy hour at Lola’s – turned into “our first official date.”
For some random reason, the three of us just mesh. We’re NOT the same, we’re actually somewhat different. As the “Triple Trifecta Act.” we work the bars with ease and prowess. I’m the tall, all-american blonde…Miranda is the demure, outdoorsy, and cute brunette…and Celeste is the petite, flirtatious Filipino. Truth be told, I’m not usually attracted to stylish, designer-obsessed men from California, but for some reason Celeste melts my heart with her diva demands and hysterical sentiments. And though I’m determined to find a “man” who snow skis like moi, I’m perfectly content Miranda prefers snowshoeing and is currently counting down the days til summer activities.
It boils down to this…Celeste, Miranda, and I share a similar social spirit. Just like the moon, we can wax and wane, and tremendously whine to each other in between. Kinda like comfort food…minus the calories.
The Trifecta!
As MUCH as we single ladies complain (hem and haw) about NOT having a man…I prefer to look at it this way….what a wonderful window in our lives! I don’t want it to shut…god forbid…anytime soon. While many married people consider their spouses “their best friends,” I have the privilege of calling several women in my life – my best friends. Some I talk to every day, some only every few months, some not enough at all. But, ladies, you know who you are – and I’m guarding your tall tales til the final hurrah.
Someday when I’m a granny, my mind will flash back to my (as we call it in TV) “sizzle reel.” I’ll remember searching for the elusive “black taco” for two hours straight, the pub crawls where we crawled nowhere but home, living it up on sorority homeowners’ row, partying on a country band’s tour bus, dancing on stages, the occasional cat fight and ubiquitous bitch sessions, wearing each other’s clothes, and laughing and crying within the same five minute span.
I’ll sit in my rocker….LMAO and think OMG…what a ride. Pour me another cranberry and vodka. And don’t H2O it down.
An Oldie...but Goodie...
If you like this post, share it with someone special… (And to my married friends…your post is coming soon.)
Man…..I need a Manfriend!
Not to date, NOT to potentially diss, but to befriend…
Consider my recent smackdown with my girlfriends this past week. I lectured, “You know what, we need guy friends! Enough of this dating crap, let’s just try and be friends first.”
They looked at me as if I said, “For lent, I‘m giving up moisturizer and lip gloss!”
Here’s the skinny…I’m sick of “yaying” or “naying” someone after a one-hour date. Sure, sometimes I immediately sense disaster – or – delight. But 50% of the time I simply classify the date as a cross between “dull” and “not-so-dull….” Then like clockwork, the cartoon cloud over my head pops up with that oh-so-familiar conversation. “Do I like him? Well, he was nice ENOUGH. Should I text him back? He looked weird in that shirt. Maybe he didn’t know he had food in his teeth? I think he’s too old. Maybe it was the lighting?”
I’ve decided DIFFICULT is the nice “alternative” 4 letter word for dating in your 30s. We don’t live in the la-la land of single people anymore. We’re the minority – at the office -at the gym – and definitely at church. Gone are the days of living in a town called Singledom (filled with rampant 20 something yr-olds) where 100% of the population is…..SINGLE and available. It used to be EASY to get to know guys through college courses, friends, groups, the bars – because you saw those peeps on a regular basis and grasped their personalities. You also witnessed them at their worst – and best – and in the end, some grew on you – and some didn’t. Nowadays – we’re just forced to sit and stare at someone for one hour – then judge. And I hate that.
So hence my recent belated New Year’s resolution to make more “guy friends” in 2010. Maybe we can be friends first, and something else later? But not until much later. (Like maybe when I know you’re not a psycho) This brings up the old When Harry Met Sally question….”Can men and women be friends without the sex part getting in the way???” Hmmm… Personally, I think men and women CAN be friends — with both parties thinking about shacking up — but it never really happening. For instance, late one night, I was sharing a cab ride home with one of my guyfriends after drinking a few tooooo many brewskies. Out of nowhere my friend Sam deviously whispered, “Come on…come home with me. No one ever has to know.” (Yeah, no one except me!! I thought) I quickly threw some money at the cab driver…and giggled myself to sleep that night…flattered, but happy I hopped out of the cab pronto.
On the flip side, often “manfriends” transform into great boyfriends. The sparks fly because you’re already comfortable with that person. You’ve already accepted their baggage, and they’ve hopefully forgotten yours. But once you blur the line of intimacy…it’s hard to erase history. The switcharoo usually ends fairly simple – in marriage – or heartbreak. And things are just never the same.
Overall, guy friends remind me good guys STILL exist. We need them – just like they need us. I need a man to tell me I look smashing every now and then. And they need us – to tell them what to buy at Banana Republic – and oh-my-goodness…get rid of that friggin’ unibrow!!
So yes, if I tell you, “Let’s just be friends…” I really mean it…especially in the next few months. And I don’t mean the booty call kind.
Signed,
wingwoman searching for attractive wingman
Finding “7 Minutes of Heaven” in “8 Minutes of Speed Dating”
In an effort to sniff out Mr. Right…I decided to travel where I’d probably meet a lot of Mr. Wrongs…at least initially. So this past week, armed with a sense of humor and a vodka-induced fearless attitude, I walked into an 8 Minute Speed Dating Event. (By the way, they are NOT paying me to write this. If so, they’d demand a big-honkin’ refund.)
As I signed in as a first-timer at “Sushi Hai” (posh joint in the Highlands neighborhood) I felt as if I stepped back in time – TO JUNIOR HIGH. The ladies were clustered in a corner, talking up a storm as “chatty-cathys,” while the dudes lined up against the back wall, only saying max-three-word sentences while scoping out possible ladies-of-the-night. (Think 16 Candles.) Both groups clutched their alcoholic beverage with purpose and charm.
To share the love, I bullied my attractive 42-year-old neighbor, Paul, into escorting me. While he had his eyes peeled for 25 yr olds who looked hot, my eyes were open for 37 yr olds who appeared stable.
To those of you – A. living under a rock – or – B. the lucky few who have been married for DECADES – speed dating works like this: I show up and have a random lady slap a name tag on my shirt. I am then graced with a card containing 8 table numbers. I find my first table and wait for one “lucky” guy to strut toward me. Feeling like a muppet, I then make giddy-yet-highly-intelligent conversation for 8 minutes until I hear a bell. (In most cases – should have been a gong.) Then – this adult musical chair extravaganza recycles with another lad. In between dates, I secretly take notes on each candidate, so I can enter my matches online later that night.
Soooo….how was it? Let me introduce the contenders:
First guy was most likely a lumberjack in his previous life – based on his wardrobe that somehow traveled though time.
Second lad wore a long, black, thick Matrix-like jacket. He told me he JUST moved to Denver from Phoenix so he was “entitled” to be cold. I felt I was “entitled” to get my 8 minutes back. He never asked me ONE personal question – instead he kept insisting I go “clubbing” with him.
Third dude I spotted wearing cowboy boots. I assumed he was from Texas. He wasn’t. Instead – he lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming – and traveled two hours to Denver for 8 Minute Speed Dating! When I pulled my jaw up off the floor, I noticed his name was Axle. Sweet Child of Mine, you drove all this way?
The rest of the guys were honestly – ho-hum. However, during intermission I spotted two men (in the other group) who appeared yum-yum. I could have stood back and waited, but realizing I only had moments to make my move, I walked up and said “hi” in my sassy southern accent. Conversation ensued, and I breathed a sigh of relief knowing I finally felt some sparks.
Overall – in hindsight, I made a mistake. When I signed up, I asked the organizer what group to choose – ages 25 though 35 – OR – ages 36 through 49? Being right on the “cusp,” she told me to go younger. But I realized throughout the night, the men “my age” - were in the older group. I would rather filter through a few dud 45 yr olds – in hopes of crossing paths with available 36 yr olds. Aahhh…lessons learned.
Would I do 8 Minute Speed Dating again? You bet! After all, I like roulette. The game produced two matches, so I feel like a winner.
And for those of you who question the concept…think about it this way — We often give a “bad date” 60 painful minutes – why not play the odds and give a POSSIBLE good one 8?
FYI: My neighbor Paul did not find the 25 yr old woman of his dreams…but he did leave with the bartender’s number. I think that counts. 
In Hibernation until February 15th
Using “National Singles Awareness” weekend to catch up on my beauty sleep….(while snowshoeing, snow skiing, and generally pimpin’ myself out!)
Back to the Relationship Drawing Board Again…Where’s My Eraser?
Once again (ironically a week before Valentine’s Day), I find myself – back at the drawing board.
I recently ended something…with a certain someone. He’s in transition – most likely moving – and we differ on religion. The Titantic-Tanking Trifecta. He never did anything wrong. There’s just…not enough that’s right. Tough call, but one I had to make.
You’ve been there…let me painfully yet humorously paint the picture.
After investing your lucrative time, wasting youth-filled energy, spending an enormous amount of money, dreaming about future children, cooking Martha Stewart homemade dinners, splurging on weekly manicures, introducing him to best friends, posing for multiple facebook photos, coming up with cheese-o-rama nicknames for each other….you decide to call your “new” relationship QUITS.
In the mere matter of a millisecond, you squander all those COVETED HOURS and literally flush them, shred them, garbage dispose them, then chunk them into oblivion.
Pause.
Then it’s time to RALLY with your “big-girl-but-still-sexy-panties-on” and start this “time sucking cycle” all over again – spending time with a NEW dude. But first, you must FIND that person. Greeaaat….two uphill battles! Add to that the “breakup battle” you already fought…now you’re up to THREE whopping uphill battles….all for the name of luv.
No wonder so many of us wave the white flag in defeat.
After riding a similar roller coaster that ended badly, my friend Miranda recently confessed to me in state of panic mixed with hope, “If I could just take Frank’s sweetness, Jon’s job, Brad’s body, and Todd’s sense of humor…I could create the perfect man. He would be a masterpiece.”
Wait a minute ladies. Uhhh…This ain’t paint-by numbers! Men today are made of PERMANENT INK…permanent markers in fact. Think SHARPIE! At age 35, men are pretty much what-you-see-is-what-you-get. Forget about “adding on” or “subtracting.” Toss aside that “big-ass eraser” from 3rd grade, because you can’t delete his flaws…much less get rid of the deal breakers. “White Out” won’t work either – because ultimately you can’t conceal the truth. At this point, grab a highlighter and focus on the good stuff. OR (do like I did)…move on and go back to the drawing board….knowing your Mr. Picasso is wandering around aimlessly waiting for his artiste to stumble upon him in a bar, on match.com, or in the grocery store (yeah right).
Which is exactly where we started this conversation….
Yes, I would love to “etch a sketch” my perfect man…shake it up….and add more tantalizing characteristics. But let’s face it, this isn’t elementary school art class…this is LIFE…or rather what I make of it.
So, back to my easel one again. Pictionary anyone?
courtesy of this talented cartoonist
