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
Boring Women Have Clean Houses
A guy who I recently dated confessed to me once, “My mother always told me – Only BORING women have clean houses.”
Imagine my inner glee upon hearing these profound words. I secretly prayed, “Thank you Baby Jesus, someone finally understands me.”
I guess deep down – his point was…”Why clean your house when you can spend time having fun?”
Not that I’m a slob…far from it. But let’s just say…there’s mucho more important things in my life than working hard to shine the bathroom toilet with my old Oral B. Hhhmmm…things LIKE: working at my job, working on my inner self, working on my outer self (specifically butt and legs), working to find the cheapest happy hours in town, working to find the most available men in town, working to make new friends, working to keep the old ones, working on that promotion, working to eat healthy, working on my snow skiing form, working to stay mentally fit, working to stay emtionally sound, working on my blog, working to spend money, working on saving money, working to keep my parents happy, working to keep my pets content….
Oh my goodness…I’m exhausted just typing all that crap. (And I’m only a SINGLE person!) How do you married peeps with kids keep your own show running and on the air?
Somedays I have NO idea how I juggle everything. Then I glance around and see the growing “volcano” of clothes on my bedroom chair, the “tumbleweed” of dog hair rolling through the hallway, and the stacks of recycling resembling a Jenga puzzle. And I haven’t even mentioned the laundry that’s been stashed in the dryer for nine days….(did I even turn ON the dryer??)
Good lord…how did I get so busy? It snuck up on my quicker than my 30s. I forgot I’m supposed to be superwoman….work full-time, scrub like Mr. Clean, then throw on a pair of heels, and appear mesmerizing to my “date of the night.”
In an effort to maximize time, women, including my girlfriends, have tried everything to accomplish the following mantra — “I need an orderly house to live an orderly life.” My friend Lacey planned her life for awhile using an excel spreadsheet – with color coding! I decided to toss that idea considering I would have to “work” on my excel skills before take-off, thus sucking away more valuable minutes.
Another galfriend, Suzanna, bought the Roomba robot vacuum. She left work hoping for a mini daytime miracle. Ended up, Roomba was taking breaks on the job, and could barely suck anything up. Roomba ended up in the next garage sale – looking for a new mommy.
And then there’s me. Six months ago, I decided to have groceries delivered to my front door on a regular basis. Every Friday morning, the milk man from Royal Crest Dairy (just like in Leave it to Beaver) leaves me fresh milk, butter, and eggs on my porch. And every other Wednesday, courtesy of Door to Door Organics, I arrive home to find a box of yummy organic fruits and veggies waiting to take shelter in my fridge. I’m not high maintenance…I’m simply trying to maintain my sanity as a professional 30-somethin’ single gal.
Gone are my days of spending hours at Safeway, cruising the aisles – only to lug milk jugs, egg cartons, and 40-ton bags of apples to the car in 10 degree temperatures. (You’ve been there.) Distant are my days of balancing five plastic bags at once while grasping house keys, struggling up two flights of stairs, and talking on my cell phone. (Sound familiar?)
So how much time does this save?? I estimate at LEAST three hours a week. And my grocery bill remains the same. It’s a win-win for moi-moi….a godsend at times – especially when I work late or “play late.”
So…what do I do with that “saved time?” Hmmm……good question.
Well, when push comes to shove….I sure as heck don’t use it to push a vacuum. What fun would that be?
Ski First, Date Later?
This weekend, I am faced with a potentially catastrophic dating decision:
A. Ski two days in the beautiful Rocky Mountains with separate groups of friends
- OR -
B. Go out with a hot guy on Saturday night
To you “non-snow skiers” out there….go ahead and QUIT reading this post. You won’t get it. You’ll probably think I’m TOO fickle, finicky, or fanatical. I’m over it, OK?
That's moi!
“Why can’t you do both?” you may ask… Well, the answer – it’s simple. This particular hot date DOESN’T ski or snowboard. (I desperately wish he did.) So, I am left leaving to choose….Powder-time – OR – Play-time? Hmmm….which one will make me happier?
Some backstory here before you start judging: During the week, I work in a “bomb shelter” – filled to the brim with video editing equipment, exciting gray cubes, flattering florescent lights, and glossy computer monitors. I love my job, but let’s BE REAL people! I’m aching for sunlight, gusty winds, the smell of sunblock on my face, and the taste of an “apres ski” beer on my lips. I need a revival. Especially after the last three weeks of never-getting-a-lunch-break-because-I’ve-been-so-damn-busy-trying-to-prove-myself. Phew…
My nail-biting dilemma may sound trite….but it begs the bigger question — As we get older, WHAT are we willing to give up? What are we willing to COMPROMISE? I’m realizing as we hit our mid-30s – NOT MUCH. Is this good or bad? I don’t know.
What I DO know…the thought of forking over my coveted powder-filled Saturday and Sunday for a man-date – leaves me deflated and dull. I’d rather choose the sure bet to happiness. I moved to Colorado to ski – it’s one of my passions. And I refuse to toss it aside for a make-out session and dinner (although that’s enticing.)
With snow skiing – I feel fulfilled, on top of the world – escapism at its best.
Going on a date – I could end up unfulfilled, at the bottom of the barrel, secretly wanting to escape. Argh…
In the meantime…I’m counting down the hours til I load my gear, head west, and anticipate that first jaunt off the lift.
Yes, I know Valentine’s Day is two weeks away… I know 40 is roughly five years away… But for now, I’m choosing the mini-vacation over THE GUY.
My hopes – someday I won’t have to compromise. Someday I can choose “C” and get “All of the above.”
It’s a Small Match.com World After All
Watch out where you meet your Match.com dates in Denver! Recently, I found myself in quite a pickle at the Wash Park Tavern. Thursday nights, this place is crawling with match.com-ers. Heck, next time this girl’s gonna demand an online daters’ drink special…
***********************************
Girl rushes into a crowded bar…running seven minutes late. Looks for 6’5” match.com “never-met-this-dude” date of the night.
Randomly spots attractive guy who looks vaguely familiar sitting at bar, alone, as if expecting someone. He makes eye contact, smiles, stands, and starts strutting toward her.
Girl suffers mini heart attack as she racks her blonde brain – questioning WHO she is supposed to meet this current evening. Guy A, Guy B…or Z?? Her high-heeled feet freeze.
In about a millisecond, she recognizes “random man approaching her” based on a computer screen photo. She struggles…
Starts hyperventilating as she realizes she has communicated with this guy virtually, but never in person, nor over the phone. Scans around..searching for her “real date of the night” because this guy is clearly SOMEONE ELSE’S first date of the night. Takes a deep breath.
Guy walks up and suavely says….”Hi Christy!” Girl smiles, in shock, then replies…”Noooooooo, I’m Leaza.” Dude’s face flip-flops, sensing his faux-pas. She then gives him a cat-like “knowing” look and murmurs, “But you DO know me.”
Guy quickly realizes this “damsel in distress” is one of his OTHER online blondies from his giant match.com virtual dating posse. But NOT his soiree for tonight. He flashes back to her profile pics, as they stare into each other’s eyes, knowing this could turn awkward QUICKLY for all four parties involved.
The duo does not speak, but somehow telepathically communicates the plan: Exit the scene graceful before anyone gets hurt – or humiliation takes over. More importantly – BEFORE THE “REAL DATES” CATCH ON.
Girl turns 90 degrees and spots her 6’5” “present date” approaching…looks back at “future date”…then laughs as if catching up with an old friend, “It was great seeing you. Let’s talk soon.”
Guy smiles and says, “Definitely. How about next week?” Girl spins on her heel, relishing in their Academy Award winning performances. She slyly greets 6’5’ Guy, but can’t keep her mind off Future Guy. She knows he will email her later that night.
Seven minutes later a gal named Christy rushes in…
TO BE CONTINUED….
On Match.com...it's a SMALL world!!! (especially at the bars)
Announcing my 1040 EZ Dating Questionnaire
In honor of tax season, I developed my own 1040 EZ Dating Questionnaire for all potential man-dates. I’ve decided this tax time – it’s time to cut to the chase with Denver men…Uncle Sams included. I want to know up front – how many deductions I may face in the future.
My plan: to utilize the EZ form to weed out potential players, married dudes, and average losers…in the hopes of someday filing JOINTLY before I turn 40. The 1040 Long Form is in the works, but for now I’m relying on this EZ method for some BIG returns.
So far my questions for prospects “out on the town” include:
1. Are you really single…or are you just playing THAT in your dream tonight?
2. Is that your real hair? Is that your real hair color?
3. Do you have kids? If so…..do they behave?…….If not….do they live in another state?
4. Is your mother by any chance………..a mute?
5. Do the words “swiffer”…“dyson”…or “oxiclean” ring a bell? (R.I.P. Billy Mays)
6. How long have you been OFF the Kevin Federline “Pizza, Pot, and Beer” diet?
7. Can you please empty your pockets? And while you’re at it, show me your driver’s license, divorce decree, current proof of medical insurance, and Banana Republic credit card.
8. Do you know how to boil an egg? What about water?
9. Are you currently using an anti-wrinkle daily moisturizer with SPF 30? (cuz lets face it, you’re closer to 40 than I am.)
10. You do know that unibrows will NEVER be in style, right? RIGHT?
And for the bonus round…
*When is the last time you cleaned your bathtub? (Please provide date and approximate scrubbing duration time.)
*This post was absolutely NOT brought to you by TurboTax, H and R Block, or Just for Men.
Advice to ManLand: Dance More, Talk More, Text Less
After years of dating – and endless hours dishin’ with girlfriends – I’m entitled to write: 5 Rockin’ Rules…that prove…Chivalry will get you LUCKY!
As promised…Rules 2 through 5 for my ManLand friends…
5. Dude, if you are lounging at a bar – with a dance floor in sight – get your butt to the dance floor with the same intensity AS IF you were evacuating an exploding plane. There’s a steadfast decree about a dance floor: Women quickly turn sour if they WANT to dance…and you DON’T. If you’re gun-shy…fake it. But know the caveats: You don’t need to dance to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” We’re blissfully happy grinding with our girl posse in a gi-normous circle in that scenario. BUT….please grab us immediately if you hear a slow ballad that takes you back to 9th grade, or anything we “made out to” in 12th grade. Bonus points for “Purple Rain,” Patrick Swayze’s “She’s Like the Wind,” or “Every Rose has its Thorn.” If you’re embarrassed dancing in front of your guy buddies, think of all the action you will get later that night…while they go home and watch 10 repeats of Sportscenter ALONE. Continue to think about more kisses in the morning, perhaps a homemade breakfast…some fresh brewed coffee…mmm…while your dufus friends sleep in, overdose on tylenol, and stumble to 7-11. Aaaahhhhh…the benefits of simply dancing versus standing in the corner.
4. If your lady’s relatives pop into town, insist you meet and greet…then buy a drink for them. You don’t have to play “tour guide,” but offer to meet them pre-dinner or post. ASK QUESTIONS. Act interested. Even if you think they’re psycho. Chances are – they are psycho…but so are your parents – so it’s an even game. Just think…Your woman will smack good stuff about you in the ladies’ restroom (to mom or sis) within the first 10 minutes of your entrance…(That’s golden!) If her relatives don’t drink…disregard this paragraph and make sure you hide your vodka in the freezer before they come over unexpectedly. Since I’m catholic, I have no idea how to survive in a non-alcohol world. I guess you could take them to Baskin Robbins or Braums…
A Place called ManLand
3. TALK MORE….TEXT LESS. How old r u? R u an adult or r u 16??? Pick up your phone and leave an “old-fashioned” voicemail. Like way way waaaay back in the early 1990’s when you were forced to share the hallway phone with your sister. I know you have memories of stretching the coiled phone cord into your room, closing your bedroom door, and praying for privacy while wearing your parachute pants. Think of it this way…When you were 18 or 21, you actually had the real b@!!$ to pick up that mustard-yellow rotary phone – give your index finger a work-out – and ask a girl out using actual nouns, verbs, and adjectives. Bottom line: Feel free to text us from time to time…but always….TALK FIRST…TEXT LATER. Especially if you’re – A: Asking us out – or – B: Giving us the boot.
2. If you sleep with a woman – get mostly naked with her – or she somehow ends up in your/her bed – under the covers – on top of the covers – with the majority of her clothes off/on — CALL HER THE NEXT DAY. I don’t care if you’re skydiving in the Grand Canyon – or attending Aunt Betty’s funeral in Indiana, get your butt to a cell phone tower while praying to the cellular gods for good reception….BUT ALWAYS CALL THE NEXT DAY. Simply think of this as insurance for your next hot date with the gal. In other words, this is prep-work for your upcoming nighttime soiree. Women today will not put up with your bullcrap. And in Denver, there’s always another dude around the corner.
1. And to recap from a previous post: Pay the check! Dive for it like a seagull attacking leftover chips and queso on a mexican beach. In today’s world, women are stuck with childbirth, PMS, and periods. Be happy you’re only stuck with the check.
To Nose or Not to Nose? That is the Question
Burning the midnight match.com oil late one evening (while perusing through emails)…I found myself corresponding with a single, tall, active fellow. The Denverite’s profile sounded promising – but his pictures – a bit blurry and distorted. Hmmm. Trying not to be TOO alarmed (or critical), my eyes strained as I noticed his hot, attractive body coupled with what appeared to be – OH NO – a disproportionate nose. Staring at my computer monitor a full 5 minutes, I had a decision to make – “chance it,” – or “pass” – and leave the possibility of meeting the big-nosed “man of my dreams” to the next blonde. I chose the former.
During the obligatory “weed-out” phone call, Mr. Nose divulged to me he was an FBI agent. Impressed, I hoped his big nose did not equate to a big ego. I remained open minded and we agreed to meet at a bar in Commons Park. Giving myself a pep talk I reasoned, “A nose is just a nose, right? It doesn’t make us or break us. And maybe those pictures were taken at a weird angle by a REALLY BAD photographer?!”
Date night arrived. I sauntered into the bar, and scanned the crowd, figuring he would be easy to spot. And as I turned my head, checking out the other “first daters,” I found myself eye to eye AND nose to nose with “FBI Guy.”
For the next two hours, he entertained me with details of bank robberies, drug busts, and search warrants. I, however, couldn’t focus on anything BUT his nose – aching to hear stories about how many times he broke his snozzle. I started an internal dialogue with myself, “To Nose or Not to Nose?” – followed by – “Is THAT thing genetic?” – and rounding it out – “It’s worse than Owen Wilson’s nose!”
As the night progressed – and I emptied my wine glass a few times over, FBI Guy’s nose appeared to be….shrinking. A reverse Pinocchio effect – induced by the alcohol. Maybe there was a way to cope! We agreed to meet again…and I secretly challenged myself to GET PAST THE NOSE.
The next day at work, I spent 3 hours obsessively googling pictures of Owen Wilson’s nose, convincing myself I could overcome this obstacle. After all, Owen Wilson was a mega superstar who dated Jennifer Aniston. If she could get over the “nose,” why couldn’t I? What were her tricks of the trade? I secretly wished I could call her.
As our next date approached, I prayed….”Maybe the nose won’t seem so bad the second time…”
I, my friends, was wrong. As FBI Guy and I sat in the “nosebleed” section of the Pepsi Center, I realized THIS match was not going anywhere. If I heard one more first-hand account of handcuffing a criminal, I would go postal myself on this guy – including his nose. Plus, I certainly didn’t appreciate him interrogating me over past relationships.
While his nose was not growing, his FBI attitude WAS. And I felt perfectly fine to let this future relationship fizzle.
