Wednesday, December 28, 2011

The Deal Is, The Men In Denver Are Dead

The deal is, the men in Denver are dead.
Whitney said it right in Waiting to Exhale all the way back in
1995. Like the brilliance of this film, not much has changed. I have the
privilege (and I say this with a mouth full of sarcasm) to be a part of the
Denver dating scene. It’s far past tragedy. No matter how frequently one
visits various clubs, bars, events, churches, art shows or online adventures, Denver seems to be the meeting place of all things rooty-poot.

So I spent the last year on somewhat of an urban sabbatical. Kind of an outside look in for the single soul. I researched, interviewed and analyzed the plight of the single woman in a city such as The Mile High and I have uncovered some extremely disturbing information.

Apparently, I’m intimidating. I guess being: Educated, Attractive, Driven, Talented, Honest and Kind-Hearted
scares men off. You may be thinking, “She should add narcissistic to the list” but please remember this was a research project. I asked 20 of my closest male friends to describe me in a few words and this is what t
hey came up with.

When asked the negative, the majority responded, “you are
intimidating.” I sigh.

From what I have unfortunately unearthed, all of my positives are also
negatives. Now I’m no Scientist, but maybe the thin air has something to do with a decrease in testosterone?
Or maybe just maybe Colorado is a test site for Comedy Central?
Either way, I’m still single and its no laughing matter.
Ok, I’m laughing a little.

Snickering Spitefully. Denver is bad for relationships
but great for business. So I work.

I stepped away from my daily conundrum, I came to a life changing realization. I will no longer seek solice in any mediocre form. No need to settle because I'm simply bored. His first name Luke his last name Warm. I found myself reminded. How dare I find anger in the ticks of my own clock when God is the director of all time? TICK. He's headed this way even if he's somewhere well-dressed in the middle of Europe and walking. I believe there is a plan and I cannot adjust it. So I gather up on the super-soft blankets, re-up my Redbox selections and prepare for a long Winter. Its business as usual. Denver, I'm home.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Buddy Pass My Ass and Other Almosts

Happily ever after remains on hold while simply existing is more active than ever. I'm a master of patience and novice to fairytales. I would quickly bet all of my Monopoly dollars on the success of us but that doesn't pay the bills. I've never been fond of games. I'm more responsible these days. Can't really afford to put all my hand-painted eggs in one designer basket. Especially since I don't like eggs and Chanel doesn't have an Easter collection. I call myself a starving artist as I survive off a simple diet of your well-intended maybes and half-ass promises. Can't put that between 2 slices of bread. I'm drained from hoping, tired of wishing and completely spent on waiting for you to find a cure for your guarentees of tomorrow. Tomorrow might not come and the way things are going, neither will I.

(To Be Continued)

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Men Are Like Gum

Men are like gum, after awhile the lose their flavor and you just have to spit them out. I have a short attention span, this is a well known fact. But can I be blamed for the lack of talent in my current zip code? Dear God, I know I asked you to let me know when I'm wasting my time but this one didn't even make it through the warm season. Now, I will be forced to expose all wondering eyes to my amazing Summer dresses and he can only blame his boring self for their visual gift. He was fun in the beginning, but short term amusement has never been my thing. I avoid roller coasters and coffee with good reason. The effects are barely worth the experience and I am never left wanting more. He's a 7-Eleven caffeine low and Merry-Go-Round let down. Still, we took great pictures. He was what I can only describe as Fruit-Striped Gummy. Great in concept, but only a few minutes of  unbelievable sweetness. Sad part is, after the sucrose is gone, I'm chewing on the equivaent of Elmers glue. I sigh. At first bite, he was unbelievable. Career focused, polite, a beautiful mind, dedicated to family and a brilliantly dressed home body. *Sigh* Another one bites the dust. I find myself humming to every Adele ballad wondering if she dated him too. Dear God, I know I'm not supposed to question you, but she knows him, right? If not, how did she so accurately bellow out our short lived story track after amazingly brilliant track? I'm not really questioning you God, I'm just saying. Gum causes cavites. He gives me a heartache. Coffee gives me the shakes and Adele, well she dated him I'm almost sure. I'm not closing this door completely, but I'm hoping he dumps the rainy day tunes and gets a Black-Eyed Peaish dance hall hair up his syncronized swimming ass. Dump the ballads, grab on to the bass and dance with with me already! Life is short and my patience for adult foolishness is limited. Keep up or keep out.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Like OMG! To Be 14!- Watashi wa Amaya desu

I spoke to my niece today. I write about it because she's just way too cool and important to talk to me on most days. I'm honored because she's just nearly perfect. The girl most parents would want, I'm sure, but they don't know it until their perfect princess is on 16 & Pregnant or fist pumping with Snookie. So maybe she isn't the best student, but she is the coolest teenager I know and I know teenagers. I almost hate them. I'm 21ish (meaning nearly 30,) but I do remember middle school. I still know the days of begging for a hot pink thisorthat and begging to get acrylic nails. I remember sneaking out to get my eyebrows waxed and finding my way into rated "R" movies. I remember 14. It wasn't yesterday but only a couple days before that I begged Mom for a $125 pair of Nikes because so and so had them and some asky-kneed little boy so-and-so liked her because she dressed cool and I needed them. I didn't get the shoes. Amaya, she wouldn't want them. She wouldn't care about so-and-so or ashy-kneed little boy so-and-so. She likes candy and collects Japanese erasers. She wears t-shirts that have misprinted english words on them and rocks out to Hotel California. Urban Dictionary could read: She is the definition of cool. The Defeator of Bullies, the Daily Topic of Obnoxious Conversation and the Ultimate Everything that no one knows is the next best thing. They spend their days buried in "boyfriends" and reality show fashions while she is producing movie shorts for YouTube and re-writing the words of Lady GaGa. This kid is on to something! I am well aware she could possibly grow out of this so this is a tangible reminder of The Cool. A reminder when she faces heartbreak and her first "NO" from a lame Producer. Someone, on the other side of the world, thinks she is an inspiration. And as I look into my couture filled closet and decide which color to paint my nails, I miss her even more. A Friday night of self-reflection. She knows who she is and I'm still growing. We could all learn a little more from her. And Maybe, just maybe we should stop focusing on our sequinsed-covered lives and do the Amaya.

Watashi wa Amaya desu...

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Anti-Old Testament Happy Hour Love Bugs and the New Guy

One day I got tired and decided to listen to God. His voice is cool like mid-April and sounds similar to Louis Armstrong  in a What A Wonderful Worldy kind of way. After hearing all he had to say, I had questions. Not for him, I know better. But I needed a one on one with myself. WHY? Is the first question I had for me. Oh the years I could have saved! But they made for great stories. See God, he seems to know his stuff and yet, I tuned him out. How could I ignore a voice so great? All these years of trying answering everything for myself and then having the nerve to ask him why I kept ending up with such waste of timers. I pray more now. I'm obsessed with his baritone and I bet he sings to make lilies grow. Our relationship is more comedic which some might consider an anti-Old Testament of a mess, but hey, this is how we roll. Don't judge us. He knows me. He knows me so well, I guess he figured I was finally ready to meet a tangible mister who was created to strictly keep me in line. I am a handful. An occasional well dressed hot mess and an avid overachiever. I met my calm. Purely focused, eye-on the prize, look how much I adore you, tangible mister and I wholeheartedly wouldn't change a thing. I knew it made sense because I couldn't write about him.With others, words came easily. With him, words haven't been created.  I have to stop writing to seek more verbs within my two favorite sources, my heart and thesaurus.

Monday, January 31, 2011

I Don't Wanna Grow Up-Swing Set Dreams

Every now and then I find time to think about the great wonders of my past. There is a -13 degree windchill and I'm trapped inside. Maybe I'm suffering from cabin fever or I could be having a moment of  clarity. Whether affliction or affection, I find myself smiling today. My setting is a playground and my mind has been taken over by a sweet 7 year old sweetie pie who has butterfies in her tummy and can't help but hog the swing. I've been told I'm immature. I should bite my words and refrain from saying every single thing on my mind. I stick my tongue out at my critics and na-na-nana boo boo all over their opinions. This is a good day for mind games and gummy bears. I wish my playground had a slide and the swing had teleporting abilities. I could swing myself where I really want to be. I would go. I would leave tomorrow. No question about it, just ask me great barer of butterflies and I would chuck up the deuces and be out! I miss the smell of overbleached hotel sheets and never worn Louis Vuitton loafers. They don't come like that in Denver. I need to teleport. Not quite the thoughts of a child but its cold and I'm all over the place.  I want things and I want them now! The teleporting swing, gummy bears and hotel sheets. I wish everyone knew him but I want to keep him to myself. Hey, I'm 7 in my head and I haven't learned to share. Don't  judge me.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Eat Poop Terry McMillan!

I have decided to check in at least once a week just so you know I haven't keeled over from lack of loving. I'm still here. This week was a good one. I found out I offended all of my exes that follow my blog (by my last post.)  Mission Accomplished. Cry me a river homeboys. I can only  hope to continue to offend and one day sue your asses for wasting my life. And to the most recent guy that stole 2 whole days of my week, you suck! This is not a friendly post. Each of you failed me. Individually and as a whole. I want out of this circle. After watching What Chilli Wants, (and don't judge me,) I have decided I need to be partnered with a completely new look. Not a circle, maybe a winding road of brillantly colored unknowns. I'm thinking big curly-haired green-eyed Jewish looking Indian face with dimples and dusty Pumas. Yes, thats what I want this season. I prefer he speaks broken English and tells me how pretty I am. I want him to ride horses on the beach and drive Italian cars with names I can't seem to pronounce. No, I want him to drive a Prius and cook like the Iron Chefs on Food Network. I will drive the fast car and ride the horses on the beach. My circle, yes my, "How Are You Going To Fail Me Today" circle has once again brught me to this point. Keep your Timberlands and your baby mamas. Embrace your struggle and Jay-Z. I will be reading Outliers over sushi and trying to figure out why I at some point decided Waiting To Exhale was the way to live. Kiss my whole newly international ass Terry McMillan! You should be charged criminally.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

1/1/11 - And 1 Of Me- Go Figure?

Last year I started this off with a simple rant. It was the first year I realized exactly how an annoyingly strange cycle worked. But before I get started, I want to throw a little something out there. I love the opposite sex. I am not bitter or jealous or angry. I refuse to judge men that are set to wonder into my future by those that were booted to my past. I am looking forward to love whenever it graces my path. I pray for it. I wear my heart on my sleeve and a taser in my purse. Give me a reason to use my weapon of choice or invest in my happiness. Pick your poison but the last option tastes like honey and Pixie Stix.

So, today is the first day of the New Year. The perfect time to start anew. I lost count of the references I have read about New Years Resolutions. Promises made to not-do-this or to quit doing that. I never got around to making one BUT I will stick to my theme of 2010. No Exceptions. I say this only as a reminder to myself. I spent my first day of the new year re-reading my postings from the past. I was interupted by the chimes of text message alerts, emails and phone calls from guess whos? Blasts from the past. Now "blast" is a stretch. Maybe I should call them "simmers" or "tiny sparks?" Others should be referred to as "fireworks" since they only lasted as long as the Summer holiday. All they left behind was smoke. Guess they figured that would blind me for their wackness when January 1st rolled around.

These characters are really something. Not one invite for Thanksgiving. No surprise gifts for Christmas. Not an invite to a black-tie this or that for New Years Eve but New Years Day comes around and the phone is ringing. No flowers or gifts required. Number 1, no, I'll call him number 8 or 9. Number 1 is reserved for Mr. Wonderful and 8 or 9 isn't even close to great. He's regular like Mr. Pibb. No one goes out on a mission to buy it, but if its the last can left in the cooler, Mr. Pibb it is. Yes, we will call him Mr. Pibb. Anyway, Pibb came a calling. Wanting to know what I've been up to. Asking how my holidays were and what I did with my New Years Eve. I wanted to say, "I spent it NOT thinking of you, not even once not even almost" but then I would be a mean person. Maybe I should be mean for the New Year? Maybe he would get the point and THAT POINT is contageous and all the dummies get it like this horrible flu thats going around. Or maybe I will just post this on Facebook and pray that he's bright enough to know I am talking about him? Or maybe not. Hell, its not just him, my phone has been ringing all day. They are all resurfacing like roaches with deep voices and great cars. I'm over it. I really don't want to start this day on a sour note but he started it and I don't back down from insulting behavior. He started it. They started it. I'm finishing it and tattle-telling 3rd grade style. I wish I could put them in the corner and take away their toys. I would pawn them and buy shiny things and lip gloss.

 I don't play games. I quit school because of recess.

Day 1 Act 2. Let's Go!

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Mr.Incredible: Act 1

He told me he was it. He said it in our first conversation. There was something so absolute in his voice. Something so Honest Abe in his words. I remember thinking, Act 1, Take 100 as I had heard this at least that many times. But he stuck to the storyline and never broke character. My goal was to figure out what script he was reading from as he was a sure bet for next years Oscars. His voice even sounded like a good idea and if I could taste his words I guarentee hints of mint flavored luxuries. "What page are you reading from sir?" It seemes as though he had read me front to back and memorized my thoughts as if they were lines straight from the story of ME. He's smooth like shades of lightly brented amber and I just can't get enough. I find myself wishing I could create one word that could perfectly capture what I see, but that would be unfair to Painters and Writers alike. I often catch myself wondering if I dreamed him into existance. I would pinch myself but pretty girls just don't do those things. I stepped out on faith deciding to believe as sometimes reality is far better than what I could dream.  I'm down stage right and he's center stage left and I hope our characters collide somewhere along the lines of happily ever what have yous. He reads me like a best-seller and I want him like Christmas. He's first-edition Tolstoy and I am more Vogue's September Issue but I like him. Its magically simple and fun like the first grade. TAG, he's it.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Once Upon A Happily Ever Right Now....

So I'm almost 30. Women tend to break up into pieces at this age wondering if they will ever find their "Mister" and I am actually pretty content. Now, when I was a child, I dreamed I would be married to a wonderful man at just about this age, with beautiful little girls that looked just like me. I also thought he would be a sword-bearing Prince, I would be a Rockstar and we would live happily ever after in a castle surrounded by real life glittery unicorns. I was a child, I believed in childish things. I searched for gold at the end of rainbows, knew I was a Disney Princess and pledged my allegiance to the beat of the Care Bears Countdown. Can't really blame me for being a dreamer. Now, I'm not quite 30, a recovering undercover over lover and forced to live in a realistic world. I refuse to believe God wants me to settle for something or someone I have absolutely no interest in. He loves me extra, I'm sure. I know he occasionally buries treasures deep down in the souls of trolls but he knows my heart and it has requirements. Beauty and the Beast is all great in concept but I've been there and opted out. God knows me better than I know myself and because of this, I rely soley on his plan to one day reveal my Mr. Wonderful. I may be a little impatient, I may, occasionally accept the attention of Mr. Almost, Mr. Maybe and Mr. Pretty Close but I am truly having a great time writing about all of it. In the meantime, I write. I smile. I hope and I love.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Dear God, What Is Your Return Policy?

I wish life had a big giant pencil eraser and I could pink fuzzy you right off of my page and onto the floor. If I had three wishes, I would ask for more wishes and they would all involve erasing you off of my page and onto the floor. Dear God, Why do I fall for the numb nuts and ass clowns? I came up with what I though was a brilliant plan. Stay single, write about it and become rich and famous for being one of the few women that figured it all out. And then, well, then he came along. He dug into my mind and won me over with a somewhat southern accent and big freekin feet. Dear God, I do believe I failed at my self proclaimed mission. I wouldn't dare question you so I will instead ask for one favor. Could you please send a big giant pencil eraser so I could pink fuzzy him right off of my page and onto the floor? I don't ask for much.
We seemed pretty great as a "we" and he was easy to write about (although I never did come up with much while I was with him.) Still, he had me smiling and I often caught myself spinning (Singing In The Rain style) in knee-length eyelet dresses. Dear God, why am I such a geek? As much as I try, I always stumble back into my hopeless romantic phase that ends up being more bad habit and less constructive growth. I am who I am and the ME that I am falls for the tall ones with accents. Dear God, if you're running short on erasers, can you Fed-Ex a giant bucket of White-Out? What is your address anyway? I have some HEAVY LOAD characters that I haven't been able to return. Maybe they weren't addressed to me? Hey, maybe they came from the bad guy that lives way down South? That would make more sense. Anyway, please forward "RETURN TO SENDER" stamps and I won't ask for much else.
Warm weather is over and and so is hope for #7689 on my list of recruits. I hand out chances like weekend samples at Costco and they fail me every time. Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing again and again while expecting different results? Hi, I'm Bonkers, nice to meet you.
Dear God, why must I have a toxic affinity for bald heads and great suits? Or shiny cars and big talkers? Don't get me wrong, I also had a chance at a heavy-pocketed wee-little hobbit and that was not the business either. I just can't figure out why I can't find an eraser big enough to pink fuzzy these fools off of my page and onto the floor? Where is my White-Out?
Dear God,
You heard my cry and created something much more effective.
Thank you for CTL ALT DELETE.
It works much better.
Your Hardheaded Prodgical Daughter

Thursday, July 22, 2010


Days have passed and I still can't find the right word. I guess the great minds at Webster haven't had the honor of meeting you. I've since turned towards the all-knowing Thesaurus which for the very first time, led me astray. Today i will continue to search for a word that means, "much more than amazing." I put my all into this mission, scanning the pages of random resources to no avail. I can't help but question why you don't come custom a with a label of beautiful descriptive words that even I can't pronounce.
You make me stutter.
The good In you could feed a nation. I question what planet you came from and pray it has established a strict no return policy. If only you came in a shade of paint; a Visually appetizing all things wonderful theme covered in Extra brown glossy coated goodness. Sleepless nights would be cured, I'm sure. But I'm no Artist. Monet should be jealous and I should thank your parents.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Dr. Croc Socks and My Comfy Couch

I wanted to write about the character that showed up for Date #1 in Crocs, colored socks, creased jeans and stupid t-shirt then promptly fell asleep on my couch like he was in a drug induced coma. It was my goal to tell the horror story of how for hours, I tried unsuccessfully to wake his dead as a log horribly dressed corpse from my couch. Or how I had to Fabreeze every inch of what used to be my comfort zone while in pure Christopher Columbus style, he invaded my space and claimed it as his own. Simply replace Small Pox blankets with the overwhelming stench of Outlet Clearance Cologne and call my couch The New America. I wanted him gone. I banged pots together, I opened all the windows, I turned the volume all the way up on the TV, I yelled. Then I went to my room and locked the door. "Come on Doris, think!" I ended up calling my girlfriend, the Actress from Chicago, to call me from across the country. She's always been the genius. So I now had an "emergency call" and he had no choice but to leave. Real friends do those things at 4AM and tell you how stupid you are after. I tried everything my Passive Aggressive attitude would allow. All but, a big giant, "GET OUT!" I wanted to write all about, but the idea of him makes my brain hurt. His Crocs make my head hurt. I should sue. Sue him; Sue his parents; Sue Crocs.

Dating pretty much sucks. I'm kind of hoping GOD takes pity on me and just sends me the character I'm supposed to be with. Hopefully he has a Post-It on his head that says, "God sent me here for you, Enjoy." This way, I'll have no choice. Its official, I haven't had one date since October and I'm still smiling. I can't really complain. In the end, it all makes for great writing and at this rate, I'll have a book by December.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Simply Beautiful (The Remix)

He's like Christmas Eve
He's Ali in a fight

He's what i need in the morning

and what i gotta have at night

He's that lost hip hop

He's my rhythm and blues

He's that funky jazz music

He's my favorite pair of shoes

He's my rainy day

He's my summer's night

He's that one missing note on the song I'm tryna write

He's my cup of tea you're that perfect spice

Like being forehead kissed in the middle of the night

He's my shining star you're on my birthday list
He's my love it when I got it and my favorite thing to miss

and even far away you're like a Cabernet

He's like brown sugar soul you're like Billie Holiday

He's my one last cry you're my wet when its dry

He's like Mary J. & Meth you're all i need to get by

He's my midday thought my unforgettable dream

He's that that all-star player on my winning team

He's my inspiration to create a nation

He's like hearing my own voice on the radio station

He's my new favorite thing

He's  on my Christmas list you're wrapped up just right you're like a birthday gift

He's like everything I've wanted and like nothing I've ever had

He's like a smile from my mama and a hug from my dad

He's the answer to my question you're the truth without a doubt

He's that tall glass of water in the middle of a drought

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD (you're like hearing it twice)

He's like shopping all day then getting it ALL at half price

then charging it all and never having to pay

He's like everything is right on a can't go wrong day

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Crayola Conspiracy And The Open Booked Me

I opened my eyes with a drowsy mind even after I slept my first whole night without a long distance “Hey You." I dreamed of writing you into my zip code with a pen full of airline miles and nothing but vacation time. I was late to work for the first time today. I was suffering from Southern Hospitality withdrawals. A make believe drug I imagined up sometime a few years ago and we never could get it right. A beautiful addiction to a living breathing work of art; Well, a piece of work at least. The distance allowed me the opportunity to dream you into the impossible. I've always been somewhat irrational. I speak in code and dream in black and white so I can fill in the colors as I please. I chose green for you, the reason why I said you should leave. Blue for the way you make me feel and red for the way I wish things could be. Color me Ridiculous if you choose but I don't think Crayola has gotten that far. I remain an open book to most but you never took the time to read me. Find me listed conventiently under: FAIRYTALES. Simple PROLOGUE READS: I smile at sparrows and dance in designer gowns on rainy Sundays as I clean house. I'm a natural cheerleader. I have my Mom's great legs and my Dad's dimples. I teach children at every given opportunity and wear stilettos like my life depends on it. My heart is big and my waist is small. I've been called, Pretty. God talks to me and I hear him in surround sound but sometimes I just don't listen. I work hard. I love harder. I'm worth loving back without question. I hate you for leaving but love you for not staying. I'm praying you away in the hopes of a worthy replacement. You're a novelty item. A much anticipated seasonal surprise. A turn to page 6 or page 72 for an alternative ending kind of someone. A wonderfully amazing secret that I just can't keep so goodbye my friend. I (fill in the blank) you.