My Christmas Makeover

OK, it’s official.  I’m FINALLY in the holiday spirit.  Woo-hoo.  Last night I went to sleep as Auntie Scroogie and woke up as Lady Claus.   I’m diggin’ my nighttime makeover.

Not sure what took me so long…I mean just because Safeway started playing Christmas carols two months ago does NOT mean I should be spreading holiday cheer to all.   That’s not my job…that’s the Salvation Army bell ringer’s job, right?

So why my sudden transformation?

• Maybe it’s my new condo…
• Maybe it’s the thought of 2012…and all the future blessings yet to be discovered…
• Maybe it’s because I get to see my crazy relatives in just one more day…
• Maybe it’s because I only have one more gift to buy…hence, one more annoying line to stand in…
• Maybe it’s because I went to church last Sunday…
• Maybe it’s the guy who’s 5 years younger who asked me out…
• Maybe it’s my new neighbor who dropped off homemade cookies…
• Maybe it’s knowing my broken heart is on the mend…
• Maybe it’s the impromptu snowstorm that hit Denver this afternoon…
• Maybe it’s the xanax…or the gi-normous bottle of Crown Royal I scored at my friend’s gift exchange party…

Whatever it is…I’m welcoming it with open arms.

On Friday, I head to Texas to visit family, loaded down with my big suitcase and jam-packed schedule.   I only have about 1.2 million people to catch up with over 120 hours.  Five days of non-stop hugs, conversations, adult libations, laughs, and hopefully…no tears.   Yes, it will be a whirlwind…but I’d rather be stuck in that storm than sitting home alone staring at my dog and cat.  It’s kinda nice being pulled in a multitude of directions.  I’ll take that as a compliment.

My newfound holiday joy was INDEED tested earlier today.  A few days ago, I mailed a cute, dainty necklace to my BFF…Brendy…courtesy of the U.S Postal service.   I wrapped it in tissue paper, tucked it discreetly inside a card…and sent it on its merry way to Kansas City.   This afternoon, when Brendy received the card, she noticed a small hole in the envelope…and low and behold…gasp…someone had STOLEN the necklace.  Argh!

——————————-

Dear Disgruntled Postal Employee…

I hope you or someone you know needed that necklace more than my friend.   Someone like a homeless person…a person with a terminal illness…a person who just lost his job.  If not though…that stolen necklace will bring you nothing but bad karma.  And I hope your neck turns green…because…sorry to inform you…it’s not REAL gold.

Sincerely,

Your Secret Santa

——————————-

Sorry…thief…despite your unruly ways, you did NOT ruin my holiday cheer.  I’m better than that.  Yes, material items matter to an extent.  But the bigger joy of the holiday season is simply spending time with loved ones, giving thanks for the ups AND downs of the past year, and accepting that life is unscripted.   It’s also about embracing the new year…and all the potential experiences that come in that shiny package.  For me, that could be…a new television show to produce or write, a new love interest, a new travel adventure…and tons of time to remodel my home.  2012 I’m ready!

Speaking of home…did I mention it’s snowing outside?  And that my new neighborhood rocks?  Earlier tonight, while happily walking back to my pad after visiting a local bar, I realized it finally felt like the holidays.  Under the spell of falling snowflakes, my little neighborhood looks like a scene from a snow globe.

I almost hear Christmas carols.

Dating yet Dateless on New Year’s Eve – Ah the Irony!

Oh…the bubbly joy of New Year’s Eve….the counting down of numbers while staring into your lover’s eyes…the tradition of singing Auld Lang Syne at midnight…the hangover that lasts til 5 pm…

Can you tell I’m oozing with sarcasm right now?

As 2011 knocks on my duplex doorstep…I find myself happily standing in a different place than a year ago.  Yes, it’s a new year…Yep, I’ve got 365 new days to covet — and the biggest newsflash of late 2010/early 2011 – I’m sporting a new man.

Not your typical American male…Not your outdoor-obsessed Denverite.  See, this dude speaks with a bloody accent.  And while the accent is hot, his heart is hotter.  He calls a sweater a “jumper”…appetizers…”nibbles”… and an elevator…a “lift.”  I call him (along with my wild friends and dysfunctional relatives) “the Brit.”   He regularly calls me “lovely.”

So far, things are golden in that “puppy dog love/lust” sort of way.  We’ve only had one argument – and it centered around a food product – or as I call it – a “waste product.”   The Brit loves Marmite.  I despise it.  And I’ll never EVER eat it.  Good thing that’s not a deal breaker in his eyes.

The Brit’s engineering career brought him to the states.  (No worries dad, he’s not an illegal immigrant….he possesses an authentic VISA.)  But this Christmas – he headed home for a bit of England cheer…despite the country’s dismal weather.  His original flight back to Denver was December 30^th.  But due to snowstorms, lost baggage, only three snowplows in the entirety of England, and a postponed embassy appointment – the Brit is MIA for another week and a half!  (Bloody bastard!)

Which means…

I’ll be alone on New Year’s Eve – or rather “dateless.”  Sigh…

Of course I’m still “hittin’ the town” with my Sex and the City entourage.  I’ll be ok – my usual “peppy” and talkative self.  After all, I‘m an independent woman who can shovel her own snow, wash her own car, and pay her own bills.  I don’t need a man on a major holiday!  That’s rubbish!  But truth be told – I find it ironic that when I finally have “someone special” to spend New Year’s Eve with – that “someone special” is 4,672 miles away (yes, I looked it up).

So, I admit with an open heart – that I will terribly miss the Brit this New Year’s Eve…and New Year’s day…and for the next several days until he returns.  Yes, we’ve been staying in touch via emails, texts, phone calls, and skype.  However, 80% of communication is non-verbal – which means our relationship is running about 20% of actual capacity.

Our separation makes me ponder the question….”Does distance make the heart grow fonder?”   And as I have learned over the last several days, indeed, it does. I’m probably throwing myself under a truck (or as the Brit would say a “lorry”) for admitting this — but if this blog is about being real….then I must spill the beans accordingly.

Happy New Year to everyone reading my blog for the first, 17th, or last time!  I’m off to hit the shower – then later the bars.  I’m confident the four martinis I’ll consume later tonight will happily heal my heartbreak…at least temporarily.

If you’re looking for me at midnight, look no further than the ladies room…otherwise known as the “loo.”

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"

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!

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.

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)

What’s WITH Single 30 year-old women and their dogs? …Says the a##hole

A few weeks ago, I was quenching my alcohol induced thirst at Forest Room 5, one of Denver’s low-key hot spots, located in the trendy trenches west of downtown.  If you haven’t been there…imagine a lounge situated in a hip, artificial forest.  Think Ikea meets Gnomeworld (the Travelocity dude)…but in a kosher kind of fashion.

Anywho, I was chatting away with my two Denver BFFs (Celeste and Miranda), when a playa’ in his early 40s approached us and negatively said, “What’s WITH single 30 year-old women and their dogs?  It’s weird.  Single women are obsessed with their dogs.  They always have to leave dates early to go let their dogs out.  Who wants THAT responsibility?” (In other words, he’s pissed b/c female dog owners won’t shack up with him.)

Clockwatch aside, it only took me about .27 seconds to flick the switch – transforming from lovable, flirty Leaza to beeee-atch on a rampage.  I explained to him (in my best calm bitchy voice), “Hey, my dog is loyal and loving, and actually protects me from weirdos.” During my tirade, I whipped out my iPhone, waving pictures of Fluffmuffin (see below) in this divorced dufus’s face – delivering a sermon that would make canines around the world howl with pride.

My dog "Fluffmuffin"

I couldn’t help but defend almost every single woman’s “best friend.”  Growing up, I always told my dog “goodnight” before drowsily falling asleep.  And a few decades later -  Fluffmuffin receives the SAME treatment before I hop under my comfy duvet cover.  Yes…families and single men love their dogs, but MAYBE single women cherish them more.  And if so, I’m OK with that.  (Who else will guard my dirty socks all day?)

I then challenged the bachelor (wearing too much hair gel,) “So, if you don’t like dating women with dogs because there’s TOO much responsibility involved – you REALLY must not like dating women with kids.”

He then sheepily stated, “Well, I have 4 kids.”

Quickly realizing this guy had enough baggage to put Southwest airlines out of business, my BFFs and I turned our heels and left Mr. “Pot Calling the Kettle Black” in the dust, alone in the faux forest.

I went home that night, and let my dog sleep in the bed.  Funny thing, I’m sure THAT guy…was sleeping alone.

**********************************

All this “dog talk” makes me think about a popular Youtube clip by Wendy Francisco called “GoD and DoG.”  Check it out…your dog will appreciate it.