Birthday Smirk-Day

Yep, it’s my birthday this week – or as most women in their 30s call this glorious day…”Holy heck…one year closer to 40.”

Not that I’m afraid of 40.  I mean 40 is like the new 21….or so say all those celebrities, fashion designers, and Real Hoochey-mama Housewives.  Right?  Except the fact you have wrinkles, a mortgage payment, a ticking clock (even the GYNO agrees), a year’s supply glucosamine in your medicine cabinet, and every time you look at a photo of yourself you think…”I look like my mother!”  Chances are — if you haven’t splurged on Botox, you’ve at least spent HOURS looking at “before and after” photos online until your eyes glaze over.  And suddenly exercise is not something you do JUST for the endorphins… it’s something you do to “keep up with all those trashy 20 year-olds who are stealing your men!”

I admit I’m not in my mid-flirty30s anymore….I’m in my late-flirty30s…I turn 38…GULP… tomorrow.  But I guess the important thing is – I don’t feel late 30s.  (And I don’t think I look it.)  I feel….maybe ….Hmmm….27.

Still – despite my youthful feeling…You know you’re a few years away from 40 when:

1. You’re overdosing on sunscreen, even during a tsunami.
2. You’re obsessed with eating healthy and only buy foods that are dark green or bright purple (Although this does not apply to late-night Taco Bell or gas station doughnuts).
3. You’ve accepted the fact you can’t wear high heels every day and have been caught sneaking into the Crocs store at Cherry Creek mall.
4. You’ve already investigated fertility acupuncture even though you have:  A. No husband   B.  No boyfriend  C.  No upcoming dates
5. You’ve fibbed about your age at least once…or at least…you’ve been “very vague” and kept some guy guessing who was probably younger than your younger brother!

But there is comfort in all of this.  My grandmother told me years ago…”You know Lisa, your mind doesn’t age…only your body does.”  I wasn’t sure what she met by this until five years ago.    What she means is that our emotions don’t disappear along with the progression of the calendar.  We still experience the “ah-hah” moment of newfound love, the angst of a job change, the sadness when we are betrayed, and the “jumping up and down” joy when we reach a goal. (Ask my co-workers – I jumped up and down between cubicles when I found out the seller accepted my offer on my new condo.)

It’s AS IF we are still 17 or 27…somewhere in our psyche.  And I find this extremely comforting as I age gracefully.

Since my birthday always falls around Thanksgiving…I’d like to reflect on my blessings – or in reality — what I survived this last year… because honestly…it was a doozey.

1. Finding “one of the loves” of my life…throwing my heart into it…then realizing it was time to let go…(wretched heartache)
2. Politely demanding a raise, not receiving the raise initially, playing tough (so very awkward for Lisa), then coming to an agreement in my favor (Who knew Lisa had balls?!)
3. Managing three family weddings – and thankfully no funerals (My own personal episode of “Relatives Gone Wild”)
4. Surviving a Denver winter with only a mini-cooper to my name (those miniature snow tires rock!)
5. Tackling the beautiful Colorado ski slopes for 13 sporadic ski days – without injuring myself, innocent children, old people, or punk snowboarders
6. Traveling to Europe – and encountering delayed flights, bus schedules I never undersood, a bitchy, jealous ex-boyfriend’s mother (so so painful), yet thankfully — stunning scenery, amazing food, and loving company
7. Camping with four other girls outside Aspen for a long weekend and somehow not killing each other…because after all…hot coals, bears, and two gallons of red wine don’t mix.
8. Buying a condo…if I ever have to hunt down that many paycheck stubs, W-2 forms, or tax forms again…I may move to Canada and live in a tent.
9. Surviving the holidays…
10. Oh wait…they’re not over yet??  Damn.

This big list makes me wonder…. What will I survive next year?  Who will I meet?  Where will my job take me?  What blessings are just around the corner?

I only know one thing….my emotional and wish-list bags are packed…ready to hop onboard this thing called life.

No, I’m not wearing “mom jeans” (maybe one day) ….but I’m comfortable in my designer jeans…marketed to women not a day over 40.

One of my achievements - becoming a homeowner.... Home Depot here I come!

Pre-Birthday Celebration with the Girls

A Single Gal’s Gusto…to Rent or to Buy?

Decisions…decisions…especially in the wake of a breakup.  I mean…what’s a girl to do when she’s desperate to “move on” in more than one area of her life?

OK…here’s the skinny:  I currently rent a duplex in Denver’s “nose-in-the-air” neighborhood, Cherry Creek North.  When I first moved to the mile-high city, it was the perfect find because my dad knew the “ghetto” was far, far away…and the criminals – even further.   And I admit…this set-up HAS been convenient.  I safely stroll to trendy restaurants, shops, and bars.  My dog sniffs butts with Denver’s finest pooches.  In this utopia, everyone has automatic sprinklers, a lawn boy, and not one…but TWO Land Rovers.

The problem is…I live in the token “dump” on the block.   You know…the big eyesore — the one where the neighbors pray the elderly landlords will die quickly…so their money-hungry kids can kick me out, bulldoze the lot, then sell it to someone who will erect yet another McMansion.  (Think Stepford Wives ambiance.)

Yes, my 1940s place does have historic charm, but it also has the original single-pane windows, a Pepto-Bismol pink toilet and sink, and I’m convinced – NO INSULATION.   At night, I feel the breeze…through the CLOSED window.  If I run my hairdryer, portable dishwasher, and microwave at the same time…I find myself in the dark, groping for the electrical panel.  And every night I pray carbon monoxide doesn’t kill me — as my decrepit furnace coughs and sputters.

A few months ago I realized — the time had come to slink into a 30-year relationship with a random mortgage company and give the old “heave-ho” to my money-squandering landlord.  I considered the “good” of condo ownership (a place to call my “own” and all that sentimental crap), the “bad,” (nosy neighbors who never leave), and the “ugly.” (the toilet that clogs up on Christmas Eve and I have to pay someone’s ass to come fix it)  I also gulped at the reality I would venture into this alone…minus “Mr. Right.”  Yes, while I felt empowered …there was small pity party brewing — knowing my name would be the only name on the deed.

So alas, my search began.   I knew my budget wasn’t huge….but I knew it wasn’t spare change either!

I started my quest with the enthusiasm of a college-bound girl shopping for dorm room accessories.   Quickly though, I felt I was perusing at the Goodwill.   Every condo I looked at was either A) dumpy and depressing  B) full of creepy middle aged men  –OR-  C)  full of old people carting oxygen tanks on shoulder straps (I kid you not).   The duplexes weren’t much better.  They all sported damp “Freddie Cougar” basements, cubicle sized kitchens, and “sketchy” neighbors.  I did fall in love with one condo, but as I evaluated the closets, I spotted two cats sleeping on a pile of sweaters…then my eyes rested on a picture of the SINGLE, 45-year old female seller.   I sprinted out of that place in 2.5 seconds….almost in tears, vowing I would never turn into “that woman.”  I took a moment in my car and thought, “Is this really all my money is worth?  Have my hard earned savings come down to living in a building with twice as many cats as people??”

I freaked out.  I THEN decided to stick with renting.  I mean…I’m a free sprit…I didn’t want to be tied down!

Over the next month I looked at over a dozen “expensive yet bland” rentals listed on craigslist and apartments.com.   I couldn’t believe $1150 wouldn’t even get you a covered parking spot much less a dishwasher!  Nothing was the right fit.  All the leasing agents acted annoyed that I owned a dog.   I mean, this is Denver…the dog capitol of the United States!   I was so confused and discouraged…I didn’t know what to do.   All I knew…was that I COULDN’T spend another winter freezing my ass off in my current rental.

So switched my mind AGAIN…and returned to looking at properties for sale.  Taking a friend’s advice, I also wrote down a description of my “perfect place”…then tucked the piece of paper in a safe place.  (Hey, if you write things down, you’ll make it happen.)  I also made the best business decision ever and “broke up” with my realtor.  He was a friend of a friend…and honestly…he was unorganized from the beginning.   I didn’t need his dead weight…or his blank stares when I asked him simple financing questions.   It was time to play tough…and he was clearly too wimpy to stay in my game.

Around that same time, my co-worker paired me with an awesome realtor ironically named Lisa.  We hit it off from the beginning.  I confided in her as if she was my therapist.   I told her, “I just went through a painful breakup (the ex-boyfriend, not the realtor) and I’m on the fence about renting or buying.  I want to make sure if I buy a property, I will love it now…but also I need to be able to rent it in the future…even in a few years.   I’m actively trying to meet someone special at this stage in my life, and I don’t want a property that ties me down.”

Lisa digested this information…and then got to work quicker than a McDonalds drive-thru.  Within one week, I started looking at properties with REAL potential.  Our next meeting, we looked at five units…both condos and townhouses.  I fell in love with the first property – a sunny 2 bedroom/1 bath condo located in the hip historic Baker neighborhood — one block from the funky shops, restaurants and bars of South Broadway.  For the first time in over two and half months, a REAL smile appeared on my face.  In the aftermath of my breakup, I had become the master of the “fake smile”…this one, however, was genuine and heartfelt.  I called my dad with the news.

Things rolled into place after that.  I saw the property on a Sunday, made my offer on Tuesday….and “low and behold” the seller accepted my final offer late Thursday afternoon.  Within a span of 60 hours, I went from the heartbroken evil American ex-girlfriend (EAG) to the hot, available, single homeowner.

I am lovin’ this new title change!

In just a few short weeks, I move in.  I feel positive, invigorated, and most importantly — at peace.   This little condo is perfect for my “present”…and provides a solid investment for my “future.”

Who knew a girl could get so excited over double pane windows, a WHITE toilet, and a furnace covered by a warranty?

Some Things THANKFULLY Never Change

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know the drill…the ole familiar mantra.  Life is about change, right?  Change is inevitable.  Change forces you to grow.  Blah blah blah.  (Damn those motivational speakers!)

Don’t get me wrong.  I do relish some change…in certain situations.  I enjoy changing my hairstyle, my toenail polish, my sheets (oo-lah-lah), underwear, and of course my address (when I moved to Denver).   On the flip side, I HATE changing my own flat tire.

But some things…I just want to stay “the same.”  For comfort reasons.

On top of my “no-changes-allowed” list…tried and true friendships.   You know….the ones you can count on one perfectly manicured hand.

Thankfully, the bond I have with certain girlfriends has never changed (sounds cliche but true).  I don’t have “blood” sisters, so my girlfriends are my “true” sisters.   Yes, our lives have transformed over the years…but our emotional connections haven’t.  True BFFs survive a typhoon of marriages, divorces, hangovers, cross country moves, breakups, breakdowns, newborns, new jobs, bad jobs, no jobs, 50 cases of PMS, and about 1.2 million bad and good dates.  And I haven’t even mentioned the mini-makeovers, pounds lost, pounds gained, and all those damn exercise hours in between.

This comforting reality hit me last week when one of my BFFs (aka Brendy) visited moi from Kansas City.  (I used to live there a few years back.)  As any good hostess, I showed her all the beautiful “mile-high” city highlights.   We sauntered down Larimer Square, rubbed elbows with the cougars at Elway’s, burned some laps at Wash Park, and even conquered Rocky Mountain National Park.

More importantly, though, we just cut to the chase and fell into our old BFF routine….the one that never changed. Same friendship…just a different location.  Our fears…plus our dreams….all rolled into one conversation.   Minutes in, Brendy and I were “in the zone”…best described as a combination of hot gossip, emotional details, genuine reactions….coupled with spurts of laughter, “oh-my-gods,” bedroom details, and various bitch sessions.

Bottom line…who cares about salutations and fluff…when you can get to the heart of the matter efficiently?  Throw in some red sangria and watch the conversation run rampant.

A few days in to Brendy’s visit…..I realized something.  Spending time with her…made me miss her EVEN more!  Of course I had missed her the last few years….but as her departure loomed ahead…and the clock seemed to speed up….we realized the scope. It was huge…and special.  Something I hope every woman experiences.

Brendy and I boo-hood like teenagers leaving summer horseback riding camp the night before her flight back to Kansas City.  We hugged on the couch and felt pretty darn “Hallmark-card” pathetic.   Heck, I’m surprised we didn’t buy cheesy friendship pins…or carve our initials into some poor tree.

After she left, I was seriously depressed all day…secretly sniffling to myself while editing video at work…trying to write an episode.  Brendy texted me from the plane equally as bummed.  Sigh……our big adventure was officially over.   When I got home…I scarfed down potato chips, crawled under a blanket, and watched a chick “Sundance film festival” movie…attempting to think about something OTHER than my best friend’s absence.

Later that night, “Eye Guy” came over to attempt to cheer me up.   Like any man, he wanted to “fix” the problem…then “make out.  :)  And like most women mourning the departure of someone special, I told him I needed my space (aka “get lost”) and to call me the next day.  My pity party was my own and no one else’s…and would certainly not be ruined by some dude.

When the alarm rang the next morning, I made a conscious effort to find my “big girl panties.”  I pulled my mood out of the gutter.  And suddenly….all was “right” again in the world.   Driving to work,….my acoustic satellite music channel acting as a sappy soundtrack…I pondered my blessings

As women…we need each other. It doesn’t matter what stage of life we’re currently “in”…or moving “into”…or “leaving.”

The lesson here….good friends really don’t change…instead…they help you roll, conquer, and survive all of your own life changes. And distance…well, it’s just a small detour.

If you like this post, send it to one of your BFFs.

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!!!!!