The Dating Chronicles Part Two: Mumbai, Dubai

Mumbai, Dubai 

I had been seeing this guy for a record breaking two months. He was tall with stormy blue eyes and honey blonde hair. Devilishly attractive yet painfully shy. Unlike me, he calculated every thought before speaking and only let his mouth run with tentative abandon after a few beers. No matter how hard I tried, I always found myself holding the talking stick. I swung it around as I spoke with gusto, while he sat there, silently judging my every word. Each encounter was a combination of quite frustration and sexy mystery that always left me confused.
One night, we met up for drinks after work. I made my way to the dive bar on South Broadway and found a seat at the back of the bar. After a few minutes, he sauntered in and ordered us some drinks. He had just moved out to Denver a few months ago and was surfing the wave of unemployment while calling his brother's couch home. We talked job opportunities and Craigslist roommates as we drained a few rounds of beer.
The beers chiseled away at his inhibition while my frustration melted away with my common sense. Devilishly attractive yet painfully shy took the stage with a confidence that's only found at the bottom of an empty cup. He held the talking stick with an appetite I rarely saw, talking about where he'd traveled and where he dreamed of going. Eventually his mouth ran dry, prompting him to ask me where I wanted to travel to next. I had just finished reading Behind the Beautiful Forevers, a non-fiction book about the slum of Mumbai, which led me to answer, India. While he fantasized about gondola rides and barrels of aged wine, I painted a picture wrought with economic disparity and slum lords. Given the opportunity, I'd travel almost anywhere in the world. It just so happened that India topped my list that particular night. I did not intend to sound "holier-than thou," but Devilishly Attractive Yet Painfully Shy interpreted my answer with blatant moral superiority.  He looked at me like I was a fraud. Here I was sitting across from him in heels and a new dress from Nordstrom talking about visiting India's slums. In hopes of revealing some twisted truth, he asked, "can you even name one city in India?" Without thinking, I confidently answered, "Dubai." He looked at me with those pretty blue eyes and said, "would you like to stick with that answer, sweetheart?" I nodded, unsure of my mistake. Before I had the chance to think about correcting myself, he shouted, "Mumbai! Dubai is part of the UAE... The United Arab Emirates" as if I didn't know such a place existed. Mortified by my mistake and insulted by the demeaning way he had corrected me, my embarrassment quickly turned to anger. Mumbai...Dubai...tomato....potato, it's a mistake anyone could have made after a few beers. As a woman who prides herself on intelligence, I decided to hail the waiter and close out our tab. I was embarrassed but more importantly, angry by the fact that he had made me feel so small.

The Dating Chronicles: The Hand Thief

I've been on a lot of dates recently. I'm not saying this out of an inflated ego and excessive self pride. I say this because majority of the dates I go on are nothing to brag about. Yes, I've met a handful of great guys, but majority of the dates I go on are awkward and head nowhere. As a self-deprecating writer, I've decided to start a series called The Dating Chronicles. A tribute to failed dates and the woes of 20 something single-dom.

 The Hand Thief

A few minutes early, I settle into a small booth at the front of the bar. I take in my surroundings, scanning the dimly lit Art Deco room. A waitress approaches me with a menu and I order a gimlet. A few sips in he arrives, greeting me with a nervous smile that makes his eyes go small. He's tall with dark straight hair and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Taking the seat across from me, I ask him about his day. He orders a whiskey and leans back in his seat. We talk alma maters, mountains, and Malcolm Gladwell books. Places we've been, things we've seen, and adventures we've had. His nerves disappear with the whisky. Clinking the bare ice cubes in his glass, he orders a round of IPAs for the two of us. I hate IPAs, but it's easier not to say anything.
I slowly sip the bitter beer and forget to listen as he talks about his recent move to Denver. Instead, I sift through pros and cons I've unconsciously made about him. Making my way back to reality, I find myself in a conversation about skiing. I smile and nod like I'd been listening the whole time. Somewhere within the past hour, I've decided that this isn't going anywhere.
He polishes off his beer and orders another. My stomach starts to churn with hunger and I suggest we grab a slice of pizza a few blocks away. The optimistic part of me asks him to dinner in hopes of finding a redeeming quality that will reverse the decision I've made. The selfish half of me asks him to dinner out of the desperate desire for company. We split the bill in half, and make our way out the door.
A few strides into our walk, he reaches for my hand. His rough fingers wrap around each of mine, his thumb strokes the back of my hand. My fingers stay imprisoned between his, paralyzed by shock. In the short 23 years I've lived on this earth, the act of hand holding is strictly reserved for circumstance and people that are far and few. My hands are chaste territory, not meant for holding on the first date.
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I wrack my brain for an easy escape. I spot Union Station at the end of the street and use my hostage hand to point at it with enthusiasm. "See, that right there? That's Union Station. It just opened up to the public this week after having been renovated." Uninterested he says, "cool" and snakes his hand back into mine.
This time, I don't play nice. I shake my hand out of his and walk with my arm in front of me, Hitler style. Realizing my horrible gesture, I lower my arm back down to my side just in time for him to smuggle my hand back into his. I debate making a run for it but decide that my hunger is top priority.
We reach the pizza joint where I order for the two of us without even looking at the menu, giving him a taste of his own IPA medicine. I get up to go to the "bathroom" and follow our server into the back. I look at him with desperation, asking him to please makes these pizzas fast. When I return, Happy Hands reaches across the table for mine. So much of me wanted to look him in the eye and explain how weird his hand holding was, but I didn't want to embarrass him with the truth.
By the grace of God, the pizzas come out in record time, forcing the hand holding to come to an end. I give the server my card and dinner is finished in record time. I hail a cab the second we walk out the door and bid the hand thief a good night.

Law and Order: My First Time On Jury Duty

A few weeks ago, I received my first summons for jury duty. Just like any other outstanding citizen of the United States, I prayed I wouldn't be chosen. Nevertheless, my number was called.

As instructed, I showed up to the courthouse early giving myself enough time to find parking and navigate security. I pulled into the suggested parking lot, found a space and paid my $6.00 "earlybird" fee. Much to my good fortune, the parking kiosk was jammed and out of paper. It sputtered at me, laughing at my civil misfortune. Rather than moving my car like the others, I decided I wasn't going to let those precious $6.00 go to waste. Instead, I stuck it to The Man. I scrounged up an old receipt from a late night pizza stop and wrote "Don't give me a ticket, I paid! Not my fault your machine is defective" and left it on my dash.  

I chucked my purse onto the rotating belt and proceeded through the metal detector that promptly began beeping as I walked through. The line built up behind me as I was given a series of pat-downs and directed through the detector an additional three times. Security somehow decided I wasn't much of a threat and finally let me enter the courthouse. Once inside, I was directed into a large room of forward facing chairs. Just like flying Southwest, I was able to choose my seat. (It's the little things in life that give me so much pleasure.) After surveying the crowd, I found a home next to two older women that seemed less amused by their fate than myself. I cozied up next to them and popped open my book, Where'd You Go Bernadette.

Thirty minutes later, screens dropped from the ceiling and the lights dimmed. An outdated movie about the judicial system played, explaining our role as "selfless" and "heroic" citizens. (Too bad the only reason we were all there was because we had to be, not because we chose to serve our system in the name of justice.) We were then given bland instructions from a short woman who reminded me of a saltine cracker. A series of numbers were to be called out with a corresponding court room number. If our number was not called at all, we were free to go. I crossed my fingers in hopes of the latter, while simultaneously repeating "4925" to myself. I have this weird fear that I'll somehow go brain dead and forget my name, birthdate or the number that's written on a piece of paper directly in front of me in high-stress situations like this. Just as I began the usual dialogue - "Mallory, your number is 4925...4925...4925...oh shit, what number am I?! oh yea... 4925...or is it 9452?!... Mallory, calm down, you are a smart girl your number is 4925.... or is it?! -Mrs. Saltine said, "number 4925... number 4925....is number 4925 present?!" Excited that I had remembered my number, I jumped out of my seat, screaming, "here!" Just like a soldier reporting for duty, I marched with a group of 25 people to courtroom C25.

Although I was upset about having been called onto the next round, I decided to make the best of my situation. You see, I love to people watch and there is no better place to do so than public venues like airports, amusement parks and court houses. People from every walk of life gather here, so I decided to sit back and enjoy the show. Just as I reached C25, a middle aged man burst out of a courtroom down the hall followed by a group of police officers. Kicking and screaming, he was forced to the ground as more police officers flocked the scene. Handcuffed and cussing, the man was escorted past us where his sad eyes met each of ours. A young British man opened the doors to C25 just in time to see the tail end of the drama. He looked at all of us and said, "welcome to jury duty" in a sarcastic tone. "Follow me this way..."

We were individually escorted into the court room based on our number, giving me a second wind of "brain dead anxiety." The first 15 people were seated directly in front of the judge. The rest of us were packed in the wooden pews next to them. The judge, a Brian Williams lookalike, introduced himself and gave us a brief overview of the case. I crossed my fingers for something juicy like a murder, drug bust or anything Law and Order SVU worthy. Instead, the case involved a plumbing company and a missing wad of cash....

The judge and lawyers began the questioning process, putting each of us on the spot. Questions were asked, answers were given and jurors were dismissed. Similar to musical chairs or Survivor, the ill-suited jurors were kicked off the island and replaced by the seat's successor. One thing lead to another, and I found myself sitting directly in front of the judge. I was asked to introduce myself and give any information that would make me unsuitable for this case. I wracked my brain for any life event that would give me an easy out, but I was stuck. The judge asked the lawyers if they had any further questions for the jury, and that was it. I was officially juror number five out of twelve on a criminal case.

The twelve of us were an odd group. Juror #1. An elderly man with horn-rimed glasses as large as he was tall. Juror #2. A Harrison Ford doppelgänger who opted to take notes on his disposable coffee cups each day. Juror #3. A tired southern belle with hair the color of watered down orange juice. Juror #4. A stunning 22 year old mother studying forensic science at a community college. Juror #5. Yours truly. Juror #6. A nearly albino college student with a literary mind. Juror #7. A quiet latino father of four. Juror #8. A young, rotund disciplinary officer with rings stabbed through her nose, eyebrow and lip. Juror #9. A health enthused, middle aged emergency pediatric doctor. Juror #10. A librarian type woman with thick hair, hushed voice and outdated slacks. Juror #11. A short man who made up for his height in leadership. Juror #12. A Chaco loving, granola chewing, environmental studies college graduate. As odd and different as we all may have been, we each showed up on time every morning and gave the case the respect it deserved. It was with those twelve people that my confidence in the average American was renewed.

Unlike the juicy Elizabeth Smart case I was hoping for, the trial we were placed on was about as bland as high school math. We were given receipts to analyze and contradictory statements to sort through. It was like watching a Rosanne marathon, entertainment based on the woes of the working class. Although I was disappointed by the case logistics, I learned some valuable lessons throughout those three days in court. One of the first questions we were asked after having entered C25 was how we would rate our judicial system on a scale from 1-10. We constantly read about racial and economic unjust alongside a never-ending list of flaws that can be found in any US courtroom. Every single one of us were hesitant to give anything above a 6.

After closing arguments and deliberation, we did not find the defendant guilty beyond reasonable doubt. After the verdict was given, the judge asked to meet the jury one final time in the conference room. He thanked each of us for our time and asked us to once again rate our judicial system on a scale from 1-10. Sitting in that room with my eleven fellow jurors, knowing we had reached a fair decision, I couldn't help but be reasonably proud of our system. Going around the room, each of us confidently gave a proud and honest an 8 or 9.

Wanting What We Can't Have

Why is it that we always want what we can't have? We want straight hair when our hair is curly, and curly hair when our hair is straight. We impatiently wait for Fall throughout Summer, and Summer throughout Spring. Why is it that Oreos, breadsticks and fries dipped in ranch only tempt us once the diet begins? We yearn for the car we can't afford, the dress that doesn't fit, and the lover that doesn't care. We crave the thrill of travel, but miss the warmth of our own bed. We are swept up by the predictably unpredictable and continue to try and tame the untamable.

It takes a few heartbreaks, over drafting fees, and one too many Oreos for us to learn that the pain is self inflicted. It's one of life's most difficult lessons, appreciating the things we are so blessed to have, while ceasing to chase after the things that set us back. So the next time you find yourself pining after the man with "trouble" tattooed across his face, step back and really think. In the wise words of Cheryl Strayed, chances are, "he is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere."

Three Things I've Learned This Week

-Much to my surprise, I learned that Spanxs are more like boxers than you'd initially think:
Struggling to get into my Spanxs on Tuesday morning, my foot found its way through a hole I never knew existed. Having successfully maneuvered the body condom over my waist, I looked down to find a limp leg of fabric hanging at my side. I'd never realized that #1. you can ditch panties when wearing Spanxs #2. you don't have to play a game of tug-of-war every time you use the ladies room. Just like boxers, Spanxs have a front door...

- This week I signed up and learned how to use Car2Go:
Owning a car has never been my top priority. I could tell you that it's because I enjoy being driven, like the duchess of cambridge. Or I can be honest, and tell you that most of the money I set aside for my own car, goes to fixing the damage I've done to others. With one of our family cars in the shop, thanks to me, I decided to sign up for Car2Go. For only 38 cents a minute, I can drive one of the hundreds of Smart cars located around the Denver-Metro area. Although I'm still learning how to drive these clown cars without completely deteriorating my ego, I've learned the basics, and I must admit it's better than hitch hiking.

- I learned that my mother demanded divorce only hours after her wedding:
To preface this story, there are three very basic things you need to know about my dad. #1. He hates the heat because he hates sweat. #2 He hates socializing. #3 He hates anything and everything sticky and dirty.
On the day of my parent's wedding, it was 114 degrees in Stockton, California. The University of Pacific Church, where they exchanged their vows, had yet to install an air conditioning unit. My mom had picked out heavy pink shirts and blue polyester blazers for my dad and his groomsmen to wear. Dizzy with heat, the flower girl fainted after walking down the aisle. Shvitzing buckets at the alter was strike #1 for the infamous wedding day.
At the reception, my parents were stuck in a never-ending line. For hours they shook the hands of eager guests who had lined up to wish them well. Marinating in his sweat drenched shirt while socializing was wedding day strike #2.
Thinking he was finally home free, my dad left the reception to pull the car around. Nearing the exhausted yellow Rabbit, my dad noticed an odd luster on the windows. Grabbing the car's handle, his hand slid off the oiled knob. Running his fingers over the windshield, he realized that the car had been covered in butter. In a frantic attempt to leave the wedding, he turned on the windshield wipers only to find that it made the mess worse. Forced to drive with his head out the window, he picked up my mom in a belligerent fit. Over socialized, hot, and covered in butter, my dad had a momentous melt down as he drove my mother through a carwash. Sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing her wedding dress, my mother watched the mops rub against the buttered windows while my dad endlessly complained about their wedding day. By the time they reached their San Francisco destination, my mother had asked for a divorce.

Dear Grandma,

Over a glass of red wine and spinach artichoke dip, my grandma wished me a happy twenty third birthday. "You know, I got married at twenty three" she said as her chip broke with the weight of the dip. It was her canny way of suggesting that it's time my father trade me for some goats. Of course I took her comment with a grain of salt, our worlds are drastically different, but I know I'm not the first twenty-something to feel relationship pressure.

Between our relationship diet of Cosmopolitan articles, Text-Roulette, Facebook, and Tinder, I'm not quite sure how anyone finds someone worthy of their family goats. As I watch my grandmother dig out the other half of her lost chip, I decided to let her comment roll off my back because our worlds are too far apart.

Instead, I've decided to give her some insight, insight into the modern dating world. The world that seems to prefer perfection over authenticity. The one that makes you drop your hand because your worried about sweaty palms. The world that relies on self help dating books and dumbing yourself down.

So grandma, modern dating goes a little something like this:

I just got your text, it's 9:05. I read it three times, wracking my brain for a witty response. 9:12 rolls around and I settle on something flirty. I press Send, letting my phone fall where it may. We all do it; we put on a little show for ourselves to prove that we are not attached to the person on the other end. While I wait for your response, I begin flipping through your Facebook photos. It isn't until I reach picture 310, that endearing photo of your awful hair cut from 2007, that you finally respond with a single word. Something to the effect of "ok" or "ya..."

Modern dating is like a staring contest. You see, we had a few beers at a bar that smelled like moldy carpets and tobacco. You laughed at my jokes and kissed me under a street lamp at the end of the night. The next day, you invited me to play tennis but when i went in for a kiss you pulled away. You text me something coy and I haven't a clue. Each of us are waiting for the other person to blink, or simply ask what's going on.

You tell your friends what happened with high hopes that they can crack the code. Instead, they tell you that you broke rule number 67 of 500,000; your not playing "Hard To Get."

So grandma, do you understand why I haven't been traded for goats? I have sweaty palms and I'm not afraid to admit that I think that I am smart. I dance off rhythm and sometimes, i'll admit I even fart. So grandma, until that person who loves me for every inch of me, I won't get married at twenty three.

The 4 Things I've learned About Men Via Tinder

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I'm slightly hooked on Tinder. It's not because I'm seeking out a one night fling, nor am I'm convinced that I'll meet Mr. Right. I'm hooked on Tinder because of the excitement that lies in the thrill of the game. Getting a match is an exhilarating confidence booster that hooks you on your first swipe. Your ego wonders just how many more will swipe right, and thus your addiction to Tinder begins...
Through this sick fixation of mine, I feel as though I've peeked inside the male mind. I've learned what men think women like, what men enjoy, and a few thing about men in general...

1. I've learned that catching a fish is a monumental male milestone. Whether you've caught yourself a 200 pound Marlin or a sickly baby carp, this defining moment of your manhood warrants a photo. I'll call you Ishmael or maybe Captain Ahab.

2. I've learned that men have great self esteem. A vast majority of you have at least one photo of your shirtless upper body. I'm pretty happy with what I've got, but there is no way a photo of me in a bikini will grace the likes of Tinder.  

3. Due to the mass amounts of photos of men waxing their cars, adjusting the sails, or modeling with their favorite vehicles, I'm led to believe that men love all modes of transportation.

4. I've learned that men use adventure and bravery to get right swipes. Wether your skydiving, bungee jumping, or doing backflips on skis, you've made sure to post a photo of your gallantry. Nothing says suitable suitor like the rush of adrenaline.     

Colorado Sunny Season Activities

As the weather gets warmer, I've found myself thinking about all the things Denver has to offer throughout the spring and summer months. Just in case you need help planing your adventures, here is a list of things I'm most excited about below:

All images via Pinterest

-Rockies Home Opening Game- I'm not much of a baseball fan, but nothing says Spring like a cold beer and Coors Field. Don't miss the opening game as the Rockies square up against the Arizona Diamondbacks on April 4th.

-Farmers Markets - Denver's Farmer's Markets are full of fresh produce, local business, and great activities. Usually beginning in May, find a market closest to you.

-SnowBall Music Festival- Four stages with over 65 performers, ice sculptures, after parties and more. Sports Authority Field April 4 - 6.

-First Friday Art Walks: Walk the streets of Denver while appreciating all the art this city has to offer, every third Friday in multiple locations.

- Camping - Colorado has so many camping, backpacking, and hiking options to explore in the sunny seasons.

-Denver Chalk Art Festival - A two day street painting festival in the heart of Larimer Square is one of my favorite Denver activities. May 31 - June 1, walk the chalk museum streets.

-Telluride Bluegrass Festival - June 19 - 22 make your way up to the San Juan Mountains for camping, bluegrass, and fun. What better way to celebrate the summer solstice than in the high country of Colorado?

-Old South Pearl Street Concerts - BrewGrass June 14 and Blues and Brews on August 9th are two of my favorite Summer activities.

-Red Rocks Concerts- Nothing says Colorado like an outdoor concert. John Butler Trio, The Avett Brothers, Railroad Earth, Trampled by Turtles, and so much more.

-The Taste of Colorado - Celebrate the end of summer with a food and music festival in Civic Center Park, August 29 - September 1.

What are you most excited for?

My Life at A Glance

Reading: Nothing. I just finished The Girls Guide To Hunting and Fishing. I'm in need of some good suggestions...

Thinking: that I desperately need to clean my room. The majority of my closet is piled on my floor.

Dreaming: about packing my bags and traveling the world for the next few months.

image via a well traveled woman

Wishing: I had the money and someone crazy enough to do it with me.

Drinking: Coffee and a glass of orange juice

image via pinterest

Eating: Puffins Peanut butter cereal

Lusting: A leopard calf hair clutch - preferably this one

Needing: some food for thought.

Cooking: This week's menu includes crab ravioli a la Trader Joes and a Nicoise Salad

Appreciating: this healthy bod.

Listening to: Carla Bruni

image via elle.com

What does your life look like at a glance?

Waiting for Spring

We can't complain. The east coast has had a much harsher winter; but lets face it I'm ready for Spring. With another light dusting of snow outside, I can't help but wonder if this winter will ever end... 

In hopes of helping you see the warm light on the end of this frozen tunnel, I've collected some spring inspired images to warm your soul. After all, Spring is only 18 days away!

I'm patiently awaiting bright colors, sandals, jacket-free outfits, and dinners outside. What are you most excited for?

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

A Harrowing Tale....

With a thick blanket of snow outside, I decided to stay in last Saturday night. Thick socks, an oversized teeshirt, and few old Frantz family videos quickly became my version of a Saturday night "rager."

Deciding to take a trip down memory lane, I popped in the most recent addition to our family video collection. You see, my dad has two alter egos. He either pretends to be the activity director of "Resort Frantz"(aka our house) or the Steven Spielberg of home videos. This means that when my dad gets his bi-monthly bug for adventure, he not only plans it and treats us like tourists, but proceeds to capture every inch of our trip as if he were a modern day Rick Steves. No matter how detailed the plans at Resort Frantz may be, without fail, something always goes wrong. So just like any torturous event, we need some time to recover before re-living our last adventure.

Since its now been a few months since our last family outing, it seemed about as good a time as ever to watch and share the harrowing tale of our four-wheeling adventure...

Towards the end of the summer the director of Resort Frantz got an itch that just had to be scratched. It'd been a while since our last family adventure, and my dad was revving to go four-wheeling. After a week of planning and walking around our house talking like Indiana Jones, he loaded up our Rav-4 with lofty plans for "fun filled" day in Vail. His plan was to four-wheel it up to the base of a trail where we would hike a loop and four-wheel back down.

I imagined my family strapped inside a Jeep or straddled over the seat of an ATV, giggling as we bounced over bumps. Little did I know that my father's idea of four-wheel driving involved a shoddy map and our very own Rav-4...

Just like ski runs, four-wheeling trails are marked similarly - easy, medium, and hard. No matter how many times my dad has done something he always has to "warm up," so we took a green of four-wheeling to the head of our hiking trail. Other than the fact that we were driving a street car up a mountain, the day was panning out true to what I had imagined. Both me and my brother, Albert, took turns behind the wheel, laughing the whole way up.

After returning form our hike, my dad sprung the question, "wanna try a more difficult trail for the ride home?" Per usual, mom threw a fit. She only signs up for these adventures if we stick to the plan. Being the brats that we are, my brother and I egged our dad on. We find some sick enjoyment in pushing our mom close to the edge.

The verdict: three to one, so we began our adventure down the hill. Albert and I shared the wheel as mom sat in the back, butt cheeks clenched together. A few miles in, we learned why it was labeled difficult. Dad took full control, sending me to the back to weather mom's storm.

It gradually got worse as we bottomed out over boulders and lost control. Just like a cartoon, mom's eyes flew out of her head as she held on to the side of the door for dear life. She even slipped a few prayers out since we were, "all going to die!"

In hopes of calming mom down, dad whipped out his "trusty" map and found a way to get back on a green. Instead, we found ourselves on a black. The boulders became too big to clear and our breaks over-heated. With mom in a panic, we decided to stop and let the breaks cool. Both Albert and I had to remain calm, knowing that we were the only thing holding mom back from a full blown panic attack.

As the breaks cooled, Albert and I ran ahead to clear boulders from our path. Once we grew tired, we decided to sit on a rock and wait for them to reach us. As we waited, I showed Albert my armpits, sweaty with nervs. He said, "try sitting up front, I thought I was going to poop my pants!"

Our parents rounded the corner, as we both stood up to help direct their plummet down a vertical hill into a sea of boulders we couldn't move. As our little Rav-4 made it over the cliff, the two back tires got stuck on a boulder. It dangled there as a sacrifice to Resort Frantz. It shimmied its way down to the next boulder where our car balanced on two tires. It looked like a single gust of wind would have tipped the whole thing over. Innocent Albert looked at me with wide eyes as he mouthed, "Oh FUCK!"Both of us closed our eyes, unable to watch our parents plummet to their death.

When we finally opened our eyes, there was our trooper of a car, with dad in the front seat and mom wailing in the back.

Only a mile a way from the highway, we started to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Once we finally reached civilization, we realized our road was a dead end. Our hearts fell, thinking we'd have to drive up everything we had just come down.

In hopes of keeping our family together, dad whipped his map out again and found a sliver of hope, a small trail that lead to a main road. We drove towards it as the sun began to set, only to find that the road dead-ended into a filed of asbestos.

Albert and I couldn't pretend to be okay anymore, so we both started to panic. As predicted, mom went into a rage. With nothing else to do, dad looked to his map one last time and found the one trail we had yet to try.

We all sat silently, fingers crossed, as we made our way to the final road.

It worked!

Before heading home, we stopped for dinner and DRINKS in Vail village. As the hostess lead us to our table, she asked, "so, how was your day..."

Needless to say, none of us answered as this adventure made it's way into the Frantz family books....

Twisted Sibling Wisdom & The Lessons We Teach

Through twisted sibling wisdom, I'd like to believe that I've bestowed my brother with a lifetime of vital knowledge. As the first born child, I inherently experience things first, granting me with a type of older sibling wisdom that can only be passed down. Thanks to me, my brother learned a few valuable lessons that only the second born child can learn...

How To Be The "Golden Child":
Just like every first born child, I was ripped-off by my number in the family line. As the first child, you automatically become family tribute, testing the unknown parental waters. You get to discover weather breaking curfew or running your mouth merits a harsher consequence as your younger siblings sit on the sidelines, taking notes. As older sister, I've bestowed Albert with a map as to what sets our parents off, so if he plays his cards right, this information will land him in the "best child" category for life.

How NOT To Break A Heart:
As the older sibling, I was not only the first to test our parents limits, but the first to try my hand at romance. Through trial and error, I learned my parents dating rules for the both of us. No tattoos, no being home alone together, and most definitely no republicans.
As the first child to set foot in the dating world, I was also the first child to experience heartbreak and my brother was there to watch me weather the storm. He watched me sob over Notebook marathons and pints of cookie dough ice cream, giving him insight into the complexity of romance.

How To Dress:
As an older sibling, I found my way to style via experimentation. My mother never questioned my multicolored sparkle pants, or fake purple hair, so there was no one there to stop me from my own embarrassment. I, however, saved by brother from a series of fashion faux pas. Despite how mean my comments may have been, I never let him out in public wearing a mixture of stripes and plaids or that velcro tee shirt with with the attachable name tag.

stylin'

How To Handle Pain:
As the older sibling, we tend to use our younger siblings as our very own punching bags. It's easy to start a fight when you know that you're going to win. All those years of purple-nurples, indian rug-burns, and bites help build up my brother's pain tolerance. I'd like to think that I did him a favor.

How To Get What You Want:
Over the years, I've learned the phrases to use, the buttons to push, and found that perfect timing. But just like most things, I had to learn art of begging all by myself. I tried temper tantrums, snuck in a lie or two, toyed with playing it cool, until I found the perfect 'yes' recipe. My brother, on the other hand, learned how to get my parents to say 'yes' by using my tried and true tactics. Just like a youtube tutorial, my life gave my brother the keys to 'yes.'

As older siblings, I think we deserve some respect for giving our younger siblings a substantially less tumultuous path...

But I also owe my brother, since he's the best one around!

If I were the Bachelorette

Although me and my girl friends are all smart, independent, career driven women, we love ourselves some Bachelor. We know it's tacky and a touch anti-feminist, but each and every season we are rearing for more. This season we've even made our own "fantasy league" - Bitches and Roses.
Just like any other Bachelor fan, I've always had some lurking desire to be on the show -this season more than ever. It's not Juan Pablo's salsa moves, sexy spanish accent, or even Juan Pablo in general, it's being able to choose from a pool of "eligible bachelors." As a chronic single woman, the idea of 25 men pining over me doesn't sound half bad. So here's how my season of "The Bachelorette" would play out...


My Bachelors:

If your claim-to-fame is making frat history for longest wizard staff, you wear jorts or cargo pants on a regular basis, or you can't remember the last book you read, sorry, you're out.

Chris Harrison would of course have my best interest in mind, ensuring that the majority of my suiters have beards. Some would have what I like to call B&B's (a bun & a beard), and I'd dabble in a few dapper dans - Chuck Bass style. All of my suitors will have careers - "free spirit" and "dog lover" will not cut the mustard.

The bearded man 

The dapper dan

Da B&B

My Twists:

The Rub Down: During the first rose ceremony, I'll skip the drunken getting-to-know-you small talk. Instead, I'll have each man give me a massage and give out roses based on their rub down.

Meet The Judges: Family and friends of the bachelor or bachelorette make rare appearances aside form the Hometown date. On my season, however, family and friends will help me choose. Just like Tyra Banks and her ANTM panel, the guys will have to woo us all if they wanna be on top and continue on in the hopes of becoming my main squeeze.

Rose Ceremony: Chris Harrison will not say, "this is the final rose tonight." Not only can we all count, but we can literally see that it is in fact the final rose.

The Proposal:

Unlike 99.9% of The Bachelor seasons, my season would make history like Trista and Ryan. Poems, tears, and a huge ring would be involved. And of course, we will live happily ever after....

Something Beautiful Remains

After a six year fight with alzheimer's disease, my grandmother finally lost the big fight. As a family member and one of my greatest role models, I'll forever have a special place in my heart for her. After a weekend of goodbyes, I was inspired to share my goodbye in hopes of memorializing the wonderful woman she was and will always be... 

Before her death in 1968, Helen Keller said, “Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there’s a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see.”

Rather than mourning the loss of a mother, grandmother, friend, or lover, I ask you to celebrate this passing, as Janis Manly has made her way into another room. A room full of new life and vibrant memories that were once lost. So as we gather here this afternoon and scratch only the surface of the amazing life she led, smile for her journey.

Although she has passed, something beautiful remains. Her spirit, which will find its way into the people and things she loved. Janis will forever live in the color orange, our family freckles, and all the memories she’s left behind. She will become part of all the things she cooked; “Palm Tree” salad, pot-a-fu, dill pickled pork chops, and the ginger she used in almost every dish. You’ll find her in the bottle glass windows, indoor plants, and Devils’ Walking Sticks. In wool couches, breezeways, touch latches, and rope wrapped around the stairs. She'll make her way into the crooked eyebrow that edges up the left side of my face. And she'll become that bright tube of lipstick or the loud patterned shirt. I’ll see her in fire works, Bow Mar signs, and waves of every lake. You will find her in Jim, in the memories in memories of Mayme and Limon, in Gretchen, in Kurt and in Gene. Parts of her will find their way into her grandchildren, the ones she told to call her Gran-Jan, and what is left of her beautiful soul will become part of her most cherished friends.

You will be forever missed, Gran-Jan. 

2014

A Few Simple Changes To Make In 2014:

- Read more books and less social media

- Practice more self-love and less self-bashing

-Do more yoga and less judgement of others

-Go for more walks and worry less

-Speak up more and jump to conclusions less

-Be more grateful and less insecure

-Listen more and frown less

-Travel more and plan less

Happy New Year!

Holiday Survival Guide

It's holiday season, which means everyone is back in town. Friends, family, and a most likely a hand full of people you'd rather not see (ie those mean girls from high school, or an ex). Awkward encounters are destined to happen this time of year, so I'm here to spare you a little bit of pain.

Here are a few tips to get you through what is left of the holiday season...

 The Mean Girl:
We've all dealt with a mean girl or two, whether it was the girl in elementary school who made fun of you for not having the most "up-to-date" Limited Two wardrobe, or the girl in high school who spread rumors about how you made out with a hot dog. Either way, you'd probably rather not see her. But if your luck is anything as good as mine, you will.
No matter how badly you want to slosh your vodka tonic across her face at the bar, tackle her Mean Girls style, or point out that time has been far cruder to her than it has been to you, resist the urge!

Instead:
- Be classy by being the first to say hello.
- Don't lie. Rather than feeding her lines like, "it's so good to see you,"ask a simple "how are you?"instead.
- Don't play the one up game. Rather than trying to out-do her with facts about your "fab' life, tell her that things are good overall. Don't embellish.
- Make the encounter short and sweet. A simple, "it was nice seeing you" will do the trick.

Your Ex:
No matter how things ended, it's never fun running into an ex unexpectedly. The situation is most likely uncomfortable, and with luck like mine, you'll run into him after having created a stain the size of texas on the front of your shirt, while his hand sits comfortably around the waist of some new girl. Your gut says run for the nearest exit, your hand begs to slap him, and the alcohol tells you to kiss him but once again, resist the urge.

Instead:
- Grab a glass of water rather than another drink. You never know what will come out of your liquored-up mouth in this moment of desperation.
- Once again, don't play the one up game. We are young, you have a few more years before you have to have your life together. You've accomplished a lot of things, but at our age, no one's life is anywhere near perfect, meaning there is no reason to try to make your life seem better than it truly is.
- Keep the conversation brief and light.
- Go your separate ways. It didn't work out for a reason, no need to try again.

GOOD LUCK!

5 To The New Year

With Christmas closing in on us and the new-year right around the corner, I’ve found myself thinking about changes I’d like to make in 2014. Since I tend to forget my new years resolutions by new years day, I’ve decided to stick to more simpler changes this year….

1.     With friends heading in a million life directions, jealousy can rear its ugly head. Rather than listening to that ugly side of you, be happy for your friends who reach those big life milestones before you. You’ll want that kind of support when you get there yourself. 

2.     If someone has hurt you, let them explicitly know how they did so. Conflict is never fun, but its important to stand your ground.

   

3.     Put some distance between you and people that drag you down. Spend time with the people that raise you up.

4.     Read more newspapers and books. 

5.     Take a hint from you preschool teacher and don’t say anything unless you have something nice to say.

Happy Winter

Here in Denver, we are having a record breaking cold front. Winter is officially here. Stay warm! 

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