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Tag Archives: relationships

Give Her a Valentine’s Day She’ll Never Forget

About this time every year, people often ask me, Bob, you’re such a romantic cuss, what’s your method for a sure-fire Valentine’s Day? I generally kiss these people full on the mouth, and the taste of my coffee-drenched tongue is usually enough to keep them from bothering me any further. But I have decided to share with you, my readers, the Bob Wire Can’t Miss Romance Method. I always used to think that Valentine’s Day is for suckers, but I’ve come to realize that it’s actually a major opportunity to score some heavy points on the sensitivity scoreboard. [I should point out that most of these tips will be aimed at the males among you, for it is the dudes, not the gals, who live in a state of perpetual head-scratching over what the opposite sex wants from us.]

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Fancy Footwork: Insights from Bozeman’s Dancing Guy

Let's face it: teenagers no longer flock to weekly Cotillion classes. The old-fashioned “dinner and dancing” date is now only a romantic myth heard around campfires. In fact, many folks run rapidly for the bathroom when they hear mention of taking a spin on the dance floor. In this day and age, dating involves juggling text-messages, emails, and special ring-tones instead of meeting for a night filled with the subtle flirtations of partners dancing cheek to cheek. But I’d like to argue that we should bring back the romance. Dancing is one of my top three favorite activities (right up there with eating and beer-drinking). I’ve found over the years that partner dancing--swing, salsa, two-step, and (everyone’s favorite) polka--is even more exhilarating than just gettin’ down w’ my bad self by my own self. Plus, it’s a good way to meet guys and do a quick check on whether there’s any of that lovely chemistry. My most recent dancing partner, who I’ll creatively call Dancing Guy, lives in Bozeman. Turns out that he’s not only insightful about swing flips and tango ochos, he’s also got some interesting perspectives on how dancing relates to male-female interactions off the dance floor. Check out this email exchange a few weeks ago between myself (BS, of course) and DG.

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Falling in Love is Hard on the…Knees?

I hope all you Making It readers will give a warm welcome (back) to Beefcake. We're adding a dash of Missoula-male perspective into the sisters' take on life and love in the Garden City. Beefcake Wellington (someone whom, remarkably, we'd never met before his first guest column) seems more than ready to take on this task. Check out his hopeful happenings at one of Missoula's hottest spots for hot drinks, using nothing more than his brain, brawn, and (of course) a crossword puzzle. -Big Sis Last time I was up here in the spotlight I mentioned how my first-ever one-night stand didn’t really play out in the traditional way. Nutshell: my one-nighter left me empty and wanting more instead of feeling stoked and sufficiently sated. Whether or not I played that scenario right was open to some serious debate, but the cumulative effect it had was making me realize how much, after a while, it sucks to be single. I’m convinced—indeed I believe—people are built for community. We don’t do well on our own for too long. So, as you can imagine, after almost 8 months of being very much alone in a new town, I was ready for a little meaningful human contact outside of spit-swapping and sharing an ill-conceived morning-after breakfast. I decided to put myself on the offensive. I was ready to get off my ass and see what I could do about kicking my (admittedly self-imposed) solitary confinement to the curb. I kept my eyes open. I made advances I might not have in the previous months. I put myself out there. I was—to invoke a little Blues Brothers magic—on a mission from God.

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Training Men and Dogs: Missoula’s Perceived Gender Divide

When Big Sis and Little Sis first approached me about writing a guest column for their “Making it in Missoula” column, I laughed. Although I’ve had almost a decade of experience with the Missoula dating scene, I certainly don’t view myself as an expert. In fact, I wouldn’t even say that I “make it” much of the time. But after their request, I began to ponder what I would write about. After many ideas -- some trivial, some profound, and most totally uninteresting -- I found myself focusing on a conversation of at one of Missoula’s (in)famous potlucks. An animated, new-agey older Missoulian dished out advice to a friend of mine who was frustrated with a love interest. Over a glass of wine and a baguette with hummus, the older woman concluded: “Dealing with men is sort of like training a dog; the key to both is positive reinforcement.”

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Ups And Downs On Quandary Peak

It's a fine spring morning in the Colorado high country, with pasque flowers in full bloom and pussy willows bursting forth in all their fuzzy glory. Trudging up the long approach to Quandary Peak, I scare up a flock of redwing blackbirds. They scatter, then reconvene in a willow thicket farther off the trail, wing spots glistening ruby red against satin feathers. Dark green forest, gleaming white peaks and a sky that's outer-space blue – the skier's flag! There's nowhere I'd rather be right now, but I still can't shake the break-up blues. In fact, I feel like the proverbial bug on the windshield of life. I don't think I can take credit for that wonderful line, and I have no idea who said it first. But if Tom Robbins didn't write it, he should have. Anyway, you know what I mean. One minute you're buzzing happily along. Maybe you've just chewed your way through the greenest and tastiest leaf ever. Or you've just pollinated an entire tree full of sweet-scented cherry blossoms. If you're really lucky, you've just mated. Pure bliss! Then, the next second, SMACK!! You're nothing but a little blob of protoplasm oozing across the front end of some giant SUV, without so much as epitaph to your name, no chance of a comeback, and, who knows, maybe you were even wearing some of that not-so-outstanding-underwear your mother warned you about.

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Confessions of a Free-Heel Fanatic

When I first started telemark skiing, it was a fringe experience. Adherents of the recently resurrected Nordic freeheel technique were almost cult-like in their fervor for this reborn discipline. Most of its adherents - at least the ones I knew - lived in Tipis or communes in San Cristobal or out on the Mesa, or in snow caves hidden deep in the Kit Carson National Forest, or in their cars - Far out, man! That included my own mentor, raven-haired Jen. She with the strong hands and gentle soul; with pine-scented hair, lips that tasted like ripe strawberries and wisdom and patience that seemed as deeply rooted in the Earth as the pinyons and junipers growing all around us in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos. I ended up living with her for several months, sharing cramped quarters in a '68 VW microbus. The homemade woodburner probably came close to asphyxiating us every night, but we maintained the arrangement through the coldest months of a snowy northern New Mexico winter, staving off frostbite and hypothermia with physical closeness. And the price was right.

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