The wandering father

Tex and I were strolling back from our walk to the coffee shop on Melrose.  We were in the home stretch, the last block, where Tex always lags behind.  He’s not slow because he’s sniffing everything.  He’s just old and tired.  His hips try to keep up with his mind, but often fail him.

 

Half-way up the block I noticed an old man going about the same pace as Tex.  As we got closer, the 80-something had on a blue wife beater, a full adult diaper, and gray-blue loafer slippers with dark blue piping on the top, just like my dad used to wear.  He was holding a bush with each step he took as he headed north to Santa Monica Boulevard.

 

I said good morning as we passed.  His face looked like he had not shaved in a week.  I remember that old man look from my father.  Why bother when you are ill and the folds in your face make it even harder to shave?

 

As I fed Tex, I called the West Hollywood sheriff and explained there was a semi-ambulatory old man with dementia out for a stroll on my block.  I’d never seen him before and didn’t know which building he came from.  They said they’d send a patrol car over.  Tex retreated to his day bed to look out the front door.

 

The old man shuffled past two more houses before he stopped to rest on a brick wall.  Approximately 40 minutes elapsed and his caretaker had finely come out to find him, about the same time the patrol cars rolled up.  I walked out and talked to one of the sheriffs.

 

“Thanks for coming. I realize this was a less-than-desirable call, but I just couldn’t let this guy wander on Father’s Day,” I told him.

 

“God, I hadn’t thought of that,” the sheriff said.  He laughed and continued with “it did look like he was making a break for it didn’t it?”

 

When Tex becomes incontinent and in pain, he’ll get the shot.  My dad, when he realized his life was tied to a dialysis machine, elected to discontinue treatment and fade away.  But I think the cruelest death is living in a shell of a body not knowing who you are and reliant on others while you look for life. 

 

The wandering old man deserves to be in a better place.

A tale of two musicians

Los Angeles is full of creative people, so it was only a matter of time before I’d have a date with a musician. Who knew it would be a doubleheader. I’ve dated musicians before, but they’ve had day jobs which puts them in the frustrated artist category. These guys were “real” musicians.

Friday night was a 40-something artist that sang and played numerous instruments. He was from the south and still had the accent. That made him even more endearing until he handed me his CD and told me he’d be on the road in a few weeks. I’m never sure if that is ego or an invitation to be a panty-throwing roadie. As I was half-way through my Moscow mule, Friday requested to read my palm.

“Your life line doesn’t look right. You need a liver cleanse,” he told me.

No, I just needed to finish my half-empty glass and self-cleanse. As he continued to dominate the conversation, I prepared my exit speech. Thanks, I don’t need another. It was nice meeting you.

Saturday’s date was with a slightly shy 31 year-old composer/producer. After nearly a month of e-courting, he nutted up and asked to meet me. By the time I had finished my second beer, I managed to wow him with the theatrical merits of Beerfest versus Pineapple Express. He thought I was a genius. I knew I was just appealing to my demographic and it was a struggle. This cougar thing is tough work.

As a writer, I have a strong appreciation for the creative mind. However, in the dating world I still need to find my happy medium between crazy artist and humble CPA.

One day.

Driven to screw

A close girlfriend got out of a 2.5 year fakelationship and nearly immediately got back to the online dating business with some mildly successful results. I found her get-back-on-the-horse determination inspiring enough to return to the game also. My out-of-the-gate experience left a friend in New York saying, “can you move to San Francisco? Even with the gays, it has to be better dating there.”

O Henry

Before the internet and widespread MTV adoption, college radio was what we relied on to hear new and different music. It is what prompted me to DJ at my college and at the all-boys school seven miles down the road. It’s also when I started my 25 year long-distance relationship/obsession with Henry Rollins.

My shows were a smorgasbord of punk, new wave, world music, cool pop, and rock. I admired Henry for leaving DC and moving to LA to stalk Black Flag, eventually becoming their singer. There was a poetic anger about him that kept me interested. I watched his career continue to move in various directions and was proud he didn’t become a punk flame out.

I watched us both get old. Older. Wiser.

I now admire his politics and his hunger for social understanding. Most of all, his musical knowledge is probably unmatched. As a DJ, the stuff he has is amazing. Old vinyl and obscure foreign music; the guy is a musical encyclopedia.

Friday night I finally had the opportunity to meet him. The myth in my head finally met reality face to face and I wasn’t sure what to say. I regressed into a stupid 15 year-old girl. What do I say? Do I request a song? Do I comment on his views on apartheid? Do I thank him for moving his show to KCRW?

Three vodkas into the evening and I was off my game. “I’ve never seen a shy side of Marna,” a girlfriend commented. I realized it comes back to LA. I’ve never had a serious conversation with a smart person since I’ve lived in LA. I was verbally paralyzed. The best I could do was walk up to him while his DJ cans were off his head and say “Hi Henry. I’m a Navy brat from DC and love your stuff.” His response was a smile and “Right on” with a thumbs up.

My girlfriends weren’t satisfied and a half-hour later, my friend with the camera approached Keith Morris and said, “My friend is shy. Do you might a photo together?” I was pushed in between the Black Flaggers, stooping down so Keith could reach my shoulder. The result was confused and crazy elation.

The Rollins demystification is over. Now I need a new crush.

In prayers

Why did you leave New York again?

I think everyone has a love/hate relationship with New York. I have had three visits since leaving because I miss it so much, but need to stay away long enough to remember why I left six years ago. It's getting harder to remember why.

Within 30 minutes of getting out of JFK, my incense-burning cab driver had me in the east Village for PubNight - a tradition I used to share weekly with my technology dotcom friends.  I was drinking drafts with a half-dozen old friends and another dozen acquaintances.  They all asked why I had left.

This old dog

It’s official. Tex is my longest running relationship since arriving in LA. He’s emotionally available, he’s big, he doesn’t flake on me, and me makes me smile every day.

We’ve been together a little more than a year and April Fool’s Day is his designated 11th birthday since it’s easy to remember and it reminds me how foolish I thought I was for adopting an old dog. But Tex is a combination of Jeff Lebowski and Flounder – there’s a casual, cool, perpetual goofiness about him that makes him my one true love.

While my favorite, four-lettered word is N-E-X-T, Tex’ word of choice is W-A-L-K. But sometimes he can’t walk. After some severe bouts of lameness, I discovered that Tex had an advanced case of hip dysplasia as well as some lower back issues. Now doggie meds keep the inflammation down in addition to glucosimine and Omega-3 infused food. He doesn’t hike as much. In fact, he now gets more pleasure walking to Whole Foods so he can be the exit greeter while I’m inside shopping.

Last weekend a woman commented at a coffee shop that he was an “obvious old soul.” I don’t know about that new age hippie bullshit. I do know he’s old and kind of looks like Yoda. And he is wise. He’s the dog everyone wants to pet. Small kids want to hug him. He’s happy to be alive. I’m glad I fostered/adopted him. It’s a pleasure to keep him comfortable in his senior years.

The dude abides. Happy birthday man.

Social marketing condolences

As the grumpy old lady of the internet, I have said I don’t have time for anything unless it is going to get me a job or get me laid. While Facebook has not yielded those results for me yet, it has lived up to the “social” part of marketing.

When I posted my status was “back to being single,” I had cocktail offers within minutes. Girlfriends wanted to console me, which I realized was just a really good excuse to drink.

“I made the decision to breakup with GC. Really, I’m fine,” I explained.

The next day, I had three different girlfriend dates and one offered setting me up with a new guy. I don’t know what to make of Facebook except it is another great communications channel I’ve loaded with very good friends.

The speed with which people reach out is equal to my relationship recovery time. What took me weeks and months to say before now took me days.

N-E-X-T.

Why, old people, WHY?

I know this isn’t an LA-specific phenomenon, so I can’t blame it on California, but why do old, retired people insist on doing their errands on my time?

I realize they are the greatest generation, but what the fuck. Do they really need to be in the post office line at 8 a.m. with me when I’m trying to get to work and they are just killing time before Ellen comes on?

Oh, and here’s a good one. Rain. I think we can make a generalization that old people are bad and/or cautious drivers. Add a little rain in LA and you have a recipe for disaster. So why would old people come out in the rain to go to Trader Joe’s at 5:15 p.m. on a weekday only to shuffle around the store, hog the aisles with their carts, and stand in the 10 items or less lane. Seriously? Did the risk outweigh the benefits or did they come to Trader Joe’s to people watch?

Once again, aren’t they missing Ellen? Can’t they fill their voyeuristic needs at the senior center?

Social Security may be gone by the time I get to this age, but I promise, I SWEAR, I will do all my ordering online and if I can still drive, I’ll do it between 10 and 2.

The doctor is still in

Since I’ve been dating GC for a while, I haven’t been able to say my favorite four-lettered word, N-E-X-T. However, that hasn’t stopped my girlfriends from calling to seek advice or validation from me.

Linda called me yesterday laughing about Fire Marshall Bill troubles. It seems he has been playing the field and one of his girlfriends hacked into his cellphone and texted Linda. The girls compared notes and quickly discovered they were victims of dating fraud.

“Next,” I told Linda.

Next turned into us instantly inventing a “Cry me a river of lies” DoucheBag doll with a pull string that can recite 20-40 cliché man excuses. “She’s just a friend.” “I was on the phone with my mom.” “I’ve got to go out of town for while.” And my favorite, “I’m still living with my wife so I can save money for a divorce.”

Mary called tonight to verify first date protocols. The meeting is tomorrow and the guy hasn’t called to confirm time or place. “Tomorrow, if he calls I’m just not going to answer my phone,” she decided.

I told her a more effective approach would be to tell him she made other plans when she didn’t hear from him. My other plans usually involved my dog and Netflix, or researching a new vibrator attachment, but the last minute lack-of-plan slackass never needed to know that.

So, it’s refreshing to know I’m still the voice of dating reason while He’s Just Not That Into You is number one at the box office.

I am a winner

I won $100 for one quarter in the office Super Bowl pool. I realize this is random and requires no knowledge of football, but it's exciting to me all the same.

The last time I won something was at the state fair. The guy guessed my weight wrong and I got a stuffed animal. I may of won a dollar or two on scratch lottery tickets, but those aren't as exciting.

Cash is so much better. Maybe I'm on a streak. Checking those Vegas packages right now.....

Another year older

Yesterday was my birthday. No big deal and usually a nonevent for me, but when other people need an excuse to celebrate, I’m game. I mean, if there’s chocolate or beer involved, how horrible could it be.

GC took me to dinner at a swank place last night. As he held my hand and looked into my eyes he asked, “how old are you anyway?” I guess in our early courting rituals, we never got around to that detail.

“I’m 43. You too can look like me if you start your eye cream habit early,” I revealed.

“Oh, so you are only a year and a half older than me. We don’t look our age,” he said.

When it came time to order dessert, I knew I had matured. I got the baked apples instead of the chocolate gateau.

Another year wiser.

Scheduling sex

Most people’s soundtrack for sex is that porny bern-chica-bern-bern. Not me. When I think of sex, I hear the theme of The Rockford Files.

Television was a big deal for kids growing up in the ‘70s. One of the biggest days in our household was the arrival of a second black and white TV for my parent’s bedroom. This served two purposes (in order of likelihood): (1) Programming conflicts among household members were resolved and/or my parents didn’t have to be in the same room together; and (2) My parents had a way to drown out sex noises from my brother and me.

When you are young, you learn to like what your parents like because you want to be with them. I quickly learned to like The Rockford Files. But seriously, what was not to like? James Garner was good looking and he drove a cool car. So, one day when I heard the theme, I ran to my parent’s bedroom and opened the unlocked door to see them naked and intertwined. I gasped and my mother let out an Amityville Horror “Get Out” command. My happy Rockford theme was permanently tarnished by that vision.

That experience and feedback from my married friends made me vow I’d never be one of those people that schedules sex. In fact, several weeks ago, I told GC to shoot me if I became one of those people. That was until today. I lunged and squatted in boot camp this morning. GC’s trainer kicked his ass too. Ironically, I sent an email to him and told him there was no way I could bend my legs to have sex tonight right as he sent an email saying the same. We conceded mutual physical defeat and agreed to a sexless date tonight.

Even Jim Rockford needs a night off once in a while, right? But I bet he’d lock the door if kids were around.

I resolve to…

My brother and I had bad allergies as kids. As a result, we easily took naps. No complaints. In my adult life, I’ve continued my love of sleep, but now it borders on “you know you are getting old when….”

When GC asked me if I had plans for New Years, I laughed. I mean, why? After you’ve done Times Square, is there any point in getting on the road for a party in LA? I don’t think so. Of course, it’s rare for me to be up that late any way, unless I take a disco nap.

Imagine my excitement when I found a brand new way to enjoy New Years. It’s called East Coast Feed. At 9 p.m. GC, his 7 year-old son, and I blew horns, shot off confetti, and threw colored streamers. Tex and I walked home and I was in bed by 10:30 p.m.

A perfect New Year's Eve.

Toys ‘r me

The last time I was in Toys ‘R Us may have been a decade or two or three ago. I just remember wanting to carve my ovaries out with a dull spoon. What got me in this time? Well, coffee and the prospect of sex, of course.

Armed with a pumpkin latte, I went with GC to do Santa shopping. I discovered there was indeed a recession. I think I saw a dozen people in there on a Sunday which gave me more assumed latitude to “press here” and “pull here.” After pressing one too many Elmo hands, GC said, “you know every parent in here knows you have no kids because you are trying to make noise.”

Yeap. Attention breeders. Marna is in the house and she’s here to have some fun.

Once home, my Santa workshop opened and I was elf-ing to perpetuate the big lie, except this time I was smarter than my mom. My Santa had different wrapping paper, ribbon, and tags. No 6-year old could CSI my work and figure out Santa was really Daddy. And, instead of hiding the gifts in the trunk, like my dad did, we’re hiding the presents off-site at my place.

This kid better believe or else!

The pound of flesh which I demand of him 'tis mine... and I will have it

I used to look forward to Sunday nights to have an ocular orgy with David Duchovny in the X-Files. As I got older, Sunday nights became reserved for Tony Soprano and Carrie Bradshaw. Now I get to look forward to the kid drop off followed by divorced daddy sex with GC.

Last night’s pillow talk was a little different. I forgot, when dating a writer, there’s a chance he may actually read my blog. Dripping with sweat he said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve been dating for longer than 90 days.”

I’ve beat my LA relationship record. There must be a Hallmark gift for this. “Hey, so what do I get? Paper? A pen?” I asked

“You just got it,” he told me.

Oh yeah, that hot monkey sex with a real man instead of a machine. Yeah, that is the perfect gift. I’ve been paroled from bad LA dating.

Today a coworker changed his status on Facebook from single to “In relationship.” I realized, I still had my “Facebook is gonna get me laid” settings on. I changed it to “In relationship” looking to “network.” Holy crap, you would of thought there was a 7.0. I received one long distance call and dozens of emails and comments ranging from ‘congratulations” to “WTF.”

Everyone’s tragically heterosexual and single girl is now unavailable. Call the dogs off.

WWMD

They say with age comes experience. In Los Angeles, with dating comes experiences.

A girlfriend recently had a male-variety dilemma. She actually stopped and asked herself, “What Would Marna Do?” I’m flattered that anyone would listen to my advice given my favorite four-lettered word is N-E-X-T and none of my dating experiences have lasted more than 90 days.

California has good lemon laws. So do I.

Where’s my happy ending, ruski?

I’m not that inhibited when it comes to my body. Well, I’m not porn-star confident, so you won’t see me flashing my tits in a girls-gone-wild way. My college days are over. But when I’m scheduled for a deep tissue massage, and given a choice, I select a male because, you know, they are usually stronger and can really get in there.

Andre was a giant - very Rocky IV Russian. Exactly what I’d expect from a spa in my Little Odessa neighborhood. He was probably 24 with a square face and a firm handshake. I knew he could get me straightened out from six weeks of hobbling in a cast.

I was head-down in the doughnut. My mashed boobs spilled into my armpits. He came into the room, pulled down the sheet to my crack and oiled me up. Within 30 seconds, I got a string of questions I’d never been asked while lying on a massage table.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Do you have any children?” was his follow-up question. Do I look like a single mother? I told him no, I had a rescued dog.

“Are you from LA?” was his third question. Oddly, I began to realize, his questions were no different from when I’m screening people, except I start with LA first. I told him I had lived in LA for five years, but I was from Virginia. “Oh, that’s the accent.”

I decided to change the subject to NYC Russians and my experiences at the Russian Vodka Room. He then suggested, after my massage, I meet him next door at Bar Lubitsch.

“I’m serious. If you live around the corner, go home, change, and meet me,” he encouraged.

He worked my back over and got the knots out. When we finished and I was re-robed and outside the door, I thanked him again. “You see what your aunt feels like doing and try to come have vodka with me,” he said.

I suppose a shot of vodka was a more professional approach to getting to know me; however, the whole time I was on the table, I wanted a happen ending, just to say I finally got one. But I’ll take getting hit on while naked. That’s a new one for me too.

Wow, I have 200 friends!

I joined Myspace years ago as another possible dating channel. After several attractive offers from Nigerian contractors, I set my profile on private and rarely went to myspace.com.

In June, the kids in the office convinced me to join Facebook. “The only social marketing I do is the kind that will get me laid,” I told them. They said it might be possible if I had the right kind of friends.

So, 200 friends later, Facebook hasn’t proven to be a good pimp. Ironically, I met my boyfriend through a friend. You know, the old school type of friend that you actually know well enough to email and phone directly.

Your social security statement

Am I the only person who opens those annual Social Security statements and gets pissed? I discovered a way to redirect my hatred for all the geezers that get a paycheck thanks to me. It’s called disability.

“If you become disabled right now your payment amount would be about $1,924 a month,” my estimated benefits tell me. That’s tempting, especially since I’ve had a taste of “disability” during the last six weeks while I was in a soft foot cast. It gets me seats on the bus. My Russian neighbors make room for me on the sidewalk. And, last night, the greatest perk: I got handicapped seating at The Wiltern to see The Breeders.

Now we all know I’d have to live in a trailer and eat dog food to survive on that monthly stipend. But it is tempting, especially if it gets me out of working with colossal tools. I’ve been working since 1979 and I’m tired. But I’m also frustrated knowing that these Studio 54-Woodstock nation boomers are retiring on my dime and I’ll be lucky if the favor is returned to my generation.

I could buy a mighty fine trailer with the $71,630 I’ve contributed so far, or 600 kegs of beer and 100 bags of dog food. Until I figure out how I can work the system, I’m going to keep my crutches and soft cast nearby. At least I know I’ll have good seats at restaurants and concerts.

A newly discovered sex niche

My affinity for younger men began long before I fell into the “cougar” demographic. I was 30, newly divorced, and in that cruel “sexual prime.” I would try anything (one) once. In my Lewis & Clark-esque discoveries, I found disgruntled married-man sex was the best sex out there. Now, I’d like to revise that finding.

With another decade of experience under my belt, I’m here to tell you, the best sex out there is Divorced Daddy Sex (DDS). Find a man that has spent a week with his kid: painfully slow peewee baseball, why questions, action figures, and the ever-popular I-want-I-want, and I’ll show you a man that’s dying for adult contact one-minute after the drop off at mom’s.

So, for all the 20-something boys who think I’m so cool: I love your energy. It’s been nice trying you. For every married man who thinks I’m so vivacious: Go screw your wife or nut up and divorce her. For all the 30-something guys in general: Get your emotionally unevolved asses to therapy and stop dating until you know what you want.

In addition to a health glow, an ancillary benefit to DDS is weight loss. But, its nice to know with one kiss, I can flip a dad from provider to…. holy crazy batshit sex provider and emotionally evolved partner.

It’s about time. I was worried I’d be in menopause before I figured this out.

The condomdrum

I heard Oprah once said that if you want a man in your life, you have to imagine him and create him in some sort of collage and then he will manifest. I got as far as buying magnum condoms. And you know me and condoms, I buy them and they often expire. In fact, my Aunt and I gave my last big batch of expirees away with our drink tips on a cruise a few years ago.

GC has been back in New York for five days. Tonight, in preparation for our reunion tomorrow night, he asked me if I had a condom preference. No guy has ever asked me that. Of course, my preference is a condom without holes, but most of all just having a real, live guy to fill one is preference enough for me.

But, wow, thanks for asking.

The Little Odessa bodega

There are times I miss Brooklyn. Good bagels. Real pizza. Funny Jews. It was very apparent last week I wasn’t anywhere near Brooklyn when I went to my corner market.

I’ve been a shut-in since my foot surgery, but felt strong enough to venture out, primarily for fruit and human interaction. I put my backpack on, grabbed the leash, and Tex and I crutched up to Santa Monica Boulevard. I tied him to the tree in front of the market and I went in.

Bodegas in NY have everything. Sewing kits, beer, cheese, you name it. The markets in my neighborhood are run by Russian Jews. All food labels are in Russian. Their customers are stereotypical sad Russians sporting scowls. My gimpy WASPY self was happy to be around the old world Jews, just for a change of pace. I grabbed some tomatoes, grapes, dark rye and waited in line and stared at the deli case which had a variety of beet dishes. I suppose Russians like their root vegetables.

When I finally got to the register the woman before me was almost out the door, but was speaking very loud and pointing. I realized it was Tex. I hobbled to the door as she continued to speak her Russian blah-blah to me. I smiled and said, “He’s old and very, very friendly.”

She seemed surprised I wasn’t a native speaker. Maybe my bed head made me look more Russian. “Oh, he is beautiful dog. You see he is very old soul,” my rectangular-shaped neighbor in a polyester dress told me.

Back at the register, the owner tried to up-sell with potato pancakes and other bakery items. She then went to the meat case and pulled out what looked like a one-inch diameter Slim Jim dipped in battery acid. I can’t begin to tell you how many un-nameable cow parts I saw there. “It will make you well,” she told me. I thanked her and stuffed my backpack.

I’m now doing much better and Tex and I can make it the four short blocks to Whole Foods with one crutch. I may go back and visit my Russians, but for now, I’m back to English-speaking WeHo gays and Hollywood Jews. These are my people. Besides, Whole Foods has bagels.

Alex, I’ll take Panama for $500

When you haven’t had good sex in a very long time, you hit that point where you become OK without it. You get used to it. Or you get a dog to keep your mind off it. But there is that fear, like a diabetic having a small slice of cake, that when you do finally have sex, you are going to crave the whole cake all the time.

It had been a long time for GC as well, so I don’t think either one of us were in a hurry to go there. When we did, it was exactly as I suspected it would be: great and, damn it, great. The sweat wasn’t dry yet and I was the proverbial addict slapping my wrist looking for a vein. I was ready for round two and his eyes were still rolled to the back of his head.

Several days later, he paid me the ultimate compliment. “You have the sex drive of a small latin country.” Not bad considering my primary source of pleasure has been walking my dog. Now I can obsess about the next time I get “walked.”

My wing man is a cock block

I spent the first four years in Los Angeles dating voraciously, trying to make up for my career-first East coast days. I’m now a dog owner, which has kind of changed my outlook on dating. You are going to have to be better than my dog and my vibrator to get me out of the house.

That rule quickly changed on Thursday for the veep debate. I had a gentleman caller (GC) over for drink Palin Bingo. GC and I were re-introduced a few months ago by a mutual friend and have had a great time bitching about dating in LA, getting fit, writing, and everything in between. It was nice to have a man over. I didn’t have to leave my dog.

But Tex quickly established who was top dog when he crawled on to the sofa and pressed his nose up to GC’s hip. I was permitted to sit sideways beside the boys. After a few “mavericks” and “main streets,” Tex realized this guy was ok and he demoted himself down to his day bed on the floor. GC was approved.

Tex is the big brother I never had. He watches my back. Thankfully, he leaves the room when he hears the vibrator.

Leader of the pack

I grew up in a time when sport bras barely existed; certainly not for d-cups. Sneakers didn’t have shock control and they had little arch support. Well, at least not where my parents shopped. These factors, combined with allergies, made me a hater of gym class.

There were two times a year when I really wanted to skip school just to miss gym and that was during those god forsaken Presidential fitness tests. Girls, you remember, the flex arm hang where you’d try to keep your head above the bar. I was good for about three seconds. But my least favorite test was the 440 run. That one lap around the track made my lungs burn, my nose run, my boobs hurt, and my ankles ache. I was never a runner.

Imagine me 30 years later in a fitness bootcamp. I was nearly paralyzed the first day when the major blew his whistle and we started running down Wilshire Boulevard at 6 a.m. My eighth grade anxiety set in. Armed with great shoes and a killer sport bar, I went as far as I could. I could go miles on the elliptical or treadmill at the gym, but there was just something about hard pavement and bus fumes that made it more difficult.

Three weeks later I was at the front of the line up and made it all the way on a half-mile warm up jog around the LA County Museum of Art. I tried to hang back so I wouldn’t hold up the fast people; however, the major pushed me and I was the pace setter.

I made it, but those magical endorphins never arrived to supply me with a runners high. All I could think about was, “wow, my mother could of never done this at my age.” So, my mindset was not back in eighth grade thinking about my 80 pound classmates who could flex-arm hang for 45 seconds. Nah, my athletic competitive benchmark is just living better than my parents.

If that’s the case, I think it’s cocktail hour.

# posted by Marna [marna@dontmincewords.com]: 11:34 PM

I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of?

There are certain addictions we find ways to overcome. Diabetics avoid bakeries. Alcoholics bypass liquor stores. I have avoided eBay for the longest time mainly because I don’t want to be a junk shopoholic. I’ve admired the company for years for giving common consumers the confidence they needed to make purchases on the Internet. But I have not bought a thing. Not until I realized I needed a lunch box.

I was shoving my Target plastic “lunch” bag in our over-crowded office refrigerator when a co-worker with a pink unicorn lunch box followed me. That’s when I realized I needed a lunch box that was easy to distinguish.

What pops into my mind? I know those of you that know me figure SpongeBob, Simpsons, or Hello Kitty. No, my mind went somewhere else - back into a time machine.

Back to 1971. I decided I needed to get the Partridge Family lunch box I never got the first time around. At 9 a.m., I was on eBay bidding in an auction that was ending in 45 minutes. I had heard about these last minute bidding wars. All I knew was, it was payday and I was going to get my damn lunch box.

An hour and $52 later I won the lunch box (with Thermos!) and I received an email from eBay congratulating me on my first purchase and inviting me to “find more great items.” Coming down off my shopping high from the world’s biggest yard sale I realized I had to wait for shipping. There was no immediate gratification like I get at a Nordstrom’s shoe sale. That’s why I’ve actually avoided eBay.

Today, 13 days later, I’m the proud owner of an original Partridge Family lunch box. Its arrival was anticlimactic and less of a high than winning a bidding war. Now I’m washed in stress trying to figure out what to pack for lunch tomorrow. I don’t have any fruit roll-ups, Pop Rocks, Spaghetti-O’s, or the fixings for a peanut butter banana sandwich.

A banner day for reruns

In order to cope at work, a friend has decided to channel her strong inner black woman. I now jokingly call her "Nay Nay" which is short for Shanaynay, a character created by Martin Lawrence. Today, after receiving two loser reconnects in one day, I decided I needed to go black too.

Joker #1 called to see if I was available to go out "soon." Of course, it took me a while to place the voice. Ironically, I had deleted him from my phone last week because I thought it was safe to write him off. No, more than six months after meeting and one call after that, he was calling to ask me out.

"Seriously? I met you six months ago and gave you my card and NOW you are ready to ask me out? Are you joking?" I asked.

He stuttered and realized my offer expired and quickly got off the phone.

Joker #2 left me an offline instant message. We had one date more than two years ago. He drank too many margaritas and wasn't able to drive, so he spent the night on my couch barfing into my trash can. Needless to say, I didn't see him again. But tonight he decided to leave me a message letting me know that he was thinking of me and he'd like to see me again.

It wasn't hard to find my strong inner black woman to respond to this message.

"Seriously? You are contacting me two years post-puke? Really?"

Is it time to adopt a second dog? I'm not sure if I can survive any more LA-induced Post Traumatic Dating Disorders.

Real men say the darnedest things

I left my canine boyfriend, Tex, tonight and ventured out into the nightlife of Los Angeles. My girlfriend taunted me with LA Filmfest free drinks.

I found her at the bar amongst a gaggle of young filmmakers and other desperate creatives looking for film funding or peer validation. When I walked up, she was talking to a good looking guy in a wheelchair. She hugged me and he burst out a statement without introduction.

“Goddamn, you are built like a brick shit house,” he said to me.

I replied with, “Hi, I’m Marna. You obviously aren’t from LA.”

Alex turned out to be a drunk, one-legged vet from Chicago. I told him he made my night and I was going to blog him. “Really, nobody tells you how hot you are?”

No, not so bluntly. That was perfect.

Murdock started the quake

Is it a coincidence that the day I cancel my MySpace membership and open a Facebook account, we have a 5.4 earthquake? Thanks Rupert, it was a fun ride.

Cost re-allocation in a down sexual economy

When times are tough, you begin to evaluate all your expenses. When you aren't getting laid, you review the cost of pedicures, waxing, razors, and other associated items. I decided to go off birth control since there wasn't anything to control. Instead, I restarted my NetFlix membership.

It seemed like a better use of $20.

The dood - almost better than Jesus

When you have a good dog, and a good vibrator, is there any need to date in LA? Today I came to my senses and decided, ah, no thank you.

On Thursday night I was coaxed out of my canine enclave to see a 70’s-style punk band. When they opened with “I’m not your stepping stone” and closed with a Ramones song, I was happy I got out. Fat Tire on draft and I got a little pogoing in.

My girlfriend and I decided to hit the Rainbow Room on our way home. The last time I was there, I saw Lemmy from Motorhead (but I think he lives behind the bar). It’s a total rocker bar. If I were younger and dug guys that weighed less than me, I’d be in business. But it’s fun to see the leather and the Alice Cooper eyeliner and think, “see you in the corporate monkeyspank soup line in five years, novice.”

But my stance on musicians didn’t stop me from immediately noticing a Fabio longhair-type at the end of the patio wearing a white wife-beater.

“Hello 12 o’clock,” I said to my girlfriend after I had made the mandatory five-second hello-I’m-available-eye-contact.

I turned and she said, “Oh, he’s checking your ass out,”

Five minutes later, he passed us going to the bathroom and said hello to me. “That was a direct hit, right? I suck at this flirting shit,” I admitted to my girlfriend.

Not too long after that, Fabio and Friend sat down with us. I had a nice time talking and listening to the panty-melting south american accent. We know how the latins like me… Marnasita with the galaxy-sized hips and infectious laugh. Fabio was petite, but attractive and, more importantly, a great kisser.

I relinquished my phone number with the promise of a date in the near future. We chatted a couple times Friday when I discovered he worked part-time and he didn’t have a car. He requested I pick him up Saturday night for our date and we’d do something mellow.

On Saturday, after a spending Friday night with Tex barfing up his hip dysplasia meds, I decided Fabio wasn’t worth a commute. I’ve done underemployed musicians before.

I called and canceled the date. Afterwards, Tex approached me with his sad eyes and I told him he was still my main man. Later than evening I took him around the block for his mark-all-things-vertical walk. In our short spin, two people approached me and asked me if he was an American Bulldog and told me what a good-looking dog he was.

Yeah, I know, he’s hot. He’s the dood I stayed in for.

Coke adds life?

I continually run into my hot, straight neighbor on my dog walks. You know, the one that thinks I’m wholesome. We briefly chat about nothing, hug out, and I’m on my way. Our fakelationship has graduated. He rang the doorbell.

“Hi, are you doing anything. I’m lonely and want company,” he said when I opened the door. I explained that I was doing laundry and packing for the 4th weekend, so I wasn’t really doing anything.

I got him a beer, gave him the 10-cent tour, and took him out to the back porch. We chatted briefly and as we were coming back in the door, he turned, stared me down and kissed me.

“We’ve been flirting for months. I just wanted to get that out of the way,” he said.

It was a fabulous reminder that I am a woman with needs, but the needle on my internal creepy Reiter scale was twitching.

“That felt great and I agree, the flirting has been fun and you are a good looking guy, but I have to tell you right now, I’m not fucking you,” I said, trying to manage his expectations. The other reality was my legs were unshaved; I was in yoga pants, a big t-shirt, and a sport bra from my work out a few hours prior. I was just plain gross.

He said he understood and that was cool, then offered to give a tour of his place. I put the whites in the dryer and walked with him.

We made it to his bedroom where he asked me if I was OK with him doing coke. I told him it was his house and it wouldn’t make me uncomfortable, but I wasn’t interested in participating… EVER. Food remains my drug of choice. I sat there and got a first-hand drug education. This wasn’t like the disco coke the kids did when I was in high school. This was a ritual. He sprinkled the coke on tin foil, added some baking soda and water, let it dry, then burned the foil from the bottom and sucked the smoke through a three-inch glass straw. I guess the way Richard Pryor freebased was too old school for him.

Once the high hit, I immediately fired away with the questions.

“I see your car around a lot. Do you work?” I asked.

“Well….” , he responded which I knew was the prelude to a good unemployment story.

He used to be a contractor working in concrete (which would explain the body), but with the housing slump, and the abundance of cheap Mexicans, he hasn’t worked in a while. “I get help,” he said.

Now, where I come from “help” means public assistance or a trust fund. I cocked my head, looked confused and let him elaborate.

“I have a few lady friends that take care of me,” he admitted.

“Seriously? You are a 30 year-old gigolo?” I asked.

Indeed he was. Then he asked my age. He was dumbfounded and then said he loved older woman because we know what we want. Alas, I know what I don’t want, and that’s a young, cokehead gigolo.

The next morning, my doorbell rang and it was Cokie sweating in satin pajama bottoms and a Hugh Heffner robe.

“Let me guess, you’ve been up all night,” I said laughing at him.

“Yeah, what time is it?” he asked.

“It’s time for me to go to work and for you to go home,” I responded.

I liked our relationship when there was mystery about him and when he told me I had a nice ass. Now I’ve met yet another troubled LA guy with no direction.

NEXT.

Marna presents real LA men of staggering genius: Mr. Keep Calling Back

Today I salute you. Mr. Keep Calling Back.
(Mr. Keep Calling Back)
Armed with a cell phone, Marna’s number saved, you keep dialing.
(She’s not calling back)
Two months later, you are sure she’s still busy.
(Maybe she has a new job)
The first date was great.
(But she didn’t have a second beer)
The second date was better. You gave her a margarita and told her you couldn’t believe you were with her.
(She left to walk the dog)
A man can wait a long time for the right woman. A smart woman saves the phone number of the wrong man.
(You’re IDed dood)
So crack open an ice cold beer, Touchtone. 'Cause we all know, you’ll never be #1 on her speed dial. She’s not calling back.
(Mr. Keep Calling Back)

From cotton candy to porn

I received a reminder that ex’s are ex’s for a reason. Circus boy called. He’s a guy I dated in New York before I moved to California. His most notable relationship error was leaving me at his family event to go help an ex-girlfriend who was “stranded” on the side of the road. We broke up and he left and joined the circus.

Seriously, the circus. Now you can say you know someone who was dumped for Ringling Brothers. Anyhow, five years later, I still receive random emails and calls from him which I don’t mind because I know he’s always good for material.

Today was no exception.

After the catch-up small talk, he told me he was engaged. This is not the first time in my life an ex- has called to basically say “look someone else likes me and maybe for a long time.” Congratulations. And you are calling me because...????

Because his wife-to-be, who sells cotton candy and concessions for the circus, is getting ready to launch a porn site and they wanted to enlist my marketing expertise. Yeah, I know, WTF?

“You know, I’m focusing on a job search right now and don’t have a lot of time for freelance. My best piece of advice would be to make sure the HTML copy is relevant so that you can pull rankings in organic search,” I said.

But the good times don’t end there. He announced they might be quitting the circus when it gets to Arizona so that they can go and live in Las Vegas. “I think that’s a smart choice for you two,” I said.

Let’s hope what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Is mercury in retrograde?

I just had an ex- call me and tell me he loved me and he wanted to “correct this shit.” Stay tuned. He’s 3,000 miles away and we broke up 12 years ago.

. . .I can’t make this stuff up.

Understanding your economic stimulus payment

My tax credit posted today. What a fucking crock of shit. It won't even buy me two tanks of gas. I would of done better if I had "qualifying children" but apparently my $10 bag/week of Hill's Science Diet dog food isn't stimulating or qualifying enough. If only I had the time to purchase a kid from Namibia instead of rescuing a very old dog.

My $240 vibrator, which was probably made in China, stimulates my bush a hell of a lot better.

Don't forget to vote in November.

A neighbor in need is a straight guy indeed

Since I have a dog to walk, I’m outside a lot and have met many of my neighbors as a result. I’m in West Hollywood, so I can safely assume all my neighbors are gay. While it’s not a target-rich environment, I’m still my smiling, giggly self - a female minority in a sea of dripping hot homos.

A few weeks ago, two tremendously good looking guys walked out of a house five doors down as Tex and I were crossing their path. I smiled and said hi. They replied with the same back. Today, the same tall hot guy got in his car as I walked by. He drove north, turned around, and slowed down when he passed me. He made a u-turn and came back and parked in front of the house and jumped out his car. Tex and I were in the gate when he ran to the driveway.

“Hi, excuse me. I have a question I need to ask you,” tall hottie said. If I were in a straight neighborhood, this is when I could expect the “does the curtain match the drapes” question. But, in West Hollywood, I had no assumptions.

“Sure,” I said then we introduced ourselves.

“Do you have any satin pajama bottoms I can borrow? I have a party to go to and I’ve spent the day at the Abbey and I’m too fucked up to drive,” he explained.

Satin pajama party. That’s gay, right? The Abbey is a wonderful bar and restaurant, but it is the epicenter of queer in WeHo.

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear pajamas,” I responded.

“Oh, OK. Ah, do you have a light,” he asked holding his Parliments. He looked me up and down and followed-up with “you don’t smoke do you?”

We said our good byes and he got back in his car, turned around, and parked the car in front of his house.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door while I was making Tex’ dinner.

“Hello again,” I said when I opened the door.

“Hey, so I’ll pay you to drive me to Ross to get the pajamas. I really can’t drive. Do you party?” he asked, pointing to his nose.

“I’m more of a wine girl. I actually have to meet a friend in a half hour for dinner, so I don’t think I can drive you,” I replied.

“I can tell you are a good, wholesome girl. Ok, no biggie, just thought I’d come back and ask,” he said.

“Where’s this pajama party?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s at my house. Why don’t you stop by 812 later when you get back,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. His follow-up question was even more straight, “do you live alone?”

At this point, Tex had a very timely and audible where’s-my-dinner-bitch groan. I told tall hottie I had a house boy living with me right now doing chores and supervising contractors.

We hugged out and said goodbye.

It wasn’t until I put Tex’ pan of food on the floor that I realized that I had been hit on. I repeated the story for my girlfriends at dinner.

“You wholesome?” they said doubled over laughing. “He obviously was on drugs.”

And those drugs delivered the best and most convoluted pickup line/strategy of the year. Now that I know there are some token straights in the hood, I’ll have to start working other blocks. Hopefully Tex can pimp out his wholesome mommy to some sober guys.

It’s a boy

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.

Jesus rides the 704

I try to participate in the public transportation experience in LA as often as I can; however, in nearly five years, I can count on one hand the number of times I've had the thrill of a bus or subway ride. It's usually because my car is in the shop or I have jury duty.

If you admit to riding the bus in LA, you'll usually hear the backwards scream followed by, "but why?" My first ride was on the Venice Boulevard line. I was a very white girl on a very brown bus. My Spanish is still limited to nachos, burrito, cervasa, mommasita bonita (which my college dishwashers told me described me), and whatever total Sesame Street recall I may still have. Wouldn't you know, some guy on the bus called me a mommasita bonita probably figuring I didn't know what it meant. I looked at him and said, "GrassEous."

On Monday, I dropped the car off and rode home on the Santa Monica line with the trannie hookers, the "help", and stoner musicians. At this point in LA public transportation experience, I can usually count on a verbal interruption, especially on St. Patrick's day. This time it was, "hey red, nice hair and Chuck Taylor's." I smiled thankful it was something nice in English.

This morning I got on an empty bus. Just me and an older woman. I sat two rows behind her. Once the bus pulled out, she turned to me and said with a Russian accent, "Are you awake?"

"Barely. Do I look that bad?" I replied.

"No, no," she said holding a pamphlet with an image of Jesus praying on the cover.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't do Jesus this early in the morning. Do you have any Red Bull?" I said, securing firm placement stoking the fires of hell.

When I got to the office, I asked a few coworkers if I looked like I needed to be saved. The consensus was I just need a haircut and I need to get laid.

Flabbergasmic interchangeable attachments

I came home early to have lunch with my new boyfriend, Tex, who is on canine anti-inflammatories for his back (I wear him out). He greeted me with the usual dose of unconditional love (snout in the crotch). What happened after that was pure coincidence (there are no coincidences, just damned good timing).

The Spitzer press conference had just started and I was sucked in. Great, another middle-aged white guy sex scandal. Yippee. Please take my mind off the campaign antics, the economy, and my love life.

There was a knock at the door. I cocked my head. Tex cocked his. Then we heard, “UPS.” I signed for my package only to discover the Cadillac of all vibrators had arrived.

What can brown do for you? Today, apparently, a lot. I toyed with the idea of a test drive prior to going back to work, but the Spitzer coverage distracted me. This was my most expensive self-pleasuring apparatus ever – my high-priced call girl/new boyfriend.

After work, I called my girlfriend who recommended the product. “There are nine attachments, where the hell do I begin,” I asked.

She recommended the grape head attachment and asked me what I was going to name my device. “I call mine Brutus,” she admitted.

In the past, I always called my vibrator “Her-man.” Today, I think the most obvious choice is to call my "new boyfriend" Client Number Nine.

The pleasure was worth every penny and I won’t lose my job.

My all new cock block revue

I’ve ramped up my Internet dating again. After last week’s happy hour fiasco, I’ve gone back to the horrid 20-minute coffee date. Tonight I added a twist. I brought a dog, or as I will now call him, my “get out of jail free card.”

Tex is a 70-pound American Bulldog I'm fostering and he is probably my new surrogate boyfriend. I brought him with me because I just had a sense I would need distraction to get through the date. By god, my instincts were right. My date was probably around for Eisenhower’s inauguration, not that there’s anything wrong with lying about your age or looking like a craggily dirty hippie wannabe.

As you would expect, it gets better. When I was making shitty 20-minute coffee date small talk, I decided to ask him what he did in his free time.

“Fuck,” he said.

Honest response, but creepy coming from an old man. That’s about the time Tex came to the rescue and began flirting with the passers by. I ended up meeting a lot of nice young men (probably WeHo gay, but I did say YOUNG), who wanted to pet Tex. Gramps was still on a mission to know what my tattoo said. I told him twice it wasn’t funny unless seen in context.

“I’m never going to see it, am I?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

We got up and said our goodbyes. His final words were, “So call me if you are interested in going out again. I’d like to see you all dolled up and get you drunk.”

I smiled and crossed the street. Tex took a massive shit on the other side. I laughed and told him he was a good boy, “Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get out of there either.”

You must be this tall to ride

Tonight I realized there’s a magical male age when they can play Jedi mind tricks with their dick and hold a conversation during a date without the fear that blood will be drawn from their brain.

The 31 year-old I was with was obviously the team captain of the cock Special Olympics. He was obsessed with my hair and had to touch it. Then he moved on to my body. I was curvy. I was perfect. I had a great ass. The compliments were nice, but not in the first 15 minutes of meeting me. I did my best to redirect the conversation. Reverse mortgages. Margaret Thatcher. Roger Clemmons. I said anything to distract him and to get some blood going to his brain.

The evening became hopeless when he wanted to guess my cup size. My Olympian guessed correctly. That’s about the time I should have declared game over and gone home, but it was raining harder and I knew he’d just continue to give me material. Two bourbons and four beers later he had a nickname for me and knew what our kids would look like. I think it was pretty safe for me to assume he was an alcoholic looking for the older woman score.

This experience has taught me that I need to raise my minimum entrance requirements. A smart cock in the hand is worth one in the bush another day.

So utterly apparent

I was in the office checking my email early this morning when the guy I report to walked by then backed up and did a double-take.

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.

“I washed and straightened it last night. Washing my hair seems to be a Valentine’s Day tradition.” I replied.

His jawed dropped open and he said, “What about what’s-his-name? That guy you picked up the night of our movie debut in October? Aren’t you still seeing him?”

“I’m not sure. He sent an e-card yesterday and said he had to work last night,” I explained.

“He lives near you and can’t swing by for two seconds? Oh Marna, he’s got commitment issues. Move on,” he advised.

So, it appears I don’t have a boyfriend after all, but I do have a kicky new hairdo.

Love stinks

I’m not a fan of this holiday, but if you are going to recognize it, do it balls-out-swinging, otherwise, mutually agree it’s a stupid holiday, let it pass in silence, and find a different way to profess your love.

Beans, who still lives eight blocks from me, sent an e-card. Seriously, an e-card, but it gets better. The message had five consonants and two vowels. Yes, he’s a writer, but obviously he had romantic writers block. He had an opportunity to redeem himself that evening when he called. Instead, he insisted he could not stop by and teased me about being alone on Valentine's Day.

The card and envelope I selected to give to him in person is back in my desk drawer. I’ll use it for someone else next year.

The slow weaning

Hot doctor is trying get rid of me. After nearly two months of twice weekly dates, he’s got me on a bi-weekly schedule now.

While he tells me I’m still his favorite redhead, I can tell he’s just not that into me. He’s fixed me and he’s got more needy patients now. I figured this out at my two-month appointment when I sported the paper g-string panties and he took 360 degree photos of me.

“Look at the difference. You are a good healer. A couple more appointments and you are finished,” he told me.

Breakup foreshadowing, unless of course, I can find an excuse to go back. Boobs?

Playlists

Beans was over the other night and made the observation that my iPod doesn't have a "makeout" playlist. I agreed that was odd since I've loved music forever, was a college DJ, and still kept up with what's good and current. Oh, and I do love sex. It was necessary I build my K-tel equivalent of "smooth jazz" so the next time we are on the couch making out, we aren't surprised by the B-52's or Cole Porter.

I poured through my 18 gigs of music and realized, I have a lot of crap. I have the musical equivalent of getting in an accident and not having clean underwear on. EMS could come into my apartment, look into my iTunes and discern my musical tastes were schizophrenic at best.

How did this happen? I can blame my parents for this one. Dad was stuck in WWII. His woodshop/shed was outfitted with a stereo so he could listen to his big band music...where sawdust meets the USO. Mom, who was 10 years younger, kind of missed out on the normal stuff (early '60s folk) because she was stationed in Germany. No Beatles or even lighter protest music. She liked Helen Reddy and Engelberg Humperdinck.

Needless to say, I got an after-school job and saved up. When normal girls were out blowing their money shopping, I was counting my pennies and ended up with Yamaha components and a pair of kickass Boston Acoustic speakers. Now I could lock myself in my room and listen to Bob Marley, Joni Mitchell, Heart, The Police, and The Ramones.

Now I'm going through my music library and realizing my upbringing may of been torturous at the time, but the musical influence is very evident by the variety. I have some big band, mid-century blues and jazz classics, 60's rock, 70's punk, 80's new wave, alternative, and a lot of afro-cuban/latin jazz which I total attribute to repeat listenings of the 'dinck's classic "Quando Quando Quando."

I've got 52 songs on my "makeout" playlist. Obvious selections like Barry White, Marvin Gaye, Sade, and Bryan Ferry are present. But I've also tossed in some zingers that reflect my personality, like Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus," The Beastie Boys "In 3's," and the Happy Mondays "Loose Fit."

Make out with me, love my music. Besides, I don't know a man alive that can last 3.8 hours to hear the whole list anyway.

Stay tuned.

The semi-annual sale

I may be the only woman in America that doesn’t like clothes shopping for myself. Get me in Home Depot, Williams-Sonoma, Amoeba Music, or Target and I’m a maniac.

My aversion to shopping probably began when I was young. I was a fast grower. I mean fast. I was so huge when I was four, my mother begged the church school to admit me into kindergarten. That’s when the thrift store shopping began. Digging through racks of used clothes to find something that I could wear for a couple of months. Long arms, long body and short legs. It was a nightmare. By the time my boobs arrived, it was official – I hated shopping, even for new clothes.

When Victoria’s Secret expanded to the east coast in the early ‘80s, it seemed like a fun place shop for undergarments, at least more fun than going to the “foundations” section of traditional department stores. But my first visit was my last because, at the time, they didn’t carry DD bras.

Now, with breast augmentation and a national obesity problem, Victoria’s Secret finally carries sizes I can wear. I was going back in thanks to a recent gift certificate from a friend. Unfortunately, I showed up during their semi-annual sale.

The experience wasn’t too far off from my old thrift store days. Women were picking through panties. Clothes were on the floor. I stood next to a woman my age going through the medium panty bins and asked her, “Do you think this is worth it?” She said she didn’t think so. It was pandemonium. Were a pair of $3.99 underwear really worth the effort when I could walk into Target and get my three-pack of Jockey’s in less than three minutes?

My solution was to venture over to the full-price displays and quickly pick a couple pairs of panties. Getting the matching bra was entirely out of the question because the line for the dressing room was as long as the line for the cash register. My mission was to get out of the store before the women and pissed-off husbands sent me over the edge.

I love shopping for other people, especially men’s wear. My father used say I was like a smart bomb when I shopped with him. I knew which door to park near so we could get in and out. I have $50 remaining on my VS gift certificate, but I’m not going back until I better plan my visit…. off-sale, remote location, helpful sales staff, and no line for the dressing room.

Until then, the bra and the panty are not going to match.

Stand-by for sex

Today's doctor appointment revealed that I could/may be cleared for sex and yoga in nine days. I have no good reason for why I am recovering so quickly except attitude, diet, and sex on deck.

While Beans pre-alibied a December absence, he reappeared when I was in recovery. He's been quite present ever since, helping me out and keeping me company while his dick has been put on ice. We both joke about meeting a great person then "this" happens, but it has given us the opportunity to get to know each other better. For me, it means I don't have to shave my legs or douche. All I do is cook and he's happy. Simple times.

I've scaled-up the teasing with sex count down reminders. But here's the rub: he's going to be in Texas filming for nearly a 1/2 month when I'm medically cleared.

Yoga here I come.

Bounce a quarter off these abs

My little game of Cat and Doctor continued today as I returned to my plastic surgeon’s office with a Christmas card (“thanks for the great ass”) and my German apple bread (“because only a girl with good farm stock hips could bake like this”).

He came around the corner from another room and announced my presence.

“Marna’s here and today she’s in red and looks great,” he exclaimed.

“I clean up pretty well for someone who has been sponge bathing for two weeks,” I told everyone.

“Wow, look at those heels,” he said.

I reminded him I was a sugardaddy-less working girl and had to return to the corporate monkeyspank today so that I could collect vendor gifts, a bonus, and participate in general holiday fuckoffery (someone put a bottle of Grand Marnier on my desk for symbolic reasons).

I stripped down nekkid and was told again I’m still healing fabulously. My belly button was revealed and it’s cute, in a newborn crusty kind of way. My one remaining pussy pump was also removed which will increase my mobility as well as get the whole puss back on a healing path. The better news is…. I can shower. But not before I make a pit stop at Babeland on the way home to see about a new vibrator.

It’s the simple things like showers and masturbation that keep me going. But the Victoria Secret gift certificate for new panties is running a close third. HO, ho, ho.

Hot doctor with a Sharpie

I was alone, naked in a room with a hot doctor. There was only one thing I could do and that was flirt.

My plastic surgeon was marking me up with a Sharpie. Cut lines and what not. This takes nearly a hour to do for a body lift. My idle conversation began with, “So when can I have sex again?”

He pushed back, his wheeled stool rolled to the corner. “I have a funny story for you,” he replied.

When 20-something women come in for work, they ask when they can go back to the gym and exercise. Older women ask when they can drink and smoke again.

“But you women, you women in the middle, you always want to know when you can have sex,” he explained.

Now that I had his attention, I asked him if he wanted the over/under on my total estimated skin weight loss. I told him I thought I had a good six pounds of skin. He said he expects it to be over 10.

From there he exposed another secret to the surgery. “When I pull this skin up, your pubic area will get tight and your clitoris will be more exposed. Many women tell me they orgasm faster,” he said.

“I’ll let you know in six weeks and come back and tip you if you can make that happen,” I said smiling.

Shut up and call, douche

Can you get out of future bad behavior by paying forward with an apology? Yes you can. It’s called a pre-alibi.

Beans called and recited a laundry list of business trips and other obligations he had during the month of December. He made it sound like he was being deployed and didn’t know when he’d be coming home. My only response was, “You know my number. Call me when you are available.”

He hasn’t called. But at least I know, he’s gonna be busy. Gonna be busy for a while.

92 days later

I’m sure many have speculated how long I would last without a TV. I’m a communications person with roots in public affairs. Wouldn’t I miss spin? Netflix? Or at the very least, Sponge Bob reruns?

Yes, yes, and yes. My fall off the wagon began with my stereo receiver. It had served me well, but it was time for replacement. My receiver was the gateway component back to the dark side of television. It was HDMI compliant. It was lonely and needed accessories to fill its many input jacks in the back.

I immediately welcomed a 1080p HD TV and a Sony Blu-ray to my receiver. They are getting along nicely. The sound is amazing. The picture is beautiful.

The Netflix arrive Wednesday and cable guy is coming in another week. Soon I’ll be reunited with Keith Olbermann. I’ve read a lot of books and listened to a lot of podcasts. It’s time to get reacquainted with my sofa – just in time for “winter.”

Meeting men the old-fashioned way

Why is it when I tell people I can be shy, they grab their stomach and double over laughing? Honestly, it took all I could to approach the Barney’s Beanery guy, give him my card, and ask him to call.

The man called. We agreed to go back to the scene of the crime and meet for a beer. I got there early on purpose because, yes, I was nervous and wanted to get a head start on the beer. I realized it had been ages since I’d gone into a date with little-to-no information. At least with set-ups, or online dating, you have some background information to go on.

We met and everything was fine. He’s a writer and filmmaker, so we had no shortage of conversation. We traded bad date stories, bitched about aspects of LA, and shared a lot of laughs. It was an incredibly normal and fun night. Technically, the evening was unblogable because he didn’t do anything ridiculous like some of the colossal tools I’ve been out with. He even asked if he could create his own blog pseudonym. How’s that for creative collaboration?!

I’m on deck for a second date, but even if that never happens and this ended up being a one off, I now know that I can conquer my own shyness and meet men the old-fashioned way, in bars.

It's a wonderful day in the gayborhood

When you hit a certain age, you realize there's no great place to live. You are either in the 'burbs with the marrieds, or in the cheap area surrounded by young ones and Bud. What's that leave me? West Hollywood.

I live in the least target-rich environment on earth. But the view is great. At least SOMEONE in LA has a relationship. I love the 'moes. They do have the best neighborhoods. I'm several doors down from barely-yogurt Pinkberry as well as a one-stop leather shop. And, if I hit bottom, the 12-Step store is right next door.

However, when you live and work amongst the gays, you forget what straight men are. Tonight my libido was resuscitated in Barney's Beanery, five blocks from my house. There were sports games on and men were watching. As I ate dinner with a girlfriend, I felt like horny teen girl again.

"Look at that one over there with the broad shoulders. He's not gay either."

On my way out, I was so dazed by the spectacle, I walked over to an age-appropriate guy, handed him my card and said, "Hi, if you are single and straight, give me a call and let's get a beer sometime. I live in a gay neighborhood and I don't see real men often."

He smiled, introduced himself and said sure. He made my day. Maybe I made his.

After dinner, we walked another 1/2 mile to a work/movie party. There seemed to be an overabundance of straight men there, but they all had that homogeneous LA guy look: emo bedhead, 15 pounds underweight, trying too hard to look hip.

So who hits on me? A skinny, gay black guy with a Yankees cap on.

"Gurl, look at you. You got it going on with that hair. Who does your hair?" he asked.

What response could I give that would repulse him and make him go away, like tossing water on the Wicked Witch?

"Fantastic Sams," I said.

I want to believe that gay guys have straight brothers or friends that I can go out with. But I think I'm going to stick with what I know: bars with pool tables and sports games are usually full of straight guys. Back to the Beanery I go.

Extreme makeover

When you are in New York, you go to the Empire State Building. When you are in San Francisco, you go to the wharf. In DC, you at least drive by the White House. No stay in Los Angeles is complete without a visit to a plastic surgeon.

I can now check that off my list.

I’ve never been one of those bad-self-image girls. My boobs dragged the ground in ninth grade. Push-up bras solved that problem. Jiggle thighs can be counter balanced with Spanx. I’ve never been stick thin, but I have been fine with my body. I’ll never forget when my sophomore year college gym teacher pulled me aside in weight training class and told me I had a great body, but I was obviously German and would never be a size two. I smiled and thanked him.

Through out time, the only thing I’ve ever wanted was even eyebrows. Until now. I’ve lost a ton of weight and my empty jelly rolls are getting in the way. During sex, I can feel my stomach sway side-to-side like an obese cat running with a waddle. When I button my jeans, I feel like I have to tuck myself in.

So today I had a consult with a plastic surgeon in….. Beverly Hills. He ended up being tremendously hot. When he walked in his first words were, “Wow, look at that hair, you don’t see that out here.”

I assume he was talking about the color because I see that freshly-shot-of-of-a-canon look all the time on the street. My curls are not that impressive. The flirting continued with the alcohol consumption question.

“Oh, I don’t know, I drink four to six beers a month,” I stated.

“Beer? You drink beer? That’s rare for a woman to drink beer in this town. More points,” he said.

He left the room and I put my blue paper robe on, opening to the front. I was thankful I remembered to made sure my bra and panties matched. He came back and told me to show him what bothered me. I flashed him my jelly roll and he said, “yeah, you are ready for surgery. A couple more pounds won’t matter.”

He then gave me a fake “after” effect and pulled up on my love handles until the skin in my legs and gut were taunt. It was weird and made me feel like I should be dangling on a meat hook in Fast Food Nation. But it was a nice way to see all my glory changed.

I selected December 7th as my surgery day. The Japs may of bombed us in ’41, but in ’07 my fat is getting attacked.

Tomorrow I’ll get my eyebrows waxed.

Full moon or bad moon rising?

Today I had two what-the-fuck moments within a two-hour period. Of course, ex’s were involved.

I woke up to an email announcing that one of them was going to be in LA in November and he’d like to extend his visit to see me. While 9/11 sped up our inevitable breakup, what is more interesting about this guy is he married the girl right after me. I can’t tell you HOW many times in my life this has happened. His visit will be interesting. I imagine he’ll have fewer hairs and I’ll have fewer pounds.

When I got to work, I received a call from Circus Boy. His calls are random and infrequent and rarely annoying because how can you hate an ex- that left you to join the circus? I’ll milk that story until the day I die. Anyway, he called to talk about the iPhone and then said, “my girlfriend read your blog and told me you sold your TV. Is that the big one you had in New York?”

How interesting can my life be to a girlfriend? Doesn’t it seem like a truly dysfunctional activity to read the blog of your boyfriend’s ex? I don’t get it. My life certainly isn’t that interesting. OK, maybe it is a tad more exciting than most married people’s lives. But god, you are in the CIRCUS and you get to see elephants crap and you catch the clowns ordering gay porn on the internet. That’s a rewarding day.

Driving home I figured it all out…. It’s a full moon. The strangeness in my life will never be eclipsed as long as I have ex’s around.

The new all-time low

I met a 27 year-old boy last night for a date. They call me cougarlicious in the office and I was living up to it, until I did some basic math.

Junior was cute, sweet and said the right things. Like, “Wow, you totally look like you are 31 at the most.”

Nice.

We continued to talk and he leaned in to kiss me. It was a nice one until I realized there was a 14-year age gap between us. That means, if I were a whore in high school, Junior would actually be old enough to be my son.

Insert the Macaulay Culkin, Home Alone face-slapping scream here.

I’m back to the 10-years younger rule. Leave the multi-generational dating gaps to Hugh Heffner. I can’t handle it.

The Toshiba sign off

I remember in grad school, back in 1991, when we were predicting internet penetration rates. We didn’t think the internet would catch on because, at the time, there were still a large percentage of U.S. households without telephones. Soon, analog broadcasts will be discontinued and replaced with HD… approximately one-fifth of this nation still does not have cable and relies on rabbit ears for TV programming.

Now I’m a statistic. I don’t own a TV. I sold it a month ago because I wasn’t going to move the 150-pound monster one more time. I knew the standard was changing and it would be obsolete. Rather than making a new technology decision I opted to go old school and do without.

And I’m doing just fine.

I read more. I write more. I listen to my podcasts and music much more frequently. I get a kick when people come over and look around and then ask, “Where’s your TV?” Last night I said, “I don’t need one, I write.”

I’m sure I’ll cave eventually and buy a TV, but until then I’m going to see how long my personal social experiment can last.

Keith Olbermann, I miss you, but you are in my dreams… a lot.

Blow out

My hair salon left a voice mail asking if I needed a blow dry with my gray root dye job tomorrow morning.

"Hi, this is Marna calling back about my appointment tomorrow. I just need a dye job without the blow job."

Laughter.

"Oh wait, I do, in fact, desperately need a blow job, but my hair does not need to be blown dry tomorrow."

It's 9:30 a.m. and I'm already thinking about sex. Thank god it's Friday.

Spread 'em wide

I love going to the doctor. Last week it was the dentist. I like the small talk he makes while he scrapes and tells me what great teeth I have. Today it was the GYN.

The new patient forms are always a killer. I decided to give creative answers to see if they actually read.

Spouse's name: Asshole.
Mother's state of health: old and mean.
Have you ever had painful or unsatisfactory sex? You are kidding, right? There's not enough room to describe all the bad sex I've had.

But the best question, and you know it's coming, is when a new gyno looks you in the eye and asks "are you sexually active?" My standard response is always "not as much as I'd like to be."

She laughed and then put her gloves on while she blew the cobwebs out.

Who will be on top, Will?

I wouldn’t consider myself a fag hag. I love and respect anyone with good fashion sense and a keen ear for music which includes ABBA and the Scissor Sisters. As you can you imagine, with my open mind and open mouth, the gays flock to me. A friend coined the term “fruit fly.” I’ll own that one.

I was killin’ the other day at the office. I had my main gay laughing out loud and grabbing his belly when I came up with the reality show idea, “To Catch a Cougar Lover.” Each week would feature a different scenario starring me. For instance, I’d lure the pizza delivery guy into my bedroom. Afterwards, my main gay would catch the guy coming out the door.

“You realize she’s 41,” he’d say.

“Ah….. cool,” Pizza boy would reply with cameras in his face.

With his clipboard firmly in his hand, my main gay would say, “According to the transcript, she said she was 29. How does this make you feel?”

“Shut up dood, I’m enjoying my brownies and sweet tea,” he’d reply.

We laughed and laughed and then, when he caught his breath, he popped the question. “I know you are looking for an apartment. I want to buy a condo. Want to go in on one together?”

I’ve become Grace. It’s flattering that a man that has known me four months sees the bliss I could bring to a dysfunctional domestic partnership. Of course, it enraged me that he gets it and the straight ones don’t. I told him we couldn’t handle living with each other. We’d never get laid with all the cats we’d end up having. It just wouldn’t be good.

But the office hi-jinx continues. He calls me Miss Kitty while others yell “hide the children” when I walk down the hall.

Motherly love

I haven’t spoken to my mother in more than three years. Yes, I’m a Hater. Women who have joined my no-mother cult have experienced similar exhilaration and relief after radio silence. However, we all have our sound bites to dodge the mainstream how’s-your-family questions.

Several days ago, I connected with a match.com guy who seemed delightful; tall, geeky, and from New York. During our first date, I decided I really, really liked him when he told me his dad was dead and he no longer talked to his mother.

I squealed with delight. I didn’t have to give my blanket “I don’t get home much” response. Instead, I smiled and said. "My dad is dead too and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years.”

"I'm at seven years. I'm an only child, so I call/hang up every once in a while to see if she answers the phone to know she's dead or not," he said.

"Oh, I just call my brother and ask 'Is mom dead yet?'" I said. (My brother doesn’t have the Krazy Barbara Kryptonite like I do.)

We laughed and decided we’d have to meet again soon. And I imagine, if things go well, we’ll be crank calling our mothers. That’s when I’ll know we’re serious.

How are things on the west coast?

I’ve been in Los Angeles four years. It’s hard to believe my stay has exceeded my time in New York. My LA Story isn’t filled without a few ironies:

Tan lines: For the past two years, I’ve had a vitamin d deficiency.
Body image: I’ve had fewer dates since I’ve lost 120 pounds.

Last night, I was at a special event in the New York section of the Paramount lot. While I was eating sushi on Delancey, my girlfriend asked me if I missed New York. For the first time, without hesitating, I was able to say, “No. I miss my friends, but I have friends all over the U.S. I miss.”

Besides, LA is filled with just as many soulless assholes as New York. Today my heart swings.

Social networking and reaching the end of the internet

I’m kind of the grouchy old lady of the internet. I remember the internet when it was just tech geeks and sci fi guys who couldn’t get laid. Now, everyone is on the internet thanks to mass social networking sites like Myspace and LinkedIn.

I have friends and I have a professional network that I’ve maintained for 25+ years through paper and now by a digital address book. When someone told me that Myspace was no longer a recruiting tool for bands that couldn’t afford their own website database, I got on to, of course, put a dating profile up. What I got was spam from comedians and musicians asking me to see the shows. I set my six-friend profile to private. I joined LinkedIn years ago and didn’t maintain my profile because my old fashioned way was working.

This morning I received a LinkedIn friend request from my old boss in New York. After I accepted, I received a “You might also know” list of ten people. Check out how connected and random this is:

Ivan – a guy I dated
Lauren – a woman who runs a marketing network luncheon group I attended in 2003
Arthur – he dated a friend of mine
Cordes – she’s a worthless headhunter I tried using
Suzanne – she went to my grad school in VA
Terry – I met him at a technology event
Mark – my brother’s ex-roommate from 1994.

So, 70 percent of the people LinkedIn suggested I get in touch with I actually knew. That’s either one smart database, or I get around. My nine-colleague profile is expanding!

The WASP, the MILF, and the teen daughter

I don’t know what traditional child-rearing is, but I’m sure when I get together with my single-mother friends, the kid is bound to learn something.

Mom and Kid arrived Friday night and requested what any land-locked resident would: sushi. We had fish alfresco where we could dine and scope out the pedestrian meat. Kid quickly learned to play the “gay, straight, married and beat down, or single” game. We got her on big wallet patrol. After a cocktail, I began my fast-track tutorial with Kid which ended with the quote of the night, “You need a strong man who knows what he wants and can make decisions, otherwise, you are just dating a pussy with a dick.”

Kid laughed and responded with, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Since Mom is a teacher, she’s very good at wrap up and summaries and made Kid repeat what she learned in the evening. “Yeah, Mom, I know. If I’m going to waste my time dating, he needs to have an education, a good job, some money, and be handy around the house.”

Our next meeting will include a visit to Home Depot where we’ll teach her the “do-it-yourselfer, contractor, or day laborer” game. The one thing I learned this visit: men look at you more if you have a hot, teen girl beside you.

The train in vain

You may not know this, but Los Angeles has a subway. It doesn’t go anywhere, so I’ve never been on it even though the stop is three avenues over and three streets up from my house. However, when my boss invited me to a fundraiser downtown at an Irish pub, I knew I should look into riding the subway in order to avoid parking fees. In addition, I could enjoy a couple extra Guinness.

My coworkers congratulated me on my maiden voyage and told me my Union Station transfer would be easy – nothing compared to a Times Square transfer tunnel maze. I was excited. I was doing my thing for the environment and I could get hammered in an Irish bar. Win-win.

I had my Black and Tans and my flirting and made my way back to the Pershing Square station without conflict (e.g. panhandlers, pimps). After transferring, I stood on the Union Station platform and looked at my watch. Nobody was around and it was only midnight.

In New York, this happens and you assume trains are running slow. But when no one is around, you suspect you missed a notice. One time I fell asleep in the Spring Street C station waiting for a train that had been diverted on the F tracks. In LA, I didn’t know what to expect, so I checked the schedule.

The last train north left the station at 11:52 p.m. on a Saturday night. It’s hard for me to stand by the MTA when they can’t even offer drunk service on a Saturday night. I left the platform and walked to the front of Union station where I caught a cab home for $30. My cab rides home to Brooklyn were cheaper.

And you wonder why people in LA like to drive.

Cougars and kittens
Marna: Dating 30 year-olds since 1995

There’s probably a 12-step program for me somewhere. It wouldn’t be sexual addiction, but maybe it’s fun addiction or baggage avoidance. Whatever it is and no matter how much I try to date men my own age, I find myself going back to younger stock.

Last week, after I washed the gray right out of my hair, I shea buttered my skin, poured some ice tea, and sat in my Hugh Heffneresque robe while I went online and reactivated some of my online dating profiles. My fishing yielded a 30 year old who wrote me I was the hottest girl he’d seen on the site in a while.

Right, whatever. That may get you laid.

He asked for my phone number, which scored him points because I don’t do the back-and-forth local email. He opted to make his communication to me a text message. Then he emailed me to ask me if I received the text message.

This is the downside to dating babies. They have no old-school communication skills. I wrote him back, “I don’t believe in text messaging. If you want to reach me and talk to me, punch in my 10 digits and call me.” Five hours later, I got a phone call.

“Hey, ah, what are you doing? You want to hang out sometime?” he asked.

Hang out? What exactly is hang-out in the Gen Y lexicon? Where I come from, that would mean making popcorn, renting a Betamax movie, and playing foozball in someone’s basement. I said sure and he said he’d call me to organize something this weekend.

That call came Sunday morning. It was another one-minute conversation. I tried to assertain what hang-out was and suggested we meet for coffee or a beer.

“Oh, I’m kind of in the mood to just make-out. How about we do that,” he suggested.

I told him that was tempting, but generally the way dating worked with me was we’d meet a few times and get to know each other and determine chemistry/common interests before there would be any making out.

He called later in the afternoon and cancelled on me, but not before asking me what I was looking for. “I am looking for a man I connect with – who I can get to know, date and then evolve into a long-term relationship.”

“Whoa. You are the real deal,” he commented

Yeah, so ante-up baby, and ask me out so I can really blog your ass.

Unsafe at any age

I never believed that whole “sexual prime” business until shortly after my 30th birthday. I was horny all the time. Insanely unfair hormone levels. It hasn’t stopped. I went out with two friends Saturday night that are +/- 50. There’s no end in sight. I’ve learned the older you get, the more you really don’t care if people know how truly horny you are.

The night began innocently enough. We saw Hitchcock’s Vertigo at the Hollywood Forever cemetery. As the movie was projected on to the columbarium wall, we drank wine and beer, picnicked, people watched and played the gay-or-straight? game. Jimmy Stewart fueled our fires. By the time the movie was over, we were on a man hunt.

We ended up closing the bar at Yamashiro, a restaurant in the hills overlooking greater Los Angeles. My final green tea martini gave me the balls to “assist” J with a note we were going to pass to a young kid on the way out. In my best, near-sober handwriting I wrote, “If you ever want to have fun with more than one” beside J’s phone number. We chickened out passing the note when we left because we were just too scary a force to be reckoned with, and there was no room for him in the car.

The solution was to go to In-N-Out on Sunset. At 2 a.m., we were, for sure, the three oldest broads in the place. J made friends with the prom kids behind us in line. They were sober. Then she flirted with the cashier who mumbled “I think I’m a little young for you, ma’am.” We cackled and walked over to the waiting area where K and I made eye contact with every man or boy who wasn’t in a prom tux.

In the car back to J’s place we all whined about getting laid. Surely we could be cougars to some lucky, little boys. We made culinary love to our fast food instead. K enjoyed her burger and fries. J had two bites and passed out watching Some like it hot. I remembered I was a vegetarian. I had two bites and figured out I couldn’t handle the whole thing. I ripped the patty out, licked the cheese off, then shoved the beef in my mouth. For something I had not had in more than a year, it was OK.

I like sex more.

Going home and sleeping alone is always worth it when you have a great girl’s night out. May the horniness and laughter never subside.

Around the Marn in 80 days

I’ve never been one of those need-a-man girls. I barely dated in high school and college because I had so many other interests besides stupid assholes. When I announced I was engaged at the age of 26, my friends were in awe. The person least likely to... was. It was no shock to most when I separated. My mother consoled me by saying, “Your father and I were probably not good relationship role models.” Of course, two weeks later she was asking my brother if I was a lesbian.

My relationship with RC ended a couple weeks ago. It was another short-lived (but long in Hollywood dog years) connection that resulted in me reciting my mantra “trust your instincts.” I knew I shouldn’t of gone out with a man who was openly separated, but I figured that after nearly a year, the end had to be in sight. Unfortunately, the drama swirled. Being a great guy didn’t out weigh the obvious negatives: nutbag wife, little kid commitments, unavailability, and distance.

A great friend from college says, “Marna, men are all assholes, you just have to find one you can put up with.” It is so easy being single in LA because the choices are...limited, at least in my circles. Besides, a fresh crop of girls with perky tits turns 18 each year.

I’ve lived in LA nearly four years now and I haven’t had a relationship last longer than 80 days. It’s a hard place to date, but I’m also committed to not dating the wrong people. That means I’ll have a lot of trial and error. Relationships are hard work, especially if you are looking for the right asshole.

It’s been more than 12 years since my divorce was finalized and I’ve enjoyed dating a wide variety of men ever since. My mother still checks in with various people to determine if I’ve “gone gay” yet. Don’t worry mom, I’m still tragically heterosexual.

In loving memory of my ’95 Jetta

Ever notice how geezers will wax nostalgic about some car they used to have decades before? Last night, as my life flashed before me, I fondly thought of my Jetta and nearly shed a tear.

That five-speed was spunky and the turning radius could have been envied by the NYPD. What I loved most about it was the sunroof. When I moved to Manhattan, keeping the car was impractical between garage fees and insurance. Regretfully, I sold the Jetta.

Last night I was coming down Fountain near Highland in my stodgy, unfun Honda Accord when some dumb bitch in a fucking LANCER decided to pull out of the left lane and in front of me. Not really the smart thing to do in Friday traffic in a construction zone with gravel.

I slammed on my breaks and fishtailed like a pickup truck on black ice. I did something else Angelinos don’t do often. I honked. I laid on that thing until the smell of burnt rubber dissipated. Miss Lancer gave me the whoops wave. That’s when I began my gesturing. Both hands in the air, I looked like an Italian flipping pizza dough.

This is the moment I missed my Jetta. Because that’s when the sunroof would open and my middle finger would be in the periscope up position. Sometimes I’d wave it side to side through the roof for minor infractions. However, Miss Lancer would have deserved the vertical up/down fuck-you-dumb-female-driver-giving-us-all-a-bad name gesture.

Ah, those were the Jetta days.

Since I have no sunroof in the Accord, I high beamed Miss Lancer until she took the 101 off ramp. That’s when I gave her one final honk. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson: during rush hour in Hollywood, there’s going to be someone in the other lane. I learned you can never be too young to remember great cars.

Look both ways before you cross that street

I think Freud, Jung, Dr. Phil, Dr. Spock, and Judge Judy would all agree we learn through example. I’m starting to feel like I could probably never parent except remotely while wearing an orange jumpsuit making a call from the yard.

My “example” was a walnut-stained, one-inch piece of plywood with a leather hang cord. Dad picked out the wood, and used his saws and sanders to handcraft the paddle. (You probably missed this special episode, “The Punisher,” on Yankee Workshop). This hand extension hung on a hook on the inside of the basement door. When my brother or I screwed up, we’d hear our name, our crime, and the squeak of the basement door opening. Dad, very stoically (being an executioner could have been a change of life career for him) would remind us again what we did wrong, we’d have to bend over and get our paddling. The experience was never traumatic. It was simple pre-teen humiliation – something to hold us over until he could bring out the big guns such as groundings, extra chores, etc… when we got too old for the paddle.

I don’t think I’m the only one to accidentally run across Super Nanny or Nanny 911 and watch with COPS-like enthusiasm hoping the misfit kids get their ass beat. I may be single, but it is kind of cool to see a deserving-kid getting it. On the few occasions I’ve been in Big Lots, I’ve witnessed two Hispanic mothers whale on their brats. Kids have always chosen the grocery store for their meltdowns, but black moms have no problem correcting that bad behavior quickly. We may be in an age of “spare the rod” and timeouts, but I smile and give the mother the visual high-five when they opt for the big can of public whoop ass.

Now I’m dating a guy with a three- and six-year old. Imagine the horror when I discovered he was one of those counting dads. You know this tactic. “Blah-blah, I’m going to count to three. If you don’t _____, I’m going to ______.” He would get to 2.75 when the six year old would finally concede defeat, for about three minutes, then the bad behavior would start again. Each time, I’d roll my eyes and try to keep my mouth shut by flashing back.

“What would my dad do?”

I can say, my dad, without hesitation, would give me the raised eyebrow you-are-going-to-get-your-ass-beat look. He’d would grab my arm, take me outside the restaurant, remind me again why I needed to behave and if I didn’t, I’d never get to come out to eat again. Eating out was fun. Getting out of the house was fun. I behaved.

When the six-year old boy was up to bad behavior infraction number seven, I gave up and spoke up.

“You know, your Dad works hard and it is really special when he takes you out. I don’t understand why you won’t listen to him,” I said proudly refraining from using cuss words or from channeling my inner oh-no-you-didn’t Puerto Rican.

The kid looked at me like I had three heads – too young to understand I had no jurisdiction and too young to know how to roll his eyes back at me. He went on misbehaving.

I gave the eye roll to my boyfriend instead. One-part “are you going to do something” and one-part “I never want to have sex again.”

He got up and smacked the kid on the ass. I gave him the visual high-five. The kid behaved the rest of the night. I smiled the rest of the night.

I’m dating a mini-van driving soccer coach who spanks. Dad would be proud.

Wrap your big foam finger around this

I’m number one. I don’t usually consider Spring my season. I’m more of a fourth quarter girl; however, the tides are changing. Two very unusual things happened to me recently. I got a full-time, permanent job and a boyfriend within the same 30 days.

Nearly all my jobs have been fourth quarter hires where I’m part of the end of the year “use it or you’ll lose it” budget spending frenzy. The MAN grants FTEs and that same man shall take-ith away positions unfilled. I get hired and do a few things right around the same time the old timers are burning up their time off before the end of the year.

Romance cycles always peak in early November. If you don’t find someone before winter, you are usually screwed until after Valentine’s day. RC and I met at the end of February. Perfect timing.

Now I’m faced with an even more unusual dilemma. Or as a friend put it, “Now that you aren’t trolling Monster.com for jobs and match.com for men, what will you do with your free time?”

I spent my first week home revising my resume after work. Anyone who has been laid off one, two or a bazillion times like me knows, it has to be fresh and up-to-date. The second week I found myself spending a lot of my free evenings with my boyfriend and making lists of things I need to do.

I asked my friend what employed, attached people do in the evenings. “Marna, they watch American Idol.”

Oh yeah, I forgot. I think I’ll log on to my bank account and wait for my direct deposit to hit, that is until my boyfriend gets here to entertain me further. Or, I could do something really novel and get back to. . . writing.

You know they love you when…

… vas Indeferens

I’m neutral about the whole idea of spawning. I hate the fact my married-with friends live vicariously through me and start their sentences with, “I love my kids but…” I’ve seen friends and family age exponentially after creation of their nuclear family. I really like sex and love beer and those are two things I don’t see parents having a lot of. In addition, the thought of a kid hitting me up for keg money when I’m trying to retire scares the shit out of me. After all, that’s my hard-earned beer money.

We were on our third or fourth date when RC asked me about kids. I responded in a politically correct manner. “I suppose, with the right guy, I could have kids, but it’s also not my life’s goal to have them.” He smiled and responded with, “Well, if you want any, you better start dating someone else. I’ve got two and I’m done.”

I smiled with relief. But I smiled even harder when he said he’d get a vasectomy for me. You know they love you when they’ll let a sharp knife in the vicinity of their ball sack.

When asked if he liked kids, W.C. Fields responded, “I love children - medium rare.” I like mine every other weekend.

… this won’t hurt

I was in a discussion recently with some of my fellow independent contactor friends. We all love working for ourselves, but the universal item that drives us to look for traditional, full-time permanent work is the cost of health care.

Last night I was explaining this dilemma to RC. I went from a decent $589/month policy to a crap $92/month just-in-case-I-get-the-cancer policy with a $4,000 deductible. I don’t get sick, but routine things like peeing in a cup and getting my boob squished are going to have to be reviewed against my monthly budget. Nobody should live in fear of getting ill.

His solution was simple. “I can add you as a domestic partner on my policy,” he said.

Some people marry for a green card and insurance. Some people cross the border for health care. You know they love you when they are willing to add you to their insurance and you don’t have to clean their house or blow them for the privilege.

Hooker for hops

In LA, there’s a category of women I call “the meal hunters.” They date to eat. While a girl’s gotta eat, I’d rather stay home with unshaved legs and pop open a can of tunafish. I date to meet.

Last night I had a first date with a man who suggested we go to dinner. We ordered a beer, then I ordered an appetizer as my meal. The conversation flowed and in the middle of it all he said, “Wow, you really aren’t a hooker. You hardly eat.”

Most women would of been offended to be thought of as a meal-hunting hooker. I’m in touch with my inner whore and that comment didn’t bother me. I was flattered that he noticed my outstanding portion control talent. To celebrate, I ordered a second double barrel ale. Does that make me a beer whore?

Hey, that’s my treadmill, bitch

When real guy started behaving like typical guy, I knew it was time to evaluate what I wanted against what we could accomplish together. When he said, “I’m not really a relationship guy,” I knew it was time to utter my favorite four-lettered word.

NEXT.

I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day until one of our programmers stated he couldn’t work in the evening because of love commitments. He asked me what I was going to do and I said, without hesitating, “I’m going to the gym to hang out with the fat, single people.”

The road to good intentions was almost paved with bruises when I got into a fight with some bimbolina over the last treadmill. It wasn’t the last treadmill, but the only one available overlooking the rock climbing wall which is the best eye candy location in the gym. I got it and she went to the other side of the floor.

For 60 minutes, I watched yummy men chalk their hands and scale the walls. This was much better than staring at couples waiting for their reservations at a restaurant.

I think I’ll come here next year. My long-term relationship with the gym seems to be working for me.

I want to be a minority

Growing up, I had this thing about being different… to the point where my parents said, “why can’t you be like everyone else?” This continues in my adult life.

The New York Times analyzed recent census data and discovered more American women are living without a husband than with one. That’s right. As my sweet single sisters and I continue to date the globe, there are only 49 percent of us that have actually married a guy.

While I’ve enjoyed being single and letting my “happily” married friends live vicariously through me, I’m ready to make the switch. Now that being single is popular, I want to go to the 49 percent side.

Being married means never having to date again. I’m ready for dating retirement and I’m ready to be a minority. I don't want to be like everyone else.

Critical mass

I’ve had two serious relationships since I’ve lived in Los Angeles. My west coast operational definition of serious is a) they know my last name; b) they know where I live; and c) they say they are emotionally evolved enough to want a relationship. In both cases, the liaisons dissolved on or before the 60-day mark and made me create my “locals need not apply” rule.

Since dating Real Guy, my east coast fan base has expressed deep concern that my writing career will dry up. “If you are off the market, who are the fruits and nuts going to date and what are you going to write about?” Even Real Guy is wondering. “I haven’t checked dontmincewords in a while. Do you have anything to write about or am I doing to have to “do” something?” he asked.

I refuse to be that sunshine-and-roses yeah I meet a great guy girl. OK, I am, but I’m not going to make that the focus of my existence. That’s no different than moms that brag about their kids – for decades.

Instead, I’m going to give you the commonalities of the few successful relationships I’ve had. In every last one of them, it’s all about bodily functions and communication. I need a guy that can tolerate me peeing with the door open while I tell him random bullshit. I need a guy that can snicker and see the beauty when I accidentally rip a wicked, nasty fart. I need a guy who knows I hiccup when I’m full and can say, “no more for you.” I need a guy who can lie in bed and talk for hours about more random bullshit.

Real Guy and I were at a B&B in the lower Sierras for New Years. I broke my vegetarian rule and had three ounces of hamburger on the Eve. The next morning, I paid dearly and sat dying on the throne. I flushed and sprayed and shut the door. He wanted to go in immediately after and I begged him not to. “Please don’t. It’s a hazmat,” I explained.

He went in and said it smelled like roses. That’s when I realized. It’s nice to have a man who thinks my shit doesn’t stink.

Renew by mail

As enticing as the DMV offer was, I knew I couldn’t renew my driver’s license by mail. My picture was a cross between a Nick Nolte mug shot and a Cyndi Lauper album cover. When I moved to California, I wasn’t aware they put weight on your driver’s license, so I didn’t lie. It was time to go in for a personal visit to correct all these errors.

I selected the week before Christmas thinking everyone would be shopping and it would be low volume pain-time at the DMV. I got there and discovered there’s no off season at that place.

Coiffed and slathered with makeup, I was ready for combat. I stood in line to get my number and waited 15 minutes for my number to be called. Window 10 Jesse looked at me funny when he pulled my record.

“You are eligible to renew by mail. Why are you here?” he asked.

“I need a new picture and my weight has changed. I need a license I can live with for a few years,” I explained.

While he did his data entry, I memorized the eye charts above his head. I had an eye exam the week before and was told my distance was fine. But was that an F or a P? Thankfully, I passed the test, so I can continue to drive visually unaided.

I paid $26 and proceeded to window B for my new picture. Lipstick on. Hair fluffed. Clothes straightened. I smiled big.

“Oh wow,” Window B boy exclaimed. “I’m not supposed to show customers their pictures, but take a look at you. This is the best one today.”

I had a Joker grin, shiny cheeks, and a slight double chin. Window B boy asked me if I wanted a do over. I decided no – I’m always going to look like a clown at the DMV portrait studio. I was more proud of possessing a license with my goal weight printed on it. I’ll get there one day, but if the cops ever pull me over, I’m not worried. They’ll recognize the cheeks.

The Marna holiday invasion

My holiday postcard minimum print run is 500. My card list is 200. Each year I try to find ways to distribute the excess. I’ll hand them out in the office, to the guards, to the postman, and to waiters with the tip.

This year I got a little creative with the extras. I decided to serve my country by mailing these things to the troops in Iraq. I assumed they’d bring great joy IF the boob and leg exposure wasn’t stopped short at the border.

I opted to go with Any Sailor given my ties to the Navy (and because I love saying “Hello Sailor”). These poor guys have pretty decent duty stations compared to the Air Force missile cornfields and Army bases inland. So imagine leaving a cushy port town and being sent to a sandy destination with burqas, not bikinis. That’s gotta really suck.

Today I received my first thank you call from a petty officer stationed in Kuwait. He wanted to let me know my sense of humor was tremendously appreciated. “We get so much mail from 9 year-olds and grandmothers. It’s nice to have a woman write that is intelligent.”

Apparently, I have nice legs too, but that could be the sun blindness talking.

So, no matter what your political affiliation may be, I strongly encourage you to send some kind words to those serving in the war. A little goes a long way during the holiday season.

Thanks, but no

I have a new hobby and it’s one I thought I’d never take up – at least in Los Angeles. It’s part Heathers and part Mean Girls and it gives me great satisfaction.

My new pastime is rejecting men. Well, wait. I’ve been rejecting men for years in this town, but now I have a new, honest comeback to their “hey you want to go out” requests.

“That’s nice of you, but no, I have a boyfriend,” I say. Then I hang up giggling while jumping on my bed and twisting my hair. This is something I don’t get to say often and it’s liberating.

This boomerang guy and I have had three dates in three years because he’s a flaky writer who also does production on the road. Our annual conversations are about our writing projects with a dash of personal catch-up. Boomerang was shocked and disappointed I wasn’t available.

“Well congratulations. Let me know when you break up,” was his response.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, because if I were ever to be single again, you’d so be there for me.

Thanks, but no thanks. Real Guy is more than enough for me right now and he’s already survived three dates with me.

The dating hiatus is off, again

I hadn’t had a date since August and chose to focus on work and health. Those were more productive diversions. I never expected to meet a man the old-fashioned way – in a bar.

A married, former co-worker suggested I go with him to a bar in Montrose that was frequented by NASA/JPL employees. The prospect of meeting a rocket scientist intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure how I’d relate to those guys since I’d never been to a Star Trek convention. But I went figuring a girl’s gotta drink.

I met Real Guy (RG) a couple days before my trip to Hawaii. I knew within 10 seconds of meeting him that he was a guy I could like. He was outgoing, opinionated, funny, and cute. As he played pool, I told co-worker to be my yenta and pass my number on, if RG was interested.

When I returned from Hawaii, I was busy and didn’t return to the bar until I heard that RG had been asking about me. When I arrived, he stopped playing pool. The chemistry was immediate. We sat and talked for seven hours. We went out the following three nights. The conversation and humor overflowed.

There’s not an online dating search engine that can recreate the randomness of this meeting. I’m not sure where this will lead. What I do know is all my online dating profiles are closed. If this doesn’t work out, I’m back to working the bars, or the docks.

Dancing with the fools

It’s that time of year when the tops come up on the prickmobiles and single men in Los Angeles realize they don’t want to be alone for the holidays. I call it boomerang season.

Michael, the 48 year-old margarita puker, contacted me to see if I’d be interested in a second date nearly eight months after our first date. He “missed” me and claimed he had tackled his personal problems and was ready to date again.

I don’t think so.

Alex, a computer programmer, was also known as “A Tale of Two Starbucks.” We never met on our first date because we ended up at different Starbucks on Ventura. He contacted me five months later to see if he could finally meet me. Once again, an unavailable man wants to see if I can be available for him.

I don’t think so.

Henry, a bipolar former gynecologist, and I stopped dating nearly two years ago after I realized he enjoyed playing to the whiny Jew stereotype. He sent me an email to which I responded with general niceties. His response was, “I really wished you had called me instead of emailed.” This is another example of a man in LA that wants to be chased.

I don’t think so.

My trifecta of fools makes me wonder. If you get what you give, why are all these losers coming back for more? Is it a lasting first impression or a simple black book random dial?

I’m going into winter dating hibernation. No more boomerangs.

Crush retirement

I laid out my clothes the night before: black v-neck sweater, pedal pushers, and black jeweled mules with kitten heels. I was ready to see Dr. T.

My morning-of ritual consisted of shaving my legs, scrunching my hair so the curls fell across my eyes at just the right angle, and layering the perfume.

When the nurse came in and took my vitals, she commented on how good I smelled. Excellent, send the doctor in – I’m ready for him. Next in was Dr. T’s trainee. He looked at me somewhat fearfully, as if a good smelling redhead had not been around in a while. He reviewed my chart and then looked at me as said, “You are doing really good and you look great. The doctor will be in shortly.”

Dr. T came in with the trainee. He looked different – new glasses and thinning hair. His panty-melting accent was only a consolation prize. I starred at him as Trainee boy ran through the stats.

“You look like you are doing well. Get on additional calcium and zinc supplements and we’ll see you in a few months,” Dr. T said as he walked out.

For this I shaved my legs? I need to find a new McSteamy.

The maddening crowd

In California, if you asked any former New Yorker what they miss about the city, the response is pretty consistent: food, fall, and friends. I returned recently with a certain fear factor: do I miss it so much I’ll want to move back and give up my 72 degrees and sunny homogenous SoCal life?

In the first hour after arrival, my train went local and was rerouted. I dragged my bag three flights of stairs to street-level to do the F-6 dance. Then I saw a shiny yellow taxi and decided it was my ticket to further stair avoidance. The taxi ride turned into an old school Disney E-ticket. We did 70 down Park. I tipped the driver 40 percent. That ride was second only to the cabbie that fell asleep at the wheel and almost shredded me on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Great memories, but I’m not missing it yet.

The shopping was great, but I became a little retail amnesiac and decided to do Herald Square on Saturday. Then I remembered, that’s for tourists and bridge and tunnel shoppers. I lasted 45 minutes in Macy’s before I ran screaming for a beer at Heartland brewery.

Great purchases, but I’m still not missing it.

I went back to Brooklyn to crash a party off of Flatbush. When I walked downstairs and saw two turntables (those antiquated machines with needles that play vinyl musical recordings) I knew I was destined to have a great time. The Clash, Beastie Boys, Velvet Underground, and more… I had not danced that much since, ah, probably college. The wine and beer flowed as the “we’ve got a babysitter” adults made musical requests. It was a mellow hang with people who had things to say.

Damn it, I miss these real people.

I got a typical slice of New England weather: I wore mittens and used an umbrella on the same day while sweating on the hot bus. As far as the food goes, I the choices are overwhelming. I forgot to have a slice, I managed to only have 1/2 a bagel, but I did have UES Indian and hit Chinatown for cheaper eats.

My more long-term Californian friends are right: “Go back to New York often so you can remember why you left.” I love my friends, but the frenetic lifestyle and the crowds I do not miss.

I still love New York, I’m just not sure when I’ll be back.

I write sins not tragedies

In the age of broadcasting conglomerates, it’s hard to define community standards. I recently discovered that George Carlin’s seven dirty words should be expanded to include “God.”

Panic! at the Disco has a line in one of their songs that says, “Haven’t you learned to close the goddamn door?”

It’s a harmless sentence that is uttered in the context of an overhead conversation in a church. But, a Los Angeles Clear Channel, top 40 station chooses to bleep God out of the song and leave Damn in. Of course, the first time I heard this I laughed out loud. I’m sure the kids today, even a five-year old, could fill in the blank.

Los Angeles derives at lot of income from tits. I vote we take tits off Carlin's dirty word list and add God. There are many deity forms, but tits are universally consistent in Los Angeles: big, perky, and in your face. How could anyone be offended by tits here when most five-year olds know them as boobies?

Kippurrific
I got onto the highway late today, around oh-fuck-o’clock. I knew I was doomed to spend close to two hours in evening rush hour, but I didn’t. I sailed down the 10 doing close to 80 wondering if I missed an earthquake. Where were my rush hour peeps?

It dawned on me when I passed the Fairfax exit that it was a Jewish holiday. While all the Hollywood Jews were home atoning, I was having my Honda high holiday.

Home in 35 minutes.

Now I have baggage
I have a vacation ritual where I pack my almost-expired condoms with hopes they are deployed. My trip to Hawaii was extra special because I was going with my 71 year-old namesake. The Marna(s) were on a mission to meet the perfect Uncle/Nephew combo. We had seven condoms for the week.

I wasn’t sure if a condom’s spermicide fell under the FAA liquid or gel rule, and I knew the chances of joining the mile high club were slim, so I packed my condoms in my checked luggage. I was dizzy watching the Honolulu baggage conveyer belt when I determined my luggage was MIA. There was trouble in paradise. I had no toothbrush, bathing suit, or condoms.

At the end of day two, still wearing the same clothes, my Aunt and I were bar hopping. I was tired and just wanted my stuff. Instead, I settled for a lot of beer. Aunt Marna turned into Pimp Marna before my eyes. There was no Uncle/Nephew duo in sight, but she did have my back when I didn’t realize a waiter had been flirting with me.

“Give him your card. He thinks you are funny,” she pointed out.

The next night, when the porter delivered my bag, I rolled it into the room and announced, “the condoms have arrived.”

The rest of the week, we saw a lot of Hawaii and very few age-appropriate single men. On our last night, at my Aunt’s suggestion, we got crafty and took Hawaii scenic postcard samples, taped a condom to the backside and wrote a note. Our funny waiter got one with his tip.

My favorite postcard with my last condom, is sitting on my desk. It’s a shot of volcano exploding. Below the condom on the backside I wrote, “May all your vacations be filled with hot explosions. Marna(2)”

At least this year I didn’t fill them with water and launch them from the balcony.

Unforgettable

I remember walking home with smoke and ash following me.
I remember looking back every few paces to try to understand.
I remember communicating by IM because phone service was spotty.
I remember sitting in my Park Slope, Brooklyn backyard drunk, staring at the ash.
I remember the grounding silence and smiling at the fighter jets.
I remember coughing up black soot and sneezing for days.
I remember hugging people - all of us happy to be alive.
I remember the burning pile smell, which didn’t dissipate until Thanksgiving.
I remember serving food to disgusted pile workers.
I remember going to the fence to cry and pray for the victims.

By order of the prophet
What is old is new again

I had one of those oh-no-you-didn’t experiences today in the bank. I was waiting in line when I realized a classic song from my youth was on the sound system.

Why would this be disturbing? The ‘80s have been “in” for several years now. Well, it was The Clash. It would have been funny, in a bank, if they were playing “Brand new Cadillac.” But no, this was “Rock the Casbah” and it wasn’t the Musak version – it was the true Clash version.

I stood there bobbing my head and humming the lyrics and realized the last time I really, really enjoyed this song was in college. I was at a frat party, dancing in beer puddles and wearing my Converse Chuck Taylor hightops, a pencil skirt, a big white shirt, and a black hip belt. My hair was an asymmetrical mess: the Thompson Twins meets A Flock of Seagulls.

The teller called me as I was finishing my lyrics. “You know, I was a DJ for two colleges. If the ‘80s are helping you sell product here, I can help you with your play list,” I told her.

She smiled and handed me my three rolls of quarters. I realize seeing things come back around is part of getting older. Maybe I should recapture my youth and find my skirt. Time for a trip to The Gap.

Huff the magic dragon

I didn’t think it was possible to top my weirdest date ever (see 3/2/04 blog), but this is Los Angeles where dreams are created and crushed daily.

Huff was four days into his 40th year when I met him for happy hour. He was east coast bred and came out here several years ago to pursue screenwriting with sci-fi and horror as his genre of choice.

I was half-way through my margarita when it was apparent we were talking all business. Then he asked me if I’d be his writing partner. Since I don’t mix the money with the honey, I went into full-on business mode, cancelled all romantic notions, and talked about some of my creative ideas.

“God, you are intelligent. I know we can make this work,” was all he had to say to get me back to his place to review his screenplays and other business ideas.

When I sat down on the sofa, I thought he had an inordinate about of liquor in his apartment. But, so did Hemingway. Shortly after getting me ice water, he ran to his bedroom and came back with a Snoop Dog big ass bag of pot. The last time I saw this much weed it was in the back of a trunk on COPS.

I gave the “I’m good” sign while he fired up. He proceeded to tell me his big business idea. Like most creatives with no business sense, his idea was flawed. I went easy on him and tried not to use the big SAT words, but I did inquire about the basics: target market and revenue stream.

Though stoned, he got even more excited. “You really do know what you are talking about,” he said.

He ran to the bedroom again and came back with a shopping bag. He got a goofy look on his face and said, “I’ve got 600 whippets. Do you want to do some? They are totally legal. I got them off the internet.”

Now I was in an interesting predicament. I opted to put my game face on and to get out the door shortly there after. Of course, the COPS-watching train wreck side of me knew if I’d stay a little bit longer, I’d have a great story.

I chewed on my ice while the stoner huffed on his N20 cartridge. About a minute later, the drug had set in. I smiled at him and feigned interest when I realized he was focusing on my tits. And then he smiled. He reminded me of the Dennis Hopper character in Blue Velvet.

“You seem like a pretty open-minded woman. I have a question… .or a proposal for you. I have a 19 year-old Asian submissive I spank. She has daddy issues and says she needs a mommy. Would you be interested in joining us?” he asked.

There you go. Thanks for that nugget. THAT made this evening worth it. A 40 year-old unsuccessful screenwriting stoner huffer with dominant tendencies has asked me to beat up an Asian girl one year over the age of consent.

“You know, I’m not really into threesomes, but I’m flattered you’d consider me,” I said.

I channeled Meryl Streep a few minutes longer and eventually got out of my real-time horror story by stating I needed to get home to finish editing a piece (his!).

Writers since the dawn of time have used drugs to induce and enhance creativity. Huff smokes pot and inhales whippets to get his horror and sci-fi ideas. I just date and I get material.

Are bad dates my high?

-free dom

I’m riding the trend wave again. And I’m not talking about a passing fancy like bungie jumping, myspace networking, or miniskirts with leggings.

I’ve become one of them, without the Birkenstocks or patchouli oil. I’ve been a vegetarian for 100 days. And for shits and giggles, I decided to give up wheat, refined sugar (all hail the Splenda god), caffeine, and booze. Life without meat is easier than I thought because I still have eggs, cheese, and fish. I gave up bread a while ago, but now I really pay attention to labels and avoid wheat products and use rice-based instead. When I need a sugar fix, I go sugar-free and it’s not so bad. I've also discovered I have so much natural energy, I don't need a caffeine boost.

Beer is another story. I lasted 60 days. I tried. I really tried. I’ve lost my taste for the lights and ambers, but man, a good ale is still good. I guess if I’m avoiding wheat, I should avoid beer, but it’s obvious that’s impossible. How is it I can forego hamburgers, but crave double barrel ale?

The only way I have survived my new lifestyle is by becoming a food enabler. I have friends over. I cook things with bacon, turkey, chicken, or beef. Every animal with a head, big brown eyes, and a mother has been in my kitchen during the last 100 days. I touch the meat, tell it hello, and prepare it with love. I refuse to be one of those whiny ass vegetarians that uses natural deodorant, recycles, and doesn’t cook real food for their friends.

I’m not pushing my new organic lifestyle on others, but I do feel great- kind of like I did the first time I skied, or hiked to a peak, or swam in the Santa Monica bay. I don’t do that stuff anymore, so we’ll see how long this lasts.

The X-Games

I’ve applied the three-strike-you-are-out rule to my dating. It really comes in handy. Annoying but overlooked first date habits can be re-evaluated prior to firing the potential boyfriend. That way, I am not in month three of the season realizing I recruited the wrong player.

Spicoli admitted on our first date that he was unemployed. That would concern most women, but since I’ve been there, I was sympathetic. In addition to applying for jobs, he tries to surf five times a week. I knew he really was a surfer when he used the word “gnarly” several times. Who still uses that word? I looked behind me to see if Mr. Hand was going to tell us to do our homework.

On the third date, more gnarlies passed between his lips in addition to admitting he had two kids, ages 13 and 3, from two separate women. He’s never been married, and I’ve never met a white baby’s daddy.

Dood, game over. You are out.

Corporate grunge 80's flashback

I’ve always felt there’s a profession more deviant and despicable than used car salesman or insurance underwriter. That would be the “human resource” career track. Throughout my 20+ year career, they have been referred to as inhumane and no-resource.

This week I received a call from a lovely human resource woman. She was screening me for several positions in the company. Strengths, weaknesses, what do you like doing, what is your management style, etc…. Then came a question I couldn’t believe. I was so thankful I was on the phone. She didn’t see me hold the phone out, cock my head and mouth “what the fuck?”

“What do you see yourself doing in five years,” she asked me.

I laughed a little and said, “You are kidding me, right? I think I was 25 the last time I was asked that question.”

She back-peddled a little and waited for my response. During the three-second delay, I crafted the best should-be-copyrighted response:

“Considering I walked home on 9/11, I don’t think about the future that much. I live every day like it will be my last. All I can hope for in my career is to use all my skills, get some kind of satisfaction out of the work, and produce meaningful results.”

I guess the response was good enough. She called me two days later for an interview.

De-Koi
A fish called Bob

Should I remember my first kiss? I don’t. I do remember my first traumatic kiss. I forgot all about it until last night when it was surpassed by my new worst kiss ever.

In high school, I went on a double date with a girlfriend. She was off somewhere making out with her guy and I got stuck talking to her cousin. He wasn’t attractive, but he was nice. When he made his move, I was stabbed multiple times by his three-day shadow. The experience left me with a red-faced beard-burn lesson.

With age comes experience, right? Bob had promise. He’s a 45 year-old east coast native who just accepted a position with a new law firm. We had a great dinner and a fun evening until the goodbyes.

He came at me like a wide-mouth bass with rigor mortis. Mouth was locked in an open position and the stiff lips did not move. He dragged his lower lip across my chin, over my lower lip and across to my cheek. He repeated this mating ritual several times before I broke away with a now-classic signature sign off/cock block.

“Oh god, we have to stop, this is getting too intense,” I said without laughing.

A kiss may be a kiss, but my decades of empirical research has proven, at least for me, a good kisser is rarely a bad lover. Bob the fish may have seized the day, but for me, his trout mouth left me cold. Carp-mahi diem.

Dating synchronicity

Three months ago I had a date, one date, with a nice guy. The evening turned ugly, thanks to margaritas. Three months to that day, I had a date with a new guy which turned ugly thanks to halibut.

Michael was my first date since the little boy breakup. I decided to chronologically date up and met the 48 year old for happy hour at El Cholo. We had immediate chemistry and we had a great time until I realized he’d finished 90 percent of the margarita pitcher. Binge drinker or nervous dater?

Letting him drive was a rush hour death sentence, so I took him home to sober him up. I felt like I was in college again, helping a toga party roommate. In between puking trips to the bathroom, I fed Michael saltines and aspirin. He went home after six hours of nursing. I vowed never to have a first date in a bar.

For my first date with Roger, he drove us to watch the sun set before dinner in the Palisades. He had the veal, I had the halibut. Afterwards, we drove around, talked more and then went back to his place. Things were going great until I started belching fish. Then I got the butterflies, not because I was nervously excited about this great date, but because I knew I had about 10 seconds to get to the bathroom.

I ran the sink water so he couldn’t hear me refunding my dinner. I then hijacked his toothpaste and gave myself a Marine gargle. I did feel much better, but the mood was ruined. I apologized and went home shortly thereafter.

They say timing is everything. I want off this 90-day reciprocal barf cycle.

The horny patient has left the building

My medical crush is over. Hot Dr. T stood me up for some supposed “emergency” in the ER. I went to the trouble of shaving my legs, pushing up the boobs and applying mascara only to get his substitute for my appointment/date. The eastern European accented, crooked-tooth intern didn’t provide me much comfort in Dr. T’s absence. The good news is my stitches have healed. The bad news is, I know I’m not going back. Dr. T, rest in peace.

And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools
Tryin' to anaesthetise the way that you feel

I have a five-minute commute to work. It keeps me sane. But it also gives me the opportunity to enjoy driving in LA traffic after 5 p.m. if I want to go across town to visit friends or go to my westside writing group. I exercise my right to honk, check out drivers, and listen to commercial radio.

My radio pre-sets are what you’d expect: NPR, Top-40, disco, rock, classic rock, and alternative/indie rock. Yesterday, I caught myself on the classic rock station screaming all the words to “Bad Company” while navigating the Rt. 5/110 merge. How did I remember the words? I never liked Bad Company in the ‘70s. I was almost through the last refrain when the voice inside my head said, “Marna, what the fuck?”

I quickly corrected my audio faux pas by switching to the rock station. There was some song being screamed by a band I didn’t know. I cocked my head and really, really tried to listen to the words. But I couldn’t understand. All I could picture was my father yelling “turn that noise down.”

I was back to indie rock in a heartbeat. But it did get me to thinking about my Dad and the music he liked – Big Band. He used to hide out in his workshop listening to Benny Goodman with his one good ear. The clarinets squealed so loud he couldn’t hear me knock when I came in. Every time I’d say to myself, “And he makes fun of my music?”

The music of my era – Depeche Mode, Peter Gabriel, Elvis Costello, Madonna – is still around and is enjoyed by a new generation of young adults. I do try to keep up with “the kids” and keep my mind open to new music. But how great can this new stuff be if I’d rather listen to 70’s classic rock I hated the first time around?

I turned off my radio for the rest of my journey and recovered with Chris Isaak’s greatest hits CD. When Led Zeppelin is on the easy listening station, I’ll know I’m almost dead. Until then, I’ll keep on trying to understand the downfall of rock.

Your momma

It happened again and I was as disturbed as I was the first time. My hair was big and wild. I had cat sunglasses on, a black tank top, crops, and 3.5” espadrille wedges. I was semi-stylish and cute.

When I finished my transaction, the postal worker looked up and said, “Have a nice mother’s day.”

I grabbed my bag, jumped into my car, and pulled the rear view mirror over. No crow’s feet. No bleeding lipstick. No age spots on my chest or hands. Most importantly, no spit up on my shirt.

Do I look like a fucking mother to you? Why don’t people take caution with the well wishes? I would have been less offended if she had just wished me a happy kwanza.

I am conscientiously single and childless. This means I can sleep late, sleep around, take trips to family unfriendly destinations, drive a 2-seater car, and buy beer instead of diapers. Oh, and I don’t have to hide my porn or my vibrators.

I’m the mother of freedom, the mother of creativity, and the mother of self-exploration. Where’s my fake, Hallmark holiday?

Cock, loaded, and stalked
Dr. T and the horny patient

I looked forward to meeting my surgeon. This was going to be my first hospital visit and I really didn’t know what to expect. ER stitches when I was nine was the closest I’ve been to admitted. I knew as soon as I walked into my surgeon’s office I was screwed, and wanted to be.

He had a tiny smile. His small, hip oval glasses hid his nice brown eyes. He had some product in his spikey hair. He was conspicuously hetero and 30-something with a panty-melting accent. Anyone that can pronounce my name with a rolling R is as good as laid. When he got closer, I realized he was taller than me. Instantaneous love kicked in.

Surgery expectations were explained. I tried to listen, but my inner child was calling the florist and the caterer. Whatever… the director of the center for minimally invasive surgery is going to be touching me. I’ll rest easy.

When I left, panic set in. Would I be able to do everything I needed to do before our “date”? I called my waxistician first. The secret garden was in arrears and needed pruning. If Dr. T was going to see me in all my glory, it needed to be spectacular, not to mention my eyebrows and oh, shit, I’d need to have cute toes too.

With appointments made, there was only one thing left to do. I Google-stalked the doctor and discovered he lived in Santa Monica and was a high earner on some of the online gambling sites. I could do a Vegas wedding in a pinch.

On surgery day, I prepped like I was going on a date. I shaved the legs and slathered them with shea butter for the smoothest feeling possible. I layered my best getcha-some perfume, Narciso Rodriquez, and I put my hair up in pigtails with flowers. He came into my pre-op curtained cubicle, smiled, and shook my hand.

“How are you? Are you ready?” Dr. T asked.

Braless, standing in my surgery frock, I said, “Yeah, I’m great. Let’s do it.”

He left, my BP went up and my sleepy cocktail was administered. The next day, he came to say goodbye when I was being discharged. My hair was down and wild and fresh lip gloss had been applied.

“You look amazing. You are doing so well,” the good doctor noted.

On my third date with Dr. T, I switched to Bulgari Omnia. I was spunky, cute and ready for my post-op visit to check my stitches. The door opened, our eyes connected and I gave him a big smile and a hair flip.

“You must be feeling good with a smile like that,” Dr. T said.

If he were naked, I’d really be feeling better. I got up on the table, he lifted my shirt and looked at my stitches. It was all good. He asked me if I had any other problems.

“Yeah, I’m doing great except for the weird dreams. Last night I was chased by a Spanish omlette. It was like MI3 meets Denny’s,” I said.

Food dreams. Great cock block Marna. I could of told him about a positive problem like “I just can’t drink enough water. I love it.” No instead, I fucked myself with my Moons over My Hammy mentality. Grand Slam. Fool, party of one, your table is ready.

I’ve got a couple more weeks to prep for my next date with Dr. T, but I’m not sure I can find a remedial flirting class to attend in time. As much as I want to be the hair-flipping sex kitten, my personality is always going to be the Chuck Taylor hightop wearing, casual type. I’m open, too honest, I lack self-censorship, and my “game” is spontaneity.

One day that will get me a man. Probably not a doctor.

Tell me that wasn’t money

I have short-term memory dreams now. Nothing vivid or grandeous and the plot is usually whatever happened within the last 72-hour period. So, I may be doing a Norma Rae at the office, or dreaming I met a nice, single emotionally adjusted guy at happy hour.

Now my dreams are going in scary, different directions. Last night, Jon Favreau, a writer/actor from Swingers, was the main character in my dream.

I was in Ralph’s getting my weekly supply of produce and whatnot when my Kenneth Cole bronze wedges hydroplaned on something and I fell into an end-cap tomato can pyramid. I got up, collected myself and looked around to see who saw my graceful move. Nobody, except Jon, half-way down the aisle.

But I didn’t know it was him because he gained some weight and had less hair. I assumed he was single (basket vs. cart), so I strolled up to him. He was contemplating getting the Italian-style whole tomatoes with basil.

“Those are great,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just tried about three dozen of them at the end of the aisle,” I replied.

We both laughed and he asked if I was ok. The small talk continued and he handed me his card and asked me to call him. Oh my god, it’s Jon Favreau. Without hesitating, I turned his card over and wrote my name and number on the back.

“Why don’t you call me? And don’t wait three days,” I said walking away.

I woke up recalling the whole dream and just laughed at myself. Jon wouldn’t shop at the dirty Ralph’s on Lake in Pasadena. He seems like a Gelson’s or Whole Foods kind of guy to me. But I was excited to have my first grocery store pick-up. Too bad he’s married, and it was a dream.

Insights from a native boob handler

To reaffirm that I am, indeed, 40 years old, my doctor wrote a referral for a mammogram. I’m probably one of the few people that enjoys them because I look forward to the conversations the technicians generate to try to distract you from the boob squishings.

My first mammo was in 1994. I was young and two months away from losing my insurance due to divorce. My male doctor felt a lump and sent me off to get screened. I was nervous and worried I might have a pre-existing condition that would preclude me from getting new insurance. The technician at Stuart Circle Hospital was almost a gray-haired little old lady. She prepped me for what I was about to experience, but the most comforting thing she said was, “don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. Male doctors don’t know how to examine cysty, large breasts and do this as a malpractice precaution.” She was right.

I saw a Brooklyn Heights doctor who decided to let me have a second mammogram when I was 35 because, “your insurance covers it. You need another baseline.” So I went to Doshi Diagnostic in SoHo and was manhandled by an Indian woman (slushee not casino variety) who didn’t speak to me outside of directions. A week later, I got the letter saying everything was fine. I returned to pick up my films because I knew I’d never go back.

Today was mammogram number three and it was the best one of all. I was greeted by a 30-something blond technician. After my right breast was slung up on the glass, she began the small talk. “So, I see you have films from New York. How do you like it out here?”

I decided to tread lightly, not knowing if she was a native, or someone I could commiserate with. “It’s kind of strange out here,” I replied.

“Hey, I’m from here and I don’t even like it,” she said. “I hear the difference is, people in New York will let you know if they like you or hate you immediately. You know where you stand.”

She then instructed me not to breathe as the image was taken. When my breast was released from captivity, I knew it was safe to reply.

“Yeah, that would pretty much sum it up. People out here can’t be straight with you and are worried about making nice-nice and keeping up appearances. I think most of them are bona fide pussies,” I told her.

She laughed and agreed and I said, “and don’t EVEN get me started about dating out here.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed harder and told me I’d have the results in a week. But I know the results: my tits are fabulous and LA is weird.

From lords to wizards

Every girl remembers her first bra. I wasn’t interested in getting one. Now, 31 years later, I still wish I didn’t have to wear one, but I’m thankful for the interesting bra shopping experiences that make the hassle worth it.

In 1975, I was an early bloomer in the fifth grade. I didn’t want to be the first one in my class to have to wear one. My mom insisted bra shopping would be “fun” and we’d go to lunch afterwards. Our destination was Lord & Taylor. In its day, it was similar to today’s Nordstrom’s. It was a rare, special treat for our lower-middle income family.

When we landed in the lingerie department, my mother went hunting for the woman with a tape measure. “Oh, so you’re here to get fitted for your first bra. Let me help you,” said the older, gray-headed lady. As I rolled my eyes, she measured below and above my sprouting breasts to compute my bra size and told me I really did need a bra, but it would be OK. I tried on several bras and walked away with a suitable young woman's bra. It made my mom happy I wasn’t flopping around anymore. On Monday at school, my bra was visible through my white shirt. The bra snapping and teasing began.

Many years later when I was in New York, I was tiring of my bras and decided for the optimal retail experience, I needed a Jew since there was no tape measure lady in the Fifth Avenue Lord & Taylor. I wandered the lower east side and found a fabulous bra shop on Orchard. The store was 20-feet wide and had floor-to-ceiling containers of bras with a sliding ladder to reach all areas. I walked in and a black-hat Jew with the goldilocks dreads, beard, and dandruff looked at me.

“You need a bra” he said, surveying my sagging state of affairs.

Without hesitation he told me I was a 40dd. No tape measure. A Hasidic Jew with visual, pinpoint accuracy. He pulled several bras out of containers for me to try.

“Dis is Wacoal, Oprah’s favorite bra. I give to you for $30, but it tis $55 at Macy’s,” he said.

I went to the back, behind a curtain in the stock room, where his wife assisted me with bra installation. He was right. Perfect fit. I walked out with a bargain in the right size.

Recently, I realized my Bali’s were wearing thin. I needed another retail shopping experience but wasn’t sure, on the west coast, what could top a good, lower east side Jew or my Lord & Taylor lady. Two friends recommended “The Wizard of Bras.”

I made the mistake of going on a Saturday. There was a 65-minute wait for a fitter, but given the crowd of large-breasted women, this was going to be worth the wait. When my name was called, I followed a short, Hispanic woman to one of the curtained stalls. “Bra fitting or girdle?” she asked.

“Bra. The doctor just put me on the pill and I’m getting bigger. My bras are too small and I’ve got the four-boob syndrome right now.” I admitted.

She measured above, she measured below, and she measured across the middle and came back with a bra for me to test. I was asked to raise my hands above my head and discovered my left breast was bigger which forced me up another cup size. She came back with a bin of bras.

The bras fit great and looked great. Fabulous engineering until I looked at the actual bra size. I’d been several cup sizes off. Like in high school, I’d been forcibly shoving my boobs in smaller bras to hide and minimize the size. I paid for the discomfort.

The Wizard was right. Now my sport bra is a five-hooker and my day bras cost as much as a pair of Steve Madden’s or a nice, full keg of beer. While I’ve been carrying the load and enduring the teasing and the looks for more than 30 years, I still covet going braless undetected. Such freedom. Until then, I have my tape measure ladies and my retail Jews around to tell me “the proper foundation makes the woman.”

I could date him

I’ve been mentoring a 17 year-old girl for the past couple of months. We meet weekly at a coffee shop near her high school and work on our writing.

During the first 15 minutes, we gossip. Our recent common denominator is boys. She has her head on straight and knows they are all idiots. She likes it when they call her, but she never holds any hope they will do what they say. She’s classically trained in cautious optimism.

I’m very proud of her.

Today, when she asked about my boyfriend, I told her I dumped him. When she asked why, I kept the details light. “How old was he?” she asked.

“He’s 28,” I replied.

“Wait, how old are YOU?” she asked.

Like most, she didn’t believe I was 40 and told me I looked “maybe” 32 and I acted much younger. This I know and this is the reason I’ve been hooking minnows for the last 10 years.

“He’s 28? Ewww. I could date him,” she concluded after doing some very basic math. “You should be dating older guys.”

The teacher has become the student. There are plenty fish in the sea. I should find one that knows how to swim.

Glad I could help you feel good about your family

Do you know the expression, “You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family?” I love my friends. They’ve been there for me in post-birthday recovery.

The Tour du Florida humor hasn’t let up. From RV sales videos to “I’m so sorry for you” shoulder squeezes, they’ve validated my feelings and helped me laugh the trip into a distant memory.

Last Sunday, Circus Boy called me from the road. He lives in a RV and was on his way up I-95 to the next town. “God damn, I’m sitting here driving thinking about your birthday vacation and laughing. I had to call you. I still can’t believe it,” he said.

Wall Street Pete, who helped me celebrate my 35th birthday, checked-in this week and gave me a backwards scream when I told him my birthday itinerary. “You make me feel good about my family. Despite their idiosyncrasies, they wouldn’t do anything so dumb.”

I’m thankful for the friends I’ve picked. We recovered from 9/11 together. We survived college together. We lived through divorces together. You know and love me and I’m grateful.

This bud’s not for you

I realize I unintentionally date on the special ed side of the dating spectrum. As one friend recently told me, “There has to be a disproportionate amount of normal guys somewhere because you’ve cornered the market on nuts.” Will it ever end?

He called at 5:15 p.m. on Valentine’s Day to find out when I was going home. “I ordered flowers for you with guaranteed delivery. I don’t want you to miss them.”

They didn’t come. They didn’t come the next day. They didn’t come the day after that, but that was the day I decided to release him from boyfriend duty permanently for other, nonflower-related reasons. His parting words were, “I still want to look into those flowers.”

The following day, while I was cleaning my desk, I found my floral card and envelope from the prior delivery. He said he ordered from the same place for Valentine’s Day. I called the florist who verified an order was never placed.

Honesty is a virtue in a town built on fantasies and lies. Until I find that guy, I’m going to keep my eyes wide open, pay attention to the red flags, and continue to date, I think.

This bud's for you

When I heard Budweiser declared February 15th the official start to dating season, I panicked. Was I missing something I’d regret? Something better than 1/2 price chocolate?

As a professional dater, I decided to evaluate my existing relationship. I pulled it into the pit, checked the gauges and determined we weren’t going to make it, even with a retread.

In order to avoid losing time in this new season, I called him and told him it was time to retire the relationship and move on. Irreconcilable differences. Generation gap. What ever the excuse may be, I really didn’t see ourselves making it to Fat Tuesday or even St. Patrick’s day.

While the Whitman’s and bear were sweet, the future holds something just as nice. Gentlemen, start your engines.

Six days of unpaid vacation, 10 days of wondering if I was adopted

I was in the middle of planning my 40th birthday trip to Hawaii when my brother called and suggested an alternative destination. His annual U.S. visit coincided with my birthday week and he was going to be in Florida.

Hawaii or Florida…hum. This would be my only opportunity to see my nephews and work on their vocabulary.

For two months, my trip was shrouded in secrecy. I bribed Sam, my six-year old nephew, to be my spy. The best information he could come up with was, “bring a bathing suit” and my cake would be chocolate with sprinkles. My brother cashed in his business miles and purchased my plane ticket. So now I knew I was flying into Tampa.

The rest would be revealed when I arrived.

I didn’t sleep on my red eye and was greeted in Tampa by my brother. His brother-in-law picked us up in the arrivals area in an F-something pickup with four doors. I sat up front while my brother slept in the back. I tried to sleep, but the country music was keeping me up, in between watching the brother-in-law deposit his Skoal drippings in a water bottle.

This was not a good sign.

Nearly two hours later, we were at the brother-in-law’s ranch: cows, horses, dogs, 4-wheelers and farm hands. I was deliriously tired at this point and too exhausted to appreciate the richness of this ranch. I needed a bed.

Instead, my birthday surprise was exposed – an Ultra Limited Edition 31-foot RV complete with a sign that read, “Cool Aunt Marna’s tour of the Deep South.”

I was fucked. I did not take six days of unpaid time off to tool around in the Sunshine State in an RV. I used to say roughing it was no cable, but with satellites, I’ve upgraded my mantra. Roughing it is no room service. My brother must of seen the horror on my face. “Don’t worry, you only have to sleep in it two nights,” he said. I wanted to turn around and go to TPA and reverse this bad decision fast.

After lunch, where I enjoyed gator fritters, we headed south. I could detail the destinations we went to, but it isn’t important. The nights I didn’t cry myself to sleep, I’d wake up and say “focus on your nephews, not the horror Marna.” I did a lot of sitting: sitting in cars, trucks and RVs. I got little sleep. I never felt clean. I wore my bathing suit one time. My back was killing me.

My birthday? Well, there were a few minor celebrations organized, but the most notable was a screening a photo montage video which included intro titling with my named spelled wrong. This was on Day 7, my patience zapped, so I blurted out, “Robert, you douche bag. You don’t even know how to spell my name?” The second part of the video google-earthed all the different places I lived. I felt like the butt of a week-long joke.

On Day 9, after a large bbq and activities familiar to the indigenous redneck population, the brother-in-law ordered a car for me. After sharing a 40th birthday chocolate cake with my nephews, I was wisked away back to civilization at the DoubleTree next to the Tampa airport. I had a bath. I slept in a real bed. I was finally relaxed.

On the flight home, I began reading “A heartbreaking work of staggering genius,” by Dave Eggers. I became envious of the relationship the two brothers had. They understood each other’s needs and knew how to have fun.

Maybe one day my brother will have the time to get to know and understand me. In the meantime, I’m another year older, and much wiser.

Hawaii here I come.

Missed connections

While connecting in the Charlotte airport on my way back to LA, I heard the recorded announcement, “if you see unattended luggage or suspicious packages, please contact a law enforcement official.”

When I realized where I was, I had a panic attack.

The cop I turned in to NYPD IAD is supposedly a federal marshal in Charlotte now. The thought of being in the same area code as him sent me running to the bathroom with dry heavs.

I walked to my gate looking over my shoulder and wondering if he had read flight manifests. Did he know I was there?

Will I be scared the rest of my life?

My 40th Birthday – A moving violation

My brother and sister-in-law left the kids with a relative and the three of us went to Key West for my birthday in the 31-foot Ultra.

We did what you would expect in the limited amount of time we were there. We drank and we shopped. By 10:30 p.m. I was tired and somewhat bored since I really don’t drink much any more.

The cab ride back to the RV park was fast and we retired quickly. The couple slept in the front over-the-cab area and I got to try out the back full size bed. I was prepared to get my first good night’s sleep in more than six days.

I was tossed awake – rolled from side to side in bed, like a sailboat hitting a wake. I sat up in bed and realized my brother was having sex 30 feet away from me. While the heat generator drowned out the audibles, the RV obviously did not have fully independent suspension. I was getting residually fucked on my own birthday.

I felt like I was in college. You know when your roommate thinks she can be quiet having sex. You want to say something, but you know it will be over soon. You are happy for her. This experience was something different. I was a part of this act. It was yucky. It was my brother.

When the generator shut off, the movement subsided. I imagine the fuckers up front were restratigizing their actions. About a minute later, it started again. I debated about what to do, then I figured it would be over soon. You know, they are married, they have to do things fast, in between soccer practice and Dora the Explorer.

It eventually ended without an audio track, except the one in my head saying, “Happy fucking birthday.”

What planet are you from?

While lying in bed with Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast, I joked that our good relationship was ruining my bitch-about-LA-dating writing career. And then he gave me some material from out of this world.

“Don’t we have an anniversary coming up?” he asked.

What guy do you know remembers an anniversary? They can’t even remember their own mother’s birthday. They will remember where they boned you, or a sexy outfit you were wearing before they boned you… but a specific date? Get out.

Now the only reason I knew the calendar date was because I blogged our first meeting. I’ve never been one of those girls that knows the minutes and seconds of their relationship duration in local and Greenwich Mean Time. I’m the girl who says “I don’t know, we met sometime after the rainy season, but before flip flop weather.” I don’t track time because, let’s face it, I rarely have a live one that makes it to date three.

But now I do and I have to say, when he kissed me and said “happy anniversary baby,” the once alien phrase seemed bittersweet.

While I’m still not ready to be a counter, I do wonder how I’ve lived 14,200 days, 6.5 hours and 40 seconds without a guy this fabulous.

Crash

Ever since 9/11, I’ve been a little noise sensitive. Hearing the clack of metal plates banging on a street, firecrackers, or any other unexpected noise sends my heart racing.

I live steps away from a one-way street. Drivers often miss the light and hit cross traffic. I’m getting used to that noise. It just happened again. Squealing breaks, then the horn, then the bang. I stopped calmly folding laundry to go outside, not to look. I know, 9 out of 10 times, it’s some jackass on a phone that screwed up. No, I grabbed my business card and went outside in my Brooklyn sweatshirt to see if my parked car received any collateral damage.

My car was fine, but this time the innocent cross traffic car had been flipped. The corners of the intersection were littered with on-lookers. These are probably the same people that go to Ground Zero when they visit New York. Fuck them.

When I turned around to go back to my apartment, the sirens were near and the local news helicopter had already arrived.

I need to move.

The ghost of Christmas past

Christmas is for kids. As we get older, it's never as fun. The fun dissipates when you have to get in a car or get on a plane to go home for the holidays. I just got back from a Palm Springs holiday weekend with Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast and realized there's no place like not being home.

After Dad died, my brother and I went home out of obligation, not desire. But, as veterans of past holiday holocausts, we made a pact we wouldn't go in alone. In 1997, I worked until the last minute at my ad agency servicing a needy client on Christmas Eve. I went home, got the dog, packed my bag, and made the 120 mile drive up I-95 in very evil traffic. I was tired when I walked in my mom's living room and was greeted by my brother and sister-in-law who warned me, "look out, she's in rare form."

Rare form wasn't really rare at all. It was drunk predictability. My mother's favorite topics of "discussion" when it came to me included, but were not limited to (a) weight loss; (b) failed relationships; or (c) career. I was tired, but I always had my sound bites ready, like a prepared 60-Minutes interviewee with a hot light and one camera.

She roared around the corner from the kitchen when she heard Kramer barking and gave me a hug with a spiked egg nog after bite. As I got ready to sit down, she mounted the stinger missile launcher on her shoulder and asked about my weight. Direct hit. My sister-in-law, who had a front row seat to the spectacle, was slack jawed and speechless. Mom followed up with her best one-two punch to date - she asked if I was a lesbian. I wasn't expecting this since she knew I was seeing a man who enjoyed gun shows and cooking. She rounded the interview out with a simple, "so do you still have a job or are you laid off, again?"

I was ready to tackle her like an overweight, unemployed bull dyke would, but in the spirit of the holidays, I spared her life. "Mom, give it a rest. I have no tolerance for this bullshit and I'm too tired to drive back to Richmond. I'll leave in the morning. Happy fucking holidays." She went back into the kitchen and I told my brother he was on his own. I was never coming home for Christmas again.

Since that time, I've worked in soup kitchens, gone to friends' houses, gotten drunk with a Hindu, and played Matchboxes with my nephews instead of going home for the holidays. Each year, I create my own bliss with people I enjoy. I remain sane.

When Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast called and suggested we get out of town for the holidays, I jumped at the opportunity. It was a three day, intensive interview/getting-to-know-you pseudo dating workshop that included pools, parks, and constellations. The good times exceeded our expectations. It was a great Christmas Present with no heavy artillery.

Lights and sirens

Los Angeles isn’t normal. My dates are usually abnormal. So when I finally found a normal guy, it’s only natural that the date take an unusual turn.

We clicked in email and on the phone, so phase three – the meeting – was booked. The chemistry was almost immediate as we sipped our green teas outside of Borders. Everything was great until management decided the homeless guy resting a few tables from us was a nuisance.

The cop walked up to the homeless guy and asked him to move on. He didn’t want to. The cop asked a few more times and voices got louder.

He asked me, “Do you want to move?”

“And miss the free show? Are you kidding? This is better than COPS!” I replied watching the cop tap the homeless guy with his baton.

We continued chatting and I gazed over at the officer trying to do his removal job. Back up was called and when the homeless guy reached into his pocket, it was all over. Mace was in the air and the homeless guy was horizontal. He left with the backup to enjoy his new seat in the rear of the police cruiser.

All was returning to normal when the corporal on duty walked up to us.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but did you witness this?” We nodded. “I’m going to have to get your contact information,” he asked.

“Oh man, this is our first date,” I said laughing.

The corporal returned a few minutes later and said he needed to interview us separately to document there was no police brutality. I walked over with the corporal and left my date to finish his tea and check his Blackberry.

“Is everything going OK on the date? If not, I can take you to the station and you can get away easy,” the corporal asked.

“No, no. It’s great. We’re having a nice time. I like him,” I said.

“Well, he should like you. You look and smell great,” the corporal added.

I laughed and continued to detail the transaction with the homeless guy. When we finished, we went back to the table, the corporal interviewed my date and finished by thanking us for helping out.

Despite all the action, this was the most normal first date I’ve had since arriving in LA. When he stared into my eyes and asked me for a second date, it felt even more normal. He didn’t have to consult his life coach. He didn’t have to wait for Mercury to get out of retrograde. He didn’t have to dust off a Ouija board.

He knew what he wanted and so did I – an opportunity to have more fun with someone of higher intelligence and extraordinary wit. He walked me to my car and kissed me goodbye. I drove away with a smile on my face.

That’s unusual.

Long dong Dave

When your kid says something hilarious and sexual, who are you going to call? Today my brother felt I was the best contact.

My nephew, Dave, is days away from turning four years old. He’s a combination of a goofy frat boy and a comedian. In a sense, he’s got my genes. Tonight before bed he had his hands down his pants. When my sister-in-law spotted the self-exploration, she suggested he come over and read a book with her.

“I can’t Mommy. I have to fight with my penis. It’s too big,” he said.

That’s my boy. If you get caught with your pants down, try to have a happy ending.

Cock-a-doodle-doo

I got over that metrosexual man thing more than a decade ago when I realized my husband used more hair products than I did. It wasn’t the ‘80s, after all. So when I met a man who said he was in touch with his inner lesbian and he’d come over and fix my furnace on our second date, I had to say yes.

He showed up sporting a thrift store chic workman shirt with a “Todd” name patch and “Greco Heating and Air Conditioning” above his pocket. I giggled as he came in the door and hugged me. When he sat down on the sofa he squirmed around.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You are probably sitting on one of my crazy pillows,” I answered.

He pulled out a stuffed rooster from his back pocket. “I could of brought you flowers, but I thought you’d like cock instead,” he said.

A sense of humor, good, but can he fix a furnace? No, but he spent 45 minutes trying, which is about how long my ex-husband used to spend in the bathroom doing his hair.

I’ll take cock any day.

The traffic stop

In Los Angeles, we don’t make a move in our car without checking SigAlert. This useful website helps us plan around idiot drivers. What it doesn’t help with is the trouble we may find when we reach our destination.

I agreed to drive to Long Beach for a first date tonight. Going 34 miles in 80 minutes is good during rush hour. But I knew as soon as I got to the bar, the only thing this trip was good for would be the beer I would need to get through the date.

When he answered his cell phone, it was over. But traffic wasn’t. So I sat there another 40 minutes listening to a me-monologue while I mentally mapquested my way back home.

Without SigAlert as a gauge, I got out after my second beer and made it home in record time. I have good instincts for traffic and bad dates.

Waste not, want not

More than four years ago, I planned a well-deserved vacation to Mexico with two girlfriends. We had all been working hard and were ready to play hard.

As part of our “fun” incentive package, I went to Target and got an economy box of condoms for us. Our goal was finish the box by the end of the week. I knew it was statistically improbable that each of us would have sex 2.7 times a day.

But a girl(s) can dream.

By day three, it was pretty apparent that we were not going to achieve our goal, so we started giving out the condoms as gag tips. I brought the rest home.

While I was packing for my recent vacation, I decided to pack a few condoms, just in case. My Mexican condoms were in the mix and had expired… in April. Four years later and I STILL couldn’t finish the box off.

But the condoms will not go to waste. I’m going to get some classy Cranes stationery and tape the expired Trojan inside with a note to Anne and Monica to remember to get laid more often.

I had a great vacation. The condoms I packed don’t expire until ’08. Hopefully I can meet that goal because you know an unused Trojan is a terrible thing to waste.

The pussy mortgage

I realized the other day that my “monthly” bleeding has had approximately a 360 month run. That’s a 30-year term. Will I ever hold the deed to my pussy? Will Proctor & Gamble release the consumer stronghold it has on my bleed box?

I did some basic math and determined I’ve spent $2,156.50 on feminine products in my lifetime. That excludes the bushels of underwear I’ve ruined not to mention the sheets downgraded to never-for-guests. That figure excludes the iron pills I’ve had to take to keep from being anemic or the Ortho Novum 135s I’d take for period control. I’ve also excluded doctor office copays where I’d check in to see if there were any new medical developments to make the bleeding subside.

Thirty years later and not much has changed. I feel like a walking waterbed two days before. I want to kill humans and eat chocolate on day one. I want to sleep day two. I speculate on day three if my 40 box will last me.

Today I know that my feminine consumerism could of bought 15 kegs of good import beer, 70 tanks of gas, about four pairs of Manolo Blahnik’s, or more than 2,000 Kit Kat bars.

I’m ready for a reverse mortgage so I can buy back my life, my pussy, and something cool that doesn’t come with a cardboard applicator.

This should have been your date

Dating is an exhausting exercise, but I support my friends as they venture out there. What is more tiring is when they have a bad experience and state, “I thought this kind of crap only happened to you, Marna.”

Once again, I have to repeat IT’S BAD ALL OVER.

Marci was approached online by a hospital social worker that lives east of New Haven, Conn. Marci is on the upper east side of Manhattan. They spent a week talking on the phone and Social Worker decided to take the train down and take her out for the day and then they’d have dinner. Seemed like an innocent proposition and a typical New York weekend: walk around/eat.

He arrived nervous and it never stopped. He directed his behavior into a few verbal assaults, which finally sent Marci over the edge. She stopped the date and asked him what his problem was. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pill bottle and said, “I didn’t take my Xanax this morning.”

She asked him to take his meds. He then revealed he has had depression since birth, severe anxiety, OCD, and a sleeping disorder. He also hasn’t worked in a year. Marci told him she could almost tolerate the medical disorders, but lying about his employment was a deal breaker.

“But I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t go out with me,” he said.

His send off was classic. “All those nights we talked on the phone were long distance calls for me and I can’t afford it. Do you think you could call me? Will you call me?” he asked.

Instead, Marci emailed me and I had a telephonic intervention with her while he was on a train north. She’s done with dating, she says. “This should have been your date. You would have had fabulous new, insane material,” Marci added.

Well, Marci, I haven’t had a date in more than a month. Thanks for reminding me what’s out there. This blog’s for you.

Seeing eye queer

Ana and I were in the air, on our way to a photo shoot in Denver, when I told her I wanted to conduct an experiment. “I hear when you leave LA, guys pay attention to you. Let’s see if that’s true,” I said.

Little did I know I wouldn’t have the energy to get out after working 12-hour days. On our last night in Denver, we ventured two blocks from the hotel and hit a diner with the photographer and his assistant, Mike.

I sat on the outside edge of the booth which was a prime seat to view our waiter. He was very eager to serve us and had lots of flare and arm gestures. When Ana’s Mount Gay lime jumped out of her glass, the waiter promptly returned with two more and announced the new limes were asexual.

Everything the waiter did from here on out seemed really funny, but I finished a schooner of beer while waiting for my meal. My humor and body animation was ampted up and the whole table was roaring. The waiter continued to add to our good times.

By the time the check came, I was still sitting in the booth, but my head was on my pillow two blocks away. The waiter made one final comment as we got up. Mike, the youngest and gayest in the group, had his 'dar tuned up and told me, “Girl, are you blind? Our waiter has been hitting on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. Didn’t you hear him mention that he was the MANAGER helping out. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see him as a middle-aged waiter,” Mike said.

“Crap. I didn’t notice. What do I do?” I asked, hopelessly clueless.

“Throw your business card down on the table. Maybe he’ll call,” Mike suggested.

I tossed my waterproof Don’t Mince Words card on the table and walked outside. Los Angeles to Denver makes for some geographically undesirable dating, but I realized I had just proved my inflight point – men are men outside of LA.

While walking back to the hotel, Mike and I doubled over laughing about the whole experience. I haven’t been with a real man in so long, it takes a gay man to point one out to me.

God help me and god bless my seeing eye queer.

What’s that on your back? Oh my.

My friends mean well. They look out for me. Last week was no different.

Wall Street Pete called about a $5,000 opportunity. He heard K-ROCK 92.3FM was having a “tramp stamp” contest. I began listening to him years ago when he suggested I pay attention to a pre-IPO biotech stock.

“You will win. You have to enter. That tattoo is hilarious,” he affirmed.

I had an opportunity to make money off my clothed body. With my winnings, I could make the max contribution to my IRA. I could make a Visa payment. I could go to Hawaii. I could also get the R in my tattoo retouched. It was fading.

I emailed Booker in the afternoon a digital pic. His intern replied to let me know the announcement would be made Monday. The only person that called Monday was Pete to see if I won.

My week progressed as normal until today. “We have to have you in the studio tomorrow afternoon with the other nine finalists. Your tattoo is great,” Booked called to tell me. He asked where I got it and didn’t seem thrilled when I said, “Key West during my friend’s 40th birthday celebration a few years ago.” The silence made it seem like I’d be the old fogey in the studio next to hot, dumb 20-something girls of questionable virtue.

My fate was sealed when I reminded Booker, as I did in my email, I live in Los Angeles.

“Oh.”

“I’d be happy to do a live remote with you. The tattoo is easy to describe to listeners,” I replied.

I found out afterwards, that couldn’t be an option. A tattoo shop in Jersey sponsored the contest. Anyone that knows me knows if I were in the New York region, I’d get a tattoo in the east Village before I’d go to northern New Jersey for ink.

Another 15 minutes of fame averted.

The benefactor

There are seven words that every writer hates hearing. “When are you going to be published?” My day job continues to get in the way of my professional development.

I received an email this weekend from a friend who periodically checks in. The last time I heard from him he was laughing and threatening to read my posts aloud in the city center of Rihyad to “liberate” women. “As usual, you are an incredible writer- you constantly have me rolling on the floor! Publish soon and let me know so I can PAY for the privilege of reading you!”

Three of my short stories were published in the WriteGirl anthology that is now available on Amazon, I think. My other piece that is part of an LA writers’ anthology is being shopped and if the houses kick it back, we’re going to self-publish. I’ve got tons of chick lit pitches floating around at the women’s mags as well as with the LAT and NYT. My big push is to get “Internet dating: A decade of bad coffee and backward screams” published. Yes, I actually have 10 years of Internet dating experience to talk about.

So, I’m getting published, slowly, but I’m not ready to quit my day job. But if you know of a handsome benefactor that would like to sponsor my unemployment while I pitch fulltime, let me know.

I've got a new boyfriend

He's white, 14 inches and his name is Mac. Right now, he's giving me more pleasure than any prior pieces of hardware ever could.

They say once you go Mac, you'll never go back. I think I'll keep him around and cancel the cat idea.

Tie the knot

When you are in your 30’s and dating, the subject of marriage is tough to tackle in the initial courtship period. There are so many reasons why (or why not) someone has married. I generally don’t ask and assume every man I date is either divorced or about to change teams. The big reveal is always interesting.

I was recently on a date with Lighting Guy. We were on our way to a thai restaurant when we passed a bachlorette party on the sidewalk. The bride-to-be was about 23 years-old with hotpants, a tight tshirt and a veil.

When I saw her I said something to the effect of “oh honey don't do it. Live a little first.” Lighting guy agreed that she was too young to get married.


"I was 22 when I got married. That is TOO young, but I married a stripper," he said.

"Oh really, I got married a month before my 27th birthday, but I married a bipolar," I responded hoping a bipolar trumped a stripper.

"I'm bipolar," he said.

"Mine didn't medicate," I explained.

"Oh, no. I take the drugs and I see my therapist every six weeks," he said.


Glad I got that out the way. Time for me to give up and get a cat.

How do you like them apples?

When it comes to direct hits, men of color have always been first responders to my looks. My almost blue-white creamy skin could guide planes in at LAX. The hair isn’t blond, which is a rarity in this town. The whole package is not what men are used to seeing, so they react.

Latin men love the Marnasita. Middle-eastern and Indian men enjoy my WASPy superwhiteness. Jews have always chased me because I am the shiksa from hell – the opposite of what their mother wants them to have. And black men. Well, they are the original admirers of The Marn.

This morning, I dropped my stash of NetFlix at the post office. As I was walking back around to my car, a 50-something black man with a jeweled fez pillbox hat looked me up and down 2.5 times and then smiled at me and said, “Mmmmm, mmmmm. Yes, I like everything big. Good morning to you.”

I smiled and said thank you but had to chuckle because the man spoke to me with a very Kentucky Fried Chicken finger-licking-good voice. But, at least he knows what he likes.

This was a nice Monday morning reminder to me to continue to be a tenacious communicator and to be exceptionally expressive. In a town where men want to be chased and won’t look you in the eyes, I’m going to continue to walk the talk, balls out swinging. I know what I like too.

Kung Fu grip

As anyone with back pain will tell you, when you find relief it is as if the clouds parted and the angels sang. You remember what it is like to move again. And live.

My lower back has been tight since my episode in early July. My mobility was limited and I lived every day in fear of moving the wrong way and re-injuring myself. I felt old for the first time in my life.

One day I trolled the Internet for a Thai massage specialist in my area. I remember my friend’s husband got “fixed” by one session and I decided it couldn’t hurt – hopefully. I found the perfect guy – eastern influenced, teaches Kung fu, and he himself had suffered from sciatica.

I had met my match.

I exchanged an email and phone call with Perfect Guy who sounded like he could cure me with one session. That was a little hard to believe, but at this point, I’d pay a guy to touch me for an hour.

Perfect Guy ended up being too perfect in so many ways. He was about 6’3” and 215 pounds with nice salt and pepper hair. I lay down on the mat and he gave me 20 minutes of deep tissue to warm me up. I was feeling relief already when the worst thing possible could happen – I had a wicked nasty fart brewing in my belly. I spent the remaining 40 minutes so elated my lower back felt relief as I continued to clinch my butt checks. He bent me in positions I could only hope to achieve in yoga and worked out some L1 scar tissue.

When it was over, I felt like someone who had attended a revival. I felt no tightness. I was healed. Hallelujah. I was immediately overwhelmed with a bad case of Guru-itis. I wanted to dry hump Perfect Guy’s leg and be his follower. This was really an amazing massage that topped the relief I got from muscle relaxants. I left his Kung Fu studio farting with a big smile on my face.

He called the next day to see if everything was OK. “Well, you probably don’t need to see me again, but I’d be happy if you’d send me referrals,” he said. He called me again today because he was curious how I was feeling more than a week later. I thanked him again.

“Well watch yourself at the gym and see where you have problems and come back and we’ll focus on those specific areas,” he suggested.

Oh, I’m going back, there’s no doubt, but it will be on an empty stomach. I will find any excuse I can to see the Perfect Guy with Kung Fu grip again.

Pedestrian surrealism
A tale of two women

Since airfares are what they are right now, Marci decided to go Greyhound to Pittsburgh. For $78 round trip, she couldn’t beat the price which was the equivalent of a round trip cab to deep Brooklyn.

Her return trip home made taking the bus an unbelievable yet worthwhile experience. In the depot she noticed a lot of men with the same style trunk all carrying Magnavox TVs. It was odd – as if they all hit a good sale at Big Lots. She noticed a little security reverse discrimination happening. All the white ticket holders were screened. The trunk-toting Magnavox guys didn’t have to open their belongings.

What was going on?

One of these guys was in front of her in line when she blurted out, “I just can’t believe this, he didn’t check your trunk – you could have a dead body in there.” He turned around, leaned over and whispered, “We were all just released from prison.”

This line man, Brian, asked Marci to sit beside her on the bus. She figured for seven hours, this was going to be a great story. She soon found out he had $200 in his pocket and he was on his way to a halfway house in Philly to live on a lo-jack until his full sentence was served. He was tall and good looking. “He had a body built like Adonis because, you know, he had time in prison to work out,” she said laughing as she retold the story to me.

Marci was the first woman Brian met since being released. By the time they passed Monroeville, he told her she was beautiful, he loved the scent of her hair, she had the soft skin of a goddess, and he had proposed to her and suggested she bear his child. During their rest stop meal break, he insisted on buying her lunch and promised to write her love letters since he couldn’t be on the internet or have a phone in the half-way house. At the Philly stop, he kissed her goodbye, professing his undying love and vowing to write. Marci waved goodbye to ExCon Brian, giggling to herself about her new friend.

On the same day as Marci’s wild ride, I had a date with Billy The Artist. He’s a corporate graphic designer by day and surrealism painter by night. He suggested we met at a restaurant near his house after he delivered one of his paintings to a gallery downtown. I made the trip over the hill and through Hollyweird to meet him.

He was better looking than his picture: eurotrash glasses, nice hair, no visible tats or freaky piercing. To break the ice I asked him to tell me about the painting he had just delivered. “Well, it is the last in a 4-series depicting a woman slowly getting mangled,” he explained.

Right about that time, the carafe of margaritas arrived. We actually had a great 2.5 hour dinner date. I thought he would be shy, but he talked nearly the whole time. I thanked him for the meal, and then we stood outside near the car talking more. I left with no hug, no kiss.

When I got home, I had a text message from him that said, “I wish I had it in me to ask you to help out with dinner. My car accident expenses have been bad.” (On Sunday, he woke up to find his parked car squished.) I thought the message was a little passive aggressive since he sent it right when I left the parking lot. He asked me out. He picked the restaurant. I drove to his side of town, and he had to text message me after the fact to let me know he was expecting me to contribute to dinner?

This is why dating really sucks and why unhappily married people stay together.

The following morning he had a yahoo instant message exchange with me:

Chump: cool. it was nice to meet
Chump: i shoulda asked for help on the bill. but had to be the nice guy that i am
Marna: perhaps it should of been coffee not dinner then
Chump: i learn hard lessons every date
Chump: i need to learn to stand up for myself more
Marna: i've never been on a date where a guy has made me pay
Chump: as always, gotta watch my own back.
Chump: i guess i didnt emphasize enough that big bill i just had from my car in a hit and run.
Marna: no need to emphasize. those are your problems, not mine
Chump: screw off
Marna: ? i'm sympathic to your situation, but if you are having financial problems, you shouldn't be dating
Chump: creepy. my god. go away
Chump: you are another reason to stay off this online bullshit. you can fuck off.
Marna: Will do, but keep this in mind. Gentlemen pay. I've NEVER in my dating life been asked to make a monetary contribution to a meal on a date. You asked me out, I traveled to you.. good grief. I expected a guy from Texas to know how to treat a lady.
Marna: Nice meeting you. good bye.
Chump: GO FUCK OFF! YOU DUMB FUCK ASS. I HAD MY CAR HIT YOU DUMB ASS
Chump: DUMB FUCKING ASS
Chump: DO YOU KNOW WHAT A HIT AND RUN IS YOU DUMB FUCK?? DONT TELL ME ITS MY PROBLEM
Marna: All random acts. Like you asking me out and me driving to your neighborhood and you expecting me to pay. whatever. You've given me a wealth of material for my next piece. Ciao.
Chump: my god you are fucked up.


A guy that paints mangled women is telling me I’m fucked up over a $57 dinner bill and Marci gets a free meal, a kiss and a marriage proposal from an ex-con with only $200 to his name.

What is going on?

Neptune, God of the sea or dirt?

In my mailbox between the Bed, Bath & Beyond 20 percent off coupons, I sometimes get a great direct mail piece. I rarely open them up unless there’s a cleaver design I could copy for a future campaign at the office.

When I received classy invitation-stock from The Neptune Society, I felt compelled to see what was inside. Would I be saving dolphins? Is there a hospice for submariners opening up in my neighborhood?

I like the sea. How can I support it?

The Society believes it’s time for me to plan cremation in my final wishes. How the hell did they find out that I’ve had a yeast infection, gallstones, and a skin cancer freckle this year. Did someone alert them I’m turning 40 soon? Yeah, I guess they are right, it’s time for me to lock in at today’s prices. Tomorrow I may get a hang nail that kills me.

They say “cremation just makes sense” and they are right. That’s why I completed the business reply mail card with my brother's information. He was a submariner for the Navy and has been more than six feet under. Time for an early birthday practical joke.

Me & Bobby McGee

I don't look like anybody I'VE ever met, but it seems people always know someone that looks like me. I've been told I look like Bette Midler, Minnie Driver as well as somebody's cousin.

Today I was hit with a new celebrity look alike when some old guy told me I looked like Janis Joplin. I'm sure he meant well by it. I think. I certainly have the playfulness of "Pearl" with much, much better hair.

Let’s get stoned

Pain for women is a relative thing. We tolerate a lot of crap. Until my recent back episode, I’d never really had pain that I couldn’t handle. Monday I found out that some unexplained occurrences in my life were actually gallstones.

Yes, gallstones, they aren’t for little old ladies anymore. When I received the test results, I checked with my primary care doctor, WebMD, who told me the symptoms. I did a little pain flashback and realized I’ve probably had gallstones for 15 years. The half dozen episodes I’ve had in my lifetime registers on the pain meter somewhere between monthly cramps and my marriage. That kind of pain is easy enough to ignore with a shot of Mylanta.

This week I reverted back to behavior I haven’t displayed since 9/11. We all went a little crazy afterwards with our “you only live once” escapades. Everything was explained with “if you don’t _____, the terrorists win.” Monday night I decided to see if having a couple of Double Barrell ales would break up the stones. Tuesday I tried sonic therapy and listened to The Ramones for hours. Wednesday I got tragically close to opening a $28 bottle of wine, but detoured to the fruit bowl and made a protein smoothie with overripe fruit which my colon paid dearly for today.

My week of denial has left me tired. The stones have won for sure and reminded me I'm closing in on 40. I’ll just drink a beer while I wait for the doctor to call me back. That could take a while with today's health care. Maybe I should just order a keg.

W.M.D. – What’s Marna Doing?

While UN inspectors span the globe looking for weapons of mass destruction, I believe I’ve found something more dangerous that must be contained: family.

You can choose your friends and your weapons, but you can’t get around your family. In my small, extended family, I’m generally characterized as the whacky, risk-taking pioneer that marches to the beat of a different drummer. This weekend, my cousin proved that an unsupervised married man is scarier than misplaced uranium – or me.

Jethro (not his real name) gave me two hours notice he and a single Army buddy were coming into town to get away for a night and to whoop it up before his wife and kids came back from their east coast family visit.

“You are meeting us at Barney’s Beanery,” he demanded. “Or, do you have a date with a new victim?”

I could hear the eagerness to get off base, so I demanded he come directly to my house. It was obvious this was going to be a Captains Gone Wild night and I would be the designated driver.

The guys filled their evening with beer, pool, and flirting. I sipped my diet coke and realized I was too old to be in bars infested with 20-something wanna-be actresses wearing camisoles and bearing midriffs. Watching Jethro made me understand, once again, that even the most dedicated of husbands and fathers have to test their limits to make sure they still have “got it.” This gave me further validation: I’m so happy to be single.

I poured Jethro and his tired friend into my car and took them down Mulholland Drive for a scenic ride home with spectacular views of the Valley and city. Shortly after dodging a coyote on the windy road, Jethro requested roadside assistance and released what sounded like two gallons of beer on the side of the road. He was my Honda’s first puker – a claim I haven’t been able to make since the 1980’s. I gave him a bottle of water to rinse and spit and continued on home. Ten minutes from home, he grabbed his water bottle, and with Army precision decided he was going to puke into the bottle. I quickly crossed three lanes of traffic while he missed.

He was fully awake the rest of the way home in his Spaten-soaked clothes speckled with spatzel from dinner.

“Oh my god. I don’t believe this. Look at me,” he said.

Without hesitation, I reverted back to a retort I commonly used in the 1970’s. “I’m telling your mother.”

Saturday night fitness

I was jacked up on caffeine this evening and decided to try something new. I went to the gym at 9 p.m. I had a date with sweat.

With my Ipod on random, I listened to my gym playlist while reading the close-captioning of “Notting Hill” on screen. Despite the multiple stimuli, I was also able to survey the gym single scene. I’ve gotta tell you, it was not date night at 24 Hour Fitness. The odds were 50/50 on the cardio machines and in the free weight, beefcake area. These were not ugly people. Short, yes, but that’s the story of my life.

When Bjork finished singing “I miss you but I haven’t met you yet,” I had gone 2.8 miles and burned 400 calories. I walked out alone with sweat dripping but happy knowing I wasn’t the only person without plans on a Saturday night.

I might go back early tomorrow for “church” on the treadmill.

Freak flags unfurled and flying high

I selfishly went to Comic-Con in San Diego this weekend in search of material. I was hoping it was going to be a room of adult male virgins and other random freaks. It turned out to be like Washington Square Park on a weekend, except with an inordinate amount of families.

When did comics, animation, and anime go mainstream? Has gaming helped? I don’t know. I saw a lot of father/son combos, which means somebody in the convention center was having sex. There were also a healthy percentage of Asian females dressed up as little school girls. I assume they had an anime fetish, or were there to help the teen male virgins. I saw a newborn in a Spiderman onesie, and a family of Jedi warriors. I was dressed in normal street clothes, but added a touch of freak by putting my hair up in a Princess-Leia-on-acid configuration.

I found myself enjoying the areas catering to younger audiences. The Pokemon booth rocked and I scored some trading cards for my nephews. Nickelodeon also had a booth featuring Jimmy Neutron and my beloved Spongebob. The kids were going ape shit for swag and raffle drawings. It was exciting to watch.

My purchases were tame. I bought Giant Robot t-shirts for my nephews. A girl in my office has her Jesus bobblehead pointing into my cube, so I got a Quick Draw McGraw and Squiddly Diddly to complete the unholy trinity.

Overall, a tame day that left me actually missing New York.

The left coast

Today is the second anniversary of my arrival to California and I've determined that 80 percent of my shoe collection is now open-toed.

The reflex

I hear the new moon is falling in Cancer right now. I don’t know what that means. I do know I received a few signs lately that prompted me to call my ex-husband.

Husband? Yeah, I was married for 26 months, or .3 dog years. Our divorce was official around Valentine’s day 1995. The last time we chatted, it was 1999, he was remarried for a couple years and I was living in Boston.

The other day, I saw a cat in my neighborhood that resembled “our” old cat. I then received an email from a girlfriend who temporarily lived with us. Then I heard Duran Duran on the radio coming back from UCLA. They were one of his favorite bands.

I dialed and put my best southern sorority girl voice on. His wife passed the phone over and he was audibly startled to hear it was me. In fact, he paused long enough to make me believe he was mentally saying, “Marna? Hum. Who’s Marna?” We talked for a few minutes and it was hard. Real hard. The conversation reverted to chatting about our former mutual pets, our family, and our jobs. While I was listening, I was digging deep in my memory to try to understand what I found attractive. I couldn’t remember.

The next day I called Don, or as I like to call him Don who could of stopped the marriage. He used to be his friend, but then converted to my friend after the divorce. I asked him if he remembered what attracted me to my ex.

“Well, he was a metrosexual ahead of his time, don’t you remember? He liked to iron and keep things tidy and he had great hair products,” Don answered.

How easily I forget. Ex’s are ex’s for a reason and from now on I’ll be ignoring the signs. Or, as Duran Duran would say, “Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a question mark.”

All thumbs, two left feet

I noticed the reduced flexibility and tightness in my lower back many months ago. While I could still flip my legs over my head and be smothered by my boobs and gut in yoga class, I decided to see a chiro to determine if an adjustment would help me be more nimble. Three weeks of chiro visits left me envying women with walkers.

The doctor’s autographed picture with Lou Ferrigno was comforting, at first. If he could fix The Hulk, there was hope for me. I thought I was getting better until he said “for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.” This was the excuse he gave me when I told him I had a pain in my ass radiating up my back to my neck and down to my foot, numbing it.

I cancelled all my future appointments and walked out. A few hours later, I was in a doc-in-the-box being prescribed muscle relaxants for the July 4th weekend. “You may have sciatica,” the female M.D. informed me. Of course, that sounded like something a Brooklyn Jewish mother gets, so I denied it.

My weekend up north consisted of ice, rest, elevation, pills and hot, beating showers. I managed to get upright long enough to attend a drag dinner show at a Paso Robles winery. I was feeling remarkably better thanks to the pill+alcohol combo. The next day, I was even better when we decided to go across the street and pick fava beans. That’s when I decided it would be a good time to sprain my ankle.

Slumped and hobbling, I elected to go home. I was never so thankful for cruise control in my life. I drove with my thumbs in order to reduce the need to press the brake or gas with my bad foot. I avoided the Santa Barbara merge crush by taking Rt. 166 east. Midway through a remote stretch, I had no choice but to release the gallon of tea I drank on the side of the road near an avocado tree. Unfortunately, my reduced state of mobility permitted me to undershoot my trajectory and piss on myself. My wet, lame ass pulled my beach towel out of the trunk to sit on the rest of the way home, while I downed muscle relaxants like they were Skittles.

But this Trouble Comes in Three’s story isn’t over. Since my GYN probably wouldn’t know what to do with me, I diligently searched my health insurance directory for a doctor or neurologist who would see me. As you would expect, nobody had immediate appointments. This sent me directly to the ER for care.

Overall, it was a good experience with the minor exception of the geezer next to me who yacked when they tried to shove a feeding tube down his nose. I had a middle-aged, white doctor who performed some physical tests and told me I wasn’t going to die.

“My back went out last week,” he said. “You just need to need to rest, reduce mobility, and see how it is in a week.”

“What about sex?” I had to ask.

“You won’t be doing that for a long time,” he responded laughing.

Fabulous. The doctor revoked my sexual freedom rights. That’s OK, he made it all better with a prescription for Vicodin.

Better living through chemistry. Take that Tom Cruise.

Little earthquakes

Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for a sign I really do live here. Twenty-two months later, I finally felt my first earthquake.

I was asleep when the bed moved side-to-side while the window rattled. It woke me up and I assumed it was the Mexicans renovating the apartment above me. Three seconds later, it was over and nobody was upstairs. It was the thrill you get on the Cyclone with your hands in the air. You run around wanting to ride it again. I dashed to my computer to see where the quake was. Novice that I am, I didn’t realize I’d feel a 5.6 located 116 miles southeast of me.

When I spoke to my brother to let him know I had my “first,” my nephews didn’t know what an earthquake was. I spoke with them and tried to explain. Five minutes later, Dave the three year-old wanted back on to ask, “Aunt Mahna, is the gwound still shaking?”

No, but I'm sure this won't be my last one.

Bring on the adult, male virgins

As a freewheeling, easy spirit, I’ll try anything once as long as it doesn’t hurt kids, animals, or involve Wolf Blitzer. Today, I received an invitation to go to ComicCon (is it a full moon?). This is a geekfest on par with a Star Trek convention, except the guys wear the pointy ears and Superman capes.

I look forward to this pop culture bonanza for the wealth of writing material it is sure to provide me.

Dead man’s party

I was hit last night by something in my sleep. It’s the tenth anniversary of the death of my father. Since that time, I’ve made several discoveries.

Getting to know him in death has been very interesting. The man who used to make me cry when I couldn’t grasp my math homework was actually a writer. I never knew this about him. Several years ago, his sister sent me some of his essays and letters that were published in the local Ohio paper.

He entered naval service February 27, 1943 and appeared very excited to serve and receive aviation training. “I’m in the Fighting Squadrom Eleven flying the F8F Bearcat, the Navy’s best and fastest propeller-driven fighter. It’s one of the sweetest planes I’ve ever flown,” he detailed in his published letter home.

In his final days, he asked me to take shorthand. He wanted to journal all his Korean War stories. I laughed and came back with a boom box and 90 minute blank cassettes. “Talk all you want dad, I don’t take dictation,” I said giggling. He was very adamant about remembering his military service.

He was also passionate about big band music. His woodshop/get away shed was equipped with too many tools to name and a turntable. He’d spend hours out there tuning out with Benny Goodman. I can’t pinpoint where the following was published, but it truly embodies the music he loved.

Romance in rhythm

This story began on “The Sidewalks of New York.” I was walking down Fifth Avenue when suddenly I saw a very attractive girl. I turned to my friend, whose name was George, and asked him, “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?” He laughed and looked at me in a queer way. I saw her again that night at a night club. Of course it was “Accident’ly on Purpose.”

I said to George, “’I Hear a Rhapsody.’ Do you suppose that girl will dance with
me?”

She was alone so I went over and introduced myself and asked her to dance. “I Give You My Word” that’s how the whole mess started.

“It All Comes Back To Me Now.” how we strolled out on the terrace after the second dance.

She said, “Don’t the Moon Look Pretty?”

I was so surprised that all I could say was “I’m at Loss for Words.” And before I knew it I was telling her that “Moments Like This” come once in a lifetime. I went on and gave her “The Same Old Story.” I told her,you’re “All I Desire.” I thought to myself, “There I Go”. We were ito be married in June in the “Chapel in The Valley.”

Some “Wise Old Owl” should have whispered “Keep An Eye on Your Heart.”

But alas, it seems that “Everything Happens To Me”. In May I received notice that I was caught in the draft and I was going to camp in Virginia.

We parted at the railway station. It was a sad day. All I could say was, “Good-bye Dear, I’ll Be Gone a Year.”

When I arrived at camp I wrote back to her that “They’re Makin’ Me All Over in the Army.” I wrote back to her pretty often pub her replies got farther and farther apart. It never occurred to me what was happening.

When my year was up I sent a telegram of “Twenty-five Additional Words or Less” to my fiancée at “Number Ten Lullaby Lane.” I didn’t even get an answer.

George met me at the station and told me that “I Had a Date with a Gate.” She had eloped with a Marine. George almost had to “Carry Me Back To Old Virginny.” I was a pretty “Disillusioned” fellow. All I hope is, “May I Never Love Again." - Sam Bunger (12)

The other discovery I have made is loss doesn’t get easier over time. People tell you that just to expedite the grief

I cried as the fighter planes flew over yesterday in remembrance of Memorial Day. Today I cry for dad. I am my father's daughter.

Step right up

This guy, let’s call him my boyfriend, asked a very difficult question recently. “So, when are you going to write about me?” I gave my standard response, “I only write about bizarre LA dates and people that screw up. I actually like you.”

I’m not sure if his ego kicked in, or if he wanted to provide input on my blog genre. “But don’t you want to let women out there know there IS hope?” he asked.

Oh, I know there’s hope out there. For me, it usually comes from Toys in Babeland. This guy has managed to survive two cycles with me. If he can make it four seasons, then that’s something to write about.

I’m hopeful.

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."
Dan Quayle

For many today is a day scarier that watching a son get circumcised. More perplexing than knowing your daughter does drugs and more horrific than wondering if you should do anything for your partner for Valentine’s Day.

Mother’s day incites fear in most. What do you get the woman who says she has everything? Or is she the woman you can never please? Perhaps your mother is perfect, but a sampling of my friends' opinions is probably statistically significant enough to back up the following hypothesis:

We all hate mother’s day.

One friend called her sister to find out where her mom was and discovered she was out. “Oh, good. I’ll call now and leave a message. I won’t have to actually talk to her.”

Another friend stated, “why do I have to acknowledge a woman who continues to provide me regular intervals of grief… at my age.”

“My mom is OK. I just wish she’d get a boyfriend so she would leave me alone,” said another friend.

Another friend declared he could probably become a professional hostage negotiator after his interchanges with his mother.

Many years ago I went to my father holding some of my babysitting money and asked him what we should get mom for mother’s day. His response was classic.

“I don’t know. She’s not my mother.”

That was the beginning of my age of enlightenment. Mother’s day never got easier after that.

Doe-eyed bullshit

I’m starting to become the conduit for bad date stories. I have enough of my own to go around, but it is disheartening to wonder if anyone in their 30s is successful in dating.

April has been a parade of fools. My one girlfriend had to hit the eject button after her boyfriend stated he couldn’t afford to call her while he was on location. Apparently this six-figure man didn’t feel she ranked cell toll charges. Another friend had to pass when she found out the guy she was dating lived with his healthy mother. A friend in New York is writing a piece for a news magazine on portfolio dating and how the trend is to date multiple people to feel like you have one whole relationship. One is hard enough, but more than one? Please, I couldn't take it.

While my eyes are wide open, I have no tolerance for crap. This feeling was accentuated this past weekend when I finally saw Todd Solondz' Happiness. The opening sequence with Jon Lovitz is classic, but the line I took away was “I’m champagne and you are shit.” It prompted me to call the guy I had gone out with a few times and let him know is cancellations without notice were annoying and I was interested in seeing someone more available. As a wise Greek woman told me, “Date me right or I’ll fuck you up.”

N-E-X-T.

Same playing field

My friend’s 15 year-old daughter just told me on the phone, “oh my god, my mother is insane, you have to do something.” I bit the inside of my cheek, tried to hold back the laughs until I spurt out, “Oh, honey, get used to it. You’ve got about another 40 years before relief is in sight.”

Then I realized Kaylene saw me as some sort of responsible adult figure that could reason with her mother. That made me laugh harder. I mean, Kaylene could be my child if I had failed birth control in my 20s. Instead, she’s treating me as her peer which is something her mother wants more.

Kaylene proceeded to explain that her mother wants her and her two younger brothers to go on a “stupid family hike.” She doesn’t want to go. She wants to go to the mall to see some friends.

“And will there be boys at the mall?” I asked. She explained that a guy she likes is going to be there.

“Wow. That’s cool. I just went to this outdoor mall yesterday on a date with a guy. We had fun,” I explained.

I’m calling back in a few hours to distract her mother with my good mall date story. Forced family activities are a dime a dozen. Meeting a good guy at the mall is priceless.

I have to intervene.

Higher praise

A dear, Jewish friend from New York called to wish me a happy Easter. She jokingly asked if I was going to church on Sunday.

"God, no. I just found a new yoga instructor I like and her only class in Pasadena is Sunday at 10:30 a.m.," I replied.

She began laughing hysterically. I didn't understand. She knows the last time I was in a church was for my nephew's Christmas play in 2003. My brother called the church and requested structural reinforcement prior to my arrival.

"Marna, you know you've been in California too long when you seek out yoga instructors like messiahs," she explained.

If church strengthened my back and improved my flexibility and breathing, I'd go more often. Then again, I'd go more often if they had pizza and beer in the narthex instead of coffee and crumb cake.

It’s bad all over

What makes dating worthwhile? The stories I suppose. But at what age do the stories become cliché and you give up dating and invest in a rocking chair and cats instead?

This morning, a friend told me about her Saturday night date with a 47 year-old man. She cooked dinner and they had hot monkey sex afterwards. He fell asleep at 8 p.m. and did not revive until the next morning.

“What do I do with him? I was so bored, I just watched TV and got on the computer. It was as if I didn’t even have a date that night because we didn’t get out and do anything,” she said.

I reminded her it was probably time to shave her legs and do her nails anyway, but the next time, don’t do it for a guy. Then I uttered my favorite four-lettered word.

N-E-X-T.

I was at my teen writer mentoring event yesterday afternoon. When we wrapped up, about a half dozen of us commented about how we couldn’t wait to get home in the rain, curl up and watch TV (some with their cats). Are we women who have just given up, or know better.

We know what’s out there.

I’m being courted for a job back in Richmond, Virginia. Now that I’ve done my tour du Marna, which included the cities of Boston, New York, and Los Angeles, I have to say the idea of settling in a town of a quarter million people has an appeal to it. If dating is bad all over, maybe I need to start looking for affordable housing so I can plan my retirement… with cats.

Which way is harm’s way?

I’ll let you take a 70 percent pay cut, train you to kill, then let you come home to possibly be court-martialed. How’s that sound?

I relocated to New York during the Silicon Alley boom to work with Ilario Pantano, a tall, good-looking NYU grad. The independent film company, Shooting Gallery, was starting up an interactive division. Ilario was putting his Goldman Sachs experience to good use getting funding while I was hired to manage clients.

Ilario and I connected when I found out he had served in the first Persian Gulf War. I am from a military family and quickly spotted Ilario’s leadership training. In the midst of a lot of dot com chaos, Ilario was always the broker of team spirit and ‘go get ‘em’ motivational speeches. He was also a professional. He’d go home after one dirty martini while the kids we worked with raved all night. I liked Ilario and the sanity he gave me in that work environment.

The market crash and dot com debt resulted in Shooting Gallery shutting down. Our long hours and fun time together brought busted, option-less dreams, but the friendships remained. We all stayed in touch, some staff banded together to form new companies like Tasty Milk and Filter Media.

Ilario and I planned a staff reunion at a bar close to the old office on September 11, 2001. A week later, when it was rescheduled, Ilario walked in with his head shaved. He told me he was going to try to get back into the Marines. I had looked at serving too, but I was too old. We were both pissed at what the terrorists had done to our city.

I didn’t hear from Ilario for more than a year. When I did, he announced he was headed back into service and gave me his contact information. His email included a quote from Winston Churchill, “Sometimes it is not enough that we do our best. Sometimes we have to do what is required.”

In March 2003, Ilario emailed to let me know he graduated from officer candidate school in Quantico, Virginia. He wrote, “As images fill the airwaves of the liberation of Baghdad, I feel an overwhelming amount of pride and joy in graduating OCS and being commissioned as a Marine Officer. It’s been a long journey, and I cannot adequately express my satisfaction at rejoining my Corps at this pivotal time in our nation’s history.”

I was proud. He was doing what he wanted to do and I knew he would be a success and an asset to the Corps. His patriotism was a tribute to everyone who suffered through 9/11.

I lost touch with Ilario after he relocated to Camp Lejeune, N.C. He had two children and I had moved to the west coast. Our lives went in opposite directions and I had nearly forgotten about Ilario until a recent wire report said he was being brought up on two premeditated murder charges.

Nearly a year ago, the platoon Ilario commanded had been ordered to search a suspected terrorist hide-out south of Baghdad on the advice of captured terrorists. After finding weapons, ammunition and bomb-making material in the building, the Marines saw two men fleeing in a SUV and shot out the vehicle’s tires and took the men into custody. During a search of the SUV, the Iraqis began to move quickly toward Ilario. He ordered them to stop in Arabic. They kept moving toward him. He got his gun ready and yelled again. They didn’t stop. Fearing the two suspects might have been attempting to detonate explosives remotely, Ilario shot them.

Seems like standard operating procedure to me, especially in a war zone. Marines kill every day. That’s their job. Ilario is a rational and pragmatic person. He didn’t do anything wrong and obviously the Marines thought so too. After the incident, Pantano served three more months in Iraq then returned to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina at the end of his tour of duty.

Two weeks after the Marines announced that Ilario was being charged (and after Ilario retained pr-saavy, civilian legal representation), the Marines issued a statement that Ilario had not been officially charged. Perhaps the USMC realized charging a Marine for doing his job presents a morale problem for other service men and women. These folks are placed in harms way every day and have to make split second life-or-death decisions. Has war gone PC? If you kill the enemy, will you go to jail when you go home?

When I read this story in the New York Times, I sent Ilario and email and he replied with, “my heart breaks for the families of those currently deployed, who can only be disheartened about this situation. I hope it is resolved quickly and positively and I expect that it will be with the continued support of people like you.”

Sometimes we have to do what is required. I made a donation to his defense fund at www.defendthedefenders.org.

When in Rome

When you do not want to be like everyone else in eighth grade, what do you do? You take French classes. I followed through with that language in high school and college. Now I live in Los Angeles and I’ve learned an important lesson.

Why didn’t I take Spanish? I need to take a conversational Spanish class so I can communicate with various audiences in this town (beyond ordering a burrito and a beer). In the meantime, I decided I’d try to learn a word a day, but I would choose words I’d use in every-day life, especially in the workplace.

Today I mastered whatever and douche bag.

Je n’ai sais pas. Manger tout son soûl.

I am, therefore I’m single

I’m closing in on the 10th anniversary of my divorce. Don’t worry; I don’t have a “get bitter” reminder set in Outlook. I had to ask myself how long has it been because yesterday I got hit on. I didn’t realize it until about three hours later. When it did dawn on me, I understood why I’m still single – I don’t know a direct hit even when balls are swinging in my face.

A week ago, I set my dining room ceiling fan on high and walked over to do dishes. About 15 seconds later, I heard a horrible noise and I watched the fan spin out of the ceiling and drop down. It was a Jerry Bruckheimer domestic moment. I could have been whacked, instead I had Palmolive soft hands while the ceiling fan settled a foot above the table, dangling by the extended electrical cord. As a closet tool-time girl, I got on a dining room chair and tried to fix it myself; however, with substandard triceps and a fear of electrocution, I opted to call the manager so the handy man could come and fix it as well as repair the loose, bathroom towel bar.

Our mothers taught us to put clean underwear on before going out in case we’re in an accident. When I know someone is coming into my apartment, I hide the vibrators, I make the bed, I do the dishes, and I clean the bathroom. When I came home the next night, I had a towel rack I could use and a ceiling fan that was not a lethal weapon.

The unit next door is getting flipped, so there are contractors in there doing painting, flooring, etc… Yesterday they were putting the finishing touches on the apartment as I did a few loads of laundry. When I was walking back from the laundry room, a 40-something Italian-looking man came out of the apartment as I had my hand on my door knob.

“Oh, miss. Hi. I’m Dave, the electrician that fixed your ceiling fan,” he said extending his hand out for a shake. “You were lucky you didn’t get hit, weren’t you? I think the fan is alright. It will probably wobble on the third speed, but just watch it and I’ll come back if it is a problem.”

I went into tool-time geek mode and told him how I tried to fix it and how I’d helped install ceiling fans years ago and had never seen anything like it.

My bathroom was the anticipated next topic of conversation. No man leaves that room with out mentioning the three classic, World War II venereal diseases posters I have hanging along with my “Prostitution Free Zone” sign from Richmond, Virginia. My sluts and ducks theme inspires conversation.

“I need to ask you about your bathroom,” he said. I expected him to state how creative and funny I was while I stood there with my clean sheets.

“Where did you get your toilet roll holder? I’d like to get it for the renovated units.”

I explained it was a gift from a girlfriend and it was at least five years old. “I think she got it at TJ Maxx,” I said.

He thanked me and repeated again, if I had any other problems, to make sure I called.

I went into my apartment, dried my hair, threw some makeup on and drove to my teen mentoring writing workshop. About 20 minutes into the drive, I realized, he had NO reason to check on his handy work or inquire about my TP holder. He was using all of that as an excuse to meet me. In my rental history, I’ve never had a cute repair man come by to make sure I was satisfied with the work in my rental unit. Yes, I’m an idiot that was hit on and didn’t even know it.

When my workshop concluded, I sped back hoping to catch Dave working hard. I was going to offer him a beer and retro fit some flirting back into my day. The next door unit was shut and dark. The guys had gone home. When I put my key in my deadbolt, I realized my bottom lock was locked also. I didn’t do that. Had Dave snuck into my apartment to raid my underwear drawer? God I hope so, because I need a few new pairs of sexy panties.

Everything was in its place in my apartment; however, I had no hot water. It was time to make another call…

Catch-22
How a year of dating in Los Angeles made me appreciate books and batteries


My 2004 resolution challenge was dating bulimia – I would date as much as possible until I got sick. I feasted on the men of Los Angeles while Kathleen, a friend in New York, did the same. Our goal was to get out there and meet people and not focus on our careers. We began this social endeavor with low expectations. Shortly thereafter, we were ready to jam our fingers down our throats.

If I could make it to the gym four to five days a week, I decided I could tolerate one date a week. I let everyone know I was available. I trolled the internet. I exercised options at the gym. I loitered in the produce aisle. I wanted to just get out and have fun with no strings attached. My resume and professional interviewing skills were built up; however, my dating dossier and related opposite sex conversational skills were sorely lacking. I was going for quantity, not quality this year.

I managed to go out with 22 men ranging in age from 28 to 48. I almost hit my frequency goal as well with dates 48 out of 52 weeks (holidays and exhaustion permitted me to take some time off). My high volume yielded some great stories – from the emotionally unavailable comic to the offshore-educated doctor. My counterpart in New York didn’t match my volume, but she did manage to run into the same “types.”


Oddball – This guy is usually quirky, strange, eccentric, and probably a Trekkie. They are nice, but you wonder what’s in their basement. Chris was a 45-year-old tobacco chewing dot com guy that lost it all in the market down turn. His change of life career became day acting and one of his more notable roles was as an extra in Seabiscuit.

Successful but emotionally unavailable – They have it all except a desire to have a healthy relationship and healthy for them usually means sex on the first date. I met several guys in this category. John was a 40-year-old salesman that told me I’d make the perfect wife, if that was what he was looking for. He’s keeping me at the top if his list until he’s ready.

Rockyfella – The unemployed or cheap guy is everywhere. If you are going to date, you need to have the resources. One of my dates “accidentally” had no cash when the check came and he realized he left his credit cards at home. This 48-year-old man told me I could pass for 29 with my curls. That pre-check compliment didn’t earn him a second date.

Brainiacs – Smart is sexy, but when you need to bring encyclopedias on a date, smart can be boring. I went out with a university professor that was so intelligent, I couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t talk about anything nonacademic. We did get close when he admitted he used to have a backgammon addiction.

Hog tied – With this ring, I thee cheat. The married guys are sneaky. They pose as separated, divorced, and single, but what they really are is bored, married guys. One sucked me into his web then admitted he was married, but was looking for a monogamous lover while he kept his wife on the side.

Nice guys – They are everywhere, but hopefully they don’t finish last. Sometimes they spend so much time being nice that they don’t allow for chemistry to develop. Dave, a 46-year-old museum archivist, was a nice guy and we had good conversation, but no connection. He did tell me I was a nice lady.

Musicians – Los Angeles, like New York, is a creative town filled with musicians. I was due to date one on this coast. Brett was a bass player. The last bass player I dated left me to join the circus band. I said I’d never date a musician again, but I thought I’d give Brett a shot. Music was his mistress as well and his schedule didn’t permit regular dating.

Reruns –Reruns are men you’ve dated before, said you’d never do it again, and you relapse. Andy received his second shot in the fall. We originally went out in the spring, but had to break up because he wasn’t ready for such a “real” relationship. He was renewed as a rerun with a double-secret probation clause. He didn’t last 30 days before it ended with an emotional breakdown grand finale several days later. Show cancelled.

Jocks – this good time guy is always available for short term relationships. They are gamey, fun, and oftentimes dumb. Mike, a 40-year-old fireman and tri-athlete, met me for putt-putt golf on our first date. Within the first ten minutes, he challenged me to a thumb wrestling match. Twenty minutes later he decided it would be fun to see if he could unhook my bra in one take. He did, just like The Fonz. Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy.


It was a busy year for me. In 2005, I will take my 2004 lessons under advisement and revert back to books and batteries sprinkled with passive dating. While my dating spree has provided me with a stable of good material, I’m ready for quality now as Kathleen and I work on our book about dating. I enjoyed the feast, but I think I’ll enjoy my 2005 famine much more.

Blanche, how old are you?
The eve of my 39th

I’m a little nervous about our relations.
He hasn’t gotten any more than a good night kiss.
That’s all I’ve given him, Stella.

I want his respect.
And men don’t want anything they can get too easy.
On the other hand, men lose interest quickly, especially when a girl is over 30.
When I mention marriage, they even forgot where I live.
So, you see I haven’t been forward with my real age.

Blanche, why are you so sensitive about your age?

Like Miss DuBois, I enjoy the company of younger gentlemen. They make me feel alive and they fill me with "you don’t look a day over 29" lies. So, on the eve of the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday, I aim to seek out barely legal men and vodka.

Would Stanley approve?

Rain, rain go away

This morning was the second day in a row when someone from the east coast called to check on me and started the conversation with, "are you dry?"

My standard response was "well, it has been a long time since I've had sex, so I guess so."

I'm working on getting mudslides into my repertoire.

My so-called porn career

Where there is porn, there is profit. Except in my case. Today I received my last paycheck for my bi-weekly men's column.

As a dot-com survivor, I knew it would happen. When I asked the editor/owner of the site what his revenue model was prior to signing my contract, he responded, "well, we just starting trying...." Then the west coast side of my brain kicked in and said, "What do I care? Just f-in pay me."

I suppose I'll pedal my clips somewhere else. You know porn, you are pretty sure you know the story, but you'll see or read it again just to make sure. I could also check in with Ron Jeremy to get tips on resurrecting my career.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet

You know you live on the Rose Bowl parade route when.....
you arrive home from work and you miss your driveway because Port-O-Johns are lined up in front of your building.

A day without a Mexican

I was 35 when I realized I should hire men to move me. I made enough money and so did my friends, so the lure of beer and pizza wasn’t enough of a motivator for them. For my four-block move in Brooklyn, I called a Man with a Van.

The Russians showed up. They rule Brooklyn with their mob and their beloved vodka. After watching them operate, I couldn’t understand why their empire fell. They were hardworking, fast, and efficient. For $150, I was in my new apartment in less than two hours.

The Russians showed up again to move me from Brooklyn to Manhattan. It was a little more expensive because of 9/11 truck restrictions on bridges and tunnels. But the Russians got me there.

Finally, when I moved from New York to Los Angeles, the Russians came over to pack my unsold items to ship. They worked at a furious pace and most of them looked like they might weigh as much as my left thigh, but strong like bull.

When I decided to finally leave my “temporary” Venice apartment and settle in Pasadena, three friends volunteered to help (without prompting). I elected to call a Man with a Van and was greeted by Angel Chavez. The morning of my move, Angel was flying solo; his crew didn’t show up. “But I’ve done this before,” he explained, weighing as much as my left thigh. Three hours, 25 miles, and $80 later, he was right. He could do it.

As a woman, I’m thankful there are strong men out there that like to be paid to do a job I’d rather not do. As an American, I’m thankful there are immigrants out there that are proud to do any job just to live here.

On the 13th day of Christmas

The cards are pouring in. Neither Jesus nor Santa appears to be popular this holiday season. The statistics so far:

Reference to Christmas: zero
Reference to “Holidays”: 100%
Use of holiday iconography such as snowmen or poinsettias: 22%
Use of cats and dogs: 56%
Use of offspring spawned from human loins: 22%
Inclusion of generic “dear everyone we’re fabulous” newsletter: 33%

Sex, lies and video games

For someone who has always embraced technology, I’m sorely behind in one genre: video games.

When I moved to L.A., I thought I’d get back into the interactive space. I quickly found out most of the agencies out here are attached to the gaming industry. “Do you have any gaming experience?” a freshly pierced 20-something once asked me. I was too embarrassed to reply, “Why yes, Ms. Pac Man at the McLean, Virginia Pizza Hut in 1982.”

My first exposure was actually in 1977. A friend had Pong which I think was put out by Atari. It was the black and white Wimbledon of fake tennis games. After about five minutes, we’d get bored and go outside to play. That’s what kids did back then – we played outside without knee pads, helmets or wrist guards.

Twenty years later, I was working for an interactive development shop. One Friday, the guys asked me to be a player in a networked version of Quake. I didn’t know the rules and never earned the right weapons, so they slaughtered me. I got bored and went home.

Last night I was introduced to Sony’s Play Station 2. I mentioned that I have wanted to see Grand Theft Auto because of all the violence hype. With the controller in hand, I learned to speed, run into trees, steal cop cars, and kill hookers with chain saws. It was fun. I don’t understand why parenting groups are up in arms about this game. When I was young, teen boys just wanted to drive fast and get laid. The author of Grand Theft Auto is just capitalizing on an age-old rite of passage.

After 15 minutes, my adult-onset ADD kicked in and I wanted to do something else, but it was too dark to go outside to play. We ate brownies and watched the cartoon network instead.

Disciples in radio silence

I have follower. Another friend has decided to cut her mother out of her life in order to preserve her sanity.

“I’m on day ten. I have some guilt about it, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time,” she confessed.

In order to avoid a relapse, I reminded her that bad mothers are like bad carbs. If we indulge, we get fat and feel bad about ourselves. Stay strong and stick to the no-mother diet.

All I want for Christmas is a Jewish mother

I grew up thinking I had to be adopted. I could not really be my mother’s daughter. That dream was dashed when I began to realize I had some of her physical features. Then, when divorce became very popular in the 1970’s, I prayed each night that my father would find a new mother for me.

To get out of the house and assert more independence, I got a work permit at the age of 13 and took a job as a custodian at the local temple. I was promoted to help the caterers with the bar/bat mitzvahs. My first exposure to multiple Jewish mothers was during these Saturday events.

In Eastern Europe and in the immigrant centers of America, the Jewish mother is celebrated by her children in song and story. My observations confirmed this. The Jewish mothers at the mitzvahs were interested and involved with there children – a far cry from the neurotic stereotype comedians portray.

A lifetime of my mother’s disinterested domination was confirmed this spring. I was having dinner with a friend when she called. I answered the phone expecting a report on my dying grandmother.

“I received those newspaper clips. I didn’t know you could write,” my mother said.

“Mom, I’ve been writing my whole life. Where have you been,” I replied.

This specific event made me realize my mother has spent 38 years telling me what I should do instead of paying attention and encouraging what I am doing.

Amy Borkowsky has a Jewish mother that leaves her endearing phone messages with helpful advice such as not to use lambskin condoms or to go to the bathroom at home before standing in line at the DMV. Now, that’s a cute Jewish mother.

My mother has left me some classic advice-dispensing voice mail messages. This year I finally saved and digitally transferred some of them. I’ve played the raw files for my Jewish friends who asked me if she was institutionalized or medicated yet.

“What do you mean, telling your child you are going to pursue them and disown them isn’t love?” I joked with a Brooklyn Jew.

I’ve stopped talking to my unsupportive mother. However, she is getting the proverbial last word all over the nation. I’ve handed her files over to a friend at Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. My mother’s voice, This is your mother calling, is being used in each town to test the PA systems for the circus.

Now she can scare future generations of small children while I sip matzo ball soup with my friends’ Jewish mothers.

MAZLE TOV

It's all in a name

After reading my blog, an editor of an online website targeting boys-to-men (the beloved 18 - 34 year old demographic) offered me a columnist job. I will be dispensing my relationship and dating stories biweekly. Little old me -- shaping young minds, one penis at a time.

The site has the editorial flavor of Maxim with more of a boobie slant. I've decided I'll have to operate under a pen name. I used the age old formula for porn: first pet, mother's maiden name. I shall be Gidget Leigh (Lee seemed too southern, so I went Hollywood).

Ten years of dating younger men is finally paying off.

Ante up, byatch

While the body of the former is still getting cold, I elected to get back in the saddle again. What I got was the best damn date to-date in Los Angeles.

I'll spare you the details because when you use the words "beach" and "sushi" in the same story the "how long have you lived in LA" question usually follows. It was a beautiful day with a wonderful man.

He called this morning to let me know I consumed his thoughts last night. Good to know I didn't need to go get my goddess mojo realigned. With no prompting from me, he signed off with, "I just want to let you know, we are dating."

He's willing to make a bet on me before seeing the cards... or the tattoo. That's a man who has no fear.

Onward Christian soldiers

Perhaps my moral fabric is frayed, but when did we, as a nation, make voting decisions based on morals? Now, if burning babies at the stake was a platform issue, I might be alarmed, but come on.

In order to understand the motives of these Christians, most of who haven’t been to church this decade, I decided to get inside their heads.

“I believe in the sanctity of marriage. In fact, my marriage is all I got. I don’t believe in gay marriage. That’s just wrong. Pole smokers shouldn’t get the same tax advantages I do. They need to be punished,” said Beatrice, a 51 year old white Presbyterian.

“No wife of mine is going to abort my own flesh and blood, even if we have 13 mouths to feed,” said Jimbo, a 38 year old white Catholic.

“That stem cell stuff is just weird science – all those Ivy League doctors are just looking for ways to clone themselves and create an uber race,” said John, a 60 year old Baptist.

I’m not going to deny that I didn’t like either of the presidential choices, so I made my selection based on one issue – pro-choice. Is that an unchristian way to vote? I voted based on my experiences in this area. I used to provide clinic defense for a women’s center in Richmond, Virginia. Their clients were primarily married women who didn’t want another child, couldn’t afford another child, had failed birth control, or just didn’t want another child that their husband could beat too.

To me, helping these women get safely into the clinic was the good, Christian thing to do. How can an ugly, white guy caring a fetus in formaldehyde jar possible know what these women need.

Now I have four more years with another ugly, white guy who thinks he knows what is good for me.

I pray for us all.

I feel the earth move

Since moving to Los Angeles, I have been waiting to feel an earthquake. Not a Northridge, but just a little shake to remind me where I live since I no longer get to experience blizzards or hurricanes.

This morning when I turned my phone on, I had a voicemail from a friend who lives two miles away. "Oh my God, did you feel that one?" she asked.

No, I didn't. I went on the recent earthquakes website to discover there was a 2.7 magnitude in my neighborhood at 9:07:19 a.m. What was I doing that I didn't feel that? Oh yeah, masturbating.

Oh well, maybe next time I'll feel the earthquake.

Day of rest

I woke up this morning after getting a full eight hours of sleep. Refreshed and whatever, I elected to go to yoga. We had a new, little instructor whose contortions could only be achieved by short, asian women. I did what I could and measured my success by the number of times I heard my back crack.

When I came home I decided today was as good as any to try a detox/colon cleanse. My trainer recommended one months ago and several co-workers have endorsed the effects. Perhaps I was a little high off my heightened state of alertness and increased flexibility. I mixed the concoction up. Mmmm yummy.

Yoga and a detox. What could I do to complete this California cliche? I decided to go vote before my colon woke up. What a treat this was. The folks at the Culver City Hall were great as I touchscreened my way to completion. I listened to several, nervous elderly voters wanting reassurance.

"Now this vote is going to count, right. You are going to turn it in," one man asked with Andy Rooney size eyebrows, a cane, and braidable earhair.

I chuckled to myself. I feel like a kid that got the front car of the rollarcoaster ride. Voting was easy and it's over. Who cares if it counts? We can always run back around for a do over.

My 12-year voting haitus is off and I didn't puke.

Polling place

Only 12 more shopping days. That's what they say. My registration card came today and I can vote early -- by mail or touchscreen. I think I'll go this weekend and check the crowd out, determine if there's a user-friendly interface, and get my civic duty over with while the geezers are off at bingo.

Vote early. Vote often.

Turbulence abated

I had a certain amount of fear about returning to NYC. Within hours of arriving, I remembered why I left. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ready to rip the “I love NY” bumper sticker off my car. I am ready to call California home.

Turbulence made my redeye sleepless but my eyes were open to constant reminders of what makes New York, New York. A Hasidic Jew held the door to the AirTran elevator for the male in front of me, got in, then let the door almost shut on my face. A baby screamed on the A train while we were stuck in a tunnel with a broken down train blocking our route.

When I finally got above ground at Wall Street, I realized I didn’t fit in… now or then. My big hair and jeans represented my carefree attitude. I stopped by my old office and I was greeted by a sea of unhappy corporate slaves. My laughter carried across the floor and strangers popped up from their cubicles like prairie dogs trying to determine who was having fun.

I wandered up The Street past bomb sniffing dogs and rifles to explore the Medici exhibit at Federal Hall. Bleary-eyed and hungry, Wall Street Pete dragged me past the new WTC subway stop to an Irish pub for pre-lunch beers. Less than two hours later, I was on Fifth Avenue visiting my stylist. That evening, I went to a friend’s book release party at a swanky apartment on the upper west side.

“Would you trade the Pacific Ocean for that?” my co-author friend asked as I looked at the Hudson and New Jersey.

The remainder of my visit was spent battling slow tourists on sidewalks, waiting for subways and cabs, and visiting friends. I no longer have a fear of New York. It was never a long-term career destination. I did it and I got out. I survived. Now I can go back and rediscover why New York is the great city it is…without having to live there again.

Homecomings

Usually the excitement of an airport arrival centers on sleeping in my own bed. I know I am getting old when a firm mattress and 300-thread count sheets rock my world. This time was different. After returning from NYC, I was greeted by a man who missed me terribly and made the commute at 1:30 a.m. to tell me in person. I think I have a boyfriend, don't I?

Code red

The Crazy Barbara threat level has been elevated.

Today, 5:40 p.m. Eastern Cocktail Time, my mother left me a detailed voicemail. Somewhere between the grocery store, the post office, and the Moose Lodge she has met some computer geeks who could disable my computer.

"They won't do it, but they know people who will do it. And again, if they can't do it, Charles has a son-in-law who can do it," she explained.

Last time I checked, hacking was a Federal crime -- a felony I believe. This would be win-win because prison would solve my mother's retirement community decision making problems.

In her 3-minute message, my mother also dispensed career advice. "You've been out there in La-La land a bit too long. Why the hell couldn't you keep the job at the post office down in Richmond?" she asked.

I've never worked for the post office, but I hear they have nice benefits. And guns.

Wait until your father gets home

There are two goals in every woman's life. The first is to meet prince charming. The second is to not turn out like your mother.

My Anti-Crazy Barbara training has been a secondary career. I do periodically check-in with my brother to ensure my aspirations are on track.

“Am I attempting to control the lives of my immediate family?” I ask.

“Am I out of touch with reality and what is currently socially acceptable?” I ask again.

My brother confirms my score is within the normal range of the Bell curve. I rest easily knowing I still haven’t become my mother.

Her latest target is my web site. Yesterday she threatened to sue me because I mentioned she had a mastectomy in a posted piece I wrote more than two years ago. “If you are such a hot shot writer, why do you have to rely on your family for material? I want no reference what so ever to me or the family. You are going to get your ass sued one way or another,” she said.

Of course, when a parent tells you not to do something, it makes you want to do it more -- at any age.

David Sedaris has a great piece about family writing in the “Repeat After Me” short story contained within his compilation Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.

She’s afraid to tell me anything important, knowing I’ll only turn around and write about it. In my mind, I’m a like a friendly junkman, building things from the little pieces of scrap I find here and there, but my family’s started to see things differently. Their personal lives are the so-called pieces of scrap I so casually pick up, and they’re sick of it. More and more often their stories begin with the line “You have to swear you will never repeat this.” I always promise, but it’s generally understood that my word means nothing. (p. 147)

My brother has begun self-censoring. Before he would tell me about a recent family trip to Amsterdam, he asked his wife, “hey, is it ok for me to tell Marna.” Once he got the green light, I heard about their accidental walk through the red light district pushing strollers. When they realized they made a wrong turn, their solution was to make the kids look the other way. “Hey, look at that boat over there.” It was a hilarious story that ended with me saying, “You know, by telling me this story you’ve given me permission to tell the kids as soon as they are old enough to know what hookers are.”

“Yeah, I know,” my brother replied

I don’t know if I’m my family’s junk man. I feel more like a counteragent. I have the information; I just need to figure out if it is valuable and when to use it.

I have a stable of mother stories – bad ones, funny ones, and sad ones. I have to remember them and I have to write them because it is the only prescription to not turning out like Crazy Barbara.

That’s what I’ll continue to do, until I’m served with papers from her. Then I’ll bring out the big story guns.

Emotional rescue

With a simple apology he was back in my life
The honesty overwhelmed me.

I was right, he was wrong
It wasn't me, it was him.

He was falling in love with me
He wasn't ready. Now he is.

We picked up where we left off
Starting over at the scene of the first date

Encore relationships
Emotional roto-rooter works.

From the mouth/hands of babes

LWH: BUNGER
M a r n a: i got sumting pour vous, www.dontmincewords.com
M a r n a: ta-dah
LWH: hang on
LWH: looove the photo
LWH: you need a gleam sparkle thingy on your teeth
LWH: i want to take the time to update myself on your blog. its fascinating
LWH: but i'll read it another time. love the domain name.
M a r n a: i spent about 3 months really trying to decide if I were a brand, what are my attributes.
M a r n a: and pretty much, it's my fucking mouth
LWH: omg
LWH: i am really lol
LWH: you crack me up
M a r n a: what?
LWH: "i spent about 3 months really trying to decide if I were a brand, what are my attributes"
M a r n a: it's true
LWH: that belongs on a sitcom, bunger
M a r n a CB: i hunted down domains, like "crazyredhead.com"
LWH: you should be writing tv
M a r n a: had to get away from Bungers cause it is too german porn-site
LWHNY: laughing again

Whoops, I did it again

After a 12-year voting hiatus riddled in political apathy, I signed and mailed in my voter registration card. I checked the "other" political party box and wrote in "undecided." Another incentive: permanent absentee voting. No more geezers, no more pollsters.

The other filter

I have a tattoo. Don't tell my mother. I deliberated for three years. What font? What location? I enlisted several of my inked designers' help in determining the ultimate coolness of my creation.

In July 2002, I was in Key West, Florida celebrating a friend's 40th birthday when I decided, "what the fuck." We went to a tattoo parlor on the edge of town and I signed a document declaring I was sober. I really was sober.

I handed the lead artist my idea. He looked at me and smiled. "I'll have to blow this up on the copier in order to use it as a template."

After three years of indecision, I went with a writer's font: good old courier. I had my tattoo in less than 10 minutes and they took a picture of it. "I can't wait to tell the guys about this one," my artist said.

My brother, when he first viewed the creation, rolled his eyes and said, "I just don't know." I dropped waistline at one of his parties and a few of his suburbanite friends saw it. "Oh my god, that's hilarious," was the general consensus.

Last January, I was almost in bed with a man who saw my tattoo. "Oh, wow. I'm Kosher and I don't believe in tattoos." He stopped seeing me. I think it had more to do with being an uncreative CPA and less to do about religion. But, that incident made me realize that my tattoo might be a humor filtering agent.

My two words, lowercase and separated by a comma, are starting to fade. Now when my brother hears I have a date, his standard question is, "has he seen the tattoo?" I still have no regrets about the tattoo, but wonder if it will limit my long-term relationship possibilities. It may be fading, my sense of humor isn't. If they can't see the beauty in the joke, screw them.

A date limiting gesture

I retraced my steps trying to remember the exact moment I last touched my zipper.

7:30 p.m.

I went to the bathroom after dinner. Prior to flush, I became mesmerized by one of the mirror-mirrors on the wall in the women's room of Father's Office. I guess I forgot to zip up, but I did remember to button my jeans and flush.

It appears I spent the remaining three hours of my date with TGG (that gym guy) with my fly open. I had a black blouse on and black panties, so maybe everything blended. I don't know. Maybe he didn't look there or pretended not to notice.

I see London, I see France
I see Marna's underpants

On my mother's first date with Mr. Harris, he locked his keys in the car with the engine running and she projectile vomited. Are my date limiting gestures going to continue to get worse as I get older?

What do I have to look forward to after a downed zipper? Gapping buttons? Marinara on the boob ledge? Hanging booger?

It appears I'm genetically inclined to make my dates more interesting the older I get.

Yippee.

Cerveza por favor

You ever wonder, with all this great technology out there, why our financial institutions can't code our bank cards for our native language. They certainly have the direct mail function figured out.

I'm really tired of getting asked if I want instructions in Spanish or English. My last name is Bunger. My ancestors are from the Fatherland, not south of the border. That's one more angry click-to-money.

If my ATM card can be reprogrammed, maybe Citi can fix everything at once: no mortgage offers, no educational loan offers, no financial planning offers, and English-only. Oh yeah, and can I just get to my fucking money as quickly as possible?

The All New Subway Review

As I get closer to going back to NYC for a visit, I'm also being sent reminders of what it was like when I was there.

Anyone that's been on the F train knows Mr. Sonny Payne. He's one of those anything-you-can-spare guys. I usually saw Sonny about once a week on my rides. When I didn't see him, I'd get concerned. He was a harmless panhandler with a realistic yet not in your face approach.

What I don't miss is the subway God Squad types reminding me I'm going to hell. I make every effort in this life to ensure I enjoy it enough to guarantee that one-way ticket. I never need to be reminded of what I'm doing wrong.

The following is a great story of how one person fought back in a creative nonviolent way: http://www.livejournal.com/users/koaloha/29646.html

Peace be with you - and also with you.

Snip Snap

In the heat of passion, sometimes you don't respond logicially to questions you'd normally respond to with a laugh or a "what the fuck."

Now that a hand isn't down my pants, I have time to think.

Since the 1960's, the Pill has been a symbol of sexual freedom for women. Within a few percentage points, women could enjoy themselves without fear of unexpected motherhood. "Are you on the Pill?" became the easy way for a man to ask if he'd be making support payments in nine months. Last night I underwent a new line of questioning.

"Do you have your tubes tied?"

Let's all say it in unison, shall we: WHAT THE FUCK? Tubal ligations are for wives that have met their quota and want to ensure they don't have another baby with the husband they now hate. Tubal ligation is major surgery and is oftentimes performed on the way out from a caesarian.

I'm a single woman who has never had children. I'm not sure I ever want kids, but I'm not going to have major surgery to limit that option if the right man comes around (then again, I'm sure my health care doesn't cover it anyway). I've used the Pill off and on for 20 years for period control, not birth control. My preferred method of birth control has been a condom or going home alone after the asshole discovery phase. That's when I'm fit to be tied.

Start spreading the news

I made my reservations. I'm going back to New York to attend a friend's first book signing. Nomi was part of my core writing group while in New York. That gang really pushed me and I thank them for the tough love.

But I'm scared.

I miss fall foliage. I miss pizza and real bagels. I miss big sweaters, fires, and light snow. I miss people that can quickly express themselves.

When I left on my Super Shuttle to LGA last July, I turned around and watched the Empire State vanish. I cried.

I'm scared to go back because I miss everything that makes New York great.

I long to be blogged, she said

I get so tickled when people find my life exciting. On the whole, it really isn’t that exciting….except if you are married. If you are married, you read my blog to affirm that being blissfully tied to another might be one notch above dating in LA in your 30’s.

Tonight Lauren, my absolute favorite lesbian, checked in on me. “Oh Bunger, I want to live heterovicariously through you. Dazzle me with a recent date story,” she requested. My former Brooklyn neighbor retreated to California two years before me. She’s a lot like me… open minded, direct, intelligent, and wickedly funny… except she eats pussy and I don’t.

But if I did, she’d be my first choice. Why? Because she has the coolest shoes and she’s the same size as me. If I were going to be a lesbian, it would be with Lauren because we could having engaging and hilarious conversations and trade shoes. I still covet her Doc Martins with red flames.

Alas, Lauren is one of those committed lesbians. She’s now in a domestic partnership with a lovely woman who can’t fit into her shoes. She found love in less than a year in California. Bitch. But that’s the Bay area for you.

I remain in LA where I can’t swing a dead cat with out hitting dysfunction ripe for mocking which continues to fuel my blog. Well, all you happily married folks, keep on reading.

Lauren, this blog’s for you, babe. You are a tremendous friend and relationship role model. If I ever decide I need to change teams, I’ve got your number. Now excuse me while I recharge my batteries.

What I did on my summer vacation

The last vacation I took with Anne was to Mexico. Our usual fixed vacation agenda item is to try to eat nachos every day. For the Mexico trip, I went to Target and bought an economy box of condoms. We calculated that we’d have to have sex 1.7 times per day to finish the box.

Those poor condoms expired before they ever were used, but the thought was there.

Three years later, we go on vacation again, except this time, we decided to drink my stash of wine. This was an achievable goal-1.5 bottles per day. A sure thing.

In between reds, we went to the Grand Canyon and did everything there is to do in Sedona. I bought gems. I bought Tarot cards. I had my palm read and my cards read. On our last day, a medium channeled my dead dad and told me, “You were married to your father in a past life. You lived in England during the Colonial days. He wore a 3-point hat and you came over and settled in Newport, Rhode Island.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. For the price of that information, I could buy three economy boxes of condoms.

Far from the Madden-ing crowd

Have you ever been on a date and you think to yourself, “something isn’t right here.” After a good night’s sleep, I’m ready to Sunday morning quarterback my Saturday night date.

I made the seven-mile schlep to Hollywood in record time. Going to Hollywood on a Saturday night is a chore that has to have a pay off. You have to dodge tourist drivers, cruisers, and the wanna be bimbolinas that cross mid-street in hooker pumps. You don’t go there unless you have to. But, a girl’s gotta eat, so I went to get fed and to get to know the guy a little better.

I said I’d never go out with a native again. I did. But this one promised to be different. He was. He waited until this second date to tell me he wanted to trade his 04 Audi for a 05 S-class Mercedes. Most Angelinos tell you their car aspirations within the first 10 minutes of meeting.

When he parked at the restaurant, he jumped out and sprinted to the door before my car door had slammed shut. He was nearly seated by the time I caught up. This guy is 5’8”, so we’re not talking about someone who is capable of long strides. He was obviously hungry, or something, and forgot he had a companion. When he finished his meal, he asked for the check. Nice, except I wasn’t half way through my meal and I still had the fork in my hand. I eat fast, but I met my match in the culinary consumption Olympics.

On the drive back to his place, he took a few cell calls which is always annoying unless close relatives are on death watch. He mentioned he had to work on closing this one deal because the commission was $50,000. There we go. I was waiting for the old salary hint to match the car coveting.

We went back to his place to watch a movie and that’s when things got a little strange. In the first 25 minutes, he went to the bathroom three times. He was fidgety and bored by the movie. He leaned in and kissed me. I was startled by the fact I haven’t had a kiss this bad in two decades. It was as though I had icing on my lower lip and he was eating it off. There were teeth involved. I used to think the tongue down the throat was repulsive. This was worse.

I chalked the experience up to bad position/angle and continued watching the movie. He went to the bathroom two more times (these are all short trips). He yawned a few times and gave me an odd smile like he wanted to go to bed…with me in it.

“You know, the movie is a little slow and you look tired. I think I’ll just go home,” I announced.

He thought it was a good idea, but didn’t let me out the door without gnawing on my lip one more time. Teeth were clacking again. It was confirmed: he was a bad kisser.

This morning I was describing his behavior to a girlfriend who told me he was probably experiencing side effects from a sex pill like Calais or Viagra. He wanted in and out of the restaurant fast before it wore off. Is frequent urination a side effect? I mean, I could drink a keg of beer and not pee five times in an hour. Who knows? I’ve never gone out with someone who needed the little blue pill. And I’ve never gone out with someone who thought banging teeth and eating face was romantic.

I wonder how John Madden would call this play. Game over. Future dating suspended indefinitely.

If Virginia is for lovers, where does that leave California?

A good Virginia girl found love in California. I have proof, it is possible, but,as you would expect, the freak flag is flying high.

The announcement states the couple had a double-tattoo ceremony. The bride tricked out her mother’s wedding dress. The groom wore white formal attire and derby embellished with kaleidoscopic braid and feathers. The couple were attended by a cast of forest deities. Ceremonies concluded in the evening with a burning of the groom's interactive sculpture, The Swirling Cosmic Mystery.

This news item was sent to me by a friend in Virginia. She was probably suggesting this is what I have to look forward to.

Today, I rejoice in my singleness. While my vibrator batteries are recharging, I’ll go to Venice beach, bow to the setting sun, and say a prayer to my chakras. I have confirmation: There is someone for everyone, even in California.

Fishers of men (and women)

My email inbox always has a smattering of penis improvement pills, low mortgage rate loans, Russian teen porn, and reduced priced software. Today I was presented with a new offer.

The promised land is in sight (or site as the web case may be). I can now meet "real" Christian singles. "If you are tired of online dating, let us show you the way," the ad states. The link goes to wherechristiansmeet.com.

Don't real Christians meet in church? Or are they lazy and just e-mail in their prayers and thanks? Does the Vatican have PayPal for offering? Can't we do communion by WebCam? Oh, and what about real-time chat for confession? With the internet, I guess we don't have to actually walk into a house of worship ever again.

I wonder what Jesus would think of the reach and frequency of religious spam. I can't picture Jesus as a gorilla marketer, but I bet if he knew he could get followers by sitting at home in his underwear, he'd never walk the earth looking for believers again. If Jesus had online dating, he probably would pass Mary's profile.

"Next. She seems too girl next door and looks like a breeder," he might think.

After all, the son of God shouldn't have to settle when there's a database of real Christian women to choose from.

Do you know where I can find a good fruit fly?

A recent study published in the science journal, Nature, has determined that 60 cells are involved in the sexual behavior of a fruit fly. When they don't work properly, male fruit flies cannot complete specific steps of the courtship ritual and are unable to reproduce.

The courtship steps of a fruit fly include tapping the female, singing and extending and vibrating a wing. When the researchers interfered with the nerve cells, the fruit flies did not go through those steps. The damn flies rushed through the courtship, which the females did not find attractive. The researchers determined that these altered males essentially try to do everything at once.

Just like some guys I know.

The scientists speculated whether the genes that control sexuality in fruit flies could have a similar role in humans. Until they figure that out, I think I’ll pour some orange juice on me, stand outside, and see if I can attract a good fruit fly.

Poodles, tamales, and heels

I’m growing weary of dating. I’m losing the energy and enthusiasm to do it even when there’s a remote chance I might have a good time. I had a bizarre date Monday night and it has taken me days to write about it, thus denying myself the horror of recall until now.

I’m at that awkward age where I still enjoy dating younger guys. They are fun and full of energy and sometimes they are mature. However, I know I should dabble and try to date men in their 40's. Distinguished. Mature. Established. That’s my stereotype. But they are old and I’m not ready to admit I’m old. A little old. Young at heart. Can pass for 30?

Mister Monday Night billed himself at a 6-foot tall, 46 year-old that is more fun than watching nude weasels wrestle on the Discovery Channel. Sense of humor. Yippee. We agreed to meet at his kung fu palace in my neighborhood and go to dinner afterwards. I’m all about low-effort destination dates because when the date is horrible, at least you get home fast.

I got date dolled-up: big hair, black scoop neck blouse, black skirt, black pumps, pink shawl and pink purse. I was damn fucking cute. When I got there, I was immediately not attracted to him--not because he was an old 46, but because he had this thing stuck on his left front tooth. Normally, I would make a gesture to my tooth and say “you got something there.” However, I estimated it was 6-8 hours since his last meal and that thing had created its gum-side home for at least that long. Hygiene issues—big turn off. I usually brush my teeth and gargle before a date. I guess this guy didn’t have time to at least chew a piece of gum.

I got a kung fu tour and we decided to take his Volvo to dinner. I’m not a neat freak, but this guy’s back seat was so crapped up, you couldn’t open the back door without shit falling out. It really made me wonder what was in the trunk. I got in the car knowing that surface roads are 25-30 mph and I can always open the door, drop and roll to abort the mission.

After commenting on how great I looked, you know where he took me for dinner? We went to Tito’s Tacos on the corner of Washington and Sepulveda, right under the 405. This is a ghetto taco shack that always has lines that are 8-10 people deep at the four windows. When there are Mexicans in line, you assume it has to be good.

We got out of the car and he grabbed a bottle of 7-up from the clutter in the back seat. “These are 50 cents at the 99 Cent store right now,” he announced. I assumed, with that move, I should order water since he didn't want to go to the expense of a fountain drink.

While in line, I spent my time trying to figure out what the object was on his tooth while he continued to dominate the conversation. I’d smile and nod and think “split red lentil?” “Dark spinach?” He admitted that Tito’s wasn’t on his carb diet (OK, I’m dressed up, let’s go somewhere else). And then he proceeded to reach into his left front pocket of his khaki’s where he pulled out three dozen random business cards looking for his carb list. Then, in his right front pocket he pulled out a skinny, blue balloon and blew it up. While he was making a balloon poodle for the cashier, I was monitoring my escape options. I could walk back to my car--it was only a mile away, but in heels it would kill me. I decided to remain to see if his tooth friend would dislodge when we at our tamales.

During our meal, he asked me what I was looking for. I have hypothesized before that when a guy asks that on a simple first date, it means he’s just looking for sex. Knowing this date was over the minute I saw his gum buddy, which, by the way, was still firmly grounded on his front tooth, I gave my standard response, “I’m looking for a monogamous, continuing committed relationship that leads to marriage.”

The tamales, like the date, were not great. We went back to the kung fu palace where my car was parked. I got out, told him it was nice to meet him and thanked him for a good time. I jumped in my car and ran a late yellow light to make sure he couldn’t follow me home. I took a shower to cleanse myself of Tito’s greasy aura. While flossing, I finally figured it out:

Radicchio.

Short people got no reason to live
The LA Times commentary results

I suppose, next to hookers, I’m one of the few people that makes dating a worthwhile endeavor. I approach it from a no-fear perspective. If a date goes well, I’m happy and I’ll have something to talk about. If a date is a train wreck, I’ll get some verbal and written rubbernecking out of the experience.

On Friday, July 16, 2004, I was issued another 15 minutes of fame by the Los Angeles Times (LAT) when they decided to publish a piece I wrote in 15 minutes about Craig’s List dating in LA. I originally submitted the piece to NPR’s “All Things Considered” and notified Craig Newmark that I was writing about his list. His response was, “Marna, thanks, I appreciate it, and good luck! (I could use it myself.)” I decided to submit it to the LAT because I wanted them to reject me so I could go skipping straight to the NY Times. What I didn’t know was this placement was a strategic LAT 1-2 punch. Thursday’s Single in the City column was about wonderful NY men. Friday my piece came out criticizing the angry, short men in LA. This ended up being a week of LA bashing in the newspaper.

I received a lot of e-mail as a result. Most of the mail was positive, but more short guys came out lambasting me for being so close-minded to not consider dating a short man. While I realize we are all the same height lying down, it’s those upright moments we have to live through. And, as tempting as it is to date a man who can run between my legs, look up, and provide oral sex on command, I really do like dating guys I can look in the eye without bending over. Yeah, I’m a real bitch for wanting that.

Root Cause Analysis: Why are all the short guys angry? I have finally figured it out and it made me mad too. Short women like dating tall men. That means these women are cutting into my dating pool. That leaves nothing for me or the short guys. No wonder they e-hated me for wanting to date someone my own height. They really are left dangling out there alone.

I was going to subscribe all the negative napoleons to Tall Porn since they were so kind to write me and tell me what an excluding bitch I was. (Sorry, I’m not the Ellis Island of dating. I can’t let everyone in.) Then something magical happened. Dave Barry wrote me and told me I was funny. He’s 5’9”. If a short, famous funny guy can see the humor in my piece then my original hypothesis must be correct: The men of LA are too sensitive.

One of my short, male fans reminded me, “There are good men in LA. You just need a pick axe and night vision goggles to find them.”

Hi ho. Hi ho. Off to work I go.

So, how was that date with......

I’ve had a few strangers who read my blog write to ask if I’ve had the date with TGG (that gym guy) because they wanted to read about the date results.  My response was, ‘Oh, I only blog bad dates.  Good guys don’t make for good nonfiction.”

I’m making an exception to the rule only because I have to tell you what I complete idiot I was on this lunch date.  I ordered a cobb salad which would probably be the menu selection of a bulimic. 

“Oh, just so you know.  I’m not usually one of those girls that orders salads on dates.  I love meat, but I’ve been out of greens for two days in my apartment and I’m dying for a salad that isn’t made by me,” I explained.

Why did I say that?  TGG could take one look at me and know I love all food.  We have the same personal trainer, after all.  He was polite and laughed but his face said, “Who is this crazy bitch?”  Since he was from Texas, I thought I should disclose I was a meat eater.  Nothing is worse than having a good date in LA and realizing you are fraternizing with a vegetarian.

We ate and chatted for an hour and a half.  I had a good time and he really is a great guy.  This was probably one of my best of class first dates in LA.  Very engaging and polite and he didn’t do anything rude like whip out his throbbing cock to “show” me how much he liked me.

So how did we end it?  I, once again, put my foot in my mouth and said something completely stupid.

“Well, it was nice to finely meet you with clothes on,” I said, referring to our usual state of undress/sweat dress in the gym.

He chuckled while my why-did-I-say-that meter went off the scale.  He says he’ll call and we’ll get together again soon.

You think so?

My first metrosexual
 
If a man has an increased interest in his aesthetic sense, does that make him a metrosexual?  If he spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance and lifestyle, is he metrosexual?
 
Back in the old days, we called that gay.
 
I’m not sure where the term metrosexual came from, but I’m sure it was concepted in the halls of Procter & Gamble or some other consumer-focused conglomerate in order generate sales for hair mousse and nail buffers.
 
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for pampering.  I get pedicures.  I wash the gray out of my hair.  I get waxed.  These are my alternatives to heroin.  But what does a man need to feel and look better?  Usually a man only needs a blow job and a nose hair trimmer.
 
I realized today that Thomas Sullivan Magnum III was my first metrosexual crush.  He dressed well, trimmed his mustache, and was in touch with his feelings.  Why?  Because the Vietnam war gave him permission to have feelings.  But what was the other influencing factor?  Let’s not forget that ascot-wearing manservant, Higgins.  Higgins would probably be considered gay by today’s stereotypes.
 
It takes a gay man to keep a straight one put together. 

 

Mass communications

I joked with a coworker recently that my personal tagline should be "Internet dating since 1996." In addition, in the last five years, two of my jobs have been leads I found on the internet.

Not anymore.

The internet used to be a good place for jobs and dates. Now it has gone to the masses. This niche channel is no longer for tech saavy geeks. It's gone ghetto, like Heineken. And I haven't felt like drinking lately. But don't worry, I'm not going to church to find a good man nor will I attend a golden handshakes meeting to get job leads.

This is just my personal observation. I'll alter my plan accordingly and always remember when Joe Six-Pack and corporate America get their hands on something, it will eventually go to shit.

Drink up.

What happens in Vegas...

I was in Vegas this weekend. It was my first time back since my trip in 2002 with Circus boy.

I didn't gamble, but it seemed only appropriate that I wait in line at the change cage. I got two rolls of quarters to do laundry when I got home.

Damn smokers.

My trainer, my pimp

You know what I don't have in my dating story repetoire? I don't have a I-met-a-guy-at-the-gym story. I actually don't know anyone who does. I mean, I look my worst at the gym: uneven rub-on tan on the exposed infrequently shaven calves, an unsupportive sport bra that mashes my boobs to mid-gut, smeared mascara, red face, and sweat rings around my neck and armpits. I have that general I'm not here to look pretty aura about me.

So what do I do? I tell my trainer that I think the guy who has an appointment before me is cute. And he doesn't look like he's from LA (that meaning he seems normal and emotionally available).

My Pimp Trainer spreads the word.
Interest is noted.
Phone number is passed.
The deed is forgotten...

until today when he called 2.5 weeks after the initial pimp out. He's a man and he called. Date next week.

I think I'll do a few extra sit ups.

You mess with the goods boy, you're gonna pay

My "Warning: Dating may induce vomiting" piece has been accepted in a collection of stories entitled "Sleeping With Snakes: Notes From The Los Angeles Underbelly." Publishing date TBA.

Who says bad dates don't pay? Does this mean I can start writing off condoms and perfume on my taxes?

# posted by Marna [marna@dontmincewords.com]: 7:41 PM

The empire strikes back

Today the New York department of health interviewed me for the WTC survivors’ registry. This is a 20-year health study to monitor exposure impact and effects.

You know what they asked me? They asked me if I was white. Not Caucasian, but w-h-i-t-e. One of the other choices was black. Not African-American, but b-l-a-c-k. We’ve been so conditioned to political correctness we forget there are other adjectives to describe the same thing.

Apparently, the empire state has decided to make our ethnic background choices simple. In light of the other questions they asked, it was nice they made this question easy.

Thank you.

This is the dawning of the...

I've lived in Los Angeles almost a year now. It was bound to happen at some point, but I'm just happy the weather makes me near-comotose and nonreactionary.

I had an interview for a consulting gig today. After going over my professional history and accomplishments, the interview closed with the following:

"I just have to ask. What is your sign?" the 40-something, female interviewer asked.

"I'm an Aquarian. January 24th," I replied.

"I knew it. You have a creativity about you and you understand the big picture," she stated.

Was I astrologically profiled? I guess I shouldn't care since I got the business, but it is probably a good thing I didn't reveal the fact I share the same birthday as John Belushi.

They'll figure that out soon enough.

To the five boroughs

When things get weird, I think about happy, simple times. For me, that would be college. I carried a full load, volunteered, worked, DJed and managed to find time to sample all the fresh beer in Farmville. One moment I will never forget was when the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill record came out in 1986. Rap from three white guys…it was outrageous. I played it all the time at the two radio stations I worked for. I still smile when I think about the good times associated with that piece of vinyl.

Is it odd that last week I would want to rush to Tower to buy the latest Beastie Boys CD? I should have more pressing concerns, right? I should be searching for more writing gigs, getting laid, or solving local-level literacy problems. Nope. I haven’t been this excited for new music since the B-52’s Cosmic Thing. Shit, should I be admitting that?

I’ve been having a touch of post traumatic stress ever since the 9/11 hearings. I tried not to watch, but even at the gym I’d catch myself reading the closed-captioning on the TVs while on the eliptical trainer.

Friday, my former employee emailed me that she had signed up for the long-term effects health study. Like many that worked downtown, she’s been having health problems since 9/11. I don’t want to think about what may be wrong with me. Coming to CA was part of my solution – enjoy life and don’t think about health consequences.

In a way, I felt the Beastie Boys new album was put out to reconnect me with New York while I enjoy sunny southern California. This was their first album in six years and I knew they would have a lot to say about recent events in New York. I still want to forget about my personal experience of walking home from Wall Street to Brooklyn; however, I want to celebrate survival and rebirth.

I managed to hold the tears back while signing the credit card receipt at Tower. Outside, I began to cry as I looked at the To the five boroughs cover CD art. It was a rendering of the NYC skyline with the towers in it.

I rushed to the car and listed to “Ch-check it out.” I stopped crying, smiled, and I wanted to dance. When I got home, I listened to the remaining 14 tracks.

“An open letter to NYC” caught my attention immediately with it’s “listen all you New Yorkers” intro and a fast beated squeal that reminded me of a tape cassette being fastfowarded. I grabbed the lyric sheet.

Dear New York,
I hope you’re doing well I know a lot’s happened and you’ve been through hell. So, we give thanks for providing a home.

Just a little something to show some respect to the city that blends and mends and tests. Since 9/11 we’re still livin’ and lovin’ life we’ve been given. Ain’t nothing gonna take that away from us.

While listening to this song and crying, I went to the health department website and got on the WTC health registry. I was no longer going to casually gloss over the fact that I was there and volunteered at the pile. The cough and sinus problems ceased when I moved to California, but I’ll never forget I was there.

Thanks to my lyrical connection to New York, I’m getting my ass in gear and dancing at the same time.

Check it out.

Nice tits/only in LA

I never had a dowry, but my German background has blessed/cursed me with being well-endowed. Men would say...my personal pot of gold. Me and the girls have been hanging out for nearly 30 years now. I'm used to them.

When my friend recently got a breast reduction, I was naturally curious to see if the procedure had changed since my mom underwent the knife 20 years ago. I helped her change her goo bags and when the swelling went down, I have to say, her tits looked spectacular. But I wasn't going to look at them. I could see the difference in her sweater and I was a little envious of the lighter load.

Tonight we went out with another friend and all New Boob Friend could do was talk about her tits. Enough already. We see. They look great and perky, now shut the fuck up. However, New Boob Friend stopped short on the sidewalk on Beverly and opened her top and said, "Ya wanna look?"

My equally well-endowed other friend peaked in and said, "wow, nice."

I, on the other hand, had enough of the tit talk. "We are on the fucking sidewalk. Does this need to be a public viewing right now?" I asked. I was up to my collarbones in tit talk.

We walked to the end of the block and went to a gallery opening where New Boob Friend spent more time talking about feeling where the stitches were, nipple sensitivity, and other boobspeak. I can only imagine how girls who get BIGGER boobs yammer on. Nobody on the east coast would require so much "look at these babies" attention.

Fucking LA.

I went home, released the girls from their four-hook captivity and told them they were staying right where they were. If I've lived with them for 30 years, I can keep them around as-is a little longer.

Go ahead, make my day

"I am sure our lives are pretty dull compared to yours. But isn't that the way it always was? You have always lived life more fully, taken it by the horns more that the rest of us! Have fun in the sun you California girl:)"

Sherri Thompson, 6/14/04
Richmond, Virginia

Cheaters New Math

When there’s no shortage of single guys in this town, why on earth would I choose to go out with a married man? I was experiencing writer’s drought and I needed material.

Sam found my profile online and contacted me. He told me I had a nice big smile and seemed intelligent. I did my usual and sent him to my blog. If he passed that filter, that meant he could handle my warped intelligence and sense of humor.

Two days later, Sam wrote back. I was exactly what he was looking for and he loved my writing, but expressed concern.

“I’m a little worried you might be too chatty. Does everyone make your blog?” he emailed. I told him only when they screw up.

I proceeded to review his profile. It said “separated.” I’m old enough to know this usually means “I’m not sure if I like my wife anymore.” It also said he had kids living with him. Excellent. This meant he had PTA meetings, soccer games, and limited availability. Nothing gets in the way of writing more than a good, available man.

We began phase two which is instant messaging. “So, how long have you been separated,” I asked.

“Oh, I was, but I’m back with my wife,” he replied.

“That means you are married, not separated. You might want to update your profile,” I suggested.

We bantered back and forth and then the USUAL question popped up. “What are you looking for?” when asked by a man is usually code for “I want sex and I hope that’s all you are looking for.”

“I’m looking for a socially and sexually exclusive relationship eventually leading to marriage,” I told him.

“I want a monogamous lover,” he said.

What kind of cheater dictates that his lover has to be monogamous to him? That’s some kind of fucked up new math. I only want to cheat with you but you can’t cheat on me? He gets two women and I get one unavailable man?

Phase three was immediately activated. I had to meet this motherfucker. His ass was getting blogged.

6/04 Did you ever have the desire to meet a man because you knew there was no future, but you had to see if he was as screwed up as you believed he was? Stupidity negates discretion on my blog.

He asked me to pick a hole-in-the-wall location on the Westside. He sent me a small, maybe 1-inch square photo of himself that was four-years old. “I don’t have anything more recent, you know, because I have to be discrete and I don’t want my photo floating around out there,” he said. I really couldn’t make out what he looked like from the black and white headshot except he had little to no hair. No big deal.

We met at Brennan’s on Lincoln primarily because I knew they had Guinness on tap. I got there early and ordered my Black and Tan and sat in a booth. Sam had spent the day in the Bay area visiting clients. His flight was late, so I got to enjoy my beer and prepare for his arrival.

When he walked in, it all made sense. He was Indian. Of course he wanted his lover to be monogamous with him. He was wearing a frumpy polo shirt and baggy khakis. He just didn’t give me the impression he was a 40 year-old, two masters degree holding management consultant that just visited clients. The visual wasn’t holding up to the online image he projected.

After seven minutes of chatting he asked, “So, what do you think?”

I cocked my head and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Do you think we match and we can get together,” he clarified.

I explained that I needed to get to know him better and I didn’t hop in the sack with just anyone. OK, those of you that know me know I do have a spontaneous streak in me. But in this case, I had to stall in order to finish my blog research.

The bald-headed Indian tried to get a third beer for me. I guess he thought that might loosen me up for a parking lot blow job goodbye. I stood firm to my calorie count and we agreed, after 50 minutes, that we should leave. He, after all, had a wife to get home to.

We walked to the parking lot and had that awkward what-do-you-do moment. Shake hands? Euro kiss? Hug? Smile and run?

“It was nice meeting you,” I said as I hugged him.

I could tell from his walk that he knew it was going no further. Then he sealed the deal. He got into a teal Geo Metro that looked like a Domino’s delivery training vehicle. No wonder he stayed with his wife; he needed someone to call when he broke down.

I drove away with a Black and Tan grin. I got what I needed. I had more blog material. Some men, no matter what their marital status is, will always exaggerate the facts. When I got home, I performed my usual Friday night ritual. I recharged my vibrator’s batteries. I had a slight pang of guilt that I had led this guy on in the name of blog entry research. At the same time, it was affirmation to me. I will not compromise my standards and I will try not to serial date, nor will I remain in a relationship that is pointless.

It’s always better to be single than unhappily married. Thank you, Sam, for reminding me of that. And thank you for my first date with a Geo Metrosexual.

Cross Wires

I embrace technology, but I have a new pet peeve: text messaging.

Why would anyone use their cell phone to communicate with another cell phone any other way than verbally? Think about it. You have to fatfinger your alphabet using the number pad. Isn’t it easier to just speed dial who ever you wanted to talk to in the first place?

Here are a few situations where cell2cell text messaging may be appropriate:

I’m 13 and in Mr. Hanson’s social studies class thinking about that dreamy Sean. I can’t wait to kiss him. Rather than wait until after class to drop a note in his locker (the 1977 way to flirt), I’ll send him a text message when Mr. Hanson isn’t looking. “S, I miss u. X0X0, M.”

I’m 24 and a little stoned and I’m at an outdoor festival trying to find my friends who said they’d be in front of the Dave Matthews stage. I can’t hear anything, so I text message my friends, “Yo dood, where r u? Waiting at purple umbrella.”

I’m 40 and unhappily married. I don’t want to call my mistress because my wife can check recent calls when I’m sleeping. I text message the bimbo instead, “Baby, thinking of u. Can’t wait to see u again.” When my wife asks me what I’m doing on my cell, I reply, “playing a game.”

Other than variations of those three scenarios, I just don’t get cell2cell text messaging. Call me and let’s talk about it.

Component milestones
Keeping my mind on a better life

Some people mark significant events in their lives by where they were. Well, I was eating a Swanson TV dinner when I watched Nixon resign, I was in biology class when someone heard on their Walkman radio that John Lennon had been shot, and I was walking out of the Fulton Street A/C subway stop when the plane hit tower two.

But I don’t remember my past that way. I remember by components and associated entertainment. In 2002, I bought the first DVD for my player at Pleasure World on Eight Avenue. “The Best of Three Guys on One Girl” was a spectacular little Czechoslovakian import. That same year, “Fragile” by Sting, was the first song I heard out of my Ipod. I bought my first VCR after I got divorced in 1995 and “Blue Velvet” was the first movie I watched. When the cost of CD players came down, I went out and bought one along with “The Best of Blondie” in 1988.

My favorite component year was 1978. My brother and I had much different musical tastes from our parents and the Telefunken player in the living room didn’t give us the pre-teen privacy we needed to rock out. Dad went to Sears and got us a record changer with 8-track player and set it up in the basement. We could go down there, stay cool, and create our own audio experience without having to hear “turn that music down” anymore.

The first 8-tracks I purchased were Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” and Styx’ “Pieces of Eight.” While Leif Garrett was my teen crush, Tommy Shaw was my older-man rocker lust. Between the hard rock riffs and Hammond organ solos, I felt Styx was America’s answer to Queen. On numerous occasions, I’d let “Pieces of Eight” loop back to the beginning while planning my wedding with Tommy Shaw. That is, until my mother screamed, “It’s dinner time. Get up here now.”

Yesterday, I was in Target getting my usual stash of monthly supplies. When I went down the last aisle, I noticed the music end cap display had the Styx anthology. I giggled and decided that this would be my guilty pleasure purchase of the day. When I got into the car, I torn into the CD case and thanked the lord for giving me the fingernails necessary to break through all that damn security wrapping. I slide the CD into the player and dodged the SUVs on my way out of the parking lot.

I fast forwarded through a lot of songs, but by the time I got to Venice Boulevard, I found it--disk two, track one. I rolled all my windows down, cranked the volume until the doors shook. My hair was up in pigtails, I had a t-shirt on and I was wearing cat sunglasses. I looked about as ridiculous as a middle-aged man with a toupee in a Miata.

Only one song could prompt me to turn into a mobile American Idol audition. It was “Blue Collar Man.” While I was having my 1978 component flashback, I was also realizing the relevance of the lyrics on my life since that time. Numerous layoffs had sent me to the unemployment line. I was constantly looking for a job, a chance at some security. I rocked out at stop lights and played steering wheel drums. Adjacent cars smiled and laughed at me. Tommy Shaw wasn’t speaking to them.

Make me an offer that I can’t refuse
Make me respectable, man
This is my last time in the unemployment line
So like it or not I’ll take those

Long nights, impossible odds
Keeping my back to the wall
If it takes all that to be just what I am
I’m gonna be a blue collar man

Keeping my mind on a better life
When happiness is only a heartbeat away
Paradise, can it be all I heard it was
I close my eyes and maybe I’m already there

I’m starting to understand why old people wax nostalgic about the good old days. I never thought I’d be doing it in a Honda on Venice. This was just another milestone in my life as I dream about getting a plasma TV and Tivo.

Soon, real soon.

Whiz kid

It is always special when my nephews decide to call me. Tonight Dave, my 2.5 year old nephew, asked his mom to dial. He had something to tell me.

"Aunt Mah-na? I went pee in the potty," Dave announced.

"You did? Does that mean you are a big boy?" I asked.

"Yes, and I have pull-ups," he said.

Sam got on the phone and confirmed that his little brother did, indeed, use the toilet. He was the piss validator in that kid rite-of-passage.

Then I began to wonder, why was I chosen to be told this wonderous news out of the combined roster of aunts and uncles? Why me? Is it because I giggle when they fart? Did Sam tell Dave that I am Cool Aunt Marna and I'm the one that likes bodily functions? It really makes me wonder.

Will I be the one they call when they need to get bailed out of jail on spring break? Will they call me when they smoke their first joint or buy their first pack of condoms? I hope my early influence will prompt them to keep the calls coming.

Next step: I need to tell Dave that a coiled turd in the toilet is called a cobra. Maybe that will make him sit on the pot longer...

My Esquire

When was the last time you heard an attorney say, “At this point, I’ll work for free. I haven’t delivered results and this is getting ridiculous.” It appears my esquire had hit the same blue wall of silence I’ve been living with for years. That statement almost made me cry at the office on Friday.

More than three years ago, I reported one of New York’s finest to their Internal Affairs Bureau. I was scared shitless, but I was given assurances that my name wouldn’t be on the report and they would just investigate the allegations.

They told me I did the right thing.

Imagine my surprise, then fear, when I was called to be a witness in the bad cop’s administrative hearing. My trust in the force diminished again. I called one of my sources who was able to find out from inside One Police Plaza that the cop I turned in was low hanging fruit; however, he had cut a deal of some sort. In addition to internal police corruption, this case had turned into a federal RICO investigation and it was suspected the Russian mob was involved.

Fabulous instincts I have. The hearing was a blatant character assignation from the time I put my hand on the Bible until I got off the stand. But, even looking back on it now, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I learned a lot and my integrity is still intact.

I’ve been trying to get the transcripts of my hearing dialogue for three years. After requesting, appealing, and resubmitting under the freedom of information act, I decided to enlist the help of a New York attorney before I moved to LA. For the last year, he’s been encountering delays in responses, and unreturned phone calls. The latest rejection stated they can’t give me transcripts that are in personnel files.

My attorney became so outraged; he filed a complaint with the CCRB against the records clerk who wrote the letter. In addition, on Friday, he wrote a letter to the commissioner of police which had big SAT words restating the pure negligence with which my simple request has been treated.

In the meantime, I’ll write the story and drop the quotes in later. Screenplay? Novel? Law & Order episode? I don’t know.

I do know I did the right thing and I have an attorney that thinks so too.

Porn Valley back in business

The multi-billion dollar porn industry of LA breathed a sigh of relief today when their self-imposed filming moratorium was lifted. Last month, one of the male actors tested HIV-positive and passed it on to several other actors. As a result of the shut down, the local news agencies have been forced to cover the sexual atrocities in Iraq instead.

Now that they are back in business, the news can return to plastic surgery break throughs and make up tips.

I love LA.

For Gladys, a southern lady

I got the call a little after 6 a.m. Grandma passed away after midnight. In March she was 92. She had her share of recent health problems; however, she really didn't start living until Homer, her husband and my grandfather, passed away years prior.

It was a remarkable transformation. She cut her waist-lengh hair short so it would curl. She got out of Kannapolis, North Carolina and travelled with my Aunt Gloria to regularly enjoy the beach at Top Sail island. Grandma took her first plane ride to Florida to attend my brother's wedding. She danced with a black man--something she could never get away with in Kannapolis. She looked so alive and happy.

There are two things I'll always remember about Gladys. Her homemade biscuits were great. My brother and I would foam at the mouth once we crossed the NC boarder. Mom would get her grits and scrapple, we would get the biscuits.

The other thing I'll never forget about my grandmother was a comment she made to me at my brother's wedding. It was the first time I had seen her since my wedding reception. She gave me a hug, pulled me to the side, and held my hand and whispered, "He was no good. You look happy and much better off." Someone had obviously told her I got a divorce.

Gladys, I hope you turned cartwheels going through the gates. There should be a fruity, umbrella drink waiting for you and a nice, cabana boy ready to give you a rub down.

Kids say the darnedest things

"Wow, you don't look 38. Maybe 31, but not 38. I'm 30 in August, so we'll look the same age."

The bad angel on my left shoulder said, "Congratulations. You won. Now shut up and take your clothes off."

Homie ain’t got no game

When I lived in New York, I encountered the best panhandlers the world has to offer. Now that I’ve been in LA a while, I have to say, I’m not impressed.

NY bums have an angle and they understand marketing, no matter their mental faculties. I’ll toss money at a mother carrying a baby if her story is “I have AIDS.” Subway panhandlers will play you a tune on their mobile Casio or beatbox for change. Everyone in NY works hard for the money. I always gave when the talent was good or when the story seemed genuine.

Yesterday I had to run into the drug store for my blessed multipack of tampons. It was a ‘get out of the way before the dam breaks’ kind of day….and a NY don’t-fuck-with-me day. But it was 80 degrees and sunny with a breeze, so that took the edge off.

Until….

Some 40-something guy with nappy-ass hair and below the hip baggy jeans saw me parking at the drug store. He moved from the median strip and began to approach me.

“Hey, New York, you think you can spare some change,” he said, obviously literate enough to understand my “I love NY” bumper sticker. He picked the wrong woman on the wrong day to hit up for anything.

“That’s the best you can fucking do? Can you spare some change? Come on, you gotta have a better story than that in order for me to help your ass out,” I replied.

Fuck. My inner child went verbal again. I turned, went into the drug store, knowing my tires would be slashed when I came out. I was probably the first honest cracker he had encountered all day.

I pulled my primary purchase off the shelf, tossed it in the basket, and stalled for time in the store in order to give Mr. Some Change time to move to another area of the parking lot.

When I left the store, I noticed that he must of come in behind me and made a quick purchase. He had Windex and paper towels and he was asking people if he could clean their windows.

It was a very 80s Time Square angle, but at least I taught him something. Homie got a game plan.

Farmacia
You know you are getting old when you go to Tijuana for drugs, not tequila. Today was my first trip to Tijuana and it was a drug run. No pictures with donkeys, ponchos, and sombreros. My friend was on a mission to lower her Rx costs. I was along for the ride, and possibly shopping.

You know you are getting old when you pass up Vicodin and Paxil and go straight for the 30 gram tube of Retin-A. For $5, I had to get it, just like the $4 liters of pure vanilla. I crossed back over the border half hoping to get searched. “But Mr. Customs Officer, I need to maintain my baby smooth skin and bake cookies,” I would of said.

You know, next time I think I’ll work my way up to Tylenol 3.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

Is it wrong for me to give an eight year-old a quarter and hope he calls me in ten years?

I’ve known sweet Aaron since diapers. We were reunited in Phoenix at Thanksgiving. I chased him around the house yelling, “I’m going to kiss you. Give Aunt Marna some hot loving.” He squealed with equal amounts of excitement and disgust.

When his deadbeat dad didn’t find the time to help him with a homework project, who did he call for help? Cool Aunt Marna. I was asked to assist with his Flat Stanley assignment. His Stanley drawing was coming to LA to visit and Aaron was going to use the pictures I took to write a story.

I went from Pasadena to Hollywood and finished at the beach, snapping pictures of Stanley enjoying LA. I don’t remember homework ever being this fun.

Thanks, Aaron, for thinking of me. Yesterday, a man 30 years older than you decided he didn’t want me. Today, you did and you thanked me. What a difference a day makes.

Don’t forget to call me in 10 years.

Lost in translation...It’s not me, it’s definitely you

Are men the reason there are lesbians? I’m beginning to believe it. Today I had one of those “what just happened here” moments where I shook my head. Did I miss something? For the first time in my life I got dumped by email – a true method for calibrating ball size.

I’m realistic and I know when things aren’t working in a relationship. This one came from out of no where. The “man” I was dating, who I thought was emotionally evolved, told me, “The feelings that I thought were there, I'm realizing were not a reality and I do not have the feeling that I want to persue [sic] this any longer. It's not anything that you have done.”

I’ll spare you the details, but what kind of person says the things he said to me... things that require feelings... and then, poof, the feelings are gone and it was never a reality? Was he blowing smoke up my ass telling me things he thought I wanted to hear just to get laid (the old “I did it all for the nookie” alibi)?

He obviously didn’t know me very well. He could of foregone the “you are the type of girl I could fall in love with” and “you are everything I every wanted” and still gotten laid.

Fucking idiot.

I've never encountered such insincerity--I have never 'thought' I had feelings that I 'didn't', I don't even understand what that means. I have to keep telling myself I’m in LA – land of the insecure and the narcissistic.

I’m not going to change. I’ll continue to be honest and trusting and let the cards fall where they will. One day I’ll met a guy with balls big enough to know his feelings and not be scared of them. Until then, I’ll be envious of my happy, lesbian friends.

Another day in California

Today was a spontaneous day that evolved into a California cliché. That’s OK because I’ll do anything once as long as it doesn’t hurt small children/animals or involve Wolf Blitzer.

Vivian called early in the morning and suggested we hit the Brentwood farmers market. Brentwood is an upscale neighborhood with $1M+ homes and famous folk (Nicole Simpson being a famous dead neighbor). This is not your normal farmers market. In addition to purchasing roses, or artichokes, you can pick up $100 beaded bracelets, or adopt purebred Dalmatians.

While doing the vendor stroll, I stopped in my tracks. The hotdog and sausage grill guy had bratwurst. I was elated. I stepped up to order and heard something I’d never heard before.

“Would you like jalapeno peppers on that?” my apron-wearing sausage vendor asked.

In my mind, I could hear my Fatherland ancestors cleaning and loading their guns at such sacrilege. Where’s the kraut or even the dark mustard? Jalapeno peppers? What the fuck? Oh yeah, I live in California. I decided to roll with the punches and try it. You know, when in Rome…and at least they didn’t offer avocados or sprouts on my brat.

We took our food to go and drove over to Palisades Park on Ocean Avenue and sat on beach chairs under the palms trees. The waves were nice and everyone was out enjoying the great weather. Once I got settled, I unwrapped my brat. The crunchiness of the jalapenos provided a nice balance to my German soul food. Overall, not too bad.

After a brief shopping stint, Vivian asked if I’d be interested in attending a holistic hoolahoop workshop later in the afternoon. I needed a work out and it sounded fun, so I went home, put my hair up in pigtails (it has been 30 years since I’ve ‘hooped), and we headed over to Echo Park for our hoolahoop adventure.

This quite possibly has been the crunchiest moment I’ve had since my CA arrival. This was Burning Man meets The Grateful Dead meets recess. Four of us sat cross legged on batik-printed fabric that formed a circle in the middle of a field with two foot grass. We were the north, south, east, and west points (yes, I was east).

In the middle of the prayer to the fourth Chakra, my left leg feel asleep. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling and thought, “I’m having a Blog moment. Focus so you can remember the details to write about later.”

We rose and went to our entrance table/alter and wrote one positive manifestation (something we want to come into our life) on a piece of paper and one negative manifestation. We lit the negative piece of paper on fire then sage smugged ourselves using Indian-blessed feathers attached to deer antlers. Our positive manifestation was taped to our hoolahoop. We then selected an essential oil, dabbed it on our foreheads and on our hoolahoop. The energy we created from ‘hooping would heat the hoop and remind us of our positive manifestation through aromatherapy.

Enough ceremony. I was ready to get my hoop on. Our leader taught us tricks with 42”+ diameter hoops. After an hour, my hips had created more positive energy than a stripper on a pole. I longingly looked at the leader’s gaunt, rockstar boyfriend who sat on the side of the field drinking a Newcastle Brown. I wanted be there. Screw the hoop, give me the beer. The sunset and the white noise of cars speeding on Route 2 made me sleepy. I was ready to go home. We concluded with some four points sisterhood and positive reaffirmation.

Vivian and I were exhausted walking down the hill to the car. “Thanks for hanging in there. I know this was more crunch than you are used to. I imaged you thinking ‘oh those Californians’ when we said our Chakra prayers,” Vivian said.

“Oh yeah, but I had fun,” I said laughing.

“You are going to Blog this, aren’t you?” she asked.

Today I got to experience another perfect day that began with a bratwurst and ended with sore hips and answered prayers. Only in California.

Senior dating and dating tenure

In the dating world, I would be considered the Dating Sensei and my mother would be my Grasshopper. She could learn a thing or two from me, and yet, she continues to wallow in semi-happiness and complacency. She has not learned from my lessons, but I have learned from hers.

“This is all your fault,” she squawked to me last night on the phone. I continue to be blamed, four years later, for placing the personal ad that yielded her an old man she respectfully refers to as Mr. Harris.

“He thinks going to the pool is bathing and he’s cheap. He lives with me and won’t consider buying ½ a car with me, but it is OK for me to chauffeur his ass all over town and put miles on MY old car,” she said.

“Well, mom, why don’t you go retro on him and quote him rates. Hookers have base rates and a la cart price lists. Tell him it is $2.00 to get in the car and $.35 each quarter mile,” I suggested while she laughed.

It pains me to see Mom in this situation. Dad has been gone nearly nine years. She had an adjustment being alone after being an old man caregiver for so long. It was fun to see her excited about dating, but she didn’t broaden her sample size prior to settling for this dirty, alcoholic, and cheap old man. Now she is complaining and realizing she compromised standards and yet she can’t give this bad habit up. The fear of being alone grips her again.

I asked her if Mr. Harris has ever told her he loved her, but I quickly told her I didn’t want to know. I know the answer is no. They care for each other in their own weird help-I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up way, but there’s no love here. I guess codependency breeds contempt.

I continue to learn through my mother’s bad examples and she won’t listen to me. Why be bothered if you aren’t having fun? If you don’t smile and receive joy from your partner, love will never grow.

Why waste your time?

NEXT.

Move on and never settle for a bad definition of happiness, grasshopper.

Ten and Two

When did we become passengers to our own creativity? It was probably when child restraint legislation was enacted in the 1980s.

I was born in 1966 and my brother was born in late 1967. We LOVED going into the way back of our Rambler station wagon to play as our parents drove. That was also the best place to be to get tossed around coming home from parties. Dad, probably of questionable sobriety, would take corners too fast. Mom would yell, but my brother and I would giggle as we quickly shifted to the other side of the station wagon yelling “do it again.”

Those were the days…that is until DVD players were installed in cars. Now strapped down kids can watch Finding Nemo instead of singing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt and playing Punch Buggy. What parents forget is, where there is video, there will also be porn.

According to a recent AP/The Washington Post report, a driver in Schenectady, N.Y. was arrested last month passing a police vehicle while a DVD titled Chocolate Foam played on the passenger-side sun visor and headrests in his Mercedes. The driver was accused of breaking state laws prohibiting watching TV while driving, as well as another law making it illegal to exhibit sexually explicit material in a public place. The same thing happened to Andrea Carlton and her husband as they drove through a Chicago suburb, except they had to explain the porno playing in the other car to their 4 year-old daughter.

What I find disturbing in all this is the overt laziness and lack of imagination. I can’t conceive of watching a porno in a car. What happened to pausing a movie, making out, going to the kitchen and getting a ham sandwich, and going back for round two while the porno plays the boom-chica-boom-boom soundtrack in the background? The last time I was really horny in a car, my boyfriend got a 15 mile blowjob which culminated in emergency roadside assistance on Route 5. My head was hanging out of the back window like a golden retriever sniffing air. It was dark, but the trucker honks indicated they knew what we were up to. It didn’t take a movie showing in a visor to get us there.

I feel sorry for kids who have to watch Finding Nemo in a car, strapped down like a death row inmates. There’s no substitute for passenger interaction. Just ask my brother about Indian burns and titty twisters. The car was our second playground. Kids today get to enjoy cars as their mobile home theater. Some adults appear to enjoy their cars as mobile porn theater, which is OK, as long as they have tinted windows and keep their hands at ten and two.

Warning: dating may induce vomiting

Bedroom dirty talk is the convergence of creativity and tolerance. I’ve been a dirty talk connoisseur for about twenty years. I have classic and timeless standards. At this point, I rarely need to add to my repertoire. The other night, I heard a new one.

I would be willing to bet that most people get into dirty talk via long-distance relationships. I know I did. During my first college break, I called a boyfriend to wish him happy holidays. Shortly thereafter, on his request, I began to describe what I was going to do to him when we got back to school.

Dirty talk sentence construction is a no-brainer and one- and two-syllable words prevail. “The next time I see you, I’m going to wear my black teddie, and then I’m going to pour honey on you and lick it off.” Once I converted from a phone sex dirty talker to in-person, I had to be more serious in my delivery-no more filing nails and multitasking on the phone. My sentence constructions needed to merge with all the senses. “Show me how happy you can make me with that hard cock,” I would say with wild eyes. I enjoyed watching reactions to my nasty soliloquies. Dirty talk became my favorite sex accessory. For my partners, my lovers lexicon was a value add that packed the kind of excitement you have when you see large shrimp at the all-you-can-eat brunch buffet.

My latest prospect and I had a lot of good chemistry. There seemed to be some kindda-sorta-maybe relationship hope, not that I really know what that is (my only definition being “I’ll know it when I feel it.”). We had good conversations and good times… until the dirty talk. I’m creative and I can keep up with any smut-mouthed male. This time I was stumped.

“Suck my cock like mommy,” he said.

My brain uttered a big Scooby “Arrrggggg?” and I blocked out the statement and moved on before the mood was crushed by analysis. Later on, pillow talk turned into story time.

“So, do you want to hear the story about my mom?” this 40 year-old man asked.

I was anticipating sharetime – that time when lovers bond over dysfunctional pasts and grow closer. It appeared, as a 14-year old, he let his mother orally service him. This was not the story I wanted to hear. What ever happened to having an abusive father and an alcoholic mother? This was not my movie… this would never have a happy ending.

One day my life will not feel like a string of Sex in the City episodes; however, now I can say, I heard one I’d never heard before. Creativity and tolerance ceased merging that night and a contact was permanently deleted from my address book. Can a girl ever be better than mommy?

Talk about the passion

CG: Hey... how's this for The Passion of Christ Happy Meal tie in at McDonalds.... a grape juice box, some dry crackers and a wash and dry
CG: (to wash your hands of it all)

M a r n a CB: LOL, you are bad.
M a r n a CB: I think I want to go to that movie and make out in the back, just to really make sure I go to hell.

CG: That's a christian seinfeld moment

M a r n a CB: Only if i don't swallow

My chi is horny

It was a day of firsts for me. It started with a shot of wheat grass juice. It smelled like grass and tasted like freshly mowed greens should – good for you gross. I went hard core and passed on the orange slice chaser. That had to be for pussies. I survived just like I did when mom made me eat liver. Now I’m getting my vitamins a new way. After work, I attended my first yoga class in California. I quickly came to the conclusion that I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

There were men in my yoga class and I think most of them were straight. Real men didn’t go to the yoga studio in my old Windsor Terrace neighborhood. They went to Farrell’s around the corner which was a bar that boasted the freshest Budweiser in the city. This 5:30 p.m. class was about 50 percent men. I was dying. I laid my mat down in the back of the room. Nobody was going to see my fat wide ass. I was going to do the viewing in this class.

I started peeking during downward dog. Wow, nice thighs. I see biceps and a let's-cast-that-in-marble perfect ass. I had to refocus my breathing. A half-hour later, I did my endurance viewing. Who was going for water and towels? Who was cocky and showing off?

When we got to the floor stretches and final breathing exercises, I returned to center - myself. Then I became very aware of my surroundings. I heard planes flying overhead. I heard buses going by. These were the sounds of my Windsor Terrace yoga studio. My breathing transported me back to Brooklyn.

A few OMMMMMHS later I rolled up and grabbed my mat. I was craving a New York slice and a Brooklyn Lager pint.

I wonder what the guys do after class. Probably wheat grass.

Is it in the cards?

It’s Valentines Day and I’m living in Brooklyn with my girlfriend of two and one-half years. What should I do today? Pay attention to my girlfriend? Take her to brunch? Give her flowers? Make love to her?

Nah, I think I’ll call Marna. She knew me when I was commitment phobic…when I couldn’t introduce her as my girlfriend during three months of non-date dates…. I’m going to call her on Valentine’s Day.

~~~~~~~~~

What a way to start Valentine’s Day, right? You know what kept me sane yesterday? My two good friends from the east coast and more recently from Phoenix drove in to visit me for the weekend. They came armed with flowers, chocolates, and a new vibrator.

We listened to my ex’s voice mail and laughed and headed straight to the Venice boardwalk where we enjoyed a liquid lunch followed by palm readings and Tarot cards. Our hippie prophets told us we are all going to find love this year. We’ve been hurt in the past, but our period of change is almost complete.

I hate the commercialization of 2/14 and the pressure and expectation second-guessing that goes on. Enjoy your friends. Enjoy your lover(s). Make the most of everyday no matter who you are with. Most of all, love like you have never been hurt before.

Look forward, not backwards. Then eat chocolate.

When it rains, it...

I’ve become one of them….one of those pansy-ass denizens of LA that has a mental meltdown when the near perfect weather changes. Monday night I remembered nothing is perfect and I was born with blonde hair.

I was tired, cold and hungry and decided to gas up during high winds while sheets of rain poured in on me while thinking better now than in a.m. rush hour. I pulled out of the 76 and made it a block before my car died in four inches of water. Now I was really pissed. I should have been home where it was dry planning my next sunny day activities.

Instead, I sat in my car and waited for roadside assistance. An hour later, with the windows fogged up, Juan pulled up behind me. I popped the hood and he listened to the engine grind. He walked up to my window and asked, “Did you just fill up at that gas station?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I bet you put diesel in your tank. I’ve picked up at least 40 people at this very location in my career,” he added.

OK. Terrific. So, I’m an idiot, but not the only fucking idiot in LA.

I found little comfort the next day when Shawn, the Honda Service Scheister, called me. I knew my tank and fuel line needed to be douched. But old Shawn said I also needed brakes and an oil change. When I showed up to retrieve my got-that-fresh-clean-feeling Honda, Shawn gladly swiped my credit card. “Don’t feel bad. It is a common mistake. Hey, at least you get miles on this travel visa,” he said.

After experiencing $1,063 worth of immediate financial carnage, I pulled out and drove west on Washington Boulevard into the sunset with the window down and tunes cranked. I’m OK. The car is OK. LA is back to perfect.

Catch-38

I'm probably the only woman who doesn't lie about her age. Well, I do like telling 20-something boys I'm 29 just to see if they believe me. However, in the days before and after my birthday this year, I have to say, I'm ready to lie.

"Wow, you are 38? I can't believe you aren't married. You are such a catch," said one random man.

"Men should be laying down in the road to get your attention. Why aren't you married?" said another.

If it is OK to be 29 and single, then I think that's the age I'm sticking with.

Belief and Change

I received an email out of the blue this morning from a friend from high school. We’ve probably chatted a dozen times since 1983. Today he sent an email in response to my holiday card.

“Marna - In 11th grade psychology class all you talked about was the Jefferson Airplane, Moby Grape, and the never-ending trip that is the West Coast. So now decades later, you have fulfilled your dream of being in California, being Grace Slick and having 1000's of wasted men chanting F-U-C-K at/with you. Congrats. Dave”

I was so touched Dave had such a vivid memory of me and my goals. Sometimes it takes distant friends like Dave to remind me that I have taken some interesting paths in my life. I also realized I have come full circle and returned to my one core strength - writing. My friends, for years, have begged me to write more. I’m finally at a place in my life where I feel the writing is good and, hopefully, profitable.

I need to listen to my friends more often. Mary, a dear friend from college, has saved every scrap of my writing. She’s convinced I’m going to be famous and she’s going to get rich quick selling my old stuff on Ebay.

Matt, another friend from college, said the following, “You probably get this from married guys all the time but as I read through your writings this morning it really hit home for me...you are pretty special! Besides the fact that I have known you for an unbelievable 15+ years you are without question one of the most articulate interesting friends that I have!”

Kim, a fellow Richmond refugee, followed with “LA seems to agree with you, or at least it's unleashed the writing beast within.”

My brother’s old roommate added, “Wow - think you need to switch over to journalism & dump marketing once & for all. Freelance writing maybe?? Or a column in a good alternative weekly out there?”

A former coworker wrote this in the new year, “I can't tell you the amount of enjoyment I get from reading your Blog site. Take care and keep the blog rolling.”

A friend stationed in Saudia said, “I love your blog - I share it with the guys that I work with and I am about to share it with some selected Saudi women, though I am concerned that you might foment a revolution. Your writing is always so creative and funny!!”

So, my friends, as I close in on my 38th birthday, I want to thank you for believing in me. I have arrived, I’m kicking ass, and I'm still yelling FUCK. I will never change.

Men Behaving Badly – The Los Angeles Edition

You know, I’m so thankful that Al Gore invented the internet and that I have this blog to publicly air my successes and grievances. You know what else this blog has done for me? It’s put the fear of Goddess in every man that comes in contact with me.

What’s so different about a blog? It’s around for longer than a day. For instance, in high school, if a boy did something totally ridiculous, he was the laughing stock at lunch for, what, maybe a day or two and then it was forgotten. Stupidity has a little more permanence in the digital age.

I still remember my first date in California. It was August. We went bike riding and watched the sun set while drinking cheap Charles Shaw and eating cheese and crackers. As a newcomer, the date totally met my expectations of what a low-key, California date would be, until he whipped out his throbbing cock when he dropped me off at my apartment. I haven’t heard much from him since until he called the other day to make sure I was OK because I appeared to be angry in my EX Marks the Spot blog entry. “I’ve been keeping up with you through your blog. I hope you don’t mind.” The internet is a public space; read my blog. Just take care of that erection, will you? Men behaving badly. Down, boy, down.

A guy I went out with in December asked me, at the conclusion of our first date, “So, are you going to write about me in your blog?” He went back to the web site a few times to actually check. During our third date he asked if we were going to “get naked.” We didn’t and I haven’t heard much from him since. I wonder if he’s reading this now. More men behaving badly.

I realized the other day that I’ve been dating for 20 years. Twenty fucking years, but that’s really only three dog years. I have a treasure chest full of stories pre-internet. I have dated premature ejaculators, bi-polars, Type A’s, submissives, dominants, naughty/nice, thick/thin, hot/cold, and every personality type. I still don’t tire from dating because I have hope that, one day, these stories will end when I meet a guy that appreciates The Marn and can wait a few dates before he presents me with his special purpose.

A blog is no different than a water cooler or a telephone. Women talk. We always have, and we always will. Men are amazing creatures and they are worth writing about. Sometimes it seems we co-exist in tolerance. Don’t fault me if I see humor in it all.

Just wait until I show you mine.

EX Marks the Spot

I’m going to be balls-out bold and state my usual Harry Met Sally position: Ex’s are ex’s for a reason. If I wanted to be your buddy, we’d probably still be dating. Yes, I’m great, get over it. Move on with your life. Send me a Christmas card and tell me all about it.

R___, this blog’s for you. Or I should say, you set me off New Year’s Day, and this is an open appeal to all men to stop waxing nostalgic about their past loves. R_____ emailed me New Year’s Day to inform me that when my name is Googled, Bunger School of Technology comes up. I consider this a lame excuse to instigate contact and kind of boarders on stalk-y, especially when he didn’t even say “happy new year.” When I replied to R___’s email and asked him if he Googled all his ex-girlfriends, his response was “Hey can I help if you are so unforgettable ala [sic] Nat King Cole.” Oh yeah? I bet your girlfriend of two years would like to know that. Stop calling. Stop emailing me numerous times a month. Please go love your girlfriend.

Last month I cut off my ex, the one that departed in May to join the circus. Until November, there were daily emails and/or IMs spattered with phone calls. This excessive contact was tolerable except 90 percent of the conversation was actually his monologue. I felt sorry for him—he was in the circus and lonely. But, surely there was a circus monkey that could listen to him talk about himself? This was more like a nuisance than a friendship. Please go enjoy the greatest show on earth.

Guys, the backdoor is locked and the light is off. Don’t come around. I've been too nice in the past, but I've just enacted a Zero Tolerance policy. Love the one you are with. Look forward, not backward. You’ve made your bed, and I’m no longer lying in it.

Deal with it.

Environmentally Friendly

I'm not doing a list or a year-end review. I know better than to speculate what the future holds for me. I did learn one important lesson this year. My vibrator takes rechargable batteries.

Why didn't I think of this before? Why? I used to proudly walk into Costco to get my 48 double packs. How many batteries could I burn through next month? I was like a frat boy building a beer can pyramid.

The landfills of America can now breathe a sigh of relief. Marna's got a recharger and the light just turned green. Happy new year.

Fear and loathing Elmo

The Muppets have been around since I was young. But, like Mr. Hooper, old school, thinning felt Muppets die or lose camera time to their updated furry friends. Elmo received life in 1985 when a black man put his hand in Elmo’s ass and gave him that distinctive voice and laugh. With red hair and orange nose, Elmo is likeable even if he speaks of himself in the third person.

My youngest nephew, David, had an Elmo theme for his second birthday today. Balloons, plates, cups, cake…. All things were Elmo. It was Elmopalooza. At t-minus 15 minutes, I decided the only way to survive the onslaught of 2-4 year olds, as the only single, childless female in attendance. was to ask my friend, Samuel Adams for help. His tasty winter lager took the edge off. Of course, parents arrived with a look of semi-horror on their face. Oh shit, the zany, tattooed, foul-mouthed aunt is here and she has a beer in her hand at 11 a.m.

I managed to behave and when the urge hit me, I spelled out my cuss words. Kids climbed on me, babies pulled on my earrings. By beer number three, it was all good. During the festivities I made the keen observation that all parties are the same, no matter the age group. This may have been an Elmo party, but it was just like a frat party, gallery opening, or a dinner party. The usual characters prevailed.

Claire the Tattletale. This sweet little girl has ‘future bitch’ written all over her. When a kid had candy and there wasn’t any for her, she went running to the party hostess to complain. To top that, she elected to assist with present opening. Look out boys, this gold digger is bound to take her dressing on the side and drink white zinfandel.

Grant the Needy Jock. Grant is a character. I’ve known him for a few years and was concerned when he was young because he had a bubble head. His neck almost needed reinforcement. It appears he has grown into his head now; however, he’s turned into a spitter. In addition, he didn’t want pizza and required an alternate menu. My guess is Grant is going to be on the sidelines in his helmet and shoulder pads asking the coach for Fiji water.

Mason the Shy Mumbler. This kid is almost three and has a hard time enunciating words. Kind of like me after three beers. We carried on a whole conversation and I don’t know what the fuck he was saying. I did my loud-party-trick and nodded my head, uttered a few ‘oh really’s’, smiled and flipped my hair. To Mason, I appeared engaged and hanging on his every word. With his big eyes and shy disposition, I think Mason has the potential to get a lot of ass in the future, as soon as he works on his delivery.

Show and Tell Sam. My nephew and godson is the only person I know, next to Michael Jackson, who can entice a half dozen kids to come into his bedroom. Sam loves giving tours of his room and leading willing participants through his maze of toys. When Sam grows up, he’s going to be the guy with the gear. Would you like to come back to my place and see my new _________?

Catherine the Great. Miss Catherine has eyelashes to die for and the bitch already knows it. She has her bat-and-beckon routine down already. Beauty fades, Catherine. You will not age gracefully.

David the Animal. Sweet Dave is just a smiling, loveable mess with a deep voice and a passion for parties. I can’t decide if he is Flounder or Bluto yet. He will be closest to the keg and he will be the life of the party. It’s OK that he giggles like Elmo for now.

Rehab Matthew. This kid will have the Betty Ford clinic on speed dial. I think he went through five Elmo juice boxes in less than an hour.

Popular Muppets may come and go, but the characters we turn into remain the same.

I Want a New Toy, Oh-EE-Oh


If you have young children, send them away and don’t let them near the computer screen. I’m going PG-13.

When you are young, you want to understand all the mysteries of the world. My first unsolved mystery was sex. I didn’t want to do it, I just wanted to understand what all the fuss was about. Well, Casey, my slutty catholic friend, clued me in. I’m pretty sure 90 percent of this nation received sex education from an overexposed catholic before there was cable. It makes you wonder what they teach in CCD. But I digress…So, by the time my parents signed the sex ed movie permission slip when I was nine (their personal get-out-of-the-talk-free-card), I was already informed.

Then I became 10, my period came, and I developed a renewed hatred of boys. There was only one unsolved mystery left.

You never forget your first time.

It was December 1976. I was 10 years old and mom had bamboozled me to take a ride in the station wagon. We were ½ way up Powhatan Street, almost at the water reservoir, when she said, “There is no Santa Claus. We’re going to Toys ‘R Us and you are picking out the toys you know your brother wants.”

Was I disappointed? No. I was relieved. Logistically, Santa never made sense to me and I didn’t understand why NORAD wasted time tracking him. This further explained why Santa generally delivered crap to me. It wasn’t because I was naughty; it was because the list I diligently prepared for Santa was secretly re-sorted by price by my parents. December 25, 1976, my brother, Robert, had a very good Christmas because I managed to persuade my mom to get cool crap at Toys ‘R Us.

Why am I having this flashback almost 30 years later? Yesterday on the phone, it happened again. “Well, what do you think I should get Robert and Andrea for Christmas? I was thinking about making a donation in their name to the underprivileged families at the base,” said my mother.

That was a thoughtful suggestion, but I told her she might want to throw in a Target and Bath and Body Works gift certificate too. Now my mom’s present selection dilemmas are solved with gift certificates, with a little help from the eldest daughter.

Don’t tell my brother. It’s still a mystery to him.

An Open Letter to my Old Man


Dad, I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.

Yesterday, Navy beat those Army pussies 34 to 6. I’ll never forget the game of 1989. It took me four hours to drive 100 miles north in the snow to get you. We took the Navy party train and shuttle bus from D.C. to Giants stadium. You weren’t in the best of health, but you wanted to see one more game before Robert graduated from Annapolis. It was a cold, miserable football game, but I enjoyed watching you smile at the midshipmen as they did pushups after every touchdown. We both got misty-eyed every time we sang Anchors Aweigh.

Today is the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It is hard to believe you were drafted for this war. Your generation is the only one that can get away with saying “those dirty, slant-eyed bastards.” Your generation is just about dead and existing Americans still don’t really understand what service to country means.

Today would of also been your 80th birthday. Now that is really hard for me to believe. It seems like yesterday you were baking me that 12-layer chocolate cake for my Sweet 16. I had that horrible Anne Wilson poodle perm and I had to pull my hair back so I wouldn’t burn it in my candles. If you had made it to 80, it would have been an achievement worthy of a 20-layer cake, a cigar, and a couple of strippers.

Today is also the day you would walk to the shed in the back yard and drag the artificial Christmas tree in for decorating. Mom would put that Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass Christmas album on the Telefunken and we’d hang ornaments as we watched Pearl Harbor remembrance programs and Charlie Brown. I haven’t had a tree since you died in 1995. I suppose I could get a baby fir and watch the History channel, but it just wouldn’t be the same.

Blue of the Seven Seas; Gold of God's great sun
Let these our colors be Till all of time be done-n-n-ne,
By Severn shore we learn Navy's stern call:
Faith, courage, service true With honor over, honor over all.

Happy birthday and merry Christmas. You are missed.

Is She Really Going Out With Him?


The first time I went to the bathroom to change my tampon, I noticed there was a window. I pulled back the curtain. The window was painted shut and there were security bars. Nope, there was no easy way of escaping this date. I’d have to hang-in there until closing time.

Chris found me online four days prior. His fascination with my writing and my red hair inspired him to inquire if I was still available. This led to a string of phone conversations and e-mails. “This one is different,” I told myself. He can communicate. He is compassionate. He knows what he wants. I was never so excited to meet someone for a first date. He had potential.

He suggested I come see his band perform on Saturday night at a bar in Monrovia, which is a community somewhere in the Valley near those mountains I can see for the smog. My red flag went up when he admitted he was a musician. Luckily, he doesn’t do it for-profit and has a day job as a sales person.

I accepted the invitation and made the trek to the inland empire. One hour, forty-five minutes and 30 miles later, I was parking at his apartment complex. When I walked up, the inside courtyard pool was a graveyard for leaves, almost filtering the backlighting. He stood in his door, smiling, and waited for me as I approached.

When I entered his apartment, I remembered all the questions I forgot to ask on the phone and in email. Questions I normally don’t have to ask the 28-33 year-olds I usually date.

“Welcome. Glad you made it. Here, let me give you the tour,” Chris said.

My five-second visual assessment had already delivered run-now-run results. From the multi-colored brown shag carpet to the brass and glass bookshelf adorned with trophies on the top shelf, I was not in the apartment of a successful, 43 year-old salesperson. Forgotten question: Do you own or rent?

It was a one-bedroom. Not much to see: galley kitchen, bathroom, bedroom with a down comforter. I sat down on the futon and he brought me a glass of water. I saw the ashtray on the coffee table. Forgotten question: Do you smoke?

“I had a great time at the birthday party today. My grandson was so excited,” Chris said.

“Grandson? I forgot to ask if you had been married before. Wow. How old is your son and where is your wife?” I asked.

“He’s 19 and my grandson just turned four. I never married the mother and didn’t know I had a son until they came to me for money. I only knew her for two weeks,” he answered.

I could almost forgive his living situation, but this was too much for me. I’d gone from dating boys who watch the Simpson’s and listen to Blink182 to dating NPR-listening grandpas with illegitimate children. Forgotten questions: Do you have children? Were the kids planned/do you use birth control? Were you married?

The first date now shifted to a “duty date.” This was like interviewing for a job I’d never take just to have the practice. I was there and I was going to make the most of it. I needed to shave my legs and color my hair...date or no date.

He insisted on driving to the bar. We got into his cracked-windshield pickup truck. The service engine soon light was on the whole time.

The bar was less than two miles from his apartment. It probably met Webster’s definition of dive: duck-taped naugahide bar stools, pool tables, electronic darts, and a neon chalkboard announcing that Sunday’s NASCAR special was $2.50, 20-ounce Budweiser. Music was not the primary function at this venue. I didn’t get the sense that musical tastes were very discriminating judging from the drunks at the bar. My nephew could play his Fisher-Price xylophone and deliver titillating entertainment to this audience.

But, as duty dates go, things could have been a lot worse. I had a seat at the groupie girlfriends table. I had a beer. I had musical entertainment. I had a lead singer date that didn’t actually have to interact with me. This permitted me to check my cell phone messages and write notes while the 40- and 50-something groupie girls went to the back to play darts.

Duty turned into agony when I realized I’d be on the barstool for five and one-half hours. I was being held hostage and force fed “Brown Eyed Girl” and a helping of “People are Strange” for good measure. I went to the bathroom every two hours to swap out tampons and to stretch my legs.

While I was on one of my final bathroom runs, the guys played a Joe Jackson-esque version of “Is she really going out with him.” I chuckled as I flushed and finished the song….'Cause if my eyes don't deceive me, There's something going wrong around here.’ When I came out, Chris was walking to the table. His Axl Rose bandana looked moist. He removed his prescription sunglasses and let them dangle from his neck on a leash.

“So, I have to ask. Is there a spark? Will we have a second date?” he said, panting like a pound puppy begging to be taken home.

I hate this part of dating. “I had a great time listening to you guys. You are such a talented singer. But, I’m not feeling it, I’m sorry.” He looked like he needed further explanation, so I added, “I have to be honest, I usually date much younger people. Your admission that you are a grandfather made me realize that I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I added. I know it was a lame excuse, but I had to pick something he couldn’t change or talk me out of.

I made the escape home in less than 30 minutes. The building alley cat came into my apartment and slept in between my legs. Until I can remember to ask the right questions for dates, I guess I’ll be the lady with the cat.

Remedial Love

This morning I got up to go to a four hour seminar conducted by Dr. Pat Allen entitled "The Art of Love." When I turned my car radio on, "Ain't talking about love" by Van Halen was on the radio.

Coincidence?

This 69 year-old cognitive psychologist also believes that feminism has backfired on us as far as relationship roles and expectations are concerned. Good, I thought it was me. At the end of the seminar, I had a good understanding, from a neurological perspective, of how to understand psychotics and neurotics. More than anything, I know I've been straddling a parallel universe, not able to choose between an independent male-female who wants respect, and a female-female who wants to be cherished.

When I left, I checked out the ass of the one male attendee, got in my car, turned on the radio and No Doubt's revamp of Talk Talk's song "It's my life" was playing.

Coincidence?

The differences

The end of this week marks my four month anniversary in California. Friends back East continue to ask me about the differences of living out here. I've made some casual observances in previous blogs, but here are my overall impressions:

Personal Grooming - I realized a few months ago that the only time I have close-toed shoes on is when I have an interview or when I'm exercising. Other than that, I have to constantly maintain my feet -- weekly pedicures to loofah off knarly skin followed by the application of fire engine red toenail polish. In New York, this was a concern maybe three months out of the year. In California, it will be year-round maintenance.

Natural Beauty Part 1 - Someone told me when I got here to wait until the fall. Wow. There seems to be less smog. After the fires, I walked outside, looked east up Venice Boulevard and actually saw the San Gabriel mountains for the first time. On my way to work, I get dual shots of the ocean and the Santa Monica mountains. I really do enjoy being so close to both the beach and mountains. And this is LA!!! Imagine how much better things are once you leave the area. California is a spectacular state.

Natural Beauty Part 2 - There are gorgeous people everywhere. These are not Hollywood types who have to look the part. Normal, everyday people just look good. Perhaps I grew up around too much inbreeding and I thought ugly was the norm. It isn't in California.

Traffic - Don't blame it on the urban planners, just stop breeding future drivers. Honestly, the traffic here is no different than DC. I'm enjoying driving and listening to the radio for the first time in years. However, ask me in a year and maybe I'll be complaining about the traffic. My solution has always been to live near where I work.

Bathrooms - Almost every bathroom I've been in has those pop-the-center-hole-out tissue toilet seat covers. This might seem an odd observation, but I realized it was the norm last weekend when I was in my beloved Target. Two women were bitching about how the bathroom had run out of tissue covers. I had to chuckle and then decided to chime in with, "well, where I come from, covers are a luxury. Remember when we used to use strips of TP if we had to sit on the toilet? Why don't you try that?"

Are you 420-friendly? – There are many different theories as to the origin of 420, but the consensus is that two stoners in a California high school referred to their after school smokes as “420” because that was the time they would meet. So, leave it to Californians to develop and continue to use a veiled Cheech and Chong reference to determine if someone smokes pot. I prefer the New York direct approach: “Do you smoke pot?” I don’t have to go to about.com to figure out the meaning of that question.

99 Cent Only Stores – This is a dollar store like nothing I’ve seen on the east coast. They have food!!! There is schlocky shit there too, but overall it is quite a find, especially if you are getting stuff for an apartment. The other night six ounce cans of tuna were two for 99. I stop in frequently to get seasonal stuff (three foot plastic candy canes, santa hats, stockings…). However, my all time frequent purchase is the eight inch glass Jesus candles. Ninety-nine cents for me to light a match on Sagrado Corazno de Jesus (Hey-Zeus) and recite: “I implore you by the ardent flames of love that burn in your heart that you would hear my prayer.” Of course, my prayer is I get a fulltime permanent job with benefits at a company full of happy people.

That’s my first four months of life in California. I realize I’m in my infancy. The awkward teen years are around the corner.

Stay tuned.

Sloppy seconds

I would personally like to thank Home Depot for bringing me good luck, temporarily.

On Monday I decided the job market did, indeed suck ass and I needed to get some form of a job to get by for a few more months while I waited for my networking to pan out. I waffled between waitressing and retail. My happy medium was Home Depot. I figured I would benefit from working in a retail environment littered with sober, home improvement men. My bonus structure would be dates.

There are lots of employment applications online now. Home Depot is no exception. I have to say their application reminded me how horrible retail work truly is. My favorite question was “How many times in the past year have you shoved a co-worker.” Hum. No physical shoves, but a lot of mental ones. Oh, and the evil eye. I can do the evil eye. But no shoves. I did work with a lot of middle-aged white guys at my last job that I wanted to bitch slap into kingdom come. I’ll leave the shoving for their wives.

So, where’s the luck you ask? Well, just when I think I’ve hit bottom, a glimmer of hope reminds me that I don’t need to wear an apron and a name tag.

Today I was called for a freelance writing job. Don’t get excited. It’s not with New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, or The LA Times. Nope, it is with an insurance company in Santa Monica. This is hot, steamy corporate writing in one of the most exciting and progressive industries. I interviewed for this same position three months ago. I was passed over. Imagine my delight when I saw the job posted again on monster.com. Yesterday I sent an email to the woman I met three months ago and