Don't Mince Words

I’m pretty sure I’m never getting laid again, and I’m ok with it.  Here’s why.  My dog is in love with me.

It was a long courtship of walks, parks, car rides, and movies on the couch.  He waited to sleep with me for six months.  Then one day when I came home on crutches from foot surgery and he sprung into action.  While I was konked out on painkillers with my iced foot propped up on the couch, he climbed up and laid on top of me, like a hen on her chick.  I woke up when my dog walker came in and exclaimed, “oh my god Marna, are you ok?”  He reluctantly left for his walk.

Later that evening, my K9 nurse climbed into bed with me and slept with his head on my stomach watching me.  We’ve pretty much been sleeping together ever since – me and my 85-pound dog in a queen-size bed.

After Christmas, our relationship went to the next level.  He now wants to put his head on my shoulder and the pillow.  I was too tired to protest and move him the first night, then I realized his light snoring (similar to this dog) puts me to sleep faster than a wave machine.

I’m not sure what I’m doing right in this relationship, but it’s working.  I’ll take an old, rescued dog over a middle-aged man with baggage any day.  Tex is in it for the long haul.

2009 Thanksgiving

I had another one of those “oh fuck I do live in California” moments this week when I realized that 72 percent of my Thanksgiving guests were vegetarian or vegan. It really called into question if I had to buy a turkey or if I could get away with making turkey burgers.

I haven’t made the full switch yet, and I still enjoy fish, but I knew I’d have to cook and carve the turkey and get the carcass out of the house before the V’s arrived so as not to offend. They aren’t the wishbone snapping types. Dinner went off with out a problem, but the fun came afterwards.

The conversation reverted to vegetarian food: how to make a good tofu scramble, wheat-free breads, tempeh, and my soy chorizo. I watched my meat-eating Texan friend as we yammered on and I could tell he was ready to blow. This I knew because he arrived first and said something to the effect of, “there’s no reason to be a vegetarian except for religious purposes.” I mentioned cruelty in the food industry. He is in the “meat is tasty” camp. Needless to say, he was one of the first to finish up and leave, but not before he confirmed that vegan pumpkin pie was not as good without butter.

We enjoyed our vegetables and odd conversations without the presence of our own family members. That’s probably why we had a good time, just like the original settlers did minus the tofurky roast.

I’m going to pitch a new TV show to the networks.  ”Are you better at Wii than a 7 year-old” will feature gaming unsaavy adults playing Wii against their younger relatives.  I discovered during Easter, in my attempt to be hip with the nephews, I need to upgrade my Ms. Pacman-era gaming skills.

While everyone in the house was sick, the youngest nephew who is 7  took it upon himself to keep us entertained by “teaching” me some of his Wii games.  He enjoyed talking a lot and telling tips and tricks, but leaving out a few details to ensure he’d win every game.  Whatever.  I get it.  He gets crushed by his older brother so this was the first time he had an equal-skilled opponent.

After my day-long tutorial, my brother came downstairs laughing.  Apparently, I was in the kid’s evening prayers.  ”And thank you for bringing me Aunt Marna so that I had someone to play with whose butt I could whip.”

Just you wait kid.  I vow never to be in 12th place again in Super Mario Cart.  I’m going to find someone to play with here so I can start my driver’s ed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”