Don't Mince Words

I used to see a lot of interesting things when I lived in West Hollywood.  But when you mix creatives with gays, you are bound to see some great stuff.  In Santa Barbara, when you mix stray hairs with a good sunrise, you get the perfect plucking storm.  And then some.

My “it’s going to be a good day” barometer starts when my dog takes a massive crap.  Today was no different until I turned down the beach path holding my poo bag and a noticed a guy leaning up against his truck’s side-view mirror.  I starred for a while and realized he was holding a pair of tweezers and going at his eyebrows with the good morning light.  He needed some serious bushwhacking otherwise, he should of just braided his eyebrows or twisted them to rasta dreads and called himself a caterpillar.

As I practiced sit-stays and stand-stays with Dixie, we continued to pass joggers and other dog walkers.  Things got interesting when we got to the second parking lot.  A guy was in his sedan with his seat reclined all the way down, but his head was bobbing up to look for people.  Alas, since I was the only person around, I realized by his shoulder and arm motions that he was beating off and looking at me.  Or maybe Dixie was getting him off, but one of us was definitely his type.  I’m going to count this public display of affection as our first date in the new year.

When we rounded back around, Dixie presented me with another steaming pile which I tossed in the trash right next to the plucker’s truck.  We jumped into the car and I immediately yanked on the rear view to check my eyebrows.  No stray hairs, so I should have plenty of time to masturbate before work.

I ran into The Schnauzer tonight on a walk home.  It has been nearly a year since we had our short-lived “relationship.”  He pulled over and asked me if I had time to talk or if I had to get home to “Dixie.”  That was impressive he remembered the dog’s name.  The last time I saw him, he yelled out a window “hey you.”

I chatted with him on the sidewalk where he pulled up his sweater and turned and said “look, I found someone to shave my back.”  My inner Meryl Streep don’t-laugh-at him said “wow, she’s a lucky girl.”  The practical side of me wondered if it was a Gilette product or something more functional by Black and Decker.

Whatever the case may be, he “misses” me and wants to go to dinner next week.  Since he’s 25 years younger than my last date, I may entertain the prospect.  Girl’s gotta eat.  Girl’s got no blog.

If anyone has learned anything in the year+ I’ve lived in Santa Barbara, it’s that I’ve barely dated or done anything blog-worthy.  So, in December when I was feeling generous, I loosened up my age requirements and let the 65 year-olds take a stab at the Marn.  As my Aunt says, “hello Daddy,” she also kindly pointed out that when the geezer goes, I can date their kids who are age-appropriate.  Win-win as they say.

My first attempt was with the Jersey Shore meets the Grand Canyon guy.  He meant well, but when all a guy has is showing you the inside of his RV, you have to think game over before it started.  Besides, my dye job and comb over was better than his.  My second session with the baby boomer cusp generation occurred 12 miles from my house.  My date selected a nice wine bar in which we decided to drink draft beer.  Three hours and two beers later I had John Belushi’s “Cheeseburger-Cheeseburger” routine in my head.  Who the hell books at date at dinner and then doesn’t even order an appetizer?  Mind you, I enjoyed his mild Bensonhurst accent, but a girl’s gotta eat.

When I got home, I bitched about manners (why book at date over the dinner hour) on Facebook and was kindly reminded by friends what an idiot of expectations I was.  ”Marna, you are dating a guy on a fixed income used to eating dinner at 4.  Beer is dessert him.”

When I got home, I sent him a thank you email, which my manners have taught me to do for decades, good or bad.  He wrote back and suggested a martini bar “near your place.”   Right, because the cost of two draft beers is the price of future admisission to my vagina.

I had a date Saturday night who accessorized.  I don’t mean in the belt, cuff links, and shoes kind of way either.  He wore a turquoise bead choker necklace that kind of looked like those candy necklaces I’d get as a kid, except the “candy” was blue.  But that’s not all.  There’s more.  He doubled up.  His second necklace was a gold chain choker.

Jersey Shore meets the indian reservation.  Next.

Team Honda

I was already thinking of my dad this week.  It would of been his 90th birthday.  But when I had a tire blow out, the memories flowed more.

A year before I could get my learner’s permit, my dad would take me to the Montgomery Wards parking lot to practice driving.  It gave him an excuse to get out of the house and away from my mom and it let me learn three-on-the-tree and quick clutch action.  In addition to acquiring great manual-drive skills, he taught me how to check the oil, radiator, and change a tire.  This knowledge has kept me less dependent on shifty service station guys and AAA.

While I was driving two visiting Chinese coworkers south to Los Angeles, I heard the rumble and knew I had a flat.  I put my hazards on like dad taught me and coasted off the road.  We got out of the car and the right rear was a goner.  So, I popped the trunk, pulled out the full-size spare, the wrench, and the jack and set up shop.  My coworkers marveled at my mechanical abilities.

“Mah-nah, you know how to do a lot of things,” they said.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even throw my weight into the lug wrench to move the nuts.  I was going to have to break down and call my tow service.  As soon as I grabbed my phone, two guys in a SUV pulled up.  One loosened the lug nuts as the other began the slow twist of the jack.  Within five minutes, my 101 pit crew had silently changed my tire.  When they were off the ground, I thanked them and gave them WetOnes to clean their hands and offered them $20 for beer.

“No, no. It’s OK.  Merry Christmas,” one replied.

When we pulled back on the highway, one coworker asked if they were “Mexican.”  I told them I thought so, but as far as I was concerned, they were helpful, just like my dad.