Don't Mince Words

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.

Tonight I had a date with a PhD-holding Angeleno who was in town for interivews.  It was an exciting time because I haven’t had a date with a smart person my age in a very, very long time.  As expected, the conversation flowed.  The beer didn’t.

He requested that we meet at a pub, so I recommended a local microbrewery near his hotel.  Imagine my horror when I walked up and he was drinking Budweiser.  WTF.  You are smart.  Surely you can pick a fine local draft with better flavor.  We continued to chatter and when he finished his first, the waitress asked if he’d like another.  ”No, I have to leave at 5,” he replied.  Of course, I ordered a second brown ale and calimari because I’m a whore for draft beer and good bar food.  And I thought, you know, this was a date.

At 4:55 p.m., he tossed a 20 dollar bill on the table and got up, hugged me, and said he had to get going to prep for his interviews.  I thanked him and told him I was going to stay to finish my beer.  I did that, checked my email, checked-in to Foursquare, and made sure the waitress was tipped.  I then walked home in the other direction so I could walk by a few shops on State Street before closing.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Interview Prep walked up behind me and passed me.  No hi, no nothing.  He had a fast stride and was walking like he was late.  I followed him until he turned in to another bar.  I’m all about maximizing time and speed dating, but if it had been me, I would of scheduled the dates farther apart and certainly found bars closer together.

Not so smart after all. But the Bud was the giveaway.

I know I’ve threatened, after sampling the lack-luster Santa Barbara dating pool, to go back to Los Angeles to date.  I finally did and I can safely say I’m so happy I adopted a dog for companionship.

My new target market is old guys – or men who have kids that are off to college and they are safely divorced and possibly ready for another long-term relationship.  This means 50+.  Past mid-life and dating bimbos.  This guy seemed like a catch right down to the fact he was from New England.

We met in Santa Monica and I was sure I’d recognize him because he had a Ned Flanders (Simpsons) mustache.  But to be on the safe side, because you never know with pictures, I told him to look for the tall redhead.  I know I shouldn’t be ageist, but I really wish I could be a cougar again.  And I know I’m older and I have no room to talk.  But Ned, 56,  wore a washed out yellow polo, super light blue jeans, and bright white sneakers.  My favorite accessory was a knee brace which he chose to wear on the outside of his jeans.

I tried to let all that slide.  I ordered a spinach omelette.  He had a club which he ate while he talked about himself.  I smiled and nodded secretly thankful that Dixie was in the car waiting to bail me out.  I hugged and cheek kissed him goodbye 90 minutes after our brunch and dove into my car.

Three hours and 90 miles later, Dixie and I were home.  “We’re never doing that again,” I told the dog as we settled on the couch to spend the evening watching Netflix.