Don't Mince Words

My friends keep me in check.  They also tease me about some of my more memorable dating and relationship decisions.

A friend in New York recently called me laughing from a bar.  “Oh my God, Marna.  Magic Hat has a new hefeweizen out called “Circus Boy.”  What ever happened to that fucking tool?” he asked.

Pete remembers a six-month relationship I had because it was cluttered with mutual drama and ended with the guy leaving to join Ringling Brothers’ circus band.  He was nicknamed “Circus Boy” by my friends and inducted into Marna’s Hall of Fame.  Circus Boy taught me to never date career musicians, especially when they say, “but music is my mistress.”

I was once at a Dr. Pat Allen relationship seminar (Mars/Venus type stuff) where she truly explained M/F dynamics in relationships.  When she had Q&A, I asked her what she thought of left-handed musicians.  I’ll never forget her response, “If you want a thinking and rational man and you are in the feminine role, don’t date a left-handed musician.”  As a result of that advice, career musicians are on my banned dating list.

So, to answer Pete’s question, I don’t know what happened to Circus Boy.  Last I heard, he was quitting the circus, getting married, and settling in Las Vegas.  Eight years later, I can safely say I’d rather have a six-pack of Circus Boy than see Circus Boy, but my friends and I thank him for the memories.

In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict.  The habit is TBD.  All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup.  The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date.  When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”

My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships.  I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.

“This isn’t fair.  Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.

“Yes, we met at a meeting.  We are so in love,” he proclaimed.  “He’s mine.”

I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day.  Fanfuckingtastic.   He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara.  I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.

“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.

Right.  We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California.  I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.

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Give the gift of Marna.  My short story, “Talking Dirty,” appears alongside other fabulous authors observing life in Los Angeles.  Charles Bukowski, the granddaddy of dirty talk, is also included in the collection.

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This is probably just me. My little problem, you know, because I was born before 1980. But when a help wanted/job ad says “profitable online startup,” that is not a positive selling point to me. It’s about as appealing as a partner telling me their Valtrex copay is only $5.

With my focus on my career, I’m sure you were worried that I’d never write about guys or dates again. Not to worry, this is Los Angeles, so there’s always going to be a story. I just haven’t had the time to write this one.

Houston (let’s call him that instead of nutless) and I met online in mid-July and began dating immediately. He was one of those Type A planners who would book three dates in a week. In fact, I mentioned to him that his frequency was outstanding and unlike the 1x/week LA guy mentality. “I know what I like and I go for it,” was his answer.

So, we went out to dinner, we played tennis, we saw movies and shows, we went to concerts and parties. We did stuff. He even took me and my dog to a four-star hotel weekend getaway. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I got laid off. We went out less. He called and emailed less. But I wasn’t really paying attention because I was focused on the job thing and getting out to network.

Our last date was a business dinner with some of his ad reps, one of whom commented on what a cute couple we were. I never heard from him after that night. The guy who pitched himself as the nicest guy I’d ever meet did the fade out on me. Had I been more alert, I would of seen this coming and beat him to the dump.

“Are you sure he didn’t have a medical emergency and just couldn’t call you? He was older, after all,” said a friend. “No, he’s alive because he posted a marketing job on craig’s list,” I explained. “Gosh, don’t you want to understand what happened?” she asked.

Not necessary, is it? He was under the 90-day LA trial relationship period. He demonstrated by his actions that he couldn’t nut up and dump me proper. That’s alright, he had republican tendencies and poor musical taste. All I can say is…. Celine Dion? Really? That’s my closure.