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.

I realize for most parents, one of their early happiest days are when their kid can wipe their own ass and make a meal.  For me, it’s the two- to three-year old age bracket when they’ll repeat a cuss word unexpectedly.  I laugh, the parents cringe.

Today I was in Petco with Tex, my only begotten son.  We were on a quest for pumpkin-head sized reindeer antlers.  I know, it’s gay and he’s going to kill me in my sleep, but I live in West Hollywood where the average dog weight is six pounds.  This 85-pound American Bulldog can’t compete with the sweater-wearing purse puppies except with seasonal accessories.  So we were in the aisle with the pet pee squirt bottles, rug piss shampoo, smell be-gone, etc.. My dog lifted his leg and pissed on the bottom rack of urine sprays.  Ironic, I know, and glorious at the same time.  I began laughing, then I quickly looked to see if anyone saw.  I thought about cleanup, for two seconds, and then figured someone else would enjoy the pee puddle irony and laugh too.

My dog doesn’t bark or cuss, but it is little things like this that make him more fun than a toddler.

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.

In my continuing effort to live a healthy, unemployed lifestyle, I decided now would be a good time to try one of those eight-week, Runner’s World couch-to-marathon training programs. I started week two today and I think I’m going to flunk myself and repeat week one.

I knew this was going to be a harder week, so this morning I suited up appropriately: super-plus tampon, Spanx to give my thighs more zing, and a waist-cincher to support my back. I successfully managed to run two minutes with a one minute break until I hit 15 minutes and realized my heart rate had soared to an unbelievable 175 BPM. WTF. I reverted back to the week one lesson of 1run/2walk.

What doesn’t make sense to me is I can go like a maniac on an eliptical machine at the gym on my off days, but that foot pounding into the pavement seems to freak my body out. Come to think of it, I can have hot monkey sex longer than I can run.

Everyone I know who has taken up running late-life loves it. I’m going to get through this eight-week program even if it takes me… four months. But for now, the only runner’s high I’m going to get is from the beer I have afterwards.

I know I’ve spent the past six years bemoaning the labor of dating in Los Angeles. I’ve felt like I’ve been one part relationship anthropologist, one part therapist, and an off-and-on investigative journalist. But I know my observations and experiences aren’t far-fetched because I run into men and women everywhere that have similar stories.

I recently connected with an acquaintance from home, also in her mid-40’s, who has lived out here four years. Over lunch we compared and contrasted our dating stories.

“What happened to the old ritual of courting?” she asked. “I feel like I have one or two dates with a guy, then everything after that is a hang-out. They don’t want to do stuff or bother to get to know me.”

I followed that with my thoughts that there are not a lot of masculine men in this town. That theory was confirmed early on by Dr. Pat Allen who said a town with creative men is a town filed with effeminate men who don’t play the male role. They want to be chased… like women. That doesn’t leave us a lot left to date.

My friend also made a comment about conversation. “I learned very quickly to dial it down. I think I offended people because I would not hesitate to offer my opinion.” That made me laugh hysterically because that was one of my first lessons in a corporate environment. “God help you if you have an opinion. You have to keep everything neutral so as to not shock sensitive people,” I added. But a lot of that has to do with the fact we grew up in D.C. Everyone is smart and reads and has opinions about everything. Out here, there are a lot of people who don’t have degrees, let alone advanced degrees. So, girls like us have to dumb it down.

I proceeded to tell her that I had hit the jackpot dating and I felt like all my bad date payforwards were redeemed.

“Get this – I’m dating a guy that has had the same job for 10 years, earned a MBA, owns two cars and some property, is NOT a California native, and is divorced with a wife and kid living across the country. He plans three or four dates a week, picks me up, and doesn’t hesitate to pay,” I told her with great sarcasm.

She was amazed. “So, you have real conversations and real dates.”

Dating is a numbers game, no matter where you live. You just need to know what you want and be patient until you find it. My new friend just left for an internship back in D.C. at the Library of Congress. She’s working on her second master’s degree. She says she’s happy not dating in Los Angeles. “As long as there is good weather, that’s my company.”

At my age, not a lot of new stuff happens to me. Admittedly, a lot of bizarre things occur when I go on dates in LA, but that falls into the bad date bucket. This weekend I had two unusual events happen to me.

The last time I wore a bikini, my age was a single digit. While visiting my 70-something Aunt, she suggested I go to water aerobics with her. I didn’t bring a suit. She went into one of her many hording closets and pulled out a bikini.

“Wow, Aunt Marna, this looks like it may be from the ‘60s and could fit,” I said.

“They don’t make them like that anymore,” she said like a typical old person.

It did, indeed fit and had those mid-boob seams that come up from the rib to the nipple to create a torpedo tit. Everything was stable and in place. I survived water aerobics and had no wardrobe malfunctions, but I may have shocked a few of the old folks with my tattoo.

On Independence day, we were driving back from a winery with the dog in the back seat. I was the last in a long line of cars hauling ass down Route 1. A cop in the opposite direction 180-ed and pulled me over. 75 in a 55. The CHiP was not amused when I said in my best F-me voice, “you know you are my first, sir” when he handed me my inaugural CA speeding ticket.

“I don’t know about that ma’am.” he replied and then walked away.

I want to believe I was his funniest and most sober traffic stop of the day. Maybe he would of laughed if I had my bikini top on?

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.

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.

“I was committed to getting out before I was 40.  I didn’t want to become a bitter Woody Allen cliche,” I admitted.  But what I realized was I left a great social and professional network for a sun-infused lifestyle that leaves me feeling very isolated.

The next morning I attempted some early shopping at Century 21 until I could meet a Wall Street friend for beers at 10 a.m.  We talked business until I dashed uptown for a lunch meeting with a former LA friend.  In addition to tempting me with some freelance writing business, she rattled on all the benefits of getting out of LA and mentioned the isolation she felt as well.  After lunch, I walked 30 blocks just taking it all in.  I missed it.

What was most apparent to me during my visit was blatantly heterosexual men.  I saw men in bars and on the street that were quite obviously straight.  I suppose I’ve been tainted living in West Hollywood, but man it was nice to see real men talking business, not hair products and jeans.  Don’t laugh, but you know what else I miss?  Real Jews.  Seriously.  Not these Hollywood Jews-of-Convenience or my Russian Jews, but real, obnoxious Lox-loving Jews.  Smart, fast talking Jews.  God bless ‘em.
Straight guys and Jews aside, it’s still not the same New York for me.  I still have a habit of coming up subway stairs looking for the Towers to guide me.  Now I kind of resent having to travel underground.  I want to be above and see everything.  I don’t want to miss anything.  I’m not sure why I left.

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.

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.