Don't Mince Words

Everyone knows that layoffs do not count as vacations, so imagine my delight when I decided to take my first week off since 2006 and go on a cruise to Cabo. After a year of long hours, my office was cheering me on, handing me condoms, and hoping I would get drunk and laid.

The drunk part I took care of immediately upon boarding.  I walked straight to the pool and had a “Best Day Ever” fruity drink handed to me.  After several more drinks, I eventually figured out where my room was and then went to dinner.  My dinner tablemates were retired or close to it and all on their second marriages.  They were impressed I was traveling alone then suggested I go to the “older singles mingle” later that evening.  I missed that on the activities list because I had my eye on the 20-something mingle, like a good cougar outside her zipcode should.

I hedged my bets and hit both mingles.  I went to the bar at the old mingle and got a draft beer.  When I turned around, I realized the band was playing classic standards like Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl and Kansas’ Dust in the Wind.  The only folks dancing were two overweight, 50-something women with a pot-bellied man they plucked from another table.  I drank my beer fast and got out before someone did the electric slide. The young mingle was equally awkward.  It was filled with wedding party kids line dancing to modern music.  I didn’t bother ordering a drink.  I turned around and went to my room and ended the day with Drunk:Yes, Laid:No.

The first full day at sea meant Marna’s first full day of poolside drink delivery.  Between SPF 70 and bloody mary’s, I had all my bases covered while reading Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man.  That evening my cock hunt lead me to the comedy club.  Yeah, guys like comedy, they’ll be there.  And that’s where the magic of the low-cut maxi dress worked.  I sat at the bar and was pounced on by a guy two seats away.  After the show, we drank more and I discovered it was his 53rd birthday and he had just wrapped up his second divorce and decided a cruise was the best way to celebrate.  I got to hear all about Idaho and his gastrointestinal problems.  I briefly looked around and decided he had to be Mr. Right Now because it looked like he was as good as it was going to get for me on this cruise.  He asked me to his room where he made us a drink and we made out, but when it came time for us to actually take our clothes off, I realized a hard-on was no where to be found.  Not even close.  I got the “this never happens” statement which I countered with “well, we HAVE been drinking.”  I politely thanked him for a nice night and went to my room and ended the day with Drunk:Yes, Laid:No.  No one in the office pool was going to win the Marna laid bet.

The next day I hooked up with two crazy 40-something sisters and spend the remainder of the trip partying with them.  We joked about cruising in the “newlyweds and almost deads”  boat.  It was clear no one was getting laid unless they were prepared to ruin a marriage.  So, we spent a lot of time talking about our dogs and our next drink order.

For someone who doesn’t relax often, this was the perfect vacation.  Next time I’ll buy Viagra at the pharmacia and pack my vibrator.

Since Planned Parenthood funding was in the news first quarter, I decided to do my part to support them and have my gyn exam.  Or, as I like to call it, the annual dusting of the cob webs.

I rode my bike there hoping to look “young” and “in trouble” to the ugly white guy protestors.  Sadly, there were no men there to fight with which made my entrance oddly pleasurable compared to the 1990s.  Yes, I had the oldest lady parts in the waiting room and I smiled at each girl leaving with her brown bag of pills.  I was her once… eager to start the pill in hopes of future sex.

It appears sex has changed in a few decades.  My pre-screen was very different and the questions seemed to center around forced non-protection.  “Have you had a partner hide or sabotage your birth control in order to get you pregnant,” she asked.  She had to ask, but I had to laugh.  “You are implying that I’m getting some and I’m not.  But believe me, I’d never date a douche that would pull that kind of bullshit.”

She asked more questions that didn’t apply because I was so tragically sexually inactive. I then went to the exam room where I encountered my first gyn office gay male aide.  Now I knew I was going to have some fun.  He asked me if I was sexually active.  I asked him if he was straight and single.  He explained what I could expect from the exam and then told me he would administer my HIV test.  Ten minutes later, as I laid on the table waiting for the doctor in my paper robe, he popped his head back in and told me my results were negative.  “Cool, I’m cleared for take off,” I responded as he laughed walking out.

The doctor did her thing then ushered me to the blood letting station to ensure I didn’t have any other STIs.  My gay aide was there.

“Wow, you do it all,” I said.  “Pretty much everything except that,” he said staring at my lower hemisphere.  “Yeah, that takes some special kind of love because I couldn’t look at that all day either,” I said.

He escorted me to the checkout window where my insurance was processed and a brown bag of pills was handed to me.  I rode to work with a smile.  One day I’ll get laid, and when I do, I’ll be more prepared and more informed than a parking lot protestor.

There is your garden-variety texting.  Then we have drexting:  driving and texting (or is that drunk texting?).  Now I’d like to add whexting, whacking off and texting, to the urban mobile lexicon.

310-xxx-xxxx:  I know u dont remember me and you dont have to txt me back i just wanted apologize. i always had a lot of fun with you.

This number wasn’t in my contacts.  When I date someone, I wait six months then delete just to avoid calls and stalking.

Me:  Who is this?

310-xxx-xxxx:  Dude you didn’t have to txt me back. I was watching porn and saw a girl with red hair and it made me think of you.  You made an impression on me.

Me:  Wow. That’s some impression. Best of luck self-pleasuring. Text me again in another four years.

Just when I think I’m out of material, they re-appear.  I wonder if he had his keypad on voice command.

When I was signing my lease, the assistant, a lifetime native of Santa Barbara, warned me, “Whatever you do, just be nice to everyone.  Even ex-boyfriends.  This town is small.”  I realize this falls under The Golden Rule crap my parents taught me.

I haven’t seen The Schnauzer since the infamous hot tub/back shaving incident.  My Golden Rule is Out of Sight/Out of Mind because I just wasn’t that into him.  Hairy back aside (have you seen my thighs? I know about embracing heritage), when he admitted he had a porn addiction and thought beer was a waste of money, I knew he wasn’t the guy for me.  When he said he was conflicted because he wanted to marry a girl with little-to-no sexual history, I knew I wasn’t the girl for him.  Nice getting to know you, but we aren’t right for each other.

Next.

Imagine my surprise when I received a text message from The Schnauzer Friday, “Hi Marna, I saw you walking with your date yesterday.  Its OK I understand. I was hoping we could still be friends I thought you were interesting.”

I’m not sure where this communication is coming from since it’s been more than a month since his clipping.  I realize this is a small town, and I will be polite if I ever seen him squeezing the melons in Trader Joe’s, but I really don’t need another friend.

My friends have great communication skills.  And they don’t mince words.

Zipping a dress.  Helping with a necklace clasp.  Reaching the top shelf.  As a single woman, these are some of the things I need help with around the house.  This was a banner week for special requests from men.

A let’s-just-be-friends male invited me to dinner.  While we are highly compatible, I assume men with women friends are going for the slow conversion.  I remain hyperaware and keep the pussy on lockdown.  I drank a bottle of wine while he cooked.  Great meal.  Good conversation.  When I was preparing to leave with my thoughtful leftovers, he asked me for a hand job in a come-on-please very sober voice.  I took my chicken and assumed his arms were long enough to reach his own cock.

Three days later, I’m in a jacuzzi with another guy.  When we got back to his place to change, he called me into his bathroom.  “Could you do me a favor and shave my back?” he asked.  Finally, something a man can’t reach.  When I finished and looked at the pile of fur, I had a sense of accomplishment I hadn’t felt since…. clipping my schnauzer.

These experiences mirror my personality – a mix of crazy red head and den mother.  From hand jobs to back jobs, my life can never be called dull.