Don't Mince Words

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.

“I’ve been quoting you all week,” a girlfriend told me when she saw me tonight.  I say a lot, but I’m not sure if it’s worth repeating most of the time.

The week before we were walking home from a few galleries and noticed two hoodie-wearing cholo gangster types were walking a little too close.  We stepped aside to let them pass and the stopped in front of us.  I immediately went into Brooklyn-ready-to-shank-you-motherfucker mode.  They made small talk.  Our short answers and lack of interest did not drive them away.  And then, the question that sent them turning on their heels and crossing the street mid-block:

“Do you really think we’re going to fuck a guy in a hoodie.”

This may be the first time my mouth got me OUT of trouble.

You always remember your first.  While I wish I had been old enough to remember the death of icons such as Hendrix and Joplin, my first was John Lennon.  I was in bed when he was gunned down, but I’ll always remember the next day like some people remember the JFK death train when it passed through their town.

We talked about Lennon in every class that day in high school.  Most of us weren’t even Beatles fans.  But for members of Generation X/the lost generation, this was on our watch and the iconic death of someone we could relate to…more so than Elvis who belonged to our parents’ era.

I didn’t have another day like that until Kurt Cobain died.  That one didn’t really bother me, but I was married at the time and my husband was insanely depressed after Kurt blew his brains out.  Several months later we separated.

Of course, I remember where I was when I got the news my father died.  I think everyone remembers the big ones like that.  But what is more impressive is for years afterwards, my admin and a vendor I worked with on that day continued to send “thinking of you” notes and emails.

My I-remember-when rounds out with 9/11.  Yeah, I remember running down Fulton Street while 2,751 people died.  I’m now organizing a trip back for the 10th anniversary.

Imagine all the people, living for today.