Don't Mince Words

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.

My first 90 days in Santa Barbara are complete and I can say, I’ve survived.  If my blog is going to continue with nonfiction observations and intermittent dating stories, I may not have much material to work with.  Or I need to step up my game.

Like most relationships, I go in with no expectations so I can be pleasantly surprised.  SB Man and I had a nice time getting to know each other after I moved here.  I was probably still detoxing off the LA dating scene and smitten with his communication skills and planning.  Great guy, but not a good match for the long haul.  And that’s what dating is about.

I got to experience my first MeetUp stalker shortly after I arrived in Santa Barbara.  He told me redheads were like unicorns here and then proceeded to tell me he read my whole blog, from 2003 to present, and wanted to meet me about a project.  We had coffee and he pitched partnering on a writing idea.  In the next sentence he admitted he was ADD and couldn’t focus.  At some point after that he told me he was good at oral sex and would like to hang out.  Santa Barbara was starting to feel more like LA again.

In an effort to put myself out there and try to meet new people, I finally attended a MeetUp event.  The organizer took my card and asked me out.  By the next morning, he’d read my blog and he wanted to meet sooner.  Apparently, I’m intelligent and funny. He opened the date with “We have to be friends, is that ok?” and went on to explain that  he realized I hadn’t had a long-term relationship in a long time. (He’s been married twice). He wouldn’t give me a pass based on the fact that I lived in LA for the last seven years.  I told him he was scared of me which is usually the case when they read my blog.  We’ve met a couple times since and he told me he liked me because I have a “nice bladder.”  While I’m not relationship material, my beer drinking skills give me a whole new layer of attractiveness.

And there you have it:  the good, the odd, and the weak.  So far, dating in Santa Barbara is turning out to be on par with LA.  My friends beg me to leave this state, but how can I?  It’s a wealth of material.

The Muppets have been around since I was young. But, like Mr. Hooper, old school, thinning felt Muppets die or lose camera time to their updated furry friends. Elmo received life in 1985 when a black man put his hand in Elmo’s ass and gave him that distinctive voice and laugh. With red hair and orange nose, Elmo is likeable even if he speaks of himself in the third person.

My youngest nephew, David, had an Elmo theme for his second birthday today. Balloons, plates, cups, cake…. All things were Elmo. It was Elmopalooza. At t-minus 15 minutes, I decided the only way to survive the onslaught of 2-4 year olds, as the only single, childless female in attendance. was to ask my friend, Samuel Adams for help. His tasty winter lager took the edge off. Of course, parents arrived with a look of semi-horror on their face. Oh shit, the zany, tattooed, foul-mouthed aunt is here and she has a beer in her hand at 11 a.m.

I managed to behave and when the urge hit me, I spelled out my cuss words. Kids climbed on me, babies pulled on my earrings. By beer number three, it was all good. During the festivities I made the keen observation that all parties are the same, no matter the age group. This may have been an Elmo party, but it was just like a frat party, gallery opening, or a dinner party. The usual characters prevailed.

Claire the Tattletale. This sweet little girl has ‘future bitch’ written all over her. When a kid had candy and there wasn’t any for her, she went running to the party hostess to complain. To top that, she elected to assist with present opening. Look out boys, this gold digger is bound to take her dressing on the side and drink white zinfandel.

Grant the Needy Jock. Grant is a character. I’ve known him for a few years and was concerned when he was young because he had a bubble head. His neck almost needed reinforcement. It appears he has grown into his head now; however, he’s turned into a spitter. In addition, he didn’t want pizza and required an alternate menu. My guess is Grant is going to be on the sidelines in his helmet and shoulder pads asking the coach for Fiji water.

Mason the Shy Mumbler. This kid is almost three and has a hard time enunciating words. Kind of like me after three beers. We carried on a whole conversation and I don’t know what the fuck he was saying. I did my loud-party-trick and nodded my head, uttered a few ‘oh really’s’, smiled and flipped my hair. To Mason, I appeared engaged and hanging on his every word. With his big eyes and shy disposition, I think Mason has the potential to get a lot of ass in the future, as soon as he works on his delivery.

Show and Tell Sam. My nephew and godson is the only person I know, next to Michael Jackson, who can entice a half dozen kids to come into his bedroom. Sam loves giving tours of his room and leading willing participants through his maze of toys. When Sam grows up, he’s going to be the guy with the gear. Would you like to come back to my place and see my new _________?

Catherine the Great. Miss Catherine has eyelashes to die for and the bitch already knows it. She has her bat-and-beckon routine down already. Beauty fades, Catherine. You will not age gracefully.

David the Animal. Sweet Dave is just a smiling, loveable mess with a deep voice and a passion for parties. I can’t decide if he is Flounder or Bluto yet. He will be closest to the keg and he will be the life of the party. It’s OK that he giggles like Elmo for now.

Rehab Matthew. This kid will have the Betty Ford clinic on speed dial. I think he went through five Elmo juice boxes in less than an hour.

Popular Muppets may come and go, but the characters we turn into remain the same.