Dont Mince Words

When you are a young boy, from what I hear, you hate to be called cute.  Puppies are cute.  You want to be hot, which is more desirable.  Well, as a girl/woman, there’s something worse than cute.  We hate to hear the phrase, “You are so ____.  I can’t believe you aren’t married.”

I had my first date of the new year on Saturday.  Yeah, I know I’ve given up on dating in Los Angeles, but once in a while they’ll find me and ask me out.  I had nothing to lose and, at the end of the day, a girl’s gotta drink.  When David agreed to meet me at a bar four blocks from my house, it was a no brainer.

He was your typical cougar hunter:  35 and petite.  I generally like my men to have thighs bigger than mine, but this is L.A. where emaciated metrosexuals are in the majority.  I learned quickly that making small talk with an Israeli was going to be hard.  I felt like I needed a translator.  He’d been out here for nine years but still managed to keep a thick accent.

I did hear loud and clear one of his questions.  “You are so cute.  I don’t understand why you aren’t taken.”  I kept my composure mainly because I’ve been asked this a bazillion times.

“You’ve lived here nine years, so I think you can answer that question easily.  It is hard to date here, right?  It is hard to meet genuine people, right?  It is rare to meet anyone with an advanced degree.  And it is very hard to meet anyone that truly wants a long-term committed relationship.  That’s why I prefer to be single and focus on my career than be a traitor to my own standards,” I responded.

The date ended shortly thereafter, both of us tired from struggling to find conversation points and any common ground.  We hugged out, I thanked him for my beers, and I walked home to my dog – my real committed relationship

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.