Dont Mince Words

Most people’s soundtrack for sex is that porny bern-chica-bern-bern. Not me. When I think of sex, I hear the theme of The Rockford Files.

Television was a big deal for kids growing up in the ‘70s. One of the biggest days in our household was the arrival of a second black and white TV for my parent’s bedroom. This served two purposes (in order of likelihood): (1) Programming conflicts among household members were resolved and/or my parents didn’t have to be in the same room together; and (2) My parents had a way to drown out sex noises from my brother and me.

When you are young, you learn to like what your parents like because you want to be with them. I quickly learned to like The Rockford Files. But seriously, what was not to like? James Garner was good looking and he drove a cool car. So, one day when I heard the theme, I ran to my parent’s bedroom and opened the unlocked door to see them naked and intertwined. I gasped and my mother let out an Amityville Horror “Get Out” command. My happy Rockford theme was permanently tarnished by that vision.

That experience and feedback from my married friends made me vow I’d never be one of those people that schedules sex. In fact, several weeks ago, I told GC to shoot me if I became one of those people. That was until today. I lunged and squatted in boot camp this morning. GC’s trainer kicked his ass too. Ironically, I sent an email to him and told him there was no way I could bend my legs to have sex tonight right as he sent an email saying the same. We conceded mutual physical defeat and agreed to a sexless date tonight.

Even Jim Rockford needs a night off once in a while, right? But I bet he’d lock the door if kids were around.

I used to look forward to Sunday nights to have an ocular orgy with David Duchovny in the X-Files. As I got older, Sunday nights became reserved for Tony Soprano and Carrie Bradshaw. Now I get to look forward to the kid drop off followed by divorced daddy sex with GC.

Last night’s pillow talk was a little different. I forgot, when dating a writer, there’s a chance he may actually read my blog. Dripping with sweat he said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve been dating for longer than 90 days.”

I’ve beat my LA relationship record. There must be a Hallmark gift for this. “Hey, so what do I get? Paper? A pen?” I asked

“You just got it,” he told me.

Oh yeah, that hot monkey sex with a real man instead of a machine. Yeah, that is the perfect gift. I’ve been paroled from bad LA dating.

Today a coworker changed his status on Facebook from single to “In relationship.” I realized, I still had my “Facebook is gonna get me laid” settings on. I changed it to “In relationship” looking to “network.” Holy crap, you would of thought there was a 7.0. I received one long distance call and dozens of emails and comments ranging from ‘congratulations” to “WTF.”

Everyone’s tragically heterosexual and single girl is now unavailable. Call the dogs off.

They say with age comes experience. In Los Angeles, with dating comes experiences.

A girlfriend recently had a male-variety dilemma. She actually stopped and asked herself, “What Would Marna Do?” I’m flattered that anyone would listen to my advice given my favorite four-lettered word is N-E-X-T and none of my dating experiences have lasted more than 90 days.

California has good lemon laws. So do I.