Posted on
June 26, 2012 by
Marna
Nothing makes me happier than nachos and beer except being in a large city in a different country and STILL being thankful I’m not having sex.
On the way back from a bookstore (because that’s where single, middle-aged ladies go after work on business trips), I stopped by a brew pub to abuse my per diem. I ordered an IPA, because I like to support local beer, as well as nachos because they are my favorite food group with beer.
I had the good fortune to sit beside a four-top of 20-something know-it-alls. I realized rather than sit at the table and start my book, I needed to pull out my moleskin and take notes. Judging by the almost-finished pitcher of beer on their table, their shit was going to be good.
The cast of characters included a self-proclaimed promiscuous, white, long-haired brunette sitting beside a bed head, celery stalk body and white golf-shirt wearing hipster. On the other side, we had a lightly bearded Indian guy with long bangs sitting beside the table kingpin. This guy was a true piece of work. He had sunglasses on his head and wore a chartreuse button-down, white tie, khaki knee-length shorts, and white loafers.
I could have assumed he was a tool when his tie matched his loafers; however, when he talked loud enough to be heard by everyone and mentioned in every other sentence that he was Italian, I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, no woman really cares about your ethnicity unless you say your daddy was black, then we may pay attention.
I knew we were at a DickCon1 level when he said, “I know if I pretend to care, she’ll think I’m sensitive and will fuck me.” Yeah, that rule has been revealed in Details, Esquire, and on blogs for more than a decade. Google that shit. Or, better, put your fucking phone down, stop texting, and read a book.
There is a new super strain of gonorrhea out there and yet I fear cockroaches like this, at any age, more.
Tags: beerbig dicks with little cocksnachos
Category
Dating, Life, Work
Posted on
May 15, 2012 by
Marna
Brown, red, and blond camo for gray roots
When the going gets tough, the tough go girlie. It’s been nearly 18 months since I’ve seen a penis. The real, in-front-of-you kind, not the creepy ChatRoulette cyber ones. This has been the longest dry spell I’ve had since I gave it all up at senior prom. But as I get older, I seem to embrace the inactivity more. It is just easier to say no when you have a two-tiered entrance exam. (1) Is he worth shaving my legs for? If I answer yes, then we go to (2) Does he seem more fun than my dog? That answer has been No a few too many times which has driven me to new forms of attention: taking care of Number One.
In a four-day period recently, I had a serious pedicure (paraffin wax, callous sanding, etc..); I had my hair professionally colored; I bought new makeup and under eye/bag eye concealer; and I bought new perfume. Most women would agree, all of these things make us feel good. But it’s starting to get addicting. Right now I’m shopping Zappos and Bare Necessities while I try to book a wax appointment.
Hopefully I’ll snap out of this soon which will probably happen when I have to pay to get my roots done for a date that will turn out to be a waste of time. A girl can dream. Until then, I have dog walks, e-commerce, and a vibrator.
Tags: girlieroots
Category
Dating, Life
Posted on
April 25, 2012 by
Marna
Jackie and Marna, college suitemates
Months ago I was convinced I should return to Virginia for Longwood College’s Decade of the ’80s Reunion. The last time I went, it was the ’90s and I learned beer bongs were out and keg stands were in. (Some nice frat boys taught me the basics. They thought I was classy because my bottle of Jim Beam had a pouring spout.) To prepare for this trip, I did a liver cleanse and brought lots of TylenolPM to combat redeye jet lag.
This reunion was much different. Everyone who graduated prior to 1984 looked old. And I mean real old. A decade older than the rest of us. It was freaky and several of my friends noticed this rapid decelleration. This is when I was thankful I live in vapid California. Everyone told me I hadn’t changed, which was sweet, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I looked good or I always had a beer in my hand.
I soon learned I had changed. Jackie and I organized an after-party at a local bar. At 1 a.m. we both admitted we were tired, left, and went back to the hotel. You know you are getting old when you can’t make it to last call and TylenolPM and a hotel bed sound good.
Tags: 80sLongwood CollegeLongwood University
Category
Life