Dont Mince Words

I have a five-minute commute to work. It keeps me sane. But it also gives me the opportunity to enjoy driving in LA traffic after 5 p.m. if I want to go across town to visit friends or go to my westside writing group. I exercise my right to honk, check out drivers, and listen to commercial radio.

My radio pre-sets are what you’d expect: NPR, Top-40, disco, rock, classic rock, and alternative/indie rock. Yesterday, I caught myself on the classic rock station screaming all the words to “Bad Company” while navigating the Rt. 5/110 merge. How did I remember the words? I never liked Bad Company in the ‘70s. I was almost through the last refrain when the voice inside my head said, “Marna, what the fuck?”

I quickly corrected my audio faux pas by switching to the rock station. There was some song being screamed by a band I didn’t know. I cocked my head and really, really tried to listen to the words. But I couldn’t understand. All I could picture was my father yelling “turn that noise down.”

I was back to indie rock in a heartbeat. But it did get me to thinking about my Dad and the music he liked – Big Band. He used to hide out in his workshop listening to Benny Goodman with his one good ear. The clarinets squealed so loud he couldn’t hear me knock when I came in. Every time I’d say to myself, “And he makes fun of my music?”

The music of my era – Depeche Mode, Peter Gabriel, Elvis Costello, Madonna – is still around and is enjoyed by a new generation of young adults. I do try to keep up with “the kids” and keep my mind open to new music. But how great can this new stuff be if I’d rather listen to 70’s classic rock I hated the first time around?

I turned off my radio for the rest of my journey and recovered with Chris Isaak’s greatest hits CD. When Led Zeppelin is on the easy listening station, I’ll know I’m almost dead. Until then, I’ll keep on trying to understand the downfall of rock.

It happened again and I was as disturbed as I was the first time. My hair was big and wild. I had cat sunglasses on, a black tank top, crops, and 3.5” espadrille wedges. I was semi-stylish and cute.

When I finished my transaction, the postal worker looked up and said, “Have a nice mother’s day.”

I grabbed my bag, jumped into my car, and pulled the rear view mirror over. No crow’s feet. No bleeding lipstick. No age spots on my chest or hands. Most importantly, no spit up on my shirt.

Do I look like a fucking mother to you? Why don’t people take caution with the well wishes? I would have been less offended if she had just wished me a happy kwanza.

I am conscientiously single and childless. This means I can sleep late, sleep around, take trips to family unfriendly destinations, drive a 2-seater car, and buy beer instead of diapers. Oh, and I don’t have to hide my porn or my vibrators.

I’m the mother of freedom, the mother of creativity, and the mother of self-exploration. Where’s my fake, Hallmark holiday?

I looked forward to meeting my surgeon. This was going to be my first hospital visit and I really didn’t know what to expect. ER stitches when I was nine was the closest I’ve been to admitted. I knew as soon as I walked into my surgeon’s office I was screwed, and wanted to be.

He had a tiny smile. His small, hip oval glasses hid his nice brown eyes. He had some product in his spikey hair. He was conspicuously hetero and 30-something with a panty-melting accent. Anyone that can pronounce my name with a rolling R is as good as laid. When he got closer, I realized he was taller than me. Instantaneous love kicked in.

Surgery expectations were explained. I tried to listen, but my inner child was calling the florist and the caterer. Whatever… the director of the center for minimally invasive surgery is going to be touching me. I’ll rest easy.

When I left, panic set in. Would I be able to do everything I needed to do before our “date”? I called my waxistician first. The secret garden was in arrears and needed pruning. If Dr. T was going to see me in all my glory, it needed to be spectacular, not to mention my eyebrows and oh, shit, I’d need to have cute toes too.

With appointments made, there was only one thing left to do. I Google-stalked the doctor and discovered he lived in Santa Monica and was a high earner on some of the online gambling sites. I could do a Vegas wedding in a pinch.

On surgery day, I prepped like I was going on a date. I shaved the legs and slathered them with shea butter for the smoothest feeling possible. I layered my best getcha-some perfume, Narciso Rodriquez, and I put my hair up in pigtails with flowers. He came into my pre-op curtained cubicle, smiled, and shook my hand.

“How are you? Are you ready?” Dr. T asked.

Braless, standing in my surgery frock, I said, “Yeah, I’m great. Let’s do it.”

He left, my BP went up and my sleepy cocktail was administered. The next day, he came to say goodbye when I was being discharged. My hair was down and wild and fresh lip gloss had been applied.

“You look amazing. You are doing so well,” the good doctor noted.

On my third date with Dr. T, I switched to Bulgari Omnia. I was spunky, cute and ready for my post-op visit to check my stitches. The door opened, our eyes connected and I gave him a big smile and a hair flip.

“You must be feeling good with a smile like that,” Dr. T said.

If he were naked, I’d really be feeling better. I got up on the table, he lifted my shirt and looked at my stitches. It was all good. He asked me if I had any other problems.

“Yeah, I’m doing great except for the weird dreams. Last night I was chased by a Spanish omlette. It was like MI3 meets Denny’s,” I said.

Food dreams. Great cock block Marna. I could of told him about a positive problem like “I just can’t drink enough water. I love it.” No instead, I fucked myself with my Moons over My Hammy mentality. Grand Slam. Fool, party of one, your table is ready.

I’ve got a couple more weeks to prep for my next date with Dr. T, but I’m not sure I can find a remedial flirting class to attend in time. As much as I want to be the hair-flipping sex kitten, my personality is always going to be the Chuck Taylor hightop wearing, casual type. I’m open, too honest, I lack self-censorship, and my “game” is spontaneity.

One day that will get me a man. Probably not a doctor.