Dont Mince Words

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.

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.

Not Marna's Back

I was excited when two people referred me to the same chiropractor.  He must be good.  Or is Santa Barbara just that small?

After an x-ray, my tall, age-appropriate, good-natured chiro told me my L4 ain’t what it used to be.  Long hours sitting at a desk, age, and who knows what else have pulled it about 40 percent out of alignment.  He could “fix” it.

During my second visit, he began to open up.  “You know I see a lot of people every day.  I’ve seen a lot of tattoos and your’s is the best ever.  It’s not tribal, it’s not cliche.  It’s hilarious and original,” he commented.  With my head down in the doughnut, I replied, “Now that we’ve passed first base, can you crack my bra strap?”

Three times a week and this was our ritual.  He’d tell me where he’d hiked.  He’d ask me if I had any dates.  He’d crack my back and then my rack.  My fakelationship was going great until he showed me pictures on his phone from his ski trip to Mammoth.  In the batch, I recognized his online dating profile picture and remembered we had chatted and rejected each other ages ago.

So, when I realized my back pain relief was only temporary and when the bill came, I decided to quit Doctor Crack.  The money saved could buy me many yoga classes or a renewed subscription on match.com.  Since Santa Barbara really is that small, I know we’ll meet again.