Dont Mince Words

Growing up, I had this thing about being different… to the point where my parents said, “why can’t you be like everyone else?” This continues in my adult life.

The New York Times analyzed recent census data and discovered more American women are living without a husband than with one. That’s right. As my sweet single sisters and I continue to date the globe, there are only 49 percent of us that have actually married a guy.

While I’ve enjoyed being single and letting my “happily” married friends live vicariously through me, I’m ready to make the switch. Now that being single is popular, I want to go to the 49 percent side.

Being married means never having to date again. I’m ready for dating retirement and I’m ready to be a minority. I don’t want to be like everyone else.

I’ve had two serious relationships since I’ve lived in Los Angeles. My west coast operational definition of serious is a) they know my last name; b) they know where I live; and c) they say they are emotionally evolved enough to want a relationship. In both cases, the liaisons dissolved on or before the 60-day mark and made me create my “locals need not apply” rule.

Since dating Real Guy, my east coast fan base has expressed deep concern that my writing career will dry up. “If you are off the market, who are the fruits and nuts going to date and what are you going to write about?” Even Real Guy is wondering. “I haven’t checked dontmincewords in a while. Do you have anything to write about or am I doing to have to “do” something?” he asked.

I refuse to be that sunshine-and-roses yeah I meet a great guy girl. OK, I am, but I’m not going to make that the focus of my existence. That’s no different than moms that brag about their kids – for decades.

Instead, I’m going to give you the commonalities of the few successful relationships I’ve had. In every last one of them, it’s all about bodily functions and communication. I need a guy that can tolerate me peeing with the door open while I tell him random bullshit. I need a guy that can snicker and see the beauty when I accidentally rip a wicked, nasty fart. I need a guy who knows I hiccup when I’m full and can say, “no more for you.” I need a guy who can lie in bed and talk for hours about more random bullshit.

Real Guy and I were at a B&B in the lower Sierras for New Years. I broke my vegetarian rule and had three ounces of hamburger on the Eve. The next morning, I paid dearly and sat dying on the throne. I flushed and sprayed and shut the door. He wanted to go in immediately after and I begged him not to. “Please don’t. It’s a hazmat,” I explained.

He went in and said it smelled like roses. That’s when I realized. It’s nice to have a man who thinks my shit doesn’t stink.

As enticing as the DMV offer was, I knew I couldn’t renew my driver’s license by mail. My picture was a cross between a Nick Nolte mug shot and a Cyndi Lauper album cover. When I moved to California, I wasn’t aware they put weight on your driver’s license, so I didn’t lie. It was time to go in for a personal visit to correct all these errors.

I selected the week before Christmas thinking everyone would be shopping and it would be low volume pain-time at the DMV. I got there and discovered there’s no off season at that place.

Coiffed and slathered with makeup, I was ready for combat. I stood in line to get my number and waited 15 minutes for my number to be called. Window 10 Jesse looked at me funny when he pulled my record.

“You are eligible to renew by mail. Why are you here?” he asked.

“I need a new picture and my weight has changed. I need a license I can live with for a few years,” I explained.

While he did his data entry, I memorized the eye charts above his head. I had an eye exam the week before and was told my distance was fine. But was that an F or a P? Thankfully, I passed the test, so I can continue to drive visually unaided.

I paid $26 and proceeded to window B for my new picture. Lipstick on. Hair fluffed. Clothes straightened. I smiled big.

“Oh wow,” Window B boy exclaimed. “I’m not supposed to show customers their pictures, but take a look at you. This is the best one today.”

I had a Joker grin, shiny cheeks, and a slight double chin. Window B boy asked me if I wanted a do over. I decided no – I’m always going to look like a clown at the DMV portrait studio. I was more proud of possessing a license with my goal weight printed on it. I’ll get there one day, but if the cops ever pull me over, I’m not worried. They’ll recognize the cheeks.