Dont Mince Words

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.

I hate texting in new relationships and have destained the medium long before my run-in with Billy , the artist who painted mangled women.  When you don’t know someone, let alone their sense of humor, a text falls flat every time.

Gary recently contacted me from an online dating site.  We emailed through the site twice, then he got my filter-the-freaks  yahoo email.  From there, he was able to download messenger and IM me.  We chatted once.  He then emailed a few more times letting me know how excited he was to have met me (that limited 40+ Santa Barbara inventory thing).  I gave him my number and suggested he call me since I can talk faster thank I can type. He didn’t call but texted “what’s up?”

Well, Gary, I generally like men who are man enough to call.  You aren’t going to get to know me 200 characters at a time.  Nut up.  That’s what’s up.

I used to see a lot of interesting things when I lived in West Hollywood.  But when you mix creatives with gays, you are bound to see some great stuff.  In Santa Barbara, when you mix stray hairs with a good sunrise, you get the perfect plucking storm.  And then some.

My “it’s going to be a good day” barometer starts when my dog takes a massive crap.  Today was no different until I turned down the beach path holding my poo bag and a noticed a guy leaning up against his truck’s side-view mirror.  I starred for a while and realized he was holding a pair of tweezers and going at his eyebrows with the good morning light.  He needed some serious bushwhacking otherwise, he should of just braided his eyebrows or twisted them to rasta dreads and called himself a caterpillar.

As I practiced sit-stays and stand-stays with Dixie, we continued to pass joggers and other dog walkers.  Things got interesting when we got to the second parking lot.  A guy was in his sedan with his seat reclined all the way down, but his head was bobbing up to look for people.  Alas, since I was the only person around, I realized by his shoulder and arm motions that he was beating off and looking at me.  Or maybe Dixie was getting him off, but one of us was definitely his type.  I’m going to count this public display of affection as our first date in the new year.

When we rounded back around, Dixie presented me with another steaming pile which I tossed in the trash right next to the plucker’s truck.  We jumped into the car and I immediately yanked on the rear view to check my eyebrows.  No stray hairs, so I should have plenty of time to masturbate before work.