Dont Mince Words

I ran into The Schnauzer tonight on a walk home.  It has been nearly a year since we had our short-lived “relationship.”  He pulled over and asked me if I had time to talk or if I had to get home to “Dixie.”  That was impressive he remembered the dog’s name.  The last time I saw him, he yelled out a window “hey you.”

I chatted with him on the sidewalk where he pulled up his sweater and turned and said “look, I found someone to shave my back.”  My inner Meryl Streep don’t-laugh-at him said “wow, she’s a lucky girl.”  The practical side of me wondered if it was a Gilette product or something more functional by Black and Decker.

Whatever the case may be, he “misses” me and wants to go to dinner next week.  Since he’s 25 years younger than my last date, I may entertain the prospect.  Girl’s gotta eat.  Girl’s got no blog.

If anyone has learned anything in the year+ I’ve lived in Santa Barbara, it’s that I’ve barely dated or done anything blog-worthy.  So, in December when I was feeling generous, I loosened up my age requirements and let the 65 year-olds take a stab at the Marn.  As my Aunt says, “hello Daddy,” she also kindly pointed out that when the geezer goes, I can date their kids who are age-appropriate.  Win-win as they say.

My first attempt was with the Jersey Shore meets the Grand Canyon guy.  He meant well, but when all a guy has is showing you the inside of his RV, you have to think game over before it started.  Besides, my dye job and comb over was better than his.  My second session with the baby boomer cusp generation occurred 12 miles from my house.  My date selected a nice wine bar in which we decided to drink draft beer.  Three hours and two beers later I had John Belushi’s “Cheeseburger-Cheeseburger” routine in my head.  Who the hell books at date at dinner and then doesn’t even order an appetizer?  Mind you, I enjoyed his mild Bensonhurst accent, but a girl’s gotta eat.

When I got home, I bitched about manners (why book at date over the dinner hour) on Facebook and was kindly reminded by friends what an idiot of expectations I was.  “Marna, you are dating a guy on a fixed income used to eating dinner at 4.  Beer is dessert him.”

When I got home, I sent him a thank you email, which my manners have taught me to do for decades, good or bad.  He wrote back and suggested a martini bar “near your place.”   Right, because the cost of two draft beers is the price of future admisission to my vagina.

I had a date Saturday night who accessorized.  I don’t mean in the belt, cuff links, and shoes kind of way either.  He wore a turquoise bead choker necklace that kind of looked like those candy necklaces I’d get as a kid, except the “candy” was blue.  But that’s not all.  There’s more.  He doubled up.  His second necklace was a gold chain choker.

Jersey Shore meets the indian reservation.  Next.