Dont Mince Words

When you are a young boy, from what I hear, you hate to be called cute.  Puppies are cute.  You want to be hot, which is more desirable.  Well, as a girl/woman, there’s something worse than cute.  We hate to hear the phrase, “You are so ____.  I can’t believe you aren’t married.”

I had my first date of the new year on Saturday.  Yeah, I know I’ve given up on dating in Los Angeles, but once in a while they’ll find me and ask me out.  I had nothing to lose and, at the end of the day, a girl’s gotta drink.  When David agreed to meet me at a bar four blocks from my house, it was a no brainer.

He was your typical cougar hunter:  35 and petite.  I generally like my men to have thighs bigger than mine, but this is L.A. where emaciated metrosexuals are in the majority.  I learned quickly that making small talk with an Israeli was going to be hard.  I felt like I needed a translator.  He’d been out here for nine years but still managed to keep a thick accent.

I did hear loud and clear one of his questions.  “You are so cute.  I don’t understand why you aren’t taken.”  I kept my composure mainly because I’ve been asked this a bazillion times.

“You’ve lived here nine years, so I think you can answer that question easily.  It is hard to date here, right?  It is hard to meet genuine people, right?  It is rare to meet anyone with an advanced degree.  And it is very hard to meet anyone that truly wants a long-term committed relationship.  That’s why I prefer to be single and focus on my career than be a traitor to my own standards,” I responded.

The date ended shortly thereafter, both of us tired from struggling to find conversation points and any common ground.  We hugged out, I thanked him for my beers, and I walked home to my dog – my real committed relationship

My friends keep me in check.  They also tease me about some of my more memorable dating and relationship decisions.

A friend in New York recently called me laughing from a bar.  “Oh my God, Marna.  Magic Hat has a new hefeweizen out called “Circus Boy.”  What ever happened to that fucking tool?” he asked.

Pete remembers a six-month relationship I had because it was cluttered with mutual drama and ended with the guy leaving to join Ringling Brothers’ circus band.  He was nicknamed “Circus Boy” by my friends and inducted into Marna’s Hall of Fame.  Circus Boy taught me to never date career musicians, especially when they say, “but music is my mistress.”

I was once at a Dr. Pat Allen relationship seminar (Mars/Venus type stuff) where she truly explained M/F dynamics in relationships.  When she had Q&A, I asked her what she thought of left-handed musicians.  I’ll never forget her response, “If you want a thinking and rational man and you are in the feminine role, don’t date a left-handed musician.”  As a result of that advice, career musicians are on my banned dating list.

So, to answer Pete’s question, I don’t know what happened to Circus Boy.  Last I heard, he was quitting the circus, getting married, and settling in Las Vegas.  Eight years later, I can safely say I’d rather have a six-pack of Circus Boy than see Circus Boy, but my friends and I thank him for the memories.

The Betty Ford Center will soon open a wing in my honor – for those suffering from unromantic Valentine’s Day addiction.  My bender began in 1974.  Mrs. Kessenger, my third grade teacher, engineered a project to get our class excited about Valentine’s Day.  Or was it just her way of getting rid of the red construction paper left over from Christmas?

On February 13th, we were given brown paper bags and instructed to create mailboxes for the Valentines we would receive the next day.  I cut hearts, I colored, and I put my name on my bag.  I was ready.

When I got home, I realized I needed to buy Valentine cards to distribute to my classmates.  Mom and I jumped in our Rambler station wagon and drove to the drug store.  I found a large box of assorted Valentines with envelopes that would be perfect.  There was a bumblebee card that said, “Bee Mine,” a bear holding a jar of honey that said, “You’re sweet,” a tiger growling “Your Grrrrreat,” and several other equally sappy selections that were perfect for 8 year-olds.  I spent the evening meticulously signing my name to all the cards, reserving the generic “Happy Valentine’s Day” card for the classmates I didn’t know very well.  Everyone in my class was getting a card.

Love was in the air on the 14th.  My classmates and I played postman and walked around the room putting the Valentines in the customized brown bag mailboxes.  The morning bell rang and we assumed the position, dutifully holding our hands over our hearts while we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  Afterwards, the PA box squawked and the principal wished the school a happy Valentine’s Day.  We ripped into our mailboxes and ate the cookies our homeroom mother brought.  I soon realized that Valentine’s Day wasn’t that special.  I may have been too young to understand it was a holiday designed to boost the first quarter economy through flower, card, and chocolate sales.  I could tell that it was a day to receive the same goddamn Valentines that I gave my classmates.  It appeared we all bought the same box of assorted Valentines.  I received six bee cards and three generic “Happy Valentines Day” cards in additional to other miscellaneous selections.

Since that day in third grade, all my Valentine Days have melted together into one homogeneous pot of low effort attempts.  Cards, flowers, and candy – the standard fare.  I lived each year to see if Valentine’s Day could get any worse than the last one.  I became addicted to bad Valentine’s days.  I suppose that is why I don’t remember any details of any Valentine’s day until 2001.  I was sitting in my office and I heard it – the “ooooohhhh’s and aaaahhhhhh’s” that are uttered when the flower delivery guy is on the floor.  I could see his arrangements and balloons bouncing along the walls above cube-ville like a puppet show. And then he appeared before me.

“Can I help you find someone?” I asked.

“Miss Marrrrrrrna, this is for you,” he said.

My mouth was still open when he put the box on my desk and turned away smiling.  I opened it and laughed.  It was perfect.  I read my pitch forked card and realized Kathy, my 52 year-old divorced coworker – someone who knew me for 28 business days, gave me the perfect Valentine:  a cactus garden with a mirror backdrop.  It was low maintenance and a thing of beauty.  My prickly valentine injected me with a dose of reality.  My cactus was untraditional, thoughtful, and unexpected.  It was a succulent botanical intervention. One day someone with equal creativity and thoughtfulness will top Kathy’s 2001 gift.

I’m hopeful like a third grader.