Dont Mince Words



Drunk texts from last night 0

Posted on August 19, 2012 by Marna

I hate texting, but once in a while it’s fun to see a “conversation” unfold.  This is between me and AMFINS (a male friend I never screwed).  Two single adults, home on a Saturday night, drinking, watching TV, and texting.

AMFINS:  I’m drunk.  You aren’t.  Me awesome.

ME:  I’m catching up.

AMFINS:  Fucking drunk.  Meeeeee.

ME:  Bergins?

AMFINS:  I was there.  I had a beer crawl in downtown.  WOMANS you Woman Marna Drunk Me.

ME:  Don’t drive your Porsche.

AMFINS:  Woman.  I need hookers.  And beer.  And blow. And more hookers. And some potato salad.  And a fresca.

ME:  You are killing me.  LOL.

AMFINS:  I am watching Die Hard.  WOMAN.  Hookers for me now.

ME:  I’m watching White Collar, eating Starburst, drinking wine while Dixie licks her ass.

 

At this point, AMFINS calls me and lets me know the next time I’m in LA, we’re getting drunk.  This was his morning after exchange:

 

AMFINS:  I was very drunk last night.  Blasted actually.

ME:  It was fun. You must be an Olympic drinker because you didn’t slur at all.

AMFINS:  I’ve had practice.

 

And this is why I choose my friends wisely and I love the friends I have.

 

Nachos and the game 0

Posted on June 26, 2012 by Marna

Nothing makes me happier than nachos and beer except being in a large city in a different country and STILL being thankful I’m not having sex.

On the way back from a bookstore (because that’s where single, middle-aged ladies go after work on business trips), I stopped by a brew pub to abuse my per diem.  I ordered an IPA, because I like to support local beer, as well as nachos because they are my favorite food group with beer.

I had the good fortune to sit beside a four-top of 20-something know-it-alls.  I realized rather than sit at the table and start my book, I needed to pull out my moleskin and take notes.  Judging by the almost-finished pitcher of beer on their table, their shit was going to be good.

The cast of characters included a self-proclaimed promiscuous, white, long-haired brunette sitting beside a bed head, celery stalk body and white golf-shirt wearing hipster.  On the other side, we had a lightly bearded Indian guy with long bangs sitting beside the table kingpin.  This guy was a true piece of work.  He had sunglasses on his head and wore a chartreuse button-down, white tie, khaki knee-length shorts, and white loafers.

I could have assumed he was a tool when his tie matched his loafers; however, when he talked loud enough to be heard by everyone and mentioned in every other sentence that he was Italian, I almost felt sorry for him.  I mean, no woman really cares about your ethnicity unless you say your daddy was black, then we may pay attention.

I knew we were at a DickCon1 level when he said, “I know if I pretend to care, she’ll think I’m sensitive and will fuck me.”  Yeah, that rule has been revealed in Details, Esquire, and on blogs for more than a decade.  Google that shit.  Or, better, put your fucking phone down, stop texting, and read a book.

There is a new super strain of gonorrhea out there and yet I fear cockroaches like this, at any age, more.

Ring out the year with old 0

Posted on December 29, 2011 by Marna

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.

  • About Marna

    Marna’s writing career started as a Pentagon intern. Early exposure to $500 toilet seat press releases made her appreciate creative nonfiction. Now she has more than 25 years of senior-level marketing and communications success working with Fortune 100 companies, government, nonprofits, small businesses, startups, and agencies.

    Stats: 369 Posts, 128 Comments

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