Dont Mince Words

My first 90 days in Santa Barbara are complete and I can say, I’ve survived.  If my blog is going to continue with nonfiction observations and intermittent dating stories, I may not have much material to work with.  Or I need to step up my game.

Like most relationships, I go in with no expectations so I can be pleasantly surprised.  SB Man and I had a nice time getting to know each other after I moved here.  I was probably still detoxing off the LA dating scene and smitten with his communication skills and planning.  Great guy, but not a good match for the long haul.  And that’s what dating is about.

I got to experience my first MeetUp stalker shortly after I arrived in Santa Barbara.  He told me redheads were like unicorns here and then proceeded to tell me he read my whole blog, from 2003 to present, and wanted to meet me about a project.  We had coffee and he pitched partnering on a writing idea.  In the next sentence he admitted he was ADD and couldn’t focus.  At some point after that he told me he was good at oral sex and would like to hang out.  Santa Barbara was starting to feel more like LA again.

In an effort to put myself out there and try to meet new people, I finally attended a MeetUp event.  The organizer took my card and asked me out.  By the next morning, he’d read my blog and he wanted to meet sooner.  Apparently, I’m intelligent and funny. He opened the date with “We have to be friends, is that ok?” and went on to explain that  he realized I hadn’t had a long-term relationship in a long time. (He’s been married twice). He wouldn’t give me a pass based on the fact that I lived in LA for the last seven years.  I told him he was scared of me which is usually the case when they read my blog.  We’ve met a couple times since and he told me he liked me because I have a “nice bladder.”  While I’m not relationship material, my beer drinking skills give me a whole new layer of attractiveness.

And there you have it:  the good, the odd, and the weak.  So far, dating in Santa Barbara is turning out to be on par with LA.  My friends beg me to leave this state, but how can I?  It’s a wealth of material.

I lived in New York a little less than four years. In that time, I learned to conserve going to the grocery store, even when I had a car. The less you buy, the less you have to haul upstairs. Endless, affordable restaurant selections make the decision to eat out that much easier.

A four- or six-aisle market was never a pleasant shopping experience. You go in, you get out. You don’t cruise for ass in these markets. My first ‘motherload’ at the grocery store in Marina Del Ray was interesting. Grocery stores are supposed to be notorious pick-up joints, but that has never been my experience. Today was different.

Let me remind you that I’m still fair-skinned. My rear end is so white, it could guide planes into LAX. My hair is still auburn. I have yet to see a redhead on my side of town. My boobs are still big and organically grown. I’m still 5’10” and today I’m 37.5 years old. Combine all these ingredients and you have a recipe for “oh my gosh, she isn’t from these parts.”

Men were checking me out. ME. It was kind of cool at first, then I realized I was getting looks because I was different. The kind of looks I remembered I got in 9th grade when I showed up for high school in the fall in thrift store seconds and it appeared everyone else had brand new, stiff 501s or Jordache jeans.

I mastered my technique by aisle five of 27. I’d lock eyes with the guy and right as our carts would get ready to pass, I’d lick my lips. Yeah, I’m different. I’m REAL and I’m going to fuck with you sunworshipping-tofu-eatting-motherfuckers.

There’s new meat in town and her name is Marna.