Dont Mince Words

Dixie

I love the smell of corrugate in the morning. I’m a bit of a professional mover. I save good boxes for future use. My move out of California has been flawless except for the stress Dixie has when she sees boxes and hears the squeal of the 3M packing tape.

Driving across country with a 70-pound dog while missing a nor’easter is my kind of fun.  I haven’t driven in “weather” since my last winter in Brooklyn in 2001.  I have packed the car accordingly:  small shovel, ice scraper, volcanic ash to put under tires, protein bars, dried fruit, and a case of CA wine. Dixie’s backseat charcuterie is more like a mobile lounge. She’s got her treats, kibble, bones and a plush faux shearling seat cover to stay warm.  And if things get tough, she’s got Benedryl and doggie painkillers in place of wine.

The stress for both of us will end as soon Santa Barbara is in the rear view. Tomorrow we hit the road for the next great adventure.  Goodbye California.

Did you hear that?  It’s my labia clapping because I’m leaving Santa Barbara.  My days in the land of college students and retirees are ending which means my dating life will come off life support.

I can laugh about dating in Los Angeles, but Santa Barbara has been the worst experience in my adult life.  There’s a handful of age- and height-appropriate men.  Toss in education and I’ve got about six men in a 30-mile radius I could date.  There are a fair share of freaks here too.  I can honestly say I was approached by two, yes 2, cross-dressers who liked my online profile because I looked “fun and open-minded.”  As much as it would be awesome to have someone to do my makeup, I can’t date anyone that has better legs than me.  My other notable experience was dating an old guy.  It was my first experience in the presence of Viagra.  I never thought I’d ever say “oh, no, not again” while in bed, but I know now that I’d rather be sawed in half by a drunk guy.  At least you know he’s going to eventually puke or pass out.

My layoff has prompted drastic life changes.  I’ve decided to move back to Richmond, Virginia – a town I left more than 15 years ago to begin my post-divorce “I want to experience everything tour.”  Now I’m going back because I need to be surrounded by good friends and enjoy a sensible cost of living.  And dating?  Yeah, I’ll get back on that horse.  It can only get better.

Angry Marna

Anyone who has known me for more than two weeks knows I bitch about my lady parts.  Usually it’s a nice dose of sexual inactivity complaints, but the majority of the debate is about my period and 37-year relationship with Procter & Gamble products.

In the ’70s, male gyn’s generally felt the solution to long periods was a hysterectomy.  Radical, it seems and yet after another 45-day period I felt it was the only modern-day solution.  Bid my blood bag adieu.  The $20-30/month saved on feminine products could be spent on alcohol.  I searched on Blue Cross for a doctor and decided to find the oldest, whitest guy possible.  Surely he’d authorize the surgery.

I assumed the position in the exam room and waited for him.  The old guy waltzed in, looked at my card and my complaint and 10 seconds later said, “You have a confused uterus.  You are 47 and your uterus isn’t producing the right levels of estrogen and testoserone so it doesn’t know if it should ovulate.”  I tried to counter that with humor while he was blowing out the cobwebs and fingering me.  “Well, living in Santa Barbara can confuse any uterus with the lack of viable, age-appropriate sexual partners,” I said.

A week later, biopsy results came back and I can’t blame any of this on cancer.  I just have a confused uterus which means I’m going on birth control for horomone control, not because my lady parts are actually seeing combat.  So, it looks like P&G and I will be best friends for a few more years.