Step One: Walk Away. Do NOT approach a woman when you're drunk.
Step Two: In the event you did not heed the advice of Step One, please read the vignette below.
Last night, my mom and I went out to dinner at one of the local steakhouses. As we were waiting for valet to bring the car, a gentleman walked out of the establishment, looked me up and down, licked his lips and said, "ooohhhhwee girl, I'd love a thick girl like you in my life." Did I mention that I was with my mother?
He then leans into me, grabs me around my waist, and pulls me toward him. His face is a mere inches from mine. I'm looking for a clear escape route. Intoxicated, he slurs how pretty I am to look at. Sigh. Did I mention that I was with my mother?
I uncurl his arm from around my waist and wonder how long it's going to take the valet guy to bring me my car. He then turns to my mom (Did I mention that I was with my mother?) and says, "your daughter sure is pretty. I mean no disrespect, but damn."
He then insists that I take his number down and give him a call. And, by insist, I mean he hovers over me, refusing to walk away until I indulge in this request. So, breaking my second rule, I do.
At that moment, the valet brings sweet refuge, my car.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Trent from Trinadad and Tobago
So I just hung up with the short order cook. We'll call him Trent from Trinadad and Tobago. He's been in the states for 18 months and has two jobs. He's also looking for a wife. One who can bear "many children." Oh boy.
As we're having our first conversation, Trinadad and Tobago says to me, "you sure are a nice looking girl. As soon as I saw you, I just knew I needed to get you and make you mine. I'm a grown ass man, I'm not playing around."
This is within the first three minutes of conversation.
We have a date scheduled for next week.
This should be interesting.
Evelyn Parkside
As we're having our first conversation, Trinadad and Tobago says to me, "you sure are a nice looking girl. As soon as I saw you, I just knew I needed to get you and make you mine. I'm a grown ass man, I'm not playing around."
This is within the first three minutes of conversation.
We have a date scheduled for next week.
This should be interesting.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Going International
Last night I went to dinner with a friend of mine to a local diner. As I was waiting on my sandwich to make its way to my table, one of the short order cooks winked at me and complimented my hair. (For those of you who don't know me, my hair is natural, curly, and reddish blonde in the summertime. Most days it looks somewhere between a muppet and Orphan Annie.)
I thanked him for the compliment and asked him to hook up my sandwich (a reuben with coleslaw, not saurkraut, on grilled marble rye. This sandwich has all the fat, sodium and calories one should consume in a year. I only eat it once a year, and I can only eat half, but when I do, it's totally worth it).
As I'm sitting with my girlfriend, short order cook starts to wink at me from behind the counter. "Here we go," I thought to myself. He then cocks he head to the left and nods it at me, signaling for me to come to him. I send him a look of confusion, like I'm too socially inept to read the signal for "come hither."
Thinking that I might be the village idiot, he tries another non-verbal cue. He picks up a pen, scrolls some receipt paper from the register, points the pen at me, then mimes the action of writing on the receipt paper.
My girlfriend is cracking up.
Now, I know I look like a muppet. I'm certain that any man who would hit on me while I look like a muppet is not playing with a full deck.
I decide that he has officially asked for my number and give it to him. He's wearing a nametag that--oh wait, he's calling now. This should be interesting, brb
Evelyn Parkside
I thanked him for the compliment and asked him to hook up my sandwich (a reuben with coleslaw, not saurkraut, on grilled marble rye. This sandwich has all the fat, sodium and calories one should consume in a year. I only eat it once a year, and I can only eat half, but when I do, it's totally worth it).
As I'm sitting with my girlfriend, short order cook starts to wink at me from behind the counter. "Here we go," I thought to myself. He then cocks he head to the left and nods it at me, signaling for me to come to him. I send him a look of confusion, like I'm too socially inept to read the signal for "come hither."
Thinking that I might be the village idiot, he tries another non-verbal cue. He picks up a pen, scrolls some receipt paper from the register, points the pen at me, then mimes the action of writing on the receipt paper.
My girlfriend is cracking up.
Now, I know I look like a muppet. I'm certain that any man who would hit on me while I look like a muppet is not playing with a full deck.
I decide that he has officially asked for my number and give it to him. He's wearing a nametag that--oh wait, he's calling now. This should be interesting, brb
Evelyn Parkside
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I Feel a Clusterfuck Brewing
So, you may have noticed that it's been quiet on the blog front as of late. That's for two reasons: 1.) My dating life has all but slowed to a stop and 2.) Some of the men I've been talking to actually know my friends who read this blog. So, I've had to make some hard decisions on what to share and how much to share.
You may remember the Really Nice Guy. We've been communicating via text and phone for a few weeks . I think I might actually like Really Nice Guy, but our schedules do not permit us to actually see each other. The times he's tried to set up a date, I've been out of town and the times I've suggested to reschedule, he has alternate plans. In short, it's scheduling hell.
Well, we've been going back and forth for about six weeks now. The last time we had a date (?), was last June. Since then, we've had nothing more than a few phone and text conversations. Now, the phone and text conversations have been flirty, but not inappropriate--i.e., he hasn't asked me to send him a lascivious picture mail of me on a bear-skinned rug wrapped in a silk sheet.
Last week, I finally got back in town after a summer of work-travel. Without divulging too much information in order to minimize the potential for drama in my actual life because of what's written in my on line life, I'll share this: Really Nice Guy had taken out a friend of mine to a very expensive dinner last night. I know Really Nice Guy through Friend of Mine. She introduced me to Really Nice Guy in order to work on a project.
At the expense of sounding like Crazy Ass Black Woman, let me say that I support male-female friendships and, in no way, harbor jealousy of them. I've written several times about my best friend, who is a man and with whom I go out with frequently. So, I'm not irritated (?) or confused (?) about Really Nice Guy going out with Friend of Mine. I do, however, feel some kind of way about the fact that Really Nice Guy didn't ask me. I also heard third-hand from a friend of the Friend of Mine that Friend of Mine was on an official dinner date with Really Nice Guy.
My life is starting to feel somewhere between an episode of Friends, but featuring black people, and a Tyler Perry movie, but featuring good acting.
My immediate reaction was to employ the "delete" strategy. So I did. Now, I may be overreacting, but maybe not. If Really Nice Guy is dating Friend of Mine, then I really have no desire to continue to talk to him. If Really Nice Guy is not dating Friend of Mine, then he still has the means to connect with me, as my number has not changed. If Really Nice Guy still wants to go out, at this juncture, I can't say that I'm all that interested--not until I get further clarification as to the status of the friendship-turned-potential-dating between Friend of Mine and Really Nice Guy.
So, here's the deal: I'm no longer talking to Really Nice Guy.
On another note, as I was sitting here writing this, I got a text message and a phone call from the asshole, who still continues to contact me:
The text message reads:
"Ok, What's the deal with us? You know I'm interested, but you acting funky!!! Maybe you need to stop dealing with lames and come holla at a me"
That was followed by a phone call.
I KNOW that dealing with the asshole is a Bad Idea. In fact, it might be the amagalmation of all the bad ideas that ever were or ever will be. But, evidently, I am a glutton for indulging in bad ideas and I still want go out with the asshole, so I can look him in his face and tell him exactly how I feel. Plus, my blog needs some action. I have a feeling he'll provide that. :)
Evelyn Parkside
You may remember the Really Nice Guy. We've been communicating via text and phone for a few weeks . I think I might actually like Really Nice Guy, but our schedules do not permit us to actually see each other. The times he's tried to set up a date, I've been out of town and the times I've suggested to reschedule, he has alternate plans. In short, it's scheduling hell.
Well, we've been going back and forth for about six weeks now. The last time we had a date (?), was last June. Since then, we've had nothing more than a few phone and text conversations. Now, the phone and text conversations have been flirty, but not inappropriate--i.e., he hasn't asked me to send him a lascivious picture mail of me on a bear-skinned rug wrapped in a silk sheet.
Last week, I finally got back in town after a summer of work-travel. Without divulging too much information in order to minimize the potential for drama in my actual life because of what's written in my on line life, I'll share this: Really Nice Guy had taken out a friend of mine to a very expensive dinner last night. I know Really Nice Guy through Friend of Mine. She introduced me to Really Nice Guy in order to work on a project.
At the expense of sounding like Crazy Ass Black Woman, let me say that I support male-female friendships and, in no way, harbor jealousy of them. I've written several times about my best friend, who is a man and with whom I go out with frequently. So, I'm not irritated (?) or confused (?) about Really Nice Guy going out with Friend of Mine. I do, however, feel some kind of way about the fact that Really Nice Guy didn't ask me. I also heard third-hand from a friend of the Friend of Mine that Friend of Mine was on an official dinner date with Really Nice Guy.
My life is starting to feel somewhere between an episode of Friends, but featuring black people, and a Tyler Perry movie, but featuring good acting.
My immediate reaction was to employ the "delete" strategy. So I did. Now, I may be overreacting, but maybe not. If Really Nice Guy is dating Friend of Mine, then I really have no desire to continue to talk to him. If Really Nice Guy is not dating Friend of Mine, then he still has the means to connect with me, as my number has not changed. If Really Nice Guy still wants to go out, at this juncture, I can't say that I'm all that interested--not until I get further clarification as to the status of the friendship-turned-potential-dating between Friend of Mine and Really Nice Guy.
So, here's the deal: I'm no longer talking to Really Nice Guy.
On another note, as I was sitting here writing this, I got a text message and a phone call from the asshole, who still continues to contact me:
The text message reads:
"Ok, What's the deal with us? You know I'm interested, but you acting funky!!! Maybe you need to stop dealing with lames and come holla at a me"
That was followed by a phone call.
I KNOW that dealing with the asshole is a Bad Idea. In fact, it might be the amagalmation of all the bad ideas that ever were or ever will be. But, evidently, I am a glutton for indulging in bad ideas and I still want go out with the asshole, so I can look him in his face and tell him exactly how I feel. Plus, my blog needs some action. I have a feeling he'll provide that. :)
Evelyn Parkside
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Follow-Up
So I know you have all been waiting anxiously for me to share the details from my date this past Saturday. You've been sitting on the edge of your virtual seats, checking the blog every hour, anticipating a new post. Which option did I chose? Where did we go? Did I tell him off?
I have good news: your wait has come to an end.
So when we left off, our heroine (me) had been contacted by a former paramour regarding a date for last Saturday. Though he had blown off the heroine-not once, but twice--more than eight months ago, he saw fit to reconnect and ask her "what happened between us?"
He called Friday (the heroine promptly sent him to voicemail each time), asking the heroine to return his call. He sent multiple text messages, quoting poetry and what appeared to be text from the Book of Solomon. He demanded that she meet him on Saturday.
So, what did I do? Well, I called back Friday evening and left a pretty non-descript voicemail message: "Hi ___________, this is me. I got your message, returning your call. Please call me when you receive this."
Saturday morning: no response. Somewhere around noon on Saturday, I sent a text reading, "so, what's the plan?" No response. This is starting to look mighty familiar. Saturday evening: I went through the phone and commenced to deleting all of the most recent forms of communication. I was having dejavu.
So, somehow, I've been blown off not once, not twice but THREE times by the same man. Somehow, I managed to fall into an alternate universe where I keep getting the shaft without the chance to tell the man--to his face--exactly what I think of him. Somehow, I keep getting screwed.
Now, gentlemen, please answer this question: What was the point? No, seriously, what was the point? I'm really ok not dating this person, but I have yet to understand why he keeps setting up dates with me and doing the Wesley-Snipes-IRS disappearing act. Please advise.
So, here's the deal: I'm upper East side. Prime real estate. Seriously. I'm a catch. I'm warm, and caring and I cook. Small children love to wrap their arms around my thighs and hips. I'm gainfully employed. I jog. I've kept my fish and my aloe vera plant alive for almost a year now. I'm not on the lam from the law. My laughter brings to mind the sound of silver bells. I'm submissive. ish.
What I'm not is a fool. Or desperate. Or unhappy. Or worried about missing my soul mate. Or willing to be treated as such.
What I really want at this point is to tell this man--to his face, with a smile on mine--to fuck off.
Evelyn Parkside
I have good news: your wait has come to an end.
So when we left off, our heroine (me) had been contacted by a former paramour regarding a date for last Saturday. Though he had blown off the heroine-not once, but twice--more than eight months ago, he saw fit to reconnect and ask her "what happened between us?"
He called Friday (the heroine promptly sent him to voicemail each time), asking the heroine to return his call. He sent multiple text messages, quoting poetry and what appeared to be text from the Book of Solomon. He demanded that she meet him on Saturday.
So, what did I do? Well, I called back Friday evening and left a pretty non-descript voicemail message: "Hi ___________, this is me. I got your message, returning your call. Please call me when you receive this."
Saturday morning: no response. Somewhere around noon on Saturday, I sent a text reading, "so, what's the plan?" No response. This is starting to look mighty familiar. Saturday evening: I went through the phone and commenced to deleting all of the most recent forms of communication. I was having dejavu.
So, somehow, I've been blown off not once, not twice but THREE times by the same man. Somehow, I managed to fall into an alternate universe where I keep getting the shaft without the chance to tell the man--to his face--exactly what I think of him. Somehow, I keep getting screwed.
Now, gentlemen, please answer this question: What was the point? No, seriously, what was the point? I'm really ok not dating this person, but I have yet to understand why he keeps setting up dates with me and doing the Wesley-Snipes-IRS disappearing act. Please advise.
So, here's the deal: I'm upper East side. Prime real estate. Seriously. I'm a catch. I'm warm, and caring and I cook. Small children love to wrap their arms around my thighs and hips. I'm gainfully employed. I jog. I've kept my fish and my aloe vera plant alive for almost a year now. I'm not on the lam from the law. My laughter brings to mind the sound of silver bells. I'm submissive. ish.
What I'm not is a fool. Or desperate. Or unhappy. Or worried about missing my soul mate. Or willing to be treated as such.
What I really want at this point is to tell this man--to his face, with a smile on mine--to fuck off.
Evelyn Parkside
Friday, June 24, 2011
How Do You Say Asshole in Spanish?
*Please read A Flashback and A Flashback II before continuing*
So, last night, I'm sitting on my couch, planting grapes on Farmville, when I get a text from an unknown number. It reads, "Soooooo whatever happened between us?"
My right eyebrow raises. I wonder, "who is 'us,' and what did happen?" I text back, "what do you mean," trying to get some information about who the mystery texter is. A minute later, another text beeps in. It reads, "I was feeling you, but a disconnect."
So now I'm really confused. Who the hell is this? The area code is unfamiliar, so I conduct a Google search for the area code; immediately, I know it's the guy--the guy who blew me off not once, but twice, more than 8 months ago. At this point, I'm losing interest in responding. But, the super nosey part of me is wondering a few key pointers: a) does he know who he's texting? b) if he does know, what does he want? and, c) Is he SERIOUS?!
I wait until the next morning before I reply. I text, "Are you sure you know who this is? I didn't think you were feeling me after you blew me off twice and stopped calling"
He replies, confirming that he knows that I am I. This leaves me more perplexed. Is this guy for real?
He replies, "No speaka de ingles about the blowing u off. Oh yeah, GM to you too!"
I'm floored. At least this guy is consistent--every time we interact, I end up being even more amazed at his lunacy than I was the last time. I'm so blown away at his blowing off the fact that he blew me off that I sit up in bed, wipe the sleep out of my eyes, and start look around the room for a hidden camera. I'm sure that this is some sort of joke and, much like Truman Burbank, I'm the main character of a comedy reality tv show where I don't realize I'm the main character.
At this point, good sense is telling me not to reply. I'm known to ignore good sense.
I reply, "it is a good morning. And, I'm still the person you blew off twice." I really, really, need this guy to admit his sins and apologize. Evidently, I have unrealistic expectations.
He replies, with lightening McQueen text speed, "U, me this saturday."
This causes me to laugh manically for a solid minute. What alternate universe does this man live in?
I go for my run, and think about my response. Again, I should have let it go. But, I can't. I can not let this go without some kind of reply.
So, I do. " So, you blow me off, not once, but twice, more than half a year ago, and the best you've got is 'you me Saturday' Seriously? You already know you have to do better than that my brother."
This guy is nothing if not persistent. He writes back, "So, that's a yes."
Now, I'm pissed. I reply, "No. That is not a yes. Right now you're at the opposite of yes. You're not even at maybe."
The phone stays silent for a few hours. Then, a text rings through. I won't bore you with the details, but he quotes some poetry, that reads like it came from Solomon, and ends the scripture with "...THIS SATURDAY!" He then calls me. I send the phone to voicemail.
I turn off the phone.
So, dear reader, this is where we are. Now, let me clarify some key points:
A) I am no longer feeling this guy.
B) I am amazed and floored at his rudeness.
C) I am against playing "games." Except in this instance. (Don't judge me)
So, the way I look at it, I have a few options. I can:
1) Leave the phone off and ignore this creaton.
2) Go out tomorrow to a very expensive, signature French restaurant of my choosing where my goal will be to order something from every category and leave all forms of payment at home.
3) Set up a date and blow him off.
4) Conduct a 2/3 split. My best friend suggested this. Go out to dinner at a very expensive, signature French restaurant of my choosing, order something from every category, excuse myself to the ladies room and exit stage left.
Again, normally, I would be opposed to these types of childish antics, but it's summer. So you get to vote. I'll be taking votes until 10:30 tonight, PST. Based on the votes, I'll make my decision.
Evelyn Parkside
So, last night, I'm sitting on my couch, planting grapes on Farmville, when I get a text from an unknown number. It reads, "Soooooo whatever happened between us?"
My right eyebrow raises. I wonder, "who is 'us,' and what did happen?" I text back, "what do you mean," trying to get some information about who the mystery texter is. A minute later, another text beeps in. It reads, "I was feeling you, but a disconnect."
So now I'm really confused. Who the hell is this? The area code is unfamiliar, so I conduct a Google search for the area code; immediately, I know it's the guy--the guy who blew me off not once, but twice, more than 8 months ago. At this point, I'm losing interest in responding. But, the super nosey part of me is wondering a few key pointers: a) does he know who he's texting? b) if he does know, what does he want? and, c) Is he SERIOUS?!
I wait until the next morning before I reply. I text, "Are you sure you know who this is? I didn't think you were feeling me after you blew me off twice and stopped calling"
He replies, confirming that he knows that I am I. This leaves me more perplexed. Is this guy for real?
He replies, "No speaka de ingles about the blowing u off. Oh yeah, GM to you too!"
I'm floored. At least this guy is consistent--every time we interact, I end up being even more amazed at his lunacy than I was the last time. I'm so blown away at his blowing off the fact that he blew me off that I sit up in bed, wipe the sleep out of my eyes, and start look around the room for a hidden camera. I'm sure that this is some sort of joke and, much like Truman Burbank, I'm the main character of a comedy reality tv show where I don't realize I'm the main character.
At this point, good sense is telling me not to reply. I'm known to ignore good sense.
I reply, "it is a good morning. And, I'm still the person you blew off twice." I really, really, need this guy to admit his sins and apologize. Evidently, I have unrealistic expectations.
He replies, with lightening McQueen text speed, "U, me this saturday."
This causes me to laugh manically for a solid minute. What alternate universe does this man live in?
I go for my run, and think about my response. Again, I should have let it go. But, I can't. I can not let this go without some kind of reply.
So, I do. " So, you blow me off, not once, but twice, more than half a year ago, and the best you've got is 'you me Saturday' Seriously? You already know you have to do better than that my brother."
This guy is nothing if not persistent. He writes back, "So, that's a yes."
Now, I'm pissed. I reply, "No. That is not a yes. Right now you're at the opposite of yes. You're not even at maybe."
The phone stays silent for a few hours. Then, a text rings through. I won't bore you with the details, but he quotes some poetry, that reads like it came from Solomon, and ends the scripture with "...THIS SATURDAY!" He then calls me. I send the phone to voicemail.
I turn off the phone.
So, dear reader, this is where we are. Now, let me clarify some key points:
A) I am no longer feeling this guy.
B) I am amazed and floored at his rudeness.
C) I am against playing "games." Except in this instance. (Don't judge me)
So, the way I look at it, I have a few options. I can:
1) Leave the phone off and ignore this creaton.
2) Go out tomorrow to a very expensive, signature French restaurant of my choosing where my goal will be to order something from every category and leave all forms of payment at home.
3) Set up a date and blow him off.
4) Conduct a 2/3 split. My best friend suggested this. Go out to dinner at a very expensive, signature French restaurant of my choosing, order something from every category, excuse myself to the ladies room and exit stage left.
Again, normally, I would be opposed to these types of childish antics, but it's summer. So you get to vote. I'll be taking votes until 10:30 tonight, PST. Based on the votes, I'll make my decision.
Evelyn Parkside
A Flashback Part II
I agree to cook diner--complete with a cheesecake--at the suggestion of a very good friend, even after I've been blown off. At this point, the reason I agree to cook the damn dinner, is to show to the good friend that the guy is an ass and I'm not being unreasonable.
Saturday morning, I get up, gather supplies and bake a cheesecake with a rich, dark chocolate top glaze. I call the guy and leave a message that dinner will be ready about 6 and ask him to give me a call for directions. I read the news and realize that there is a big fight tonight. Now, I'm a bit irritated, because I'd much rather watch the fight, but instead I'm cooking for a guy who has already been rude. About noon, I decide that we should reschedule because I figure that he most likely wants to watch the fight as well. I send him a text that reads "please call."
At 5, still no phone call or text--either to ask for directions, cancel, confirm, or just call back.
I may have been born on a Sunday, but I wasn't born last Sunday. I could already see the writing on the wall. So, what I didn't do was cook. Instead, I put on a swimsuit and hung out with a friend in her hot tub.
By 8, still no phone call or text.
By 8:30, I put the guy in the DNA category and erased all prior text messages.
I could not believe that I was being blown off again! And, I was being blown off for a dinner that he requested with a dessert that he demanded. I'm floored at this point. I could not believe that this guy could be so incredibly rude.
I never heard from him again.
Until last night, when I got a text from an unknown number which read, "Sooo, whatever happened between us?"
And, that, dear reader, brings you up to speed.
Evelyn Parkside
Saturday morning, I get up, gather supplies and bake a cheesecake with a rich, dark chocolate top glaze. I call the guy and leave a message that dinner will be ready about 6 and ask him to give me a call for directions. I read the news and realize that there is a big fight tonight. Now, I'm a bit irritated, because I'd much rather watch the fight, but instead I'm cooking for a guy who has already been rude. About noon, I decide that we should reschedule because I figure that he most likely wants to watch the fight as well. I send him a text that reads "please call."
At 5, still no phone call or text--either to ask for directions, cancel, confirm, or just call back.
I may have been born on a Sunday, but I wasn't born last Sunday. I could already see the writing on the wall. So, what I didn't do was cook. Instead, I put on a swimsuit and hung out with a friend in her hot tub.
By 8, still no phone call or text.
By 8:30, I put the guy in the DNA category and erased all prior text messages.
I could not believe that I was being blown off again! And, I was being blown off for a dinner that he requested with a dessert that he demanded. I'm floored at this point. I could not believe that this guy could be so incredibly rude.
I never heard from him again.
Until last night, when I got a text from an unknown number which read, "Sooo, whatever happened between us?"
And, that, dear reader, brings you up to speed.
Evelyn Parkside
A Flashback
So, as you all know, the past few months--at least in terms of dating--have been especially slow. Molasses on a cold Michigan morning type of slow. Personally, things have been zipping along quite speedily: went on vacation to the Cook Islands, got mistaken for a Fijian princess (ok, I'm making the princess part up, but evidently I look Fijian), ended one job, started another, thought I was closing on a house, didn't close on a house, and started training for a 5K in October (I'm completed my 10th run today and the burning, searing pain in my legs didn't appear!).
But, dating? Nothing. Tragedy.
Until last night when I got this text message from a foreign phone number: "Soooooo whatever happened between us?"
Before I tell you what happened next, you need some background. So, the next few posts will be totally about background and at the end, you'll get to choose what I do next. This will be kind of like the "Choose Your Own Adventure!" books from the 80s.
Flashback, Walmart, October 2010:
I'm strolling through Walmart, looking for a flashdrive and some other odds and ends. An attractive man walks past, stops, reverses, and comes back. He's built the way I like 'em--large. 6'2, built like a lineman, not a wide receiver. We strike up conversation, exchange numbers, and decide to meet for dinner in a few days. We talk on the phone, all is good in the world.
We meet for dinner, have a really good time, and end up talking for another hour after we leave the restaurant. A few days later, we meet for breakfast at a local spot. Breakfast, too, is good. We get along well and I'm digging this guy. Seriously digging. He asks to come with me to hot yoga and the farmer's market. Sweet.
The next time we meet (and I made a rookie mistake, I admit this up front) he asks me over to watch the football game. I go. (Yes, in retrospect, I realize that this was a bad idea). We watch the game, but then he starts to get physical. Now, I like some good old fashioned 1996 petting, but I'm not at all into sex with strangers. And, quite frankly, this guy is still a stranger to me. Before things get too hot-and-heavy, I stop the action (which he begrudigly accepts) and decide that the best thing for me to do is go home and take an ice bath.
We talk the next day and he asks me to set up a massage for him with one of my co-workers who is a holistic healer who gives essential oils massages. I set up the massage for two weeks. That weekend, I leave town to go on my annual wine trip with my girlfriends and I'm smiling ear-to-ear. He calls me on my way to the airport and we talk. I'm digging this guy. Seriously digging.
I get back home and after a few days I send him a text to confirm the massage he asked me to set up. No response. No problem. I wait another day and text again to confirm or cancel the massage. No response. Slight problem. I cancel the massage the day before, apologize to my co-worker and am irritated at the guy's rudeness. He's making his way to DNA status.
A few days later, he calls and offers absolutely no apology for his complete blowing me off. He does say, "that wasn't a big deal, was it?" Which made it a big deal. I'm not digging this guy. He then goes on and suggests that I cook dinner for him on the next Saturday. After watching "For Colored Girls," I'm against this idea for obvious reasons. I politely explain to him not to count on dinner. He then insists not only dinner, but a homemade cheesecake. I'm floored. Again, I suggest that he not count on dinner. We hang up. I'm not digging this guy. He's rude and obnoxious.
I share the story with a good male friend. Good male friend tells me that I'm too quick to put men in the DNA category and suggests that perhaps there was an emergency that the guy is embarassed about sharing with me. Good male friend then suggests that I step outside my comfort zone and cook dinner for the guy. Against my better judgement, I agree.
Stay tuned for what happened next. :)
Evelyn Parkside
But, dating? Nothing. Tragedy.
Until last night when I got this text message from a foreign phone number: "Soooooo whatever happened between us?"
Before I tell you what happened next, you need some background. So, the next few posts will be totally about background and at the end, you'll get to choose what I do next. This will be kind of like the "Choose Your Own Adventure!" books from the 80s.
Flashback, Walmart, October 2010:
I'm strolling through Walmart, looking for a flashdrive and some other odds and ends. An attractive man walks past, stops, reverses, and comes back. He's built the way I like 'em--large. 6'2, built like a lineman, not a wide receiver. We strike up conversation, exchange numbers, and decide to meet for dinner in a few days. We talk on the phone, all is good in the world.
We meet for dinner, have a really good time, and end up talking for another hour after we leave the restaurant. A few days later, we meet for breakfast at a local spot. Breakfast, too, is good. We get along well and I'm digging this guy. Seriously digging. He asks to come with me to hot yoga and the farmer's market. Sweet.
The next time we meet (and I made a rookie mistake, I admit this up front) he asks me over to watch the football game. I go. (Yes, in retrospect, I realize that this was a bad idea). We watch the game, but then he starts to get physical. Now, I like some good old fashioned 1996 petting, but I'm not at all into sex with strangers. And, quite frankly, this guy is still a stranger to me. Before things get too hot-and-heavy, I stop the action (which he begrudigly accepts) and decide that the best thing for me to do is go home and take an ice bath.
We talk the next day and he asks me to set up a massage for him with one of my co-workers who is a holistic healer who gives essential oils massages. I set up the massage for two weeks. That weekend, I leave town to go on my annual wine trip with my girlfriends and I'm smiling ear-to-ear. He calls me on my way to the airport and we talk. I'm digging this guy. Seriously digging.
I get back home and after a few days I send him a text to confirm the massage he asked me to set up. No response. No problem. I wait another day and text again to confirm or cancel the massage. No response. Slight problem. I cancel the massage the day before, apologize to my co-worker and am irritated at the guy's rudeness. He's making his way to DNA status.
A few days later, he calls and offers absolutely no apology for his complete blowing me off. He does say, "that wasn't a big deal, was it?" Which made it a big deal. I'm not digging this guy. He then goes on and suggests that I cook dinner for him on the next Saturday. After watching "For Colored Girls," I'm against this idea for obvious reasons. I politely explain to him not to count on dinner. He then insists not only dinner, but a homemade cheesecake. I'm floored. Again, I suggest that he not count on dinner. We hang up. I'm not digging this guy. He's rude and obnoxious.
I share the story with a good male friend. Good male friend tells me that I'm too quick to put men in the DNA category and suggests that perhaps there was an emergency that the guy is embarassed about sharing with me. Good male friend then suggests that I step outside my comfort zone and cook dinner for the guy. Against my better judgement, I agree.
Stay tuned for what happened next. :)
Evelyn Parkside
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Evelyn, Meet Porn Star. Porn Star, Meet Evelyn.
So, my dear readers, first let me apologize for my absence.
But, sadly, I have had no new material. Zero. Nadda. Nilch.
Until last weekend.
I went out to a local tapas restaurant with a very good friend of mine, whom shall remain nameless. We ordered a few pitchers of mojitos. We drunk the same amount of said mojitos. At some point, I got up to go to the bathroom. When I returned, nameless friend was sitting with her head in her hands and her hair falling over her face.
Oh shit.
"Nameless friend," I started, "are you drunk?"
She nods yes.
"Nameless friend," I continue, "are you going to throw up?"
She nods yes.
I swiftly jump back into undergrad mode and spring into action, walking nameless friend to the bathroom, tying her hair back, getting her all set up to pray to the porcelain god. As she's purging everything she's eaten in the past month, I go to the bar to get the requisite supplies: water and gingerale.
At the bar, there are three gentlemen standing around. I politely ask them to move over a little so I can get water and gingerale from the barkeep. As I'm waiting, one of the men--who looks to be about 46, 47 years-old--asks me if I am a singer. I tell him that I am not. He then tells me that I look like a singer and that I'm very pretty. As he's a good looking, self-tanned, older guy, I smile and play along. He then tells me that I should party with them, as this is his retirement party.
"Retirement?" I inquire, as this man does not look old enough or downtrodden enough to retire. "From what?"
"Porn."
"Excuse me?" I ask, thinking that I perhaps heard him incorrectly. At this point, his buddies are cracking up.
"Porn. You don't recognize me?" He asks, looking deep into my eyes.
"No." I reply, feeling my eyes start to roll. I turn to his friends and ask, "no really, what are you all doing here?"
"He's telling the truth. He's retiring from porn," one of the friends replies.
I walk away.
I turn around. "No, seriously," I say, "what are you really doing here?"
"I'm Jeff Stryker, look it up. I'm serious." He says.
I take the water and gingerale to my nameless friend, (who, by the way, is still puking her guts out and moaning the way I would imagine a cow giving birth to a Chevy would sound). A few minutes later, I have to go back to the bar to get a plastic bag, as it is becoming imminently clear that I was going to have to drive nameless friend home. The guys are still at the bar, having a good time. The "porn star" again compliments me and we strike up a short conversation. I can feel the flirtation. I'm hoping he asks me for my number before I have to run back to the bathroom. But, he does not.
Anyway, when I get home, I look up Jeff Stryker. I can feel my jaw drop. It really was him.
Evelyn Parkside
But, sadly, I have had no new material. Zero. Nadda. Nilch.
Until last weekend.
I went out to a local tapas restaurant with a very good friend of mine, whom shall remain nameless. We ordered a few pitchers of mojitos. We drunk the same amount of said mojitos. At some point, I got up to go to the bathroom. When I returned, nameless friend was sitting with her head in her hands and her hair falling over her face.
Oh shit.
"Nameless friend," I started, "are you drunk?"
She nods yes.
"Nameless friend," I continue, "are you going to throw up?"
She nods yes.
I swiftly jump back into undergrad mode and spring into action, walking nameless friend to the bathroom, tying her hair back, getting her all set up to pray to the porcelain god. As she's purging everything she's eaten in the past month, I go to the bar to get the requisite supplies: water and gingerale.
At the bar, there are three gentlemen standing around. I politely ask them to move over a little so I can get water and gingerale from the barkeep. As I'm waiting, one of the men--who looks to be about 46, 47 years-old--asks me if I am a singer. I tell him that I am not. He then tells me that I look like a singer and that I'm very pretty. As he's a good looking, self-tanned, older guy, I smile and play along. He then tells me that I should party with them, as this is his retirement party.
"Retirement?" I inquire, as this man does not look old enough or downtrodden enough to retire. "From what?"
"Porn."
"Excuse me?" I ask, thinking that I perhaps heard him incorrectly. At this point, his buddies are cracking up.
"Porn. You don't recognize me?" He asks, looking deep into my eyes.
"No." I reply, feeling my eyes start to roll. I turn to his friends and ask, "no really, what are you all doing here?"
"He's telling the truth. He's retiring from porn," one of the friends replies.
I walk away.
I turn around. "No, seriously," I say, "what are you really doing here?"
"I'm Jeff Stryker, look it up. I'm serious." He says.
I take the water and gingerale to my nameless friend, (who, by the way, is still puking her guts out and moaning the way I would imagine a cow giving birth to a Chevy would sound). A few minutes later, I have to go back to the bar to get a plastic bag, as it is becoming imminently clear that I was going to have to drive nameless friend home. The guys are still at the bar, having a good time. The "porn star" again compliments me and we strike up a short conversation. I can feel the flirtation. I'm hoping he asks me for my number before I have to run back to the bathroom. But, he does not.
Anyway, when I get home, I look up Jeff Stryker. I can feel my jaw drop. It really was him.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, April 18, 2011
Dateback 1: "Want to meet for coffee?" "Um, didn't we meet at your wedding?"
So to kick off Dateback, I've decided to use a story from back in the archives, circa 2008.
Imagine it, Halloween. I was all decked out for the yearly festivities in a homemade French maid costume. (Ok, I'll keep it real...I didn't feel like spending any money so I pulled out a black skirt, some black tights, a pair of shiny black heels, and a black cami-boustier-top-thingy that was collecting dust in my lingerie drawer. Voila.) I got ready to go to a yearly Halloween house party where I would dominate a game of spades.
At the party, there was a very attractive man--who was a cop during the day-- acting as the bartender. A girlfriend and I talked with him most of the night, just having a good time. He was mad cool and funny. The vibe was natural, not flirty. The conversation flowed easily. He offers my girl and me his number and says, "if you ever get a ticket, give me a call." Sweet.
Anyway, two hours into our conversation, one of his friends walks up and says, "Congrats on your last night as a free man!" Turns out the guy was getting married in the morning.
Then it gets weird. He turns to my girl and me and insists that we come to the wedding. He says, "we ordered too much food, you all are cool, come kick it tomorrow night. At least have dinner and party with us."
The next day, wedding day to be exact, he sends me a text--unsolicited--with directions to the reception. I looked in the fridge, which was empty, and decided that free wedding dinner sounded decidely more interesting than dinner I would have to pay for. So, I call my male BFF and convince him to come and crash with, as I needed a date.
My BFF agrees and we get all dressed up. We get to the reception, eat some suprisingly tasty banquet chicken and dance. The groom is walking around with a large diamond encrusted cup that looks like it was reminiscent of a Too Short video: The word "Pimp,"with its louche charm, is etched in bedazzles.
My BFF and I laugh and we continue to have a good time. The groom comes over, says hello and I introduce him to my "date." I give him the wedding gift I picked up at Target 20 minutes before. He goes back to the wife. The newlyweds are glowering in loving bliss. I'm glowing from champagne.
A short while later, when I was sufficiently full of wedding cake, the BFF and I leave.
I go home and go to sleep. A few days past. I forget about the wedding.
A day goes by. Then two. Then three. Two weeks pass. Nothing interesting happens.
Then, the phone rings.
One Saturday afternoon, as I am washing dishes, I hear my cell ring. I look at the phone quizzically, then answer.
I don't remember much of the conversation except for two things:
1.) It was short--about 6 minutes and
2.) He asked me on a date to Starbucks.
As this was a few years ago, my memory evades me. But, I do clearly remember this guy asking how I'd been and if I'd like to meet at Starbucks, and get a cup of coffee so we could get to know each other.
I also remember standing, mouth agape, and staring at the phone. I could not believe that this guy, whose wedding I'd attended fourteen days prior, was actually trying to solicit a date.
Needless to say, I didn't go. I did ask, "how's your wife doing?" before I hung up in utter disgust.
I've seen the guy a few times since: the next year at the same Halloween party, the MLK day parade where his friend tried to get my number and at a restaurant. The last time I saw him he told me he was divorced (suprise, suprise) and asked when we were going out. My answer was "never."
Evelyn Parkside
Imagine it, Halloween. I was all decked out for the yearly festivities in a homemade French maid costume. (Ok, I'll keep it real...I didn't feel like spending any money so I pulled out a black skirt, some black tights, a pair of shiny black heels, and a black cami-boustier-top-thingy that was collecting dust in my lingerie drawer. Voila.) I got ready to go to a yearly Halloween house party where I would dominate a game of spades.
At the party, there was a very attractive man--who was a cop during the day-- acting as the bartender. A girlfriend and I talked with him most of the night, just having a good time. He was mad cool and funny. The vibe was natural, not flirty. The conversation flowed easily. He offers my girl and me his number and says, "if you ever get a ticket, give me a call." Sweet.
Anyway, two hours into our conversation, one of his friends walks up and says, "Congrats on your last night as a free man!" Turns out the guy was getting married in the morning.
Then it gets weird. He turns to my girl and me and insists that we come to the wedding. He says, "we ordered too much food, you all are cool, come kick it tomorrow night. At least have dinner and party with us."
The next day, wedding day to be exact, he sends me a text--unsolicited--with directions to the reception. I looked in the fridge, which was empty, and decided that free wedding dinner sounded decidely more interesting than dinner I would have to pay for. So, I call my male BFF and convince him to come and crash with, as I needed a date.
My BFF agrees and we get all dressed up. We get to the reception, eat some suprisingly tasty banquet chicken and dance. The groom is walking around with a large diamond encrusted cup that looks like it was reminiscent of a Too Short video: The word "Pimp,"with its louche charm, is etched in bedazzles.
My BFF and I laugh and we continue to have a good time. The groom comes over, says hello and I introduce him to my "date." I give him the wedding gift I picked up at Target 20 minutes before. He goes back to the wife. The newlyweds are glowering in loving bliss. I'm glowing from champagne.
A short while later, when I was sufficiently full of wedding cake, the BFF and I leave.
I go home and go to sleep. A few days past. I forget about the wedding.
A day goes by. Then two. Then three. Two weeks pass. Nothing interesting happens.
Then, the phone rings.
One Saturday afternoon, as I am washing dishes, I hear my cell ring. I look at the phone quizzically, then answer.
I don't remember much of the conversation except for two things:
1.) It was short--about 6 minutes and
2.) He asked me on a date to Starbucks.
As this was a few years ago, my memory evades me. But, I do clearly remember this guy asking how I'd been and if I'd like to meet at Starbucks, and get a cup of coffee so we could get to know each other.
I also remember standing, mouth agape, and staring at the phone. I could not believe that this guy, whose wedding I'd attended fourteen days prior, was actually trying to solicit a date.
Needless to say, I didn't go. I did ask, "how's your wife doing?" before I hung up in utter disgust.
I've seen the guy a few times since: the next year at the same Halloween party, the MLK day parade where his friend tried to get my number and at a restaurant. The last time I saw him he told me he was divorced (suprise, suprise) and asked when we were going out. My answer was "never."
Evelyn Parkside
All Quiet on the Western Front
So, my dear readers, the past two few weeks have been quiet. Utterly, despondently quiet. No action. Seriously, not a single person--be he man or be she woman--has inquired about my phone number or suggested a date.
Sadly, my dating life has gotten boring.
So, I've decided to put a new segment on ye olde dating blog: Dateback. Until the guys start sniffing around again, I'll be posting a flashback of a date before I started this experiment.
Evelyn Parkside
Sadly, my dating life has gotten boring.
So, I've decided to put a new segment on ye olde dating blog: Dateback. Until the guys start sniffing around again, I'll be posting a flashback of a date before I started this experiment.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Emotional Insurance
I believe in insurance. If something happens to my car, I have Progressive. If something happens to my apartment, I have Allstate. If something happens to my health, I have some crappy work-approved HMO. If something happens as I'm dating, I have Delete.
Emotional insurance is a tool that I firmly believe all women should invest in. Here's how it works:
Scenario 1: You meet a guy. You like the guy. You and the guy talk, perhaps go out on what you percieve to be a good date. You like the guy. The guy never calls again. It's time for Delete.
Scenario 2: You meet a guy. You give the guy a chance. You and the guy talk, perhaps go out on a date that that is like watching the Charlie Sheen meltdown--in other words, a train wreck. You need Delete.
Delete is the best kind of emotional insurance there is. Now, for the most part, I would say that I'm a very rational woman. I am truly not prone to emotional outbursts. I approach most problems calmly. I do not cry at commercials featuring puppies and I think some babies are funny-looking.
Even with all that, at the end of the day I'm still a girl. This means that even I can be affected by the "I'll just see how he's doing" syndrome. In my youth, I would occasionally call a guy when things had fizzled out. It never worked out well.
Luckily, I'm a quick learner. It only took a dozen boys in high school for me to realize that Delete is the best tool for emotional insurance.
Nothing is worse than that constant tugging at the bottom of one's stomach, encouraging a woman to make a call that she knows she shouldn't. Even as her fingers are dialing the numbers and her rational brain is saying, "Are you serious? This is a bad idea. This is even worse than the cheesecake home delivery fiasco of 1998," her heart (ok, keep it real, loins) are cajoling, "Go ahead. He'll answer."
I'll be honest, dear reader, I've been affected by this horrible condition. So, some years ago I invested in Delete.
Here's how it works: The minute I decide that I'd rather bring Shrek home that the man I'm dating, I Delete his number. I have to act quickly--if I want a day or two, I may concoct a reason to keep the number. Delete is a fine tool for all women to invest in. It's free.
It's easy. It's reliable.
I not only Delete his number, I go through the process of Deleting all texts, emails, picture mails, voice mails and any other means of contact. I'm thorough: I conduct a CIA like sweep of all technology to Delete any potential way to contact the guy.
This way I can't call you on a lonely, rainy Thursday afternoon. I can't be affected by a having a weak moment while watching a romantic movie. I literally can't let my heart (read, loins) veto my brain. It's emotional insurance.
It's a great tool.
Except when it isn't.
Occasionally, I Delete a number accidentally. Usually from a guy whom I actually like, but through a series of unfortunate events and misunderstandings.
Every once in a while I'll get a text from a guy from a number with no name attached. Inevitably, the text will read:
"Hey! You've been on my mind. How are you doing?"
And I'll know that the person on the other end was Deleted because there is no name.
And, inevitably, my curiousity will be piqued. So, I'll respond.
"Great!"
And, then the Deleted will write back, "Do you remember me? :)" or "Do you know who this is :)"
Sigh. No. I do not. I Deleted you.
Men--sensitive creatures that they are--rarely, if ever, respond well to being told "no." Especially if the question refers to them being remembered.
So, I've learned to be crafty. After a few minutes of mindless texting back and forth, with me calling my BBFF frantically asking him for advice on figuring out who the heck is on the other line, I always figure out who the Deleted is.
Yesterday the Deleted was the Schlump, Mr. I Don't Have A Car.
The conversation went like this:
"Howve u been :) "
"Good, you?"
"Uve been on my mind real tough"
"Um, really?" As my internal monologue is thinking "who the hell is this?"
"Do u know who thisis? :)"
Silence.
"Do you ever really know somebody?" I replied.
"Do you remember my name?"
Silence.
"Cmon, u dont remember me? :)"
I'm thinking, hell no. We haven't spoken in more than a month, or I at least would have recognized the number.
"Why don't you refresh my memory"
"It's me ________ and I been threw sum real hard times so thats why U havent heard fr me cell came bk on so now I can call U nkeep N touch hope your single???"
Now, before I get lots of hate mail for not being interested in a man who "fell on hard times," let me remind you: I didn't like this guy before the hard times. I didn't like him during the normal, regularly trying times.
In this case, Delete worked kind of well, but we still ended up communicating. So, I decided to upgrade the Schlump to the DNA plan.
DNA, the upgrade of Delete, works like this:
There is an extreme weirdo. This weirdo you do not want to answer even accidentally. So, you save his number as DNA, or Do Not Answer. That way, whenever it pops up, you can avoid all contact.
Here's my advice to all women: Invest in some emotional insurance. Today.
Evelyn Parkside
Emotional insurance is a tool that I firmly believe all women should invest in. Here's how it works:
Scenario 1: You meet a guy. You like the guy. You and the guy talk, perhaps go out on what you percieve to be a good date. You like the guy. The guy never calls again. It's time for Delete.
Scenario 2: You meet a guy. You give the guy a chance. You and the guy talk, perhaps go out on a date that that is like watching the Charlie Sheen meltdown--in other words, a train wreck. You need Delete.
Delete is the best kind of emotional insurance there is. Now, for the most part, I would say that I'm a very rational woman. I am truly not prone to emotional outbursts. I approach most problems calmly. I do not cry at commercials featuring puppies and I think some babies are funny-looking.
Even with all that, at the end of the day I'm still a girl. This means that even I can be affected by the "I'll just see how he's doing" syndrome. In my youth, I would occasionally call a guy when things had fizzled out. It never worked out well.
Luckily, I'm a quick learner. It only took a dozen boys in high school for me to realize that Delete is the best tool for emotional insurance.
Nothing is worse than that constant tugging at the bottom of one's stomach, encouraging a woman to make a call that she knows she shouldn't. Even as her fingers are dialing the numbers and her rational brain is saying, "Are you serious? This is a bad idea. This is even worse than the cheesecake home delivery fiasco of 1998," her heart (ok, keep it real, loins) are cajoling, "Go ahead. He'll answer."
I'll be honest, dear reader, I've been affected by this horrible condition. So, some years ago I invested in Delete.
Here's how it works: The minute I decide that I'd rather bring Shrek home that the man I'm dating, I Delete his number. I have to act quickly--if I want a day or two, I may concoct a reason to keep the number. Delete is a fine tool for all women to invest in. It's free.
It's easy. It's reliable.
I not only Delete his number, I go through the process of Deleting all texts, emails, picture mails, voice mails and any other means of contact. I'm thorough: I conduct a CIA like sweep of all technology to Delete any potential way to contact the guy.
This way I can't call you on a lonely, rainy Thursday afternoon. I can't be affected by a having a weak moment while watching a romantic movie. I literally can't let my heart (read, loins) veto my brain. It's emotional insurance.
It's a great tool.
Except when it isn't.
Occasionally, I Delete a number accidentally. Usually from a guy whom I actually like, but through a series of unfortunate events and misunderstandings.
Every once in a while I'll get a text from a guy from a number with no name attached. Inevitably, the text will read:
"Hey! You've been on my mind. How are you doing?"
And I'll know that the person on the other end was Deleted because there is no name.
And, inevitably, my curiousity will be piqued. So, I'll respond.
"Great!"
And, then the Deleted will write back, "Do you remember me? :)" or "Do you know who this is :)"
Sigh. No. I do not. I Deleted you.
Men--sensitive creatures that they are--rarely, if ever, respond well to being told "no." Especially if the question refers to them being remembered.
So, I've learned to be crafty. After a few minutes of mindless texting back and forth, with me calling my BBFF frantically asking him for advice on figuring out who the heck is on the other line, I always figure out who the Deleted is.
Yesterday the Deleted was the Schlump, Mr. I Don't Have A Car.
The conversation went like this:
"Howve u been :) "
"Good, you?"
"Uve been on my mind real tough"
"Um, really?" As my internal monologue is thinking "who the hell is this?"
"Do u know who thisis? :)"
Silence.
"Do you ever really know somebody?" I replied.
"Do you remember my name?"
Silence.
"Cmon, u dont remember me? :)"
I'm thinking, hell no. We haven't spoken in more than a month, or I at least would have recognized the number.
"Why don't you refresh my memory"
"It's me ________ and I been threw sum real hard times so thats why U havent heard fr me cell came bk on so now I can call U nkeep N touch hope your single???"
Now, before I get lots of hate mail for not being interested in a man who "fell on hard times," let me remind you: I didn't like this guy before the hard times. I didn't like him during the normal, regularly trying times.
In this case, Delete worked kind of well, but we still ended up communicating. So, I decided to upgrade the Schlump to the DNA plan.
DNA, the upgrade of Delete, works like this:
There is an extreme weirdo. This weirdo you do not want to answer even accidentally. So, you save his number as DNA, or Do Not Answer. That way, whenever it pops up, you can avoid all contact.
Here's my advice to all women: Invest in some emotional insurance. Today.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, March 28, 2011
Six out of Ten of my Top Ten Fantasies were Fulfilled Yesterday
I know you've seen it: the painting of the woman in the salon, getting pampered and preened by a flock of Nubian Zues-like Gods. In the picture, the woman looks serene--blissfully happy to be spending some much needed time away from oil changes and reports, taking out the trash and folding laundry, away from suits and dastardly high heels, away from cooking, away from cleaning, away from life. She is at peace. She is zen.
This past Sunday I became that woman.
I have had a ridiculously busy past six weeks: my job has exploded into project after project and I've been stretched to my max. A few weeks ago I took six planes in six days (very difficult) from the midwest to the southwest. In short--I'm worn out.
So, I did what any clear-thinking woman in that position would do: I scheduled a manicure and pedicure. I also brought a bottle of champagne. And wine.
A bottle of champagne into the afternoon, we started a very lovely pedicure. While I was soaking my tootsies in a bowl of bubbly warm water and filling my insides with bubbly cool champagne, I looked up to see my manicurist's boyfriend walk through the door.
Did I mention that they are both ridiculously attractive? No, seriously. Ridiculously. Attractive. Gayer than Ten Lords A-Leaping bedazzled with five golden rings, but gorgeous nonetheless.
So, while one gorgeous man finished my manicure, another finished my pedicure.
Life. Is. Good.
At that moment, I realized that six out of my top ten fantasies were being fulfilled. The other four involve a jar of molasses, a tightrope, a golden key and a clearn night lit by the shine of the North star, but that's neither here nor there.
Now, you're probably wondering "how is this a date?
Well, it wasn't.
But it was still damn fun.
Evelyn Parkside
This past Sunday I became that woman.
I have had a ridiculously busy past six weeks: my job has exploded into project after project and I've been stretched to my max. A few weeks ago I took six planes in six days (very difficult) from the midwest to the southwest. In short--I'm worn out.
So, I did what any clear-thinking woman in that position would do: I scheduled a manicure and pedicure. I also brought a bottle of champagne. And wine.
A bottle of champagne into the afternoon, we started a very lovely pedicure. While I was soaking my tootsies in a bowl of bubbly warm water and filling my insides with bubbly cool champagne, I looked up to see my manicurist's boyfriend walk through the door.
Did I mention that they are both ridiculously attractive? No, seriously. Ridiculously. Attractive. Gayer than Ten Lords A-Leaping bedazzled with five golden rings, but gorgeous nonetheless.
So, while one gorgeous man finished my manicure, another finished my pedicure.
Life. Is. Good.
At that moment, I realized that six out of my top ten fantasies were being fulfilled. The other four involve a jar of molasses, a tightrope, a golden key and a clearn night lit by the shine of the North star, but that's neither here nor there.
Now, you're probably wondering "how is this a date?
Well, it wasn't.
But it was still damn fun.
Evelyn Parkside
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Serendipity
I think I just had a date.
Let me go back: I hope I just had a date.
Ok, I'm getting ahead of myself. I feel like you need some background.
A couple of months ago, a friend of mine asked me to tutor one of her offspring. I agreed. At the end of the conversation, she slid in the following, "oh yeah...my friend needs you to tutor as well."
After some serious negotiations and strong-arming, I agreed. Anyway, I start tutoring her offspring and her friend's offspring, without ever meeting the friend. This, for many reasons, has me a bit concerned. The friend calls me today to introduce herself. Herself turns out to be himself. Himself also has a seriously deep, ear soothing voice. Himself and I decide to meet, as I'm tutoring his offspring. We both have a few hours after work and choose a pretty popular steakhouse with a great happy hour to meet, and for me to review the tutoring plan.
I'm intrigued about the person behind the deep, soothing voice. I've already reconciled that he probably looks like a troll based on a lesson I learned back in high school: the sexier the voice over the phone, the more under-the-bridge-lurking troll like characteristics he will have.
Anywho, I get to the place a few minutes early and get a space for us to talk business. I look up and there is a dashingly handsome, absolutely charming man standing in front of me. As he doesn't look like Rumplestilskin, I ignore him.
He speaks. The voice mirrors the voice from the phone. I clench my jaw to keep it from dropping. I wish I had put on make-up.
Over the next hour, we have the most normal, delightful conversation. He did not try to corner me into a booth and kiss me. He did not compliment my mouth. He did not have an obvious aversion to vegetables. Instead we talk about normal people stuff: movies, football, the best part of a chicken wing (clearly, the fat piece, the flat side is too much work).
We sit and talk for over an hour, indulged in a piece of chocolate death cake and chilled.
Now, the reason I'm writing about this experience is because of one reason:
1) He said, "this has been a wonderful date."
That made me think, "Am I on a date?"
I'm going to say yes.
Evelyn Parkside
Let me go back: I hope I just had a date.
Ok, I'm getting ahead of myself. I feel like you need some background.
A couple of months ago, a friend of mine asked me to tutor one of her offspring. I agreed. At the end of the conversation, she slid in the following, "oh yeah...my friend needs you to tutor as well."
After some serious negotiations and strong-arming, I agreed. Anyway, I start tutoring her offspring and her friend's offspring, without ever meeting the friend. This, for many reasons, has me a bit concerned. The friend calls me today to introduce herself. Herself turns out to be himself. Himself also has a seriously deep, ear soothing voice. Himself and I decide to meet, as I'm tutoring his offspring. We both have a few hours after work and choose a pretty popular steakhouse with a great happy hour to meet, and for me to review the tutoring plan.
I'm intrigued about the person behind the deep, soothing voice. I've already reconciled that he probably looks like a troll based on a lesson I learned back in high school: the sexier the voice over the phone, the more under-the-bridge-lurking troll like characteristics he will have.
Anywho, I get to the place a few minutes early and get a space for us to talk business. I look up and there is a dashingly handsome, absolutely charming man standing in front of me. As he doesn't look like Rumplestilskin, I ignore him.
He speaks. The voice mirrors the voice from the phone. I clench my jaw to keep it from dropping. I wish I had put on make-up.
Over the next hour, we have the most normal, delightful conversation. He did not try to corner me into a booth and kiss me. He did not compliment my mouth. He did not have an obvious aversion to vegetables. Instead we talk about normal people stuff: movies, football, the best part of a chicken wing (clearly, the fat piece, the flat side is too much work).
We sit and talk for over an hour, indulged in a piece of chocolate death cake and chilled.
Now, the reason I'm writing about this experience is because of one reason:
1) He said, "this has been a wonderful date."
That made me think, "Am I on a date?"
I'm going to say yes.
Evelyn Parkside
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Wesley Snipes at the Sandwich Shop? Who knew?
So, the past few days have been uneventful. Not only have I not met any new weirdos (a feat in itself,) but the old weirdos have ceased contact.
I started to get a bit worried.
I mean, really, how much fun is a dating blog if the main characteress doesn't date?
Enter yesterday.
Yesterday morning, as I realized that I had not been grocery shopping in more than a month and that I had funneled through all the emergency foodstuff supplies in my pantry and freezer, I found myself on the phone with a local deli ordering breakfast, lunch and dinner. Ten minutes later, I found myself speedily zipping through school zones (thank God for police scanners and phenomenal perephial vision) so I could pick up my wares before I had to be at work.
I rush into the deli where there is a piece of rich, gorgeous, chocolatey deliciousness waiting for me. And,as I was debaing on whether or not to purchase what was going to be a decadent piece of chocolate cheesecake in walked a guy who was mirror image of Wesley Snipes.
No, seriously. And, I mean sexy Nino Brown, Passenger 57 Wesley Snipes, not tax-evading-kinda-creepy-anti-government-hide-out-in-Africa Wesley Snipes.
I say to Snipealike, "Do you know who you look like?"
Snipealike rolls his eyes.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," I continue, with a smile.
"Let me guess...hmmmm...Wesley Snipes?" he asks.
"Um.....no...." I trail off, scanning my brain for another potential contender. But, damn, the guy looked like Wesley Snipes. "You look like....that other guy..." I say,
"OK, Jill Scott," he replies, and we both laugh.
At this point, my breakfastlunchdinner order is ready, so I pay, exit and skedaddle to the car.
As I'm not late for work, I decide that I don't have time to actually turn the car around into drive, so I throw her into reverse, and reverse out the parking spot, through the parking lot, and into the street. While this is happening, I glimpse into the rear-view mirror and I see Wesley Snipes cracking up at my inventive driving.
Like doubled over, cracking up.
At this point, there's nothing else to do but smile, so I do and wave. As I'm waving, Wesley Snipes is making the international gesture for telephone: you know, thumb and pinky extended, to form a telephone that spans the space between one's ears and mouth.
Well, what do do? Should I stop and go back to Wesley? Or, should I zip away?
Find out later. :)
Evelyn Parkside
I started to get a bit worried.
I mean, really, how much fun is a dating blog if the main characteress doesn't date?
Enter yesterday.
Yesterday morning, as I realized that I had not been grocery shopping in more than a month and that I had funneled through all the emergency foodstuff supplies in my pantry and freezer, I found myself on the phone with a local deli ordering breakfast, lunch and dinner. Ten minutes later, I found myself speedily zipping through school zones (thank God for police scanners and phenomenal perephial vision) so I could pick up my wares before I had to be at work.
I rush into the deli where there is a piece of rich, gorgeous, chocolatey deliciousness waiting for me. And,as I was debaing on whether or not to purchase what was going to be a decadent piece of chocolate cheesecake in walked a guy who was mirror image of Wesley Snipes.
No, seriously. And, I mean sexy Nino Brown, Passenger 57 Wesley Snipes, not tax-evading-kinda-creepy-anti-government-hide-out-in-Africa Wesley Snipes.
I say to Snipealike, "Do you know who you look like?"
Snipealike rolls his eyes.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," I continue, with a smile.
"Let me guess...hmmmm...Wesley Snipes?" he asks.
"Um.....no...." I trail off, scanning my brain for another potential contender. But, damn, the guy looked like Wesley Snipes. "You look like....that other guy..." I say,
"OK, Jill Scott," he replies, and we both laugh.
At this point, my breakfastlunchdinner order is ready, so I pay, exit and skedaddle to the car.
As I'm not late for work, I decide that I don't have time to actually turn the car around into drive, so I throw her into reverse, and reverse out the parking spot, through the parking lot, and into the street. While this is happening, I glimpse into the rear-view mirror and I see Wesley Snipes cracking up at my inventive driving.
Like doubled over, cracking up.
At this point, there's nothing else to do but smile, so I do and wave. As I'm waving, Wesley Snipes is making the international gesture for telephone: you know, thumb and pinky extended, to form a telephone that spans the space between one's ears and mouth.
Well, what do do? Should I stop and go back to Wesley? Or, should I zip away?
Find out later. :)
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, March 10, 2011
"Excuse me, ladies. Has your belly button ever been kissed?"
Last night I met up with a girlfriend for happy hour and dinner. We were sitting at the bar, where two uber cool guys had struck up a conversation with us. All-in-all, it was good times: good food, good conversation, good drinks.
Anyway, as we were all sitting there--clearly interacting with each other--drunkie stobbles (a combination of stumbles and wobbles) over to us, situating himself directly behind my girlfriend and me. Drunkie, a middle-aged+ man, wearing a wedding ring and sporting a thinning comb over (on a completely unrelated note, guys, don't hang on to hair that is clearly not hanging on to you. Go bald. Women love baldness. Women laugh at combovers and hairlines that start in the middle of your cranium) looks at my girlfriend and me with all seriousness and says, "Can I ask you a question?"
At this point, I had two options: I could say yes or I could say no. No would have been the better answer, but yes would yield the best possibility for complete idiocy. So, I said yes.
"Has your belly button ever been kissed?" he slurs, eyes darting between my friend and me.
My friend, the smarter version, says, "no." She recognizes that humoring drunk-guy-in-bar is probably a bad idea.
I, the not-so-smart version, am delighted to humor drunk-guy-in-bar, because then I have stories like these to tell. So, I say, "I'll play along. Yes."
He pauses. His reddened eye begins to twinkle.
"From the inside?" he finishes, leaving us to ponder his sage follow-through.
Evelyn Parkside
Anyway, as we were all sitting there--clearly interacting with each other--drunkie stobbles (a combination of stumbles and wobbles) over to us, situating himself directly behind my girlfriend and me. Drunkie, a middle-aged+ man, wearing a wedding ring and sporting a thinning comb over (on a completely unrelated note, guys, don't hang on to hair that is clearly not hanging on to you. Go bald. Women love baldness. Women laugh at combovers and hairlines that start in the middle of your cranium) looks at my girlfriend and me with all seriousness and says, "Can I ask you a question?"
At this point, I had two options: I could say yes or I could say no. No would have been the better answer, but yes would yield the best possibility for complete idiocy. So, I said yes.
"Has your belly button ever been kissed?" he slurs, eyes darting between my friend and me.
My friend, the smarter version, says, "no." She recognizes that humoring drunk-guy-in-bar is probably a bad idea.
I, the not-so-smart version, am delighted to humor drunk-guy-in-bar, because then I have stories like these to tell. So, I say, "I'll play along. Yes."
He pauses. His reddened eye begins to twinkle.
"From the inside?" he finishes, leaving us to ponder his sage follow-through.
Evelyn Parkside
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Wolf, Part II
I got to the ladies' room, looked in the mirror, and laughed. I knew that if I went back to the booth, the wolf was going to try to scoot me into his lap and possibly get a few cheap squeezes--option A, also sounding like option disgusting. Aha! I got it. My best bet was to get into my car.
A few minutes later I emerged from The Ladies Room, and sat down on the opposite side of the booth, nearer to the middle so I would have additional room to scoot, if need be.
Not to be daunted, the wolf started the talk-and-scoot process all over again, this time moving to the left. He moved to the left, I moved to the left. He moved to the left some more, I moved to the left some more.
He looked at me like I was a medium rare pork chop. With gravy. And a biscuit on the side.
I wondered how long I could play the talk-and-scoot game.
The time was nearing 10:00 so after a few deliberately placed faux-yawns, I politely apologized for my extreme fatigue, said that I was horribly sleepy and asked if we could meet again later. He agreed and walked me to my car.
When we got to my car, the wolf cornered me at the door. I said "thank you so much, it was good to see you," and inched toward the handle.
He went in for the kill.
A face began to swoop toward mine.
Now, talk-and-scoot upgraded to smile-and-dodge.
I saw a pair of lips loom toward my face. I swiftly dodged. His face moved in toward the right, my head turned to the right. His face ducked down and under toward the left, my face shot to the left. So, I'm cornered at my car door, whipping my head back and forth like an epileptic and trying to aim my right cheek at his mouth.
A few feet in the distance, a Latino guy was yelling at his girlfriend, screaming at her in Spanish. She looked frightened and was clearly trying to escape this creep. The wolf stopped trying to corner my face and looked at the domestic violence scene unfolding a few spaces over.
Lucky for me, he had a conscience. He sighed, turned from me and started yelling at the guy to leave his girlfriend alone. The guy ignored him. "Damnit," he said, "I can't just let that woman get beat up," and started toward the Ike Turner reenactment. When Ike saw the wolf coming his way, he stopped hovering over his woman and starter to walk away.
I took it as an opportunity for me to get in my car.
A minute later,as I'm sitting in my idling vehicle, the wolf comes back to me, where I commend his bravery in the face of potential danger. The woman is safe from her companion, my face is safe from a pair of looming lips, all is right with the world.
Evelyn Parkside
A few minutes later I emerged from The Ladies Room, and sat down on the opposite side of the booth, nearer to the middle so I would have additional room to scoot, if need be.
Not to be daunted, the wolf started the talk-and-scoot process all over again, this time moving to the left. He moved to the left, I moved to the left. He moved to the left some more, I moved to the left some more.
He looked at me like I was a medium rare pork chop. With gravy. And a biscuit on the side.
I wondered how long I could play the talk-and-scoot game.
The time was nearing 10:00 so after a few deliberately placed faux-yawns, I politely apologized for my extreme fatigue, said that I was horribly sleepy and asked if we could meet again later. He agreed and walked me to my car.
When we got to my car, the wolf cornered me at the door. I said "thank you so much, it was good to see you," and inched toward the handle.
He went in for the kill.
A face began to swoop toward mine.
Now, talk-and-scoot upgraded to smile-and-dodge.
I saw a pair of lips loom toward my face. I swiftly dodged. His face moved in toward the right, my head turned to the right. His face ducked down and under toward the left, my face shot to the left. So, I'm cornered at my car door, whipping my head back and forth like an epileptic and trying to aim my right cheek at his mouth.
A few feet in the distance, a Latino guy was yelling at his girlfriend, screaming at her in Spanish. She looked frightened and was clearly trying to escape this creep. The wolf stopped trying to corner my face and looked at the domestic violence scene unfolding a few spaces over.
Lucky for me, he had a conscience. He sighed, turned from me and started yelling at the guy to leave his girlfriend alone. The guy ignored him. "Damnit," he said, "I can't just let that woman get beat up," and started toward the Ike Turner reenactment. When Ike saw the wolf coming his way, he stopped hovering over his woman and starter to walk away.
I took it as an opportunity for me to get in my car.
A minute later,as I'm sitting in my idling vehicle, the wolf comes back to me, where I commend his bravery in the face of potential danger. The woman is safe from her companion, my face is safe from a pair of looming lips, all is right with the world.
Evelyn Parkside
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Wolf, Part I
"But, grandmother, what big eyes you have" stated Red, looking skeptically at the new-and-improved grandmother--who also seemed to have sprouted a permanent fur coat in the summer.
"The better to see you with, my dear," replied the grandmother, whose eyes, significantly larger than Red remembered them, bulged out of her eyes, looking to invite trouble.
"But, grandmother, what big ears you have" said Red, while wondering if her grandmother's ears had always sported tufts of dark grey hair and pointed toward the ceiling.
"The better to hear you with, my dear," replied the "grandmother," whose ears looked like they could hear the future.
"But grandmother, what big teeth you have" said Red, one eyebrow raised while looking at two sharpened bicuspids that could easily tear through a piece of raw steak.
At this point in the story, I always wondered why Red stayed around. Even as a kid, I knew that a wolf in a dressing gown is just that--a wolf in a dressing gown. And, no good can come of that kind of wolf.
Last summer I met a guy who is a used car salesman. He is the stereotype of every used car salesman that you can conjure up. He's also 60ish. He's also quite taken with me.
Anyway, for a year, I would see this guy at the Greek restaurant near my residence or at the cigar bar next to the Greek restaurant. We'd chop it up, talk for a little bit, and he'd compliment me incessantly. He'd compliment my hips. He'd compliment my smile. He'd compliment my hair. He'd compliment my dress, my shoes, my pedicure, my eyes, and whatever else his wandering eyes found to focus on. Honestly, it was nice. Who doesn't like compliments?
There was only one thing about this guy that kind of skeeved me out: every single time he looked at me, I felt exactly the way Red felt when she saw the wolf. "Hmhphh, " he grunt, while looking me up and down the way a wolf would eye the fat ass of a lamb, "the trouble I could get in to with you." I'd smile and think about the can of Mace: Man Off I kept in the pocket in my purse.
But I digress. A while back he gave me a call and we talked about going out. He asked if he could come with me to a wine bar/restaurant and I said sure. Honestly, the wolf--even with his wandering eyes-- was very non-threatening.
So we get to the restaurant and we end up in a circular booth. Not a problem. He sat on one side, I resigned myself to the other.
We talk about work and the other kind of small chitchat about the minutiae of life. But, as we talked, he inched closer to me. I inched closer away.
"How was your day," he'd ask and ever-so-slightly scoot in my direction.
"Kind of busy, but good," I replied and shifted to the right.
"Big project?" he asked, and scooted to the right.
"Yeah," scoot, scoot, "My boss wants me to work on _____" I replied.
"That sounds interesting," he replied, while he took a long scoot to the right, all the while looking at me like I was the last piece of sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving. He grabbed my left hand.
Now I had a bit of a predicament: I had reached the end of the booth. Another scoot from me would initiate the beginning of "ass-out-of-booth," and end with "ass-on-floor."
I thought quickly: The Ladies' Room. The Ladies' Room is a fail-proof refuge for women, as men seem to be a bit afraid of The Ladies' Room.
Thanks for tuning in to "The Wolf, Part I." For the conclusion of this installment of "The Dating Experiment," check back on Wednesday.
"The better to see you with, my dear," replied the grandmother, whose eyes, significantly larger than Red remembered them, bulged out of her eyes, looking to invite trouble.
"But, grandmother, what big ears you have" said Red, while wondering if her grandmother's ears had always sported tufts of dark grey hair and pointed toward the ceiling.
"The better to hear you with, my dear," replied the "grandmother," whose ears looked like they could hear the future.
"But grandmother, what big teeth you have" said Red, one eyebrow raised while looking at two sharpened bicuspids that could easily tear through a piece of raw steak.
At this point in the story, I always wondered why Red stayed around. Even as a kid, I knew that a wolf in a dressing gown is just that--a wolf in a dressing gown. And, no good can come of that kind of wolf.
Last summer I met a guy who is a used car salesman. He is the stereotype of every used car salesman that you can conjure up. He's also 60ish. He's also quite taken with me.
Anyway, for a year, I would see this guy at the Greek restaurant near my residence or at the cigar bar next to the Greek restaurant. We'd chop it up, talk for a little bit, and he'd compliment me incessantly. He'd compliment my hips. He'd compliment my smile. He'd compliment my hair. He'd compliment my dress, my shoes, my pedicure, my eyes, and whatever else his wandering eyes found to focus on. Honestly, it was nice. Who doesn't like compliments?
There was only one thing about this guy that kind of skeeved me out: every single time he looked at me, I felt exactly the way Red felt when she saw the wolf. "Hmhphh, " he grunt, while looking me up and down the way a wolf would eye the fat ass of a lamb, "the trouble I could get in to with you." I'd smile and think about the can of Mace: Man Off I kept in the pocket in my purse.
But I digress. A while back he gave me a call and we talked about going out. He asked if he could come with me to a wine bar/restaurant and I said sure. Honestly, the wolf--even with his wandering eyes-- was very non-threatening.
So we get to the restaurant and we end up in a circular booth. Not a problem. He sat on one side, I resigned myself to the other.
We talk about work and the other kind of small chitchat about the minutiae of life. But, as we talked, he inched closer to me. I inched closer away.
"How was your day," he'd ask and ever-so-slightly scoot in my direction.
"Kind of busy, but good," I replied and shifted to the right.
"Big project?" he asked, and scooted to the right.
"Yeah," scoot, scoot, "My boss wants me to work on _____" I replied.
"That sounds interesting," he replied, while he took a long scoot to the right, all the while looking at me like I was the last piece of sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving. He grabbed my left hand.
Now I had a bit of a predicament: I had reached the end of the booth. Another scoot from me would initiate the beginning of "ass-out-of-booth," and end with "ass-on-floor."
I thought quickly: The Ladies' Room. The Ladies' Room is a fail-proof refuge for women, as men seem to be a bit afraid of The Ladies' Room.
Thanks for tuning in to "The Wolf, Part I." For the conclusion of this installment of "The Dating Experiment," check back on Wednesday.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
A Poem for my Soul Mate
So, I haven't actually found the ying to my yang yet...the Jay-Z to my Beyonce...the Rick to my Ilsa. But I want to be prepared for my soul mate, whenever he shows up. (I'm hoping it's before my birthday and all the good, gift-giving holidays, but I digress).
Anywho, I've been reading A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking (It's like theoretical physics for dummies...) and this is the piece that was inspired for my future soul mate.
I’ve loved you
Since before time existed--
And I’ve known you before
Stars danced in the twilight
Emitting flickers of light,
Ballerinas absorbing perpetual blackness.
I’ve sat with you
In the still quiet
Before night cloaked the earth--
tranquil quietude.
I’ve dined with you
Feasting on honeycombs and
Vanillabeans. Sugarcanes and
Black cherries. Champagne with
Pearls floating in the bottom
Of our hand-blown glass,
Draped with silver.
I’ve worshipped you
Before the moon knew her own name
And her own power to quell
A raging tide.
I’ve danced with you
Before the sun first opened her eyes
To awaken the East
Warm and golden
Courageous in nothing but her own strength.
I’ve known you
Since before little girls
Lay beneath noonday clouds,
imagining them to be
castles in Heaven. Before they wondered
What it would be like to live
Inside of one,
We were connected.
Before the first tick
Time pronounced,
Grandiose and pompous,
We laughed,
Reveling in our own joy
Just. To. Be.
We were light
Before enlightenment--
Before Genesis
We were one
Eternal motion
Moving to the jazz we created.
Evelyn Parkside
Anywho, I've been reading A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking (It's like theoretical physics for dummies...) and this is the piece that was inspired for my future soul mate.
I’ve loved you
Since before time existed--
And I’ve known you before
Stars danced in the twilight
Emitting flickers of light,
Ballerinas absorbing perpetual blackness.
I’ve sat with you
In the still quiet
Before night cloaked the earth--
tranquil quietude.
I’ve dined with you
Feasting on honeycombs and
Vanillabeans. Sugarcanes and
Black cherries. Champagne with
Pearls floating in the bottom
Of our hand-blown glass,
Draped with silver.
I’ve worshipped you
Before the moon knew her own name
And her own power to quell
A raging tide.
I’ve danced with you
Before the sun first opened her eyes
To awaken the East
Warm and golden
Courageous in nothing but her own strength.
I’ve known you
Since before little girls
Lay beneath noonday clouds,
imagining them to be
castles in Heaven. Before they wondered
What it would be like to live
Inside of one,
We were connected.
Before the first tick
Time pronounced,
Grandiose and pompous,
We laughed,
Reveling in our own joy
Just. To. Be.
We were light
Before enlightenment--
Before Genesis
We were one
Eternal motion
Moving to the jazz we created.
Evelyn Parkside
Open Mic for the Men
Last year, while volunteering at the annual Martin Luther King Parade (five hours of my life that I desperately want back but will never get), I met a gentleman. To be honest, he was absolutely not my type: I found him a bit painful to look at. Of course, that mean that he was completely smitten with me. While he tried to get the digits, I ducked and dodged, slid in and out of marching groups, and kept my head buried in the pile of paperwork on my very official, parade issued clipboard in order to look busy.
At the end of the parade, I managed to slip away, sight unseen and into my car. I breathed a loud sigh of relief, as I had escaped the clutches of what had the possibility of being a very uncomfortable conversation.
A month goes by. And then two. And then three. I'd forgotten about the behemoth ogre. I was involved with trying to escape someone else. Life was good.
Until we ended up at the same stop light at the same time.
He looked over at me and I looked at him. Immediately, I knew that we knew each other.I hoped he did not recognize me. He didn't. Life was back to being good.
Well, we kept catching the same stop light on a stretch of highway. By light number three, he'd worked up enough courage to roll his window down and ask for my number. This time, I thought I'd give fate a chance and give him my number. Perhaps he would like my suggestion to wear a paper bag over his head during dinner--you never know.
Over the next few months we had a couple of riveting conversations. He's an electrician, so I was finally able to ask all the questions I've been harboring since elementary school: What really happens if you stick a fork in a working toaster? What should I do if my car is struck by lightening while I'm driving? Why can birds sit on live power lines? He actually turned out to be interesting to talk to. But, that's all we ever did--talk.
This went on for a few weeks, at which time he would remind me of how beautiful I am, but never follow through with an invitation to meet again. A few weeks stretched into months and we ceased talking. But, I kept his number because it's just good practice to always keep an electrician and a plumber in the digital rolodex.
Now, thirteen months after our initial meeting, I get a text message. It reads, "Good morning, beutiful! :)" Aside from the egregious spelling error, the message it self was nice. I reply, "Good morning 2 u 2"
Nothing.
That was last week.
Seriously, what am I supposed to do with that? For the men who read my blog, I need you to answer this question: Why?
Why go through the trouble of talking to a girl, risking extreme embarrassment and confidence-shattering rejection by asking for a number, taking the number, texting and calling the girl, and failing to follow through?
Evelyn Parkside
At the end of the parade, I managed to slip away, sight unseen and into my car. I breathed a loud sigh of relief, as I had escaped the clutches of what had the possibility of being a very uncomfortable conversation.
A month goes by. And then two. And then three. I'd forgotten about the behemoth ogre. I was involved with trying to escape someone else. Life was good.
Until we ended up at the same stop light at the same time.
He looked over at me and I looked at him. Immediately, I knew that we knew each other.I hoped he did not recognize me. He didn't. Life was back to being good.
Well, we kept catching the same stop light on a stretch of highway. By light number three, he'd worked up enough courage to roll his window down and ask for my number. This time, I thought I'd give fate a chance and give him my number. Perhaps he would like my suggestion to wear a paper bag over his head during dinner--you never know.
Over the next few months we had a couple of riveting conversations. He's an electrician, so I was finally able to ask all the questions I've been harboring since elementary school: What really happens if you stick a fork in a working toaster? What should I do if my car is struck by lightening while I'm driving? Why can birds sit on live power lines? He actually turned out to be interesting to talk to. But, that's all we ever did--talk.
This went on for a few weeks, at which time he would remind me of how beautiful I am, but never follow through with an invitation to meet again. A few weeks stretched into months and we ceased talking. But, I kept his number because it's just good practice to always keep an electrician and a plumber in the digital rolodex.
Now, thirteen months after our initial meeting, I get a text message. It reads, "Good morning, beutiful! :)" Aside from the egregious spelling error, the message it self was nice. I reply, "Good morning 2 u 2"
Nothing.
That was last week.
Seriously, what am I supposed to do with that? For the men who read my blog, I need you to answer this question: Why?
Why go through the trouble of talking to a girl, risking extreme embarrassment and confidence-shattering rejection by asking for a number, taking the number, texting and calling the girl, and failing to follow through?
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, February 24, 2011
She Shoots! She Scores! ShaDeezy!
For those of you who revel in the lamentable escapades of my dating life (haters) I have upsetting news for you: I had a great date tonight. Great. The guy initiated contact with me, suggested a nice restaurant and a time, waited for me while I finished getting my manicure, refused to sit with his back to the door, took off my coat, pulled out my chair, offered me a martini, was gracious to the server, engaged in lively conversation, opened the door, and waited with my while my car warmed up.
In short, he spoiled me.
That's the upswing. Now, haters, the story turns back to you: he's my BFF. The best date I've had in a year is with the man who listens to all my bad date stories before you guys do: ShaDeezy.
ShaDeezy (not his real name), much like me, is single, African-American, straight, and looking for love. Tonight, over a wonderful meal at a Brazilian churrascaria, we exchanged current war stories. This is always fun, as I give him the latest updates in my dating life and he translates the story into ManSpeak for me. ManSpeak, a combination of grunts and guttural chuffs intermingled with actual words, is the language that all men speak intuitively, and all women are deaf to hearing or understanding without a translation. For instance, a woman says, "I love bananas." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head." Or, a woman might say, "I'm working late tonight." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head, but she's available later." Or, a woman might say, "I need to call the florist." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head, but I need to buy flowers." I short, almost everything a woman says translates into some sort of sexual favor. However, every once in a while, the translation is a bit more obscure. This is where ShaDeezy comes in handy.
In return, I translate messages from Divine Articulation to him. Divine Articulation is the language that all women speak. It's very easy to understand, yet so many men have so much difficulty navigating some of the more subtle nuances. For instance, when a woman says, "fine," that usually signals the end of an argument where we are right and the man needs to be quiet." "Five minutes" means thirty minutes if she is getting dressed, but four minutes if she needs your help. "Nothing" always means something. Usually "nothing" signals something big. Very big. And, finally, "Go Ahead" is always a dare, and never actual permission. This means proceed with extreme caution.
So our dinners usually mean I share a conversation with him and he translates it into ManSpeak to me (usually to my horror, where I end up protesting, "but I didn't mean that" and I translate Divine Articulation to him where he groans, puts his head in his hands and exclaims, "Oh God."
Tonight, he broke down the Plus One (+1), Plus Two (+2) rule for me. The +1 rule is very simple. The last person to send a text/make a phone call is +1. If that person initiates a second correspondence, he/she is not +2. At no point in time should a woman ever go above +2, and there is never a reason to go to +3 (Red Alert! Stalker!) during courtship.
ShaDeezy is an integral part of the dating process. He aptly screens and reviews potential applicants in the very early phase of courtship and explains the situation from a man's point of view.
Evelyn Parkside
In short, he spoiled me.
That's the upswing. Now, haters, the story turns back to you: he's my BFF. The best date I've had in a year is with the man who listens to all my bad date stories before you guys do: ShaDeezy.
ShaDeezy (not his real name), much like me, is single, African-American, straight, and looking for love. Tonight, over a wonderful meal at a Brazilian churrascaria, we exchanged current war stories. This is always fun, as I give him the latest updates in my dating life and he translates the story into ManSpeak for me. ManSpeak, a combination of grunts and guttural chuffs intermingled with actual words, is the language that all men speak intuitively, and all women are deaf to hearing or understanding without a translation. For instance, a woman says, "I love bananas." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head." Or, a woman might say, "I'm working late tonight." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head, but she's available later." Or, a woman might say, "I need to call the florist." In ManSpeak, that translates into, "She gives head, but I need to buy flowers." I short, almost everything a woman says translates into some sort of sexual favor. However, every once in a while, the translation is a bit more obscure. This is where ShaDeezy comes in handy.
In return, I translate messages from Divine Articulation to him. Divine Articulation is the language that all women speak. It's very easy to understand, yet so many men have so much difficulty navigating some of the more subtle nuances. For instance, when a woman says, "fine," that usually signals the end of an argument where we are right and the man needs to be quiet." "Five minutes" means thirty minutes if she is getting dressed, but four minutes if she needs your help. "Nothing" always means something. Usually "nothing" signals something big. Very big. And, finally, "Go Ahead" is always a dare, and never actual permission. This means proceed with extreme caution.
So our dinners usually mean I share a conversation with him and he translates it into ManSpeak to me (usually to my horror, where I end up protesting, "but I didn't mean that" and I translate Divine Articulation to him where he groans, puts his head in his hands and exclaims, "Oh God."
Tonight, he broke down the Plus One (+1), Plus Two (+2) rule for me. The +1 rule is very simple. The last person to send a text/make a phone call is +1. If that person initiates a second correspondence, he/she is not +2. At no point in time should a woman ever go above +2, and there is never a reason to go to +3 (Red Alert! Stalker!) during courtship.
ShaDeezy is an integral part of the dating process. He aptly screens and reviews potential applicants in the very early phase of courtship and explains the situation from a man's point of view.
Evelyn Parkside
Argh! What to do Next?
The Nice Guy texted.
After waiting patiently for two week, staring at the phone, trying to will the damn thing to ring using the same mental power I use to bend spoons, a text zipped through the line last weekend.
About midnight, this message was sent through text-space: "Hey Evelyn, r u going to ______?" referencing the place we met a few weeks ago. I got it when I woke up the next morning, and waited the requisite 15 hours to respond. I had to follow The Rules.
The Rules on texting are not perfect, but they clearly state the following:
"In order to seem interested, but not desperate, one must never reply immediately to a text. However, waiting too long will seem aloof and disinterested. Following this simple formula will dictate how long to wait to reply. reply time=(x/24)7. x=days since last communication."
Basic math, people, basic math. The Rules also offer an addendum in subsection b, paragraph 14 on texting:
"Addendum: if the text occurs after 10:00 pm on a Friday or Saturday, add 12 to the final number, to make it seem as if you are out on said night, and not watching Fight Club."
So, I waited 15 hours to respond. "Hey! I didn't make it out last night, I had other plans." (Granted, those other plans involved watching Edward Norton and Brad Pitt beat the crap out of each other, but they were plans nonetheless)
No response.
O...K...
Fast forward five days. Another text appears. "How are you doing?"
I'm starting a list of phrases I hate. "How are you doing" is going to rank right next to, "What do you want to do" and "Do you want to hang out?"
What to do next? Should I engage in this text business or not?
Evelyn Parkside
After waiting patiently for two week, staring at the phone, trying to will the damn thing to ring using the same mental power I use to bend spoons, a text zipped through the line last weekend.
About midnight, this message was sent through text-space: "Hey Evelyn, r u going to ______?" referencing the place we met a few weeks ago. I got it when I woke up the next morning, and waited the requisite 15 hours to respond. I had to follow The Rules.
The Rules on texting are not perfect, but they clearly state the following:
"In order to seem interested, but not desperate, one must never reply immediately to a text. However, waiting too long will seem aloof and disinterested. Following this simple formula will dictate how long to wait to reply. reply time=(x/24)7. x=days since last communication."
Basic math, people, basic math. The Rules also offer an addendum in subsection b, paragraph 14 on texting:
"Addendum: if the text occurs after 10:00 pm on a Friday or Saturday, add 12 to the final number, to make it seem as if you are out on said night, and not watching Fight Club."
So, I waited 15 hours to respond. "Hey! I didn't make it out last night, I had other plans." (Granted, those other plans involved watching Edward Norton and Brad Pitt beat the crap out of each other, but they were plans nonetheless)
No response.
O...K...
Fast forward five days. Another text appears. "How are you doing?"
I'm starting a list of phrases I hate. "How are you doing" is going to rank right next to, "What do you want to do" and "Do you want to hang out?"
What to do next? Should I engage in this text business or not?
Evelyn Parkside
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Men Like Women Who Cook
So I've decided to brush up my skills in the kitchen. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and I'm looking for love. I'm a modern woman, true, but even the most independent woman needs to know how to make some basic foodstuffs for her hunter.
I decided to start simple: baking a cake. Below is my secret recipe.
How to Make a Dump Cake
Start off making a pound cake.
Read the following ingredient list, but do not check to make sure you have everything you actually need.
Ingredients:
3 C flour
4 eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp lemon extract
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 C. Sugar
1 C butter
1 ½ C . Sour Cream
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
10 minutes into mixing the ingredients for the pound cake, realize that you do not have enough sour cream. Substitute milk that is two weeks past the expiration date and just beginning to separate. Realize that you do not have enough milk to make up for the sour cream. Substitute two heaping tablespoons of cream fraise that has been waiting patiently in the back of the fridge for moments like these.
Continue mixing. Look at the batter warily and wonder what will happen to this cake. Search for lemon extract. Realize you are out of lemon exract and substitute the juice and zest of one lemon. Look at the batter warily again.
Keep mixing. Realize that you are short actual flour. Substitute cake flour and bread flour, and hope the equivalents are similar. Look at the batter with one eyebrow raised. Add sugar. Realize you are short in white sugar, and substitute powdered sugar. Pray over the batter.
Grease and flour a bundt pan. Pour the batter into the pan. Put the pan into the oven.
Wait.
After 30 minutes, sniff. The cake will smell done. Wonder, “How in the world is this cake done already?” Follow your instincts and check on the cake. Open the door. Look at the cake batter as it rises far above the pan and is dripping onto the burners in the oven. Shrug your shoulders and think “it’ll burn off.”
Go back to reading your book.
After 5 more minutes, follow your instincts again and check the cake. Open the oven door and watch plumes of dark grey smoke lead the angry orange and yellow flames shooting from the bottom of the oven, from the burners where the batter has landed.
Shut the oven door quickly.
Run and ask GOOGLE “Stop fire in oven?!” Thank GOOGLE for its expediency. Call three friends (two won’t answer the phone ) and ask, “Um, how do you stop an oven fire?” as a back up to GOOGLE.
Turn the heat off. Leave the door closed. Let the oven cool for about 6 minutes.
Cautiously open the door again. Take the cake out (by now it should be golden brown at the top). Take a butter knife. Scrape the burned bits off the bottom of the oven. Make sure to get all the bits, to prevent reigniting.
Look at the cake. It will look great. Be sad to have to throw it away. Think, “What the hell?” Put the cake back in the oven, with a baking sheet under the bundt pan to catch for any more batter drips.
Continue baking 20 more minutes.
Take the cake out. Serve it to your greedy vulture friends and co-workers. Smile.
Save the recipe for a romantic dinner at home with your boyfriend.
*This is a true, tested recipe.
Evelyn Parkside
I decided to start simple: baking a cake. Below is my secret recipe.
How to Make a Dump Cake
Start off making a pound cake.
Read the following ingredient list, but do not check to make sure you have everything you actually need.
Ingredients:
3 C flour
4 eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp lemon extract
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 C. Sugar
1 C butter
1 ½ C . Sour Cream
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
10 minutes into mixing the ingredients for the pound cake, realize that you do not have enough sour cream. Substitute milk that is two weeks past the expiration date and just beginning to separate. Realize that you do not have enough milk to make up for the sour cream. Substitute two heaping tablespoons of cream fraise that has been waiting patiently in the back of the fridge for moments like these.
Continue mixing. Look at the batter warily and wonder what will happen to this cake. Search for lemon extract. Realize you are out of lemon exract and substitute the juice and zest of one lemon. Look at the batter warily again.
Keep mixing. Realize that you are short actual flour. Substitute cake flour and bread flour, and hope the equivalents are similar. Look at the batter with one eyebrow raised. Add sugar. Realize you are short in white sugar, and substitute powdered sugar. Pray over the batter.
Grease and flour a bundt pan. Pour the batter into the pan. Put the pan into the oven.
Wait.
After 30 minutes, sniff. The cake will smell done. Wonder, “How in the world is this cake done already?” Follow your instincts and check on the cake. Open the door. Look at the cake batter as it rises far above the pan and is dripping onto the burners in the oven. Shrug your shoulders and think “it’ll burn off.”
Go back to reading your book.
After 5 more minutes, follow your instincts again and check the cake. Open the oven door and watch plumes of dark grey smoke lead the angry orange and yellow flames shooting from the bottom of the oven, from the burners where the batter has landed.
Shut the oven door quickly.
Run and ask GOOGLE “Stop fire in oven?!” Thank GOOGLE for its expediency. Call three friends (two won’t answer the phone ) and ask, “Um, how do you stop an oven fire?” as a back up to GOOGLE.
Turn the heat off. Leave the door closed. Let the oven cool for about 6 minutes.
Cautiously open the door again. Take the cake out (by now it should be golden brown at the top). Take a butter knife. Scrape the burned bits off the bottom of the oven. Make sure to get all the bits, to prevent reigniting.
Look at the cake. It will look great. Be sad to have to throw it away. Think, “What the hell?” Put the cake back in the oven, with a baking sheet under the bundt pan to catch for any more batter drips.
Continue baking 20 more minutes.
Take the cake out. Serve it to your greedy vulture friends and co-workers. Smile.
Save the recipe for a romantic dinner at home with your boyfriend.
*This is a true, tested recipe.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, February 21, 2011
Dadlet
Go to YouTube. Pull up an episode of the 1980's tv sitcom ALF. Look at the dad. Now, imagine he is 5'4, with small fingers. Now, drop the dadet into a tapas, thai and wine bar at a bar, where he is sitting alone. Dadlet--tiny 1980's sitcom dad, miniature dad.
Imagine me. If you don't know me, I'm beautiful. Stunning, really. If you do know me, pretend I'm beautiful. Stunning even.
I sit at the bar to get a glass of cabernet before I return home to nurse some pretty persistent seasonal allergies. Dadlet strikes up a conversation with me about the menu. I suggest a few items and he suggests that we share our tapas. I weigh the possibilities: talking to someone or sitting with my sniffles. He wins.
We share a plate of tapas and order another. He's interesting to talk to, but clearly getting plastered. I continue to nurse my one glass of wine.
He espouses his views on Arabs (evidently, they're all infidels), fireman (evidently, they're all screwing the retirement system) the California collegiate system (evidently, they don't understand capitalism), and short sales (evidently, he's on the brink of homelessness).
I order another glass of wine.
After conversing for an hour or so, dadlet (whose face is growing redder by every drink of wine he ingests) leans over to me, and slurs the following:
"So, what are you doing when you leave here?"
Did I mention that it was 10:30 at night?
I reply that I'm going home for my date with a Benadryl tablet and two tablespoons of NyQuil.
"That doesn't sound like fun," he hiccups as his eyes start to droop.
"Allergies," I reply, with the same serious tone one might use to say "cancer" or "Mr. President, the aliens have landed."
At this point he says that he is about to leave and asks for the check. The bartender comes over.
"Thanks for..."I start when he cuts me off.
"Oh, I'm only paying for me" he interrupts, and gives the bartender a $100 bill.
"I was saying 'thanks for the nice conversation'" I continue, offended.
"Oh. Ok. Want to come home with me? I have a jacuzzi," he says, as if he is offering a competitive bid for the Benadryl.
At this point, I'm offended and disgusted. Dadlet has just--rudely, I might add--declined to pay for a drink and appetizer that I didn't ask him to pay for and has continued to invite me over to the jacuzzi? Are. You. Serious?
"No thank you," I reply.
"My jacuzzi is really nice. And, (hicccup) I only live right up the road. You can show me that video you were talking about. Then I can show you a video..." he trails off, looking at me very seriously.
"Yeah, no." I reply, as this clearly violates Rule #2--no dates that violate my personal safety or freedom.
"Oh. Well, no means no, I guess," dadlet sneers, "but if you change your mind, the hot water might make you feel better. You can see my office." By office, I'm thinking the room where he watches hours of internet porn. He looks like the kind of guy who watches hours of internet porn. Hours.
He leaves. I wait 20 minutes then have the bartender walk with me to my car. Though, he was so tiny I'm pretty sure I could have taken him.
Evelyn Parkside
Imagine me. If you don't know me, I'm beautiful. Stunning, really. If you do know me, pretend I'm beautiful. Stunning even.
I sit at the bar to get a glass of cabernet before I return home to nurse some pretty persistent seasonal allergies. Dadlet strikes up a conversation with me about the menu. I suggest a few items and he suggests that we share our tapas. I weigh the possibilities: talking to someone or sitting with my sniffles. He wins.
We share a plate of tapas and order another. He's interesting to talk to, but clearly getting plastered. I continue to nurse my one glass of wine.
He espouses his views on Arabs (evidently, they're all infidels), fireman (evidently, they're all screwing the retirement system) the California collegiate system (evidently, they don't understand capitalism), and short sales (evidently, he's on the brink of homelessness).
I order another glass of wine.
After conversing for an hour or so, dadlet (whose face is growing redder by every drink of wine he ingests) leans over to me, and slurs the following:
"So, what are you doing when you leave here?"
Did I mention that it was 10:30 at night?
I reply that I'm going home for my date with a Benadryl tablet and two tablespoons of NyQuil.
"That doesn't sound like fun," he hiccups as his eyes start to droop.
"Allergies," I reply, with the same serious tone one might use to say "cancer" or "Mr. President, the aliens have landed."
At this point he says that he is about to leave and asks for the check. The bartender comes over.
"Thanks for..."I start when he cuts me off.
"Oh, I'm only paying for me" he interrupts, and gives the bartender a $100 bill.
"I was saying 'thanks for the nice conversation'" I continue, offended.
"Oh. Ok. Want to come home with me? I have a jacuzzi," he says, as if he is offering a competitive bid for the Benadryl.
At this point, I'm offended and disgusted. Dadlet has just--rudely, I might add--declined to pay for a drink and appetizer that I didn't ask him to pay for and has continued to invite me over to the jacuzzi? Are. You. Serious?
"No thank you," I reply.
"My jacuzzi is really nice. And, (hicccup) I only live right up the road. You can show me that video you were talking about. Then I can show you a video..." he trails off, looking at me very seriously.
"Yeah, no." I reply, as this clearly violates Rule #2--no dates that violate my personal safety or freedom.
"Oh. Well, no means no, I guess," dadlet sneers, "but if you change your mind, the hot water might make you feel better. You can see my office." By office, I'm thinking the room where he watches hours of internet porn. He looks like the kind of guy who watches hours of internet porn. Hours.
He leaves. I wait 20 minutes then have the bartender walk with me to my car. Though, he was so tiny I'm pretty sure I could have taken him.
Evelyn Parkside
Saturday, February 19, 2011
So...Are We Just Gonna Chit-Chat? Evidently, Yes.
TweedleDum must suffer from the degenerative condition called dateitis. Dateitis, I've found, afflicts quite a lot of men. I'm going to say that one-in-three men suffer from dateitis and it's the number one killer of women's interest in dating a man. Dateitis is serious stuff, people.
Dateitis occurs when a man appears to be interested in dating. In reality, he is not. Symptoms of this condition include: several phone calls/text messages in a twenty-four hour period; asking the question, "So, what do you want to do?" repeatedly, even after being given full autonomy to plan a date; saying phrases like, "I really want to see you again," but making zero measures to get together; and offering dates that include, "coming over to watch movies." (This, fellas, is not dating. Especially for a first date. This is a huge fail.)
Eventually, dateitis turns into two people being phone boyfriends/girlfriends, which, after the age of twelve, is nothing short of utterly ridiculous. The boy will call and want to talk, but will never initiate or put together a date.
So, TweedleDum has called me no less than twelve times since last Sunday night. We've spoken twice. Both times he has expressed interest in seeing me again, but he has taken zero measures to make it happen. My gut is telling me that he is going to offer for us to "watch movies" at his apartment, but I may be wrong.
Today we spoke for seven minutes. The conversation went like this:
Him-"I really want to see you again"
Me-"That would be nice."
Him-"So, what do you want to do?"
Me-"I'm flexible. What sounds good to you?"
Him"I don't know."
Silence.
More silence.
Him-"I really want to see you again."
Me-"Ok, well what would you like to do?"
Silence.
Him- "Um..."
Silence
Him- "What about pool or bowling or dinner?"
Me-"All of those sound like great ideas. I love shooting pool, it's a lot of fun."
Silence
More silence. I start counting prime numbers in my head.
More silence. I start wondering about the next M&M color. I think it's time for the flourescent line.
More silence. I wonder if I can balance a spoon on my nose. I get a spoon. I can't.
Me- "So...I'm off for the rest of the weekend...just let me know when you want to get together..."
Him-"Yeah. So what do you want to do?"
At this point, I want to ask the universe what I did in my past love life to get such a major karma slam in this love life. I want to universe to justify its cruel and unusual punishment. I want to go back to undergrad and find the husband I clearly missed. I want the spoon to stay on my nose.
What I don't want to do is craft my own first date.
Evelyn Parkside
Dateitis occurs when a man appears to be interested in dating. In reality, he is not. Symptoms of this condition include: several phone calls/text messages in a twenty-four hour period; asking the question, "So, what do you want to do?" repeatedly, even after being given full autonomy to plan a date; saying phrases like, "I really want to see you again," but making zero measures to get together; and offering dates that include, "coming over to watch movies." (This, fellas, is not dating. Especially for a first date. This is a huge fail.)
Eventually, dateitis turns into two people being phone boyfriends/girlfriends, which, after the age of twelve, is nothing short of utterly ridiculous. The boy will call and want to talk, but will never initiate or put together a date.
So, TweedleDum has called me no less than twelve times since last Sunday night. We've spoken twice. Both times he has expressed interest in seeing me again, but he has taken zero measures to make it happen. My gut is telling me that he is going to offer for us to "watch movies" at his apartment, but I may be wrong.
Today we spoke for seven minutes. The conversation went like this:
Him-"I really want to see you again"
Me-"That would be nice."
Him-"So, what do you want to do?"
Me-"I'm flexible. What sounds good to you?"
Him"I don't know."
Silence.
More silence.
Him-"I really want to see you again."
Me-"Ok, well what would you like to do?"
Silence.
Him- "Um..."
Silence
Him- "What about pool or bowling or dinner?"
Me-"All of those sound like great ideas. I love shooting pool, it's a lot of fun."
Silence
More silence. I start counting prime numbers in my head.
More silence. I start wondering about the next M&M color. I think it's time for the flourescent line.
More silence. I wonder if I can balance a spoon on my nose. I get a spoon. I can't.
Me- "So...I'm off for the rest of the weekend...just let me know when you want to get together..."
Him-"Yeah. So what do you want to do?"
At this point, I want to ask the universe what I did in my past love life to get such a major karma slam in this love life. I want to universe to justify its cruel and unusual punishment. I want to go back to undergrad and find the husband I clearly missed. I want the spoon to stay on my nose.
What I don't want to do is craft my own first date.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, February 17, 2011
A Self Reflection and Possible (Sigh) Date
After talking to TweedleDee this evening, I decided that I might need to engage in some self reflection to figure out why I keep attracting such, well, weirdos. So, I turned to the best person to tell me how great (or screwed up) I actually am: Oprah.
As I was perusing ye olde internet for personality assessments, I stumbled across a very official test of charima at Oprah.com. I took the test and answered all questions honestly. Here are the results:
Your Score 63
You have a hard time going unnoticed. You are one of the lucky few (only 5 percent of people score above 60) with that uncanny ability to light up a room. You probably have some experience as a performer, and are especially expressive and sensitive to others.
Your score indicates your level of charisma, or in psychological terms, how well you express yourself nonverbally. In my 25 years of research on the subject, I've found that the most alluring individuals can effortlessly communicate without words—through expressions, gestures, tone of voice, and other subtle signals. [If your score is lower than you'd like, follow Martha Beck's guide to boosting your charisma quotient.] — Howard S. Friedman, PhD
Now, this certainly sounds official. And, it's been verified by an internet PhD, so it must be true, even though the entire test only took me seven minutes to complete.
So, according to this, I should attract lots of people. Well, that's true. The problem is, most of the men I attract seem to be bottom feeders. And, not even cool bottom feeders like lobster or starfish, more like that slimy Asian carp that's mucking up the Great Lakes.
Tonight I engaged with the first conversation with TweedleDum, or Mr. Functionally Retarded. I won't bore you with the details of our entire talk, but I will relay the following information which I got after the first ten minutes of the first conversation we've ever had:
1) His mother is bipolar schizophrenic.
2) His sister is bioplar. Though not schizophrenic.
3) His sister is married. To an ex-con. With a penchant for violence. And a taste for beating his wife.
4) He is fixing his financial issues.
5) He has no car, though, evidently we're going out on Monday.
6) He is looking to lead a quiet life, one where his wife comes home every night and cooks.
On the upswing, he has all of his teeth.
Evelyn Parkside
As I was perusing ye olde internet for personality assessments, I stumbled across a very official test of charima at Oprah.com. I took the test and answered all questions honestly. Here are the results:
Your Score 63
You have a hard time going unnoticed. You are one of the lucky few (only 5 percent of people score above 60) with that uncanny ability to light up a room. You probably have some experience as a performer, and are especially expressive and sensitive to others.
Your score indicates your level of charisma, or in psychological terms, how well you express yourself nonverbally. In my 25 years of research on the subject, I've found that the most alluring individuals can effortlessly communicate without words—through expressions, gestures, tone of voice, and other subtle signals. [If your score is lower than you'd like, follow Martha Beck's guide to boosting your charisma quotient.] — Howard S. Friedman, PhD
Now, this certainly sounds official. And, it's been verified by an internet PhD, so it must be true, even though the entire test only took me seven minutes to complete.
So, according to this, I should attract lots of people. Well, that's true. The problem is, most of the men I attract seem to be bottom feeders. And, not even cool bottom feeders like lobster or starfish, more like that slimy Asian carp that's mucking up the Great Lakes.
Tonight I engaged with the first conversation with TweedleDum, or Mr. Functionally Retarded. I won't bore you with the details of our entire talk, but I will relay the following information which I got after the first ten minutes of the first conversation we've ever had:
1) His mother is bipolar schizophrenic.
2) His sister is bioplar. Though not schizophrenic.
3) His sister is married. To an ex-con. With a penchant for violence. And a taste for beating his wife.
4) He is fixing his financial issues.
5) He has no car, though, evidently we're going out on Monday.
6) He is looking to lead a quiet life, one where his wife comes home every night and cooks.
On the upswing, he has all of his teeth.
Evelyn Parkside
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Mr. Nice Guy.
So I met a guy. A nice guy. A normal guy. A guy with all his teeth. A guy who walks women to their cars. A guy with a good sense of humor.
Now, dear reader, I'm sure that you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm sure you're waiting to hear that he's a 4'11 or that he has five kids by six different women or that he has a teardrop tattoo just underneath his left eye. He doesn't.
And, my bbff is going to be so angry at me for this,but that's all the information I'm disclosing at this point.
Oh, I gave him my real phone number.
Evelyn Parkside
Now, dear reader, I'm sure that you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm sure you're waiting to hear that he's a 4'11 or that he has five kids by six different women or that he has a teardrop tattoo just underneath his left eye. He doesn't.
And, my bbff is going to be so angry at me for this,but that's all the information I'm disclosing at this point.
Oh, I gave him my real phone number.
Evelyn Parkside
Sunday, February 13, 2011
#Ithinkhemightbefunctionallyretarded, or #whyimgladigotanotherphone
This afternoon, while grocery shopping, I met another suitor. While perusing the salad dressing, I noticed a gentleman staring at me, looking wistfully in my direction. Wherever I went, his eyes followed.
As I was selecting from one of the many varietals of balsamic vinegarette, he manuvered closer to me and said, "you sure are purty."
"Thank you." I replied and kept looking at dressings.
"Real purty," he said as he inched closer, "what's your name?" he asked and extended his hand.
"Evelyn," I replied and shook. He held on to my hand and said "you sure are purty."
"Thank you," I said again, as I wondered if his brain was functioning on a loop. He looked like the kind of guy that ate boogers as a kid. And an adult.
"Are you a good Christian woman?" he asked, as he was still grasping my now clammy hand, "cause I feel like we could be real good friends. You sure are purty." I wondered if he had an IEP.
As he stared at me with bloodshot eyes, he explained that he and his cousin had started drinking about four hours ago and were now shopping for dinner groceries. His cousin then walked up and asked, "cuz, you need some help?" Damn girl, you shole is pretty," and looked me up and down "Cuz, let me help you out. Tell he she looks like, what her name, um, Jill Scott."
Sigh. Now Tweedlee Dum has given Tweedle Dee the idea that he has not only a chance, but a shot and a line.
So now cousin (Twedeedle Dum) looks me up and down, licks his chops and says, "let me just tell
you sumthin 'I like a girl with neckbones'" and walks away, seemingly for me to ponder this street poetry. Step back Shakespeare, and R.Kelly: the street prophet is spitting that hot street fire for all the girls.
Tweedle Dee is still holding my hand. I ask, "so, what do you do?" hoping that he could redeem himself before I left the salad dressing aisle.
"Home health care," he replies. This means that he is neither a doctor nor a nurse, but instead he is someone they rustled up to swindle old people in their own homes under the guise of "health care."
He smiles at me again and says, "you shole is purty," and grins from ear to ear. Finally, he musters up the rest of his courage and says, "Can I get your number?" Following rule #1, I say, you sure can, with high school pep squad perkiness. And I promptly give him the seven-digits from the brand new pick up and go cell phone I purchased last week during my date at Target with a man who admires my mouth.
I anxiously await our first date.
Evelyn Parkside
As I was selecting from one of the many varietals of balsamic vinegarette, he manuvered closer to me and said, "you sure are purty."
"Thank you." I replied and kept looking at dressings.
"Real purty," he said as he inched closer, "what's your name?" he asked and extended his hand.
"Evelyn," I replied and shook. He held on to my hand and said "you sure are purty."
"Thank you," I said again, as I wondered if his brain was functioning on a loop. He looked like the kind of guy that ate boogers as a kid. And an adult.
"Are you a good Christian woman?" he asked, as he was still grasping my now clammy hand, "cause I feel like we could be real good friends. You sure are purty." I wondered if he had an IEP.
As he stared at me with bloodshot eyes, he explained that he and his cousin had started drinking about four hours ago and were now shopping for dinner groceries. His cousin then walked up and asked, "cuz, you need some help?" Damn girl, you shole is pretty," and looked me up and down "Cuz, let me help you out. Tell he she looks like, what her name, um, Jill Scott."
Sigh. Now Tweedlee Dum has given Tweedle Dee the idea that he has not only a chance, but a shot and a line.
So now cousin (Twedeedle Dum) looks me up and down, licks his chops and says, "let me just tell
you sumthin 'I like a girl with neckbones'" and walks away, seemingly for me to ponder this street poetry. Step back Shakespeare, and R.Kelly: the street prophet is spitting that hot street fire for all the girls.
Tweedle Dee is still holding my hand. I ask, "so, what do you do?" hoping that he could redeem himself before I left the salad dressing aisle.
"Home health care," he replies. This means that he is neither a doctor nor a nurse, but instead he is someone they rustled up to swindle old people in their own homes under the guise of "health care."
He smiles at me again and says, "you shole is purty," and grins from ear to ear. Finally, he musters up the rest of his courage and says, "Can I get your number?" Following rule #1, I say, you sure can, with high school pep squad perkiness. And I promptly give him the seven-digits from the brand new pick up and go cell phone I purchased last week during my date at Target with a man who admires my mouth.
I anxiously await our first date.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, February 7, 2011
Bullseye
So, Mr. Bluebird of Happiness insisted on seeing me today--exactly one day after we met. He started sending me text messages this afternoon, begging to get together. When I got home, he sent me an urgent text reading, "when will you be available? I'd love to see you this evening."
I reply, "around 6:30" and ask him what he would like to do.
He says--wait for it... wait for it,--"I'll be at the Target on..." with directions.
Yes, dear reader, after two days of insisting on seeing me again, for our first "date," he chooses Target.
Now, here's the deal: I like Target. At some point in my distant past, I worked at Target. I go to Target on my off-days to walk around. There's something very comforting about wandering around Target, pushing a red shopping cart, mindlessly perusing the clearance back aisles and looking for sale signs. Target radiates good-old-fashioned American capitalism testesterone at its best.
But, when I think Target, I don't think date. However, as Rule #2 clearly states that I'll go on one first date of the man's choosing--no matter where as long as my personal safety is not violated--I went to Target.
I get there about 6:40 pm, swiftly jump into my comfort zone and grab a red cart. He meets me in the main aisle, somewhere between slow cookers and aspercream. Genial, he smiles and we push carts together, up and down the aisles, while I hunt for lesser known items like tea steepers and an encapusulated garlic press. Our eyes lock over a box of Tampax tampons. Our souls connect in electronics. We share an electrifying touch near the extension cords.
Except none of that really happened. We were in Target, for goodness sake.
At the end of the day, the reality is, I felt like I was shopping in Target, with some random guy walking behind me. Here's the deal, Target is not the place to get to know someone. It is impersonal. The one place to sit--the food court--reeks of bleach and hot dog grease. The light is bright and harsh.
After I purchased a disposable cell phone for the rest of this experiment and check out, he suggests that we keep talking, by sitting in his car.
Yeah, that's not like the beginning of the last thirty-seven Lifetime movies I watched. After I clearly state that we are not going to sit in his car to "talk," he offers my car. Again, the answer is a resounding no. So, we stand outside for about 10 minutes, conversing in between our respective vehicles--where he once again compliments my mouth.
And,...scene.
Evelyn Parkide
PS--after I left Target, I took myself for sushi.
I reply, "around 6:30" and ask him what he would like to do.
He says--wait for it... wait for it,--"I'll be at the Target on..." with directions.
Yes, dear reader, after two days of insisting on seeing me again, for our first "date," he chooses Target.
Now, here's the deal: I like Target. At some point in my distant past, I worked at Target. I go to Target on my off-days to walk around. There's something very comforting about wandering around Target, pushing a red shopping cart, mindlessly perusing the clearance back aisles and looking for sale signs. Target radiates good-old-fashioned American capitalism testesterone at its best.
But, when I think Target, I don't think date. However, as Rule #2 clearly states that I'll go on one first date of the man's choosing--no matter where as long as my personal safety is not violated--I went to Target.
I get there about 6:40 pm, swiftly jump into my comfort zone and grab a red cart. He meets me in the main aisle, somewhere between slow cookers and aspercream. Genial, he smiles and we push carts together, up and down the aisles, while I hunt for lesser known items like tea steepers and an encapusulated garlic press. Our eyes lock over a box of Tampax tampons. Our souls connect in electronics. We share an electrifying touch near the extension cords.
Except none of that really happened. We were in Target, for goodness sake.
At the end of the day, the reality is, I felt like I was shopping in Target, with some random guy walking behind me. Here's the deal, Target is not the place to get to know someone. It is impersonal. The one place to sit--the food court--reeks of bleach and hot dog grease. The light is bright and harsh.
After I purchased a disposable cell phone for the rest of this experiment and check out, he suggests that we keep talking, by sitting in his car.
Yeah, that's not like the beginning of the last thirty-seven Lifetime movies I watched. After I clearly state that we are not going to sit in his car to "talk," he offers my car. Again, the answer is a resounding no. So, we stand outside for about 10 minutes, conversing in between our respective vehicles--where he once again compliments my mouth.
And,...scene.
Evelyn Parkide
PS--after I left Target, I took myself for sushi.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Bluebird of Happiness
This afternoon, as I was dining at one of the city's finer estaablishments for lunch and to work on a project, I met yet another gentleman. He was dressed in all blue: blue jeans, blue Nikes, blue button-up and during our conversation he asked me if I had found my blue bird of happiness. Very cordial and outgoing, we struck up an easy-going conversation for about 10 minutes while he waited for his order.
Anyway, he complimented my smile--profusely--and asked me if he could have my number. According to rule #1, I had to give it to him, so I did. He left, with a jaunty spring in his step, and I finished my lunch.
Fifteen minutes I got the first text message: "I am pleased and very honored to have met your acquaintance. I look forward to speaking to you in the very near future."
Twenty minutes after that I got the first call, to check and see if I got the text message. I answered and informed Mr. Blue Bird of Happiness that I was just getting ready to watch the Superbowl at a friend's house. He insisted that I give him a call when I was done. I said ok.
Two hours after that, during the 4th quarter, I got the second phone call. I didn't answer
An hour after that, I got the third phone call. The game was over, and I was actually driving back home. Here's a brief transcript:
Me: "Hello."
BBoH: "Is this My Evelyn?"
Me: "This is an Evelyn"
BBoH: "But is this My Evelyn?"
Me: "It is not."
BBoH: "You're a teacher. You do understand the possessive pronoun "my," right?"
Me: "Yes, I understand possessives. But, I can't say that this is your Evelyn. This is an Evelyn, one not owned."
BBoH: "Well, I'm going to work on making you mine."
--Sigh. Long, lingering sigh. Sigh that is preceded by an gulp of despair and followed by an exhale of disgust. Really, sir? We met once, over tacos, and somehow you're able to stake claim on my personal freedom?--
The conversation goes on for a few more minutes and things were going well until he started what I like to call the Subversive Compliment, also known as Compliment Gone Awry. Subversive Compliments are what keep more men away from sex than have ever brought a man to sex. Let me explain.
On a first date, a man says something like, "You have a beautiful figure," which is a compliment. Any smart man will stop there. But, there are those that go the extra step and plunge headfirst into the subversive compliment. "You have a beautiful figure. I can just imagine grabbing that ass when I get you home. Umph!" That, sir, is Compliment Gone Awry. You have just officially talked yourself out of whatever chance you might have had.
Now, it's after the Superbowl, about 9:15 at night and I just met BBoH about 5 hours beforehand. We are not a couple. We're not even dating.
BBoH: "You have a beautiful smile." (Compliment. STOP here.)
Me: "Why, thank you."
BBOH: "No really. I love your mouth. You have an awesome mouth"
Me: "Um, thanks..."
BBoH: "Seriously, I kept staring at your mouth. Your mouth is just beautiful"
Now, here's the exact point of Compliment Gone Awry.
Me: Silence
BBoH: "I mean, your lips are just so perfectly plump and a healthy shade of pink. You have a gorgeous mouth. Some guys are a butt man, I guess I'm just a lip man."
Me: Silence. Horrified silence.
BBoH: "Are you busy right now? What side of town are you on? I was thinking, I see you again for about fifteen minutes? I'd love to look at your mouth again before I go to sleep."
Before you ask the most obvious question, let me answer it for you: BBoH is NOT a dentist.
Me: "No." Though Rule #2 states that I'll go on any first date I'm asked on, subsection 1 clearly states "unless it violates my personal safety and freedom." Meeting a potential creeper at 9:15 pm for him to, admittedly, "admire my mouth before he goes to sleep" violates my personal safety and freedom rule.
We continue talking, and the BBoH asks a series of Briggs Myers personality test questions. For a while I thought I was auditioning to be a contestant on a game show.
Verdict: Aside from the "I love your mouth" line of Compliments Gone Awry, the Blue Bird of Happiness was actually easy to talk to. He might be fun on a first date.
Evelyn Parkside
Anyway, he complimented my smile--profusely--and asked me if he could have my number. According to rule #1, I had to give it to him, so I did. He left, with a jaunty spring in his step, and I finished my lunch.
Fifteen minutes I got the first text message: "I am pleased and very honored to have met your acquaintance. I look forward to speaking to you in the very near future."
Twenty minutes after that I got the first call, to check and see if I got the text message. I answered and informed Mr. Blue Bird of Happiness that I was just getting ready to watch the Superbowl at a friend's house. He insisted that I give him a call when I was done. I said ok.
Two hours after that, during the 4th quarter, I got the second phone call. I didn't answer
An hour after that, I got the third phone call. The game was over, and I was actually driving back home. Here's a brief transcript:
Me: "Hello."
BBoH: "Is this My Evelyn?"
Me: "This is an Evelyn"
BBoH: "But is this My Evelyn?"
Me: "It is not."
BBoH: "You're a teacher. You do understand the possessive pronoun "my," right?"
Me: "Yes, I understand possessives. But, I can't say that this is your Evelyn. This is an Evelyn, one not owned."
BBoH: "Well, I'm going to work on making you mine."
--Sigh. Long, lingering sigh. Sigh that is preceded by an gulp of despair and followed by an exhale of disgust. Really, sir? We met once, over tacos, and somehow you're able to stake claim on my personal freedom?--
The conversation goes on for a few more minutes and things were going well until he started what I like to call the Subversive Compliment, also known as Compliment Gone Awry. Subversive Compliments are what keep more men away from sex than have ever brought a man to sex. Let me explain.
On a first date, a man says something like, "You have a beautiful figure," which is a compliment. Any smart man will stop there. But, there are those that go the extra step and plunge headfirst into the subversive compliment. "You have a beautiful figure. I can just imagine grabbing that ass when I get you home. Umph!" That, sir, is Compliment Gone Awry. You have just officially talked yourself out of whatever chance you might have had.
Now, it's after the Superbowl, about 9:15 at night and I just met BBoH about 5 hours beforehand. We are not a couple. We're not even dating.
BBoH: "You have a beautiful smile." (Compliment. STOP here.)
Me: "Why, thank you."
BBOH: "No really. I love your mouth. You have an awesome mouth"
Me: "Um, thanks..."
BBoH: "Seriously, I kept staring at your mouth. Your mouth is just beautiful"
Now, here's the exact point of Compliment Gone Awry.
Me: Silence
BBoH: "I mean, your lips are just so perfectly plump and a healthy shade of pink. You have a gorgeous mouth. Some guys are a butt man, I guess I'm just a lip man."
Me: Silence. Horrified silence.
BBoH: "Are you busy right now? What side of town are you on? I was thinking, I see you again for about fifteen minutes? I'd love to look at your mouth again before I go to sleep."
Before you ask the most obvious question, let me answer it for you: BBoH is NOT a dentist.
Me: "No." Though Rule #2 states that I'll go on any first date I'm asked on, subsection 1 clearly states "unless it violates my personal safety and freedom." Meeting a potential creeper at 9:15 pm for him to, admittedly, "admire my mouth before he goes to sleep" violates my personal safety and freedom rule.
We continue talking, and the BBoH asks a series of Briggs Myers personality test questions. For a while I thought I was auditioning to be a contestant on a game show.
Verdict: Aside from the "I love your mouth" line of Compliments Gone Awry, the Blue Bird of Happiness was actually easy to talk to. He might be fun on a first date.
Evelyn Parkside
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Kicking it up a Notch
So with Valentine's Day right around the corner, I've decided to kick it up a notch. Normally, my plan for the dreaded V-Day is to put on my prom dress, decorate my face in full make-up, plop a tiara on top of my head and remix the words to "What do the Lonely Do at Christmas" while opening a case of Pinot Noir.
This year, I'm taking a more proactive, positive approach: Meetup.com.
Meetup.com is a social networking site for people with similar interests to meet up. There are thousands of groups worldwide, and quite a few in my hometown. I spent a few minutes this afternoon developing my meetup profile and joining groups.
1) The Love + Relationship Guru group is having a gathering on V-Day
2) Lock and Key Singles Meetup Group
3) Golfers Club
4) The Ukulele club
5) The Art of Naked Yoga
This should be just enough to get me started. :)
Evelyn Parkside
This year, I'm taking a more proactive, positive approach: Meetup.com.
Meetup.com is a social networking site for people with similar interests to meet up. There are thousands of groups worldwide, and quite a few in my hometown. I spent a few minutes this afternoon developing my meetup profile and joining groups.
1) The Love + Relationship Guru group is having a gathering on V-Day
2) Lock and Key Singles Meetup Group
3) Golfers Club
4) The Ukulele club
5) The Art of Naked Yoga
This should be just enough to get me started. :)
Evelyn Parkside
Friday, February 4, 2011
So, Let me Get this Straight...the Rude, Nasty, Wombat has a Beau, and I Don't?
Ah, the fickle finger of fate has, once again, presented itself as a pointer finger to the rude broad and as the middle finger to me.
This is not a post about a specific date or date request (but one is coming). This isn't even a post about a gentleman caller. This is a self-reflective post about my single status.
So, I've long held the belief that nice, kind, gentle, sweet, caring, compassionate, benevloent women (like me) are often passed over for crazy, cruel, mean, "screw-you, buddy" broads whose faces always look like they just walked into a room that smelled like limburger cheese. For years I've held conducted very official internet, pop-culture and personal research that has reinforced that conclusion. I've calibrated the P-values of my research and have come to one conclusion: the meaner a woman is, the more likely she is to fall in love.
Today concluded my research.
I was in the salon today, getting my nails done by my absolutely fabulous nail tech. Right next to us, the stylist (who is also a miracle worker and can sling a mean flatiron) was working on a young wombat's hair. This young wombat, shaped like an egg and resembling post Princess Fiona, might have been pretty, if not for the vibe of hater that radiated around her, much like the stink lines in cartoons. I'm guessing she was about 25 years old.
Anywho, the stylist (who has won several awards and is very well-regarded--in other words, several steps up from the Kool-Aid color basement treatment) did a beautiful job curling and wrapping the wombat's hair so it would bounce and flow.
The wombat, however, was too impatient for the stylist to finish his job and took her hair down before it was ready. The stylist, without getting upset, was able to fix the mess she had created and the wombat's hair was absolutely beautiful. It moved. It flowed. It fell down in lovely tresses, radiating class. It said, "Hello. I'm not really a wombat, I just happen to resemble like one."
Her response:
"Oh my God! What have you done to my hair?" As she pouted, snarled and ran her wombat fingers through her now-deflating mane. "You made me look old. I look like I'm over thirty," she squawked, in a salon full of his customers. "You added twenty years to my life!"
I quipped, "Speak for yourself. I'm over thirty and I look damn good."
So the people in the salon tried to tell the wombat that her hair was gorgeous (which it was).
I must add, the hair was the best looking feature of this broad.
As she continued this tirade, she was also snatching her hair up into a CVS Goody hair clip. By the time she walked out, $125 later, she looked like she was auditioning for the part of a house negro in Roots.
So, back to how this connects to me.
After the wombat shoved off, of course the entire salon debriefed about her tirade. In the debriefing, I heard that the wombat has a boyfriend.
Now, here's the deal: the wombat has a paramour, yet I'm blogging, in bed by myself at 11:00 pm on a Friday night? Ah, yes, fate has given me the finger once again.
So, I have come up with two new guidelines:
1) Be cruel. Cruella De Vil, puppy-stealing, dream-crushing cruel.
2) Be rude and demanding. Off with their heads, it is.
3) Be crazy. Maybe I should get a pig, name her Misery and work on my croquet swing on a pair of ankles.
Evidently, men like having their balls in the vice grip of an egg-shaped wombat.
Evelyn Parkside
This is not a post about a specific date or date request (but one is coming). This isn't even a post about a gentleman caller. This is a self-reflective post about my single status.
So, I've long held the belief that nice, kind, gentle, sweet, caring, compassionate, benevloent women (like me) are often passed over for crazy, cruel, mean, "screw-you, buddy" broads whose faces always look like they just walked into a room that smelled like limburger cheese. For years I've held conducted very official internet, pop-culture and personal research that has reinforced that conclusion. I've calibrated the P-values of my research and have come to one conclusion: the meaner a woman is, the more likely she is to fall in love.
Today concluded my research.
I was in the salon today, getting my nails done by my absolutely fabulous nail tech. Right next to us, the stylist (who is also a miracle worker and can sling a mean flatiron) was working on a young wombat's hair. This young wombat, shaped like an egg and resembling post Princess Fiona, might have been pretty, if not for the vibe of hater that radiated around her, much like the stink lines in cartoons. I'm guessing she was about 25 years old.
Anywho, the stylist (who has won several awards and is very well-regarded--in other words, several steps up from the Kool-Aid color basement treatment) did a beautiful job curling and wrapping the wombat's hair so it would bounce and flow.
The wombat, however, was too impatient for the stylist to finish his job and took her hair down before it was ready. The stylist, without getting upset, was able to fix the mess she had created and the wombat's hair was absolutely beautiful. It moved. It flowed. It fell down in lovely tresses, radiating class. It said, "Hello. I'm not really a wombat, I just happen to resemble like one."
Her response:
"Oh my God! What have you done to my hair?" As she pouted, snarled and ran her wombat fingers through her now-deflating mane. "You made me look old. I look like I'm over thirty," she squawked, in a salon full of his customers. "You added twenty years to my life!"
I quipped, "Speak for yourself. I'm over thirty and I look damn good."
So the people in the salon tried to tell the wombat that her hair was gorgeous (which it was).
I must add, the hair was the best looking feature of this broad.
As she continued this tirade, she was also snatching her hair up into a CVS Goody hair clip. By the time she walked out, $125 later, she looked like she was auditioning for the part of a house negro in Roots.
So, back to how this connects to me.
After the wombat shoved off, of course the entire salon debriefed about her tirade. In the debriefing, I heard that the wombat has a boyfriend.
Now, here's the deal: the wombat has a paramour, yet I'm blogging, in bed by myself at 11:00 pm on a Friday night? Ah, yes, fate has given me the finger once again.
So, I have come up with two new guidelines:
1) Be cruel. Cruella De Vil, puppy-stealing, dream-crushing cruel.
2) Be rude and demanding. Off with their heads, it is.
3) Be crazy. Maybe I should get a pig, name her Misery and work on my croquet swing on a pair of ankles.
Evidently, men like having their balls in the vice grip of an egg-shaped wombat.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, January 31, 2011
ChippenDon't
This afternoon I accompanied a good friend to a big bridal expo (she's already found love in 2011 and is getting all gussied up to sign up for a lifetime of indentured servitude). I went along for research purposes: if I want to get love, I need to see what love looks like.
Evidently love looks like a bunch of seemingly intelligent women who are perfectly ok with going into bankruptcy for overpriced photos, dresses, flowers and dry chicken, but I digress.
While I was at said expo, I struck up a conversation with a cute white guy with an overabundance of energy and a penchant for gyrating his hips every time he heard an eight count. He was working one of the booths and very friendly. My girlfriend walked away to look at cupcakes shaped like hearts, leaving me with the man with boyish charm and dashing good looks that sparked small glitterkisses from tiny fairies every time he smiled. Anywho, he and I struck up a seemingly insignifigant conversation while I waited for my friend to return.
As I was talking, Mr. Boy-Next-Door-for-Women-over-35 maintained a steady hip gyrate and kept kissing my right hand. After about 20 minutes of such foolishness, he says,
"So, can I have your number?"
Which prompts me to ask, "Are you being serious?"
So here's the deal. He's a stripper. And, a stripper for a very well-known group of dancers. The kind of stripper women squeal over and toss their bras on stage for. The kind of stripper that stays on retainer for sorority parties. The kind of stripper who owns velcro leather pants for easy removal.
Great.
But, maintaining my own rules, I say "sure." and give him the digits.
So here's the deal. I'm intrigued. But, I have about a 10% return rate for numbers given out versus men who call.
Could love be lurking around the corner of an episode of Pantsoff Danceoff? We shall see.
Evelyn Parkside
Evidently love looks like a bunch of seemingly intelligent women who are perfectly ok with going into bankruptcy for overpriced photos, dresses, flowers and dry chicken, but I digress.
While I was at said expo, I struck up a conversation with a cute white guy with an overabundance of energy and a penchant for gyrating his hips every time he heard an eight count. He was working one of the booths and very friendly. My girlfriend walked away to look at cupcakes shaped like hearts, leaving me with the man with boyish charm and dashing good looks that sparked small glitterkisses from tiny fairies every time he smiled. Anywho, he and I struck up a seemingly insignifigant conversation while I waited for my friend to return.
As I was talking, Mr. Boy-Next-Door-for-Women-over-35 maintained a steady hip gyrate and kept kissing my right hand. After about 20 minutes of such foolishness, he says,
"So, can I have your number?"
Which prompts me to ask, "Are you being serious?"
So here's the deal. He's a stripper. And, a stripper for a very well-known group of dancers. The kind of stripper women squeal over and toss their bras on stage for. The kind of stripper that stays on retainer for sorority parties. The kind of stripper who owns velcro leather pants for easy removal.
Great.
But, maintaining my own rules, I say "sure." and give him the digits.
So here's the deal. I'm intrigued. But, I have about a 10% return rate for numbers given out versus men who call.
Could love be lurking around the corner of an episode of Pantsoff Danceoff? We shall see.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Saved by a Technical
So my rules may already be gearing up to bite me in the ass.
I recently went out to lunch with a girlfriend from work. Lunch itself was totally uneventful. After lunch, however, Cupid himself (that peevish imp) shot a dart right into the wandering eye of a very tall gentleman who spied us walking in the parking lot back to the car.
Something about me told him that he needed to say hello.
He approaches and begins walking alongside my friend and me.
"Hello, sista," he says.
"Hello," I reply back.
He keeps talking. I have no idea what he said next because I was mesmerized by his mouth.
It was missing all of its upper teeth.
All. Of. Its. Upper. Teeth.
ALL of its upper teeth.
Though my eyes were focused on the fact that his mouth effectively modeled a black hole, my feet were smart enough to quicken up the pace to the car.
I remember him asking, "Do you work around here" and "Will I see you here tomorrow"and me sputtering out as quickly as I could "I don't think so" while my main goal was to get to the car.
See, here's the problem (ok, let's keep it real, there are many problems with this entire situation): my first rule is that I would give my number to whomever asked. So, it became critically important to get out of his phone-number-asking-radius before he could a) ask, or b) spit some kind of food from his mouth on me as he was missing the ever-critical barrier between mouth and outside world: his teeth.
I burrowed my head down low and focused on the car door. I could hear my friend sniggering. Fifteen steps away. Ten. Five. One. Opening the door.
"Can I give you..." I hear him ask, just as I'm sliding in the car and shutting the door.
Safe. The crown--oops crowd--goes wild.
Saved by a technical.
But, more than anything, I'm wondering what is is about me that made him think that I would ever, eva, eva eva eva eva eva spend time with Frankenteeth. Whatever that is, I need to fix. Today.
I recently went out to lunch with a girlfriend from work. Lunch itself was totally uneventful. After lunch, however, Cupid himself (that peevish imp) shot a dart right into the wandering eye of a very tall gentleman who spied us walking in the parking lot back to the car.
Something about me told him that he needed to say hello.
He approaches and begins walking alongside my friend and me.
"Hello, sista," he says.
"Hello," I reply back.
He keeps talking. I have no idea what he said next because I was mesmerized by his mouth.
It was missing all of its upper teeth.
All. Of. Its. Upper. Teeth.
ALL of its upper teeth.
Though my eyes were focused on the fact that his mouth effectively modeled a black hole, my feet were smart enough to quicken up the pace to the car.
I remember him asking, "Do you work around here" and "Will I see you here tomorrow"and me sputtering out as quickly as I could "I don't think so" while my main goal was to get to the car.
See, here's the problem (ok, let's keep it real, there are many problems with this entire situation): my first rule is that I would give my number to whomever asked. So, it became critically important to get out of his phone-number-asking-radius before he could a) ask, or b) spit some kind of food from his mouth on me as he was missing the ever-critical barrier between mouth and outside world: his teeth.
I burrowed my head down low and focused on the car door. I could hear my friend sniggering. Fifteen steps away. Ten. Five. One. Opening the door.
"Can I give you..." I hear him ask, just as I'm sliding in the car and shutting the door.
Safe. The crown--oops crowd--goes wild.
Saved by a technical.
But, more than anything, I'm wondering what is is about me that made him think that I would ever, eva, eva eva eva eva eva spend time with Frankenteeth. Whatever that is, I need to fix. Today.
The Question: "Can We Get Married in the next Three Weeks?"
The answer: "Um, no."
So in my quest for finding love in 2011, I am making good on my promise to 1) give my number to whomever asks and 2) give everyone who asks me out one fair shot. Why? Because according to the internet I'm single and every year my chances of finding love decrease every hour.
Tonight I had a date. Honestly, it was pretty uneventful. Well, uneventful if you consider me being asked to elope in the next month; having to ignore a true hottie-mctottie who kept staring at me; and, being asked if I minded being woken up for sex after 11:00 pm.
My date, the schlump, was a nice guy. Nice, but clearly wife-hunting (which he also reminded me was his duty by God and I, evidently, am the Eve to his Adam). While I'm all about eternal love til' death do us part, my benchmarks for marriage are as follows:
Q1) If we were being chased by a wild black bear while hiking in Vermont, are you strong enough to stave off said bear while I run for the car?
A1) I don't think so. The schlump is kind of chubby, which is ok, so I think he would be good chewin' for the bear, but not really a match in terms of sheer, brute strength.
Q2) Could I imagine myself kissing you with my eyes open?
A2) Definitely not. I can't even imagine myself imagining you kissing me without breaking out into hives.
Q3) Are you crazy like a loon or crazy like a fox.
A3) I'm going with crazy like a loon for this one, referenced by the serious question about us eloping and the hinting around that I might be "cooking dinner and spending the night" in the next week or so.
Disregarding all of that, the date was better than I expected.
Verdict: Not in love yet, but there are still 300+ days in 2011.
So in my quest for finding love in 2011, I am making good on my promise to 1) give my number to whomever asks and 2) give everyone who asks me out one fair shot. Why? Because according to the internet I'm single and every year my chances of finding love decrease every hour.
Tonight I had a date. Honestly, it was pretty uneventful. Well, uneventful if you consider me being asked to elope in the next month; having to ignore a true hottie-mctottie who kept staring at me; and, being asked if I minded being woken up for sex after 11:00 pm.
My date, the schlump, was a nice guy. Nice, but clearly wife-hunting (which he also reminded me was his duty by God and I, evidently, am the Eve to his Adam). While I'm all about eternal love til' death do us part, my benchmarks for marriage are as follows:
Q1) If we were being chased by a wild black bear while hiking in Vermont, are you strong enough to stave off said bear while I run for the car?
A1) I don't think so. The schlump is kind of chubby, which is ok, so I think he would be good chewin' for the bear, but not really a match in terms of sheer, brute strength.
Q2) Could I imagine myself kissing you with my eyes open?
A2) Definitely not. I can't even imagine myself imagining you kissing me without breaking out into hives.
Q3) Are you crazy like a loon or crazy like a fox.
A3) I'm going with crazy like a loon for this one, referenced by the serious question about us eloping and the hinting around that I might be "cooking dinner and spending the night" in the next week or so.
Disregarding all of that, the date was better than I expected.
Verdict: Not in love yet, but there are still 300+ days in 2011.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Iron Pimp
So three days ago I met two guys: one of which I liked, one of which was a schlump. I gave them both my number. Because the cosmos takes great pleasure in making my love life as difficult as possible, of course the guy I actually liked has not called. The schlump, however, has called eight times and sent at least five text messages.
The schlump also thinks I'm Jill Scott. I have had to tell him three times that I, indeed, am not Jill Scott: I do not sing, I do not act and I am not from Philly. I do have big hair and hips, but the resemblance stops there.
During our first twenty-five minute conversation, I got a bit concerned. First, he told me that he planned on being married in the next year and that he was tired of having girlfriends. Then, he told me that he wanted two more kids. Yes, more. He also thought I was twenty-five, which was a bit unsettling after he told me that his daughter is twenty-one.
He told me that the Lord had brought us together. He said that, "The Bible says that when a man finds a good woman, he finds a good thing. See, you was just sittin' outside the valet, waiting to be found and I found you." I stopped myself from retorting, "I wasn't lost."
He then told me that he had gotten into an argument with a friend of his--also 41--who idolizes Jill Scott. He idolizes her so much that he has posters on his wall, "like a thirteen year old girl." Sigh. The friend tells the schlump that he'd better be careful and that I'm still fair game, because we're not a couple, yet. Sigh. This is the point where the schump tells me that he's going to make an honest woman out of me. Sigh again.
Fast forward to our second conversation.
The schlump asks me to go out this Thursday. Sticking to my rules, I obliged. He suggests a Neo-Soul lounge. I oblige again. Though this would not be my first choice, I'm going along.
That's when the conversation went from bad to worse:
"Um, I need to tell you something," the schlump says.
"Yes?" I reply, wondering what could possibly come next.
"I don't have a car. I"ll have to take the bus." He answers.
Alas, he will have to take the iron pimp to meet me on our first date. At forty-one.
Long, lingering sigh. I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir.
M
The schlump also thinks I'm Jill Scott. I have had to tell him three times that I, indeed, am not Jill Scott: I do not sing, I do not act and I am not from Philly. I do have big hair and hips, but the resemblance stops there.
During our first twenty-five minute conversation, I got a bit concerned. First, he told me that he planned on being married in the next year and that he was tired of having girlfriends. Then, he told me that he wanted two more kids. Yes, more. He also thought I was twenty-five, which was a bit unsettling after he told me that his daughter is twenty-one.
He told me that the Lord had brought us together. He said that, "The Bible says that when a man finds a good woman, he finds a good thing. See, you was just sittin' outside the valet, waiting to be found and I found you." I stopped myself from retorting, "I wasn't lost."
He then told me that he had gotten into an argument with a friend of his--also 41--who idolizes Jill Scott. He idolizes her so much that he has posters on his wall, "like a thirteen year old girl." Sigh. The friend tells the schlump that he'd better be careful and that I'm still fair game, because we're not a couple, yet. Sigh. This is the point where the schump tells me that he's going to make an honest woman out of me. Sigh again.
Fast forward to our second conversation.
The schlump asks me to go out this Thursday. Sticking to my rules, I obliged. He suggests a Neo-Soul lounge. I oblige again. Though this would not be my first choice, I'm going along.
That's when the conversation went from bad to worse:
"Um, I need to tell you something," the schlump says.
"Yes?" I reply, wondering what could possibly come next.
"I don't have a car. I"ll have to take the bus." He answers.
Alas, he will have to take the iron pimp to meet me on our first date. At forty-one.
Long, lingering sigh. I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir.
M
"Baby, I don't eat vegetables"
We'll call him "J." Robust, J looked like he had never meet a pork chop he didn't like. But, he was also good looking...kind of put me in the mind of Fat Joe. He asked for my number, I obliged, we talked on the phone and decided to go out. I knew pretty early on I'd be in some trouble.
So I tell "J" that I'd had a long day at work and that all I wanted to do was go somewhere casual to have an easy dinner. In my mind, I'm thinking about the new Mediterranean restaurant across the street, or the Thai restaurant around the corner. J asked me if he could join me for dinner and I said "that'd be great!" with the kind of perky enthusiasm usually reserved for cheer coaches and people who own little dogs that fit in purses. I told "J" that I wasn't looking for a fine dining experience, I just wanted to chill and relax.
"J" responded, "So you don't want to go to Applebees?"
Pause. Rewind.
I say that I don't want a fine dining experience. "J" assumes this means I do not want Applebees.
Well, "J" is right. I don't want Applebees. I hate Applebees. But, I'm more concerned that he considers Applebees "fine dining."
I reply, with even more perkiness (I can feel a tiny vein start to throb at the base of my neck), "that's right, I'll probably skip Applebees tonight." "J" asks me where he can meet me, and I thumbing through the restaurant rolodex in my head. As this man finds Applebees "fancy," my internal monologue quickly nixes anything ethnic, any place that prohibits jeans, and searches for places where people spit peanut shells on the floor. I settle on BJ's, thinking that it's the perfect blend of regular man food and food I'll actually eat. BJ's is kind of in between Friday's and J.Alexander. A brewery, BJ's is casual with a pretty comprehensive American fare menu. It also has several large screen TVs around the restaurant, usually playing football or basketball. So, I thought this would be a great, casual place to have a first date.
We get to the restaurant and he starts to pore over the menu. After flipping through several pages of pastas, burgers, pizzas, and chicken wings, he declares, "I don't know what to get. This is kind of fancy."
Pause.
I reply, "Well, I've been here a few times and the food is really good. I'm sure whatever you get will be great" And smile.
He looks lost.
I try again. "Their avocado rolls are absolutely phenomenal. Want to try those as an appetizer?"
His reply: "I don't eat vegetables."
Pause.
Excuse me? What grown up, 35+ does not eat vegetables? I forced my face to remain still, to keep my eyebrows from saying WTF?
So, after a long three second pause, I ask, "Ever?"
"Naw, I don't mess with no vegetables" he says, and clasps his hands on the table.
"On purpose?" I ask, feeling my face start to betray me.
"Naw. Growing up we ate, you know, like regular food. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken. Pork chops. You know, regular food" he says with the kind of seriousness that one would use when telling a guy he only has three months to live.
"Broccoli?" I ask, hoping that he doesn't know that broccoli is a vegetable.
"Naw.Don't like it"
"Spinach?"
"Nope."
"Salad?"
"Yeah, I'll eat salad. With ranch. And cheese. And bacon bits. Oh yeah, I also eat corn. Corn's a vegetable, right?"
At this point the vein has throbbed into full-fledged jump. I'm flabbergasted. So the only "vegetable" this man eats is bastardized with cheese and bacon.
"Well, I have good news," I reply, "you might like the avocado rolls. Avocado's a fruit."
M
*At the end of the date, when the check appeared, he asked me, "So, is this one on you or me?"
So I tell "J" that I'd had a long day at work and that all I wanted to do was go somewhere casual to have an easy dinner. In my mind, I'm thinking about the new Mediterranean restaurant across the street, or the Thai restaurant around the corner. J asked me if he could join me for dinner and I said "that'd be great!" with the kind of perky enthusiasm usually reserved for cheer coaches and people who own little dogs that fit in purses. I told "J" that I wasn't looking for a fine dining experience, I just wanted to chill and relax.
"J" responded, "So you don't want to go to Applebees?"
Pause. Rewind.
I say that I don't want a fine dining experience. "J" assumes this means I do not want Applebees.
Well, "J" is right. I don't want Applebees. I hate Applebees. But, I'm more concerned that he considers Applebees "fine dining."
I reply, with even more perkiness (I can feel a tiny vein start to throb at the base of my neck), "that's right, I'll probably skip Applebees tonight." "J" asks me where he can meet me, and I thumbing through the restaurant rolodex in my head. As this man finds Applebees "fancy," my internal monologue quickly nixes anything ethnic, any place that prohibits jeans, and searches for places where people spit peanut shells on the floor. I settle on BJ's, thinking that it's the perfect blend of regular man food and food I'll actually eat. BJ's is kind of in between Friday's and J.Alexander. A brewery, BJ's is casual with a pretty comprehensive American fare menu. It also has several large screen TVs around the restaurant, usually playing football or basketball. So, I thought this would be a great, casual place to have a first date.
We get to the restaurant and he starts to pore over the menu. After flipping through several pages of pastas, burgers, pizzas, and chicken wings, he declares, "I don't know what to get. This is kind of fancy."
Pause.
I reply, "Well, I've been here a few times and the food is really good. I'm sure whatever you get will be great" And smile.
He looks lost.
I try again. "Their avocado rolls are absolutely phenomenal. Want to try those as an appetizer?"
His reply: "I don't eat vegetables."
Pause.
Excuse me? What grown up, 35+ does not eat vegetables? I forced my face to remain still, to keep my eyebrows from saying WTF?
So, after a long three second pause, I ask, "Ever?"
"Naw, I don't mess with no vegetables" he says, and clasps his hands on the table.
"On purpose?" I ask, feeling my face start to betray me.
"Naw. Growing up we ate, you know, like regular food. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken. Pork chops. You know, regular food" he says with the kind of seriousness that one would use when telling a guy he only has three months to live.
"Broccoli?" I ask, hoping that he doesn't know that broccoli is a vegetable.
"Naw.Don't like it"
"Spinach?"
"Nope."
"Salad?"
"Yeah, I'll eat salad. With ranch. And cheese. And bacon bits. Oh yeah, I also eat corn. Corn's a vegetable, right?"
At this point the vein has throbbed into full-fledged jump. I'm flabbergasted. So the only "vegetable" this man eats is bastardized with cheese and bacon.
"Well, I have good news," I reply, "you might like the avocado rolls. Avocado's a fruit."
M
*At the end of the date, when the check appeared, he asked me, "So, is this one on you or me?"
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