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
Thursday, February 24, 2011
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)