#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