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

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

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

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

"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

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

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.

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

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