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
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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
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