This past weekend I went to a black-tie fundraiser silent-auction dinner for one of the school board members. During the dinner, I met an attractive man, with an imposing posture and beautiful long locks. We talk for a minute and exchange numbers.
A few days later, he gives me a call, telling me how pretty I am and how much he wants to see me again. Flattered, I giggly coyly and play along. We decide to go out to lunch Saturday afternoon to one of the cities prettiest interactive parks with a restaurant in the middle. Already impressed he didn't offer up Applebees or Target, I'm good to go.
We meet at the restaurant. He walks me in and orders for me. Sweet.
Finally, I got a normal one.
Then it hit me: I got a normal one.
I wait for the other shoe to drop.
As we wait for the waiter to bring our order, we start to talk. We cover the basics: my job, his job, where we grew up, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Then he looks at me and asks, "You don't have any kids do you?"
"No," I reply.
"Why? A woman as fine as you with them thick ass hips needs some kids."
"Well," I reply, "I travelled a lot in my twenties and I'm not married. I like kids, and I'm sure I'll have some one day, but I wanted to live my life," I explain.
"Naw, babygirl...you need some kids. I'mma make you baby momma number four."
There's the shoe. I knew it was coming.
Did I mention that lunch hasn't arrived from the kitchen yet? So, this is happening within the first 10 minutes of first date conversation.
Baby momma number four? Who says that?
So, at this point, you're thinking that I left the date, huffy and disgusted. You'd be wrong. I actually get great pleasure from indulging the crazy, and I knew that more crazy was a'commin.
He then precedes to tell me of Baby Mommas one-through-three.
Apparently, he didn't know Baby Momma number one existed until the baby was sixteen. He went back to New York, was hanging out in a bodega in Brooklyn when she ran into him, exclaimed, "oh shit! I gotta tell you something" and dropped the bomb that he is the father of a teenage girl. Of course, in true "Not my baby" fashion, he requests a DNA test, though the girl looks like him with a wig. Conclusion: you are the father.
Baby Momma number two also know as Ex-Wife number 1 came from a brief stint at marriage in his early thirties when he was in the Navy. Apparently, though he was only tethered to the wife for seven months, he's now tethered to a twenty-one year old daughter in perpetuity.
Baby Momma number three is just Baby Momma number three. Oops.
Of course, he makes it a point to tell me that he takes care of all his daughters. In fact, two of them live with him.
He then goes on to tell me about his last two ex-girlfriends.
Ex-girlfriend number one, is, apparently, crazy. So crazy for him in fact, that she purchased the house next door to his when they broke up. So crazy, in fact, that whenever he dates someone new and brings her to the house, she calls asking, "Who the fuck is that bitch?" I wonder where the candid camera is hidden.
Ex-girlfriend number two, is, apparently, young. So young in comparison to him, in fact, that when they went out, people frequently thought she was his daughter. So young, in fact, that she likes--and I quote--"to fuck too much! I'm forty-five, after once, I'm done!" I wonder when the mental institute will realize they've lost a patient.
After telling me that the first girlfriend was too crazy, and the last girlfriend was too young, he turns his attention back to me and my child-bearing hips and says, "but you're perfect. You're not crazy and you're old enough," effectively complimenting (?) and insulting me at the same time.
This goes on for another twenty minutes or so, long enough for him to tell me that he wants to get married again and a woman like me is perfect to, "keep my black ass in line!" His wife, with ninja like powers, would convince him to stop staying in the streets all night and bring his black ass home. And, apparently, I looked like I met all the criteria.
Except one key thing: I have no desire to marry a 45-year-old, libidoless man with three baby mommas and one crazy ex-girlfriend who lives next door, and who likes to stay out all night.
We part ways. He still calls.
Evelyn Parkside
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