My first job out of college was teaching high school English. A few nights ago, I got an interesting Facebook message from a Facebook friend. It read, "Hey Ms. P., how are you?" I replied to the post, "great, hon, how are you?" The writer explained to me that he was coming to visit my new city, a destination hotspot, and I gave him my number in case he needed to know someone in the are when he got here. The conversation was quite normal. After a few obligatory pleasantries, and explaining that he had just graduated college, however, the writer finally got to the point:
"Since u not my teacher no more and im not underage..i can say this DAMNNN U FINE!" Aside from the overwhelming grammatical errors in the message, I'm shocked. And awed. And shocked.
In other words, "I'm a grown man now, baby..."
It's 10:30 at night, my eyes are crossing because I'm suffering sheer exhaustion from just getting out of a 14-hour work day, and my eyebrows still had enough strength to raise at the screen.
Stunned, I reply, "lmao, thanks. I appreciate the compliment."
The writer continues, "ur a 'tasty vixen.'" Oh boy.
This exchange goes on for a few more minutes, as I try to steer it back to his post graduation plans. Not to be deterred, the writer says, "u know I got love for cougars."
Now I'm offended. Was I just called a cougar? Jaguar, perhaps. Lioness definitely. Cougar? I'm still on the right side of 35!
I offer a goodnight, and sign off.
A few minutes later my phone signals a text. The text--from an unknown number--reads, "good night beautiful."
Now, I'ma keep it real. The thought was intriguing. Silly, but intriguing. Let's keep it real, the kid's now over 22 and very possibly has a strong back.
I ignore the text.
The next morning, bright and early, my phone signals another text, "Good morning beautiful. Hope you have a wonderful day."
This continues for several days. At some point, he gives me the, "I'm grown, you're grown, you're fine and I'm really tryna get on" speech. The kid's trying hard. I'm entertained. But, then again, I entertain easily by foolishness.
After a little over a week of me more-or-less ignoring the messages, he stops.
Who says single black women don't get suitors? Sadly, this one still smells like similac.
For the record, nothing progressed...I'm committed to retaining my self dignity.
Evelyn Parkside
Friday, July 27, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Baby Momma No. 4?
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
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
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Just When You Thought it Couldn't Get ANY Worse...In Comes A Pimp
Ahhh, dear readers, you've probably noticed that I've been gone for a *little* bit. Got a new job, bought a house, started travelling...in short, life got in the way.
But this weekend provided the perfect fodder for a relaunch of "The Dating Experience:" A Pimp.
Yes. A Pimp. A "Bitch-betta-have-my-money," "Hoe-sit-down," "Hit-the-stroll" pimp. Pimp.
This weekend I was in Las Vegas for the New Edition concert with two of my sorors and a girlfriend. (Side note, NE STILL got it! I Candy Rained, Stood the Rain, Mr. Telephone Manned, Poisoned it up for two solid hours, in flats, and still had sore feet. And, Bobby showed. If they come to your city, definitely go. But I digress) As my girlfriends and I walked toward the entrance of the concert, there stood before me what can aptly be described as a Hot Ass Mess (HAM). HAM, female, was wearing a cotton black catsuit (who makes cotton catsuits?). The form-fitting atrocity showed off her best feature--her hanging gut and incredibly saggy boobs--and those were her best assets. The catsuit looked as if a first-year at Hogwarts had taken six or seven paintbrushes, dipped them in different cans of colored paint, stood back, and shouted, "Expellarmius Paintus Maximus!" while splattering the paint all over the canvas of the suit. As if the paint weren't enough, the suit also had gold lame patches attaching straps across the back, which had been cut out, and large gold buttons adorning the front of the suit. And why stop there? HAM was wearing matching 4 inch heels. She was with her boyfriend, who looked, in comparison utterly nondescript. Easily 4 inches shorter, he wore slacks and a cream top (linen?) a hat and had a tiny ponytail.
HAM and boyfriend are directly in front of me and one of my sorors, Donna. So, we do the obvious--whisper about her.
"Girl, she looks a hot ass mess!" I whispered, lest HAM turned around and decided to go HAM on me.
"I know!" a loud whisper returns in my ear.
"Who leaves the house like that? And, why did her man let her leave the house like that?" I whisper back, while rolling my eyes in disgust.
This continues on for several seconds. Before you call me a hater, let me help you: I am. I hate to see black women look a hot ass mess. Especially because we don't have to.
When the concert is over, the four of us decide it's too early to go home, so we decide to hang out in Vegas for a bit. We meander over to one of the bars, but it's too loud and extremely full of people. So, we keep walking until we end up at one of the sports bar which is empty by comparison to the other establishments on a Saturday night.
The bar is quiet, filled only with older white couples (about 4-5) and us. The music is fairly low and there is ample seating. Perfect. We take a seat and Donna and I describing the outfit to the Cassandra and Sibil who had not seen it. At the end of my description, Cassandra looks up and asks, "is that it?" and points to a woman walking into the nearly empty bar with her boyfriend.
"Yes!" Donna and I agree in unison.
"It IS a hot ass mess!" Cassandra says, shaking her head.
HAM and boyfriend sit at the bar. I'm sitting facing the bar, so I'm facing their backs. My three girlfriends are facing me, and looking out onto the casino floor. HAM starts smoking a cigarette, and boyfriend orders himself a drink. They sit. A few minutes later, a gentleman bearing a striking resemblance to Bill Bellamy shows up and starts talking to boyfriend. My girls and I are split: is it Bellamy or not? We finally decide it's not Bellamy. After chopping it up for a few minutes to boyfriend, Bellamy walks to the other end of the bar and sits down. He orders a glass of yak and a beer, pulls out his cell phone, checks it, and starts feeding dollars into the mechanical poker game at the bar.
I'm looking at all three of these characters because something just isn't right. I can't seem to figure out what it is, but I have a very strong, unsettling feeling that something is amiss. Boyfriend sashays down to Bellamy. And it hit me. Boyfriend--henceforth and forever more known as $ugar--is a pimp. I don't know how I knew he's a pimp. I just knew. I saw it as clearly as I see the DSW clearance tags and I knew it with the same conviction that I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. So, I announce my revelation to my friends, "Oh my God. He's a pimp."
They laugh at me.
I repeat myself, "He's a pimp."
The resounding replies are "No, he's not" and "How do you know?"
I knew because of a few key things. The oddities hit me. Oddity One: Sugar is with Ca$xmere (previously known as HAM), but he is not with Ca$xmere. He is barely talking to her. There are no subtle gestures of affection, no small touches on the back, no gentle strokes on the arm. Their body language is not of that of two people who are initimate. It's cold. Oddity Two: Bill Bellamy spoke only to $ugar, never once acknowledging Ca$xmere's existence. Oddity Three: These characters (and yes, I'm stereotyping here. Just because something's a stereotype doesn't mean it's not true. ) are in the empty sports bar with older white couples when there is a booming hip hop bar 200 feet away. They don't fit.
So I try to explain this to my friends. They keep laughing.
A few minutes go by, and I continue to keep tabs on the situation at the bar. $ugar and Ca$xmere leave the bar and I lose sight of them. I keep talking to my friends. After maybe three minutes, Donna says, "Oh. My. God You're right. He is a pimp."
"What's going on? " I ask, as I swivel my body toward the casino floor.
Ca$xmere is about 100 feet away from the bar, posturing in the middle of a very busy walkway, showing off her worn-and-weathered wares. $ugar is maybe 50 feet away from her, watching her. I'm watching him watch her. Two guys walk by Ca$xmere and she catches their eye. She reposes. They walk away, but maintain eyecontact with her. She reposes again. They come back. They talk for a minute, then she walks off with the two of them while $ugar follows. It is clear what is happening.
I return to my friends, smugly satisfied.
"I bet the other guy's a pimp, too." I say.
They laugh again.
"Think about it. I'm a teacher. Know who I hang out with? Teachers. My friends who are lawyers hang out with lawyers. Pimps hang out with pimps" I say, emphatically.
We continue to talk, debating the liklihood of there being two pimps in the bar with us.
As we're debating, two more young black guys (early-to-mid twenties) enter the bar. They're together, but they're not together. They walk in together, kind of, but they don't speak and they don't sit next to each other. They have the same swaggar and energy as $ugar and Bellamy. Wearing jeans and long shirts, they too, look pretty nondescript. They follow the same routine: sit down, pull out cell phones, check them, and order glasses of yak. I see one of them give a heads-up nod to Bellamy. Pimps.
"There go two more pimps!" I whisper shout to my friends. This time they don't laugh.
Curious, I continue to watch the guys. One of them, fair skinned with unkempt hair, (Redbone) gets a phone call. He walks to the other end of the bar and after a few seconds is clearly agitated. His face is twisted, his hands are moving emphatically, his brow is furrowed. He talks for a long time, about ten minutes, and hangs up. Redbone goes back to the bar and addresses his compatriot for the first time by showing him the phone. The compatriot nods. Redbone and compatriot finish their drinks. I'm facing and talking to my friend Donna, and the bar, so they are in my direct line of sight, but I'm no longer looking directly at them. Redbone and compatriot stand up to exit the bar. When they get ready to leave, they have to turn around in my direction.
Compatriot blows me a kiss.
A pimp blows me a kiss.
A. Pimp. Blows. Me. A. Kiss.
As the revelation hits me that a pimp is blowing me kisses, he also winks at me.
A pimp winks at me.
A. Pimp. Winks. At. Me.
I say to Donna, "A pimp just blew me a kiss."
"Girl! No he didn't!" she replied.
I'm rendered speechless. I see the pimps leave the bar.
About 20 seconds later, I'm talking to all my friends and I see their collective body language change. While the change is registering, I hear this incredibly smooth voice behind me, in my ear, "How you doin', beautiful?"
My brain shuffles through all the events of the night as I turn around to face the voice: HAM, the outft, $ugar, Bill Bellamy, the solicitation, the new guys.
A pimp is about three feet from my face, smiling.
His entire face is tattooed.
His. Entire. Face. Is. Tattooed.
I decide very quickly that it's probably a very bad idea to piss off a guy who tattooed his face with a picture of the state of New York around his eye, the word Giants scrawled across his cheek, and a skull-and-crossbones dallying on his forehead. And those are just the tats I remember.
So, I very nicely reply, "I'm well, thank you. How are you?" I mean, what do you say to a pimp with a tattooed face? Seriously. That's not in any of the manuals.
"I'm good. What's your name?" Tat asks with a voice as smooth as rich cream.
"Crystal." I reply.
"Oh, ok. I just moved here from Cali and bought a three bedroom house this weekend." Tat offers.
Tat is, at most, twenty-five years old.
"That's lovely," I reply "What do you do?" I ask.
"You know what I do," he says, while maintaining direct eye contact. This guy is not afraid of cold calling at all.
"No, I can't say I know what you do," I reply, "Let me guess, a little bit of this and a little bit of that?"
"Yeah..." his voice trails off, "I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I have some work to handle right now, how about I come back in a minute, buy you a drink, and we can talk about what I do," he responds.
"Ok, I might still be here," I reply, "but I have a flight to catch early in the morning, I live on the East Coast, far far far away from Vegas. I'm only here for a few more hours. Plus, you look really busy, your friend looks like he needs your help, we can talk later," I say, while trying to maintain a modicum of composure.
"That's ok, I'd still like to get with you. Have a good night beautiful" he says, and slithers off.
Stunned. We leave the bar. I decide that it's probably a very bad idea to wait for Tat and Redbone to reappear, looking for new recruits.
So, the next morning I tell this story to my mother. She laughs herself into tears. I'm offended. Between chuckles she says, "Well, Evelyn every pimp needs a bottom girl honey. Perhaps he saw you across the room and said to himself 'well, there's a girl with leadership skills. I need her on my team to keep my girls in line.'"
Thanks, mom.
Evelyn Parkside
But this weekend provided the perfect fodder for a relaunch of "The Dating Experience:" A Pimp.
Yes. A Pimp. A "Bitch-betta-have-my-money," "Hoe-sit-down," "Hit-the-stroll" pimp. Pimp.
This weekend I was in Las Vegas for the New Edition concert with two of my sorors and a girlfriend. (Side note, NE STILL got it! I Candy Rained, Stood the Rain, Mr. Telephone Manned, Poisoned it up for two solid hours, in flats, and still had sore feet. And, Bobby showed. If they come to your city, definitely go. But I digress) As my girlfriends and I walked toward the entrance of the concert, there stood before me what can aptly be described as a Hot Ass Mess (HAM). HAM, female, was wearing a cotton black catsuit (who makes cotton catsuits?). The form-fitting atrocity showed off her best feature--her hanging gut and incredibly saggy boobs--and those were her best assets. The catsuit looked as if a first-year at Hogwarts had taken six or seven paintbrushes, dipped them in different cans of colored paint, stood back, and shouted, "Expellarmius Paintus Maximus!" while splattering the paint all over the canvas of the suit. As if the paint weren't enough, the suit also had gold lame patches attaching straps across the back, which had been cut out, and large gold buttons adorning the front of the suit. And why stop there? HAM was wearing matching 4 inch heels. She was with her boyfriend, who looked, in comparison utterly nondescript. Easily 4 inches shorter, he wore slacks and a cream top (linen?) a hat and had a tiny ponytail.
HAM and boyfriend are directly in front of me and one of my sorors, Donna. So, we do the obvious--whisper about her.
"Girl, she looks a hot ass mess!" I whispered, lest HAM turned around and decided to go HAM on me.
"I know!" a loud whisper returns in my ear.
"Who leaves the house like that? And, why did her man let her leave the house like that?" I whisper back, while rolling my eyes in disgust.
This continues on for several seconds. Before you call me a hater, let me help you: I am. I hate to see black women look a hot ass mess. Especially because we don't have to.
When the concert is over, the four of us decide it's too early to go home, so we decide to hang out in Vegas for a bit. We meander over to one of the bars, but it's too loud and extremely full of people. So, we keep walking until we end up at one of the sports bar which is empty by comparison to the other establishments on a Saturday night.
The bar is quiet, filled only with older white couples (about 4-5) and us. The music is fairly low and there is ample seating. Perfect. We take a seat and Donna and I describing the outfit to the Cassandra and Sibil who had not seen it. At the end of my description, Cassandra looks up and asks, "is that it?" and points to a woman walking into the nearly empty bar with her boyfriend.
"Yes!" Donna and I agree in unison.
"It IS a hot ass mess!" Cassandra says, shaking her head.
HAM and boyfriend sit at the bar. I'm sitting facing the bar, so I'm facing their backs. My three girlfriends are facing me, and looking out onto the casino floor. HAM starts smoking a cigarette, and boyfriend orders himself a drink. They sit. A few minutes later, a gentleman bearing a striking resemblance to Bill Bellamy shows up and starts talking to boyfriend. My girls and I are split: is it Bellamy or not? We finally decide it's not Bellamy. After chopping it up for a few minutes to boyfriend, Bellamy walks to the other end of the bar and sits down. He orders a glass of yak and a beer, pulls out his cell phone, checks it, and starts feeding dollars into the mechanical poker game at the bar.
I'm looking at all three of these characters because something just isn't right. I can't seem to figure out what it is, but I have a very strong, unsettling feeling that something is amiss. Boyfriend sashays down to Bellamy. And it hit me. Boyfriend--henceforth and forever more known as $ugar--is a pimp. I don't know how I knew he's a pimp. I just knew. I saw it as clearly as I see the DSW clearance tags and I knew it with the same conviction that I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. So, I announce my revelation to my friends, "Oh my God. He's a pimp."
They laugh at me.
I repeat myself, "He's a pimp."
The resounding replies are "No, he's not" and "How do you know?"
I knew because of a few key things. The oddities hit me. Oddity One: Sugar is with Ca$xmere (previously known as HAM), but he is not with Ca$xmere. He is barely talking to her. There are no subtle gestures of affection, no small touches on the back, no gentle strokes on the arm. Their body language is not of that of two people who are initimate. It's cold. Oddity Two: Bill Bellamy spoke only to $ugar, never once acknowledging Ca$xmere's existence. Oddity Three: These characters (and yes, I'm stereotyping here. Just because something's a stereotype doesn't mean it's not true. ) are in the empty sports bar with older white couples when there is a booming hip hop bar 200 feet away. They don't fit.
So I try to explain this to my friends. They keep laughing.
A few minutes go by, and I continue to keep tabs on the situation at the bar. $ugar and Ca$xmere leave the bar and I lose sight of them. I keep talking to my friends. After maybe three minutes, Donna says, "Oh. My. God You're right. He is a pimp."
"What's going on? " I ask, as I swivel my body toward the casino floor.
Ca$xmere is about 100 feet away from the bar, posturing in the middle of a very busy walkway, showing off her worn-and-weathered wares. $ugar is maybe 50 feet away from her, watching her. I'm watching him watch her. Two guys walk by Ca$xmere and she catches their eye. She reposes. They walk away, but maintain eyecontact with her. She reposes again. They come back. They talk for a minute, then she walks off with the two of them while $ugar follows. It is clear what is happening.
I return to my friends, smugly satisfied.
"I bet the other guy's a pimp, too." I say.
They laugh again.
"Think about it. I'm a teacher. Know who I hang out with? Teachers. My friends who are lawyers hang out with lawyers. Pimps hang out with pimps" I say, emphatically.
We continue to talk, debating the liklihood of there being two pimps in the bar with us.
As we're debating, two more young black guys (early-to-mid twenties) enter the bar. They're together, but they're not together. They walk in together, kind of, but they don't speak and they don't sit next to each other. They have the same swaggar and energy as $ugar and Bellamy. Wearing jeans and long shirts, they too, look pretty nondescript. They follow the same routine: sit down, pull out cell phones, check them, and order glasses of yak. I see one of them give a heads-up nod to Bellamy. Pimps.
"There go two more pimps!" I whisper shout to my friends. This time they don't laugh.
Curious, I continue to watch the guys. One of them, fair skinned with unkempt hair, (Redbone) gets a phone call. He walks to the other end of the bar and after a few seconds is clearly agitated. His face is twisted, his hands are moving emphatically, his brow is furrowed. He talks for a long time, about ten minutes, and hangs up. Redbone goes back to the bar and addresses his compatriot for the first time by showing him the phone. The compatriot nods. Redbone and compatriot finish their drinks. I'm facing and talking to my friend Donna, and the bar, so they are in my direct line of sight, but I'm no longer looking directly at them. Redbone and compatriot stand up to exit the bar. When they get ready to leave, they have to turn around in my direction.
Compatriot blows me a kiss.
A pimp blows me a kiss.
A. Pimp. Blows. Me. A. Kiss.
As the revelation hits me that a pimp is blowing me kisses, he also winks at me.
A pimp winks at me.
A. Pimp. Winks. At. Me.
I say to Donna, "A pimp just blew me a kiss."
"Girl! No he didn't!" she replied.
I'm rendered speechless. I see the pimps leave the bar.
About 20 seconds later, I'm talking to all my friends and I see their collective body language change. While the change is registering, I hear this incredibly smooth voice behind me, in my ear, "How you doin', beautiful?"
My brain shuffles through all the events of the night as I turn around to face the voice: HAM, the outft, $ugar, Bill Bellamy, the solicitation, the new guys.
A pimp is about three feet from my face, smiling.
His entire face is tattooed.
His. Entire. Face. Is. Tattooed.
I decide very quickly that it's probably a very bad idea to piss off a guy who tattooed his face with a picture of the state of New York around his eye, the word Giants scrawled across his cheek, and a skull-and-crossbones dallying on his forehead. And those are just the tats I remember.
So, I very nicely reply, "I'm well, thank you. How are you?" I mean, what do you say to a pimp with a tattooed face? Seriously. That's not in any of the manuals.
"I'm good. What's your name?" Tat asks with a voice as smooth as rich cream.
"Crystal." I reply.
"Oh, ok. I just moved here from Cali and bought a three bedroom house this weekend." Tat offers.
Tat is, at most, twenty-five years old.
"That's lovely," I reply "What do you do?" I ask.
"You know what I do," he says, while maintaining direct eye contact. This guy is not afraid of cold calling at all.
"No, I can't say I know what you do," I reply, "Let me guess, a little bit of this and a little bit of that?"
"Yeah..." his voice trails off, "I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I have some work to handle right now, how about I come back in a minute, buy you a drink, and we can talk about what I do," he responds.
"Ok, I might still be here," I reply, "but I have a flight to catch early in the morning, I live on the East Coast, far far far away from Vegas. I'm only here for a few more hours. Plus, you look really busy, your friend looks like he needs your help, we can talk later," I say, while trying to maintain a modicum of composure.
"That's ok, I'd still like to get with you. Have a good night beautiful" he says, and slithers off.
Stunned. We leave the bar. I decide that it's probably a very bad idea to wait for Tat and Redbone to reappear, looking for new recruits.
So, the next morning I tell this story to my mother. She laughs herself into tears. I'm offended. Between chuckles she says, "Well, Evelyn every pimp needs a bottom girl honey. Perhaps he saw you across the room and said to himself 'well, there's a girl with leadership skills. I need her on my team to keep my girls in line.'"
Thanks, mom.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, September 22, 2011
How to Approach a Woman When You're Drunk
Step One: Walk Away. Do NOT approach a woman when you're drunk.
Step Two: In the event you did not heed the advice of Step One, please read the vignette below.
Last night, my mom and I went out to dinner at one of the local steakhouses. As we were waiting for valet to bring the car, a gentleman walked out of the establishment, looked me up and down, licked his lips and said, "ooohhhhwee girl, I'd love a thick girl like you in my life." Did I mention that I was with my mother?
He then leans into me, grabs me around my waist, and pulls me toward him. His face is a mere inches from mine. I'm looking for a clear escape route. Intoxicated, he slurs how pretty I am to look at. Sigh. Did I mention that I was with my mother?
I uncurl his arm from around my waist and wonder how long it's going to take the valet guy to bring me my car. He then turns to my mom (Did I mention that I was with my mother?) and says, "your daughter sure is pretty. I mean no disrespect, but damn."
He then insists that I take his number down and give him a call. And, by insist, I mean he hovers over me, refusing to walk away until I indulge in this request. So, breaking my second rule, I do.
At that moment, the valet brings sweet refuge, my car.
Evelyn Parkside
Step Two: In the event you did not heed the advice of Step One, please read the vignette below.
Last night, my mom and I went out to dinner at one of the local steakhouses. As we were waiting for valet to bring the car, a gentleman walked out of the establishment, looked me up and down, licked his lips and said, "ooohhhhwee girl, I'd love a thick girl like you in my life." Did I mention that I was with my mother?
He then leans into me, grabs me around my waist, and pulls me toward him. His face is a mere inches from mine. I'm looking for a clear escape route. Intoxicated, he slurs how pretty I am to look at. Sigh. Did I mention that I was with my mother?
I uncurl his arm from around my waist and wonder how long it's going to take the valet guy to bring me my car. He then turns to my mom (Did I mention that I was with my mother?) and says, "your daughter sure is pretty. I mean no disrespect, but damn."
He then insists that I take his number down and give him a call. And, by insist, I mean he hovers over me, refusing to walk away until I indulge in this request. So, breaking my second rule, I do.
At that moment, the valet brings sweet refuge, my car.
Evelyn Parkside
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Trent from Trinadad and Tobago
So I just hung up with the short order cook. We'll call him Trent from Trinadad and Tobago. He's been in the states for 18 months and has two jobs. He's also looking for a wife. One who can bear "many children." Oh boy.
As we're having our first conversation, Trinadad and Tobago says to me, "you sure are a nice looking girl. As soon as I saw you, I just knew I needed to get you and make you mine. I'm a grown ass man, I'm not playing around."
This is within the first three minutes of conversation.
We have a date scheduled for next week.
This should be interesting.
Evelyn Parkside
As we're having our first conversation, Trinadad and Tobago says to me, "you sure are a nice looking girl. As soon as I saw you, I just knew I needed to get you and make you mine. I'm a grown ass man, I'm not playing around."
This is within the first three minutes of conversation.
We have a date scheduled for next week.
This should be interesting.
Evelyn Parkside
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Going International
Last night I went to dinner with a friend of mine to a local diner. As I was waiting on my sandwich to make its way to my table, one of the short order cooks winked at me and complimented my hair. (For those of you who don't know me, my hair is natural, curly, and reddish blonde in the summertime. Most days it looks somewhere between a muppet and Orphan Annie.)
I thanked him for the compliment and asked him to hook up my sandwich (a reuben with coleslaw, not saurkraut, on grilled marble rye. This sandwich has all the fat, sodium and calories one should consume in a year. I only eat it once a year, and I can only eat half, but when I do, it's totally worth it).
As I'm sitting with my girlfriend, short order cook starts to wink at me from behind the counter. "Here we go," I thought to myself. He then cocks he head to the left and nods it at me, signaling for me to come to him. I send him a look of confusion, like I'm too socially inept to read the signal for "come hither."
Thinking that I might be the village idiot, he tries another non-verbal cue. He picks up a pen, scrolls some receipt paper from the register, points the pen at me, then mimes the action of writing on the receipt paper.
My girlfriend is cracking up.
Now, I know I look like a muppet. I'm certain that any man who would hit on me while I look like a muppet is not playing with a full deck.
I decide that he has officially asked for my number and give it to him. He's wearing a nametag that--oh wait, he's calling now. This should be interesting, brb
Evelyn Parkside
I thanked him for the compliment and asked him to hook up my sandwich (a reuben with coleslaw, not saurkraut, on grilled marble rye. This sandwich has all the fat, sodium and calories one should consume in a year. I only eat it once a year, and I can only eat half, but when I do, it's totally worth it).
As I'm sitting with my girlfriend, short order cook starts to wink at me from behind the counter. "Here we go," I thought to myself. He then cocks he head to the left and nods it at me, signaling for me to come to him. I send him a look of confusion, like I'm too socially inept to read the signal for "come hither."
Thinking that I might be the village idiot, he tries another non-verbal cue. He picks up a pen, scrolls some receipt paper from the register, points the pen at me, then mimes the action of writing on the receipt paper.
My girlfriend is cracking up.
Now, I know I look like a muppet. I'm certain that any man who would hit on me while I look like a muppet is not playing with a full deck.
I decide that he has officially asked for my number and give it to him. He's wearing a nametag that--oh wait, he's calling now. This should be interesting, brb
Evelyn Parkside
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I Feel a Clusterfuck Brewing
So, you may have noticed that it's been quiet on the blog front as of late. That's for two reasons: 1.) My dating life has all but slowed to a stop and 2.) Some of the men I've been talking to actually know my friends who read this blog. So, I've had to make some hard decisions on what to share and how much to share.
You may remember the Really Nice Guy. We've been communicating via text and phone for a few weeks . I think I might actually like Really Nice Guy, but our schedules do not permit us to actually see each other. The times he's tried to set up a date, I've been out of town and the times I've suggested to reschedule, he has alternate plans. In short, it's scheduling hell.
Well, we've been going back and forth for about six weeks now. The last time we had a date (?), was last June. Since then, we've had nothing more than a few phone and text conversations. Now, the phone and text conversations have been flirty, but not inappropriate--i.e., he hasn't asked me to send him a lascivious picture mail of me on a bear-skinned rug wrapped in a silk sheet.
Last week, I finally got back in town after a summer of work-travel. Without divulging too much information in order to minimize the potential for drama in my actual life because of what's written in my on line life, I'll share this: Really Nice Guy had taken out a friend of mine to a very expensive dinner last night. I know Really Nice Guy through Friend of Mine. She introduced me to Really Nice Guy in order to work on a project.
At the expense of sounding like Crazy Ass Black Woman, let me say that I support male-female friendships and, in no way, harbor jealousy of them. I've written several times about my best friend, who is a man and with whom I go out with frequently. So, I'm not irritated (?) or confused (?) about Really Nice Guy going out with Friend of Mine. I do, however, feel some kind of way about the fact that Really Nice Guy didn't ask me. I also heard third-hand from a friend of the Friend of Mine that Friend of Mine was on an official dinner date with Really Nice Guy.
My life is starting to feel somewhere between an episode of Friends, but featuring black people, and a Tyler Perry movie, but featuring good acting.
My immediate reaction was to employ the "delete" strategy. So I did. Now, I may be overreacting, but maybe not. If Really Nice Guy is dating Friend of Mine, then I really have no desire to continue to talk to him. If Really Nice Guy is not dating Friend of Mine, then he still has the means to connect with me, as my number has not changed. If Really Nice Guy still wants to go out, at this juncture, I can't say that I'm all that interested--not until I get further clarification as to the status of the friendship-turned-potential-dating between Friend of Mine and Really Nice Guy.
So, here's the deal: I'm no longer talking to Really Nice Guy.
On another note, as I was sitting here writing this, I got a text message and a phone call from the asshole, who still continues to contact me:
The text message reads:
"Ok, What's the deal with us? You know I'm interested, but you acting funky!!! Maybe you need to stop dealing with lames and come holla at a me"
That was followed by a phone call.
I KNOW that dealing with the asshole is a Bad Idea. In fact, it might be the amagalmation of all the bad ideas that ever were or ever will be. But, evidently, I am a glutton for indulging in bad ideas and I still want go out with the asshole, so I can look him in his face and tell him exactly how I feel. Plus, my blog needs some action. I have a feeling he'll provide that. :)
Evelyn Parkside
You may remember the Really Nice Guy. We've been communicating via text and phone for a few weeks . I think I might actually like Really Nice Guy, but our schedules do not permit us to actually see each other. The times he's tried to set up a date, I've been out of town and the times I've suggested to reschedule, he has alternate plans. In short, it's scheduling hell.
Well, we've been going back and forth for about six weeks now. The last time we had a date (?), was last June. Since then, we've had nothing more than a few phone and text conversations. Now, the phone and text conversations have been flirty, but not inappropriate--i.e., he hasn't asked me to send him a lascivious picture mail of me on a bear-skinned rug wrapped in a silk sheet.
Last week, I finally got back in town after a summer of work-travel. Without divulging too much information in order to minimize the potential for drama in my actual life because of what's written in my on line life, I'll share this: Really Nice Guy had taken out a friend of mine to a very expensive dinner last night. I know Really Nice Guy through Friend of Mine. She introduced me to Really Nice Guy in order to work on a project.
At the expense of sounding like Crazy Ass Black Woman, let me say that I support male-female friendships and, in no way, harbor jealousy of them. I've written several times about my best friend, who is a man and with whom I go out with frequently. So, I'm not irritated (?) or confused (?) about Really Nice Guy going out with Friend of Mine. I do, however, feel some kind of way about the fact that Really Nice Guy didn't ask me. I also heard third-hand from a friend of the Friend of Mine that Friend of Mine was on an official dinner date with Really Nice Guy.
My life is starting to feel somewhere between an episode of Friends, but featuring black people, and a Tyler Perry movie, but featuring good acting.
My immediate reaction was to employ the "delete" strategy. So I did. Now, I may be overreacting, but maybe not. If Really Nice Guy is dating Friend of Mine, then I really have no desire to continue to talk to him. If Really Nice Guy is not dating Friend of Mine, then he still has the means to connect with me, as my number has not changed. If Really Nice Guy still wants to go out, at this juncture, I can't say that I'm all that interested--not until I get further clarification as to the status of the friendship-turned-potential-dating between Friend of Mine and Really Nice Guy.
So, here's the deal: I'm no longer talking to Really Nice Guy.
On another note, as I was sitting here writing this, I got a text message and a phone call from the asshole, who still continues to contact me:
The text message reads:
"Ok, What's the deal with us? You know I'm interested, but you acting funky!!! Maybe you need to stop dealing with lames and come holla at a me"
That was followed by a phone call.
I KNOW that dealing with the asshole is a Bad Idea. In fact, it might be the amagalmation of all the bad ideas that ever were or ever will be. But, evidently, I am a glutton for indulging in bad ideas and I still want go out with the asshole, so I can look him in his face and tell him exactly how I feel. Plus, my blog needs some action. I have a feeling he'll provide that. :)
Evelyn Parkside
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