…now where was I? Ahhh yes…

When he met me at the PATH train station in his “sister’s truck” *cough*, I hopped in the passenger side…to be met with “Baby, you look sooooo sexy.” {“Did he just call me “baby”? I haaaate that shit too soon!“  Makes me recoil.} The  compliments that felt slimy and familiar. Perhaps it was the lean in and up/down eye rape that went with them? Nahhhh, can’t be.

We pull up to his condo complex only to find this in-full-swing-hurry-and-get-here event…has only three other attendees…all clad in shorts/tanktop attire and the like.  It’s not so much an “elegant pool party” so much as a “neighbors get together BBQ”…at the communal pool…with 5 other sets of folks vying for chairs and chasing their splashing kids. ::blank fucking stare::

Actually, it differs from a BBQ…because I see no food. And no cocktails. And our “reserved time at the grill” is about 2 hours from now. But that’s okay, because I am then told “Oh, my man XYZ is bringing it all with him when he comes…when he gets here.” I’m stunned. “How did I get into this?  Where’s the dude I had liked over a nightcap?,” I wonder, as he plops down beside me on the same chaise lounge. After a few scoot-overs, he got the picture and moved to the chaise beside me.

Just like I hate “baby”, “sweetie”, “honey”, etc, too soon, don’t be too touchy-feely either. If I can see we haven’t built that chemistry, how can he not? I decide to make the best of it and catch some rays of sun and try to enjoy the view. But when I whip off my linen outfit to reveal my bikini underneath, it’s more overt eye rapes. Cover-up time! His comment: “You look so sexy. Yeahhh, I need to get you in the Caribbean in that outfit somewhere. Saint Thomas, just lounging…” *FAUX-GUL alert!*

The next couple hours pass like this: a couple scoots too close, a few attempted touches of his hands on my bare legs, a reach for my hand and affection attempts in front of people I don’t know with comments like “next time we should XYZ”. Next time?  I missed Real Housewives of Zimbabwe for this – I can’t chance that with a “next time.”  Ladies, I perfected the hand-hold-duck that afternoon. Oh! Time to fix my hair with this hand! Sorry!

Finally the grilling is done, the eating is over, and there’s only after dinner conversation to make it through…which he’s spending name-dropping with a few of his boys that showed up…and dropping opinions about some of them too. Wait…I know some of those names! Is he dumb? Did he not hear that I worked in the industry? *FAUX-GUL alert!* I shut my mouth and wait to make my exit.

The night winds down with the offer of a ride home, which I accept with utter laziness and fatigue taking over. Might as well be of some use to me! Are you ready for the kicker? As we approach the Lincoln Tunnel, he notices his “sister’s truck” *cough* needs gas…and his ATM card is with his boy in …can he borrow $25 for gas money? WHAT?! I handed him cash and rolled my eyes so hard I was SURE they’d stick! I was so done.

A silent drive to Queens ended with a hasty goodnight…and him getting hopelessly lost en route back to NJ. How did I know he got lost? Why the nonstop “where am I?” text messages from somewhere on the Jackie Robinson Parkway and along Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, that’s how! Now, how should I know what turns he made? Am I above him in the chopper? Scanning him on radar? What man calls a woman multiple times rather than pulling over for directions? Not to mention I didn’t care if he was lost in BK forever. I went to bed. I need manly behaviour from men, and this was NOT it.

In the coming days, I ignored his ass and waited to speak with my busy girlfriend. BBMs, text messages, tweets from him…I was done. The one that got him screamed on though? A BBM suggesting I cook us both dinner…wearing nothing but my stilettos! I lost my shit on him! Did he not get that he was NEVER going to so much as sniff Disneyland?! Clearly, he was used to impressing girls with his (alleged) accomplishments in business. He was acting like Mr. No One Tells Me No. Welp, I do! Twitter: >blocked<  BBM: >deleted<  Facebook: >unfriended<

I finally got ahold of my girl. There’s no way she could’ve known how he really is! And indeed, she hadn’t. To say she was embarrassed and apologetic was an understatement. But there was nothing for her to be sorry about. We’d both been had! There’s a Jamaican saying that springs to mind: “see me and know me is two different things”.

The epilogue: after some investigation, we found a LOT of edits to the  story we’d been given.  The only thing real about him was how real his slimy factor felt. Let’s put it this way: the entertainment industry is a small family…but a talkative one.  Some build bridges to walk across them. Others burn them before setting even one foot down. *FAUX-GUL alert!*

Reputation is everything. What story does yours tell?

This one’s a long tale, kiddies, so I broke it up in two.  Last spring, I had an interesting date that went all TYPES of haywire. He made a great first impression…but then slipped up and was himself: an inappropriate, overly-flirty faux-gul at large. My life, your entertainment. Part 2 tomorrow. Enjoy! ::deuces::

Let’s face it: in NYC, meeting men is actually easy. Meeting men you want to meet? Now that can be harder to do.

As a busy single parent with a career, I’ve got a full plate. On top of that, I’m very picky…as every woman should be. But when you add all that up, I’m not apt or interested in meeting men in a bar/restaurant.  As a result, my friends appoint themselves as “on the lookout” for me. (Even an ex-boss got into it once – that’s another story though!)

Knowing how I am, from pickiness to my schedule, one of my best girlfriends hit me on BBM with a photo and asked “think he’s cute?” He was. But cute ain’t enough. She quickly dropped me all the vital stats: height: 6′ 6″ (yes!); approximate weight: strong safety category (win!);  status: divorced with one son (ok, I can work with that); close in age to me and ready for a relationship.  He’s a complete gentleman: manners, class, pulls out chairs, opens doors. Love it! (I’m old school on a few things.) Sounds good, right? The kicker: he’s in the entertainment industry. UGH…  See, I worked in music for a while. As a result, I know too much of what really goes on to consider a serious relationship with someone whose livelihood is built on that. Not that there aren’t good men in entertainment…I just haven’t met one yet. *cough*  But I digress! At any rate, I figured he came from a friend’s recommendation; I’ll give it a whirl.

After a few days of texts and phone tag, our schedules match up for cocktails at a swanky midtown penthouse bar that I

Cheers!

love. As fate would have it, I’ll be coming from a charity gala, all glammed up. Perfect! I arrive first and sit in the center of the long bar. In he walks, a little late, a little more casually dressed than appropriate for our venue, but handsome and taller in person than even 6′ 6″ sounds. Built like a football player indeed, albeit a few years post-season…meh, we can work on that, right? Right!

One nightcap and a great conversation later, he walked me to a waiting cab and politely opened the door. Capped with a gentle and proper kiss on my cheek, I agreed to see him again soon.  An excellent first date! Fast forward a few days and I’ve accepted an invitation to a pool party at his place in NJ. Nothing huge, I’m told, just some close friends, grilling dinner, elegant and small, overlooking the Hudson from his pool. I’d love to!

This is where our acquaintance goes batshits.

As I’m getting ready on the day of the party, he is blowing up my phone.

• Call 1: re-confirming address and start time. I’ve got 3 hours before it begins – I’m good. >click<
• Call 2: just making sure I have directions – how am I getting there? I lived in NJ for a bit – I know my way, thanks. >click<
• Call 3: what time will I arrive approximately? Welp, it begins in 2 hours now – I quote him a non-eager, normal time. >click<
• Call 4: What muhfucka, WHAT?! Any dietary restrictions? Allergies? Um, no! NO dammit! >CLICK!<

Hmm, he’s calling a lot. Must be a full house already. Perhaps he’s just eager for me to get there, since I guess I’m the host’s date. And with that, I’m out the door, looking very Saint Tropez chic in linen and gold jewelry with a fab cover-up packed in a straw bag.

When he meets me at the train station, ::record scratch/skip sound::

Look for part 2 on August 20! Don’t look at me in that tone of voice…you know this post was long enough…

…that’s all I know how to give. And it isn’t always pretty.  It IS always real though. Welcome to evasaidit.com!

To come: my mouthy rants random musings on love, life, and the world at large from where my stilettos stand. If you’ve got thin skin, kindly click elsewhere and enjoy your visit to the internet. ~player wave~ But if you’re like me, a realist with a thick streak of optimism sewn in, feel free to comment and share as you like. One rule: don’t get disrespectful. My block game is SO proper. 

“Well behaved women seldom make history.”

- Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

…so don’t be shocked at anything you read here.

Below, you’ll see a few pieces of my creative stuff.  A quick peek into what I write when I’m being all delusional dreamy artsy. Here or there, I’ll upload a painting pic or a photo I snapped.  Let’s get this blog thing off first though, okay? Right.

First up: a disastrous date tale, the date with a faux-gul. (Yes, you read that right…not a mogul…a faux-gul.) Check back in a few days and laugh with me!

This bustling metropolitan area requires it; accomplishing day to
day tasks demands it.  We sit with complete and total strangers,
sharing space, breathe, and warmth…or cold.

I inhale what he exhaled, with more oxygen than he let out, retaining
some for myself before releasing some of both our exhalation, to yet a third set of
lungs. Walking as one forward-moving unit on sidewalks, stopped at the
same corner with only brief glances around before moving, all
together, again, in the same direction.  Suddenly we all turn right,
filing past cold metal toothed turnstiles, hurdling down steps and
moving escalators to a waiting cement platform below.  There we will
stand together again, breathing the same stale underground air mixed
with exhaust fumes and lingering rain – underground water in
subterranean, metal encased swamps.

Dust and microbits of grey steel and shards of the city fly past us unseen,
sticking to our clothes, our faces, and soon to our souls after year upon
year of exposure. Tons of iron and steel, hurtle toward us in front and behind,
and clouds of soulless screeching envelop everyone in 30 seconds of the
tornado’s breeze.  We step forward together, boarding the beasts that
deafened us only moments before.  Shoulder to shoulder, parcels
clamoring for space at our sides, children shuffled into the chaotic
fold while gasping for air at an adult’s waist level.

And we breathe together again.  Dust, metal, oxygen, CO2, sweat, tears,
last night’s alcohol, this morning’s unwashed sex, tonight’s pre-seasoned dinner,
years of curried meats.  Foul, unsanitary, raunchy and familiar at
once. We look not left, nor right, but somewhere appropriately vague –
ahead – but at no one.  Direct eye contact is avoided at all costs,
lest the fetid stench that hangs in the station air be faced by an
owner, outed by a neighbor, assigned ownership incorrectly, or more
frighteningly, correctly.  Holding tightly to the poles, there is
still no speech as we are jostled and thrown about. The beast bucks
wildly against twisted tracks below; iron and steel scrape in whining
battle cries that assault tired ears.  It rounds bends halfway between
an aerodynamic hug and the urge to wildly break free of the trappings
and switches in a sideways roll.

Finally the doors open and the masses scamper out, racing toward sidewalk
level where daylight and fresher air await the overrun lungs that have counted
every stop en route…twice.

Daylight – freedom from the grey anger and stench below.

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