Happy Valentine’s Day!

If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably saw my tweets announcing my Valentine’s Day Blog Series: Two Tales of Woe and One That Rocked.
On this Valentine’s Day, the final installment, also with a twist. See, this one actually ties into the end of last week’s tale. Remember that abbreviated version of “I Got Dumped 4 Days After V-Day”? Well, this sprang from that. You’ll see.
Enjoy!

The Friday before a Valentine’s Day weekend. It’s a HUGE day for deliveries. Flowers, candy, telegrams, strippers… whatever you’re sending your Valentine, THIS is the day to get it to their office or miss the chance for you/them to show off in front of their lonely coworkers.  How much fun will a day centered around appreciating your beloved be if you’re not crushing the hearts of those around them and making that frumpy ole receptionist jealous? Wait, what? See? Exactly.

So as I sat in my office on that particular Friday, I knew to expect a huge display from my rather image conscious beau.  We were a long distance relationship, and the pressure to maintain a presence even when not physically present can be great. I felt it too, being a bit of a hopeless romantic myself. Just days before, I shredded pink and red paper to stuff a small box that was headed to his city, carrying several PS3 games I knew he wanted, and a card with handwritten “I love you across the miles - don’t even LOOK at no triflin heauxs, because I will shoot your ass” sentiments. (Yes, PS3 games. Romance and gifting are meant to suit the individuals involved. If you’re giving your man chocolate rather than the cigar/hunting rifle/video game he really wants, you suck.)

Sure enough, the display came. The most beautiful arrangement of roses I had ever seen arrived in a (the upgraded checkbox option) red glass vase, with a(nother checkbox option upgrade) box of chocolates and a card, expressing sentiments equal to mine. He mentioned how blessed he was to have me in his life and expressed thanks for what we have.  I was thrilled. Beyond thrilled even!

You see, prior to that, well, let’s just say I hadn’t had such good experiences with Valentine’s Day. ::glances at Valentine’s Tale of Woe number one:: ::shudders:: As I mentioned before, I’m a bit of a romantic. I love Valentine’s Day and the sentiment it honors! It just didn’t love me back. Valentine’s Day and I treated each other like rival high school girls: she was really popular and didn’t see me in the hallways, let alone could I hope to sit at her table at lunch. I understood. We each just pretended the other didn’t exist. It was easier that way.

Finally, Valentine’s Day and I were friends! Someone shared my sentiment equally and no longer was I doing nice things for someone and shrugging off their lack of enthusiasm, but instead, was feeling that feeling I had previously created for others. I was on cloud 9. (It had happened once before actually, but he only sent roses because he was cheating on me…and the other girl got the same arrangement and note too…but I digress…)

The one thing that stinks about a Valentine’s Day Friday? Carrying that vase of flowers home. LAWD did it suck! But I did it happily. And when my son saw it, he asked “Wow, Mama, where’d that come from?” So I told him. He and my beau had a good relationship. We were talking marriage and they got on so well – everything was finally coming together!

The next day was a snowy one. I refused to go a single place. Snowy Saturdays were made for my couch! Even the dog looked out the window and covered her face. But my son wouldn’t be still. “I’ve got to do something. But you can’t come. Can I call Dad to take me somewhere real quick?” he pleaded. I frowned. “What on earth could you have to do? You don’t have a job, pay no bills in this house, and don’t have a car to shovel out – sitcho ass down before you track snow on my floors,” I asked. He wouldn’t tell. Then it dawned on me. He must want to get a Valentine card for a girl in school. He’s getting to the age where he wouldn’t want to share that with mom, right? I mean, it’s just not cool. That’s a Dad moment. I agreed, and soon he and Dad were off.

I figured I had about a good hour to myself. Laundry? Dishes? Finally unpack from my previous trip to “his” city? Ten minutes later, I heard my son coming through the door. There went my “me time”!

I turned around to ask what he forgot and why he was back so soon…and stopped dead in my tracks…the words caught in my throat.

There was my son, holding up a bouquet of my favourite flowers, mixed with red roses, and a huge smile on his snowflake flecked face.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mama! I’m a day early!” And he was indeed. I was in absolute tears as I smiled and hugged him tightly. There had been no little girl to impress, no secret Valentine to pick out. It was me.

“You really like them mama?” he asked as I put them in a silver vase. I responded, “I LOVE them honey!” And I did. He had gotten it right. SO right. No man had ever remembered that I don’t actually love roses, except in my garden, but instead prefer Casablanca lilies – my son did though. I was so surprised! It’s not like I ever SAID it to him. He just SAW.

I asked what made him go all out. He glanced over at the arrangement from my beau and told me a tale. Seems as we went about errands on Friday evening, he saw the bouquet at a local produce store and made note where to come back to, knowing that he couldn’t buy them in front of me.  My beau had gotten roses and he didn’t want to do that too, since he knows they’re not even my favourite. He had hoped for *just* lilies, but settled for ones mixed with roses, since EVERYTHING had roses for Valentine’s Day. He hoped I wasn’t disappointed.

I hugged him even closer. “Sweetie, I’m so touched that you went to all that plotting to get me flowers and make me smile. You remembered details! But you know what? You don’t have to spend your hard earned allowance money to make me smile and feel special with flowers. They jack up the prices this time of year JUST because they know men will buy them to impress ladies. You don’t need to impress me and spend big money, baby. HE DOES. He needs to show and convince me why he should be my choice as Valentine every day for the rest of my life… But you? You’re my Forever Valentine. Done deal.”

As you know from the end of my last entry, 4 days later, Mr. Big Show was gone, having done an abrupt about-face. But my Forever Valentine? That’s who my son was this morning. And every February 14th to come for the rest of my life. My Forever Valentine.

If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably saw my tweets announcing my Valentine’s Day Blog Series: Two Tales of Woe and One That Rocked.
This week, the first installment - A Valentine’s Tale of Woe: How 7 Good Words Became 7 Bad Words.  Enjoy!

Perhaps the most awesome seven words a man can say to his woman:  ”I’m taking you away for the weekend!”  All the more awesome and amazing if the trip is around a traditionally romantic time like Valentine’s Day, right? Right. Usually.  Sometimes. Never.

And amazed I was when my usually very busy exec boyfriend said those words to me near V-Day.  Not only did Mr. Busy want to get away with me, he had it all planned already! I didn’t have to lift a finger or research a thing, and all the details were a surprise. This. Is. AWESOME!  We were both busy urban professionals* with crazy schedules, kids, and an eye on our budgets.  (I should have known…I just should’ve known…but…you’ll see.)   *one in finance, the other in legal – not “urban professionals” like the weedman is an urban professional, OKAY?!

So Friday rolls around and after a week of excitement, I’m packed and ready to go!  Sexy lingerie for each night we’re away? CHECK.  Form fitting dinner outfit? CHECK.  Sky-high-leave-em-on-heels? CHECK CHECK CHECK! 

Incoming text message: “I’m stuck working a little late – can you take the train from Penn Station (he lived in NJ) to my station? I’ll meet you there and we can just go.”

This is different from the planned pick-up at my midtown office, but okay. I can be flexible. I’ve got a packed weekend bag with me, but I’ll live.

Outgoing text message: “Ok.  Where are we headed? ”

After a week of anticipation, I’m SO eager to know the destination! Vermont to a ski lodge? Upstate NY to a cozy cabin? The North Fork wineries of LI, with sleepy inns and daylong tastings?

Incoming text message: “The Poconos! Surprise!”

Oh.  I was surprised alright.  O_o  ::plays Price Is Right wrong answer music::  A coworker started singing the Mount Airy Lodge jingle at me. I kicked that heaux out of my office.  So…no inn? No apres ski? The Poconos?

I had gone there once on an 8th grade school day trip. Our school chose the nicest resort in the area, “Palmbranch”, which didn’t actually say much.  Surely things had changed by now, right? Right!

“Noooooo, it can still be good! There’s rental houses in that area and he’s known me for about 20 years. I’m sure it’ll be a nice place – definitely not a cheesy resort,” I rationalized to my coworker. We cracked a few champagne glass bathtub jokes and I was off for Penn Station.

As the train sped along, I whipped out my phone and found the top rated resorts in the area. And uh…yeah, it HAD to be a private rental.  I was sure.  I texted him, pressing for details so I could Google the shit out of it - hadn’t I waited enough?  But, he declined, saying I’d have to wait just a liiiittle longer. Ohhhh the suspense! This meant it HAD to be a big deal! It must be a real shithole can still be good! Awesome even, with this big production!

I got to the station, right down the block from his house.  I stepped onto the platform, hefting my FM shoe laden bag with me – ready to begin our romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza!  Except…he’s not there…

Wait. I came from midtown Manhattan…I could walk to his door…and he’s not here?  About 10 minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. It’s cold and there’s a light drizzle, and I’m trying not to scowl, as he pulls up on the opposite side of the waiting area, two car lanes away, rolls down the window and hoodtastically yells, “AYO, EVAA!”

O_O

He didn’t even exit the car, let alone pull up to my empty curbside. AND he’s yelling my name across a parking lot? This is not a man who wants to get laid.

I avoided the startled gaze of the nearby white people and scurried to the car. I tossed my now deadweight bag in the back and hopped in.   Pissed Eva: “Um, what the hell was THAT?!” But the scent coming from his breath told me. He’d had a drink right after work. “Just one with the boys real quick.”

I was steamed. My thoughts: I schlepped a bag from midtown to Bumfuck NJ, and you worked late, had a drink, arrived late to collect me, and then proceeded to announce my name to the whole damn parking lot on TOP of everything else? Have you lost your muhfuggin mind?!

But I sat back. It had been a stressful week. I was already livid. Let me not make it even worse with an expletive laden tirade.  He loosely apologized and we were off. The drive calmed me down, though we drove mostly in silence.  Boyyyyy, this place we were headed better make up for all this mess. That’s all I knew! It can still be good!

We pull off the highway and are driving past resort after resort till I ask, “Ok, which one is it? We’ve passed all the names that I know from my Google research.”

And then…he names…the resort I went to in 8th grade. Palmbranch. With pride, too. Like he just told me we’re spending the weekend at Versailles.  I assure you, it was NOT.  While I didn’t wanna just crap on this lil plan of his, I couldn’t hide my disappointment.  Crestfallen Eva: “Um…I went there in 8th grade.”  Him: “Well, my boy hooked me up and…”

I was too busy shuddering to hear the rest. I think to myself, “A hookup? Well…this can still be good…maybe?”

Him: “…we just have to go to a meeting about some property…”

And then…it dawns on me. I HAVE TO SIT THROUGH A TIMESHARE PRESENTATION?! On our romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza?! UGH! How did I get roped into this low budget scam ish?!

After a few more halting sentences from him, after I’m already 2 states from home, I’m told we can’t get out of it. His boy recommended him to the agent and they already have our names and contact information. Great. Just. Fucking. Great.

I’m steaming, silent, and stuck. But still, I’m here now. So I might as well make the best of it, right? It can still be good, right?! Wrong. Right. WRONG!

As we wind through the lane toward the main hotel area for check in, I see a pretty Roman inspired facade, complete with Doric columns and a nice valet booth. My hopes are renewed!  A valet! How bad can it be?!  We stop in front of the entrance and no sooner do I say, “why don’t we just give it to the valet?” does a large The-Tunnel-On-Saturday-Nights type bouncer thug emerge from the sliding doors to point to a parking spot.

O_o

I was so confused. “But…but wait…there’s…no valet?”

And as I walked through the sliding doors, I saw for myself that, no, Eva, there would be no valet type amenities on this trip.  I entered…to find half the NJ hood standing in line with their badass kids, waiting to check in.  Everyone had donned their finest sweats, Timbs, gold teeth, and snot nosed BeBe’s kids as an accessory.  I looked around and felt the laugh rise in my throat. I couldn’t help but laugh as we joined that line. It can still be good though, right? It couldn’t get worse though, right?

It can.

We got to the counter, only to find out during check in procedures that our “presentation”…is a group presentation…at 8am…on Sunday morning. It was now 10pm on Friday night.

O_O

My romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza was *almost* 36 hours (not even) at a hood-filled resort, with 101 loud children.  I had left MY son with his Dad…to come be eyeballed by stank faced broads, surrounded by thuggish men, and pushed by ill-mannered kids.

I had HAD it.

“No, that won’t work. What’s the cost to upgrade us to a proper reservation?,” I said as I whipped out my wallet.

“Sorry ma’am, we’re fully committed to owners for the better rooms,” came the reply.

I. Was. STUCK.  But it can’t get worse now, right? It can.

We got to the room…a basement level, fluorescent lit efficiency condo unit on a far edge of the property.  It offered a great view (through the ONE window) of the trash cans out back.  I wish I could report that the bathroom was clean. Three words: grey jacuzzi foam.

And for dinner? We had to go off-property.  Nothing was open nearby, except for an Applebee’s type chain some distance away.  When we arrived, we had 45 minutes to choose from the limited late night bar menu, eat our greasy food, swill our badly made drinks, and get out.  They were closing.

One evening of that was enough.  When I was informed that the plan for the next day was to “enjoy the tired ass, bad kid filled activities on property”, I sprang to action.  I whipped out my phone and made a real plan. Breakfast at a diner, shopping at the outlets not far away, winery tours and tastings at three local vineyards, and dinner at a steakhouse. BOOM!

Perhaps the worst part? The salt in the wound? On no less than 3 separate occasions during the next day’s adventures, he said to me, “Oh, I’m getting brownie points for THIS trip!”, claiming credit and indicating expectation of gratitude for the good turn this ghetto excursion had taken. That 3rd time? Yeah I flat out said it. “I did this. THIS is how I spend a weekend.”

Oh, wait!

No, the real shit kicker?  On Sunday at 8am, the presentation rep asked why I seemed so discontent with my accommodations and went on what I knew was a free timeshare outing if I had no interest in timeshares at all.

Hol’ up…

Free?

FREE?!

As in, his boy didn’t “have a hook up”, his boy is a small fractional owner who needed to give over some suckers prospects?

And he paid NOTHING for our “romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza”…at a hoodrat infested family resort in the PA boonies?!

I cut that snotty rep to the quick with a terse-but-detailed account of all the unsavory aspects of my experience and then cut him too.  When I was done, she was apologizing through laughter and he was embarrassed.  We rode home in silence.

It was the beginning of the end.  Barely over a month later, we broke up after several other events showed me that, although he wasn’t a bad guy, we were clearly in two different lifestyle brackets…and each happy to remain in them.

So, yeah. You wanna get away on a ”romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza”? Hit me up at evasaidit@gmail.com. I’ve got seven less than awesome words for you:

“I got the hookup from my boy!”

He Blinded Me With Science Penis…

Yep. It happens…as much as I hate to admit it.

What is “it”, you ask?

Dickmatization. The act of laying pipe on a woman so well that she is in a nonsensical trance, where every rational thought she had on a subject seemingly departs the second he and his penis enter the room vagina. Forget being hypnotized…sister, you’ve been DICKMATIZED. ::cues Biggie track, with “Dickmatize” subbing through the verses for “HypMAtize…which is NOT a word, Big…::

That thing she wanted to talk to him about so urgently? Gone. How pissed she is that he’s consistently 1 hour late for everything? Evaporated. That pink slip she was about to hand his triflin ass? Traded for the warm washcloth and sandwich she’s handing him now. Before you know it, you’re in the kitchen asking “How do you like your eggs?”, when you planned on asking “Harpo, who dis woman?!”.

We inadvertently make all kinds of concessions and trade-downs to keep it coming.

Worst part? They know it too. This is almost as bad as the moment some woman betrayed us all and told them how we use the word “girth”. (Note: if you’re the one man in the man village who was NOT told, I’d consult your brothers. Clearly, they think you’re the village idiot.)

Yes, many lames have been granted a stay of execution for that one simple fact: “Good dick can do shit bad dick can’t”, as so eloquently told to me by a dear male friend, scalped from Rob Stapleton in Bad Boys of Comedy*. (He whipped that line out like a Deepak Chopra mantra! ::pictures him sitting cross-legged on the floor, chanting that every morning::)

And it happens to smart girls, dumb girls, pretty girls and homely girls. No one is immune to the art of a well slung penis. ::sigh:: It happened to me once too.

I was dating someone who was handsome, successful in his field, funny…and painfully dumb. I couldn’t go more than a few sentences before being asked to define a word I had used, or to do the math on a restaurant check…no, REALLY. As handsome as he would look in a tux at my side, I knew I couldn’t take him to the black tie events I attended: he wouldn’t follow the finance industry conversations. As charming as he was, my girls would DEFINITELY judge me for bringing him to a group dinner if they saw him hand me the check and a pen with a “do the math?” face. Nope, he had to go. I was off the market and all kinds of better suited fish were swimming past me! I would dump him tonight. And then we’d see each other…I’d get pinned to the headboard fall for his charm…and I’d resolve that maybe he’d take algebra lessons and read the dictionary between now and our next date. He never did. I DID eventually break the spell and end it though. Had to go cold turkey – no calls, no dates, no texts. By the time it dawned on him that he was being let go, I was better able to dump him, having put some distance between me and his manhood the situation.

And that’s it, girls. The only known cure for dickmatization: going cold penis turkey. Don’t go near it, don’t talk to it, don’t be in the same room alone with it. If you do, you’ll fall right back under the spell. Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely a place in every girl’s life for that dude whose sole purpose is to lay pipe and lay it well. However, if you’re making concessions, accepting less than what you want, or behaving out of character to get it…you’ve been dickmatized.

::Biggie voice:: “Dickmatize!  …and I just love your flashy ways / guess that’s why they broke / and you’re so paid…” ::Diddy bop::

*See a clip of the performance here – scroll to 7:40 performance mark:

…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?