Small Fry Said it With His Chest

Blogging hasn't been my forte lately for reasons as varied as the accents I hear walking the New York City streets. Too personal. Too painful. Too boring. Fear of hurting someone's feelings (readership is a blessing and a curse). But over the last couple of days, I realize that 1)some aren't worried about hurting my feelings; 2) pain will remain painful until I release and heal; and 3) what may be boring to me others may find amusing so stop be an assclown. And so here I am, writing. Again.


Also, I've been dating again. I've been feeling like I'd hit a dating slump (doing the same things with the same people without any change) and summer is the perfect season to cure the slump. I met someone recently and after our first date I already knew what his blog name would be. But today's blog is not about him. Still figuring that one out (in a good way).



Most summer nights in the city, you never know where you will end up. You could leave work and end up at a rooftop cocktail party or by happenstance wander into a street fair while running errands. That's one of the things I love about living in New York during the summer.


This past Friday night, after an emotionally brutal day, I stopped by a liquor tasting at my favorite wine store in Harlem. After buying a bottle, my friend and I wandered over to a happy hour (don't judge me). We sat at the bar and were instantly embraced by the other patrons at like this was Cheers. To our right, there was a group of women who insisted we take a whipped cream vodka shot. We happily obliged their recommendation and chatted it up with them. Before the evening got too hazy (again, don't judge me damnit), I recall thinking how refreshing it was to have women treat each other as equals and not give the stank face up upon arrival and throughout the night. To our left, there was a gentlemen who started chatting my friend and I up almost immediately. He was nice and friendly so we welcomed his conversation.


Truth be told, I swore he was interested in my friend. She was sitting closer to him, he occasionally touched her arm and smiled. All the markers of flirting in my book. Clearly, I need to rewrite this book because the minute my friend stepped outside, he moved in on me like immigration on a sweatshop. From the group conversation, I'd learned that he's in his early 40s, has a son in his even earlier 20s, and is from Harlem as well. Overall, a cool dude. Except for onnnnnnnnneee thing. He reminds me of the comedian, Kevin Hart. In looks and in stature. Those of you are not familiar with the comedian and his vertical challenge, he's not as short as Danny Devito but for a man, he's average women's height.

Eventually, he moves in for the kill and asks for my phone number. Now, I have flip flops on and I can look him straight in the eye. For those of you who know me, KNOW I LOVVVVVVVVVE A TALL MAN. I believe I even wrote about it on here once. So here I was, faced with a superficial but real challenge. Dude was nice, funny, attentive, seemingly good conversationalist. What more should I want from a potential date. And truth be told, IT'S JUST A DATE. Not committed relationship, not meeting the parents, no meet me at the altar - A DATE. So I gave the Kevin Hart doppelganger my phone number (because he said it with his chest...hahahahaha....gotta know Kevin Hart's routine to get this joke)

And you know what? My superficiality should have won this debate.

He still seems like a nice guy but all the "honey" "baby" "beautiful" "sweetie"nicknames are rubbing me the wrong way. I mean, we haven't even gone out and he's already giving me all these cutesy-coo nicknames?? What the deuce?? That rubs me worst than thigh friction on a hot summer day. And the text messages? Gag me with a teaspoon. The sugary sweetness radiating from my phone is about to put me in a diabetic coma.

I know some may say "Look, be happy you have a man giving you some attention." or the ever popular "See? A man is showing you some love and you can't appreciate it." But look, today is Monday (err.......Wednesday. I started this blog on Monday...lol) and I've been called honey, baby, etc more than 20 times and I just met this dude on Friday (yes I counted all the references in text messages. I'm thorough, ya dig?! lol). It feels fake. It's like that horrible aftertaste that artificial sweetners leave behind. And there is a part of me that feels like its probably easier for him to call me all these cutesy-coo names so he doesn't have to remember my mother-given name.

And the ultimate deal breaker? I met him on Friday, and he invited me to "come over and watch TV" with him on Sunday. What? This must be a sign of my maturity because 10-15 years ago that may not have been a problem (especially if I was feeling the guy...young and dumb, I know). But now? I'm all about the Law & Order consequences of such a scenario. I can see my friends telling Benson & Stabler about when they saw me last and how he's such a small man and didn't seem like a viable threat. No thanks. I don't want to be that cold body on the street as the theme song plays. Call me crazy but I need to been seen out in public with you at least once before I cross your threshold. Or maybe that invitation coupled with the saccharine sweet nicknames has me raising up all kinds of guards against small fry. Whatever the case may be, the Kevin Hart look a like and I may have seen eye to eye sitting side by side at the bar on Friday, but we damn sure don't see eye to eye on dating.