Shorty was how old……

As we continue on with this weekends guest post…….. 

I have another great blog from a first time writer. She calls herself Lady Londa, but she acts more like a thug in a dress.  I hope you find her writings as entertaining as I do. 

So sit back, relax and read……..

So I figure the best way to get over my dating slump is to go on a date. At one of the parties I attended last Friday, I met a man. Good convo, cute in the face, very grown man swag. We exchanged small talk and I liked what he had to say. At some point in the evening we parted ways without exchanging contact info. and he came to find me on the dance floor to tell me, “I want your number before you leave.” It doesn’t sound so impressive on screen, but he said it with some authority and some bass. Interesting. And yes, I made sure he got my number.

So he texts. I don’t get around to texting him back because… well, I was in a mood about dating. So he calls, leaves a message telling me how great it was to meet and we should hang out sometime. Two days later, I bother myself to return his call. I remind myself that just because I have a bad outlook at the moment, this is no reason to pass up attractive, interested men with good conversation. . So I call on the way to meet up with my girls at this Mexican spot.  No answer. Voicemail. I never leave messages, but this time I do. I take Asha’s advice about change starting with me.

“Hey you, this is [Londal] returning your call. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I’m dumb busy. Hope we can link up soon.” End Call.

An hour later, he calls back. I answer in the middle of dinner with the girls, which I never do. This is sacred time. And today’s story is very juicy too (“So then he said, ‘I have to be forced to commit so we should make a baby tonight. Are you ovulating?”) But I pick up to hurriedly tell him that I am busy and out with friends. My thumb is all ready to push the Red button to end the call when he says, “sure, okay, yeah, but let me ask you this before you go: you want to have a drink with me later tonight?” He’s doing that authority with bass thing again. Just commandeering his way around the Earth.

“I think I can find time for that,” I say. I hear my Southern accent creeping up. My girls look at me and roll their eyes. They know what that voice means.

“Text me. Let me know what time to meet you,” he says. He’s doing the a little take, a little give dance, I see.

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

I’m late. I told him I’d meet him at 10:30ish and its damn near 11 by the time I get there. I text him to tell him I am running in heels to meet him and apologize profusely for being late. When I get to the restaurant, I don’t even recognize him. I’m talking to the bartender asking what time they close and wondering where ol’ boy is when my eyes land on all kinds of fine in a suit.

Damn! I almost say it out loud.

“Hey you,” I say. I smile so big my eyes damn near squeeze shut.

He gives me a “hey” back and quick hug, then he gives me a pocket square to wipe my brow. (I was really running in heels.) Turns out, he is in need of food, and the bar shust down at 11.  We walk around Charlotte in search of food, which I don’t mind as it’s an amazing night. After ten blocks, we end up a corner up from where we started. By this time I’ve discovered that he’s in finance (of course), he’s got an MBA (of course), and he eventually wants to get into politics (surprise, surprise.) Oh, and he’s six feet (of course.) He’s the exact on-paper run down (always finance or law. Artists do not love me) of damn near every guy in the past 7 years who’s met me and taking an immediate liking. I’m guessing by swag factor that he’s around 32 and if he was all diesel and muscular, he’d be damn-near” my type” to a T. How predictable. I’m bored already.

We sit outside and catch the Charlotte breeze—something I’ve never done before. I make a point to talk about nothing I talk about usually. Conversation doesn’t flow with great ease; it’s a little bit of work, but that’s okay. We talk about the Kardashians, Love and Hip Hop Atlanta, and my brainiac cousin who’s going to Harvard and how much I miss undergrad.
As we’re talking about college ish, he says something that catches my attention. Busta’s “Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See” came out my freshman year.. He remembers it from junior high.

“Huh? You had to be at least a junior in college,” I tell him. “No way you were in high school.”

He sort of cocks his head. “Uh-uh. I was in eighth grade.”

“When you’d come out of college?” I blurt, my mind turning trying to compute dates.


I just stare at him. “What?” I finally say. “How old are you?”


I make him give me his license. No way he is 26. Impossible. He has all that authority and bass. I stare at the numbers. 1982? He is not only 26, he just turned 26.

“You’re older than me, I’m guessing?” he asks. I look up. His expression is so smug. His swag is out of this world. He’s just so damn confident and self assured. Twenty–six and getting mistaken for grown-ass man swag? How is this possible?

“I nod. I’m—“

“I don’t want to know.” He shrugs. “If it doesn’t bother you, I don’t care.”

We move to other subjects, but while he’s talking, I’m paying attention for some sign of immaturity. Like something that denotes 26 that I somehow missed. Some goofiness. Some awkward gesture. Some stupid comment. I mean he’s a 26-year-old male and everyone agrees that men mature much slower than women. So that would make him like the emotional maturity of what? Like a 23 year old woman? Good Lord. But as I keep looking for something, I realize there’s nothing. He’s totally normal and likable and nice. And then I realize that I am upset about someone being all good things and nothing being wrong with them and for not boring me by being the same thing that everyone before them has been. And why am I looking for something to be wrong with him instead of thinking about what’s right. What is wrong with me? When did this pessimism take hold?

And so just like that, I stop. I zone back in and he’s saying something about the gym and being tatted on both arms so he has to stay cut up. It’s like some sample sale light starts blinking above my head and I realize he’s taken his jacket off. He’s down to his dress shirt, which any halfway competent luster for the male species knows is the most form flattering attire for a well-built man. You can see the “V” without seeing it really. It’s like female equivalent of a man seeing a woman in a long skirt with high splits. Just enough to get the imagination going when turned the right way. But he’s sitting and I can’t check for a “V.” I can, however, see broad, square shoulders.

How in the hell did I miss those? Was I so busy trying to think of what’s wrong with him that I missed them?

After he pays the check, he gets up to leave and there it is.. the “V. “ He’s very broad at the top, and very narrow in the waist. And he’s got a cute ass. (Cue Bilal’s “Something to Hold On To… “youuuuu make me feel stingy and what not…”)

I assume he’s walking me to the train when he mentions that he drove over and offers me a ride. I tell him I’ll accept if he promises not to Ted Bundy me.

“You‘re probably too young to get that reference,” I quip.

“I’ll do a Dahmer and put you in the freezer instead. That better?” he shoots back.

We’re talking about serial killers and somehow I think, “Cute, witty f*cker.”

I swat his arm and connect with… well, you know what it was: a wall of man. He instinctively flexes. All guys do that when girls swat them. And why am I swatting him? I’m behaving like a teenager. I laugh at myself…..

What happened to all that ‘damn dating! I’m so bored I could die?” …

I’m stopping now. I could go on for another 1000 words about the minutia of my night. But you’d read all that only to discover nothing of great significance happened on the ride home. He drove me there, I said good night, thanked him for a nice time, and got out his ride. It was a completely anti-climactic end to a non-eventful evening over non-exciting subject matter that managed to be profound because it was just different. There was no immediate connection, no zsa-zsa zoo, no butterflies. He’s 26 with grown man swag. And if he asks me out again, I’m saying yes just because he’s just not the same as everyone before him and he doesn’t bore me. And well, I ain’t mad at that “V” or that arm either.

The End


It should all be so simple….

This weekend CamronZoe is tired.  Not of writing, but just tired all together.  I am taking a little hiatus.  I have some running around to do and a few cakes to bake.  Because I am all about sharing the wealth, I couldn’t stand to leave you without a blog.  So I called up some friends who owed me favors, and put their writing skills to work.  I hope you enjoy the dating antics of two of my most entertaining friends Lady Londa, and CherylV.

I am out at a family-owned Caribbean bar in the University area of Charlotte, North Carolina with one of my friends, Bridget, when I spot a cutie.

I point him out to Bridget, who knows him.  Well.  She says this has to be at least the third time I’ve met him, but somehow I overlooked him at those first couple of meetings.  Surely I’ve seen him in a suit, she says.  And surely he looked lovely, but I don’t remember him being in the room.

The evening I finally take note of him, he’s strutting around in a T-shirt and jeans.  He’s over six, easy.  And his back seems particularly broad, his waist quite narrow.  And he’s singing….he’s happy, I guess.  I turn around and look at this truly beautiful singing specimen and realize he’s got the clearest brown complexion and the prettiest teeth and smile I’ve seen in a while.

How the hell did I miss this?

I lean over to Bridget – a longtime friend of his – and ask for the run-down.

Bridget: “Who?  Marcus?”  She leans forward to make sure she’s got the right man.  “You’re so predictable.”

Me:  “Yes, I know.  Now, about this one singing over here…..”

Bridget:  “Good dude.  Family man.  Good character.  I’ve known him forever.  Was looking for a girlfriend last I heard.”  She shrugs as if there is a plethora of men who look as good as he does and fit this description.

So I turn around, smile big, enhance my below – the – Mason – Dixon accent, and make conversation.  After a hilarious evening, I end up catching a ride home with Marcus, who drops Bridget off first.  Turns out he lives up the block from me.

Marcus pulls in front of my house, and we continue chatting as he double – parks.  It’s late.  I should get out of the truck and carry myself inside like the good Southern belle I am.  But I can’t.  He’s pure comedy.  He has no self – censor button.  It’s like whatever he thinks, he says.  It’s crass, obnoxious, offensive, and amazingly delivered, all the traits of a good comedian.  It’s the funniest conversation I have had in I can’t remember how long.  And it’s like a tennis match.  No matter what I serve, he throttles it right back to me.  (A very well – known romance author once described good conversation as verbal sex.  She was right.)

Somehow we get on the topic of exes and why neither one of us is seeing anyone seriously.  He ask me what my type is.  I hesitate, because I’m not trying to gas him by telling him that he is the epitome of my type – physically, at least.  I try to change the subject.  He’s not budging.  Eventually, I tell him my ideal:  Chocolate (check-plus), over six feet (check), clean-cut (check-plus), pretty teeth (check-plus), funny (check-plus), and alpha male (loose definition:  if you were a lion and you were in the jungle, all the other lions would listen when you roar-oh, this is a check, too).

Marcus laughs.  Smiles.  (Sigh.)  And just before I think I will melt where I sit, he says in all humorless seriousness, “Well, you must be going crazy right now, then, huh?”

I am.  But I’ll never tell him that.

Marcus calls.  I call back.  We hang out once, he never calls after.  I thought he was digging me, but I learn through the grapevine (i.e., Bridget) that he’s actually not looking for a “wifey,” which he thinks I am.  That is that.

We end up as the same venue at the same time again a couple of weekends later.  Marcus sees me, comes by, chats me up….then flirts?

“Hey, Cheryl.”  He flashes his bright white, braces-perfect teeth.  “You dancing tonight?”  he asks.

Me:  “I might.”

Him:  “If you’re dancing, I’ll dance with you.”

Another flash of that smile.  I am a sucker for a smile, and it’s hard for me to not to sigh where I sit.

Me:  “Nah I’m good.  Thanks, though.”

I brush him off – not to be mean but to respect the parameters he’s defined.  He isn’t interested, so why the mixed signals?

Marcus chats for a few minutes more, then heads off for a destination unknown somewhere inside the bar.  Through a series of events, Bridget ends up asking him to take use back to our side of town.  I’d prefer not to ride with him, but I have no other options at this point.  Marcus and I are cool, right?  There are no hard feelings.  This should be no problem.

Marcus comes to the front of the room to tell me he’s ready to bounce in ten.  I wait fifteen before I gather my stuff and say my goo d-byes, because I know he’s lying.  Finally, he comes to the front of the bar, be he’s chilling.  I’m all ready to go, but I take a seat and wait for his cue.  I’m at his mercy since he’s driving us.

He takes a spot three feet in front of me and then proceeds to bag a chick right there.  Intentionally?  Eh, I’m not sure.  I admit, it stings.  Like, dude made it pretty clear where he stood on the subject of me – which I respect – but this is a little inconsiderate, no?  I have no right to say anything about this, so I check myself, enjoy what’s left of the party, and ignore him.

So he seals the deal and says he’s ready to go.  Oh, and we’re dropping Bridget off first.

“Is that a problem?” he asks.

I cock my head.  “Why would it be?”

He shrugs.  “Just checking.”

In the car, I take shotgun, Bridget takes the back.  Marcus begins to complain how there were no cute women at the party, and he was looking for some, too, Er?

I ignore him, because now I realize that hollering at the chick right in front of me was very intentional, and for whatever reason, Marcus is trying to push my buttons.  I will NOT give Marcus the reaction he is looking for.  Bridget has no comment for him, either.  She and I start our own conversation…..which Marcus interrupts to talk about how many women were after him tonight.  I don’t get it.  I’m in the passenger seat, trying to figure out what I did to dude for him to be so rude right now.  He made it clear he wasn’t interested.  He didn’t call.  That’s all the hint I need.  I didn’t call him, didn’t harass him, didn’t make a scene when I saw him again.  I didn’t say anything about it.  Just moved on.  That’s what adults do right?  Then I wonder if I really have anything to do with how he’s reacting.  He could have always been a douche and I didn’t see it till now.  It’s not as if we really got to know each other.

We drop off Bridget at her apartment complex, and as soon as she’s up the stairs and inside. Marcus starts to complain about his shoulder.  He asks me to massage it for him.

I’m done.  Overdone.   Outdone.  “Jesus, keep me near the cross.  Are you kidding me, dude?!”  I dramatically throw my hands into the air for emphasis.

“Huh? Why?”  He sounds baffled.

I regain some composure, because I’m giving him a reaction, and something tells me that’s all he wants.  As calmly as possible, I say, “I am not rubbing some man’s shoulder.”

“I’m some man now?”

“Ummmm……what else would you be but some man?”

“I used to be Marcus.”

I shrug and look at him blankly.

We pull in front of my house.  And instead of stopping the car, he parks as if we’re going to chill and chat.  I’m confused.  What do we have to say to each other?  I promptly reach for the door and politely thank him for seeing me home.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Um…in my house.”

“Why are you being so mean to me?”

“What? Mean?”

“You don’t even want to talk to me now.”

I thought when he didn’t call, that was the indication that he didn’t want to talk.  Is it possible that he is clueless?  Either he’s too dumb to know why I’ve fallen back, or he knows and he doesn’t care.

Then I get it.

He doesn’t care that I’m mean.  He doesn’t care if I dance.  He probably doesn’t even care about the chick he scooped in front of me.  And his shoulder probably doesn’t even hurt.

He does care that I’m not interested anymore.  A younger me would have mistaken all of his antics for a backward display of interest.  I might have got giddy and thought something incredibly stupid, like Oh, wow, he does like me.  He’s just fighting it!  But I’ve discovered the difference between someone liking me (interest) and someone wanting me to like him (ego).  This circumstance would be the latter.

In my most polite voice, I reiterate:  “Thank you for the ride.  I appreciate it.  Have a good night.”  And then I get out of the vehicle and sashay upstairs.


Status Makes all the Difference…

A woman that is one level above a jump off but always a step below the wife, wifey, girlfriend. A side b*tch must know her part. She does not get holiday’s, birthday’s (other than her own). While he may meet your family. You will never meet his. A side b*tch is a woman who will have sex on Feb. 1-13 and spend Valentines day alone.

Saturday night, I was out in Uptown Charlotte with a gang of folks celebrating my boy Rodrique’s b-day. There were drinks, wings, bowling, and talking shit, i.e. a great night. The fun continued from the bowling alley to some random house party, then finally to IHOP. There are 9 of us seated at 2 tables—at least there are until Rodrique leaves for an unknown Charlotte, locale to pick up a woman, promising to return shortly.

We’re trying to wait for Rodrique to return before we order since it’s his birthday celebration. So to pass the time, we all chat idly. At my table, the topic of who pays for the bill on a date comes up. Kewon presents this scenario to Shalonda, “What if a waiter slides the check to you first? Would you pay?”

Shalonda ponders the idea for a moment. “Is this a first date?”

Kewon nods. “Yeah, it is, but in general would you pay?”

She shrugs. “Not a problem… if it’s not a first date, of course.” Pause. “And I’ll happily pay if I asked him out.”

Rodrique finally returns with his “friend” Tori (40 minutes later) and introduces her around to the crew. She’s a very attractive sista, and every dude held that same “DAMMMMN!!” look (dudes you know that look). After we meet her, she saunters to the other table and takes the seat next to my boy’s. He parlays with us for a moment and I resist the urge to dap him up on his latest acquisition. I’m trying to figure out exactly what she is – she’s new, so is this potential wifey? A J.O.? He’s bringing her out at 3am. Gotta be a J.O. Then again, she’s meeting all the crew, including the girls. The J.O., especially a new one, would never meet the friends at any hour. Must be a PoW (potential (of) wifey). Hmmm.

We order, we wait, we eat and then bill time comes. The waitress informs us that the checks will have to be divided individually because this IHOP doesn’t take different cards on a large check (you know Black people never carry cash.) She hands all ten of us our separate checks and nine of us proceed to pay.

Rodrique takes his bill, reaches into his wallet, and pulls out a $20 to cover his meal, plus tax and tip. Check paid and stomach full, he relaxes back in his chair without a care in the world.

Tori’s bill is resting on the table. She is looking at it the way a woman looks at a small insect (not roach) that has invaded her home—part fear, part curiosity. She stares, and stares and stares at the paper print-out for what seems like an eternity. I guess she finally realizes that Rodrique is not reaching back into his wallet for her, so eventually she goes into her pocketbook and fumbles for some singles or a ten, anything to pay for her own damn food. She settles her bill and looks off into the distance. Clearly she is pissed. (Me and my boys laughing at her from the other table hasn’t helped matters, I guess.) I feel bad for her, but now I know the right answer to my question.

When we leave the restaurant, the Uptown crew, who are copping a ride back together, give Rodrique and Tori space to walk ahead of us as we follow them to Rodrique’s truck. We’re far away, but not so distant that we don’t hear Tori hiss at Rodrique, ” I can’t believe you acted like such an asshole. I’m soooo embarrassed!!!”

I figure it’s gonna be a long time before we get back. This sista is about to flip and he’s going to have to drop her wherever she came from before we head home. Maybe she was–a PoW. J.O.’s play thier position. and this sista is about to spaz.

Tori gets in the car, taking the passenger seat. Reluctantly, we pile in the back. I’m only half-way paying attention, but when I become fully alert, I realize we’re on the highway, headed to Concord at 5:30 am—no detour.

I chuckle to myself and settle back to knock out till the truck pulls in front of my house.

Actions speak louder than words. Jump off. Definitely.

You’re not a kid anymore…

Hey ya’ll. I’m back. I am having a wonderful summer break and I have been just too busy going out and experiencing new adventures, and being lazy, that I just haven’t had the time to write anything.

Please forgive me; cause right now I’m feeling a little random these days. Been on a 72 hour streak of happy feelings with Mr. Conversation…… but there’s a blog about that later, so I won’t spoil the moment.

Okay enough about me. On to the main event.

Many weeks ago Mr. Conversation invited me to his office summer party.  I behaved well at the company event – drank wine, chatted up with some of his co-workers and managed to appear sane and responsible.    Then he and I bounced to another event that we both had been looking forward to going to since we heard about it.  It was a PR party that one of his boys were throwing, and I was excited to meet more of the people in his circle.

There—well there I behaved not so well. I’m always a lady, but I was a lady with one (or three) too many glasses of wine. The deejay got the idea to play Baltimore club music and I was taken back to the summers of my youth visiting my cousins in the DC suburbs. In my tipsy brightness and on a bad ankle that had been bothering me all weekend, I got low (“ahhh, pick it up, pick it up!”) and got back up just fine. I didn’t know I still had it in me. Gold star! Me and Mr. Conversation laughed about it all the way home and I  giggled myself to sleep that I was not only young at heart, but in body too.

The next morning, I realized I wasn’t as young in body as I thought I was. I could barely walk. My ankle was swollen to the size of a ham hawk. I wrapped it up to go to work and by the time I got there, my knee, calf, ankle and foot were magnormous!

I’m not 22 anymore.

The first week of summer vacation, boredom got the best of me and I headed down to Atlanta with Mr. Conversation.  We decided to hit up the club with some of my friends from the uh-re-ah. We made our way to this little happening spot for what promised to be a fabulous event. I walked in—skipped the line because my girl went to Clark Atlanta with the promoter—and headed upstairs to the party. On the first floor, the average age was 25. Further upstairs, I was afraid to even brush anyone lest I catch a case. In a room full of 18 year old “men” with angular frames that hadn’t filled out yet and faces that were baby soft from lack of hair, I felt like a cougar. I got a glass of wine (the bar was less packed upstairs) and promptly descended the steps to party with the legals.

As the night wore on, I noticed something. All of the grown folk were in VIP with me, Mr. Conversation, and my girl Reese. We were all dressed conservatively. Blazers and button-ups for the men; comfortable tops and shoes and other chill attire for the women. We looked like the grown folks we were. We were mostly chatting and small talking, trying to figure out how we knew each other (there’s only one degree of separation for all black people who went to college anywhere on the East Coast or South). As the Henny and Mo got to us, we began to dance—mostly two-stepping that involved plenty of fancy footwork. It was at that point, I noticed the kids—as I affectionately refer to anyone under 25—watching from outside the rope.

The girls… er, young women, had on sexy clothes—skin tight jeans and half tops. Way too much make-up and way too done hair and stilettos that looked painful to walk in. When they danced they stood on furniture and wined, backed it up on some boy who hasn’t learned how not to get hard when a girl shakes on him, or they got low, low, low. (I didn’t even attempt it that night. I’ve learned my lesson.) I watched one young girl shaking to the floor to a song that I used to get loose to in my day.

Back when Love was still Dream and I was a tender 22, I would go to the club and Jarvis and I would challenge the Baltimore folks to dance. I had the technique, but they always won (B-more folks can out dance anyone on sheer stamina alone.) But there was a time when I was the girl in the middle of the circle, when it wasn’t a good night unless I sweated out my hair and my outfit before the walk to the car. Ahhh, youth.

Taking in the scene, it hit me. “It” being that grown is not a fashion sense, it’s a state of mind. No amount of make-up or hair, or heels can make you grown or make you look grown. You just look like a young girl playing dress-up. But you have to be grown to realize that. Two, there is nothing worse than a person of grown age trying to appear that they are less grown than they are. Even if I had my 22 year old body, me in near-nothing clothes and/or gyrating around at the club would just look plain foolish. (And by the way, I found pictures of myself from when I was 22 while I was home. I was a size 3 with no boobies, booty or hips, and still starving myself because I thought I was fat.) And finally three, it takes time to get on the other side of the rope. You have to earn it, be around long enough to build your network (or bank account) so you are the person looking out from VIP and not the person looking in.

I smiled at the youth, watched them do what I no longer can and still be able to walk in heels the following day, watched them looking in VIP with overshadowed eyes at the grown folks on the grown side of the rope. I appreciated where I was and how far I’d come. The song changed, my moment of clarity passed and then I danced with a 23 year old in a t-shirt and jeans, who I taught how to two-step and properly twirl a woman.

Each one, teach one.

This has turned out to be an amazing summer!