Trail of Breadcrumbs

Doing dinner progressively results in two things: multiple menus to choose from and a constantly changing array of characters talking to me.

At the first place and despite being nowhere near home, I met a guy who's about to open a business right here in Jackson Ward.

A big, gregarious fellow who'd just bought a cigar and was looking for someone to cut off the tip and light it for him, he explained his plans to open a "close contact martial arts" studio over top of a restaurant that will serve coffee, smoothies and pastries a few blocks from my house.

Eventually, he said, it'll also serve healthy Caribbean food because (I guess) nothing tops off close contact fighting like some jerk chicken.

And because I know so little about martial arts or fighting, I have to wonder: isn't all fighting close contact? You can't very well be across the room and expect to knock someone out, can you?

Clearly I know nothing about sports.

The second restaurant delivered a woman who seemed a bit glum because the transmission had died on her truck today.

"My boyfriend and I used to use it for a tree removal business, so I'm not too surprised," she admitted pragmatically.

When she really lit up was when she got to talking about her kids: one of her own, two step-children and two adopted.

The one she described as "the easy daughter," whatever that means, is getting married soon and she shared all sorts of details about planning that.

First, it was going to be at Maymont ($17,000) but that idea was dropped when her ex opted out of sharing wedding expenses.

Plan B was a cruise for 20 ($3,000) but that limited the guest list too much.

The final plan involved renting an 8-bedroom house oceanfront at Myrtle Beach, where they'll be married on the beach and hold the reception and the couple will stay on to honeymoon.

Apparently the house has two bars, one next to the pool, and she's already put in her bid for that to be her spot.

If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Only problem with that plan was the bother of getting the South Carolina paperwork done ahead of time so they decided to get married at the registrar's office here quietly and just pretend that the beach wedding is real.

I told her how my best friend from college had done a similar thing, getting married at the courthouse on the sly with just me and my boyfriend for witnesses and then letting her parents throw them a big, splashy wedding the following summer.

Everyone was happy and no on was the wiser.

And on that subject, the woman also proudly shared that she'd recently gotten divorced on the cheap, doing the paperwork herself so all she had to pay was the filing fee.

Now all her friends want her to write a book about how to do it to save them money. I guess they've never heard of the Internet.

I'm sure if her daughter's starter marriage doesn't work out, she'd help her with the divorce just as she's helping her with the wedding.

The third place yielded nothing more interesting than a bartender who insisted on chilling a wine glass (like they do with martini glasses, filling it with water and ice) before pouring in wine.

She explained that because she liked her glass really cold, she figures her customers do, too.

At the last place, I found a colorful guy I'd met at Amuse a few years back, a man who strongly resembled Colonel Sanders minus the bolo tie (bow tie instead).

He explained to me the importance of finding a man who was passionate, who had a big brain, a man who could appreciate my fine mind and quick wit.

I was told he also made a comment about my rear end when I left to go to the bathroom.

Seems like he should have told me to look for a man who appreciates that, too.

Walking the Beat

A man approaches me at a crosswalk.

Stranger: Can I give you a compliment?
Me: Sure.

Stranger: Those sure are some pretty legs you have.
Me: Thank you.

Stranger: I saw you walking before and was thinking you don't often see legs that nice.
Me: Not bad for an old lady.

Stranger: You don't look old, you look great. Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: Yes.

Stranger: Do you want another?
Me: Nope, one man is plenty for me.

Walk resumes.

Get Yourself a Trap Door

Out on my walk on Grace Street this morning, one of the regular VCU grounds guys said good morning and started explaining why I hadn't seen him in a while (I hadn't asked or wondered, but okay).

"It sure is cold out here," I said, changing the subject.

"Sure is," he said. "Got your long johns on?"

"No, but I've got leggings on under these," I explained. "Couldn't walk in this cold without two layers."

"Long janes, huh? Do those have a trap door like mine do?" he wondered. "Makes it awful easy."

"Uh, no," I said.

"You ought to get a pair of small men's long john's and then you'd have a trap door!" he told me, solving all my problems. Time to go, I thought.

"Maybe they come in peach!" he called to my back, chuckling. Maybe they do, but I doubt it.

Please tell me other people have these odd conversations with strangers.

In Less Than a Hot Minute

I went to the airport to pick up a friend and naturally the flight had been delayed. I'd wisely brought a book and read for a while, then strolled around, alternating frigid terminal walking with the heat of the great outdoors.

During one of my very warm walks, I came upon a guy getting out of a cab who almost fell into me as he exited the vehicle. Glancing around, he asked me, "Are you lost?"

"Not lost, just looking for someone," I explained, smiling at his assumption.

"Too bad it isn't me," he responded smiling back suggestively.

Total time from cab stopping to hitting on a stranger: less than ten seconds. Welcome to RIC, sir.