My Dad, My Pimp

Wherever we go and whatever we do, there is a spokesperson, my dad. It's a strange sensation to be having a conversation with my mother and to hear myself referred to in the third person several feet away. A restaurant, a shop, a hotel, wherever.

"My daughter - she has a blog."

This happened at dinner with my friend, D. and his dad. It happened in Vancouver, BC with a cute waiter and then again in Portland with a shop-owner. Apparently, my dad is proud of my blog. One night at CinCin in Vancouver...

"She writes about her experiences in Portland," my dad says. "People are reading it."

I refuse to elaborate and awkward silence descends. Does it get any sexier than this? Why yes I am 35 blogging about my lack of dates and yes, I am on vacation with my parents. How do you like me now?

"This young man is riding his bike from Vancouver to Portland."

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match...

The cute waiter described the upcoming ride, and that he'd be staying at the Ace Hotel. My dad mentioned my impending move to Brooklyn, "the in place, with all the young people." The waiter said he had a trip planned there. My dad relayed the info to me, like any good matchmaker. My dad was pimping me out!

I really wasn't sure if the waiter wanted a big tip or had some real interest and I wasn't excited enough to actually pursue it much with the obvious impediment of two retiree onlookers nearby. We split an $11 rhubarb type dessert then walked down the long, stone stairs back to Robson Street while the waiter rushed to the top and called to us, "Goodbye! Have a goodnight!"

My dad called back, "If you're ever in Edison, NJ look us up!"

"He's going to be in Portland and Brooklyn," I wanted to tell my dad. "Back off. He's mine."

xxx

Back in Portland. We walk around the Pearl District, weaving through Davis and 9th, Couch and 11th. We stop at Sweet Masterpiece and buy a chocolate candy named Seafoam. Kind of amazing. We stop at Pearl Bakery and buy a slice of almond cake after my mom sneaks about 3 free samples - never mind that she's a diabetic.

We make our way to a ceramics shop. Here is where I learn that there are perks to having a friend or oh, shall we say a relative who likes to chat people up. My dad talks with the guy behind the desk and in the faint distance I hear a familiar echo...

"My daughter has a blog."

"Oh? What's it about?" the guy asks.

I refuse to feel embarrassed. "It's about my dates," I shoot back. " Or my lack of dates lately. My experience in Portland with meeting people."

He tells me he has had similar troubles, and talks of friends.

"Friends?" I tell him. "I've got friends."' What I want to say is that I've got a million friends and what I'm looking for a friend won't do.

Instead we make chitchat. I sign the shop's visitor's book, and include my email. Within 2 hours the guy has sent me an email, inviting me for coffee. This is Date 3 procured by the blog - effing amazing. I tell my mom about the email and she says that's good - he doesn't let any grass grow beneath his feet.

"Plus," I say, "he has balls."

My mom says, "Literally." And shortly after, "Let's hope so."