I went on a date last night. It’s been a while, but not so long that I don’t know what a decent date should be like.

I may not remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I DO remember, albeit vaguely, what a fun date should be: The warm feels of physical attraction, enjoying an activity with someone, the exciting engagement of like minds, the flutter of joy at meeting someone who has potential to be a significant person in your life, anticipation of what might come.

Last night had none of that.

(This post borders on being a novella, so ya might want to grab a drink and get comfy. Be forewarned: There will be cuss words.)

This guy, who will get a generic blog name of Loser Date for now because I don’t want to give anything away just yet, contacted me through a Facebook dating group for single RVers. He started off, not by asking me about myself, but by asking for photos of me, and of my RV. To be fair, he did send some of his RV and of himself – unbidden. The one of himself was the classic “shirtless in the bathroom mirror” selfie.

Before we move on, I feel it’s important to ask: Why, oh why, do guys think “shirtless in the bathroom mirror” is a good look? Seriously, why? Guys, trust me when I tell you that No Woman Gets This. Learn to take a normal selfie, forfucksake.

Yes, this should have been my first clue it wouldn’t end well, I see that now. Too late. But, lucky for you, I got a story out of it. And it only goes downhill from here.

I told him I’m not sending photos to a stranger on the internet.

Then he wants me to friend him on Facebook so “we can learn more about each other”. ahahahaha! No. “If you want to get to know me, ask me questions about myself. I’ll start…”

Then he asks for my phone number. ahahahaha! Nice try.

Keep in mind he has yet to ask ANYTHING about me: What I’m looking for, what I like to do, if I have kids, a psycho ex, a violent criminal history. Nothing.

Right, I can hear you all screaming at your screen, “The guy with the axe is right behind you! Run, you idiot, run!” Fine, I concede Clue #2.

In my defense, and lest ye have forgotten the title of this blog: Kernut THE BLOND.

Moving on…

Loser Date was going to be passing through the area on his way from southern Florida back to Missouri, and wants to meet up. He asks me for good date ideas for the one evening he is in town. (Again, not asking me anything about myself.)

It’s HOT here: “110 with the heat index” hot. And humid. Very humid. Not much to do outside during the day, so I recommended a couple very public places we can walk around outside in the early evening. One is a very nice little downtown area with shops and restaurants, the other is a large scenic and historic hotel property with a path along the shore, restaurants and such. The latter is rather high-end.

Two days go by and he doesn’t pick. Now he asks me to pick – at the last minute. (This is Clue #3, albeit a subtle one. Here’s my thinking: He has asked me for several date ideas, then wants me to pick one at the last minute. He should’ve done some research on the items I suggested, found his balls, grabbed them, and picked one of the options or suggested something else. Clue #3: He has no balls. I prefer my men have balls – both literally and figuratively. Nut. Up. If you don’t like my last-minute choice, you have only yourself to blame.)

I pick the swanky historic hotel property: The Grand at Point Clear. It has a lovely atmosphere, beautifully landscaped grounds, great restaurants, and is one of my favorite places. Walking around the interior of the massive hotel, they have what is the equivalent of a museum of the property’s history in photos on the wall, and a small alcove dedicated to the property’s history dating back to 1847. Outside, there is a paved walking path all along the shoreline, where you can watch the sunset over Mobile Bay. Sit outside and have a drink or a meal at one of the many tables, or eat at any one of the four gourmet restaurants. The property is stunning and the food is fantastic.

I arrive after Loser Date. Not only is he waiting in the wrong place (possibly Clue #4: Can’t follow simple directions to MEET IN THE LOBBY), he is stunned when he sees me. He is instantly insecure because I’m in a sundress and sandals, while he is in sports wear (nylon shorts and shirt, sneakers). He’s dressed fine, his clothes look new, and half the people in the resort are dressed the same as he is. And I’m a little “curvy/fluffy” and not that hot looking that he should be so stunned – it will become apparent later that he’s just horny and looking for a hookup. Boy, did he pick the wrong gal.

But he can’t get over that he’s not dressed up. All he sees are the handful of guys in suits, clearly there for a business meeting. No one else is dressed like they are – this is southern Alabama, forfucksake.

Women are walking around in bathing suits and coverups. Plenty of other guys are wearing shorts and shirts.

He’s not letting it go, constantly mentioning how “uncomfortable he feels with how he’s dressed”, “this place is really fancy”, “I’m not in your league”. (All true.)

Now he gets a name. He shall henceforth be known as “I’m so insecure I can’t see straight” guy. (Please withhold your pity for his insecurity – he’s got much bigger issues.)

We start our walk along the bay path, and he has to stop after 1/8 mile. He’s sweating like a hooker in church and panting like a lizard on a hot rock. He tries to play it off as he just wants to look out at the water while standing in the shade. We’ve walked for FIVE minutes.

I’m not buying his sudden desire to stop and watch the water. I take a good look at his frame: He’s stocky, one of those body types that could be fit and a good hunter-gatherer (noted in a previous post about online dating), or one of those guys that was once fit and then got fluffy. With beer. A lot of beer. With him, there’s a little muscle, but it’s buried under a heavy layer of beer gut.

After several minutes, we began walking again… and have to stop in another 50 feet. He pretends he wants to look at the pool for a looong time.

And he’s still sweating like a hooker in church and panting like a lizard on a hot rock.

AND HE TRIES TO PUT HIS SWEATY ARM AROUND ME. Eeeeww!

His sweat level – no small thing, mind you – was commented on to his face by a COMPLETE STRANGER while we walked along.

We spent a mere 15 minutes in each other’s company – we ain’t gettin’ cozy any time soon (specifically, never). I quickly pull away, my lipped curled in disgust, and inform his he is sweaty – in case he didn’t know. And add, “I barely know you, I’m not getting cozy with you.”

The walk continues on like this for another 15 minutes. Stop, start, pant, sweat.

And he even leans in for a KISS at one stop! I backed up so fast. 

Hell no, and all the noes in No Land. You have been friend-zoned, buddy, and we’re only 15 minutes into the date. This might be a record.

We finally arrive and go in the bar. I order juice, he orders tap water.

He proceeds to drone on and on about his boring job, all while trying to make himself sound like he’s some big-wig developer. I tried, in vain, to change the subject several times.

He still doesn’t ask me much at all about myself.

At one point he tells me I am out of his league, that we aren’t a match. No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?

I am so bored and ready to go – he’s not even a good conversationalist. So, I go to the bathroom and spend 15 minutes playing a phone game. I tell my online teammates the date is not going well.

When I return and finish my drink, he asks “What do you want to do now?”

It’s here I should tell you I had an idea from the beginning that this might not go well, so my secret plan was to walk, have a drink, and get myself dinner to go from one of the lovely restaurants. Whether or not he managed to show up.

But I answer him and say, “We could grab dinner.” I figure we’re going Dutch at this point.

He immediately says, “No, I ate at lunch time. I only eat once a day.”

I look down at his bulging gut. Not buying that line, either, bub.

I inform him I’m going to go order a meal to go and take it home. I assume at this point, he’ll say his goodbyes and go away.

Once again, I was wrong.

Just as I stand up to go place my order, he jumps up and heads to the bathroom – leaving me to pay for my $2 juice drink.

Whatever, ya cheap bastard.

Tonight’s bartender, I’ll call him Alex (not his real name), probably remembered me from a few months ago when I treated myself to a nice dinner; I sat at the bar and ordered the food from him. Alex may also remember the gal who only drinks cranberry and orange juice or water.

You know how you can sense when someone is listening, but trying to look like they’re not listening?

When Insecure Cheap Guy went to the bathroom while I paid for my drink, I gave Alex the scoop. I told him this was a lousy date and he said, “OH! I was wondering what was going on! Was it a blind date?” (If only, Alex, if only.) I mentioned I was headed to go put in my own dinner order To Go. He laughed, thought this was all rather funny, and wished me luck.

While I went to place my order To Go, Insecure Cheap Guy followed me around the massive hotel. I walked at a good clip, he was lagging behind me. I didn’t care that I was practically sprinting ahead of him. He didn’t take the hint.

And when I had to wait 20 minutes for my order to be up, he still didn’t leave. I walked outside to wait and watch the pelicans. He followed.

And for 20 minutes I had to listen to him drone on about how insecure he was, how he didn’t realize this was a nice place, how he should’ve planned for dinner, blah, blah, blah.

And then, then, the fucker tried to gaslight me! He tried to turn it around on ME, that I should’ve told him how fancy this place was, how he should’ve dressed, what he should’ve have expected, etc. He tried to back-peddle and say he just didn’t want to have dinner “here” because of his clothing choice.

I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “You are the only one here who is concerned about it. More than half the men here are wearing the same thing. I don’t care. No one here cares. You are the only one who is haunted by it.”

AND THEN HE TRIED TO KISS ME AGAIN.

Really? REALLY??

I reminded him we were not a match, nor would we ever be.

Thank fuck my phone rang at that moment and my order was up.

I made a beeline for the restaurant.

And yet he still tagged along.

I went outside with my To Go bag, and said goodbye. He insisted on walking me to my car. Crap.

He was clearly disappointed when the one of the hotel staff offered to give us a ride in the golf cart shuttle.

I jumped on the golf cart.

Unfortunately, so did Insecure Cheap Guy.

After a final attempt to kiss me – which got him an arm’s length, “No”, I drove away at lightning speed.

The second best part of the evening was when he proclaimed “I was too young for him.” Hmm, that’s a new one. I asked how old he thought I was, he replied, “44”. Um no, not even close. Bless your heart. (I said that to his face.) I’m a year older than he is. It may have been a line to try and get into my pants, but he seemed genuinely shocked when I told him I was older than he is.

He looks older than his age. I didn’t tell him. I really regret that now.

I couldn’t wait to get home to my cats and to eat my To Go meal. That was the best part of the evening.

This morning he messaged me on Facebook, sent a photo of me he took without my knowing – I would’ve told him No – and a little note, “That could’ve gone better.” Ya think?

My only response was that it wasn’t cool to snap a photo, he should’ve asked.

His reply was that I should’ve asked to see his RV. Are you kidding me?

And this, my dear readers, is why I have more cats than men in my life. It is why I will always have more cats, and probably no men. I told my sister, Chickenbone, just the other day that the minute I have more space, I will have more cats. I will be one of those little 80-year-old ladies with a gazillion cats.