Suddenly, last summer, I was dangerously close to losing my mind- I was actually considering a lobotomy to cloud my memory, help me forget my painful dating stories;

I was sick of Hershey Squirts and Edgar Allen Poe and good god almighty, I was sick of all the Captain Quesadillas! That Muslim who chased me into a church yard, threatening my life? That was the last straw! Things were going to change.

I was going to accept a second date- it was the only hope for me! The only hope for my sanity!

Now there are dates you commit to knowing full well it’s going to be a disaster: like when you go out with someone who says he’s a “professional ninja” (and asks you to send a pic bc his mommy wants to see his “princess”) you can’t be upset when you literally start*counting* the times he says the word “mommy” on your date.

(and you can’t be upset when you lose track at *fourteen.*)

Similarly when you agree to breakfast, lunch and dinner with someone you’ve never met because he’s offered to take you *parasailing*, you cannot be mad when you finally find out he’s married . . . after *twelve hours.*

In about August, I stopped accepting dates like that. I only went out with boys who had *potential,” I considered this my period of *actual dating*- I started being “picky.”

A second date had to be possible! It just *had* to be!

I then had several “suitable” dates with divorced gentlemen in their mid to late thirties; they were successful, well put together, absolutely entertaining and polite. A couple were even really cute. We dressed nicely, went to nice dinners in nice places, had good conversation and drinks after, everything a “date” was supposed to be.

But *something* would still always happen.

The first one’s name was Brian. He was very cute, nicely dressed and we had a lovely dinner at the Raintree. He was absolutely a gentleman and though he referred a lot to his daughter and his bitch of an ex, I swear we seemed like the perfect couple. Even the waiter was making “Brianne and Brian” jokes, but he wasn’t hearing what the guy was saying. I myself was really only half listening because he was telling me *every detail* of his failed past relationship- trips they took, how they met, how long they were together, yada, yada.

Whatever. I was used to far worse, this was relatively tame. I could certainly accept a second date with this dude!

But then on the way home, he tells me he’d gotten married in St. Augustine . . . then he drove ten minutes out of the way to show me where the ceremony had been! No shit.

There were tears in his eyes. There were tears in mine too. It was not funny.

Second date? Out the window. Yowzers.

Next!

The next one was one of those damn classy rednecks with too many names: Billy Joe Bob or Bobby Ray Jack or something. Billy Bob Whatever was dressed all in black and he was super, super cute . . . flipping adorable honestly. I’ve always been a sucker for blue eyes- he’d actually *warned* me to beware of his beautiful baby blues! He had great dimples and one of those super sexy southern accents so when I saw him, I was glad I’d worn heels and a little black dress . . .

But he was also glad about the little black dress. We matched!

He couldn’t stop talking about how great we looked *together* all night, he’d grab my arm and sort of *pose* me as he marched me down the street, waiting for people to look at us. We went to the Columbia, where he made a huge show of pulling my chair out, placing my napkin in my lap and handing me my menu. Then he stood in front of me like a statue.

I guess when he realized I was not going to applaud him, he sat down and ordered two Mich Ultras, without asking me what I wanted. And that’s when disaster struck:

The bread came.

One piece of bread on a Friday night at wasn’t going to kill me, so I helped myself and shoved the basket towards him, said something like, “Have some carbs. Go crazy, kiddo!.”

It was as though I’d just told him I was his own personal messiah! He grabbed both my hands, stared deeply into my eyes and gasped breathlessly, “Oh, my god! You too?”

He declined the bread and preached to me about the wondrous glory of this new carb free existence! We clearly now had a profound connection! He told me how much better he felt, how much weight he’d lost, how much time he spent at the gym every week! We were the SAME, me and him! Nothing could shatter the BOND forged by that bread basket!

And at that moment, I knew!!! I knew the way you know about a bad melon!!!

*A second date could never be!*

Now I’m as carb conscious as the next guy; I think about carbs all the time, it borders on obsession . . . but with all due respect, I’m a *chick* who needs to look good in a bikini! Needs to fit in a size 6!

You are supposed to be a *man.* MEN don’t drink *Mich Ultra*! It comes in a SLIM CAN for a reason.

Just eat the bread, dude. And lay off the damn tanning bed.

Arrrrgh.

Another one was a random lunch date, a casual and unplanned meeting with a guy with okay pics and a nice sense of humor. I was waiting for him at the bar at Harry’s and this 55ish, greasy and sloppy pedophile looking guy with a bad comb-over guy came up to me, whispered, “I see you’re alone . . . I am alone too. I have been waiting for you a long time.”

Great. My bad luck was back! This was more like it! So I sat down with the gross man and we were about to order, when some cutie in a red shirt came up behind me and whispered, “Pssst. You know you’re about to have lunch with the wrong guy, right?”

And I was saved!

I left with this Matt (or Josh or Mike or whatever) guy and we went upstairs, where he ordered a greasy cheeseburger and a Budweiser- I silently praised the lord as I sipped my Mich Ultra. He made me laugh and I was kind of into him, so we went for drinks at Sangria’s. He was entertaining me- he was telling me this story about how he got arrested for spraying Cheez- Whiz on some chick in a Winn Dixie and mid-story, that phone call came- you know the one from the angry ex: “Come and get your kid now!”

He went out on the deck and I watched him through the glass. I could not hear what he was saying, but he was pacing back and forth in the rain, waving his arms around angrily. When he was done, he came back in, apologized curtly and told me he had to go pick up his daughter.

In that moment, a second date flew out the window. I cannot help it.

I will be the first to admit that when I’m out with a dude and he’s got to leave because the ex wife is blowing up his phone to come pick up his elementary age children, I cringe. Even if I’ve had a great time, my heart sinks. Perhaps I’m being a bitch, but I can’t take it.

It’s too much reality for a Friday night. And the “reality” I was seeing was him doing the same thing all through our second date . . . and knowing that if he’d do that through a *first date*, he would do it through *anything* we ever did. Dinners, ribbon cuttings, charity telethons, a shuttle launch . . . Anything. It wouldn’t matter!

No second date for that guy. What if I bring a guy like that to my grandfather’s funeral? And smack in the middle of the eulogy, his ex calls and then he announces (in front of my entire family) that he has to go because ex ball and chain is *making* him? AT MY GRANDFATHER’S FUNERAL!?!

I cannot risk it.

That was number three. The last *actual date* I went on, back in August . . .

I learned a lot from these experiences and I want to *share* with the world what I have learned.

I just need a bit to figure out how to put it all into words,

Be back soon, kitties!

XoXoXo!