Date Stories, J

J: 50 First Dates


yuge shirt

…no, I haven’t found a sugar daddy with a life threatening illness and a distaste for prenuptial agreements (although I’m swiping through ‘Elderly Cardiac Patients Mingle’ as we speak)…

…and, no, I have not recently learned that I am the heiress to the Jose Cuervo empire, but a little bit more creative family tree doctoring might get me there!

I’m celebrating something even bigger – I went on my 50th first Tinder* date on Sunday night!


*This includes all dating apps, but I’m unapologetically partial to that sassy red flame

It’s been QUITE the journey, so I thought I would do a little ‘by the numbers’ summary for you all:
5 dates that haven’t involved alcohol (ugh)
dates that I have paid for (ughhh)
3 guys that I actually liked who fucked me over (YAY)
boys who were probably gay
dates where I have completely forgotten how to hold silverware and dropped it and turned red as a tomato while it clattered on the floor for an abnormally long period of time
first-date sleepovers because good decisions are the name of my game
and 50 phenomenal and completely appropriate stories to tell my future husband and grandchildren!!!

I have seen the future.
I have seen the future.

And I must say, my 50th was a good one! Especially considering that I was wholly unexcited for this date (‘Louisiana’), as I spent the whole day baking for my friend’s birthday and had cake batter streaked through my hair like the highlights I always wanted but SOMEONE (ugh, moooom) would never let me have. Not that I’m STILL BITTER or ANYTHING.

Why wasn’t I excited for this one? Oh, MAYBE because my dear friend BP had taken my phone the day before and sent a series of dad jokes to this guy, and he now thought I was a total weirdo. Which like, I am, but I at least like to have two drinks in my date before I divulge that sort of information! Don’t worry, I made BP buy me a giant bottle of wine as punishment.


Tinder Tip: The key to a happy dating life is to set your date expectations just above ‘I’m thinking my date probably won’t mug me.’ Most of the time, you’ll be pleasantly surprised!

Louisiana had messaged me around 3 PM on Sunday asking if I wanted to go to Ragtime with him that night, but I was baking cupcakes (priorities AF) so I didn’t respond until 5:30. He asked me if I wanted to meet him there in an hour. I was super preoccupied by crying while watching the Justin Bieber movie (DON’T JUDGE ME), but decided that some free beers didn’t sound too bad, so I obliged. I touched up my new cake batter highlights with some frosting lowlights, wiped the smudged mascara from under my teary eyes, and headed out the door to walk to Ragtime.

This is a good time to mention that I was still messaging this guy on Tinder… what happened to the phone number exchange? Where’s your GAME, bro?? Smh.


One of my most charming characteristics is that I’m hopelessly* bad with directions. Like, ‘need a GPS to find the bathroom in my own apartment’ bad. Obviously going out to bars with blackout me is a very fun experience!! So, naturally, I got lost on my way to Ragtime (even though I had been there before) and wound up being ten minutes late. He had messaged me (on time) that he was sitting just to the left inside, so I put on my biggest ‘I SWEAR I WANT TO BE HERE’ smile, adjusted my dress so my ass wasn’t exposed, and walked in.

*And yet, I can magically pinpoint every Chipotle within a twenty-mile radius. Thank you, guac senses.


He was cute! Yay! And tall! Woohoo! And buying me beers! Hooray!!

The date went well, pretty standard conversation, with only two events worth mentioning:

1. We ordered food. While I would normally not complain about someone buying me dinner, this restaurant doesn’t exactly serve date-friendly food. My date got a shrimp po’boy that he impressively fit in his mouth despite it having the girth of an anaconda**  (I immediately regret writing that entire statement). I opted for a quesadilla, which is REALLY CUTE if you like to sexily swat at stringy cheese that has formed an unbreakable chain between the bite of food in your mouth and the bite in your hand. Am I not supposed to eat with my hands on a first date? Maybe. Do I care? No.

**you’re welcome for this insight into my blog-post-writing process

2. We made a friend. We were about an hour and a half into our conversation when a very, very, very (Very? Very) drunk man wobbled up to our table and asked how we were doing.
J – I’m great! How about you?
Man – TERRIBLE. I’m having a TERRIBLE day.
L – Oh yeah? Why’s that?
M – *points to me* YOU.
J – …me…?
J – Well, I’m not, so…
M – *swivels to face my date* You have a very beautiful woman in front of you. You better treat her well, son. Otherwise, she’ll run off to Paris with your best friend just like my Marjorie did. *swivels to face me* Except, you’re even more beautiful than Marjorie, so you could probably take TWO of his best friends.***

***Don’t give me ideas, sir.

Thankfully, our waitress had taken notice of our situation and came over to cart drunkie away from us and out of the bar. We watched him stumble down the street as we tried to recover from this interaction. My date tried to talk about it. I just panic-laughed hysterically and excused myself to the bathroom. Smoooooooth, J.


He paid, we gathered our belongings, and he offered to drive me home. THIS NEVER HAPPENS. At this moment I decided that he was perfect and I would marry him. Or at least agree to a second date. Fifty second dates? Let’s make it happen!

I might find love, eventually.


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