The Date Was A Mess

| UK | Dating

(I’m out on a date with a girl I’ve recently gotten to know. The date goes well until the end, when I notice I made a bit of a mess with the condiments — salt a bit scattered over the table, some mustard splatter, etc. I go to clean it up with a napkin.)

Date: “What are you doing? That isn’t your job; it’s the waiter’s job to clean!

Me: “It’s no issue; I used to work this sort of job. They have to give it a wipe down anyway, but I figure why not make it a little easier? I didn’t mean to make this much of a mess.”

Date: “Sure, but you’re allowed to make as much mess as you want; you’re the customer! It’s their job to clean up after us, silly!”

Me: “…”

(I cleaned it up anyway, and we didn’t have many dates after that. These sort of instances along with her doing things like insisting that I HAD to put ‘x’ at the end of all my texts to her simply because she was my girlfriend (after I told her, I just don’t put x’s to anyone) and getting needlessly angry whenever I didn’t, I decided to call it quits.)

Until Undeath Do Us Part: The TV Show

| USA | Boyfriend/Girlfriend, Zombies

Me: “What would you do if I become a zombie?”

Boyfriend: “I’d become a zombie as well.”

Me: “That’s it?”

Boyfriend: “I suppose we can solve crimes together?”

Me: “Er, what? How?”

Boyfriend: “There’s a show where zombies have visions of the person’s memories when they eat brains. The main character works in the morgue, eats the brains of murder victims, and solves the crime.”

Until Undeath Do Us Part, Part 70
Until Undeath Do Us Part, Part 69
Until Undeath Do Us Part, Part 68

No… One… Dates Like Gaston

| USA | Dating

(I’m on a first date with a guy who seemed nice enough before this. He’s made several comments like, “You’re pretty smart for a girl,” so I’m uncomfortable and looking for an opportunity to leave without being rude. Somehow, the topic of children comes up. I can’t have children due to a medical condition and don’t want them anyway.)

Date: “Yeah, I think I’d want three kids. It’s a good number, not too many, not too few.”

Me: “Well—”

Date: *cutting me off* “The first would be a boy, of course. He’d be named after me. I’m named after my father, so he’d be [Date] III. For the other two, I’m thinking David and Stephanie.”

Me: “I—”

Date: *cutting me off again* “I’d send them to [Private School] instead of a public school with everyone else. My sons would play football, like me.”

(This continues for quite a while. He apparently has his possible future children’s lives entirely planned out in detail, and just keeps talking even if I try to say something. Eventually, he gets through the plan.)

Me: “That’s… very thought out.”

Date: “And of course my wife would be a stay at home mom.” *looks at me expectantly*

Me: *no longer caring about being rude* “Good luck finding someone for that. It’s getting late. I should be going now.”

Didn’t Make The Cut

| Houston, TX, USA | Dating

(When I was 22, I went through a really bad break up. My mother decides that I immediately need to get back into the dating game. She sets up a account with my picture and sets me up on some blind dates. Her taste in men has always been pretty terrible, and I consider this moment the definitive proof of her bad taste.)

Date: “Do you have any tattoos?”

Me: “Yeah, I have one.”

Date: “That doesn’t work for me. I’m just going to have to cut off your skin there.”

(Needless to say, he didn’t get a second date, although he kept calling me and sending me XXX explicit text messages afterwards. I had to have one of my guy friends answer the phone and tell him he had a wrong number to get him to leave me alone.)

Blood Is Fatter Than Water

| CA, USA | Golden Years

(We’re all sitting down and my cousin and I are talking about blood type. I ask my dad, who is more on the heavy side, what blood type I am and this is how the conversation goes.)

Me: “What blood type am I?”

Dad: “O.”

Me: “How do you know? What blood type are you?”

Dad: “B.”

Me: “Really?”

Dad: “C.”

Me: “There is no C.”

Dad: “Oh, then BC.”

Mom: *out of nowhere* “Yeah, he’s obesity.”

Dad: “I love you, too.”

(We’re still seated at the buffet while I’m typing this…)