You Say "NO" to Drugs... Not Toppings.

So that dreaded moment has arrived when I decide: I'm going to go on my first date since the epic breakup 4 months ago with Mr. Big. (Why do I still refer to him as Mr. Big you ask? Because if I use his real name, even though the secret is out of the bag as to who he is, I may punch the computer screen. And I'm too poor to replace that. So hence, "Mr. Big.") 


I'm a simple girl, looking for a simple guy. I don't want a lot of drama. I don't want someone who gets a manicure or carries a man purse. I also don't want someone who is missing most of their teeth and thinks a trip to the Piggly Wiggly for pickled pig hooves is a date. I want someone who loves country music, long drives through the country, has an education, enjoys baseball, is Irish, has a southern accent, perhaps has a Ronald Reagan photo framed in his office, and believes World War II documentaries are fabulous entertainment as well as Monster's Inc.. See, that's not too much to ask for right? I'm not picky. My friend argues the contrary though. She says, "Kristen, if they don't like country music it's not that big of a deal." Really? In comparison, given my job and my passion, that is the equivalent of an emergency room doctor dating someone who doesn't believe in modern medicine. Just saying.

So I find someone to go on my first date with. We will call him Michael. Why? Because that's his real name. Why else? So because I'm looking for a southern country boy I decide to go on a date with an Italian guy from Brooklyn. Makes sense, right? He seemed like a decent guy. The New York thing threw me for a loop but perhaps we are creatures of habit and we go where we feel most comfortable. Perhaps I resorted back to "little Kristen" and wanted a little New York back in my life. Unfortunately, I think my mind was looking for pizza and cannellonis, not an Italian Brooklyn guy.

Our first date was at a frozen yogurt place in the afternoon. My favorite place too. They have a lot of flavors and a toppings bar that will make you physically have to wipe up drool. Do you want Cinnamon Toast Crunch on your cake batter yogurt with a side of cheesecake chunks and sprinkles with a swirl (or six) or whipped cream? You do. Well, then we've got something in common. But this visit to the happy fro-yo paradise was different. My "date" went straight for the vanilla lever- never once taking the time to look at the other flavors in the beautiful dispensers. And then, much to my horror, he walked right past the toppings bar. He didn't even blink.

Now, let me say this once and for all. I skipped breakfast for that damn toppings bar. I was ready for my "Kristen Concoction." I politely asked, "Did you see all these toppings here? Are you going to just have it plain [you psycho mutant freak]?" He responded, "Have you ever just had yogurt without messing it up with toppings and extra calories?" WHAT?!? Have I WHAT?!? You don't simply "mess yogurt up" with toppings. You make something beautiful. You make a masterpiece. You make something that warms your heart and reminds you that God actually does exist. I knew if I put my toppings inside my bowl he would find the nearest "Over-Eaters Anonymous" meeting for me and our date would be over. So I threw one strawberry in the bowl, and whispered to the other toppings that I loved them, it was nothing personal and I would be back for them later. I then went up to the counter where Sargent Vanilla was paying for our order (perhaps with a pout).

I should have walked away then. I should have just seen that the guy had gotten a bowl of plain vanilla frozen yogurt and was satisfied. What did that say about him exactly? What did that say about the guy I had chosen to go on a date with? Frankly, no New Yorker in general would pass up a freakin' sprinkle, so who is this guy and what does he want with me? I started to worry a little bit. He was shifty obviously and without a doubt, I could not trust him. I don't trust people who don't believe in sugar.

My fear of being murdered on a first date goes back many, many years. That's why I always leave a note for the cops to find should I disappear. I leave some of my hair for DNA. I had impressions made of my teeth for dental identification. And I leave a little extra cat food out just in case. As I sat across the table listening to a man go on and on about his love for break dancing (yep, I know how to pick them), I started thinking about that note on the counter. Did I describe my outfit enough? Should I bite this guy's arm so that my teeth impressions are there? Should I pull out pieces of my hair and throw them on him so that my DNA is there too? The moral of the story is simple: if a man can pass up a toppings bar, he can't be trusted and is capable of anything. I've watched "Dates From Hell." This was one of them. When the date was over and I had practically lied about everything I did for living, where I lived, and who I am in general, I walked to my car knowing I had dodged a bullet (or some other form of an untimely death at the hands of Mr. No-Toppings).

So, as if my list of "must haves" for a man isn't long enough, let's add: Must Love Sugar. Any man that does not, in my opinion, is twisted and capable of just about anything. If they can pass up Fruity Pebbles on Cake Batter ice cream, they can make your skin into a suit. I'm just throwing that out there.

Bring on contestant Number 2 please. And he better have a freaking cavity... or two.