Several years before I married a wonderful creature named John Tinker, I had the worst date of my life in Louisville, Kentucky.
Ironically, a runner-up for that honor happened years earlier in Lexington, Kentucky, during the weekend of THE Derby.
Kentucky is a favorite state of mine, so this is not a slam on the Bluegrass State (yes, the grass is tinted blue). The blame goes to the friends who arranged a blind date.
In Lexington, it happened because I was living in Indianapolis and joined three friends there for the weekend.
Two had boyfriends who lived there, the other had a good guy friend, and I had no one.
“I know just the person!” said my friend.
This may be one of the most untrue statements ever uttered. In fairness, I was probably worse than he was, but his first comments were so sarcastic that they set me off. Sarcasm, I know well — unfortunately, too well.
For two hours, we went toe-to-toe until I won with a comment that was so sarcastic that it was mean. I have regretted it all these years, though I can’t remember the comment. I do recall that we were sitting in a beautiful Italian restaurant when the ugly retort left my lips. His mouth dropped, hurt tinged his eye,s and from that moment forth, he was kind and gentlemanly.
Still, I regret it.
But the date in Louisville? That got even with me for Lexington.
A self-made millionaire friend of mine and her husband invited me to dinner. They wanted to meet me, as did a friend of theirs.
“I feel awkward asking you and please feel free to say ‘no’.”
It’s funny that I can remember my media escort was parking for my book signing at Barnes Noble as we talked.
Yet, I have managed to scrub from my mind that unkind remark in Lexington.
“I hate to ask,” she said again.
Deb is one of the smartest women I have ever met. When she was a child, she used a cash register to make change for her family and loan money to her siblings, with interest attached.
She grew up to become a developer with an an eye for the right property at the lowest price. Now, no cash register would hold all her money.
I didn’t hesitate, especially, with all her apologizes. By the end of the night, red-faced, she was apologizing.
Louisville is the hometown of my favorite journalist, Diane Sawyer.
I treasure a lovely handwritten note she sent me after reading What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should).
“I am proud to be Southern born and raised,” she wrote. “Your book described us perfectly.”
But I loved her before then. Her first job was WLKY in Louisville.
While Diane sought the big time, her dearest friend stayed behind and became the star of WLKY. She did the morning news, then stayed on for a noontime interview show. When I was in Louisville, she always invited me on the show, and we had delightful times.
The evening of the disastrous date, I had been on her show that day. He watched. He had also Googled me, watched every TV show I had appeared on, and listened to every radio show.
He read excerpts from my book and customer reviews. He gleefully recited the bad reviews.
From the moment he pulled out his chair, he made it his mission to bring me down a few notches. It got so bloody that our host stepped in and quietly suggested he mind his manners.
“Did you Google me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, sticking his chin out proudly.
“Sir,” I replied. “You have proven yourself to be no gentleman.”
My friend called for the check, then spent the entire drive back to my hotel, apologizing.
“I deserved it,” I replied. “I acted halfway that bad in Lexington once. Long before Google.”
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of Sapelo Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.