Pink hearts, yellow moons, blue stars and green clovers

As an official member of GRITS (girl raised in the south) club, I fully understand the difference between dressing and stuffing. I know cornbread always tastes better baked in a cast iron skillet. And while my mama warned me that if I don't have anything nice to say not to say anything at all, luckily for all of you, I didn't heed that advice.

In the south, we believe that any comment, no matter how mean, that's precluded by the phrase "bless your heart" shouldn't be taken in offense. For example, my granny saying, "Bless her heart, she's always been chunky" wasn't hurtful in her opinion. I beg to differ. But I suppose if you say anything sweetly and in a southern drawl, it takes some of the sting out of the painful truth.

Which brings me to the story of a disastrous blind date. Bless his heart, he was peculiar.

He was sweet when we met for lunch, taking me to a great restaurant and hanging on my every word. He was complimentary of my intelligence, my wit, and my looks. I really wanted to ignore my first impression that it wasn't going to be a great date, for he was a nice guy with an enviable profession. He loved to travel and was well read. And, best of all, he was really fascinated by me.

As well he should be. Because I'm normal.

After paying the check, he asked if I was in a hurry. Scared to answer, I simply told him I had an appointment in 90 minutes. He invited me back to his place to "see his art," and that wasn't a euphemism.

We arrived at his house, where he showed off his vegetable garden, his extensive china collection, and his rare antiques. After momentarily questioning his sexuality, I realized that all of my gay friends had fabulously decorated homes, so I put the issue to rest.

Then he guided me into the living room, where displayed on his mantle was the centerpiece of all bachelor pads: a unicorn collection.

Yes, unicorns. Big ones. Small ones. Blue ones. White ones. Unicorns on staircases. Unicorns frolicking with leprechauns.

(Cue music from "Deliverance.")

Reminding him of my appointment, I made haste. After two weeks of incessant calls and texts, he eventually figured out I was not meant to be Mrs. Unicorn.

I'm sure he had visions of us frolicking in a field of clovers while riding unicorns bareback, but life is not a fairy tale. And real girls are freaked out by mythical creates in porcelain form. Game over, Unicorn Man. Bless your heart.