I met the man with the hat on Tinder, because of course I did. The following wouldn’t make sense otherwise. He wasn’t a man of many words, but the little we exchanged over text told me he was well educated and a somewhat well adjustment member of society. He is, in fact, a father of a 3 year old and an 11 year old.

After some meaningless banter, he told me that he prefers one on one conversations to text messages. I somewhat agree and decided to give him a chance in a very public location, because after all, Tinder date.

We went to Yard House on a Friday night, so the premise of this date was rather innocent. I got there first and had to wait a bit, preparing myself for what would end up being one of the weirdest and worst dates ever in the history of all dates. Once I saw the stupid hat, I knew it was him. He wore the same hat in every picture, clearly the result of a super glue incident, and therefore HAD to wear it on our date. Obviously he couldn’t take it off. I  never did expect to see his hair or lack thereof. I also didn’t get to uncover the mystery behind his scalp.

He was right. He was much more talkative in person than over text. What a relief! He had no problem starting conversation, but strangely, (or not so strangely actually), they were all about him. He told me about his job (which I still don’t get – he’s some sort of IT Super Lord with access to everything on the planet), his kids, his ex wife the stripper (who happened to be with the 3 year old that night), the list went on. He had little interest in learning anything about me, a trait all too common in the men I’ve met.

Then came the mansion. THE mansion. The man with the hat insisted on telling me all about his house, which is a weird thing to do, but I went with it. This mansion he spoke of had only the best sound system, surround sound of course, the best appliances (who even brags about that?), and the very elegant hot tub. From his narrative, I gathered that the surround sound was through out the house, controlled by his mind and his mind only, and obviously progressed to provide music outdoors to the hot tub area. Not only did this beautiful palace feature a hot tub, but it also had a jacuzzi. This moron either had no idea that a jacuzzi is a brand of hot tub or thought I would be too stupid to catch on. He continued talking about the hot tub and jacuzzi, separately, of course, seemingly trying to convince me to visit the palace in which they rested. Although this was a strange date, I was starting to get really curious about the Mansion on Flagler. Surround sound throughout the house, a jacuzzi AND a hot tub, and a man with a hat to go with it! Did I just meet Mr. Right? Hardly. The answer to that is hardly.

Against my better judgement, I decided to go see this grandiose specimen of real estate heaven. On Flagler. For those of you unfamiliar with the Miami real estate landscape, Flagler is a modest area which certainly does not house mansions to the luxury and grandiosity he described.

Sure enough, it was a small house, nothing out of the ordinary and very much not a mansion, judging only by its size. (Yes, size does matter.) We went in the house through the back door, presumably so I could confirm the existence of the hot tub and drop my panties at its sight. I didn’t. (The jacuzzi was obviously no where to be found. Probably because there was never a jacuzzi, and it was always just one hot tub the whole time.) The supposed luxurious hot tub was nothing more than an above ground box with water jets he either got at a garage sale or one of those discount warehouses. It was covered in blue tarp because it was unstrategically placed under a tree in the tiny unkempt back yard. What in the fuck is luxurious about this? I’m not one to demand luxury, but if you speak so highly of your alleged mansion, I expect to see something worthy of the description. This was most certainly not.

We went inside and I immediately spotted the “surround sound,” which was nothing more than portable speakers on a TV dinner tray table. This guy obviously had his concepts of things all sorts of wrong. Again, I’m not one to demand luxury, so I settled for the speakers on the tray table. Whatevs. He hooked up his phone and played, you guessed it, weird ass music. Oh well. I was already there. My complacency began to set in.

He was really proud of his house, which was actually a really nice little house. Everything was very modern and sleek, but kind of looked like he hadn’t quite moved in yet. There wasn’t much on the walls, no table to eat on, the TV wasn’t hooked up yet, etc. He opened the fridge and pantry and pointed out that he leaves his daughter’s food on the bottom because “she’s very independent and feeds herself.” She’s 3. That’s not called independence. It’s called neglect. This was really the turning point of my opinion of him. It went from apathy to amusement, to utter concern.

The master bedroom featured a bed and a closet with no doors. Nothing else. No dresser, no night stands, no desk. On the wall there were two little pictures – one of the Eiffel Tower and one of a random little street. He points to them and tells me how much he loves New York. I mean at this point, nothing shocked me. This guy was obviously a fucking quack.

We continued the grand tour, and the next stop was his kids’ bedroom. He has full custody of the independent (and neglected) toddler and sees his 11 year old tween once every other weekend. The room had bunk beds with a full sized bed with princess sheets on the bottom and a twin size on top with a piece of cardboard for a mattress. No sheets. No pillows. Just the cardboard. Obviously he doesn’t care for the tween and neglects her as well. He never mentioned anything else about her and judging by his parenting skills otherwise, I guess these biweekly visits are court supervised. Hopefully.

This ended the grand tour, and we went to the unwelcoming living room. At this point, I was more than a little weirded out and eager to leave. We made small talk on the couch, when his phone began to ring through the speakers. It was well past midnight, so I suggested he answer it. As a father, I would assume he would be immediately urged answer. Nope. He let it ring. Eight times the phone rang, and eight times he ignored it. Not my problem, but at the very least, please answer to make the calls stop. About 5 minutes after the last call, I heard what sounded like someone coming in through the back door. Since the music was strange anyway, I thought it might just have been a sound effects track. I know the toddler is independent, but she couldn’t have just gotten home in an Uber from a play date. He nervously got up, and walked towards the back door, but somehow didn’t seem too concerned about an intruder in his home. Confirming my fear, there was a full grown adult who had just entered the home. That’s when I knew I needed to get the FUCK out of there. My purse and keys were in the kitchen, closer to him and the guest, so I needed to be stealth. If it wasn’t because I needed them, he would have kept them as a souvenir. Not knowing who this mystery woman (I heard her voice) was and whether or not she was dangerous (any person who shows up unexpectedly at someone’s house through a back door past midnight is suspect), I made my best attempt to get my things and bolt to the front door, which was locked, and had a locked gate right outside it. I frantically unlocked both and continued on the covered porch, which was locked with a gate as well. Fuck. Can he hear me escaping passed the dungeon locks? Did this place have a fucking moat too? What the fuck, guy. I made it past the porch to be met with the last of the gates, which would free me into the street where my car was. I nervously opened it, not even looking back in case the Flagler Millionaire or the uninvited houseguest were coming for me. Right as I got passed the gate, I see by my feet a pair of pink fuzzy slippers, connected to a pair of legs, connected to a full grown woman, wearing the hat. This perpetrator had also scurried out the back and met me in the front yard. She too was escaping, and greeted me with an embarrassed “hello.” I awkwardly looked up just quickly enough to catch a glimpse, but I was in too much horror to remember anything other than the slippers and of course, the hat. I had no time to make anything of the exchange, got in my car, and got the FUCK out of there. I shook myself off while driving away, as if I could literally just shake the memory off and pretend it never happened. Just as I was coming down from my shock and about half way home, I got a text from the Flagler Millionaire, explaining the evening’s abrupt end. “Sorry that was my ex. She’s crazy.” Yup. SHE’S the crazy one here. Not you. Not. At. All.

Did they have matching hats?