Death by duck tour

3:29 PM yesterday found me sitting on a duck tour amphibious vehicle surrounded by families blowing duckbill-shaped, headache-inducing whistles that make vuvuzelas sound like violins, hoping against hope that my date would show up in the 60 seconds remaining before departure time, and cursing myself for agreeing to buy the tickets ($36 each).

Thankfully, he did show up with about 20 seconds to spare, just as I was debating whether to jump ship now or wait until we were submerged in the Charles River, not long after I had my photo taken with a life buoy around my neck. He got locked out of his apartment while napping in the yard, lost on his way, yada yada yada. It was a good excuse, but I don't think he quite grasped the extent of the torture he put me through.

Turns out the torture wasn't quite over yet. It was kinda fun when we went into the river, but otherwise, it consisted of 80 minutes that felt more like 800 of being asked to say "quack quack" every time the driver blew a whistle and listening to hundreds of bad jokes mixed with inane facts about Boston. Then, my date and I went to a tapas bar, where I sized him up (it's hard to talk over the sound of the tour guide's incessant chatter and various quacking noises) and quickly realized that he was way too nerdy for me, and where we BOTH managed to get pooped on by birds (though as a bird owner I'm pretty blase about bird poop -- possibly a little too blase, since I once showed up for a date with a bit of dried bird poop on my sleeve).

The verdict: Duck tours = probably my worst date idea ever, but now that I've done it, I never have to do it again. A much better idea, courtesy of my lovely bartender (who really needs a blog name -- what's a good nickname for a man who is utterly adorable, makes the most delicious bloody marys and is covered in tattoos?), is a whale watch! Hmm, next weekend perhaps? But this time I really need to try to get my date to pay.