Countdown

I've still been maintaining a lively correspondence with Dreamy from OkCupid. Unfortunately, he is going out of town for a while, so I have to wait THREE WEEKS before meeting the man who Slinky has already taken to referring to as my "future husband" (yesterday she started a conversation about what kind of bridesmaid dress she should wear). I know I said I hadn't been this excited for a date since Le Canadien, but I'm changing that: I haven't been this excited for a date EVER.

Can I make it? Luckily, I have a few distractions, including a young, impressionable, cute-but-I-see-no-future-in-it 27-year old from Match whose name is the same as the English version of La Moustache's (that right there makes him non-boyfriend material). But he seems to adore me and be at my beck and call, which is nice. Then there's my little lovebird, Persil, who I'm picking up tomorrow! I also have a week-long vacation coming up next week in Maine. Lastly, I just ran into good ol' Babe in the Woods while out doing errands, who told me to stop by his new office sometime and we'll hit up the Sam Adams Brewery together.

Unfortunately, a little Facebook stalking after this random encounter revealed that BITW has a girlfriend, too! What is WITH the flirtatious men who tell me all about their lives, show me photos of their vacations, etc. and fail to mention the significant other?? Is this just because men are sleazebags? Is it possible that the topic just never came up, or is that a ridiculously naive idea?

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.

How can you tell...

...whether your bartender really likes you, or is just flirting to get good tips?

I spent three hours today in my favorite neighborhood bar watching the final World Cup game with my tattooed bartender. We smiled at each other a lot and joked flirtatiously about our rivalry over the game (he was for the Netherlands, I was for Spain -- yay Spain!!). He called me "sweetie" repeatedly and explained the nuances of the game, even when other customers with empty beer glasses started to look annoyed. I even looked at photographs of his vacation, for Chrissakes. Two rolls! Who gets film developed in this day and age??

At the end of the game I got -- a bill. For both drinks I ordered.

This left me wondering if I should give up or research a new sport to watch, since soccer is now officially on the shelf until 2014. That is, until I Facebook stalked him this evening and discovered that he is "in a relationship".

I guess it was all for the tips. New problem: do I have to break up with my favorite bar because the bartender led me on?

Finding a modality that works for me

During my drive up to Maine on Friday for the holiday weekend, I found myself pondering the events of the last couple of weeks and months, and wondering if perhaps I need to change my approach. Here is a sampling of my thoughts:

• I spent four days crying almost nonstop after I lost my bird, to the point where my contacts became so salt-encrusted that I couldn't see. Even as I was bawling over my little green featherball, I could feel that I was really upset over so much more.
  
• I got my knickers all twisted over a chubby guy with copious backhair who I made out with a few times in March. Why did I care so much?
• Dating has brought me frustration and bitterness, but no husbands.
  
• I spent Friday morning drinking bloody marys, watching the Netherlands/Brazil soccer game and flirting with the cute bartender with a tattoo of JFK on his wrist, who commiserated with me on my loss of Haricot by telling me how sad he was when his pet python escaped.
  
• I dismissed the cute, nice French Canadian who is the only good communicator of all the men I've dated since my breakup because he told me he's not looking for a wife at this time.

A piece of advice that my neighbor, the Cat Lady, gave me several months ago popped into my mind. "Maybe," she said (she prefaces all her advice this way because, as a single lesbian in her fifties, she doesn't feel totally qualified to give me advice), "you should just relax and have fun. You're young and attractive. Just see guys casually, and don't look at it as auditioning to find your next boyfriend."

When my sister, Ms. Swamp, began online dating a couple of years ago, her goal was to find a husband, and she did. Well, they're not quite married yet, but to all intents and purposes she did. As I sifted through my feelings, I wondered if perhaps what I need right now is not a husband, but a Mr. White Pants (or several Mr. White Pants). Pants was the guy I dated for four months after I broke up with my ex-ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He took me to the opera and drove me around Manhattan in his convertible and bought me nice dinners and generally entertained me and distracted me, and when I was ready to be emotionally connected to someone again, I moved on.

So I'm going to try the Cat Lady's approach. I'm just going to relax and enjoy the summer and give myself time to get over my traumas of the past year. I sent Le Canadien a message and asked if he wants to get a beer, and within three hours we had a date set up, because that's the kind of communicator he is. And I'll probably swing by and visit my bartender this afternoon to watch the game and maybe hear more about his python.