What I know today is that I can most assuredly tell you that moving to Vashon Island has not improved my chances for finding a date – let alone “the one.” The only unmarried people on this island are either widowed, children or gay. In fact, I am starting to think that the folks who live here are another species of hominid that finds the island to be a superb nesting ground perfect for raising the next generation of attorneys. I swear to God this is true! No seriously, there are a lot of attorneys who live here. I am actually starting to think that there are no divorcees here because because it’s too much hassle to get a divorce with everyone else being a lawyer and all …

My friends are convinced that I am not trying hard enough. I, of course, have been telling them that I am on a break. But when I mention the word “break” people always give me “the look” and say stuff like, “Girl, breaks are bad. You need to get back on that horse. You need to get out there. You need to rwah rwah rwah rwah.”

Breaks, apparently, are negative and conjure up things like break-up. prison break. broken. BREAK DOWN.

People, I have not broken down. I am on a break. Correction, I was on a break.

That was yesterday and today is today. I was actually writing to announce that “the break” is officially over. Several weeks ago I developed a crush on someone. A full on, I-am-listening-to-Lionel-Richie kinda crush. This has come at a good time because at the time I was seriously contemplating getting a few cats.

The crush was so official that I had told other people that I had a crush. They were, of course, delighted and relieved that I have resurrected some semblance of emotions again. And of course, they were completely over the moon that I have given them something new to talk about. As you can imagine, this was good news to all around.

Now you may wonder who this crush is. And if he knows. Or if it’s reciprocal. Or have we gone on a date already. Or made babies. Details! YOU WANT DETAILS! Simmer down people. Trust me, it’s not a big deal. The crush is already over. It’s was more like a practice crush. The kind that fills you with hope and makes you remember that there’s this whole other person in your head that you’ve been ignoring.

Happily, the object of the crush was actually inconsequential to the mechanics of the crush itself. Have no fear, there will be no chance of crying into big pillows with big weepy tears because of it. It’s fine and I am feeling quite practical about it all. But this little crush, this object of my affection, actually cracked open the little shell that’s been holding up my heart. As a result, the whole damn thing came unraveled and there I was, flooded with that feeling of eternal possibility, as best explained by this video:

Who doesn’t love that feeling? It’s the best feeling in the world.

So maybe the takeaway from this exercise is that I’ve realized that if you put aside all the clutter – I am good at love. I am not afraid of it. I am optimistic about it. Maybe I’m not the best girlfriend or wife material but I am really good at knowing how to love someone. Ask any of my close friends or my even my kid. They all know where they stand. That I love them.

And I may still not know if I have what it takes to make a relationship last though – I have a wandering eye, I have a secret obsession with celebrity gossip blogs and Jay-Z and I am terribly clumsy in most situations. I drink my coffee black and my bourbon neat, which is considered unladylike in many parts of this country. And sadly, I’m stubborn and have an enormous ego when I am not suffering from moments of self-doubt. I am a hot mess. But after growing up the way I did, raising a kid and being alone, I know what love means. I also know what it does not. And I am good at love.

So this mini-crush has successfully reminded me that that knot in my chest is actually alive and evolving. That the stifled beating is now gushing and ready for all kinds on sloppy, happy, ridiculous types of love. Love is all around me and there doesn’t have to be a grand illusions about happily ever after. I am gonna choose to focus on that feeling of promise and joy and all those good things that come along with new beginnings and technicolor.

I have a swagger in my step. And it’s about damn time.

Come to think of it, I’ve never been on vacation by myself. Or been to a bar where I didn’t know anyone. I’ve only been to a movie alone once – which, btw, I could hardly stand because I was watching Lars and the Real Girl and ended up crying like a baby because Ryan Gosling had gained all that weight and no longer looked like Noah Calhoun.

I really haven’t done a lot of adventuresome things as a single adult woman. I’ve played it safe. I’m just a talker. Or as my friend Teresa says, “all talk.” But I am trying to break the mold and become less dependent on the safety net of friends that I’ve created. Really. In order to get out of my comfort zone I live on a rural island, for pete’s sake.

So 30 days into it and I am starting to get a bit lonely. When you don’t have the distractions of the city, you have a lot more time to reflect on your life and how you want it to be. And sitting at home reading self-help books while sipping on a hot toddy because I don’t know anyone here is not exactly how I want it to be.

Oh God. Listen to me. Now I am really starting to sound like a Bridget Jones movie. All of the sudden I feel like I am going to a new high school but without the benefit of getting to see the same people everyday. I am the new kid on the block. Except here, the blocks generally have ONE HOUSE on them.

What are my options as an adult to meet new people? Knitting circle? Farmer’s market? Square dance? Barn raising? I know, I know – I am stereotyping here. But where am I going to meet men? The library? Singles night at Thriftway Market? Ladies night at the Red Bicycle Bistro the sushi/burger/fish and chips/nightclub? This is all so confounding.

Case in point – the other day Paige and I were at Perry’s Vashon Burger and an adorable man walks and the door, looks at me and says, “You should smile.” And I do. And he says, “That’s much better.” And I keep grinning, because I am an ass. But what else can I do? Slip him my number and mortify my teenager? Tell him I’ll see him at the hoe down?

And really, is this a joke? Do all the cute single men hang out at the burger joint? Though it kinda makes sense somehow – really? A burger joint that doesn’t serve beer? This must be some version of hell. There’s only so many burgers that this girl can eat. And I shouldn’t be eating any of them.

I am starting to think the story of my life is beginning to look like a Brigette Jones sequel sans the naughty bits with Hugh Grant or Colin Firth (which consequently are the best scenes). I’m talking about the parts of the movie where it focuses on being a single thirty something who counts calories, reads self help books and wears bunny costumes at all the wrong times. Sadly, for some reason “Giyen Kim’s Diary” just doesn’t sing “blockbuster romantic comedy” so I don’t even have that to fall back on.

What I guess I am saying is that I am feeling a bit lackluster right now. And a bit lonely. Busy, but lonely. I told my friend Rene that I was destined to become the woman who dresses up her cats and calls them her babies and lets them lick tunafish off of her spoon. She laughed and then offered me few words of encouragement. She says that she just knows that there is “a Bill Clinton type” out there for me. I just haven’t found them yet.

Then I tried to throw her what I call the “soft pitch” about me considering online dating:

Me: What do you think of online dating?
Rene: Ugh God. Those are the worst people.
Me: What do you mean?
Rene: They are the worst people to wait on (she works in a prominent downtown restaurant).
Me: Tell me more.
Rene: There is this one guy who comes in and sits at the bar. Every Tuesday and Thursday he brings his Match.com dates and tries to get laid. The other night things got so hot and heavy that he actually said, “I want to be in….”
Me: OH GOD, STOP RIGHT NOW.
Rene: Yeah. The bartender was so mortified that he had to run to the other side of the bar just so he wouldn’t have too see/hear the rest.
Me: GROSS.
Rene: And then there are the “It’s Just Lunch” people. They pretend like they are going to eat lunch but just sit there having coffee because they don’t really want to spend money on people that they just met two seconds ago. It’s horrible because they pretend like they are going to eat, but never do.
Me: Please stop.
Rene: Don’t get me started on the “SSS.”
Me: Whaaat??
Rene: The Same Side Sitters. The guys that insist that they sit on the same side of the booth because it’s more romantic.
Me: Now you really need to stop …

Okay, in the latest Momversation video Daphne from Cool Mom asks, “Is Your Mom-self Overtaking Your Sexual-self?”

My answer?

YES.

YES.

YES.

First of all … there’s a lot edited out of each video. There’s probably 30 minutes of footage that gets left on the production floor – never to see the light of day. Just so you know (a.k.a. damage control), Daphne mentioned that she had a single-mom friend who hasn’t had sex in 4 years offline. I retorted, “I am that single mother who hasn’t had sex in 4 years!” So I wasn’t quite having a random outburst about my sex life … there was actually some dialog about it that got edited out.

THAT SAID. It has been a long time. Maybe not 4 years, but a long, long time. And it’s true. I do feel like that sexy part of me is lost. And sometimes I feel completely pathetic about it. And not even pointy shoes can fill the void of actually feeling sexy because you are having sex. It’s awfully lonely sometimes.

Then again, these days I am a bit less cavalier about having sex. You could almost say that I am re-virginized like a born-again Christian or a Jonas Brother who is abstaining from sex because of their values. Maybe I should get one of those purity rings. Oh God. Please strike me down right now.

The truth is is that I just can’t find a partner. I am not meeting anyone that I am interested in having dinner with so I really can’t imagine finding someone that I want to get all sweaty and moany with. And honestly, having casual sex at age 35 doesn’t quite seem like who I am anymore. And I have nothing against casual sex. I was one of those people who had a lot of sex and then bragged about it to other people. If I was a SATC personality, I would have described myself to be a Samantha back in the day. Really. I swear to God. But clearly I have now morphed into a Charlotte (minus the religion) – it’s all about hope and love and happy endings.

Or maybe I’ve had all the sex one is supposed to have in their lifetime and therefore I have used up all of my credits in my twenties and early thirties. Good lord. I’ve used up my quota. That just can’t be right.

I just keep thinking that I am going to meet the guy who is going to blow my mind up and then it will be a done deal. That I won’t have to go through the bad date phase or the messiness. I’ve done that. If I have used up all my quota for sex, then I’ve also managed to use up my “bad date” quota too.

My plan now?

Meet guy. Live happily ever after. The end.

Something tells me it’s not quite going to be that easy.

Ugh. Shall we let the litany of bad date stories begin?

As if I wasn’t self-conscious enough.

We can either go forward or backwards in the evening but the Friday that we spent in Vancouver was good test of my endurance.

After our train ride up from Seattle, CB and I had lunch at the hotel restaurant, took a long walk down Robson Street and then headed towards Yaletown. There we had beer and oysters at Rodney’s (which had a bartender so cute that it hurt me a little), espresso at Raw Canvas and then headed to dinner at Bin 941 (which served this duck breast with pancetta, goat cheese and truffle oil salad that was so good that it hurt me a little too).

After dinner we headed towards a place called the Railway Club. While we were there, CB and I happened to strike up a long conversation with a Day Trader and a Finance Regulator (of all people). The latter called bloggers the “scourge of the earth” and said that bourbon was disgusting (which by the way, is something akin to insulting my mother). I wanted to hate him but it’s so rare that you find someone who describes themselves as “Beautiful Mind smart.” (Seriously, he said a “Beautiful Mind smart!” More than once!) How could you hate such bravado? What an asshole.

The Day Trader was a bit dull, but then again I am dull, so what the fuck do I have to complain about? I wanted to “almost” hate him too but he was too cordial and kept shelling out for cabs and beers and such. With that in mind, I will have to call him top-notch. TOP NOTCH! (Even if he did suck down Red Bulls and vodka like an Olsen Twin.)

We all ended up going to two more bars, of which I can’t remember the names of because our new Canadian friends took us there. (You know, because I’ve worked through all of my trust issues in therapy and I now have graduated to trusting complete random strangers to take me to places that I’ve never been to.) As I recall, one place had a hockey jersey as the centerpiece of the mahogany laden bar (Canadians love their hockey!) and the other place was brightly lit, sported these Ikea stools and had a lot of flat screens playing 80′s music like Def Leppard and Bon Jovi. If any of you Vancouver readers can enlighten me, please do.

In order to gild the lily, we were whisked away to the Edgewater Casino for a night of craps table fun, but in the end CB and I decided to ditch the gambling scene in order to drink some more and people watch. To our good fortune, the casino bartender was completely adorable and young and irreverent which made the younger me completely fall madly in love with him for a FULL HOUR because of the fact that he was completely young, adorable and irreverent. How could you not?

At the end of his shift he handed me a piece of paper and said out loud and clear, “Here is the number for the VD doctor that you asked for.” He did this while there was some jackass talking to me about his Native Pride and about how he was a descendant of Genghis Khan and about how responsible he was and how he took care of his women … yada, yada, yaaaaaawwwnnnnn. All I could think was, “What’s a VD doctor? What does that mean?”

Since I am so pathetically out of touch with dating it was not till waaaaaaay later did I realize that it was actually his number. That he was trying to imply that I had a venereal disease so that the Son of Genghis Khan would leave me alone. He was also implying that I should call him because he is young, adorable and irreverent and that perhaps I am two out of three of those things … and that maybe we should get married or something like that because after an hour of me sitting there punch drunk, I MUST BE IRRESISTIBLE, RIGHT?

Or perhaps it was more like, let’s skip all of that falling in love and marriage talk and at least get to practicing making babies part. You know, cause he is a hot, young bartender.

Oh God, I am so bad at this.

Viva la Canada!