When it comes to dating, that’s just false advertising sister

It’s been well over two years since the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor boogied into the night and I’m still not entirely accustomed to single life. Though I’ll admit most days I’m grateful I no longer have to answer to a higher power (wife) and that my time is my own to spend as I please, unfettered from the frequent reminders that the hedge needs trimming and the faucet is leaking.

All I need worry about these days is that the bicycle needs riding and the beer needs drinking. You’d be amazed how quickly a man’s priorities can change when he is allowed to decide for himself what they are, exactly.

I’m trying to make the most of it because I know in my heart that I will, eventually, be married again. It’s human nature; my nature, at any rate. In fact, I’m a little surprised I’m still unattached after all this time. Maybe it’s because I spend all my free time riding bikes and drinking beer, rather than hanging out in singles bars; I don’t know.

But the other night I was in a single’s bar, for the first time in years. I was there with a friend from out of town who, unlike me, is very into the “singles scene,” whatever that is. He dates a lot and spends most of his waking hours devising new and ever more devious ways to meet girls.

The bar was his idea. To his credit, the place was filled with women and not just the nubile, 20-somethings that always make me feel like I should be filling out paperwork at the sex offender registry. There were actually women present close to my age (106), which was a welcome change of pace.

My friend—I’ll call him Bob—pointed out a nearby table around which sat four attractive women, all done up nicely and looking pretty, happy and successful; not my type at all if past experience means anything. Bob, who makes more money than I do and can afford to be stupid, sent over a round of drinks.

When they were delivered, the girls smiled, waved and said thanks. Bob moseyed over in an attempt to close the deal. I remained at the table watching the band. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m not shy; I just don’t enjoy the whole “hunt” thing. If I meet a girl, I do. If I don’t, well, that’s fine too.

After a bit Bob, who was apparently making headway, waved me over. One of the girls offered me a seat, which I accepted. We began making small talk and—miracle of miracles!—the girl was not only pretty, but interesting; not the sort I’d expect to meet in a singles bar.

We talked for over two hours and I was enthralled the entire time. She read Kurt Vonnegut, she preferred beer to wine, she was an avid bicyclist; she was witty, charming and intelligent. After only two hours I was ready to propose.

Then she mentioned what I later thought should have been the first thing out her mouth, rather than the last: she’s a nun.

When I attended St. Isadore Elementary School, nuns were dark engines of terror that stalked the hallways, rosary beads slapping one massive thigh, yardstick slapping the other. They dressed in long, black robes and there was no possibility that anyone, ever, could mistake one for a real woman.

To say I felt conflicted that the woman who now held me in a deep and abiding infatuation was of the same breed as Sister Sulpischa, the nun who in 1965 put more fear into my soul than The Wolfman, The Mummy or The Book of Revelation combined is an understatement.

My friend Bob left the bar alone that night. So did I, but at least I had a good excuse.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available from Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon.com, and other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I miss Dave, but maybe I can find him in Winnipeg

I miss Dave. Dave was my neighbor for two days, but he’s gone now. In his place is Larry, and Larry is—not to put to fine a point on it—a pig. Seriously, he makes Wilbur, Porky and Babe seem positively fastidious.

I should probably mention I’m on the second leg of this summer’s Geezer-thon, my futile attempt to visit every county in Michigan via bicycle. I’m not going to make it; I’m old and summer’s not going to last long enough for me to peddle that far. But it’s fun to try.

Geezer-thon Part One took me from Grand Rapids to Traverse City. Geezer-thon Part Two has me just north of Port Huron, on the east side of the state. There’s a Part Three coming in September, but it’ll be getting cold and rainy by then and chances are I’ll spend most of my time in a tent playing Angry Birds on my iPad. Though not as healthy to my cardiovascular system as peddling a bike through country back roads, Angry Birds is still fun and only slightly more addictive than crack cocaine.

Anyway…my neighbors: At a state park, where I’ve been staying for the past few days, neighbors come and go. But when I moved in last Monday, Dave was my neighbor. Dave is from Canada, so he’s been specially trained to be friendly and social, even to guys who look the way I do after coming in from 50 dusty miles on a bicycle.

Dave shook my hand anyway and said, “Howdy neighbor” ten seconds after I rolled in.

“Howdy,” I replied, sweating profusely and smelling like something found dead by the side of the road. Something that has been there a while.

Dave introduced himself, his wife and his four kids, all of whom had blond hair, blue eyes and perfect teeth. Canadian dental care. It’s a wonder.

Dave told me where he was from, I told him where I was from. He told me what he did for a living, I shared the same info. He asked where my wife was and I told him I hadn’t seen her for a couple years and couldn’t say for sure. Dave was embarrassed, leading me to believe Canadians are a little like the British; they embarrass easily.

As I set about unpacking and making camp, Dave offered me a beer. I knew we were destined to be best friends. That night he invited me to his family’s campfire, even though I already had mine going strong. (At $5 per bundle of state-approved wood, a merrily-blazing campfire attests to one’s fiscal potency. A Lexus parked in front of the tent couldn’t boast more loudly.)

Dave’s kids were cute and polite, his wife offered me S’mores. By camper standards, we were practically engaged.

Then yesterday I came home (to my tent) from a ride into nearby Lexington. Dave was gone. His wife was gone. The kids were gone. Their tidy little pop-up camper with Canadian plates was gone.

In their place arrived (shudder) Larry. Larry rumbled in behind the wheel of an RV the size of Wisconsin. He rolled over my tent stakes. Backing in, his RV knocked branches from the trees. One landed on my tent, punching a hole through the rain-fly. Eventually, Larry’s diesel-belching freeway whale managed to insinuate itself into the space previously occupied by Dave and company.

The door to the RV opened and three—not one, not two, but three—pit bulls piled out, sans leashes. I was grilling steak on the campfire and the three dogs immediately descended on my makeshift kitchen.

Larry, all 400 pounds and no I am not exaggerating of him, squeezed through the RV door, screaming in a wet voice to “get the #$@% back over here.” Reluctantly, the dogs complied. Larry tossed a carton of raw eggs—and no, I am again not exaggerating—onto the ground. The dogs broke the shells and dug in.

Within a half-hour of getting the freeway whale situated, Larry had transformed the previously pristine Canadian campsite into the equivalent of the city dump, circa 1957. Trash was everywhere. When I say trash, I mean paper litter, half-eaten hamburgers, scraps of toilet paper, paper plates…if I had seen a spent nuclear fuel cell lying in the vicinity I would not have been surprised.

My only regret is that none of my ex-wives, most of whom have at one time or another accused me of being a pig, were in attendance. If nothing else, Larry makes me look like Felix Unger by comparison.

After being repeatedly scolded by the park rangers, Larry did tie up his three pit bulls, which immediately set about barking their damn fool heads off. Larry seemed not to notice.

I slept badly last night, for the first time since arriving here. But in the morning I’m back on the road, so I guess I can live with it for a while longer.

You know, instead of trying to hit the remaining Michigan counties for Phase Three of Geezer-thon 2011, I may cross the bridge and see what Canada is like.