Is there a bar for single, non-obnoxious people in Toronto that I don't know about? I'm six months into my residency here, and I'm starting to notice that at 28, I'm a little too old for the singles scene in this city.

Last Thursday I made plans to meet my roommate and her boyfriend at a bar. I'm overly punctual when meeting people for drinks, because I like sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender and chatting with strangers. After all, I'm new to town. I need to meet people.

On this particular night, I'm at a bar in the Annex(or was it Yorkville? I'm still finding my way around Toronto. Maybe it was on the border?) I'm early, so I bust out my notebook and start writing.

"Are you writing in your diary?" says the dude at the end of the bar. His sidekick laughs. Yes, my blue, 80-page, spiral Hilroy book has been mistaken for a Judy Blume book prop.

"No, I only take my diary to Sneaky Dees." The guys both laugh. They invite me to move over to a bar stool closer to them. I decline. They ask again, and I fold. I can't be a bitch.

They order Labatt 50. That's the first turn-off. They're either broke, or into crappy beer. Not that I'm looking for a man in his Carlsberg years or anything. A simple Alexander Keiths guy would do. Nonetheless, it's always interesting to have conversations with people in bars, regardless of their blood-alcohol content. I'm going through a Strongbow phase this summer.

"So, how old are you guys?" I ask.

"Twelve," says Guy 1. Haha. You're hilarious. I can't stop laughing. You're 12. Awesome. I'm 23 on Facebook. Maybe 12 is the number of beers you drank before you came to the bar. I don't care. I don't really want to know the answer anyway, because that would only confirm I'm older than both of you. I'm a cougar-in-training! I just know it! I keep going. I don't know why, but I do.

"So, where are you guys from?" Guy 1 fields the question again.

"London-Ontario, not England!" He starts to laugh. Hilarious again. Corner Gas here you come.

"And how do you guys know each other?" I ask, pointing to his wingman. Or is he the man, and I'm talking to the wing? It's not clear.

"We went to high school together-oh, AND Law School." The game of bar pick-ups. Impress, impress, impress. Little do these guys know I used to date a guy who parked valet for a living. The wingman is still not talking, sipping his 50 and laughing at everything his buddy says. His silence almost lets him off the hook, but unfortunately, you are who you hang out with.

"What kind of law do you do?" (I have an obsession with moving to New York, so "immigration lawyer" would be my ideal answer.)

"Uh-we don't like to talk about it." Clearly you need to watch more Law & Order, if not for the entertainment, just to be able to back up your lies. Finally lawyer 2 starts asking questions.

"So, where do you live?" I give him a vague idea. A very vague idea. Then the main talker interjects.

"It's a good thing I don't still live around here, otherwise you'd be in trouble." Is that creepy? Yes, I'm pretty sure that's creepy.

"Why would I be in trouble?" I ask.

"Oh, trust me. You'd be in trouble."

"No, I don't really think I would be in trouble." This is the point in a bar pick-up scene where most single women would invent a boyfriend, but I don't believe in doing that anymore. I don't need to lie about my status quo to get rid of a sleazy guy. I'll just be honest. If I say, "I have a boyfriend," he might interpret that as, "I would if I could." Besides, why should I spare the feelings of this 12-year-old lawyer?

I turn to the bartender, Mike, and ask for my bill. Undoubtedly surprised, because never in the history of me coming here, have I had just one drink (I don't think one drink is possible for Canadians.) I quickly pick up all my stuff and say good-bye.

"Wait! Don't we get hugs?"

Why can't I be a bitch? I quickly give each of them one of those fake dome-like hugs. The kind of hug where you could fit a BBQ between our waists. I can see two older men at the bar chuckling, observing my insincerity. I jet from the bar.

Now as I mentioned, I never go to a bar, especially on a Thursday night, and only have one drink. I'm still a Carleton student at heart. So I cross the street and enter another pub (thank God Toronto has bars so close to one another.) As I walk in, my roommate calls to say they're running behind. I give her a quick update to meet me at the bar across the street from our original meeting place. I brief her on the "attorneys" I just met. I hang up and look up at the bartender who obviously just heard my conversation.

"Sorry. I'm not a bitch, I swear. The clientele across the street is a little annoying, that's all. Can I have a Strongbow?"

He smiles, hands me my drink and walks away. The bartender is adorable, but obviously after I just complain of harassment, I've totally shut the door on potential flirting. I'm a woman of no consistency. With one man, I want to be left alone. With the next, I want mass amounts of attention.

So I throw my head back into my notebook. I push aside my other writing and begin writing about the boys (it's fair for me to call them "boys," right?) I'm laughing out loud at the recollection of the last half hour. As I write the words "Labatt 50" I feel eyes are me.

"Are you writing about me?"

Oh-oh. I guess I'm not the only one into bar hopping. I had to run to the bar right across the street, didn't I? Thank God Michael Myers isn't chasing me. I'm an easy find. I want to laugh, but I hold it in. The only thing that pisses a guy off more than talking about him, is writing about him - especially with the intention of publication.

"Um, no-" I turn to the bartender. "They found me. Can I have my check." Guy 1 tries to grab my notebook. I slam it shut.

"I'm not writing about you. As you can recall, I was writing before you guys ever talked to me," I say. The bartender then cuts in.

"Hey, Boss. Leave her alone." My knight in shining amour. Why am I not flirting with you? My favorite part of this moment is the fact the bartender calls him "Boss." I wished I called more people "Boss." But "Boss" ignores the bartender.

"No, seriously. You're good-looking, but you're not that good-looking." Is that a pick up line in Toronto? I need to know.

"Well, then, why are you talking to me? Don't you have good looking people to talk to?"

"Uh-I mean, you're good looking, but so good looking that I can't talk to you." Stop. I heard you the first time. I should shower. Knight in shining amour speaks again.

"Boss, back off. She wants to be alone." Or figure out what I have to do to be "that good-looking."

"It's okay, I'm out of here." I drop a ten on the bar, which I'm sure covers my cider plus tip. I quickly run out of the bar. The bartender, who might also be the manager since he's wearing a tie, follows me into the lobby.

"I'm sorry about that."

Kiss me. You're cute. Too bad I didn't really say that. On top of not being bitchy, I also lack the ability to be forward.

"That's okay. It's not your fault."

"If you want to come back in, I can kick those guys out."

Really? But I'm not that good-looking.

"That's so cool of you, but it's okay. I'll come back another night." We shake hands, exchange names and I exit.

Now even two drinks on a Thursday night is a little too Jenny Craig for me, so I walk back over to the first bar. I walk inside, and start talking to the bartender before I even sit down.

"Mike, they found me! I was across the street." He pours the Strongbow before I can order it, and makes his comments.

"I told those guys, 'I've never seen such chick repellant." I giggle. Yes, they were chick repellant. I'm excited that I'm not the weirdo, cougar-in-training, I thought I was. I text my roommate and explain I'm back at the first bar. I check the clock. She's exactly 28 minutes late. Yes, 28 is too late.