Discount Waxing is Not a Good Idea

Today I learned that finding a salon which advertises a brazilian wax for 15 euros isn't always a find worth celebrating. Now, sitting delicately on the couch of my future parents-in-law's apartment, I'm slowly coming to mental terms with having lost at least as much skin as hair and how I'm going to face the next weeks of life with a butchered bush. 

The waxing took place on the top floor of an eclectic old world building where I was met by an INSANE frizzy haired gypsy French woman who lead me into a room divided by a standing screen. On one side she was apparently in the middle of doing another woman's nails. The other side had a table for waxing. She told me to take of my pants while she returned to her nail painting. I stood feeling nervous for a bit and then called, "..should I cover myself with something.. er??" 

"No no!" She called back, already back in idle chat with her other customer. Things were already looking a bit sketchy, but I did as she said. Next to me and on the other side of the screen, she tells the girl to "wait ten minutes." Then, coming to my side and without even so much as washing her hands or donning a pair of gloves, she attacks. She doesn't even bother tie her hair up and I watch, rather startled, as strands of it get caught up in the wax she's spreading haphazardly on me. She exclaims that I have thin skin and I look down (against my better judgement) to discover that I'm bleeding in several places and looking like a diseased desert animal with the mange. I resist the urge to face palm. She finishes up, sprinkles me with talcum powder, and again without washing her hands, goes back to working on the other woman's nails. 

My lesson learned is that cheaper doesn't always mean better. ouch ouch ouch

Come What May

The annual wine gala was on the 2nd of March and I went despite being under the weather. I just couldn't handle missing the occasion to wear the dress, the shoes, the updo, etc. and leave A on his own for a raucous night of drinking. I SHOULD have, because I'm still hacking and coughing and suffering the slow pain of bronchitis and walking pneumonia. That'll teach me. I spent most of the night with my head down on the table feeling angry with A for drinking himself into a stupor. 

ANYWAY, as most events tend to produce, I have a slew of classy, happy looking photos which misrepresent the evening ENTIRELY. 

The day of the big decision was the day after and, facing swelling tonsils and a hungover boyfriend, (surprisingly) I decided the marriage was a go. (It took a lot of convincing though, that day and the next, trying to drown out the image of him singing and yelling on the bus home at 5am while I suffered in a little germy ball against the window.) 

So we're getting married. We're going to set the date in May. Alban has told his parents and I've told mine, which for both of us was sort of the officiating move. Tomorrow I'm catching a train to Paris to pick up some documents I'll need at the American embassy. 

I went with a girlfriend to city hall to pick up the dossier  several days ago and we were mistaken for a couple trying to have a gay wedding. A cheery, American couple trying to have a gay wedding. The woman at the desk told me very seriously it might be complicated and my friend and I both looked confused until we figured out what was going on. Never underestimate the danger of doing anything oficial in your second language. 

hew! 

Pussy Party

So I'm agonizing over a tough decision. TMI wants to go to a crazy costume party for his rather fat and crude drunk friends in the south of France on saturday. He insists that I go. I will have to pay $150 in gas, highway fees, and train tickets, plus a 6 hour drive there and three hour drive to a train station on the way back. We won't be home until midnight on Sunday.(Monday morning, technically.) Sounds like the worst thing ever to me. Enclosed smoking and sleeping in puke on the floor, more or less. But, if I stay here I'll be alone and sad thinking of him going crazy and having fun without me and probably commit suicide from loneliness and insecurity, but at least it will be cheaper and better for my liver. 

Importantly, here's what the invite to the party looks like: 

"Grémaillière de [so and so] et [whats'-his-name] au [distant address]. Veuillez trouver l'obligeance de vous vêtir de votre plus bel accoutrement en G (Gouine autorisé et fortement encouragé). Munissez-vous d'une bouteille (cubi, felissou, villageoise et autres alcools frelatés autorisés et encouragés) et de votre appareil génital (monotesticule ou chatte en sauce et/ou chatte à l'ail autorisés et encouragés de même).

Prière d'arriver le gosier sec et l'esprit clair, aucun débordement ne saura toléré. 

Amicalement, les Grolocs.

PS: bifles et hélicoptères interdits."

Yes, there are words like "monotesticle" and "pussy sauce" in this one paragraph invite. This is the other thing that gets me. One of the two people throwing this costume / house warming party is a girl who regualarly hurles such phrases like those above at my boyfriend in facebook comments and texts, and worse, he responds in the same lingo. I don't get it.I took him for a rather reserved, classy, intellectual type. A friend told me I need to go just to supervise my boyfriend in these vaginal conversations, but I find it rather.. repelling. 

So do I go or do I stay? It should also be noted that as it is a costume party, if I do go, I will be trapped in a two person card board rendition of the Great Wall of China.

..

Opinions anyone? Personally I'm thinking that I'm way too old for this. 

Kicking It: Frogs in the Face and Relationships in the Butt

In the more forested and wet regions of Hawaii there live a number of bufo toads. They like to hang out on my parent's driveway and watch danger wizz by, which rarely happens because they end up flat on a daily basis. Perhaps they're more suicidal than thrill seekers. Anyway, yesterday I didn't think of this being a pedestrian hazard and, tramping merrily along, accidentally kicked one and sent it flying upwards to hit my knee before spinning off into the grass. 

I at first thought it was a weird glob of plant matter so left it be, but then reflecting on the unusual sound and feel, and turned around to find a brown, leathery guy struggling in the grass.I righted him to discover that I had exploded his right eye and hurt or broke his front right leg. Ugh! I felt so guilty I hung around petting the shocked little fellow until it started to rain, where upon I moved him away from the driveway and under a tree so he wouldn't get flattened. 

The guilt runs deep, as last night I dreamt of giant, half dinosaur half frogs thundering through the forest and tearing my family's house to pieces, all of us running and screaming and diving for shelter. 

In closing kicking frogs is the most exciting thing happening in my life right now. For all TMI and I have been through together I can see there's no way we're going to get through this time apart. Affections are waning. It's very painful and I'm tempted to just cut it off rather than watch it sizzle out. The truth is I think hanging on to something hopeless may be more painful than actually losing it. 

Couch Surfing

OK so... I don't wanna go on about this since I promised everyone I was actually ok with it, but I can't resist. Yesterday I caught a train to Perpignan to spend some time with TMI, he's down here doing an internship. The train ride was at first a disatser, but then ending with me drinking too much wine with the train staff; so that will be the next post. 

Today, my first day with TMI in a week, an old friend of his tagged along and spent the day with us. It was nice, but I was looking forward to having my boyfriend to myself and getting cozy with him at night, since I havent been able to so in a long while... well, the friend drank too much this evening, so he had to stay with us. -And I'm on the couch, and he is at this very moment in bed with my boyfriend.

...

.....

WHEN AND WHY WOULD THIS EVER HAPPEN?

sigh, like I said I won't go on about it. But there it is. 

bonne nuit :/

How to B the Worst Kind of Guy

Today I was terrified to step out of the credit union and into the direct path of B. Considering that we live on the same street, it's a wonder that it doesn't happen more often, but, being that he's a hermit with psychological problems, I can usually come and go as I please from my rustic street without fearing horrible encounters such as these. 

I wasn't sure if he was soar that I'd at last deleted him from Facebook.. or if he'd even noticed. I didn't know what to expect. He was as slimy and as infused with cigarette smoke as ever and had been walking home with another, creepy looking guy. To my horror he introduced me as his ex, then insisted he go along with me to the bakery, where I was going on a daily baguette mission.

I was friendly and upbeat. He was a total slime ball. "You are looking good!" He tells me, "not fat or ugly." He asks me if I am still with the same man. I say yes and he is very surprised. "Have you been fidel?" I shoot him a shocked look. "No, you havent!" He says with a greasy smile. "I'm sure!"

I'm boiling inside but I shrug it off. Later he actually has the gaul to advice me to "take the pill" and to suggest that TMI is probably a chauvinist who wants me only for baby making. (dear god.) When I finally ditch him to duck into the bakery, he ices the cake by saying "call me if you want sex," and winking. How dare he? First off, what business is my private life of his and how could he possibly think it would be appropriate to talk to me in such a way when he knows I'm in a committed relationship? How could I resist but give him a horrified and disgusted expression before turning away. Quelle connard! 

Honestly how rude and crass. Ugh. Just ugh.

Apology Letter

For some reason or another I remain pretty adamant that this was the right thing while everyone I ask for advice tells me it absolutely wasn't. Upon learning from Jonas, by old friend from the days of Harry, that Harry would be in fact visiting Dijon again in the foreseeable future with his new fiancée, I thought it was a good idea to reach out. I've heard through the grape vine that Harry's girl knows all about my indecent efforts while he was here last year, and, having met me and made a peaceable friendship before hand, she has, rightfully, written me off as both hoe and foe.


Now a woman in love, I repent. I also would like to be able to see the couple when they come, as I like them and had made, underneath all that romantic angst, a very nice friendship with Harry.


So I wrote her an "I'm sorry, I repent my sins, I understand your hatred, and demurely ask for your friendship" facebook message.
So far no response. I dunno, would you want to hear form the boyfriend trespassers of your past?

Doin' it Distance

I am in love. I mean, crazily deeply in love. I can be jumping and undulating in the gym's "body-jam" class and still, he's the predominant thing on my mind. But like usual, my opening lines aren't what I actually want to talk about.

Yesterday I was trying to have the ever helpful but very frustrating savior of many long distance relationships, Skype-sex. The challenge in this is that my childhood bed is situated squarely under a picture window which also happens to be at the top of the stairs to my family's porch. So the first vision anyone has, human, alien, serial killer, etc, when coming to the house is my helpless form on the bed.

So there I was. Strewn naked below this dangerous window and in the throws of distance love-making when my parents decide to have a lawn-ornament-themed argument on the deck. TMI and I were both trying to bring it on home, so to speak, and I had to suddenly dash under the blankets as either parent stomped by the window 4 or 5 times and bickered in the yard. I got the impression dad was heading up to the garage so I got up to make sure my bedroom door was closed... but he's coming back down! I hit the dirt and slither under my bed until I hear that he has passed. I assume the position with my computer. Mom bursts in and I snatch the covers over my naked body. (Pink and purple tie-dye dildo left uncovered on the edge of the bed.) "Will you hurry up so I can talk to you?!" She yells.

..I think I've had just about enough of visiting the family. Oh private French apartment.. oh weekends spent naked in noisy passionate sex-a-thons.. Did I know how good I had it? Why did I leave again??

p.s: if you haven't all ready, please remember to Fight for the Phoque, and send a message to the Canadian prime minister.

Subconscious Sabotage

Horror of horrors. Apparently the writers of bad soap operas do get their material from somewhere.

Yesterday morning I awoke to the usual ritual of TMI's warm cozy embrace and a groggy "je t'aime." Still 95% asleep and only partially in control of my motor skills, I responded, hold your breath now: "and I loooove yooouu (x-boyfriend's name.)" The moment the words were out of my mouth I face-palmed in sincere horror. I hadn't been thinking about the guy nearly ever save for the occasional moments of distate once or twice a month, and I certainly hadn't been dreaming about him. But of course all of this couldn't be communicated in the moment; I think I probably just groaned in disbelief as TMI tossed off the blankets, hurtled out of bed, and proclaimed coldly "I'm going to class." He was out the door before I fully knew if I was dreaming it or not.

I cried, totally confused and feeling very wronged by forces greater than I. My x? Really?? You mean the one I'm sincerely distressed by the meere distasteful memory of? Blurted in a loving phrase to the man I love more than life it's self? Haha, very funny, universe.

My friends asked if TMI actually knew of the guy so I couldn't pass it off as a Star Wars name or something. But alas. Things seem relatively patched up now, but I'm honestly scared of my own mouth now. From now on early morning "I love you's" will be communicated strictly with actions.. and with words only after a cup of tea.

Itchy but Intimate

OK so, this is going to gross the great majority of you out. So the squeamish and those of you who don't appreciate the more intimate details of this blog, turn back now. But I figure since I've been complaining about UTIs and their mysterious persistence and recurrence on and off, I aught to dish out some answers.. as embarrassing as they are. After intensive internet research and TMI and I both occasionally dealing with an itchy butt over the last few months, I finally put two and two together. Get ready, it's not pretty: pinworms.

Both my lover and I have them. But honestly, this was close to happy news: a common complication of pinworms in females are urinary tract infections, so I may have just figured out why I've been so plagued by the horrible painful things the last 5 months and never before. And thank goodness, the cause is curable. Also it explains the nightly itching in both me and my partner. So the treatment? Lots and LOTS of raw garlic; both orally, and well... yes, at night, when we should be kissing, whispering sweet nothings, dimming the lights and falling into the bed in passionate love making, we're helping each other apply raw garlic to one another's butts and then lying around moaning and groaning as we endure the subsequent burning. Romance at it's best.

Under Unusual Circumstances

After our Parisian misadventure I finally have mom back in my Dijonaise home town; quite a sight for soar eyes after the crowded streets of Paris. With her staying in my tiny studio, however, and a temporarily homeless friend of TMI's staying at his place, (he's waiting for the keys to his new apartment) appropriate territory for making love has become increasingly hard to find. -And, let's face it, for a couple as famously frisky as we are, times are tough.

Last night, given the choice of sharing a bed with another guy and sleeping in my tiny 12 x 12 apartment with my mom and I, TMI chose the later. My mom is installed on a bunk bed situated over mine.. And, would you believe it, in the night and encouraged by the sounds of her snoring, TMI and I had our usual wild, crazy, but this time forcibly silent, sex.

..It was ok. But really. Sex while you can hear your mother snoring above you? Simultaneously great and profoundly disturbing. Every time there seemed to be a break in the snores TMI and I would freeze in horror, potentially caught in the mom-scaring 69 or worse, and wait until she resumed before we dared move again.

I have to say that was the first time I've ever had sex under such weird circumstances, aka, my mother. Let the record state I feel thoroughly bizarre. -But, this morning, while mom sat in my tiny kitchen doing crosswords and TMI and I lingered in bed... we did it again. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

How Not to Charm a Lady

Today I went for a run with a guy in the the French wild. He showed me an ancient sheep herder dwelling and farted loudly while we were both inside. I made like it was fine but was of course totally appalled. We ran up over a ridge and into a clearing where I bounded and rolled in the grass pretending to be a goat. Other times, while we jogged together between the trees, I pretended we were Mammoth Hunters on the great hunt. I kept most of this to myself and tried to do my bounding in secret. It's hard for me to be living in the city center when I come from Hawaii's mountains.

The French guy was Jonas and the French Wild was called Parc de la Combe a la Serpent.

The Weekend, and the Story of B

I had the good fortune to spend the weekend yet again in the colorful South with TMI's family in Sauzet.

Between delicious and drawn out meals, we went on walks, runs, bike adventures and gallery visits, plus one outing to a river to swim around in the icy water. We made our usual constant and creative love on every rock, table, park bench, and physically possible place that turned up throughout the weekend.

Despite all this goodness, about half of the time, I was totally plagued by two extremes: A) I really love this guy and am insecure and think he's gonna break my heart and this makes me miserable, or, B) I'm not really in love with this guy, and, if I stay with him, I'm just missing out on something better and this also makes me miserable.

While problem A can be jotted up as typical insecurity and latent desire to keep a little turbulence in the romance, problem B is a little more complicated, and, well, embarrassing.

Last summer, when I first came to France and fell head over heals for the repulsively unattractive, smoking, and foie gras farmer, B, I somehow convinced myself I wanted to marry the guy and invited him to Hawaii to meet my family. I incessantly gushed to my parents about how great he was and how much I loved him. (uuugghghhh this makes me want to puke now) Then, he shows up in Hawaii, and, in the harsh light of my own reality: my family, the island where I grew up, my friends, my language, I saw B for what he really was: a completely wrong for me, stinky, dirty, and dull French guy who I could barely communicate with. I had to break his heart in a drawn out, pathetic, and hugely uncomfortable drama that continues to nauseate me to this day. The man had brought a diamond ring with him which he gifted me in front of the entire family christmas morning. Yeah. Messy. I no longer trust my own eyes, heart, or brain.

The B incident proves that I'm insane. So now, with christmas visible on the horizon and TMI and I discussing love, the prospect of him visiting me in the Pacific has surfaced and filled me with subsequent terror. I want to be in love, but I don't want a repeat!

How I kissed a Girl in Macon

This weekend I had the good fortune to go on adventure with TMI to visit a friend and fellow wine student in Macon.

These kind of connections and company can all be jotted up as incredibly good luck, because these kids tend to be the sons of wine makers and owners of vineyards and tasty labels; the result being that I frequently get to indulge while visiting breathtaking countryside and staying in beautiful, old, and very French, homes.

The first night, I helped to cook an enormous pasta in a pot the size of a bathtub for a sudden influx of 20 something guests; each arriving with two or three bottles of their families label under their arm. We had arranged a large table outside under some wine trellises and the whole thing was covered in a staggering assortment of reds and whites- more wine than I'd ever seen in once place at one time.

While smashed up against TMI and I trying to eat my miniscule portion after the pasta had been divided up, I noticed two girls sitting across from me and, delusional from hunger and obvious other intoxicants, somehow fell under the impression they were flirting with me. I leaned in and asked TMI if they were lesbians. He looked horrified and responded firmly "no."

After the pasta, more wine, and a shameful amount of chocolate cake, I was dancing like crazy and started bumping up against one of the girls. She leaned in and told me in a thick French accent and nasally voice "Your husband is very beautiful! Have you meet him tonight?" pointing to TMI. I just laughed and returned the compliment.

Finally, after everyone was too breathless to dance another step, the whole party tore off their clothes and, in panties, bikinis, swim trunks and a lot of whitey tighties, threw one another into the pool. After a lot of wrestling and squealing and even an intimate moment with TMI, I somehow found myself in a dark corner with the French girl. She said "tu est magnifique." I figured this was the time and inexplicably grabbed hold of her and kissed her.. well, savagely.

TMI of course soon had wind of this and got me out of the pool and in to bed where I promptly passed out for 10 hours. I was vaguely aware of him coming in sporadically to check on me and then join me in the wee hours of the morning. I was never born with the party hardy gene, so after a few glasses of wine and the hour of 3 I'm usually looking for bed, so this all suited me fine.

The next morning I had the anguish of sharing an awkward coffee with the French girl. We winced through our hangovers and politely asked one another from where we hailed and what we studied.

Looking back on it I think I may have finally gotten the girl out of my system, but only time will tell. The comforting discovery is that TMI's mouth, later in a warm bed, felt much, much nicer.

The Awkward, Painful, but Admittedly Delicious, Day Trip to Nuit St. Georges

Alive: Yes. Having recently bore witness to another beautiful country village in France: Yes. Mentally unscathed: No.

Yes, I just spent the entire day with my English student "Scratchy" after agreeing to go on a motorcycle adventure with him. I stuffed my head in a sweaty, stinky helmet, clung to his back, and endured an hour of thinking I was near death due to heatstroke as we blazed along en route to Nuit St. Georges. I'll admit, travel, France, and the little villages of Burgandy have a habbit of tossing my heart above my head and tugging dramatic tears of happiness from my eyes, so I savored this joy as much as I could wile trying to ignore my less than comfortable company. It is really hard to be friendly, casual, and personable with a guy if you're desperate to keep from giving the wrong impression. This difficulty only increases with alchoholic intake.

We were starving when we arrived in the village center and I was completely ecstatic when we sat down in a little cafe. Have I mentioned that I love eating? Honestly I think it may be my favorite thing to do in life. I happily ordered an amazing salad with toasted chevre and easily the best sun-dried tomatoes that have ever existed EVER. They were soft and sweet, (not chewy or tough) and frankly sent me into a coma of pleasure that allowed me, for the moment, to completely forget about Scratchy's increasingly annoying advances.

I managed to sustain my bliss until he started trying to feed me with his fingers, which I kinda suspected would happen since he all ready tried once with a chocolate almond during a lesson. This time it was little green olives. After the first glass of wine I was like "no way!" and after the second I was like "dude, seriously, no way," and after the third glass I was like "...yeah ok whatever."

So I let myself be sensually fed and stupidly let all my worries of platonic-ness melt away. After the food we walked around the village center; I managed to avoid hand holding but stupidly, out of guilt and a liquored mentality, consented to holding his arm as we wandered about. Yes, I'm an idiot. When the evening came we went to a wine bar and I was treated to yet another delicious glass of Côte de Nuits. It was nice, but I was seriously aching to get away from this guy before I did anything else retarded. 7 hours + of flirtatious, hopeful glances from a guy you like increasingly less but are helplessly leading on because you're dumb and eating up his money as time goes by can really start to turn a stomach after a while.

Finally I expressed that my feet were tired and insisted that he put me back on his bike and get me home. Another hour of noise and speeding, and we were at the dreaded doorstep good-bye and thank you. Here's where things get hairy. I started planning the escape maneuver when we entered Dijon: I was going to jump off the bike, act as much like a guy-pal as possible, offer a power fist bump, and turn on my heels. A normal guy would just sulk and motor off, right?

I don't even know how this happened by here's what I remember: He rolls the bike up on to the sidewalk and leans it on the kick stand. I'm completely exhausted and dehydrated from all the wine and feel like I'm going to die; I swing my leg over, hop off the bike and then- my thoughtful, presumably non-agresive, semi timid English student, GRABS HOLD OF MY SHOULDERS and totally face plants me with a kiss like he knew I was going to run away. Despite my misery and schock I'm evidently too nice a person to utter a cry of disgust, push him away and initiate a slap like anyone in the movies would, so I sorta just, stiffened and waited... trying to be... unresponsive, but in a... friendly way?? ..against his mouth.

Finally, what I seriously hope was only a few seconds later because it FELT like an eternity, he gave up and I sort of issued an unsure "sorry I don't like it" kind of ..grunt. He looked awkwardly at the sidewalk and I hurriedly added a "thank you! It was amazing and really fun!" While digging, as obviously I could, for my keys in my pocket.

A few more awkward words were exchanged and I finally felt sufficiently liberated to turn, stick my keys in my door, and escape into my corridor. Wow, it feels good to be alone. Wow, my next lesson with him is going to be awkward. Wow. Now I crash.

Below the Skin and Above the Belt

A few nights ago TMI came up to my place with a bottle of crémant. We did something that was sort of like making love, in that it took all night and it was a personal and highly communicative process, but also a lot not like making love because I was thinking about, and even talking about, Harry.

The night before I had sent him the end-game of all desperate would be/should be/kinda aughta be/but aren't gonna be relationships: the “I love you” txt. More specifically, the “you may have noticed I have no self restraint, so against my better judgement, I have to tell you kid, I love you” txt. ugh.

72 hours of painful silence later, aka last night, I went out for La Fete de la Musique with Harry and J after promising good behavior. It was painful. He looked and sounded better than ever and I felt like a nut case. At the end of the night, I passed up the bise and even our more traditional hand shake and tried to walk away with a "bye." I hurried to get around the block in case I did something embarrassing like let out a sob. By the time I reached my stairs, I couldn't help my self and sent:

"I'll be in debt to you the rest of my life but I'll give you a million pounds if you follow me." After no response, I tried: "..or just 100 if you say something comforting." Finally, I got back " U could put your savings to better use, there's no point wasting them on me."

Welp. That looks like the end of that.

All n' all, I’m not nearly as upset as I could be. By all means, let the records state that I've been sleeping till noon and crying on the toilet, but, I’m treating it with a respectful salute to life’s lessons. I appreciate that my incessant philandering with the exclusively handsome received a slap on the wrist by some overdue sentiments. The good stuff really does come from somewhere before the first kiss, below the skin, and above the belt.

When it comes to heartache, rough relationships, and unrequited love, it’s important to remember that between two people, you’ve got a 50% chance of getting the short end of the stick. So if we're gonna gamble, we'd better learn to roll with the punches.

I Attempt 4am French Improvisation in an Action/Thriller

Some of you are wondering what happened to the independent film I claimed to be portraying the leading lady in about a week ago. As I've been licking my physical and emotional wounds from that ordeal for the past several days, I've needed some serious down time and herbal tea to face this story of tragedy a second time.

While I was expecting to give Saturday DAY to the film crew, (and perhaps a lovely French dinner out with E.D in the evening,) I was dumped off in front of my door step a tired, cold, and abused little creature at 8AM THE NEXT DAY.

When we hadn't started filming by midnight I was getting a little worried, so I asked one of the light crew who matter-of-factly told me he suspected we could be done by 7 if "all went well." Had I only known. I may have brought a toothbrush. A tampon. A bag of chips. Perhaps a coat or a blanket. But alas. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in the city outskirts in this empty, under-construction apartment that had no furniture save for a stinky dog bed (and one stinky dog) that I climbed dejectedly into at various hours throughout the morning seeking shelter form the cold and the harsh reality of my situation. Which was this, btw:

The film had no script. I was expected to improvise in French. So it's 5 am, I'm tired, ugly, and cold, 4 cameras get stuck in my face and someone yells "Action!" So I stand there looking victimised while the French guy playing the detective takes off in French at me about monkeys and murder suspects and who the hell knows what until suddenly there's an awkward silence. Right. Time to say something! If only I could have understood what the detective was saying. I give a pathetic look to the camera and we have to start all over again.

The worst part was the imposed objects. Each film had to at one point or another have a pot of mustard seen somewhere on camera, and, the phrase "vas y, fais moi plaisir" Which is like, "go ahead, make my day." Any rational film crew would of course think I should be responsible for both of these. The result is me awkwardly smearing mustard on to a slice of white bread while I fervently try to decipher the detective's French in time for me to pick the plausible place to tell him to make my pleasure.

uuuughhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And, after my day of recovery, which I will say was pleasant and snugly and consisted of yogurt cups and Sex and the City, I get a message that says the film was not created in time to meet the festival deadline, so it wouldn't be shown anyway. A waste, but all n' all probably better for my reputation around town.

The film crew + 1 blissfully unaware American, the morning before.

This is Getting Harry, pt. 2

I look forward to the day when I know better than to drink and text. That said, I'd like to reiterate my growing infatuation with Harry. Which actually isn't an infatuation, it's a pleasant, happy, authentic, attraction that bubbles in that friendly way which you know has nothing to do with the physical, (Harry isn't at all handsome) and everything to do with how well the two of you get on.

He makes me laugh; full heartedly. As any woman and slighter wiser-to-the-game man knows, that does it for most of us.

So, in a nut shell, this is what happened tonight: I went out with Harry and Jonas, our mutual French friend, to the cafe I live above, our usual place. In a span of several hours, I spotted a Frenchie I found attractive and, at the urges of my two usual bar buddies, (and several glasses of wine) I decided to make contact. I stuck my leg out as he was passing by and tripped him. I jumped up from the table, apologized, and then assaulted him with some terrible French to tell him brazenly that I found him handsome. He was more or less shocked, as can be imagined, but we managed to exchange a bit of info before I returned to the table with J and H. Harry spilled his beer on me. Yeah, that's the second beer this week to end up on a French outfit of mine. A lot for a mild mannered girl who doesn't even drink the stuff.

Meanwhile! In the street just outside! The nice guy with erectile dysfunction. You remember. He sees a light on in my apartment and has begun to call and text me lovingly saying he wants to see me and he's waiting below my window. I may just be in the bar next door, but I don't have my phone with me. Then it's closing time! So every one jostles into the street.

Handsome guy who I broke the ice with is trying to kiss me while I'm trying to kiss Harry who's seemingly disinterested while Jonas is trying to kiss me in what should be the platonic French way but its going all wrong, so suddenly im in a kiss orgy with everyone except who I want to be in a kiss orgy with.

Then Harry's gone, so, like any rational girl, I dart across the street and up the stair case into my apartment where I send him a desperate text message. "Damnit Harry, can't you see that all I want in life is an affair with you before you leave?" -smooth as silk, I know.

Then, moments later, I notice the 6 messages and three voicemails from E.D who had been below my window in the street. Several more minutes later and of course I realize that I really need to stop texting Harry like this at 3 am. He's taken. He's taken taken taken all over the place, (in England anyway) and I doubt our platonic relationship has any hopes of surviving my sillyness.

Lastly, Handsome Parisian is online. The only of all the above who's properly available and whom I harbor an authentic affection for. So I said hi, and he logs off.

check please