The World's Worst Short Film

So yesterday I met up with the réalisateur of the wonderful film I performed in a few weeks ago and got a copy, as well as the director's cut and a trailer uploaded onto my computer. What can I say. I only projectile vomited three times throughout the 7 minute duration, so all in all, better than I was expecting. The team seemingly cut most of my dialogue, which I imagine was indecipherable as I was expected to improvise in French, and tried to make up for it by adding a few subtitles to the exasperated English I was evidently spurting around 4-5 in the morning. One may also notice that the lighting on my early morning and up-all-night complexion is particularly flattering. Eh. Thems the breaks.

On the other hand, the trailer only made me faintly nauseous. Not bad.

And, in other news, (or non-news, really) I’ve been feeling like a seriously lonely kid lately. One week I have 5 French boyfriends + 1 in the street sending me texts below my window at 1 am, and the next, I’m spending the nights alone with a box of cookies and Sex and the City. Lame and vaguely depressing. Particularly so that E.D seems to be silently exiting the scene. I haven’t seen him since he so sweetly reassured me in French “tu n’est pas seul,” ironically. le sigh.

this is called grinning and bearing it

Stepping Out, June 4th

Steppin out Saturdays is a blog tradition too much fun not to take part in.

Inspired by the over-three-hundred-dollars Free People outfit seen on the left, I combined a few items from the closet to make an under 40 dollar spin off seen on the right :)

free people ruffled layers skirt

+ scrunchy thrift store tube dress

+ favorite pair of brown pumps found one magic day in Buffalo Exchange

look out France ;)

Seven Years Bad Sex

There are some who believe that forgetting to look into the eyes of the person who's glass your clinking during a toast results in seven years of bad sex.

Last night, lying once again on the sexual battle ground that is the futon in my apartment, while I was once again being treated to an onslaught of apologies from a very embarrassed and very nervous French guy, I was reminded that I was only graced with this piece of information some months ago.

Having ignored the obvious warning signs that this particular French man kissed like a teenager, after two and one half pleasant dates I foolishly invited him upstairs.

The effort struggled along with incessant interruptions: he would here and there stop to express some shyness about a body part: his back, for example, which I saw nothing wrong with, or a pause for him to remind me that he couldn't relax , and finally, one BIG interruption that ended with a subdued spasm and a whole lot of French cursing, followed by an entire night and early morning of apologies.

So up and at em’ Saturday morning. Today I’m making the rounds again with my resume', followed by a classical music concert with H and J.

In the meantime I don't plan to take any more chances when it comes to a sante, cheers, or chin chin. Eye contact! Here's to hope! *ching*

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