Jeepers Creepers

My first "match made" blind date was with the New York match maker's guy...the real estate developer. He sounded a little creepy on the phone, but he did suggest to meet me in person at Giorgione - so he can't be that bad. The food there is great and so he does have a modicum of taste, at least.

I arrived first and exactly on time. I know I should always be ten minutes late - as no one in New York is ever on time. There was no reservation in his name, the restaurant was packed, and there was a one hour wait for walk-ins. This was not boding well. Hopefully he has some pull with the manager or something?

He showed up 20 minutes late - complaining of traffic. Granted, he probably forgot that he told me where he lives and so I know for a fact that his apartment is a mere four blocks away from the restaurant...but I will let the little white lie pass. Who doesn't lie about being stuck in traffic when late? I then asked him if he had a reservation, knowing full well that he did not, and he started to look nervous. He rushed over to the hostess who then informed him the same thing she had already told me. Fully booked...and we would have to either go somewhere else or wait for an hour...or more. Nice job, loser. I had actually been looking forward to eating at Giorgione more than I had been looking forward to meeting him, so I guess that is what I get for thinking such evil thoughts.

He stood there at a loss and I suggested we head over to Giorgione 508 around the corner - the more casual branch of the same place. We went out into the rain and as I suspected, 508 was completely empty save a few tables because it is really more of a breakfast/lunch place than a date spot, but whatever. At this point, I just wanted to get it over with.

Real Estate guy was boring, hesitant, and had zero game. On his second glass of wine, his neck started to go all red and he had no problem eating off my plate without permission. Ugh - disgusting. If I had wanted to share, we would be in either a Chinese or a fondue restaurant.

On closer inspection, I was finally able to put my finger on what exactly was wrong with the Real Estate guy physically. I mean, he was tall enough, attractive enough, and dressed O.K. (most likely Banana Republic/Kenneth Cole kind of guy) - but there was something definitely off and then it hit me during dinner what it was. His eyes! He had old eyes....a little hazy, yellowish, blurred irises - but oddly taut skin on his face. He was completely over-botoxed and there was no way this guy was 40. In fact, he might have even been 60 with a face lift. I swear.

My first impression of him from the phone had been accurate. He was creepy. Even the waiter didn't like him that much. I can totally imagine this guy on Dateline "To Catch a Predator" series or some similar show.

I just have one word for this experience.....NEXT!

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match

I finally picked up the phone and called both the matchmaker in Chicago and the one in New York. They were both very happy to hear from me and they both had my ideal man all ready and lined up and ready to go. How convenient.

The New York match maker has a 40-year old real estate developer who lives in a full-floor SoHo loft as my first set up. He works in the family business, he loves to travel, and he collects art. He is dying to be married since yesterday and have children. He has three brothers who are all happily married and all he can think about is marriage. He is Jewish, but doesn't care that I am not. He likes tall blondes...and particularly one who is ready to start a family immediately. I mean, I suppose I could physically have a baby within the next nine months - but that whole starting a family now thing sounds a little strange. That said, I agree to meet him anyway. Why not? I could do worse...and I have.

The Chicago match maker has a 43-year old, hedge fund owner, who is 6'4", stunning (according to her), witty, never married, and has homes in Chicago, New York, and Greenwich. He is Ivy educated, he competes regularly in triathlons, he comes from a wonderful family, and he wants to settle down as soon as possible. The catch with him is that he is Jewish, but not attracted to Jewish women, so he ideally wants a WASP who is willing to convert. I guess I could convert for the right guy? I mean if George Clooney wanted me to become a Branch Davidian to marry him, I'd probably fill out the paperwork and get started within five minutes on the conversion process, so "yes" - if he is "George Clooney Hot", then perhaps I will change my religion. What the heck?

And that is that. The Real Estate guy and the Hedge Funder will be given my number today and the dates are imminent. I'd put my money on the Hedge Funder as being the more interesting one, but you never know? I've been wrong before and hence I am writing this blog!

My Little Black Book

I figure that I have about six weeks left of Summer and so I may as well make the most of it. It is my final few weeks to play, have fun, and date slightly inappropriate, but super charming guys before I can get back to dating the more "serious types" again in the Fall. I figure that most of Manhattan's finest stock is in the Hamptons until the end of August and as the Hamptons is not my scene...I think it is time to dip into my little black book or just hit the streets with Edith Piaf as my sidekick and see what we find.

Count Bambi never called and it has been a week, so we will consider that case closed. Plus, I have no respect for him. Snaggly Toothed Brit has been calling non-stop which I view as quite pathetic since I treated him so badly and he is still interested. I have no respect for him either. He is off the list.

The Street Performer is still around and Miss Milk Fat has probably gone back to where ever she came from, so we can put the Street Performer back in the "maybe" column. I would still actually like some more dance lessons. How fun would that be?

The 21-year old, Venezuelan, Adonis from Freya's wedding sent me an e-mail to let me know he will be in New York for a visit by Summer's end. He must have "Googled" me as I never gave him my e-mail. Either way, he is getting put in the "maybe" column as well. I will never get over those abs of his. Shockingly hot.

Who else? Ex-boyfriends...always a pond worth fishing in every once in a while (for fun, of course, nothing more) and there are three possibilities there. The Tycoon...a mid-40 something player with two ex-wives, three children, a black Amex card, and access to a private plane. He has a girlfriend, but he still calls me all the time. I have a feeling he is about to be re-released into the dating pool in the near future. If it happens in July or August, he goes in the "maybe" column and in September, he is a definite "no." I don't trust him at all even though he is a blast with a wicked sense of humor. Number two, is Harvard Oil guy....poor boy done good kind of thing whose fortune came recently as a result of the spike in oil prices. He is a little rough around the edges which is absurdly sexy. He is also married, but it is teetering on divorce. He is calling me as well. We will put him into the "no" column and see what happens in a year or so. Last one is the Viking...strapping, Danish stunner living in Copenhagen. You know what? Forget him for now as well. Copenhagen is not happening this late in the Summer.

Moving on...I am wildly obsessed with my neighbor - he is a scruffy bohemian artist whose work is in the Whitney and MoMa already and I don't even think he has a single grey hair yet. He is a literal genius, a pot stirrer, and a maverick. I can feel the sexual tension between us every time I am in my tiny little elevator with him. He actually asked me point blank one day if I wanted to f@#$ him and I said "yes".....what was I thinking? He then replied that he would like to f$#@ me too and that he was glad we had that out of the way. Alrighty then - what is the problem, you might ask? The usual. He has a girlfriend. So, I am waiting patiently for the perfect moment - which for me would include the simultaneous break-up of his current relationship coupled with his moving out of the building. Who wants either an attached man or a fling with someone who lives in your same building for when it inevitably ends? Awkward - although in reality, the chances of those events actually taking place are pretty close to zero, so I regretfully put the Artist in the "no" category. Well, he is in the "no" category for real life, but a "yes" for my fantasy life!

There is a Slovakian Baron who is also an artist and a creative director for one of the top stationary firms in the world. He tries really hard to be overly artsy though. He isn't the real deal as an aristocrat like Bambi, nor is he a renown artist like my neighbor. I think he is just a bit of a Eastern European farm boy who decided to put a "quirky" label on himself and go with it for as far as that road would take him. There is something that isn't quite genuine or authentic about him that I can't quite put my finger on. He tries really, really hard from the funky "art guy" glasses to the disheveled hair that is clearly styled to look messy on purpose as opposed to messy hair as a result of a certain lifestyle. Plus, his nose looks like the head of a penis. We will put him in the "no" column based on that last detail alone.

And that is it....a grand tally of six definite "no's" and three "maybe's." Hmmm....not so good. It is definitely time to put "Plan C" in effect and call one of those matchmakers and re-stock the man pantry! Supply is low and demand is high.

Bye Bye Love

We can all rest easy. Count Bambi is back where he belongs - in his native France. His visit was a complete and utter disappointment and I feel like a fool.

I saw him a bit here and there before he took off, but nothing of significance happened. I mean - he did tell me that he thought I needed a hair cut because my hair was too long (when I had it cut less than a week ago.) He did tell me that he would never have a long distance relationship (and why couldn't he mention this when we were in France?) and he also confessed that he felt there were too many differences between French and Americans for it to ever truly work out anyway (ummm, yeah tell that to Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis, but whatever!)

I couldn't fake that it didn't matter or hurt. I couldn't hide that I was crushed and I was quite embarrassed that he had access to that level of vulnerability without earning it first. Knowing that it was over before it had even begun, I told him my true feelings that I thought he was amazing and that I had been willing to do most (if not all) of the traveling. I am not so ridiculous that I was positive it would definitely work out long term (O.K. at least to him), but I did know that I had enough feelings in my heart to at least give it a try. I was willing to put myself out there and take a risk. I thought he had been someone worth the leap of faith. All I got in response, was a pained expression on his massive blue eyes and nodding. Lots of and lots of nodding and the feeling that he wanted to hit the eject button and get as far from me as he could possibly get. God, that was an awful realization.

In reality, I suppose that I couldn't really imagine the true love of my life despising my dog or never being able to give me flowers without risking a hospital visit. The guy who is right for me would have said some kind words about my apartment, even if it isn't a castle. He would have noticed how cute I looked and blown off Beyoncé any day of the week to sit at a table with me instead. I guess thinking about it - I do believe that I probably would not have wanted to continue further with him either based on what I saw on this trip, but I didn't have the chance to reject...because I was already rejected before he even got here. That does suck though. He actually left New York thinking of me as a love struck kitten pining for his affections and willing to do anything to make it work.

That isn't the case though. Not anymore. I wish I could tell him. It would be pretty pathetic however if after someone says they don't want you - that you say don't want them either. Why would they believe you? It seems like a knee-jerk reaction from a bruised ego, instead of the truth. But it is true, so for whatever it is worth.....Count Bambi, I don't want you. I would never marry you and I can do 10,000 times better than you, so good luck and good riddance, you cigarette smoking, asthmatic moron! Even my dog is too good for you. Onwards and upwards!

Requiem for a Dream

The Gods of Love must have taken some pity on me because Beyoncé did not show up for dinner with Count Bambi. They had dinner with "Beyoncé's people." Much better! Also, the reason that they are meeting with her and her people is because she is the star of the L'Oreal commercial they are shooting, not Jennifer Lopez. How could Bambi mix those two up? Were they just two incredibly hot, slightly dark, Americans with big booties to him...who were so easy to confuse? Was he a moron? I was starting to suspect he was.

In any case, Bambi spent yet another day cruising around Manhattan with some peons from L'Oreal instead of with me. He told me he thought I had to work during the day and so that is why he didn't call. Understandable I guess - but it wasn't the case. Perhaps stupidly, I had taken the rest of the week off in honor of his visit. When will I ever learn?

In true Jerk-o-Rama style, he was also busy at another L'Oreal dinner last night as well with Count Directeur Créatif's boss and he said he would call or text after dinner so we could meet up for drinks.

I couldn't stand another night of sitting home alone, dressed to impress, and getting let down again and so I called the one person who I knew would gladly take me out, appreciate me, and then willingly let me run off after dinner to drinks with Count Bambi.....Snaggle Tooth, of course!

Snaggles could hardly contain his excitement that I called and wanted to see him that very night. He had a group of buddies from his Masters program at Columbia who were having dinner at some Cuban hole in the wall and I was more than welcome to join. They were all informed that around 10 p.m. I would have to run off to see a "friend from France" and thus I somewhat rudely kept my phone on the table. I suppose by now, one can guess that a 10:00 p.m. phone call did not happen. Neither did an 11:00 or 12:00 call happen either. I might as well have just left my phone at home actually.

One of the students invited me to join them all after dinner at The Box....a swank new club in the Lower East Side with cabaret acts and a wildly interesting decor. With the amount of time and energy I had spent to get the way I looked last night...I was willing to go pretty much anywhere except home. My ego had been flushed down the toilet and heading to a nightclub with a group of international grad students seemed like fun. Snaggles was beyond happy and he slung his arm over my shoulders and I let him. I needed to be adored. He was the perfect guy at the perfect time.....as long as I could forget about those teeth for the time being.

We rolled into the The Box around 1:00 a.m., four guys, five girls, and Snaggle Tooth still holding me tight. It wasn't five minutes before I saw what could not be a mirage. Count Directeur Créatif was talking to a pack of tiny breasted French girls with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Snaggle Tooth followed my gaze and asked if those were the French people who had blown me off and I just nodded. Talk about awkward.

Directeur Créatif smiled, waved, and pointed to the other side of the room where Count Bambi and another bland French import were chatting up against a wall. I wasted no time storming right over there. Bambi lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw me, gave me a huge kiss in front of Snaggle Tooth (who I thought might go into cardiac arrest at that point), and asked me what took me so long!? He then showed me his cell phone where he had indeed sent me a text two hours earlier telling me to meet him at The Box. However, I never received the text. Maybe my phone doesn't allow incoming international text messages? How annoying! I supposed that I couldn't be mad as he really did try to get in touch with me. Right?

Bambi didn't believe it was truly a coincidence that of all the bars and clubs in New York that we would end up at the same one at the same time. It was a pretty crazy turn of events. Was that a sign? Were we really meant to be together? How could that not be a sign?

I nestled into Bambi's arms and all of the L'Oreal people came up to tell me how glad they were I came and how worried Bambi was about not getting to see me. We proceeded to their table near the front, an extra glass was ordered for me and a few bottles of champagne arrived. I saw Snaggle and his friends glaring at me from the bar area as if I was the biggest bitch on the planet and maybe I was...but if only they had any idea what I had to go through to get to that point?

We stayed until about 5 a.m. when we were about three sheets to the Moët & Chandon wind at that point. Bambi wanted to take me back to his hotel, but I wasn't having it. My apartment was in its glory days and would be seen....even if it would be seen by a rather drunk Bambi in the middle of the night...it would still be seen.

And no...the evening didn't go the way that you, me, and probably he imagined. He walked into my apartment, quickly found my bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and screamed. Edit Piaf was prancing all over his tiny little chest. He begged me to take her off of him. He said he couldn't stay in my room and luckily I have a guest bedroom as well - where Edith never goes, and so we retreated there. Apparently, he is deathly allergic to dogs. Why did I not know this before? I guess I never had Edith Piaf around any time that I was hanging out with Bambi. Hmmm....petit problème.

During our make-out session in my guest bedroom his eyes proceeded to get more and more red, he was breaking out in a rash, and his nose was running like a faucet. He then noticed that my guest bedroom - as well as my entire apartment was filled with flowers of every variety. And guess what? He is also allergic to flowers. I then carried several vases out of the room into the front hallway and opened the window for him, but not before he started to gasp. I am so not joking. He apparently also has asthma and he left his inhaler back at the hotel.

Talk about the most un-sexy evening ever. I walked him down to a cab around 6:00 a.m. A small, sputtering, snot nosed, bleary eyed, wheezing Count with itchy skin. Was he really what I had been dreaming of for the past couple of weeks? Maybe I had lost my mind? All I can say is that I am glad he was leaving in a taxi and not an ambulance...or was I?

Not So Crazy in Love

I am raising a white flag. I surrender. I give up. I don't understand men at all.

Count Bambi and his cousin, Count Directeur Créatif, landed at JFK airport on time. I know because I checked about five times. I gave them a generous two hours (in my mind) to make it to the city with their luggage and figured I my phone would be a-ringing by 2:00 p.m. at the very latest. At 4:00 p.m., my blow out was flattening against my head, my mascara from the morning was starting to flake, and even Edith Piaf's perky bow was looking a little deflated. It was only a matter of time before one of my perfectly folded, Gap store-esque, towers of sweaters toppled over in my closet. Perfection really only can last so long! So I called him and pretended to be calm and cheerful. He and Count Directeur Créatif were lunching somewhere downtown as their rooms were not ready at the SoHo Grand. He said he would call me back in an hour.

Two hours later, it is now 6 p.m. and I call him again. He had checked into his room and gone to visit Central Park with his cousin and some of the L'Oreal people who were here for the shoot. Apparently, he hadn't called because they were still figuring out dinner plans. His cousin might be eating with Beyoncé and the people from L'Oreal and he was waiting to see if either himself or he and I could get included. Dinner with Beyoncé ? That was not what I was imagining. I had spent the last two days and gobs of money trying to look amazing and now on my first night with Bambi....I was about to get upstaged by a freaking international sex symbol!? Was this happening? Life can be incredibly unfair sometimes. Why don't we also invite Angelina Jolie, Cameron Diaz, and Jessica Biel to come as well? How did I not see this one coming?

In any case, by the time I was dressed and ready for dinner by 8:30 - he called to say that he would be going to dinner with Beyoncé and Company and that they couldn't get an extra person included. I guess the only thing worse than having to sit next to Beyoncé in front of a guy you are trying to impress is having the guy you are trying to impress go to dinner with Beyoncé without you. Damn!

Right-O. Kill me now...how on earth could I ever compete with Beyoncé? Please, tell me that Jay-Z is still in the picture or else I can't imagine why Bambi wouldn't fall dangerously in love with her! Argh! Nightmare!

Lets Hear it for the Boy

God bless Bambi! He called! I am ecstatic, jumping for joy, and beyond giddy. He was polite, casual, and kept everything fairly brief. Sometimes, I really want to think he is being a bit of an insensitive jerk - but then I remind myself that he is from another country, and another culture...and perhaps it would be small minded of me to hope he would act as the Harlequin romance hero I have in my head and just calm down. He was busy. English is not his first language and he did have a life in full motion before we started our romance. I guess waiting over ten days in between phone calls isn't the end of the world and he is getting on an airplane and coming to see me! Keep it in perspective, right? My friends say "wrong", but I am committed to seeing this one though.

Bambi gave me 48-hours notice of his arrival and didn't ask to stay at my apartment. I imagine he is probably being respectful...the way a guy who really likes a girl would be. So, he will be staying at the SoHo Grand, he will be here for four days, and can't wait to see America for the first time. I double checked his schedule to see if he would be busy with his cousin or if he had any particular day either totally free or totally unavailable...and he assured me he was open and he wanted to see me every day. He laughed that I was silly enough to even ask that question and I felt 1,000 times better. In fact, that statement gave me the hope I needed about this trip to guarantee complete lunacy for the next couple of days.

I spent almost every waking moment since I got off the phone with Count Bambi to his arrival day in "crazy mode." I mean - think about it. I have four days to host a guy who lives between a palatial, Parisian flat, a villa in the South of France, and two castles, who has the pick of any woman in Paris, who is terrified of planes (and I suspect, somewhat terrified of Americans as well), and who is getting over a life long fear of travel to see if I might be someone he could settle down with. He is going to see my life, my apartment, my morning/noon/night selves, the places I find cool, and the people I hang out with. He is coming to my turf and I can imagine he is somewhat skeptical of what he will see. My goal is to completely enchant, dazzle, and impress him. I refuse to let this be a disappointment. That is not an option.

I hired my cleaning lady and her friend to spend two full days in my already spotless apartment doing detail work. I wanted every drawer organized, every book arranged neatly on the shelf, every sweater folded perfectly with a square of cardboard so my closet looked like it could be a section of a department store. I had about 40 boxes of food and wine from Fresh Direct delivered, so my kitchen looked like a high-end grocery store. A wine guy stocked my cabinets with the best of the best French wines. I bought a case of Bambi's favorite champagne and stocked up on champagne flutes so Bambi would feel right at home at my place. I spent four hours and several hundred dollars in the Chelsea flower district so that every table and surface of my apartment was filled with gorgeous, exotic, spectacular blooms. My God - where was "Metropolitan Home" when you needed them for a quick photo shoot? Even my toilet paper was folded at the end into a small "V" just like at a swank hotel.

Other than a five alarm "cleaning/decorating/stocking up" fire happening at my apartment, I pretty much did the same thing to my entire body - head to toe. The hair was highlighted, trimmed, and blown out. Eyebrows perfectly shaped. A manicure, a pedicure, and a glorious tan. I certainly did not look like a girl who had spent the last two weeks moping. I looked like the pampered wife of a tycoon just home from their yacht in St. Tropez. Finally! I even had my eyelashes dyed black, so that I would look pretty in the mornings when I woke up with no make up on. The magic is all in the details - I say!

Of course, little Edith Piaf was also sent to the groomers and arrived home with brushed teeth, trimmed nails, a shiny coat smelling of mango and papaya, and a tiny, dusty rose colored bow on the top of her head. She would really be the talk of the dog run if we went, but who has the time? It is a full time job trying to knock the socks off a handsome aristocrat - trust me.

In any case, he arrives tomorrow morning at 11:30. I can't imagine anything I may have forgotten to do. Brazilian bikini wax - check. Reading Time Out cover to cover for this week's touristy happenings - check. Immaculate apartment - check. Glammed up self - check. Sound mental health.....um, let me get back to you on that one.

Plan C

About a year ago, I had read an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine (or some similar magazine?) about matchmakers and I had decided to call the top one in the country (based in Beverly Hills) and see who they had for me. It was a miserable experience and a story for another day.

However, about six weeks ago I decided to try two of the other top matchmakers in the country because maybe I just had bad luck the first time? I can't afford to risk my professional reputation by being on Match.com - and so this seemed like a more discreet means to the same end.

The way they work is that successful, eligible men who truly want to settle down will pay these people between $10,000 to $50,000 per year to be set up with attractive, smart women who also want to settle down. Luckily, the matchmakers decided to take me on as "inventory" which means that I'm in their little black book for a man who is looking for exactly my "type." To be considered as "inventory" one has to be considered generally pretty, have a college degree, be physically fit, not previously married, no children, and under the age of 35.

I get to be set up for free as I am a regularly requested "type." There is something that feels slightly hooker-ish about the whole thing, but what are my options? I can't stand the bar scene, or the clubs, and I am busy building a company in my spare time to pay my mega-mortgage! Where on earth am I supposed to meet my greater or equal with limited time and a complete disdain for a rocking social life echoing my college days? Believe me, I have tried taking classes; and going to academic lectures; and going to sports events; and volunteering;with no luck. Every place one recommends to meet men, I show up....with half the female population of New York showing up right next to me. I sadly even tried a sports bar once with a girlfriend thinking that would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The bar was full of men - but there was a game on about 30 televisions scattered around the room and my friend and I may well have been bar stools for all they noticed.

Anyway, I have digressed....the matchmaker it will be. There are two companies...one in New York and one in Chicago. I am leaving no stone unturned. If I decide that I want to have them look for me, for the type I want exactly, then I have to pony up thousands as well. At this point, until I hit 35 and am no longer eligible to be set up for nothing....I will remain in the black book of two of America's hottest matchmakers. Those matchmakers are my "Plan C"....and I absolutely intend to use them should Bambi continue to play this stupid game.

Do you really want me to call in the Dating Guards, Bambi? Because I will, really.

Doom with a View

Well, it has been a week and there is officially a communication freeze between Bambi and I. He is supposed to come here in the next five days. Or at least, that is what he had said when I last heard from him. I am trying to believe that he realized that he has feelings and it is scaring him. I will continue to believe that until his arrival date has come and gone. Then I will believe he is a bastard. Right now, though I am in a hopeful and slightly mortified state.

The Rosetta Stone French Language Instructional CDs that I had ordered the day I got home have arrived. I had hoped that if he saw that I was trying to learn French (as evidenced by the casually strewn language CDs across my desk) that he would see I was serious about not wrecking the past 500-years of his Gallic history. I would become French. I would speak French. I would live in France. I will have croissants every morning and ride a bicycle with a scarf on my head and a baguette in my basket. I would read Le Monde and own loads of striped t-shirts and even drink their disgusting little shot glasses of pure black coffee. If only he would see how much effort I was willing to put in? Where was he?

Actually, Dahlia partially answered that question for me via the Party Pooper. Apparently, Bambi took a very fetching (French) date to a party at the Jockey Club in Paris two nights ago. He also attended a wedding in the country-side last weekend and hosted a dinner party at his apartment for 20 people the week before. He cooked the dinner himself and it was a huge success. Bambi studied at Le Cordon Bleu and everyone loves his cooking. Even the Party Pooper is willing to leave his home for one of Bambi's legendary dinners.

Meanwhile, flash back to me in New York....getting courted by a man whose teeth are likely to fall out at any moment, watching ridiculous amounts of television, eating boxes of cupcakes from the Magnolia Bakery, and having zero invites for any Fourth of July parties. I am sulking every time my phone rings and it isn't him. Maybe I need to start seeing a therapist again? When exactly does one need to do that? At rock bottom....or just slightly before?

I passed the Street Performer in the park as well - which was depressing. I guess the girl he was waiting for is also a dancer. The red head was nowhere to be seen and my Street Dancer was flipping and twirling a gorgeous, giggling, blonde who still had milk fat on her cheeks. I threw a $10 bill in their hat and saw all the musicians give me an apologetic stare. They all knew what had happened between he and I. And my Street Performer was so involved in his dance that he never even noticed me standing there with Edit Piaf among the crowd of onlookers. He looked really happy and his happiness made me feel even more miserable.

Snaggletacular

It has been four days and I've heard nothing from Bambi. I've left two messages and sent one perfectly crafted, witty, little e-mail - with no response. Is he changing his mind about me? Or is the idea of having to get on a plane literally scaring him into a virtual coma?

I decided to return Snaggle Tooth's call. Poor little Brit has left a number of messages and it has becoming impossible to pretend that I am still not back from Europe. Besides it is only a matter of time before I see him in the dog run again. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I met up with someone from my past in Paris and he may or may not be coming to visit me and so I am going to wait and see if he does before I go on any more dates. What if Bambi doesn't come? Going out with Snaggles seemed safe enough. At least I'd have a distraction and I would never be in any danger of either falling for or kissing. That - I know for sure.

Based on that rather unflattering line of logic, Snaggles and I went out. He was beaming, glowing, and almost bursting with joy while stuttering a little bit. There are times when I know I would find this endearing, but at this moment in time I found it irritating. We went to a cheap, but charming restaurant in the Village and we had a ten minute break in conversation while he intently scanned the wine list. What the Hell was he looking for? Something that cost the same as wine in a cardboard box, but in a snappy green bottle with a chateau on the label? It doesn't exist, buddy. I offered to just get something by the glass and he gratefully took me up on that offer and ordered two glasses of "white." The waiter seemed to hesitate about asking which kind of white, but clearly thought better of it and scurried off.

I was home by 11:00 p.m. checking my e-mail and my voice mail but discovering nothing. I wrote Dahlia and begged her to get some information covertly out of Count Party Pooper on what is happening with Bambi.

Hopefully he is O.K. Hopefully, I will be O.K. One thing is for sure, Snaggle Tooth didn't seem O.K. after paying for two dinners and not even getting a small kiss. What does he expect? What do any of them expect?

Argh....misery is setting in. I can feel it.