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.