While shaking off day at a bar near work last night - a really cute Frenchman tried to pick me up - insisting he had seen me somewhere before. I waved off his advances until he asked if I had ever lived in Washington. Hiccup.
Anyway, he said he recognized me and he started rattling off DC haunts. I felt like I had made an instant bud. He also played for the DC United (which explained his fantastic physique and gave laughable status to amateur soccer players everywhere). The Frenchman and I talked for a while - and he even suggested restaurants for when Heather and I will be in Paris.
At the end of the night, he walked me home - and near my apartment, when I ran into a bodega for bottled water as part of "Allison's Great Hydration" tour - he bought me 2 bouquets of daisies from the outdoor vendor. On the street, with the flowers in hand, I blushed and gushed. Those Frenchmen are so smooth. Les Romantique!
I gave him my number, and he pledged to take me out for proper champagne one night. The only thing is I can't for the life of me remember his name. I know - it's pathetic, but he only said his name at the beginning of the night - when I was fending off his advances. Anyone know a 31-year-old Frenchman who played for DC United? Beer to the person who googles him first.
Frenchy must've given me my mojo back - because guys at deli across the street kept calling me each other's "girlfriend" on lunch hour romp today. The manager even told me that if I bring a picture of myself in, they'll name a sandwich after me. That would be the ultimate. It would HAVE to be the french dip...
Les Schmoop!
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"How Stella Got Her Schmoop Back."
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