and yet, no mario...

Those of you in my inner circle received an excited text yesterday, announcing that I was in brand new clothes on the Upper West Side, having tomato soup alone in a classy joint and chatting with the hot French bartender.
1. Yep. You're my inner circle.
2. I was on the Upper East Side. You'd think I'd know this. I regard myself as the human compass.
Anyway, here's what I wrote in my journal:
2:49pm:
I'm really quite delighted with this new ensemble, even though I could've bought it at Market and Powell. I changed in the dressing room, hoping no one would notice that I emerged, not in the sweaty silk top and what my mother would call "travel pants", but in what I now regard as something far more acceptable. Shit, I was walking around feeling like a sad, under-dressed extra in Sex in the City. I'm now, newly dressed, sitting at some French joint having tomato soup at the bar and I can report that the bartender is hot.
His celebrity equivilent is...oh shit, Ryan Gossling. Taller, a little bigger, but otherwise, Ryan! Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, there's some mens up in New York. (ewwwww, I actually wrote that. Sick!) He's French, it appears. French and hot? Shit, very French. And very hot. And very ESL. He is currently surrounded by three supermodel hostess/waitresses pretending to laugh at his jokes, he's THAT precious. He is, gasp, wearing several friendship bracelets. And yet, he owns it.
I'm not saying I want to sit across a dinner table from him, speaking slowly, using hand gestures. I'm just saying I want to run my fingers down his naked French back.
What?
Wow, he's really Gossling-y and really French-y.
Ugh, the French.
If we were on a date and got mugged, he'd probably throw me in harm's way and run.
Kidding, historically educated hippies. Kidding.
3:10pm: Golly, he's speaking in French to two dudes next to me. It's fabulous! He just gave them directions to Central Park.
Oh yes, Je parlez.
I am now noticeably smiling.
I think I may love him.
And his bony, judgemental Euro-mother.
And his bracelets from 1992.
And his mistress.
Holy shit, he just b(r)ought me a glass of wine with a confused, yet knowing smile.
Um, oh my god.
OMG!
What does this mean? (At this point, I wrote OMG! on repeat for like, 8 pages. Then I gave him an appalling tip and raced out of there. I'm a dork with no self esteem/game. Sue me.)

Still, from this experience, I mustered the confidence to meet strangers (aka: Andre's fabulous and friendly friends) for drinks before dining alone at the bar of Babbo. It's something I always wanted to do and quite frankly, it was fabulous; not really because it's a big, fancy restaurant, but because I sat there, in the Village, in my outfit and earrings, with my wine and my charcuterie, chatting with Ken the bartender, entirely alone...and I looked up and saw myself in the mirror and was all, "Hell muthafucking yeah, bitches..."