Should I feel insulted or complimented?

Y'know, I haven't totally gotten back on track with this blog, and I think it's because I've tried to get back to normal posting even though I still have lots of things to yap about that happened during my looooong absence.  So, clearly I'm going to have to backtrack and talk about those before I can get back into the regular swing of things.  Okay?  Okay.  

So, one of the things that happened is that I was apparently mistaken for a gay man.  On one of the few nights out I had in July (when I wasn't busy packing like a demon, working like a demon, or generally stressing out like a demon - there were a lot of demons involved, is what I'm saying), two friends of mine were celebrating their impending move to Berlin.  It was one of those evenings that start out with nice, civilized cocktails and end up with stumbling home at 6am.  Anyway, one of our merry group was a very nice Austrian guy, let's call him Herr Wienerschnitzel - he was cute and charming, but I immediately pegged him as gay and thought no more about it.  So we all caroused from bar to bar and ended up in a skeevy nightclub, which is where we remained until 6am.  At that point, our group scattered in various directions, and it turned out that Herr Wienerschnitzel and I were going in the same direction, as he lived a block away from me in the Marais.  So he and I strolled home from St Michel to the Hotel de Ville, passing Notre Dame  along the way (and here's a little tip for you - if you ever want to get a photo of yourself in front of Notre Dame with absolutely NO ONE else around, 6am is the time to do it), until we arrived at my door.  I started to say goodnight, when, with no warning whatsoever, he suddenly pounced on my face and started smooching the hell out of me.  Gentle readers, not much surprises Miss K anymore, but I did not see that one coming!  I lived in the Marais for five months, so I do have a tendency to assume that every handsome, well-groomed and well-dressed man I see is gay, but even after Herr Wienerschnitzel snogged my face off and claimed he was straight, I'm still not convinced about him.  I think I know what happened - as I've told you before, I'm tall and have shoulders like a lumberjack, plus I also have a deep voice.  The pickings were mighty slim in that nightclub, so if he ignored my cleavage and long hair, I was probably the closest thing to an attractive man that he could find.  So I'm still trying to decide if that's an insult or a compliment to me...

This isn't how they do it in Texas...

As you know, I like to keep my beady little eyes open for all things quirky and different here in Paris, and I'm pretty sure that seeing a line dancing lesson (in French!!!) taking place in front of the Hotel de Ville qualifies for that category.  You know, the French are talented at many things, but going by this, line dancing just ain't one of them. The only good thing about the lesson is the little kid on the left who is awesomely trying to follow along. 

I'm sorry, I shouldn't be mean about people trying to learn something, but Miss K has a little fantasy involving line dancing and a hot cowboy and this is really spoiling it for me, because he most certainly wouldn't be a Parisian cowboy.  Can you imagine?  A Parisian cowboy would have perfectly polished boots, a perfectly ironed shirt, a big scarf with a complicated knot, and he'd wear his ten-gallon hat tilted to the side like a beret.  If you'll excuse me, I have to go watch "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" again, just to get that image out of my head...