Elaine Dundy can write her sexy ass off...

Don’t worry – it’s not like I’m in love with Angelina Jolie or anything. No cheesy-cliché-typical straight girl/sickly-stickly-starlet lesbian love affair fantasies pour moi — I’m different. (Besides, as far as starstruck starlet-inspired lesbian love affair fantasies go, I’m more of a Rose McGowan girlcrush girl myself.) (It’s her aura of dirty-hot whisky sex that does it for me.)

En plus ? My woman that I’m in love with? With the uncle I also have the hots for? Uhm, she’s dead. Has been for a few years. So there’s that too.

The thing about Elaine Dundy is that while she most certainly was a woman, she was most certainly not a lady. Nor a chick or a gal or even a dame. Elaine Dundy? She was a Broad. In the biggest, boldest, broadest, Broad-iest sense. She was sex and the city four long decades before “Sex and the City” (but not, of course, before sex, or cities, or desperate housewives). She was sex and a single girl when they’d already invented both sex and girls, but of all the sexy single girls, she really knew how to pull it off. You know – in that lusty-boozy-busty-Broad(y) kind of way. Which is why I love her. Wouldn’t you?

Oh, and another other thing about Elaine Dundy? She could write her sexy ass off.

I met her here in Paris. (Well, O.K., so I didn’t really meet her-meet her, her being dead and all, but you know…) I met her through her novel, The Dud Avocado. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, but once you read the book you’ll get the title.) There she is “…drifting down the Boulevard St. Michel, thoughts rising in [her] head like little puffs of smoke…”  Eleven o’clock in the morning, and she’s wearing an evening dress as brazenly as if it was still eleven o’clock in the evening. (Holly Golightly be damned, when Capote would eventually create her years later.) She was doing what ladies call the Walk Of Shame and what broads call the Stride Of Pride. Anyway, that’s what I’d like to believe. Wouldn’t you?

This was la Belle Époque. Well, not the real Belle Époque (it being the 1950s and all), but back when francs were such soft currency they smelled strongly of fromage, back when the euro didn’t even exist, let alone teeter on the cheese-plate of extinction, like Camembert left outside on a summer luncheon table. Back when American trust-fund babies and G.I. Bill babies and American students and American scholars and American beatniks and their even more horrifying British counterparts tore up the Left Bank (where all the wrong ones, or their ungodly grandchildren, still have their pied à terres) playing make-believe bohemians like the privileged brats that they were. And life was fabulous. Formidable. Fromage-y. Truly, really, la Vie en Rose, la Belle Époque, the Banquet Years. This was Elaine Dundy’s world, she was a part of all this, tearing up far more than her share. Makes me kinda jealous as hell. Et vous ?

Elaine Dundy (and/or Sally Jay Gorce, her fictitious/autobiographical protagoniste) was a part of all this…and yet somehow she wasn’t. While she hung out with her compatriots, she found them more than kind of annoying too: “A rowdy bunch on the whole, they were most of them so violently individualistic as to be practically interchangeable…The ones who Did Anything (and there were plenty not averse to Taking It Easy – or whatever the course was called at the Sorbonne), mostly painted. That any of them would actually be talented had never occurred to me…” Of course, mais oui, this didn’t stop her from letting them buy her drinks, or even sleeping with them, and sometimes even talking with them, of which I honestly, thirstily, wholeheartedly, hornily approve. Et vous ?

The back jacket blurb on my edition of The Dud Avocado bills her novel, her unexpected, unprecedented first novel like this: “…Dyeing her hair pink and vowing to go native in a way none of the natives can manage, she’s busy getting drunk, bedding men, losing money, losing jewellery, and losing God knows what…” (Oops – forgot to tell you before: She dyed her hair pink.) (In the Fifties.) (Pink!) (Long before there was Manic Panic.) (Paris!) (Pink!!) As far as book-pimping book-jacket blurbs go, this one bombs: Elaine Dundy may have lost her pearl necklace, her passport, and even her pinky-pink virginity, but in reality (fictitious or autobiographical or otherwise), she didn’t lose a pink thing. She gained. She gained so much more. (And what the hell’s wrong with losing your virginity anyway?) (And why do we call it “losing” in the first place?) (What the – pardon the pun – fuck?) (As opposed to your house keys, which are important —  when was the last time you went hunting between the cushions for your virginity?) (How much does it weigh, anyway? Can we total it up as weight-loss?)

“I want my freedom!” a not-quite-but-almost-nearly 13-year-old Sally Jay (Elaine Dundy’s autobiographical etc.) protests to her Uncle Roger. (Uncle Roger’s the guy who eventually ends up funding her séjour in Paris.) (Because Uncle Roger’s filthy-stinking rich.) (Dear Old Uncle Roger.) (Let it be said: Along with Elaine Dundy, I’m kind of in love with Uncle Roger, too.) “Your freedom? Ah yes, of course. What are you planning to do with it?” inquires Tonton Rog, all wisdom and wryness and wit. (He’s so hot.) “I want to stay out as late as I like and eat whatever I like any time I want to…I think if I had my freedom I wouldn’t allow myself to get introduced to all the mothers and fathers and brothers of the girls at school…I wouldn’t get introduced to anyone. I’ve never wanted to meet anyone I’ve been introduced to. I want to meet all of the other people…” (I’m so hotly-hot for him.)

An unexpected, unprecedented first novel

Freedom. Call up any woman in any city – like Pittsburgh or Poughkeepsie or Pemberton or Paris (Texas) – and tell them that you live in Paris (France). They sigh. Loudly. Plaintively. Parisian-ly, as best they can. And then they go silent. You can hear them rifling through their Rolodex for a divorce lawyer. Or for the number of their own Uncle Roger. Ahh, freedom. Always easier to attain with a chequebook-wielding Uncle Roger in the wings, bien entendu. But . . . freedom. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? (Ahem, Uncle Roger….??)

“All the outrageous things my heroine does like wearing an evening dress in the middle of the day are autobiographical,” she told the Elvis Information Network. (Yeah, I know – but it makes sense because later on she wrote a book on Elvis.) (And in the context of contemporary journalism, how can the EIN not be at least as credible a source as….well, fill in the acronym.) “All the sensible things she does are not.”

Elaine Dundy went on to be free and then not free and then free again, and sensible and unsensible and probably insensibly unsensibly sensible too. There was a failed marriage (he was a famous theatre critic, incredibly so, and sounds like he was a jerk, incredibly so too), and a daughter, and acting stints, and more books, and splashy cocktails with Orson Welles and Tennessee Williams and Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh in between. But as for Paris? A girl gets the impression that it was here that she figured it all – or at least the most important stuff – out.

“It was around then, in Paris, that I became aware of something about myself only previously suspected,” Dundy wrote, writing about her writing The Dud Avocado. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I KNOW…but this is what happens when you let your jerky jealous critic husband title your genius first novel.) “I had an alter ego, a second self, a not so ghostly increasingly intrusive highly comic character whom I had to acknowledge. In fact whose presence I could no longer deny. I had to accept her, had to give her space, for she would pop up getting things wrong when I least expected her to…” You’ve probably met that bitch, haven’t you? Isn’t she your best, bestest friend? Elaine was so lucky — she met her when she was so young, and so very much in Paris.

The back jacket blurb on my edition of The Dud Avocado gets one thing right. It describes Elaine Dundy’s fictitious/autobiographicalprotagoniste as “…a woman hellbent on living.” She was, certainly, but I’d go further: Elaine Dundy/Sally Jay Gorce was too much. Much too much. And that’s why I love her/her. Ladies: Girls: My Bitches: Ever been told you’re too much? Of course you have. Know what? At the risk of sounding preachy? In that annoying self-helpy-sounding preachy sense? Be too much, too too much, much too too much, and then be that much more. Because even when we’re not being too much, they’re gonna tell us we’re too much anyway. So why not go all the way?

I’m quite sure that’s what Elaine Dundy would’ve wanted.

And Uncle Roger, too.

Bit of a thing for bearded old Zeus?

Dear God, kill me now.

Take me, God, I mean it.

You don’t really know me, God. At least I guess You don’t. Or maybe You do. Being Almighty and all, maybe You know everybody. You know – like how some almighty people in some almighty quartiers know almightily all about everyone’s almighty business? But I’ve never taken the time to poke my nose into Your business. Nothing against You Personally – like a lot of other gals, I could dig a dude with a long beard and white hair. (Come to think of it, I had a thing for Zeus once…dug the hair and the beard and the whole making you immortal so you could sleep with him schtick. These days, you can’t even get guys to give you the moon!) (Come to think of it, I’ve dated a few guys with white hair and long beards.) (Come to think of it, none of them even ever gave me flowers, let alone the moon.) (Come to think of it, several of them had God-complexes.)

It’s just that back in the day, back on those Sundays, back when all my friends were going to Sunday School, I was sleeping. The whole having-to-get-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn thing? On the weekend? To go to Sunday School? On Sunday? Pour moi, a deal-breaker. Much like being forced at gunpoint to go to poetry readings.

(And do You – you know, what with You being God and all – do You think you could pull some strings and change the Sunday School schedules for the benefit of future generations to come? Like, maybe push the whole thing back until the afternoon? And not on the weekend, please? Just a thought.) (See how thoughtful I am?)

I know, I know, I know  . . . Apparently, you’re not supposed to pray to You unless you pray to You every day, often. Five times a day, depending. But God? Dude? Franchement ?  I can’t have, of all things, a guy making those kinds of demands. I’m a busy girl. En plus ? I know people who pray every day, all the time. And franchement ? I don’t see them getting their prayers answered anytime soon. So what about a little one-off? A rush job? A little cinq à sept ?  For just this one time’s sake? If you’re over the whole me-being-into-Zeus thing? I hear You’re a super-forgiving guy…

Because if You don’t kill me, this particular Parisian poetry reading will. En plus, it’s on the Left Bank. With Anglophones.

Who brings a date to a poetry reading? What was I thinking? Especially a date that one’s only just started dating, but that one day, down the road, in the future, over the course of time, perhaps maybe might express that they — the date — are, in fact, willing and ready and ever-so-anxiously desirous of making one immortal, in the manner of Zeus? (Or at least willing to pony up for flowers?) (Or maybe just the moon?) Who, willingly, casually, coolly, off-the-cuff-ly, puts that kind of potential moon-y opportunity in jeopardy?

She’s wailing about the beanstalk again. The spindly little poetess up on stage, the one with the fuzzy hair. Her. Only it’s not really wailing. More like moaning. Lonnnnggg-winded moaning accented by an oddly-accented monotonous monotone, kind of like those old Greek tragedies only Zeus isn’t around to liven things up. Actually, it’s quite the nuanced delivery that fuzzy little woman is pulling off, what with all her wailing and moaning and monotoning. A subtly nuanced delivery, at least. But the hair? Can’t get over it. It looks like she pointedly – purposely – affixed a dead dog to her head.

God – Someone! – make it stop!

Perhaps the spindly little poetry-woman with the fuzzy hair doesn’t actually intend to appear as if she’s purposely-pointedly strapped a dead dog to her head. (Paris is often quite humid, after all.) Perhaps when she’s not declaiming poetry, she devotes the rest of her life to the purchase of hair products, and yanking at and brushing out and combing through and pulling away and straightening that remarkable ragged mop of fuzz on her head in an effort to minimize the Dead Dog Effect, and then today she woke up with a toss of her tresses and boldly declared:  ‘Fuck it. I’ve got better things to do. I’m going to put a stop to all of this nonsense and focus on what I was meant for! And that’s writing poetry about beanstalks! Disgruntled beanstalks!’ So, when you think about it, kudos to the spindly little fuzzy poetry-woman up on stage! At least she’s doing what she was Meant To Do!!  As is her hair!

The thing about this beanstalk business is that there’s no mention of Jack. She’s refusing to acknowledge his existence. Though we all know he did exist because we all know about him and the beanstalk. Even if we’ve never spent much time around beanstalks, even if we’ve never spent much time in the country, even if we’ve spent our whole lives avoiding the country like the plague…even if the thought of spending more than a few hours in the wet, ruddy, muddy, cruddy countryside is our own definition of Hell, a Hell from which no Get Out Of Hell For Free Card would ever save us – even if we did pray to You, God, Zeus, Whomever, every day, all the time – because the beanstalk-laden country is so bloody out-of-the-way that there’s no hope of getting out and going anywhere, be it Heaven or Hell or Purgatory or the River Styx…or even just the River Seine…even if we’ve never seen a real beanstalk, up close and personal, we know that they exist, and nearby is this guy named Jack. But, for some odd reason, this little woman up on stage, the spindly one with the fizzy-fuzzy hair, just won’t have it. She’s purposely leaving Jack out of the story. She declines to even breathe his name. What’s she got against Jack? What did Jack ever do to her?

There goes my date again, off to les toilettes. His chunky cowboy boot-heels are making quite the racket as they chunk and clunk across the wood floor. They’re actually quite funky, his clunky chunky boots. You don’t see many like them in Paris. At least not the real, authentic, honest-to-goodness, made in the Wild West kind. They created quite the stir when we got to the pub late. (The reading had already started, and everyone was deathly silent, except for the poet that was on stage, of course – he was droning and groaning about planting carrots, next to some beanstalk no doubt, on a dry, dusty, arid, gritty endless summer’s day, which reminded me of high school which reminded me of The Grapes of Wrath because they made us read The Grapes of Wrath in high school…and much like this guy’s dusty carrot poem, I couldn’t wait for the book to end because it was just too damn dusty. But I can’t tell my date that because he just loooves The Grapes of Wrath, thinks it’s one of the greeeaaatest of the Great American Novels, and I wouldn’t want him to think that I don’t know and don’t like and don’t appreciate and don’t admire Great American Literature…) So we chunked and clunked and clipped and clopped (that was me) our way to the bar, and then the guy in the corner, the one who’s had his eyes closed for the last ten minutes – swaying to the gentle swish-swish of the beanstalk I suppose – actually tsked-tsked and shh-shh’ed at us when we whispered our order for these two lousy glasses of Côtes du Rhône. And then when he went to pay the tab, my date entirely accidentally dropped a bunch of change on the floor and the coins went skipping and pinging and clinging and clattering across the floor, and the guy in the corner tsk-tsked-tsked and shh-shh-shh’d again before leaning back and re-closing his eyes. What’s he doing? Is he napping? Like those businessmen on the Métro? The ones who, the minute they sit down, close their eyes and fall asleep but never seem to miss their stop? I’ve even seen some who can sleep standing up when they can’t find a seat, swaying and swishing like beanstalks. (Then again, even the Métro isn’t as boring as this particular Anglophone poetry reading.) But they never tsk and shh the way this guy just did. Again. Because I just set my glass down on the bar. Empty.

The greatest of the Great American Novels...

And where the hell is my date? The fuzzy dead dog-headed woman is only the second poet to read tonight —  and he’s already on his latest extended pee break. His longest yet. To be fair, this could also be the longest beanstalk yet. Longer than Jack’s, longer than any in the history of literature, dusty or great or American or otherwise, longer than any beanstalk in all of the legends and fairytales and fiction and campfire tales and bedtime stories and accounts and anecdotes and vignettes and sonnets and soliloquies and yarns that man and woman have told and re-told and then re-told again since the dawn of, well, man. And woman. Long as my date’s latest pee break. God You’d think they’d give these people a time limit. You’d think, after running this poetry night for decades and centuries and years, that they’d know when to tell these people to shut the hell up. Tsk-tsk! Shhhhh!! Like that.

Did he down two litres of water before meeting me? Is that why he has to keep chunking and clunking his way to the can? Besides – ahem – he’s on a date! A first date! With moi ! Cute, clever, funny, brilliant, sophisticated moi !  A poetry date, dammit! He wouldn’t jeopardize this kind of opportunity by downing two litres of water beforehand, rendering him a slave to his bladder for the entire night.  He just wouldn’t DO that!

Unless . . . Unless. . .

Unless, of course, maybe he had something salty for lunch. Like salted fish or salted pork or salted seaweed or salted salt…or sea-salty oysters or one of those Asian dishes with lots and lots of salty sauce. But that would have been hours and hours and hours ago, so even if he did down two litres of water earlier today, like say around lunchtime when he consumed all of this salty stuff, it would have gone through his system by now. Several times. And he hasn’t even tasted his wine! He’s spent too much time in the damn can to do so.

I guess I shouldn’t let his wine go to waste.

I knew this was a mistake the second we got here. Put a lid on it, Shshing-boy! I barely scraped the bar with the glass!  Even before, on the way, as we were walking across Pont Neuf, I had this foreboding feeling that this was going to be a grande erreur. I could just tell. (You, God, could’ve have probably told before I could tell.) (And then You could’ve told me.) (It would have been the nice thing to do.) (The Godly thing to do.) I could have invited him to a million other things, like an art show or a movie show or a concert show or a play/show or even a peep show. A peep show would have probably been the best bet. One of the classier ones, not one of the ones along the boulevard in Pigalle that the drunken Texans and drunken Brits and drunken légionnaires go to. But a classy peep show? It’s all the rage! Très sophistiqué. And no one recites poems about beanstalks. (Although I was once at this one peep show-ish fetish night where they were reciting Sade, but as far as I know Sade never wrote about beanstalks. Thankfully.) But then a peep show probably wouldn’t have been an ideal spot, either, because if he had, for lunch say, eaten salty fish or salty pork or salty seaweed or salty salt or salty sauce, and then drunk two litres of water to wash it all down, and then had to take multiple extended pee breaks as a result . . . Well everybody knows that the restrooms at peep shows aren’t exactly spic-and-span. Even the sophisticated ones. Everybody knows that. But poetry readings on the Left Bank, as organized by Anglophones, always have perfectly pristine restrooms. Maybe he’s just taking advantage of a rare opportunity.

And then there’s the Other Girl Factor: Suppose I had invited him to a peep show, and we went and we saw and we peeped…and then he decided that he liked the girl in the peep show better than me, and then clunked and chunked off to the restroom, pretending he had ingested all of this salt-laden food and had therefore washed it down with two litres of water afterward, and then took a detour to peek into the dressing room so that he could introduce himself to the peep show’s leading lady, and then decided that the leading lady was cuter than me and funnier than me and clever-er than me and brilliant-er than me and more sophisticated(er) than me and, therefore, was more deserving of the moon than me. What then?

I would be stuck at this damn Anglophone poetry reading without a date. On the Left Bank. And he, he would be off gallivanting with one of those Peep Show Girls. Jerk.

You know what I bet he’s doing? Clunking around the restroom in his chunky-clunky boots? I bet he’s on the phone. Jesus Christ, what the hell does it take to get a goddamn drink around here? I bet he’s on the phone, text messaging away about the fact that he’s on A Date From Hell. I bet he’s scrolling through his phone book right now, texting someone, anyone, everyone – especially everyone of the female persuasion – with some sob story about how he agreed, out of pity, to go out on this date with this pathetic-pitiful poetry-reading broad who thinks she is just so cute and funny and clever and brilliant and sophisticated, but that he hadn’t bargained for the beanstalk, and that he just can’t take it anymore, so would someone, anyone – everyone of the female persuasion – whose number is saved in his phone book please call back right now with some phony emergency to save him? Right? Now? Please? He probably even knows the Peep Show Girls personally! Is probably texting them this very second!! Has probably been going steady with the leading lady of the leading peep show at the leading peep show place I was thinking of taking him to! For months!!

Bastard.

You know what, God? You could have prevented this. You could have sent me a sign. You could have sent me a sign that this clunky-chunky cowboy was just a bastard in Western wear, and that bringing him to a poetry reading about beanstalks would be a huge, giant, enormous, gargantuan mistake. It would have, as I said, been the Godly thing to do. Any sign. Like a lightning bolt, preferably one that illuminated him like an extra-salty rotisserie chicken, or the last zot of a burned-out light bulb or an unexpected Parisian transit strike, which, when You think of it, would have been extremely easy for You to pull off, wouldn’t have been any skin off of Your nose, seeing as transit strikes in Paris are de rigueur. But nooooo… You just can’t stand that I think Zeus is hot. Your fragile, feeble, omnipresent All-Male ego just can’t stand it. You know what You’re like? You’re just like a man. For Someone who thinks He has it all figured out, for Someone who is supposed to have His shit together, for Someone who is supposed to be all-seeing and therefore all-knowing and therefore all-understanding and therefore All-Mighty, You have issues. Have You considered therapy? There’s bound to be a lot of therapists in Heaven. Or did you send them all to Hell?

What does it take to get a glass of wine?!

Yes, in fact, I do need another drink, for Chrissakes! 

Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cowboy Bob. Chunking and clunking his way back from the restroom. Nice boots, pardner. How’s the ol’ bladder? You’d think he’d have the courtesy to at least wipe that secretive little smile off his face. Isn’t it enough that he’s spent several significant hunks of the last hour in the can, texting and talking to and chatting with and leaving messages for every little hussy and floozy and trollop and Peep Show Girl in town? Isn’t it enough that he agreed to go out on this date with me when he’s been going steady with the leading lady in the most famous, most sophisticated, most renowned, most acclaimed peep show on the circuit? Isn’t it enough that he, just a week ago, told me that he thought I was funny and cute and clever and brilliant? Isn’t it enough that, just last week, when we first met, when we first started talking, when we first clicked, that he sort of silently, subversively, subtly insinuated that maybe, perhaps, over the course of time, he might be ever-so-willing and ever-so-ready and ever-so-anxious to offer up the moon? Isn’t it enough that he led me on? Or is his chunky-clunky ego so blown up and puffed out from his Peep Show Girl-dating prestige that he just can’t help himself? You know what he is, God? An arrogant ass. A conceited, self-important, self-congratulating, blown-up, puffed-out, arrogant ass. A man.

Get this: Nooowwwww he wants to talk. Now he wants to have a heart-to-heart, a face-à-face, a tête-à-tête. Well, I’ve got news for him. Just wait’ll he hears what I have to say. What’s that you said? You want to get out of here? As if I’m too dim to have figured that out. As if I couldn’t deduce, after him having spent the last hour in the can, that he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge, out of the Dodge City Poetry And Fancy Needlework Society Weekly Sunday Social: no talking or boot-clunking permitted. You said you can’t take this beanstalk business anymore? Well, neither can I. Fee-fi-fo-fum. I can’t stand this beanstalk business either. But it’s not like I knew that’s what we were in for. It’s not like I could have pre-screened every single line of every single poem to ensure that they would be suitable for your discerning ears. It’s not like I had the time to do that. I’m a busy girl. I have other things to do. You know – things. But who am I talking to? It’s not like you give a horse’s ass. Speaking of which, why don’t you take that horse you rode in on and…and…You want to get out of here with me? Is that what you just said? You just said that you wanted to get out of here with me? Go someplace where we can sit and talk and get to know each other better? Like the bridge? Pont Neuf? Like Pont Neuf where there’s a great view of the moon? Well…Well. Well, uh, yeah, sure, that would be nice. I mean, I wouldn’t want to take up all of your time if, you know, you had important things to do, but… Well, sure! I’m all for the moon.

But where's Momo...? Check Vogue Paris!

They have not found him in a boat,
They have not found him with a goat,
They have not found him in a house,
They have not found him with a mouse,
Muammar is neither Here nor There,
Muammar isn’t Anywhere.
That Momo – he’s such a rogue,
They should really check the September issue of Vogue.

Vogue Paris. I read it for the articles. And I heard from a reliable source that all the clues to finding Muammar – dites Momo – are in there. Right there in there, in the September issue. Numéro 920, Les Publications Condé Nast S.A. Four-euros-ninety in France métropolitaine, 6,95€ in les colonies. Or – excusez-moi – in les départements d’outre-mer. If it takes the slow boat via Algeria. Fifteen euros if it arrives by avion.

Vogue Paris. The September issue. It’s all there.

Whaaat? Wait. I dated a spy, remember. (See here.) (Our relationship was a two-parter.) So en dehors of my exclusive access to an excessive number of excessively reliable sources, I’m exclusively-superbly super-smart – excessively – about spying. The CIA and FBI and MI5 and UN and NATO?  And every other acronymed association who is seeking anyone (acronymed or otherwise) who is AWOL or MIA? They’ve got it all wrong. Moi–I’d take a different tack. Based on the excessive data I’ve received, exclusively, from my exclusive informants, I’d turn to Vogue. Vogue Paris – the September issue. Especially if I was finding a fashionista! Especially if it was fall. Especially if the fashionista to be found was a fallen Momo. Especially that.

They should hire me as a consultant.

The first clue? Well, there’s all that green. Momo Green. Pages and pages of it – all over Vogue. And that Gucci ad? Near the front of the book? (Hellooo? It’s Vogue – a page number I cannot provide.) The one with the platinum blonde lounging around in that greeny/yellowy/fluorescent-y you could only pull it off if you were Photo-shopped/airbrushed/digitized dress? (As in you would need to be Photo-shopped and airbrushed and digitized…not the dress?) And then there’s those other Photo-shopped/airbrushed/digitised blondes lounging around in equally questionable colours? I think Momo’s behind the couch. Just a hunch.

Then there’s that cover shoot starring Charlotte Casiraghi – daughter of Caroline, Princess of Monaco. (Don’t ask me what page – you know the drill.) (Is it just moi or is Vogue getting a weeny-teeny leetle beet desperate if they have to photograph princess’s daughters rather than the real-live princesses themselves?) (Especially if said princess’s daughters are so obviously completely uncomfortable in couture ?) Anyway, plenty of foliage and flowers and fauna are featured – mostly all green. Momo could be hiding out there.

(And speaking of being a weeny-teeny little bit desperate, who decided that it was a good idea to do a piece on “Hippie Living?” French accent obligatoire ?) (Uh…Vogue ? Really? Vraiment ? We’re not over hippies yet?) (What’s next – Birkenstocks?) (Patchouli?) (Burlap sacks?)

The Céline ad (front-of-the-book) also arouses suspicion. At first I thought they were trying to make the anorexic model look pregnant – you know, to target that lucrative anorexic mothers-in-waiting demographic – but then I realized: They actually meant for that red leather-y (or something skin-like-y) coat thing to resemble a tent! It’s deliberately part of the deliberate design! A convertible coat/tent trench! Ingenious! Deliberate! And we know how Momo is about his tents…drags the bloody things around everywhere…And a maternity tent that doubles as a coat could come in real handy for an ex-dictator/presumably-still-presently polygamist on the lam…

Could Momo be hiding under the tent trench?

…so he could be hiding out under there.

(Oh, and: Turn to page…oh hell, you’ll find it.  Notice how Oscar de la Renta is totally copying Christian Lacroix’s flamingo puke motif from a few years back?)

Speaking of polygamy, it’s possible that Momo is using les petites as miniature Amazonian bodyguards in the ad for Les Petites. You know – those miniature Amazonian bodyguards/models who are tripling as schoolgirls? And then there’s the blonde and the brunette running away from something in the ad for Chloé…that could be Momo chasing them, trying to pick up. Because like Dean Martin and Claude François, Momo loves to surround himself with chicks. Think I’m onto something there.

(Speaking of chicks: What’s up with BCBGMAXAZRIA? Or, more specifically: What have they got against women? Or, more specifically: What have they got against women’s hips? Or did I misunderstand and those parachute pants are supposed to convert into tents, too?) (Saddlebags, perhaps?) (And Philip Plein? The ad with the nude model with the death’s-head brooch clipped to her you-know-what. Uh, Phil? You know what? Think you’re being a bit too subtle. Maybe next time the brooch could be fitted with teeth.)

You know who is subtle? Momo. My superbly-super-savvy spying skills signal that – while on the surface it might make sense – there is no way he’d get himself mixed up in that tribal mess of a photo spread, “Quand l’esprit néo-jungle pulse au grand air…” For one, he’s a man of the desert – not the jungle – after all. En plus, while I did catch a glimpse of Big Bird – or at least a Bottega Veneta coat disguised as him – I didn’t spot any tents. No tents, no Momo. Same goes for the series, “D’après nature.” While less superbly-skilled spies may take all that camouflage as a dead give-away, my savvy spy-smarts can smell a decoy from sand dunes away. The camouflage? Fuhgeddaboudit.(Although there is an argument that the shot with the Bardot look-alike might reveal Momo hiding behind the tree…)

Sigh. As in: I-sigh. As in: I-sigh and I-spy and I’m spent. The CIA and FBI and MI5 and UN and NATO are so obviously stumped. So you’d think they’d make better use of my skills. Because besides being a super-superbly smart spy? About business, I know a thing or two. And if they’d just let me get to work on finding Momo, we could all get to work at being filthy rich. Not the bounty-hunting way, or the head-hunting way, or the wanted dead-or-alive way…not even by kissing and making up and then selling him arms. No, non – I’m thinking “strategic alliance.” One in which we’d all get our cut. Picture it: “Gaddafi by Galliano.” Or, “Galliano by Gaddafi”. Or more simply: “G&G.” We could force them into it – it’s not like they’re in a position to complain. And we could convince the Americans to turn Guantanamo into a fashion atelier ! You know – to boost their foreign fashion relations. It is an election year, after all. (And with the current state of their balance sheet, you just know they’d jump at the chance to charge rent.) (Sans caution… )

I know what you’re thinking – already thought of it myself: Good partners must have something in common. But if you step back, you’ll agree that as a partnership, G&G as a pair is parfait. First, they’re both fashionistas. And they both hate Jews. And while it may not be the most creative angle, like God and sex and homophobia, anti-Semitism still sells! (You think as a bafflingly-bright business consultant/super-savvy spy I’d advise people to buy into a venture that wasn’t a sure thing?) (In this economy?) En plus, anti-Semitics need more style. They really haven’t seen any fashion breakthroughs since the SS. Because as anyone who respects hair salons knows, skinheads don’t count.

There’s just one more detail that has me stuck: If G&G gets off the ground, who would be their spokesmodel?

En gros ? I blame Celine Dion...

And then there were fireworks. And then there weren’t. But then there were. But then actually, there weren’t. Actually, there were fireworks. But then, not quite.

En gros ? I blame Celine Dion.

If you ever eventually get yourself a Frenchman, eventually you will have to take him home. Eventually. Not “home” as in your cockroach-infested 18-miniature-metre-squared flat in the fourth arrondissement home, but home as in “home.” Home-sweet-home. As in: Home. Eventually.

And this is when your Frenchman finds out you’re a big fat liar.

What. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t raise your little eyebrows and furrow your little brow and bat your little eyelashes and clasp your dainty little hands to your heftily heaving little bosom and try to look all innocent. I said, Quit looking at me like that! Liar! You know you are. Those fibs you fibbed about how fabulous and formidable and fascinating and cosmopolitan your hometown was? And how formidable and fascinating and fabulous and sophisticated and cosmopolitan and worldly you are as a result? And how – bon d’accord – while Paris is très bien, pretty good, pas mal, kinda chic . . . Nothing – nada, rien – nothing can compare to Welland, Ontario, Canada? Or its next-door neighbour, Fonthill? Not so-so far from Toronto but much-much closer to Niagara Falls?

Yeah. That.

Liar. Or en français : Menteuse.

When it comes to expats in Paris, of types there are but two. (Well actually, there are more, but since you’re such a big fat liar it’s only polite to humour me.) There are those expats who fly home frequently (the trust fund-y type) and there are those expats who do not. (They’re usually on the lam.) (Or broke.) (Or they’re bowing out of their third round of alimony.) (Or they’re broke.) (Or they ran out on their long-term/deadbeat/long-term/soul-sucking/long-term/money-grubbing boyfriend – said they were going out for cigarettes – and then they never came back and it’s been seven years since and going back now wouldn’t just be soul-sucking and money-sucking and stupid…it’d be kinda awkward, too.) (Or they’re broke.) Or, they are simply not that hot and horny for their home country. (And they’re broke.) (Mainly-probably they’re almost always broke.)

Question: Can they put you away for treason if you’re not that hot and horny for your home country? Is not being hot and horny for your home country considered a crime? Even if your home country is Canada? (Especially if you’re home country is Canada?) I have nothing against Canada, really, but – sorry – it is Canada. As in, it’s not one of those sexy countries that come from some sexy somewhere else. As in – sorry – Canada is not that sexy. (And get your minds out of the gutter about all the kinky shit you can do with maple syrup.) I blame Celine Dion. (Ha! That line about kinky maple syrup and then the one right after about Celine Dion? Was totally trying to gross you out!)

When it comes to coming to Canada, my Frenchman is not fresh off the boat. Not counting this summer, he’s already been there two whole times. Although the first time didn’t count. (He went to Québec.) (With another woman.) (I blame Celine Dion.)

The last time I took my Frenchman to Canada I made him drive across the West. That pack of lies I told him about how sophistiqué, glamour, branché, et caetéra my homeland was? I figured if we did a road trip, he wouldn’t catch on to the truth. (We were going at a pretty good clip.) Plus, I told him that the Wheat Part (you know, where you drive for years and days and months and years through wheat) was the Hick Part. And then because we had to drive through the Wheat Part (for years and days and months and years) we didn’t have time for the Good Part because we’d miss our flight back to Paris. So I was off the hook. (Although he was kinda disappointed because I didn’t take him to see Canada’s National Igloo.) (I blamed Celine Dion.)

The thing about being from Canada is that you’re always second best. This is what happens when your country is only the second-largest land mass in the world. (Don’t know what the first-largest land mass is? Well, pony-up for an atlas, sister, because my lips are sealed.) Then there are the Americans. God, they are such a pain in the derrière. (And most of them don’t even know what a derrière is!) Only in America could you be below the second-largest land mass in the world and still think you’re on top. (They are such tops, those Americans!) (And not in the super-sexy-kinky maple syrup-y kind of way!) En plus, they get the best of everything. Don’t believe me? Them: Jim Morrison. Us: Jim Carrey. And Jim Carrey lives among them, and they still refuse to claim him as their own! And don’t get me started about Celine Dion!

Another thing? Their damn Dream. There is no Canadian Dream. So French people are obsessed with the American one. (Almost as much as they are obsessed with American motels.) Nope, us Canadians don’t have a Canadian Dream, but we sure as hell have a Canadian Nightmare. Wanna know her name?

I wonder (cue Carrie Bradshaw/Sarah Jessica Parker/narrative “Sex & the City” voice here): If you come from a second-best country, does it make you a second-best girlfriend?

Will and Kate on official visit au Canada

Canada Day, July 1st. At least someone, somewhere, up there in Ottawa (you don’t know it – it’s the nation’s capital), over there somewhere on Sussex Drive (you don’t know it – it’s the prime ministerial palace)…at least someone decided that the country’s birthday should be on the 1st. Stephen Harper was there. (You don’t know him – he’s the Prime Minister.) So were Will and Kate. (They made Kate wear a maple leaf-shaped hat.) (Do you think she blames Celine Dion?) Will addressed the crowd in both English and French. Stephen Harper spoke pretty good English; as for the French part, you could say he tried.

We went to Fort Erie instead. (It’s on the American border with Buffalo.) My Frenchman wanted to see the fireworks.

(Another thing? How is it that French people don’t know about Welland and Niagara Falls and Toronto and Fonthill, but they know about Buffalo? Buffalo!)

The Friendship Festival. It’s this thing they do during national birthday season, between July 1st and 4th, between Canada and America, between the borders, on either side of the river, underneath the Peace Bridge. (I don’t know about you, but I’m guessing it was the Canadians that named both the festival and the bridge.) There was a band (well actually, there were a few but I only remember the one band’s name). Big Sugar. (They play American music, only they’re Canadian.) Gordie Johnson shredded out a Jimi Hendrix-y version of “O Canada” on his guitar. (See what I mean? They get Jimi Hendrix, too!) (We get Gordon Lightfoot.) (Have you ever noticed how almost always almost everybody in Canada is called “Gord?”)

And then there were fireworks. But then there weren’t. There were supposed to be fireworks, but then there were none. Something about the automatic automated computer system thing-y that blows up fireworks without blowing up people not arriving on time. (It was coming from Saskatchewan.) (Must have sent it via Canada Post.) (Canada Post was on strike.)

But then . . . There were fireworks! Buffalonian fireworks! American fireworks! Over the border, over the river, on the other side of the bridge. In Buffalo. In America. In the U.S. of A. In honour (notice the Canadian spelling?) of Canada. In honour of Canada Day.

Bastards.

The Canadian fireworks? The ones on the Canadian side of the border, on the Canadian side of the river, on the Canadian side of the bridge? The Canadian fireworks in honour (Canadian spelling) of Canada, in honour of Canada Day? They were postponed to July 2nd – Canada Day, Second Best. If there was a breakthrough in strike talks at Canada Post.

I blame Justin Bieber.

(Not the actual gorgeous specimen!)

Omigod, she thought as she strode into the café, the waiter is gorgeous!

Gorgeous!

She froze, right there in the entrance, right there in the No Stress Café, in Paris, in the Ninth Arrondissement of Paris, just managing to avoid stomping on the peppy little Jack Russell that was trotting up to greet her. She ignored it, or rather, didn’t really notice it, captivated, captured, transfixed, spellbound by the soul-eyed, fine-boned creature behind the bar. He glanced up when the door slammed behind her, his longish brown hair sweeping back – as in a movie or a music video from the 1980s or a Harlequin romance or in the opening credits of those soap operas that take place somewhere in South America and where the women’s hair fills the entire screen even if they don’t do a close-up – to reveal even more of his lovely facial structure.

Then he smiled at her and it was a smile that befitted a prince, but one more charming than Prince Charming, one much more Shakespearean than Romeo. He was gorgeous, breathtaking, awe-inspiring…a stunning example of male beauty. She tried to smile back, but all she could muster was a grin that was more like a grimace.

Omigod omigod omigod omigod, she moaned in silence. The waiter is gorgeous and I have a bright red snotty nose that I need to keep wiping with a Kleenex. La classe. I should have never, ever in a million, billion, trillion years let those hippie chicks talk me into going to the Marché aux Puces last weekend. Filthy disgusting place full of germs. I mean, isn’t that what the term ‘flea market’ implies? A trading ground of infectious parasites? She half-considered doing an about-face and finding a café that didn’t employ The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World. She could eventually return to this one when her cold was gone, when her nose had stopped dripping. But she dismissed that option immediately – she wouldn’t want him, later on, to recognize her as The Girl That Burst In and Out of Cafés Without Ordering Anything.

I hope I hope I hope I hope he doesn’t notice my nose in this lighting, she prayed, trying to avoid sniffling. The rest of me is fine; this pencil skirt hugs my butt just right. At least some good came of that germy experience in Parasite Paradise. She wasn’t conceited or anything, but she did firmly believe she was graced with a great ass, judging from the remarks she received on the streets. She had often mused that if you were lucky and nature was kind to you, you either got big boobs or a great ass. And, if you were anything like her, and were fortunate enough to boast the latter, it sure as hell wasn’t meant to be hidden under ill-fitting bushel-basket clothes. Especially when in the company of The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World. Who Just Might Be an Ass Man!

She was rooted to the floor, apparently admiring the cozy café with its chunky tables, mismatched sofas and chairs and, it was true, its soft, flattering lighting. Everyone here is so damn handsome, she thought as she ran her eyes across the studious afternoon crowd. It’s a real quartier général of generally gorgeous people. But this guy – this perfect specimen of dark Mediterranean beauty – didn’t need great lighting to make him pretty. He was absolutely divine all on his own. Divine.

Paris, you had to acknowledge, was crawling with gorgeous men, and let’s face it, despite all of the blah-blah-blah about culture and language and cuisine and gastronomy and…it was the cute, artsy boys with brooding eyes and messy hair and three-quarter-length coats and fabulous cheekbones that many a girl arrived for. But these, these cheekbones! These particular ones! They were works of art. Chefs-d’oeuvre. It was as if they had been sculpted by one of the masters. One of the better masters. They should, she declared, be on display somewhere, a place where millions of women could come and queue up and buy tickets to see and marvel at the fact that, yes, there really was a set of living, breathing cheekbones as magnificent as these, as his. He should be in a museum or something. Yes, that was it. A museum. The Louvre. That’s where he should be, she decided. The Louvre. I’m writing a letter to the curator.

Oh damn it! there goes my nose again. What to do, what to do? She couldn’t very well dig through her purse for a Kleenex standing right there in the middle of the café. She couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t. And she couldn’t blow her nose right there, right in the swirling, swelling, beating heart of things, where there was a chance of The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World noticing her honking away. Most certainly not. Should she go to the toilet? Well, no – she’d just got there. Besides, she didn’t want him to think that she was going to the toilet to do You Know What. No, no, no, that wouldn’t do. It wasn’t ladylike, it wasn’t sexy, it just wasn’t done.

On the other hand, he could think that she was going to the toilet not to do You Know What, but to powder her nose rather than blow it, or to apply lipstick or mascara or eyeliner or blush or any one of the litany of elixirs that women hid in their purses in order to attract men, men so unworthy of The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World – oh God oh God oh God, she thought, I hope my lipstick hasn’t smudged, producing a huge red streak just above my upper lip like it sometimes does when I’ve repeatedly blown my nose and then I walk around for half the day with this big scarlet Rorschach blob and everyone sees it but no one says anything because people love it when pretty girls walk around with gobs of make-up on the wrong places it makes them laugh especially other women because they’re so mean they love it…that would be tragic, people staring so they could interpret the meaning of my lipstick Rorschach – but she didn’t want him to think that she worried about things like that. She was Different. And if you were going to gather the interest of a man like this, a man whose cheekbones were awe-inspiring enough to warrant their own special perfectly lit spot in the Louvre, a mere great ass wasn’t going to do it. You had to differentiate yourself, be proactive, set yourself apart from the crowd. You had to leverage your core competencies and carve out your own brand. In a word, you had to work it.

The nose situation was getting dire. She needed to make a decision, and fast. Oh screw it, she thought, I’ll blow it right here, stalled right here in the middle of the entrance blocking traffic. She was probably not the first. Far from it, undoubtedly – many before her had probably committed the same heinous, honking act. Thousands. Legions. After all, lots of people in big cities had runny noses. It was a fact of life. And it’s really not that one must blow one’s nose that’s critical, but how one approaches the nose-blow procedure. If Jeanne Moreau or Catherine Deneuve or Fanny Ardant had to blow their noses in the middle of a café, they’d make it absurdly and unreasonably sexy. And really, when faced with such a quandary, it wouldn’t hurt to ask: what would Jeanne or Catherine or Fanny do? Well, she knew the answer to that as well as she knew that the sun would rise and set tomorrow. They’d seize that little piece of tissue in a dainty hand and get the job done.

He went into the back. Thank God! She blew her nose.

Relieved, she stooped to pat the peppy dog on the head before sashaying her pencil-skirted way through the café, considering where to sit. Soft bossa nova floated from the sound system. Usually she liked the corner, because she could be relatively sheltered while she people-watched while reading the newspaper. Oh, crap – is that all I’ve got on me? she lamented. A lousy Le Monde? At least it was a relatively – relatively – politically-unaffiliated one. She wouldn’t want to spoil her chances straight off by reading something too left wing or too right wing or too left-of-center or too right-of-center for his tastes; she knew how wildly-opinionated the men here were. If she had been thinking ahead, she would have brought a book. Something classic, like Céline. Everyone here just raved about Céline. Personally, she hated Céline because he bored her to death. The guy could’ve used an editor. Or maybe a creative writing class. Or therapy. Or a home-cooked meal. Six hundred pages of blah-blah-blah on how he hated everything from war to women to himself to strangers to women to war to, well…everything. And all of that walking! Or marching. And what was up with that park scene in the beginning? She had never managed to get past page 107. Her friend, Helen, had never got past page 28, and that was after two valiant attempts. And Helen had a literary degree from Cambridge and everything. But a foreign girl reading Céline in a café like this was, you had to admit, très classe. She could have looked pensive.

How should she blow her nose sexily?

Should have brought Céline, she scolded. It would’ve made me look smarter. And sexier. Céline-iscious, rather than dry and newspaper-y. She took solace in the fact that her glasses contributed to this image. And men in Paris adored women with vision impairments. Femmes à lunettes, femmes à quequettes. Women who wear glasses get cock. So much better than men don’t make passes at girls wearing glasses.

She ruled out, absolutely, sitting in the corner, since she risked The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World failing to notice that she was there. Instead, she opted for a more central location: a table right in the middle of the room, in front of the giant mirror that hung on the back wall. That way, she decided, she could sit facing the mirror and spy on him at the bar without being too obvious. Her plan pleased her. Maybe she’d even get some furtive mirror-glancing flirtation going. En plus, there was a bonus: she could also surreptitiously check to make sure that her lipstick wasn’t smudged, which would prevent her from having to go to the toilet to check on it and risk The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World thinking that she was in there doing You Know What…though she did concede that she would have to take caution and not look at herself too much because then he would think that she was one of those girls who were obsessed with their hair and that would be terrible.

Do you think he will talk to me? But he’s the waiter – he has to talk to me. But do you think he’ll want to talk, you know, not in a waiter-to-customer kind of way, but in a chatty-I-think-you’re-cute way to the blonde girl with the great ass and the red snotty nose who is reading something as banal as Le Monde? She had a point: he was The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World; he probably had heaps of women, truckloads of them, tourist-busloads, who went there on the premise of reading Céline or Sartre or de Beauvoir or Debord or whatever the hell it was they read in between furtively glancing up at the big mirror on the back wall in hopes of making secret sexy eye contact with him. Groupies, that’s what they were. Waiter groupies. Pathetic. She despised everything they stood for.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy…here he comes! she squealed, but inwardly. Is my nose O.K.? She forced herself to quit looking in the mirror; she was coming across as too eager. That was the thing with these Latin types: playing hard to get was the only way to get them interested in you. If there was one thing she had learned about the men in this city, that was it. Hot and cold was the way they liked it. Made them feel more manly or something. Read your newspaper and act like you don’t notice him, she commanded herself. Read! He needed to make the first move. She was so thoroughly engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t notice her server of the day was The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World. There would be no pandering to a man’s ego at this table, no siree – not with all of the war and destruction and desperation and despair and what-not there was to read about.

Here he is here he is here he is, standing right beside the table, looking directly into my eyes. They said that when you made eye contact with a man here, in France, it meant that you were inviting him to make the first move. That was why so many women stared at their feet when they were on the Metro. But his eyes were almost as angelic as those fabulous cheekbones, so dark and haunted, as if he were trying to cover up some inner conflict by forming those soft, pouty, kissable lips into a smile. What are you hiding, my waiter-prince? Do sit down and tell me all about it… “Well, bonjour to you, too, monsieur.” What?! What the hell did you just say? “Uh…uh-I’ll have a glass of Sancerre, s’il vous plaît.” No Chardonnay or god-awful Beaujolais Nouveau pour elle. Nothing like something a pathetic waiter groupie would order. She was, as mentioned, Different.

He spun off to fetch her glass of wine. She couldn’t help but admire his waiterly ways. She blew her nose again. The way he uncorked the bottle with such finesse – what a pro. She could see his cute little derrière in the mirror. If we succeed at making this relationship work, she reflected, our children will all have great behinds, that’s for sure. What if he already had a girlfriend? Not that it mattered, not in this country, certainly not in Paris. He probably had several, all lined up for a little cinq à sept when he got off work. She didn’t mind sharing, really – at least in the beginning. Once he got to know her, he wouldn’t need all of those other bimbos. They couldn’t know how to satisfy him the way she would. They would just use him and abuse him and treat him like a cheap piece of meat, sponging and leeching off of his status and good looks. No, they were going to have to go. She hated them all.

We’re really a good match, he and I. He must feel it too: I can tell by the way he just jiggled his pen when he was taking my order. She imagined the headlines: Up-and-Coming Soon-to-be-Famous Well-Read Author Ties the Knot with The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World. Then, a year later: Now-Famous Author and The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World Celebrate Precedent-Setting Book Deal and Birth of First Child (With Promising-Looking Ass). They would be so happy. She pictured herself three years from now, ditching the writing gig in favor of launching a line of exercise videos advising women on how to have a great butt.

Un verre de Sancerre c'est chic?

Here he comes here he comes here he comes again, and again with the eye contact. She sat up straighter. She couldn’t help it. He looks like he wants to ask me something. Oh, he must feel it, too, this spark between us. He couldn’t, after all, be The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World without having an astonishingly developed sense of intuition. When you looked like that, you had to be able to judge between someone who just wants to be around you for your waiter status and beauty and someone deeper who wants The Real Thing. “Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup.” My god, those cheekbones were really something. “What’s that? You wanted to ask me something?” Go ahead, darling. Don’t be shy. Remember: play hard to get. Don’t commit to a date until you’ve checked your agenda. “Oh, you want me to pay right now? You’re going? Oh, you’re done with work for the day. Your shift’s over? Oh. Well. Well, yes. Yes, well, of course. You’re right, absolutely. I should be going, too. I need to get to the bookstore before it closes. I’ve heard the most wonderful things about this author, Céline. Have you read him? Supposed to be positively enlightening. A real philosophe. But first, les toilettes – they’re downstairs, you say? Merci. Merci bien, monsieur.” Oh where oh where oh where oh where…where the hell was her damn Kleenex?

She dug through the handbag, through the pens and the eye pencils and the powders and lipsticks and blush, through the notepads and crumpled-up food wrappers and stray half-finished gum packs, through the used train tickets that had gotten mixed up with the unused ones, through the blatant unmentionables one would never admit to carrying in front of any waiter and the other unmentionables one wished one could mention…one day…one day…

Then she felt it. Coming. On. It was weak at first; distant. A far-off pulse promising, promising, promising…if she just…if she just…The blood rushed to her face and she felt a tingling in her ears as she heard herself utter a soft moan. It was throbbing now, almost booming really. Like a band of drummers had overtaken her body. Her toes curled, her fingernails dragged across the table, her head tipped back, ever so slightly, as her eyes fluttered closed. She remembered, vaguely, faintly, fuzzily, that she needed to remember something. She remembered without trying to, without wishing to, without any desire whatsoever to, without wanting to spoil what she knew was on the way. She closed her eyes tighter, trying to push away the memory. The Kleenex, that’s what it was, she finally recalled without exclamation. I was looking for…I was… But it was too strong. Too intense for her to care. Too paramount for her to neglect. Too…oh yes! Oh my god!! Too monumental for her to compromise anything for this, this, this…THIS!!!

And there it was. The wave surged from her toes, gaining momentum as it went charging into her heels, then stabbing into her knees and shooting through her legs and hips and then upwards, upwards into her stomach and chest and up, up, up, up higher, faster, shooting harder, until it reached until it reached…

She sneezed.

After that, in a beat, a heartbeat, the No Stress Café carried on.

France Soir: the beginning of his end?

By now you’ve heard the one about the famous French politician/International Monetary Fund boss/supposed Socialist candidate and the New York chambermaid. And the charges of sexual assault and sexual misconduct and sexual sequestration and attempted rape? Room 2806, the Sofitel Hotel. Smack-dab in the middle of Times Square.

(Funny, isn’t it? How the French elections ended long before they ever really began, on non-French, ferociously foreign soil? How they just – right there, over there, in there – how they just ended . . . Or were sort of suddenly stopped?)

Dominique Strauss-Kahn – that’s DSK – is France’s sexiest socialiste. Some of us have thought so, and some of us have declared so…and some of us have even written so, maintes fois. He’s sexy because he’s sexy, in that sexy-cultured-deep-voiced older-man kind of way. And he’s sexy because he reeks of sex…and the smell and the stench and the stink of le scandale. Of sex scandals, DSK has seen a few, or plus précisément, he’s seen the center of some. Apparently, the guy has a super-sex-charged sexy-sex libido. Like a sexy rock star. Or a sexy porn star. Or a sexy head of the IMF.

It would be disgusting and degrading and degenerate and dirty – and a little more than dégoûtant – to speculate that Mademoiselle la Chambermaid is lying. Or worse – that she asked for it, even if maid’s outfits and maid fantasies and men with maids are the basis of so much porn. Was she put up to it, then? Well…that’s just speculation. But let’s speculate, for speculation’s sake, for a sec:

DSK – that’s Dominique Strauss-Kahn – was the Parti socialiste’s only hope. He’ was the only guy (or gal) who stood a chance of beating Sarko. Would another sex scandal screw up his shot? In France? In the French elections? Pas du tout. This is the country that saw nothing wrong with Mitterrand’s decades-long extra-marital affair. And his extra-marital family. And his extra-marital offspring. (It was the fact that he funded said extra family/affair/offspring with government funds that finally pissed everyone off.) And Rachida Dati, the former ministre who is now in the European Parliament? When she announced her pregnancy – while at the same time announcing that she didn’t know the identity of the father – the tittering in the press was but a ripple. But when it comes to DSK? Even the French haven’t figured out a way to beat the clock.

As (former) head of the IMF, DSK was not allowed to talk French politics, or plus précisément, of his intentions for the French candidature. The not-so-secret proposed plan? Well, proposedly, he was supposed to (voluntarily) quit. The IMF, that is. Proposedly. On the same day he proposed that he was in the running as proposed presidential candidate for the Parti socialiste. The deadline for announcing one’s candidacy? The primaries officially kick off on June 28th (the French press has already helpfully drawn the parallel between this date and the room number where the alleged crime allegedly took place). The drop-dead deadline? July 13th, the day before Bastille Day, the day when some of us will be shimmy-ing our stuff at the annual French Firemens’ Ball. Helluva tight deadline, if you ask me. For the French firemen and for the French politicians. Especially if you’re stuck in America and all bound up in star-spangled, American, red-white-and-blue legal tape. And not in that fun-kinky-fetishy-man-with-a-maid kind of way.

As of recently, like not so long ago, like just the other day, DSK – you know the one – was ahead in the polls. France was damn near 60 percent close to electing him President if you believe such things, and as for Sarko’s street gang, I believe that they believed. In the face of threat, Sarko’s street gang has never shown any class…in the face of anything, Sarko’s street gang shows an astonishing lack of raffinement. In the face of everything, they scurry around…like cockroaches…or rats . . . And you can expect them to play dirty…and disgustingly…and low.

La bonniche ? The maid? Either way, she’s a victim. In a way I hope she’s not lying but in a way, I hope she is. No humane human being wants anyone to suffer a sexual assault. But no humane human being wants a man to face false charges thereof. It’s all so very dégoûtant, and frankly? It smells a little false. As in faux and fake and phony and falsified…and not quite up to snuff. Because Sarko’s street gang? Croyez-moi : For power, for play, for a tiny bit of the upper hand, they will do anything. Think I’m nuts? Go ahead. I don’t care – I’m not the boss of you. But indulge-moi for once and écoutez-moi bien : When it comes to Sarko and his street gang, underestimate them at your own risk.

Something just a little shady in l'affaire DSK?

Or don’t. But you could make an effort to remember. The last elections? In 2007? When Sarko was promising to clear out punk-ass punk asses from the punk-ass suburban banlieue ? How he bellowed – in front of the French cameras, in front of the French election voters – how he bellowed that he’d do it with a fire hose? In front of the voters and punk asses and the cameras and the hoses? Or the time he told an enemy – it was another ‘Dominique,’ only this time it was former Prime Minister de Villepin – how he told him he’d hang him from a butcher’s hook before all was said and done? (It was during the whole Clearstream thing, which was so boring I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say that the other ‘Dominique’ got the short end of the stick…or hook…) And then there was that French farmer a few years back, back at Le salon de l’Agriculture. He was complaining, as French farmers do, about la globalisation and Sarko’s politics. The President’s response? In front of the cameras? “Casse-toi, pauvre con !” Means: “Fuck off, you sorry cunt!” In front of the cameras.

I know that you know that I know that you know that like some French farmers, I hate – no, despise – Sarko’s politics. In front of the cameras…and behind and above and below. But worse than his politics is his despised dismissal of la classe, up and down and through-and-through. We may find out that DSK doesn’t have any class, either – some would argue that as a renowned chasseur des jupes, he’s already pretty classless as is. But for now – if this story winds up to be true – at least he’s not President. (And right now, chances are he’ll never even get to run.) Sarko? As leader of a world-class country? One would expect him to be world-class. Or at least try to pretend he is. But this latest scandale stinks of him. To high proverbial heaven. And his surprisingly silent street gang. Stinks. Like trash. Euro, white, political and otherwise.

Ride 'em cowgirl.... Yee-haw!

It was the cowboy that did it. The one in the thong and the boots. No chaps, no Stetson, no silvery-silver belt buckle…not even (malheureusement) a lasso. Just the thong. And the boots. Minimaliste – just like that. (Oh, and before you start Brokeback Mountain-ing it up, my cowboy, je vous assure, was totally straight.) (Totally.) (Je vous assure.) (Ride ’em cow . . . Well, you get the picture.) (Yee-haw!)

He wasn’t my first cowboy, you know. (S’il vous plaît – credit? Please?) But it was my first Parisian trade show. My first Parisian trade show as a booth bunny. A few years back – it was Le salon de la lingerie. So Cowboy Thong was actually appropriately (un)dressed. He was…ahem…a male model. He was hocking gitch for Ginch Gonch. He’d strut and stride and swagger by my stand, every hour, on the hour, because, well…that was his job. (My job was to hock stuff, too, but I won’t tell you what because the designer was kind of a rotten evil bitch. Like: She wouldn’t let me – moi ! – be a model.) (Although she did give me a free pair of culottes.) But you could say that when it came to the booth bunny business, Cowboy Thong inspired me, motivated me, drove me on…roped me in. À propos of my whole Cowboy Thong Experience, I’ve kept my cute, fuzzy tail in the booth bunny business ever since. (Although in reality my tail isn’t really fuzzy.)

But what – you ask – just what is a ‘booth bunny?’ Well, for us booth bunnies, it’s not so much what you are as what you ought to be. For one, booth bunnies must beam. (That’s ‘smile’ in booth bunny-speak.) No booth bunny boss wants you skulking and sneering and sulking around her stand – even if you are Parisienne. Next, there is the issue of les toilettes. One must be able to tell non-booth bunnies where to find them. (I find the swoopy-sweeping hand signals signature to in-flight stewardesses suffice.) Directing people to les toilettes is an especially important part of Parisian booth bunnydom, since Parisian convention center architects all seem to have conspired to treat les toilettes as an afterthought. So nobody ever knows where the hell they are. (It’s a Parisian convention center conspiracy.) (Maybe that’s the conspiracy they were really trying to crack in Da Vinci Code – the location of les toilettes ? But there were no booth bunnies in Da Vinci Code, so they got way off track?) Oh, and of course, booth bunnies have to hock product. (I find sweeping-swoopy hand signals work best for this, too – with a little Vanna White thrown in.) Oh, and bien entendu, Parisian booth bunnies must speak French. (Sweeping-swoopy hand signals are optional.) C’est normale.

I can’t tell you what I was hocking at my last booth bunny gig, but it’s not because my booth bunny boss was a rotten evil bitch. It’s just that sometimes in this booth bunny racket, discretion is the better part of valour. (Consider it the Booth Bunny Code.) There were, hélas, no thong-sporting cowboys, but Miss France made a cameo appearance. (Though not – merci ! – in a thong.) And at this particular trade show? Let me tell you: The products they were hocking were weird. Useless and weird. (Not my super-secret-top-secret product, but you know . . .) Either they represent the last vestiges of a dying old economy, or maybe they’re signs of new life. Like, what was up with that girl on the bicycle in that giant-oversized-larger-than-life-sized bathtub? (She wasn’t really riding around the bathtub, the bicycle was stationary, she was kind of just sitting there, peddling furiously away…under water…Well, her head was above water, but…) And that booth with the giant-larger-than-life-sized-oversized poster of the giant-larger-than-life-sized-oversized boobs? (Something about some cream that firms them up.) (Or makes them firmly giant?) Here’s the thing: The poster showed oversized women’s boobs, but the booth bunnies were all oversized men. Firmly flabby oversized men. Now, I’m no marketing expert, but if you’re hocking a product designed to firm up giant-oversized man boobs, wouldn’t it be better to pin up a poster showing a man? And his boobs? You know, to make it a stronger sell?

Yes! I Speak Wall Street English!

Anyway. This trade show – the one where they were hocking all of those weird-useless products – was billed as being mondial. As in international. As in: Weird-Useless Products From Around The World. Which means: Products Packaged In Many Different (Useful) Languages. It also means: Some Products Packaged In English-Only. This means there were: Weird Product Inventors Of Weird-Useless Products From Around The World. And: All of the salespeople and marketers and booth bunnies to go with. Which resulted in: Many different languages spoken, all around, from all around the world. Among the weird-useless products and the top-secret-not-so-useless products and their inventors and their marketers and their salespeople and us booth bunnies. As for the attendees? Les visiteurs ? Well, they were mainly French. So they mainly spoke en français. And they mainly read en français. As in: Mainly-only exclusively.

Now. Now – you know moi – I hate to criticize the French. (You know moi – I hate to criticize anyone.) But, c’est vrai, it’s true, on ne peut pas l’ignorer : The French have a rotten-evil-bitchy reputation when it comes to other languages. As in other languages other than French. Oh sure, I know, traditionnellement, on the world stage? French is la langue diplomatique. But since Sarko, when have we seen any diplomacy? (Since Sarko, when have we seen anything worth anything?) And…ahem…I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but when it comes to being mondial, international, universel…global…on the global-universal-international world stage? Well, it’s kind of necessary to know a little anglais – even when it comes to mere Anglophone, French-speaking Parisian booth bunnies who speak French, but who happen to be hocking an English-speaking product. At least sometimes. It’s not fair, it’s not right, it’s not good, it’s not juste,  and I happen to think it’s a damn shame. And pas très diplomate. (Like, if some diplomats and some secret agents and some spies and some super-secretive-spooky spooks from some super-spooky Anglophone countries could, un-spookily, actually speak Arabic – like, actually, really, for real – we wouldn’t actually be as deep in la merde.) But English as a colonizing language? Well, it’s just the way it is. To coin a phrase, diplomatically? C’est la vie.

French people know this – not counting the French people who are President and the French people who were attendees/visiteurs at that Weird-Useless Product-hocking salon mondial. These other French people? The non-presidential, non-weird-useless-salon-attending ones? For their kids: They complain about the quality of the English courses à l’école. They hire Anglophone au pairs. They take you on as a tenant – the cheap way of hiring an Anglophone au pair. (Beware of Parisian landlords that actually live in your Parisian building…with their bratty uni-lingual brats…) Adults? They take classes – and you gotta hand it to them, because have you ever seen those super-creepy-spooky ads for English classes in the Parisian Métro? “Do You Speak English? Yes, I speak Wall Street English!” With the guy with the Union Jack painted, super-spookily, on his tongue? What does Wall Street have to do with the Union Jack? And what’s with the tongue? And even though the economy still seems to be supporting super-weird-useless products, is it really wise for any business to associate themselves with the street where it all hit the fan? (And what’s with the tongue?)

Back at the conspiratorial convention center where they hide les toilettes, a certain Parisian booth bunny was musing on the true French meaning of the word ‘mondial.’ “C’est dommage que votre truc ne soit pas en français,” huffed the hundredth business-suited blonde as she shoved away the product, diplomatically. “Something that is only in English is of no use to moi.”

“But, madame,” said booth bunny beamed, in French, “this product addresses a public that is international.”

“Then it should be in French! Or – at worst – bilingue.”

It made one nostalgique for those early booth bunny days, back in the Wild West, when Parisian thong-sporting cowboys strutted and swaggered and strode and didn’t speak. But it’s been a while since any of my booth bunny bonanzas boasted any thongs or cowboy boots or – most regrettably – any cowboys sporting either/or. (O.K., so there was really only that one time.) “All women are bunnies, but it doesn’t have to be that way,” Gloria Steinem wrote, back when she was bunny-fiedly hocking cocktails for Playboy. You know what, Gloria? T’as raison. Because sans silent thong-sporting cowboys strutting their stuff? I think this whole booth bunny racket really isn’t pour moi.

Stylish dictator Ben Ali

It’s time to self-proclaim. To announce, to pronounce, to declare. To stand up and straighten up and suck it up and say:

I am Dictator Of France. (Not ‘I’ as in ‘you,’ évidemment ; ‘I’ as in ‘moi.’) C’est vrai, that’s right, yes: Dictator. Or perhaps Dictatrix. But definitely not Empress – that would be too cliché.

(I’ve selected February 14th as the first new revolutionary holiday, my Official Day And Night Of Officially Taking Over.) (My dictatorship being one of those lovey-dovey ones, where the ruler is far more loved that feared.)

I know what you’re thinking: Dictators are soooo last year. Dictatorially, I disagree. I believe it’s not so much the stylishness of the job, but the stylishness of the dictator. Ben Ali? Mubarak? Those bland-boring suits? And now they’re acting all shocked and scandalized and surprised for being forced out? With those suits? Everyone knows that the only guy who can get away with being a dictator while wearing plain-old, boring-bland suits is Vladimir Putin. Because really – does anybody want to mess with him? (And I know what you’re thinking: Silvio Berlusconi wears suits too, Italian ones, and he’s still dictating up a storm.) (Yes, you’re quite correct, but my sources say his days are numbered.) (I’m officially distancing myself from him.)

In preparation for my role as Dictatrix de France, I’ve done a bit of homework, and here’s what I’ve discovered: Not one chapter of The Prince covers fashion. Not a single, solitary one! Not even a lousy paragraph!! And Machiavelli wonders why he spent the last years of his life mooning around in crummy peasant robes. Niccolò? Hellooooo? You’re from Italy and you’re Machiavellian. You could have written a line or two about the clothes.

I haven’t quite completed my own dictator ensemble, but rest assured there will be plenty of feather boas. And leopard print à la Mobutu. If I were inclined toward consistency, I’d lean to Castro for inspiration, but he’s too unchanging and army-like à la Anna Wintour for my taste. Moi – I’m more of a Gaddafi girl myself; he’s so bold and adventurous and fashion-forward and unafraid to mix and match. And, like every forward-forging fashionista, dictator or designer, he’s branched out into camping gear. (He’s so camp!)(Remember that last – only? – time he was invited to France and he pitched that funky tent in the middle of the Élysée lawn? Très avant-garde !)

And you should see the new outfits for the Parisian firemen! You know moi – I couldn’t possibly neglect les pompiers. Jean Paul Gaultier is adding the finishing touches as I write, and lemme tell you, the firemen are gonna look – pardon the pun! – hottt. I won’t ruin the surprise outright, but I’ll give you a hint: Hot pants. Suspenders. Hubba-hubba-hooooo!

But never fear, faithful followers, for fashion in my dictatorship is not reserved exclusively for the élite – it applies to you commoners, too. Hence the Fashion Police. Because really: If any Democratic People’s Republic should have fashion police, it ought to be France. (Frankly, entre nous, I can’t fathom how none of my predecessors thought of this before.) Though they’re not really police per se – think of them more as a Fashion Guidance Patrol, or spiritual guides of fashion. Because in my dictatorship, you can wear what you want (with the exception of baseball caps and khaki pants and cargo pants and hippie pants and hippie ponchos and hippie hair . . . and certainly not Johnny Hallyday concert t-shirts and definitely not those quilted doudounes . . . and it goes without saying that Birkenstocks are interdit) but you gotta admit that, for our own good, every now and then, we could all use a little advice. Other than that, you’re fairly fashionably free. For example, any Muslim man that wishes to deck himself out in a full-length, fully-unrevealing, full-frontal chadar is at complete liberty to do so. Far be it from moi to tell you how to express yourselves.

Gaddafi in this season's tribal prints

But first things first, you say, and I quite agree: What should be done with the previous government? Here’s where Ben Ali got it right, so I’m borrowing from him: When the jasmine hit the fan, he holed his family up in a luxury suite at EuroDisney. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Luxury suites are expensive – how will I justify the costs to my constituents? Especially since my press attaché will soon be announcing a 50 percent increase in taxes? (Vincent Cassel is the new P.R., by the way – he’s got one of those faces that says, ‘pay up!’) Well, sensible subjects, your Dear Leader-ess is one step ahead of you: Yes, the old government is going to Disneyland, but they will be going there to work. (Sarkozy’s campaign slogan was travailler plus pour gagner plus – work more to earn more – after all . . . arbeit macht frei is all I have to say.) Sarko’s gonna be Goofy. (Once he’s done with the pompiers – oh, will he ever be done with les pompiers ? – Jean Paul will be making the necessary alterations to shrink the costume down to Sarko-size.) François Fillon – the former vice president? He can be Donald Duck. As for Carla Bruni . . . well, that’s a tough one, because I’m making Johnny Depp – France’s finest natural resource – Personal Minister To la Dictatress. And we all know Carla’s history of getting around the court. I don’t trust that woman any more than I trust the Rhythm Method, so I’ve got to keep an eye on her. That’s why she will be the préfet of the Fashion Police. (Answering directly to moi, so nothing to worry about there.) (In fact, I like to think of Carla as my own personal Richelieu.)

(Oh, and don’t worry about Johnny’s wife, Vanessa Paradis. Or his kids. They will all be joining Brigitte Bardot the next time she goes to Canada to protest the annual seal hunt.) (Incidentally, there will be an unfortunate incident involving an iceberg, but it will be relatively quick and painless.)

My cabinet: The Women Of FIP Radio, bien sûr – I’ve always thought l’Assemblée Nationale needed a bit of sexing up. Conversely, Catherine Deneuve will oversee the newly-nascent Ministry For The Elderly, with Gérard Depardieu serving as secretary. (Actually, as is la tradition for many French politicians, ol’ Gérard will be benefiting from a dual-salary cumul. Given his affinity for the stuff, he’ll be doubling as Wine Minister as well.) Frédéric Taddeï, the cutest television host ever, is Minister Of Propaga…er, I mean Information. Because unlike some (Italian) dictators, I believe in a free press . . . as long as I’m only photographed from my left side. And, as in the case with Muhammad, there are to be no cartoons!

But what – you ask – what’s to be done with Johnny? Not that Johnny – the Other Johnny, the Bad Johnny, the Evil Johnny, Johnny Hallyday? I mean he’s so…he’s so…he’s so astonishingly popular. I’ve thought of pulling a Coluche – you know, that really funny French comic guy who was really funny and the people really loved him and then he suddenly announced he was running for president, really, and then all of a sudden he was killed in a suspicious-mysterious motorcycle accident? Well, I thought about that, but then I thought: I’m too fond of motorcycles. And besides, somebody’s got to do the chores around Versailles – the tourists really do a number on those floors. So Johnny (the Other, Bad, Evil one) will be head janitor. And Versailles will be kinda like Guantanamo. With a (reasonably-fixed, free market, tourist-friendly) admission fee. Like Guantanamo, closed on Mondays. Since I’ve never believed in public displays of torture. (Johnny gets Mondays off if the Visitor Satisfaction Surveys salute his spic-and-span latrines.)

Speaking of torture, in counsel with my new government, I had considered the reinstitution of the guillotine, but I’ve decided against it. Because really: Think of how many heads would roll! There’s the ‘philosophe’ Bernard Henri-Levy, and the ‘movie director’ Luc Besson, and the other ‘movie director’ Jean-Luc Godard, and then the left-over members of the old administration who couldn’t land jobs at EuroDisney, and if history teaches us anything, it tells us that it could all get pretty messy pretty quick. I mean, as much as I’d love to get rid of BHL and Luc Besson and Jean-Luc Godard and any excess members of the old administration, history has also taught us that one can’t let oneself have cake and then let oneself eat cake, too. Plus, guillotines are kind of gory – who would clean up all the blood and guts? Johnny (the Other, Bad, Evil one) is already janitorially over-extended at Versailles. (And Brigitte. . . well, there’s that unfortunate incidental iceberg incident.)

France’s new national anthem? Gainsbourg’s Aux armes et caetera. So much snappier than La Marseillaise, n’est-ce pas ?

Machiavelli's not-so-fashionable Prince...

Machiavelli says: “A prince (or dictator or dictatress or dictatrix) should…have no other aim or thought, nor take up any other thing for his (or her!) study, but war and its organization and discipline, for that is the only art that is necessary…He (or she!) ought, therefore, never to let his (or her!) thoughts stray from the exercise of war…” Now. I’ve always considered myself as more of a lover than a fighter (and exercise? I’m French – I smoke), but if I’m going to be a real-old-fashioned-true-blue-decisively-despotic dictator, whatever Niccolò wants, Niccolò gets. (Plus, I lent out my copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art Of War so I really don’t have much else to go on.) But upon whom shall war be declared? Monaco? Wouldn’t be the stupidest idea to annex that casino. Then there’s Chile – that coastline is pretty choice. If I took Brazil, I could take all those Brazilian men with me – and Lord knows my court is a bit short on pool boys right now. As a target, Liechtenstein is strategic – one cannot dictate in peace if one doesn’t have a place to put all that dirty money. But I’ve got to consider image: What does overtaking the smallest country in the world really say about moi as a warrior? No, non – I’m declaring war on Québec. They are, after all, the reason behind poutine. En plus, they’re always whining for independence – here’s their chance to show their stuff. It’s not like the rest of Canada is going to complain. (It’s not like the rest of Canada ever complains about anything.)

In my new Democratic People’s Republic of France, of new laws, there are a few, but then again, too few to mention. (I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew – eats up time better spent at the salon.) But every dictator’s legacy is defined by at least one defining law, so here’s mine – for good, defining measure:

I hereby declare the restoration of smoking to where it belongs: In cafés, restaurants, and the workplace. Because you gotta admit: Ever since the last government instituted the smoking ban, there have been far too many little brats running around in public, breathing in all that fresh air. Something had to be done, and this is the quickest fix I could find before I banish the little Paris-ites to one single arrondissement of Paris (I’m thinking the seventh, since there’s really no reason for the rest of us to go there anyway). And you thought I was going to be a tyrant! Silly!

Finally, every upstanding dictator launches a Cultural Revolution, and on this, I will not drop the ball. But how, I’ve asked myself, how can one declare a cultural revolution in a country like France – the very core of culture? And then it came to me, as clear as a child’s lung during the smoking ban: I will write a book. Every French ruler does. Only this one won’t be flowery poetry about flowers and poets or profound philosophy about profoundness and philosophers. I’m calling it The Princess – you know, kind of like The Prince, but the sequel? And I will state right now that it will definitely have at least one chapter on clothes. Maybe more – I’ll know as soon as I speak to my editor. (Even dictators need editors.) Oh, and another one on shoes.

The book launch is the evening of February 14th. Dress code is feather boas and red hearts. Be there or be . . . well, do you really want to find out?

A little sport a la Parisienne perhaps?

Ever have friends who are a couple and you like the one person but the other one kind of sucks? And then the both of them come to Paris?

And then when they get to town they keep making rendez-vous with you and then breaking rendez-vous with you? And then calling you with stupid questions like where to find a good gym? In Paris? Where the lifting of filtered cigarettes to unfiltered lips is the most strenuous sport?

And then the reason they make the rendez-vous with you and then break the rendez-vous with you is because your proposed rendez-vous-plural require rides on the Métro? Away from their touristy Left Bank lodgings? And they’re afraid of the Métro? As in scared? Of the Métro? The most easiest/bestest/efficientest-when-it’s-not-on-strike Métro in the world?

And then, just when you give up on seeing them (well, on seeing him because you never really wanted to see her, she being the sucky one of the couple) they call you again, last minute, on their very last night in town, to propose that you join them for drinks. As long as you take the Métro and they walk? As long as they don’t have to walk any farther than Le Marais? Le Marais that’s just over the bridge from the Left Bank?

So you sigh and roll your eyes and agree and ask your (cute, clever, charming) writing partner to provide moral support by coming with you? Which she does, because not only is she cute and clever and charming, but because she smells free drinks in her near future? And because you let her choose the bar. (She’s so charming and cute and clever and morally supportive that way.) As long as she pretends to be your French date? Your French date who only speaks French?

This is what was going on with my writing partner.

My writing partner is American. From America. So, duh!, he’s only fluent in American. I’m Canadian. We’re much better at languages. For example, I happen to speak two: fluent English and fluent French. Fluently. (Oh, and: While my French-speaking accent is sometimes-German and sometimes-Swedish and sometimes-Danish and sometimes-English, it’s never, ever – jamais ! – Québecois. Évidemment.) So when we met this couple, we last-minute decided to pretend to be a couple, one where the boy speaks only American and the girl speaks only French. Even when only speaking to each other.

(Oh, and: My writing partner can’t really be classified as a “boy.” He’s really, clearly, classifiably more like a “man.” As in he’s O…he’s O…he’s Ol’…Well, let’s just say he’s Old School. Like when he started his career? He used a real, live typewriter! Didn’t even plug it into the wall! And – get this! – he remembers way back when the first word-processors came out!) (Word-processors!) (And the phones they used in the newsroom?) (They were the ones with the tiny purple dinosaurs inside!)

Inevitably, it gave the whole French-only/American-only pretend couple concept a sort of Sugar Daddy salaciousness. Because next to Monsieur Typewriter? I’m practically a débutante.

Oh, and the other couple? American. The kind that only speaks American. He’s a cartoonist, she’s a therapist. There’s a joke in there somewhere, right? Just add a rabbi and a priest and have them walk into a bar . . . with a kangaroo . . .

“But how is this going to work?” I asked. “I mean, you really don’t speak any French.” As in any.

“I’ve heard you speak it enough. Talk slow, and I’ll get what you’re saying.”

“Ah, bon ? Tu crois que tu vas vraiment capter tout ce que je te dis si je parle lentement ? Même si tu ne m’a jamais capté en français dorenavant ?”

“Huh?”

You should know that I used to want to be a famous actress. I studied Stanislavsky, read Strasberg, played around with The Method. But I’d never imagined this as My Big Break. Here, now, in Le Marais, in this moment, what’s my motivation?

“I told you – I’m buying the drinks.”

SHOWTIME!

Scene: La Belle Hortense, rue Vielle du Temple, heart of Le Marais. Flattering lighting, velvety wines, a collection of crisp, carefully-chosen books to peruse – or purchase, depending on how gestural you are with your Brouilly. Beautiful spot boasting beautiful people and a bombshell barmaid, plus a few tourists and transients and expats. Lovely spot, La Belle Hortense. Très sympa indeed.

Flattering lighting, velvety wines, a collection of crisp, carefully-chosen books to peruse at La Belle Hortense...

There they were. The Couple. Ready and American-early and waiting.

The cartoonist husband was sporting a cowboy hat. His therapist wife was sporting a Republican hairdo. The cartoonist was wearing a moustache. The therapist was not. He was burdened with his cartoonist’s portfolio. She was burdened with her invisible baggage. Which she wore around her hips. Visibly.

There they were, by the bar: the cartoonist and the therapist, his hat and her hips. Curtain!

Kiss-kiss, bises-bises, handshake-handshake, hug-hug. The cowboy/cartoonist tipped his hat. I was dying to say, “Howdy!” but that would’ve been out of character. You know moi – I’m nothing if not true to stagecraft. Especially when there’s free drinks, which the bombshell barmaid was presently pouring. Then:

“You look good,” said the therapist to my writing partner. “I’m surprised.” That broke the ice.

Now my writing partner may be O…He may be Ol’…He may be Old School, but he’s not at all pruney and puckery and used up. You think I’d be seen in public with some pruney, puckery used-up guy? And pretend to be his hot young French date who only speaks French? Of course you don’t.

“Elle t’as vraiment dit ça ?!” said I to my writing partner. I couldn’t believe my French ears.

My writing partner nodded authoritatively. You know, that authoritative nod that says, “Huh?”

Therapeutically, the therapist sized me up. And then she sized me down. And then, turning to my writing partner: “So where’s X?”

X is The Ex, as in my writing partner’s ex, as in the woman he was with avant. “We really hoped we’d get to see her! How is she? Where is she? What is she up to these days? You two made such a nice couple.”

The thing about my writing partner is he’s a gentleman – these Old School guys often are. He knows that it’s rude to discuss an X/Ex in front of Sugar Bébé – discretion being the better part of valour and such. And he knows how jealous us French girls can get – these Old School guys tend to have been around the block. But he needn’t have worried; I was French, after all. I was much more sophisticated than that. I mean, why would I be jealous about some long-over-the-hill-gone-way-past-the-expiry-date X/Ex? And, besides . . . umm. . .  I was French: I couldn’t possibly know what the hell they were saying.

(En plus, all of this X/Ex talk gave me the opportune opportunity to go outside, opportunely, for a smoke. And flirt with the boys on the trottoir. After all, I was extrêmement French.)

Back at the ranch, they were talking about something else. Can’t say what, though, because je n’en ai rien compris.

“Par-lay-vooze anglay ?” said the therapist to moi upon my return.

“Non,” replied moi, smiling sweetly for added effect.

“¿ Habla español ?” We were having a conversation course à la Berlitz.

“Non plus.” Nada. Nuthin’.

“That’s too bad. I do.” And loudly, apparently.

“Ah, bon ? J’imagine que c’est pratique pour hurler les ordres à votre bonne mexicaine.” Because you just know she had one. An underpaid, under-papered, below-under-appreciated, below-below under-socially-supported maid.

“So how did you guys meet?” Cowboy Bill piped up finally.

Une lap-danse, I started to say. I heard my writing partner say something like “At a party.” See? That’s the thing about hanging out with American sugar daddies; it so improves your English!

The therapist squared off into a full-frontal Sarah Palin stance. “And you? Are you originally from Paree?”

Moi: “Paris ?”

Her: “Paree?”

Moi: “Paris ?”

Her: “Paree?”

Moi: “Ah, non . . . je suis de la banlieue.”

Her: “La ban-leeoo?”

Moi: “La banlieue.”

Her: “La ban-leeoo?”

Moi: “La banlieue.”

My writing partner: “La ban-leeoo?”

Moi: “La banlieue !”

My writing partner: “La ban-leeoo?”

Moi: “La banlieue, bordel de merde ! Zee soob . . . zee soob . . . !”

My writing partner: “Oh, she’s saying that she comes from the suburbs.”

The bombshell barmaid: “Zee sooburbs ? La banlieue ? Avec cet accent canadien ? Je crois pas, hein . . . ”

“You know what I don’t understand?” Now the therapist turned to my writing partner, her psychologically-skeptical gaze still on moi. “I don’t understand how you can live here. I mean, you’ve always been someone who likes to express himself. How can you do that here?”

Oh but ’he does! I wanted to say. On zee couch!! If only I had known a bit of English.

“You’d be amazed at how many ways there are to express yourself,” he told her.

“So what are your plans?” she asked.

Green card? thought I. We French girls are practical.

“Dinner,” he replied. “And then bed. Sex, probably. Depends on how much we drink.”

Cowboy Bill raised his hand for another round. The therapist counseled him, swiftly, that another round was verboten.

Dinner it was.

One of the thousands upon millions of restaurants in Paris...

You know how Paris is known for its gastronomie ? As in thousands upon millions of restaurants? On every block? In every quartier ? And sometimes, even though there are restaurants in every quartier it’s better to walk to the next quartier over because there’s a restaurant where the food is better? Where there’s a better rapport qualité/prix ? Yeah, that.

“I need to eat. Now. Where can we eat?” demanded the therapist. “I can only walk four blocks.”

Four blocks? wondered I.

“Four blocks?!” asked my writing partner.

“Four blocks,” affirmed the therapist.

“Mais c’est pas elle qui est la sportive ? C’est elle qui voulait aller au gym, non ?”

Ever had someone ask you where to eat – or demand, actually – and then announce they can only walk four blocks? Four small Parisian blocks? And you happen to be in one of those rare areas where the next four blocks is all boutiques and no restaurants? No restaurants save for one? And it’s so early that the tablecloths are still in the dryer? And it’s Paris – where there is no Early Bird Special? Yeah, that.

The brasserie was bland and badly lit. Cowboy Bill was to have no beef.

“You’ll have the salad,” instructed the therapist. “We’ll share.” Out of sheer sympathy, I ordered the carbonara; my writing partner went for the steak tartare. He’s thoughtful like that.

“What is THAT?” shrieked the therapist.

“Steak tartare,” said my writing partner, digging in. “You can get it in the United States, too.” He’s helpful like that.

“But how do you EAT it?”

“Like this…” Fancifully, fondly, flirtatiously he fed me a forkful.

“Raw meat? Don’t you worry about your health?”

I would’ve said, “Ça lui donne du stamina,” but we French girls don’t talk with our mouths full. Instead I fed him – fondly, fancifully, flirtatiously – a forkful of carbonara.

“So, what does she do?” Scrutinizing moi, but addressing my writing partner. Ah, so this is what couples therapy was like.

“She’s a writer,” he replied. “Some babysitting on the side.”

HA! Or en français : Ha-HAH !

“Caro-leen’s a genius,” he added.

Skeptical blinking. “Genius at what?”

Ha-HAH ! Ha-HAH ! HA! My writing partner-the therapist: 1-1.

“Really, I’d like to see you revitalize your relationship with X,” said the therapist. Her analytical gaze shot past moi. “She’s so dynamic and smart.”

“Yes,” agreed my writing partner. “Yes, she is.”

Hey! “Mais elle n’est pas une genius.”

“She’s still pretty smart,” he insisted. Bastard. When did he start understanding French?

“I’ll never forget that time we all went on vacation. That gorgeous hotel? And you gave her that lovely dress? With the earrings and necklace? She looked so beautiful . . . ”

Vacation? Earrings? Necklace? Dress? Five-star hotel with five stars? For some long-over-the-hill-gone-way-past-the-expiry-date X/Ex? And just what had he done for me lately? Hadn’t even ponied up for the wine! As promised! When the flower guy came by the table? Not one single faded-forlorn rose pour moi. And by the way, what kind of sugar daddy carts his cute/clever/charming/extremely hot babysitter/writer date around in the crummy-ass Métro? Shouldn’t he be driving a Porsche? I suddenly felt that my writing partner wasn’t in touch with my needs.

I, however, was in touch with Cowboy Bill’s needs. Poor ol’ Cowboy Bill – wandering the streets of Paris for weeks, four blocks at a time, cowboy hat and all, eating nothing but force-fed salads, at psychological gunpoint. What Cowboy Bill needed was beef – tender, moist, sexy French beef. And that was exactly what I gave him. Hand-fed to him by moi, from my writing partner’s plate, by the fond, flirtatious, fanciful forkful. D’accord . . . I totally knew it would piss Madame la Thérapeute off. But Madame la Thérapeute was wearing on my nicotine-deprived nerves. I’ve babysat belligerent nicotine-deprived French brats that were less passive/aggressive.

Buffalo Bill? In Paris?

“What is she DOING?” screeched the therapist.

“Mmmmmm . . .” said Cowboy Bill.

“My French is a little weak, but I think they call this a ménage à trois,” offered my writing partner. He’s helpful like that.

“Non, en fait en France on l’appelle un ‘trio,’” I corrected. I can be helpful sometimes, too. Fancifully, fondly, flirtatiously, I filled another fork. (Cue Gainsbourg’s soundtrack toEmmanuelle : Deux.)  Cowboy Bill was visibly salivating. Though it may have been from Long-Term Beef Deprivation Syndrome.

“That’s IT!” Another screech. She whisked up her coat and purse. “Bill! We’re going!!”

“MMMMMmmmmmmm . . .” was Cowboy Bill’s reply. Then: “MMmm-urff-erff-ot-orff,” which, with as little American as I understand, I think means, “See ya back at the hotel!”

Apparently, our session was over. Our therapist had left the room. She’d stormed right out of the resto. I hoped Cowboy Bill didn’t feel any abandonment issues.

Subconsciously, my French conscience suddenly kicked in. I couldn’t leave that poor, salad-weakened woman all alone in the Wild West that is Le Marais. There were more than four blocks between the resto and their hotel. What would she, what could she do? I couldn’t abandon her – it would have been gauche. Especially with all of the work she’d done to repair French-American relations. I followed her out onto the trottoir. (En plus, I was dying for a smoke.)

“Je vais vous trouver un taxi,” I said, signaling up the street.

“Oh sweetie, not me. I’m not angry – I’m perfectly calm.”

I wondered if I should encourage her to use “I-feel” statements, therapeutically, so she could process her deeper resentments. But I lacked the vocabulary.

“You know,” she said, “you have a really beautiful smile.”

I smiled.

“Of course, all that smoking is going to ruin it.”

“T’as raison. Tout le boeuf et les ménages à trois aussi.”

I lit up. Then again: “Un taxi ?”

“A taxi? Oh, no – I don’t need a taxi.”

And with that, she hoisted up her invisible baggage, fastened it firmly around her hips, and the three of them – she, the baggage and her hips – marched up the next four blocks.

She was, c’est vrai, going in the wrong direction. But I knew she wouldn’t want my guidance. Besides, I speak so little English.

Clarisse and Oktay: a couple mixte

It was Oktay’s fault I slammed the door in Clarisse’s face. He didn’t really give me much choice.

(Ahem. Oktay? Ladies First? Hellooooooo? Ever heard of it? Geez. It’s what you do at soirées when you show up at the door with a girl. Instead of blocking and barging and charging on in.)

Clarisse and I didn’t speak much at that first soirée. Nor at that Christmas soirée, either. But who wants to speak to anyone at Christmas? Plus, I’d already slammed the door on her.

Months passed. So did days. Weeks and perhaps even years. And months, too.

The third time I met Clarisse we didn’t speak at all. It was the Paris screening of her fifth film. She had other things to do. So did I. Like mainly-mostly watch the movie.

Because: Clarisse Hahn is a filmmaker. And a documentarian/iste and a photographerian/iste and a video installationiste, too. En plus, she’s a professeur. She teaches people about video and photos and documentaries and stuff. Her CV lists a litany of lists lauding her listing of expos and projects and projections from the late Nineties all the way on up to now. It’s kinda exhaustive, and kinda exhausting, kinda, and if you spend too much time reading it you kinda wanna just give up.) (Or move your ass.) (Depending on the day.) (And depending where you’re at with PMS.) (It all kinda depends.)

As for Oktay Sengul? He’s Clarisse Hahn’s all-the-time boyfriend, and  some-of-the-time creative collaborateur. Clarisse’s fifth film — really, when you think about it, she’s rather disgusting — is all about Oktay. Well, not allll about him — there are other people in it, too — but you could say that he got a starring role. (Can you say “starring role” when you’re talking about a documentary?) Anyway, it’s called Kurdishlover, because Oktay is Clarisse’s lover and because he’s Kurdish, too. Well, kinda Kurdish: Technically he was born here, but he has Kurdish roots there. In Kurdistan.

The thing about Paris is that if you’re gonna couple-up, you’re probably gonna be a couple mixte. That’s mixte as in dual-national, where one person is from one country and the other is from another. At minimum. Most of the time it goes like this: French-English, French-Canadian, French-American, French-Irish, French-Swedish, French-Finnish, French-Turkish, French-Tunisian, French-Brazilian, French-Korean, French-Russian, French-Portugese, French-Senegalese . . . and then there are those couples where neither person is from France at all. One couple I know is English-Japanese: To communicate, they speak French. To argue, it’s every man and/or woman for his and/or herself. (They yell at each other in their own respective languages.) I can’t think of one couple I know that isn’t mixte . . . Well, there was that French-French couple from back in the day . . . but it didn’t really work out.

Technically speaking, on a technical level, Oktay and Clarisse are a couple mixte. Even though both of them are – technically – French. (Then just why are they a couple mixte, you ask?) (Because I said so.) Being in Paris, in a couple mixte, basically boils down to food. As in: he cooks cuisine from his country (probably not boiled) and you cook cuisine from yours. (Note: Don’t even bother trying to explain the concept behind maple syrup to the French.) Every now and then you get stuck going to one of those long-ass French lunches – chez les in-laws, usually on Sunday, where they all yell at each other, all at the same time, for hours on end, and because Sunday afternoon comes after Saturday night, you’re horribly hungover as hell – but otherwise, as a couple mixte, you’re pretty much in the clear. Even when clearly hungover.

The fourth time I met Clarisse Hahn, it was chez elle. And chez Oktay. Nobody slammed the door in anybody’s face. We ate. (He cooked.) We spiced our dishes. (He got her to open the jars.) There was no maple syrup. (But it was still pretty good.) Oh, and we talked about Kurdishlover – you know, Clarisse’s fifth film. Wanna know what it’s about? Of course you do…

When Clarisse first got interested in filming Kurdistan, she was most interested in what Kurdish life was like in a country at war. She wound up with a film about a Kurdish family at war. Well, not really at war per se – more like at battle. A battle of bickering. Big-time bickering. Big-time bickering of the big, incessant variety. You know those long-ass French Sunday lunches I was talking about, where everyone’s yelling at each other, all at the same time? Kinda like that – only in Kurdishlover they don’t bother to bottle it all up and wait for Sunday. And I’ve never been to a French Sunday lunch where the French Sunday people propose so many proposals on what one might do, proposedly, with a donkey’s penis and one’s ass. But maybe I’m hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Oh, the Kurds and their ways...

Oktay’s family, which lives in a weeny-teeny village in the mega-massive Kurdish mountains, kind of get on each other’s nerves. You can see why. You show up for a long-ass Kurdish family luncheon in your best Sunday heels, and your best Sunday dress.(Whore!) And then, before lunch, before you can all sit down to eat and argue and agonize and eat, they tell you, you Miss Sunday Heels (slut!), you’re supposed to help slaughter the sheep that you’re supposed to be eating later? And the guy with the big knife, the one that’s supposed to slit the sheep’s throat — you, you’re supposed to be holding the sheep down, by the way — well, he doesn’t have a clue and doesn’t really know what he’s doing? So he forgets to cut the jugular and doesn’t really have a clue and doesn’t really quite know how to quite cut off the head and so the sheep’s body is jumping around and there’s blood gushing and splashing and spurting and splattering all over your shoes? Your white Sunday shoes?  Like you’re Carrie or something — you know, from that movie, Carrie? The one starring Carrie and the curly blonde-haired guy who became The Greatest American Hero?  It would kinda piss you off, right? (I mean really, do you really want to be associated with The Greatest American Hero?) (In Kurdistan?) Especially because you chose your outfit purposely, expressly, impressively to impress the in-laws? If you’d known, you wouldn’t have worn white — if you hadn’t been so worried about being viewed as a whore, you’d have gone for red — and then all that sheep’s blood would have at least color-coordinated.

Then there was the part with Oktay’s brother. (Have you noticed? There’s always a part with the brother.) He’s proposing marriage to a girl — actually, it’s him and his mom and his grandmother and the neighbors and, well, really, any of the sheep who weren’t still in shock from Sunday dinner. (Don’t bother to check the gift registry — it didn’t work out, much to the relief of the sheep.)

Oktay’s brother was born in Kurdistan, but he lives in France. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and everything, but . . .  . Well. Oktay’s brother (we’ll call him Oucho,  because that’s his name) . . . He . . . Well . . . Well . . . well. Well he doesn’t really get it. As in he doesn’t really get girls. As in: He doesn’t really get girls and he doesn’t really get girls, either. Any girls. Not even the girls his mother and grandmother and the neighbors and the sheep have come over to organize for him. The whole pre-marital courtship is under way, and Oucho goes down the road for a beer. Oucho — and like I said, I’m sure he’s nice and everything — well, let’s just say he’s no Don Juan. Or Lothario. Or Romeo. Or Barry White. Or even just Eminem.

Oktay’s parents came to France in the Seventies, before Oktay was born, which is why when he was born, he was born French. And he’s pretty predominantly Parisian, en plus – of the book-reading, multi-language-speaking, movie-going, movie-making, vernissage-attending variety. Back at the farm – among his grandmother and his cousins and his by-marriage relations and his unmarried brother and their neighbors and their enemies and their friends . . . and the shaman and the sheep and the pagans and the horny hermit . . . Back at the farm, it’s gotta seem somewhat surréaliste. Or maybe not. I mean, whose family isn’t completely batshit crazy? But letting your girlfriend film all this stuff? Or being the girlfriend that is filming all this stuff? In front of the in-laws? Especially the part with the brother? Well . . . well. One could say that such a display of vulnerabilité is courageous and bold and brave. On both the parts of both Clarisse and Oktay, both. Especially the part with the brother.

Speaking of horny hermits, the horny hermit in Kurdishlover comes off as pretty witty and charming as far as grimy bearded horny hermits go. O.K., so he did use the opportunity of being filmed as l’occasion to advertise his (pretty intense) need for a woman (as long as she’s English or German). But if you’re a woman, and you’re English or German, and you’re all dressed up in your best red (skank!) Sunday dress with nowhere to go, I say go for him. Because if your only choices are the horny hermit and Oucho? You just know that Oucho would ditch you halfway through the date to go down the road for a beer. The horny hermit, on the other hand? He offered to carry the next woman he sees on his back. All the way down the mountain. Especially if they’re wearing their best (slutty) English and/or German heels.

And down that mountain? That particular one? That particular one where that particular horny hermit lives? I heard that the nightlife is amazing.