Curioser and Curioser

Ah, Noel.

It's fairly calm, and anything but tacky. Damn you, Paris, and your overbearing good taste. I can only compare it to the small town of Nyborg, Denmark where I spent late November; a town full of people I adore, but also a town that decorates by attaching plush, life-sized gnomes to every building.

It's borderline horrifying. Essentially, the town hall decided to deck the halls with festive suicidal midgets. Nothing says 'Christmas' like small people trying to fling themselves out windows!

Now, Paris does let itself go a little bit, when it comes to storefronts.

Behold, the Moschino Cheap & Chic window on Rue de Grenelle:


What isn't fabulous about this? Adorable Christmas figures plunged into a life of destitution and crime after seeing their portfolios disintegrate: "C'EST LA CRISE" ! And on some basic level, everyone passing by is forced to realise that this is the only way they could afford those frustratingly cute aubergine dresses on display.

Thank you, Moschino. For reminding us of JUST HOW POOR WE REALLY ARE. (Note the gnome playing look out in the corner...maybe he'll migrate North to Denmark to off himself once his life of crime fizzles).

And then. There's Galaries Lafayette.
They've never disappointed in the past. They've been consistently creative and yet, it seems they've passed the 'creative' mark and gone straight to..well...uhh...drugs..



Oh YES, those really are babies smoking opium pipes on top of that mushroom. Now THAT is the spirit of Christmas, my friends: Newborns smoking Class A drugs. It makes me feel all warm and cozy inside.

The biggest question here is what this is supposed to sell? Crack? Baby dolls? Crack babies? I'm willing to guess this window has the opposite effect its designers intended:
Instead of ushering their children to see this window, if I were a parent I would corral my kids away..."SHIELD YOUR EYES, JIMMY, NOTHING TO SEE HERE! REMEMBER WHAT WE LEARNED ABOUT NOT ACCEPTING 'CANDY' FROM STRANGERS?!"

...Merry Christmas from Paris.

Secret socialist wins election!

Meanwhile, over in Paris, A PS (Socialist Party) poster notes, "Obama did it.."


Somewhere in Paris, a sad lonely Republican ex-pat is thinking to himself, 'If only we could have fed this to the assclowns running the McCain campaign BEFORE the election?' 

Ah, the desperate attempts to color Obama as a socialist (as if that's a bad thing?) and a Muslim (again, patently offensive to suggest that's a bad thing) didn't work. And he's our president. I'm so happy about this, people, I almost put an smileyface emoticon there. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Congratulations, America; this snobby ex-pat has god a bad case of hope and it feels good. 

The chicks are TOTALLY going to dig this.

It's become unbearable.

The only thing worse than waiting these 5 days until the election is being in a country where, surprisingly, people are allowed think about other things.

I've become a social pariah at dinner parties; if anyone dare utters 'America' I climb onto my soapbox, start gesticulating wildly and throw out overarching truths about the election. 

"La base américaine est un MYTHE crée par Karl Rove en 2004...!!"

I never realized how much I enjoyed pontificating until approximately August 2008. I mean, how DARE they have an opinion, they CAN'T UNDERSTAND MY PAIN. No non-American (save for maybe, Iraqis and Afghans, and a smattering of other nationalities..) understands the trauma of 2004! 

I don't care if you read the NYTimes MORE often than I do, WERE YOU IN PALM BEACH COUNTY IN 2000? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

I have become a woman obsessed. I compulsively reading every online media source that even vaguely provides information on the outcome.

Blogging about this any more would just feed the cycle of insanity. To distract myself, and you, kind reader, a potpourri of life these days...

1. Oh angst, thy name is some dude named 'Aaron'



Waiting in line for my flight to America the other week, I became aware of this gentleman in front of me. Fat, plumply, large, loud, American and about my age. He's wearing a backpack with HUGE tags from various ski resorts in North America. Now, we all know how I feel about self-glorifying skiiers. This guy already was already creeping up the douchebag scale.

Then, seeing a way to skip the line, picks up his backpack and says to the patiently waiting queue:

"AU VWA, SUCKERS!"

...it was precisely at this moment, when I was silently willing his head to explode that I noticed his HAT. Fresh off some Oktoberfest (totally AwEsOme wOoOo) drinking tour, he felt the need to BUY and WEAR a hat with a Little Plush Beer Stein glued to the side.

Not only that, the Little Plush Beer Stein had a plume attached, representing, of course, beer. On a hat. I never thought one sartorial object could say something so clearly, but apparently this hat CAN say ' I enjoy the fact that I have a beer gut at 21, don't shower, and have the intelligence of a raccoon. Also, I really enjoy Phish and Guster."


2. Where have all the Good Men Gone...?



...they've been processed, canned and sold for 2 euros at a market in Belleville.


3. For Your Moment of Zen, a great moment in the history of American song, brought to you by A.W. and M.K-S, at the Morikami Gardens in Delray Beach...

"French public said to support Obama's exit strategy"

...toward a lasting paix in Iraq.

Putting the "ass" in "canvassing"

As a general rule, I prefer "grumpiness and cynicism" to "hope and ideological motivation."
But the idea of Barack Obama as president makes my Eurosnobbish heart warm over. So, finding myself in South Florida a few precious weeks before the election, I decide to talk to strangers and get heatstroke--for the cause.

I show up to the Obama-Biden headquarters located in the Bermuda Star of David of south Florida: the intersection of Delray Beach and Boca; a half mile from the Kings' Point complex, and East of the everglades.

I'm greeted by a 20-something at the door, cute in a sort of annoyingly motivated sort of way. "WHAT AN ADAWRABLE BOY!" an 80-something volunteer would exclaim later. (I was waiting to hear "I'm gawing to intraduce him ta my granddawtah!" but alas...)

I say I'm willing to canvas, and he shuffles me over to a table with an attractive middle aged woman. I ask where she's from, she says Boston. Originally? Lebanon. I'm immediately excited; start talking about my aborted year in Beirut, etc. Then it occurs to me...

...They're sending a blonde and a Lebanese woman out to canvas in Boca Raton. Boca. Raton.
The 'more pro-Israel-than-Israelis' heartland. The Hilary-or-die democrats. The target of the Great Schlep!

Nevertheless, we pile into my car with Obama buttons and our mail-in ballots, and get assigned to a neighborhood picked at random.

Knocking on the first door, we speak with a nice, young black guy about mail-in voting. We chat, he fills out a mail-in ballot request form.

As we're leaving, my canvassing partner declares in a loud voice:

"WHY THEY SEND US TO BLACK NEIGHBORHOOD, BLACKS ALREADY LIKE OBAMA."

I mumble something about pushing early voting and we keep going. We knock on a couple more doors, everyone is really nice and receptive, and I'm feeling pretty warm and fuzzy about America, racial harmony, and the future of the world as a whole. THEN Faiza offers another piece of wisdom:

"BLACK PEOPLE WHY THEY ALWAYS SO ANGRY?"

"What's that?"

"FOR EXAMPLE THAT BLACK MAN HE LOOK SO angry LOOK AT WAY HE ANSWERED THE DOOR..[continues rambling]..."

"(Silence)....uhhh..."

REALLY, Obama volunteer?! Although tempted to point out the obvious--that we were volunteering for a man who happens to be black, and in fact the old white man is the 'angry' one, I was shocked into silence. I'm willing to accept that I didn't understand the nuance of what she was trying to say, but I think I got the gist of it.

Clearly, her feet are in the right place, but I don't quite buy the "I'm voting for Obama, so I can be as racist as I like." It's worse than the "Some of my best friends are...(black/gay/et al.)" rhetort, which has never held any water, and is even sadder on the eve of this election.

Sad, strange, or just plain depressing, the experience is noteworthy because the first place I have heard pretty openly racist remarks firsthand was....with a volunteer for Obama.

Oh, America.

UPDATE! Well, hello, Gawker, way to reiterate the scary/fascinating phenomenon of Racists for Obama

One million tiny plays about France, #1

(Idea lovingly ripped off from a column in The Guardian)

Two Parisian boys, just returned from August vacation in Manhattan, practice their English, discuss their futures.

Jean-Pierre: Thibault, how are you going?

Thibault: Ugh, I go well, but the research for the work, she makes me shit. 

J.P.: You don't have the chance, you should prepare to the E.N.A. like me. This is the work of the real aristocrats.

Thibault: I find what you do completely undickable. I don't dick any of it. 

J.P.: But why you don't want to become a functionary? Do you want to work more than 35 hours a week?

Thibault: Of course not, but I don't want to work with those shitters. The idea of this makes me shit more than the research for work. Maybe I will to move to London?

J.P.: 'a'a'a'a'a'. And eat their food?

Thibault: This is true. And make love to their women? 

J.P.: There is perhaps something there. They have never had a real lover with 'Ze French Touch'. 

Thibault: I will make my little English take her foot. 

J.P.: Ah yes, she will climb the curtains. 

Thibault: It's decided. I move to London. 

Comment perdre une partie de Monopoly

*How to lose a game of Monopoly

[Disclaimer: this is a posting particularly limited in scope, but I had to post, for the following three reasons:]

Dear CZ,

Je m'excuse d'avance, but seeing as you 'don't remember' the night of that infamous game of Monopoly, I thought I would help you out. Basically, this post is:

1) Vengeance. Back in Spring 2006, I was lead to believe, in particularly convincing French legalese, that I was going to be deported from the country for 'inciting racial hatred against the French' with the contents of this very blog. The author was none other than you, my dear.

2) A Public Service. You think your middle name is "N'a jamais perdu une partie de Monopoly"; within a half hour of losing this very game, you were denying your loss. I know that, being French, you're very adept at rewriting history, but not on my watch.

3)An interesting Study on the results of a French economic law education on Monopoly strategy. I could write a thesis on this, I think. France's finest academic institutions produce some scary results:

First, not landing on any real estate yourself, start to build houses on other people's property, then refuse to pay taxes/improvement fines.

Then, feeling someone getting ahead, you ally with a third player. When this new ally starts to reap those advantages, ally with another player. (5 minutes after allying with me, I haven't forgotten that you called to the other players "LET'S MAKE THE AMERICAN BLEED!")

When your former alliances start losing, pool your resources and take over the lead.

And then....against the odds...die untergang:

Step 1. Complete denial:



Translation:
You know why I've won yet again? (won? we ask)
Because:
1) I PERSEVERED
2) I [sic]
3) I REFLECTED
4) I PERSEVERED

Step 2: Childlike violence

(After being heckled by us on the couch, CZ, you so nobly admit 'It's over because of YOU"..yes, yes, dear we are to blame for your downfall)




Step 3: Actual violence:

..And THAT's why you don't go to Le Queen for Ladies' Night.

A cautionary tale, in pictures. Once upon a time, there was a club, a club that needs no introduction. An unpretentious, cheezy, boombox of sweaty Europeans, fistjabbing the air. (see graphic 1, examples A and B)

Graphic 1:



In our tale, two girls arrive on the Elysian Fields after downing a few mugs of Limoncello.



Embarrassing dancing results. Note: I like to think I was being ironic, and that I didn't actually think this was attractive at the time.

But then, of course, the police crash my party as usual. Or ARE THEY cops? Why, they appear to be...dancing!


...why, even throwing in a little law-enforcing ass wiggle....



And. . . basically. . . All i can think of is:



Combined with a bit of:



...And I can't stop laughing.



...Pretty soon, I'm in complete hysterics. What followed was a very NSFW situation, prompting the following conversation:

"Huh, he's like naked. Like NAKED naked."
"Yeah. Well, except for that towel he's...holding."

Now, I had seen the strippers at Queen before, but thanks to Arrested Development, my enjoyment of the erotic arts is forever tarnished. Le sigh.

(Side note: What about cops is hot? Has anyone seen members of Law Enforcement in America and/or France? Now, the CRS, maybe. Stripping CRS (Riot Police) dudes, that I can imagine. They could incorporate dry ice instead of tear gas into their act; it'd be amazing.)

But, tiring of these shenanigans, we stumble home. Up the 6 flights of stairs, and into bed, to sleep like little drunken babies.


The end.

"Red wine on paint", 2008.

I am as accident-prone and as unable to tolerate wine as a 4 year-old. The only way I even got into kindergarten was sleeping my way in. I won the Best Napper award in Pre-K!

So, I have had bad experiences with red wine in the past. But typically this involves over-ingestion and embarrassing dancing. For example, the night this picture was taken. The look of drunken pain on my face pretty much sums it up:


I inflicted that pain, in vomit form, all over Richard's flat in the 15th arrondissement, and about 12 pairs of shoes. Sorry, guys.

Tonight though, red wine and I had an even more unfortunate encounter.

It had been a bad day. I had to investigate my visa status, and visit the bank. Both involved kowtowing to mean French bureaucrats. Who eat puppies. Lest we forget.

Coming home in a storm, I decide I could use some red wine, pick up the bottle of Bourgeuil, and realise I don't have a corkscrew. And neither does the flat I'm staying in.

Building up steam, I decide to take a small knife, and start jabbing it into the cork.
"This is a bad idea," I think. I keep going.

No, no. I'll ask the neighbors for one. Sure, my next door neighbor tends to fall asleep with the door open, passed out onto his bed (I'm convinced he's a heroin addict, after watching too much Intervention). So, I knock on his door.

"Hi, it's your neighbor!"

"No."

(I pause). "It's your neighbor who lives next door?"

(he pauses, realising you can't deny fact. Although I think he's trying)

He says he doesn't have a corkscrew. What kind of French person DOESN'T HAVE A CORKSCREW. Creepy motherf**** I think, and go back the 1/2 step to my apartment.

I pick up the knife, then go for the carving fork. This seems like an excellent improvement over the paring knife.

So I'm pushing desperately when all of a sudden, the cork gives, and out comes a GEYSER of red wine, all over my face, my Reiss sweater, and, most unfortunately of all, the wall of my friend's flat.

It wasn't just a spill. At least I don't have to re-paint my friend's kitchen for just a measly spill. This was a work to make Pollack jealous. I can't wait until I'm famous. I can just see the interview:

"Well my inspiration really was my frustration. Not merely my own, but society's frustration with its own bureaucratic constraints. What this red wine-on-paint study really represents is the brutal force we have in all of us; the violence of life."

I'm half-laughing, half-crying when I hear a knock on the door. It's my neighbor.

"I found a corkscrew."

Ergo, frigo

Maybe it's my roommate's Atkins diet, maybe it's nostalgia, but I've been getting pretty sad looking at our fridge recently. Then it occured to me what a freakishly perfect microcosm of our life in Paris the door is.

Without further ado, the contents of our
fridge door:

-Not 1, but 2 noise violation notices from the police, for "Tapage nocturne; cris, chants, et musique enregistrée." This has launched a not so subtle war with the neighbors, which climaxed in The Pear Incident, in which a neighbor threw a pear at Cesi out their window. They threw. A pear. On purpose.

1 label from a tan of unidentifiable Southeast Asian fruit. Reads:
MANGO STEEN IN SYRUP "COCK" (we are approximately 12 years old)

- 7 Marie Antoinette magnets, courtesy of Andrea Mack. We liked Versailles a lot, we preferred the fridge magnets.

- 1 rejection letter from large law firm.

- Various notes on pink pads. Notably:

- "BE CAREFUL OPENING FREEZER, VODKA WILL FALL."
(we have subsisted on a few litres of Vodka from Miami International Apartment all semester. I would have legally adopted them if it were legally possible for man and alcohol to share that sort of bond.)

-"THINGS BROKEN": (this is a sad, sad list)
The list of glasses broken is so long, we have started attributing financial responsibility to the dog.

...It will be tough to leave this flat. But all I know is I'm investing in plastic cups and insulation wherever I move next.

Pas tes oignons

This is what I opened the door to, recently:



French garbage man's jacket: 3 euros

Pants : 8 USD

Staying on Francescas' couch: 0 euros

10 Kilos of Onions, brought by foot from North Paris: 5 euros

5.614 Kilos of Quinoa (not pictured): 19.8 Euros

Being told the stove doesn't work: priceless.


...Those onions are rotting in our kitchen as we speak.

Gestion de colère

It's been difficult to respond to the question "How's Paris?" of late. Paris is amazing. Of course. Everyone knows that. Paris could be completely charming under 9 out of the 10 biblical plagues. Raining locusts? Why, locusts would compliment the muted greys of Parisian buildings just splendidly!

But, Paris is largely irrelevant to my quotidien. Sciences Po is not Paris, Sciences Po is a crock pot of simmering academic rage at the moment. I didn't think it had gotten to me until yesterday.

I kicked someone. A stranger.

And she totally deserved it.

I delivered a (gentle) kick to the shins to an American girl eating a tuna and egg sandwich across from me in the library yesterday.

In my defense, I wouldn't have kicked her if:

1) This had been her first offense (she was eating a panini last time)
2) The library weren't so crowded that I was practically face-first in her egg baguette. (EGG, people, EGGs in the library)
3) I hadn't been in the library for 6 hours in a row already.


I passed it off as an accident. But I don't regret it. Not only is it stinky; she's in FRANCE. The only place where public social norms are stronger than in Britain. Whereas in London people just look away uncomfortably, in Paris they will MAKE YOU PAY. I consider my foot merely an instrument of public opinion.

To the anonymous library glutton, I offer this warning: If I have to follow social norms, so don't you, my pudgy compatriote. Don't MAKE me kick you again.

Prescott v. Sarkozy

Say what you like about France, but you can't beat French politics.

France, bless, has had more than its fair share of mistresses, illegitimate children, and displays of public drunkenness from the Presidents and the Prime Ministers, and this was all before Nicolas Sarkozy.

A look at this week in French Politics:

Briefly put, noone likes Sarkozy. But, let's give him some slack. He's had a busy past 9 weeks. In that period of time, lest we forget, he has
-Starting dating a woman (Carla Bruni)
-Married her
-Lost like a couple dozen percentage points in popularity.

And, in possibly my favorite presidential move of all time, ze...'ow do you say, ze cherry on ze cake:

Essentially, Sarkozy was flesh-pressing at the Salon de L'agriculture (conference center in Paris, chock-a-block with French farmers, their cows, and their cheese, etc.)

When some man gets upset that Sarkozy is, well, pressing his flesh.

Le dude: Don't touch me.

Sarkozy: Piss off.

Le dude: You dirty me.

Sarkozy: Piss off then, you pathetic ass.

There's nothing not hilarious about this. 'Pauvre con' (pathetic ass) has been the catchphrase for the past week, and will continue to be so for say, the next 6 months.

But let's not forget second favorite act of political violence, from (gasp)...a Brit. John Prescott, deputy prime minister, had a slight issue with a farmer as well:



Man, I'm sorry, bring on the fights. Surely, we need more verbal and physical abuse from our elected leaders. The U.S. just needs to catch up. I'm sure Hilary Clinton could definitely hurt a bitch if forced to do so...

An Open Letter to Paris, France on Valentine's Day

Mon cher Paris,

Baby I'm sorry. Take me back. I know, I know, I haven't called. And I've been spending a lot of time with your older, more successful sister. But she's not nearly as pretty as you are. London? London means nothing to me.

I mean, who needs politeness. London's polite, but you, my dear are sexy. And you know it.
I'll take you back, warts (fonctionnaires) and all, if you'll let me cuddle up to you again, because....

Baby, I love you even though your garbage cans look like used condoms:



I love you even though most of your male inhabitants look like they've been attacked by an evil squid master race, disguised as scarves:

(unsuspecting Parisian male victim)

And Baby, I love you because of vignettes like this: Today I was in my local tabac, standing up at the bar drinking a coffee, like an old man, because it's 1 euro cheaper. Excellent. I am brought back to attention from a little Parisian daydream by snippets of the following conversation:

"Baiser (To fuck, in French)...Fuck...Baiser....fuck..."


[This conversation is taking place between the two owners of the café, and the old guy sitting at the counter. I immediately tune in.]


"Oui, les phoques......" (aha! not fuck, but phoques, which means seal)

"...quand ils reproduisent, c'est de la folie! C'est pour ça qu'on dit 'Baiser comme une phoque'"
(When they reproduce, it's madness! That's why they say, 'To fuck like a seal')

(Seals, really?! I think to myself. Is this why they, you know, club them? Moralizing Canadians on a rampage? I mean, look at this: Does this look like a rapaciously sexual animal?)

'Oui, même les petites phoques ont des besoins...'

Then, partially inebriated old man interjects. Mais non!

"Non, non! Pas une phoque, mais un foc, f-o-c...."

(So, not fuck, not phoque, but, rather, foc, which apparently means sail, like a sailboat: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foc)

[We all stare. How could you have sex like an inanimate object?]

"Le foc, it goes wherever the wind takes it, to right and to left....you know...."

[He gesticulatres wildly, showing the fluidity of a sail, and someone whose pants are similarly loose...]

'I never knew that,' we all agree. Linguistic enlightenment in a dank tabac-café; oh, Paris.

So, a happy belated Valentine's day to you, Paris, and to all you out there.

May your date have the morals of a sailboat.

The Sisterhood of the Granny Pants

Surrounded by 7 naked aging New Yorkers, it occured to me how weird South Florida can be. I have enjoyed my time here so far, despite all the gnashing of teeth before leaving London. I mean, Delray Beach is a lovely place; there's a reason this town is best known for rehab and hospice. It's about the comfort level of, and the temperature of, the womb:

(East Delray Beach, darling:)



But, I digress.
On that Thursday, I had gathered a few hundred pounds of discounted designer clothing and was corralled into the changing room. A massive, communal changing room.

There's something sort of comforting by being surrounded by pudgy naked old women. Mainly, the obvious Schadenfreude (My life may be a mess, but at least I don't look like cottage cheese).

Everything was fine until I tried on a formal dress. An obviously Marilyn Monroe-styled dress (empire waist, two separate boob restraints.) I'm admiring myself in the mirror when the fitting room attendant comes in and addresses all of us:

"DON'T FORGET TO HANG UP THAH ITEMS THATCHA DON'T PURCHASE..."

Then, she looks at me.

" OH HONEY, THAT'S TOO OPEN, CLOSE UP YOUR TOP"

All 12 grannies stare at me. I can see the look of 'My grandson is never marrying a Shiksa like you," on their vicious, shriveled faces.

Mortified, I look in the mirror. I thought that was Acceptable-Cleavage, not You-Should-Be- Ashamed-Of-Yourself-Cleavage. None of them being maternally related to me, I don't recall them having the right to make me feel so inadequate. I blush and immediately start clutching the dress to my chest.

Then, the woman next to me turns me and offers,

"Dahlink, don't vorry about it, it's in fvashion at ze moment."

"Thank you..." I stammer. Conversing with naked old women is beginning to seem normal at this point.

My hero. She's not a day under 85 years old, and (quite seriously, considering I was in Boca Raton and considering her accent) could very well have been a Holocaust survivor. She's now wearing naught but big white granny pants and gold platform sandals. Having survived an atrocity, she's definitely earned the right to wear atrociously inappropriate sandals. Amen, sistah.

I give her an appreciative look, grab all my clothes and flee the changing room.

I'm not sure how I grew up here, but I kind of love that I did.

Liza Minelli on skis.

Don't say I'm not versatile. I have various degrees of loathing.

There's loathing-annoyance (sliced lemon or lime in any drink), and there's loathing-disdain (people who think Sex And The City is THE BEST SHOW EVER, oh-my-god-what's WRONG with you if you don't?!) and loathing-snobbery (very similar to loathing-disdain.)

Skiing is a category all of its own. I loathe skiing. But only because I can't ski. I've spent extensive amounts of time in the Alps (in the summer), and I consider myself quite sporty- I think I'd be an excellent skier, actually.

But I grew up in Florida. South Florida. I Just. Don't. Ski. Yet. And I grew tired of hearing:

"Awwww...(with a look best reserved for UNICEF orphans)...BUT SKIING IS:"

a) relaxing
b) energizing
c) beautiful
d) SO MUCH FUN

So, I went on the offense and started loathing all things ski-related. (At least until I get a chance to ski, of course).
Until recently, I had nothing in my arsenal. Then, a coworker started looking around for skiwear, and stumbled across the following page:

http://www.jtl-skiwear.co.uk/menswear.html

NOTE: THIS WEBSITE IS NOT INTENDED IRONICALLY. THEY ARE ACTUALLY HOPING TO SELL SKIWEAR:


I don't even know where to begin. Were these photos shot in someone's garage? Or against a glamour shots background in a strip mall in Minnesota somehwere? Potential actual cost of photo shoot: $10---> 5 bucks worth of Tempura paint, and 'model' acquired for $5 from a Swiss prison. And yes, I understand they were going for an action shot, but you're not fooling anyone there, buddy. You look about as active as an MRI patient.

Did you think I was kidding when I said 'Swiss Prison'...because I wasn't. I've been in a Swiss Prison, actually. I can vouch.* Case in point, our model #2:

"YOU VIL BUY MY SKI-VEAH, JA?!" The last thing you see before being crushed into submission is a light lavender blur of fleece. (Also, the blinding light shining in her eyes makes me suspect this, uh, photo series was actually shot in an Arizona strip mall. Yes. And then there's Model #3....

Just...wow. What exactly did they say to him to get him from the first photo to this?! "COME ON DARLING, YOUR CROTCH IS GOLD! HOW DO YOU THINK BOB FOSSE SKIED!? WORK! WORK!!"

Although to be fair, he seems to really, really like those pants. Heck, for 55 pounds, I'd pay to be that happy just to wear trousers.

*..I was in a Swiss prison to VISIT. As part of my job. No, really.

The Two Betrayals of the L.B.D.

Sartorially speaking, the Little Black Dress (L.B.D.) is the wingman of your closet. Oft underappreciated, often told "[--] is the new black," (Fashion journalists who use that trite phrase should be strung up and forced to eat fried chicken. Orange is the new black? Bite me.), everyone knows the L.B.D. is one of the few things you can depend on in your short, superficial life. I have only heard of two occasions in which the little black dress went horribly, egregiously wrong. Read on, dahlings:

#1

7:05 a.m. Friday morning, I wake up. My train for the airport left at 6:59 a.m. I'm still drunk, and I haven't packed for Amsterdam. I begin a stream of cursing that would a grown man blush.

Throw on my black dress, and my hold-up tights, knee-high boots, and toss 3 pairs of jeans and 1 T-Shirt into my carry-on. (Again, I was still drunk)

Pouring rain outside; I get drenched and roll up to Farringdon Station 45 minutes late. Sharing the track with me is a middle-aged Bangladeshi man. We share a brief membership in The Brotherhood Of 'OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO MISS OUR FLIGHTS,' East London division. He looks at his watch when I tell him when my plane leaves and I can see a flash of sincere sympathy. Or maybe he was just confused why I still smelled of gin.

I get to the Airport train station in hysterics, hail yet another cab to the actual airport terminal, and begin the best sprint of my life. At the beginning I'm thinking, 'Sure, this is a little Home Alone-esque, but damn, I'm good at running while drunk! That gym membership is paying off!'

25 minutes later, I am pretty sure I'm actually approaching death. I arrive at the massive Security hall, which is completely empty. I come panting in, sprinting in my black dress and boots. The sides of my stockings are now about half way down my thighs.

Which, it turns out, allof the (all-male? seriously, why?) staff of Luton Airport noticed. By the time I ran through to the X-ray machines, they were lined up like a chorus line with bags of popcorn. I heard mutterings about 'tart' and 'crumpet,' and I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about food

'IhavetomakethisflightI'msorryIthinkIhaveliquidsinthisbagohpleasepleaseletmethrough" I say to the security dude, frantically hiking up my stockings so the lacy bits don't show.

(Note: it is impossible to do that subtly.)

He takes pity on me, and waves me through, liquids and all.

Regaining my momentum, I sprint to my gate, flailing wildly through packs of men on Lads' Weekends. More laughter, more nasty British slang and giggles. It had never occurred to me, however, that perhaps, just maybe, the hoards of chavs would be headed for...Amsterdam. So, for the last 10 minutes of my jog, I'd been running through my fellow passengers, making me look like, That Freak Who Really Really Wants To Be The First Damn Person On The Flight.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday: Amsterdam. Amsterdam is gorgeous:

#2

Wake up, Monday morning 6 a.m., and begin to commute into work. From Amsterdam. Except it occurred to me that:

a) I haven't brushed my hair in three days, due to poor drunken packing decisions. (No brush, no soap, nada)

b) I don't have any business clothes.

Grab the same Little Black Dress. "Ehh," it's short, I think, but high-collared, fancy enough, and quite excellent all around (Love you, Topshop, mwah.) Get to the airport in fine shape, get into work more or less on time, at which point it occurs to me my commute into London, from Amsterdam, was better than many people's commutes within London/Southeast England. Rawk.

Then, I get a call from a secretary in the afternoon. I have to pick up a visa for a partner.

…at the Saudi Embassy.

I call almost everyone I know from the chauffered Merc on the way. London is freaking beautiful, by the way. (When the sun shines. Or at least between The City and Mayfair, through all the parks. In a chauffeured car.) I walk into the embassy, with a book, the paperwork, and no expectations. Al-Arabiyya is blasting in the corner, and I'm getting one hell of a look from the guys behind the counter. It occurs to me to chide my hairstylist for dying my hair Russian Hooker Blonde this time around.

I'm comforted by the fact that while, yes, I may be wearing an outfit that is best kept for Saturday Night, at least I can read these documents in Arabic. (Through all my years of Arabic classes, I think all we ever did was read visa applications. I couldn't order a coffee, but I can tell you the words for 'multiple-entry visa')

I'm patient, because I don't want to cross the huge room one more time—finally, as the office is closing I approach the window. "Very sorry, but any chance of getting this passport back?" He asks when we dropped it off. I understand, from other people's moaning, that you had to drop it off on the previous Wednesday for Monday pick up. I know that we had dropped it off that day.

I feign ignorance."I'm sorry, I don't really know anything."

He gives me a long look. "Eez okay, I print for you now."

Maybe it was the perfect occasion for the Little Black Dress, after all.*

*(Oh what a shamefully Sex and the City last sentence. Oops.)

A dinner comedy in two parts.

Part I: The adventures of Momo and recently-emancipated Mimi

As my persistent love handle informed me recently, I really love food. This is why, despite having a fabulously steady job in The City; at nights I take off my pressed shirts in exchange for a bleached apron and occasionally do catering for my former boss.

Before you judge:

1. It transforms my dining menu for any given week into something like this:

Monday: Pasta with sauce. Water. Tea.
Tuesday: Pasta with red sauce. Water. Tea. Digestive.
Wednesday: Monkfish wrapped in Pancetta, Scallops with lentils, Lamb chops with potato and fennel mash, White Chocolate Semi-Freddo, with sips of a 1986 Chateau d'Yguem Sauterne for dessert
Thursday: Salad, balsamic vinegar. Water. Tea.

2. Alan Rickman. You may know Alan Rickman as the cheating boss from Love Actually, or Professor Snape from all the Harry Potter films. I know Alan Rickman as the dude who never drinks champagne and who really likes canapés. He also shares a special category with Carl Kasell and Gregory Peck, as to 'Men whose voices make their faces and age irrelevant.' He's also a regular guest at the house where I get all these catering jobs. Where we set our scene.

In the kitchen when the door rang I hear an antiquated generically Germanic voice. 'HALLO DAHLING' …why, it's Mimi Lipton!

Despite what her name might suggest, Mimi Lipton is not a porn star. According to Google, she is the world's leading expert on Tibetan tiger rugs. Go figure. She was born about 80 years before the emancipation of Mimi. I consider congratulating her on breaking loose from those shackles, but hold my tongue.

I then started to ogle her awesome old lady style (jewelry pieces the size of basketballs, big flowy dress) but then I see the pest at her feet: A bijon frise, whose fur has been uber-poofed, straightened, shaped and talcum-powdered so heavily that he snows every time he yips. She brought a teddy bear masquerading as a dog.

'COME HE-AH, MOMO, DAHLING' she calls. Mimi and Momo. Of course.

Everything was fine until I made my first round of canapés; 'Duck, rocket, and plum chutney?' I offer.

'VAT? VAT IS IN IT? IS IT VAIRRRY SALTY?'

I shake my head no. Then, as I'm bending over at 90 degrees (she's 4' and sitting on a chair), holding an enormous gold platter, she painstakingly begins to dissect the canapé. 10 minutes later, all that is left on the platter is a blob of chutney and strand of rocket. The duck gets tossed down the gorge of McFluffin.

The monkfish wrapped in Pancetta suffers the same fate; it IS incredibly salty, but at this point, am actively trying to give the dog a kidney stone.

While my gut is to be insulted for the chef, and mortified for myself, a reality check hit me.

The thing about being 24 and partially financially reliant on your parents is that, for 20 pounds an hour, yeah, I'll feed f'ing canapés to a dog that looks like a pillow.

Part II: Britain shall never Surrender. To Mint Sauce.

The first two courses went off without a hitch, until the main course was served; a juicy, perfectly cooked lambchop with miniature spring vegetables. I am so relieved that the chef, my bud, and old boss, has decided not to serve lamb with any trace of mint.

Mint sauce, in short, represents everything that is wrong with Britain. It is pine-puke green, gelatinous, and kept at the back of everyone's fridges until, lo and behold! Someone makes lamb. Mint sauce doesn't complement lamb, it treats lamb like a piece of toast.

Get your stinkin' marmalade away from my meat.

The catering staff are cleaning up when we see the Lord [---]* walk in. No, not jesus, a lord. Of England. As in, 'Lords-a-leaping,' and The House Of. On a side note, he's gorgeous, but on his third wife. Oops.

"Very sorry to bother, but do we have any mint sauce?" he blusters.

All, in unison: "Sorry, what's that?"

"Mint. Sauce. For the lamb."

"Mint. Sauce?" (I can feel my inner Basil Fawlty rising)

[he starts rummaging in the back of the fridge] "Surely we must have some mint sauce somewhere…"

(I feel a vein pop out in my forehead)

We eventually convince him to stop looking, that it's useless, and he will have to damn well live without mint sauce. But THIS, my friends, is why Britain lost it's empire. A little known fact: if mint sauce hadn't been rationed during World War II, England would have lost.

And to think, this self-repression is coming from the top-down. End the self-fulfilling prophecy of bad food, Britain! Fight Mint Sauce on the beaches! And in the streets! In the hills! Britain should never surrender…

*For various reasons, I'm not using his last name, but you'll just have to take my word for it