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.