Ready for an extreme opposite-of-glamor explosion? Okay, so let’s do this, I’m totally up for it. And don’t act like it’s never happened to you before.

We’ve all woken up, some normal morning, and realized there’s a huge pimple right in the middle of our forehead. Everyone, yep. Even… ME. And more than once. Life’s just a bitch sometimes.

How we got there is never really the question. The fact that one of my 10 basics in life has to be all chocolate M&Ms is certainly something to look at, but for the moment, the thing to concentrate on, the task at hand is… HOW TO YOU HIDE THIS ENORMOUS MOUND THAT JUST RUINED MY DAY?

I’ve tested a few solutions. Some good. Some not so good. There are also a few things that have come to mind. Some I’ve tried, others not. Something like:

- Cut myself some bangs. Yep, just like that, bam, right there, dry. I’ve thought of it, yes I have.

- Put make up on the intruder. Pffffff, yeah, a little obvious. But in the end, I think it would make it even more noticeable and we’re trying to hide it here.

- Wear something absolutely delirious to create a diversion. Like a giant Vuitton Duffle bag, for example.

- Say something absolutely delirious to create a diversion. Something like, “Oh! This morning, I had breakfast with Arnold Schwarzenegger,” for example.

- Do what this girl I know does who draws on a little mole (no, not a real mole kids, not like a whack-a-mole mole, we’re talking a fake little beauty mark). I don’t know why I think it’s so gross. Maybe because I have a beauty mark myself, ahah, oh man, I really gotta stop diving head first in the snow every morning.

- Or this guy who puts on a nice little band-aide. A nice idea? Not when you’ve gotta answer 657 times a day, “A BLOB!!!” whenever someone asks you gently what happened.

- The radical option = DON’T GO OUT. The thing with that is if I don’t go out, I’ll be so embarrassed by the whole situation that I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror, even though that when I get a pimple, I have to look at myself in the mirror 35 times an hour just to get updates on the state of the maturity of the disaster.

- Say YEAH OKAY OKAY TOTALLY to the girl who tells you she will apply super smart essential oils that will make the evil bulge disappear in a few hours. Let her put the essential oils on, and then suddenly, watch the bulge grow right in front of your eyes. Powerless.

- Wear a hat that goes down really low (in case the pimple is situated on the forehead.)

- Or a scarf worn really high (in case the pimple is situated on the chin.)

- Cry (in case the pimple is situated on the nose.)

- Make up stupid jokes. Like :

- I don’t have to give up on a modeling career. I can still be a hand model.

Jokes are stupid. But stupid jokes are perfect to show that you’re totally cool with yourself and in your own skin.

I’ve looked hard, but I think the best solution is the last. Unless you’ve got something better? I mean like, a little bulge, it’s nothing right? Do we really have to make a whole bunch of hoopla? Or wait, is that exactly what I just did?

Translation : Tim Sullivan

I can’t believe it. You’ve actually succeeded in getting me to publish a picture of myself. Aaaaah bravo!!!

Okay, first thing’s first, I gotta tell you all something. I knew that people like to talk about hair, me more than anyone, but I would’ve never believe it was such a thing. IT’S SO CRAZY!!! EVEN CARINE ROITFELD talked to me about my hair!!! 3 PEOPLE AT THE SAME TIME were touching my hair in the front row and Taylor Tomasi seriously screamed when she saw me yesterday. And Anna Wintour? Pfff, oh so jealous*. And so much mail asking me for explanations about my BOO? I’ve gotta start my own hair-style blog. Whaddya think?

I gotta say that I teased you a little. I barely gave you any explanation… Technical stuff isn’t quite my strong-suit , but you can find it all at the end of this post.

SOOOO…

Listen up.

After 34 years of battling my hair, 5 hours at the salon, and 3 days without washing my hair which I have NEVER done in my life…

I’M A NEW WOMAN.

Yeah, I gotta say that I had to really want it. Three days spent fighting off any DROPS of anything whatsoever. I had to keep my eye on any moisture that could accumulate anywhere near my head. Three days screaming at any snowflake that would caress my cheek, Chris and Scott are still cracking up at me. Three days I couldn’t even go to Starbucks worried that the barista would attack me with her steam machine. Three days of… BABY, WHOSE THE ASTRONAUT IN THE BATHROOM? It’s me. Why? Yep, I’ve got a shower cap + a scarf to hold it down + a towel to insure everything runs smoothly. Don’t be afraid. It’s all good.

So all that raised the pressure. The hunt for drops. Everyone touching my hair. And on top of that, you wanted a photo.

This morning, when I charged like a zodiac taurus (?) toward the bathroom, the suspense was palpable. Everyone at Garance Doré Studio was on the edges of their seats (there’s 35 of us actually, did you know that? And that’s not counting the free-lancers!). I jumped into the shower, and when I came out… With wet hair. Normal. So to see the result, had to wait until it dried… Naturally.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

(I’m going to take advantage of this little interlude to tell you just how great a daily shower is without special equipment. Everyday, it’s important to appreciate the little things.)

Tock.

Tick.

A half-hour later, it was dry. I went to go see myself in the mirror. And right then, I let out a cry of joy.

I WAS A NEW WOMAN.

My hair was wavy yet messy, super shiny, sublime. I was so happy I decided opened up a bottle of champagne. But Scott said no. Granted, it was 8 in the morning. He said we’d open it that night! But also it was Valentine’s Day! Wahoooo! Happy Vantiiiiiiiiiiine’s Day to yoooooooouuuu! Yep.

I kept jumping for joy, smiling, dancing, I got all dressed up and was out the door. And right then, pooooooooooffffff!!!!! A gust of wind that only New York could muster attacked me. My hair? STRAIGHT AS BAGUETTES.

C’mon, not fair. Shit. So now we have a new problem. And my waves?

You see where I’m going with this girls? I HAVE THE PROBLEMS OF A GIRL WITH STRAIGHT HAIR. How cool is that?

Okay, I gotta let you go. I’ve got a bottle of champagne to open.

Signed:

THE NEW WOMAN.

Big hugs!

——

*So that’s why she passed by me all fast pretending like she didn’t see me.

——

The treatment had 5 points.

- My hair-dresser is a genius with an angel’s smile named Thomas Heinz.

- What I had done wasn’t a Japanese straightening, not even a Brazilian Blowout actually. It’s a Keratin Treatment, and what’s awesome is instead of destroying my hair, it was good for it because:

- Pretty much it covers up the hair with keratin (the protein hair is made of) and then they straighten it with a flat iron that penetrates through the keratin (you see what happens when I try to be technical?) and then you wait for it to harden… Hence three days without washing. And that’s what straightens it.

- And then it lasts 6 months. No need to brush and blowdry, no need to anything (which is nice because I’ve never been able to do my own hair).

- It’s pretty expensive, but I get the impression that’ll all be worth it.

——-

PS : The picture is from Scott Schuman, my valentiiiiiiiiiiine ! <3

Translation : Tim Sullivan.

Bonus: Everything you can’t see in the picture:

Chris, balancing on my balcony, holding the vacuum pack of my perfume with his finger tips because I wanted the background to be the Paris sky (which is really visible in this photo).

Me, holding him by the belt loop (you gotta do what you gotta do) so he doesn’t fall from the 6th floor.

Me, telling him to move the bottle just so to find the perfect placement for the air bubbles. Craziness, I’m telling you.

Both of us, telling ourselves, “Oh man, we’re so good for finding the perfect placement for the air bubbles!!!” Ha!

Bonus 2 : Finally, here’s Yasmin’s article in Elle UK that I told you about!!! Sorry for the tardiness, it took me a good amount of time find it. I’m a very very organized girl.

Bonus 3 : Oh and my fancy gala… Hmm….. Ok. Tomorrow!

Big hugs! Bonne journée!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

There are times in life when you just need to indulge a little, don’t you think?

When you’re a little manhandled by too-short nights for example, or when you’ve got cheeks worn out from doing air kisses, and when your brain is on strike from talking about skirt lengths in a million different languages without speaking even one of them properly.

“In short, when you become an exhausted, hypocritical, vain and stupid creature, that’s when it’s high time to do yourself some good,” I said to myself sipping down my 12th cup of coffee.

And on top of that, that night, I had a super chic party, so I really needed to be on my game.

Anyway, I put together a list of all the reasons on earth it needed to happen, and as I was in Milan, I turned my ballet flats toward Spa Bulgari. I decided to treat myself to a facial (what an embarrassing name). It wasn’t just any facial though. It was an “Espa Intensive Facial Skin Brightener,” which included a face massage and something made from the nectar of the gods that’s supposed to morph you in an hour for a viscous monster into a creature of light.

But just to be clear, I’m sure you’ve already got this, but we’re at Bulgari. It’s just a little pricey. So, WARNING! This better be good. I give a dirty look, one that says I’ve really no interest in you mocking me, to all of the friendly, multilingual, smiling and perfumed employees and I draped myself haughtily in my bathrobe of silk from Macassar. My masseuse, Marta, asked me to escort her.

I made my way into the dimly lit room. And with a smile, Marta swept away my terrible mood. When she put me on the massage table with a delicate gesture, I was still an exhausted, vain and stupid creature. But my smile was not at all hypocritical. When she asked me to choose my essential oils, my brain ended its strike, my neurons vibrated. And when she put her hands on my face, aaaaaahhh my friends. I came back to life.

Wooooaaaaaahhhh. In-cre-di-ble. Okay, here we go, I’m totally ready for an hour of euphoria. I smile, I relax. I close my eyes.

.

.

.

…

“And voilà! I hope you enjoyed it. I’m going to leave the room now and you can get yourself dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”

.

.

.

Shit.

…

It’s finished.

I fell asleep.

…

.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!! I FELL ASLEEP IT’S ALL DONE!!!!!! My 8 million dollar massage! I’M SO PISSED!!!

Back to the front desk, I’m an exhausted, hypocritical, vain and stupid creature who wants to put a bomb in the spa.

But then a quick look in the mirror, as pride is ever present, even in times of grand revolt…

I’m simply radiant.

.

Wow, looking at the result, it must have been amazing in there.

.

.

Bollocks.

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Everywhere I’m seeing girls who want to make me jealous with their supernatural blondness. What’s going on here? This season, everyone’s gone platinum blonde.

Aaaah la la. This is giving me goosebumps.

I think this is absolutely sublime. It’s totally rock and angelic at the same time and I get the impression that all platinum blondes automatically have a life much more fascinating than mine. 100% sure. All of them. It’s gotta be.

So there you have it. If one day I take a nose dive into a bucket of bleach, at least you’ll know why.

Bonne journée!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Oh man, these fashion weeks are going by in a blink. I’m already in Milan! But I gotta keep you up to date on the last developments in London. A little synopsis of everything lived, done, and heard between the start of the Burberry show and just before leaving the after-party, completely drunk at…

9 p.m.

You don’t change out a winning team. Yeah fine, have your fun Alexa.

-A funny thing happened to me: my seat at the show was right behind Anna Wintour. So besides being able to sift through every pore of her most serene skin, I could gaze at, right there infront of me, Alexa C., Frida P., Mary Kate O., Liv T., Emma W., Gwyneth P., and Posh S.

-What does everyone do before a megastarred show? You tweet. Okay, except for me, my Blackberry is way too small. So just to blend in, I tweet orally.

-Overheard –> Gwyneth Paltrow to Anna Wintour [Just an FYI, It was Gwyneth who got up to go say hello to Anna. Ha, everything in its right place.], “Anna, I’m so happy to see you. Your last movie was so amaaaaazing!!”

- And no, I didn’t have my camera. I had to make a choice : thigh high boots or camera. So thigh highs it was. To make up for it, I thought I’d give you photos of my three favorite socialites. With always a special love shout-out to my dear Alexa, who’s always a ray of sunlight, really, the coolest girl on earth. And Dree Hemingway, just… wow.

- Wow… In her Zara shirt. And of course, as you wouldn’t expect less from me, I made may way over to the nearest Zara to try it on. No idea why, but it didn’t fall on me the same way.

- Anna W., according to Gwyneth P., will soon be Oscared up!

- The thing about my Stella McCartney tight high boots (yep)(no but seriously girl)(ok, I’ll tell you about ‘em), is that they come up so high that everyone picks up my skirt to see just how high they go. Next time, I’m wearing smiley panties.

- Seen –> Three people with cut fingers, bleeding. The Burberry invites were made out of a super sharp metal. At the end of the show, they were handing out band-aids. Ow! Fashion Victims!

- Beckham Interlude. Maestro, bring in the chorus please. At first, I didn’t recognize her. She was all timid, not at all like I imagined her, which was somewhat like a cross between Robocop and Woody Wood Pecker. I was totally staring at her to beef up some of my friends’ tweets when she gave me the biggest smile, soft and nice. And right then, I dunno, my heart went boom boom. Garance, really now? You little thing you.

- Seen –> Kate Moss in the flesh. Yep. Not at Burberry but this little sighting just went so well with this flashy post. She is beaaaaautiful. She has this little voice and wore a hat that will soon colonize the fashion world.

- Beckham Interlude. Because here, I gotta say that a few weeks back, Vic Beckham, I had the chance to see her collection of dresses she did with Roland Mouret. Of course I was there pretty much just to make fun of it, ha ha, Posh made some dresses, ahaha, when in the end, I had to admit: Her collection was awesome. Vic, you smile at me like that one more time, I’m gonna pounce, front row or or not.

- Heard –> My friend Tiffany, “Youh! I am so hot in my leather pants that my ass is all sticky!”

- So classy.

- Heard –> “I’m so happy I got an invite to this party! I heard some people got calls saying they’d pay 1000£ for an invite!”

- It’s true that the little hors d’oeuvres were good and the cocktails, how should I put it… heady. But 1000£?

- For a party that lasts only until 9?

- Wait wait, the 9 o’clock thing, that was that just for me?

- The party didn’t stop after I left?

- Wait, really?

- You sure?

- I really don’t see why not.

Okkeeee dokey, no more bullshitting, it’s time for my cappuccino… Viva Italia! Bonne journée! ;-) <– Smiley, always the sharp point of fashion, soon to be found under my skirt. Big hugs!

]]> http://www.garancedore.fr/en/2009/09/24/front-row-flash-blop-wiiiz/feed/ 147 http://www.garancedore.fr/en/2009/09/01/le-diable-shabille-en-margiela/ http://www.garancedore.fr/en/2009/09/01/le-diable-shabille-en-margiela/#comments Tue, 01 Sep 2009 05:57:05 +0000 Garance http://www.garancedore.fr/?p=7697

Saturday morning, freaked out by my skin being completely washed-out, I decided it was time to take immediate action. No time to get an appointment with the dermotologist. No time to stop and think two seconds about my diet the past two weeks consisting of only choclate and coffee.

I went out to go buy the Turnaround Cream by Clinique, which, if memory serves, has already performed a few small miracles. I get to the Clinique booth and I ask for my cream. A woman with glasses dressed like a nurse makes me sit down. She touches my skin and her face drops.

“Oh yes, okay, I see. You have sensitive skin, type 3 (all dramatic like). Yes, the Turnaround would whip you back into shape. But really (with a reproachful medical look over her glasses), what I’d advise above all is to use our Basic 3 Temps. You see (huge scientific gestures), there is nothing better to clean and reconstitute the lipid film (eeew!) of your skin, because… here watch, (she takes on some kind of tape, puts it on my hand and then removes it, frowning) you see what’s still there on the tape? You have to treat that. And then we have to talk about the contour of your eyes…”

Half-hour later, I’m surrounded by products. If I got all this right, two times daily, I have to apply a cleanser, a tonic, four creams (one for constituting my lipid (eeew) film, the Turnaround, one for shrinking my pores (c’mon, eeeeeewww!!!) and one for the contour of my eyes) and then two foundations (one for the t-zone and one with a mineral base for retouching). My nurse friend is really nice: if I listen to her, she’s about to relieve me of around $500.

I asked her if it’s because it’s the end of the month and she has to get her quota that she’s trying to send me home with a trailer-full of products. I tell her that my dermatologist says that Dove soap is perfect and that all the treatment for the contour of eyes and all is just cosmetic bullshit straight from a horse’s ass.

She says to me, “Ah! But your dermatologist, she’s an herbal tea kinda gal? She makes all her creams herself? She lives next to a stream in the mountains?”

I say to her, “C’mon you’re just blowing smoke. My dermatologist wears Comme Des Garçons. I’m gonna get just the Turnaround and the mineral foundation.”

She looks at me over her glasses, “Well, all of us here wear Margiela, she says showing me her white lab coat and laughing. But I’m telling you: you only need Basic 3 Temps to have sublime skin.”

At the height of complicity, my nurse in Margiela tosses some samples of Basic 3 Temps in my bag and gives me a lip gloss almost with a little bit of lip, “You’ll see. You’ll be back.” Wow. She really believes in this stuff.

I give her a wink and spin around on my heels. And then I hesitate. Margiela or Comme des Garçons?

———–

* The sales people at Margiela wear lab coats.

PS: And let me thank you all for your comments yesterday. It was an indescribable sensation to read everything you guys wrote. Unique. There really is just no other word… Thank you. And I’ll definitely tell you as soon as I know more about the tee-shirts…

Translation : Tim Sullivan

You remember last time we were talking about hair? I told you that despite my desire to change color, which I have NEVER DONE IN MY LIFE, seeing as I lack the necessary discipline and therefore risk the threat of two inch roots, I always leave my hair long, free, wavy and natural, natural, natural.

Liar.

Right after I put up that post, I picked up my phone and got an appointment for a few hours later (Vive the month of August! There’s no one around!) over at the Coiffeur, Coiff’1st, a name so ridiculous that when when I told my sister about it, she said,

“Ah, The LOW COST coiffeur? ”

Non, Titis. It’s for girls who want the budgetary step just before Christophe Robin. C’mon. So uncouth.

A few hours later, my superego boiling, I don’t waste a second and say, “You think you can fade my hair a little like my friend Daphné?” I didn’t have a photo with me, but she got it right away.

“Ah, so you came in for a VARNISH?”

A Varnish? What am I, a violin? No. I came him for a coloring. (I’m always unbearable with my hairdressers the first time. But Hear me out: They are all potentially about to ruin my life.)

“Yes. You want a varnish. It’s a lightening treatment that works without touching the roots, stupid bitch. (I put that in so you could get the feel a little more, because she obviously said that with her eyes.)(In fact, everything in italics in this text should be understood as : said with the eyes) With your base color, it should be quite lovely.”

Ok, quite lovely. Yeah yeah yeah. That’s what I meant. Fine. Let’s get going.

I can’t help by frown (Shit! This sucks! Bad bad bad for wrinkles!) and wrap myself up in my little robe, I give some evil looks around the room and close my eyes. She applies something or other and surrounds my head in plastic, and then I have to wait for an hour. Just enough time to curse all hairdressers in the world one by one (Yeah, i’m that fast) seeing as now I am absolutely convinced that the result of all this will be horrible and my life (= my hair) will be ruined forever.

An hour later, I’m still not happy, frowning with this plastic thing on my head, I look like Galaxhar, the villain in Monsters Vs. Aliens. (I’m a little crazy about animated films, notably Kung Fu Panda, who gave me my mantra, my words to live by: THERE IS NO CHARGE FOR AWESOMENESS… OR ATTRACTIVENESS.) I finished cover-to-cover my Us Weekly. Yes, Us Weekly. NO, IT’S NOT A LOW COST COIFFEUR.)

My sworn enemy takes off my my industrial plastic helmut and what do I see…. NOTHING.

My hair is as brown as if I had just stepped out of a galactic coal mine. I opened my mouth to scream…

She cuts me off in my moment of panic and says, “Calm your hysterics. You’ll see it when it’s dry.”

And she embarks on the brush and blow-dry, the fatal brush and blow-dry of Coiff’1st, the next step before Robin, if you remember well, and I leave there as perfect as Carrie Bradshaw in Sex & the City, the movie.

My hair was…

Faded. Like a good pair of jeans that have been washed, worn, washed again and then left to dry in the sun. With little wisps a bit lighter right around the face, but not like, big strands, if you see what I mean. It’s discreet.  It’s classy.  It’s…

LOVELY. I love it. I give everyone hugs. I love her. I love my hairdresser. She shoots a look over to the hostess at the front desk that says, “This one, take her right off my client list.”

And here’s how I’ve been walking around for a bit now with my lighter hair and how I am so satisfied with it. And with varnishes, you don’t have to do touch ups on the roots. It means you only have to go to the violin concerto twice a year, that’s enough.

HAPPINESS. Happiness in the city, happiness at the office. Happiness on the beach :

Don’t tell me you don’t see it. Don’t tell me you don’t see it, everyone tells me it’s great, even a friend of mine when we were in a nightclub under white light, which only means I’m very persuasive, for sure. Don’t tell me you don’t see it, it’s a huge change my life that you’re in he middle of helping me with. And look out, if you tell me you don’t see it, I’ll pull out my Galaxhar helmut. And I’ll varnish you all!!!

Big hugs!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

I see more and more girls letting their hair go naturally curly.

Aaaah. I love it.

As for me, it took me some time to understand that I had absolutely none of the necessary discipline to straighten my hair everyday. I would forget this little detail every time I went to get my haircut. I’d ask for whatever cut was supposed to make me into you know, Garance, the girl with the dreamy hair, with whatever photo of straight hair in hand, straight to the point that would stupify Vic Beckham. After three days, of course, it looked terrible and I would have to wait for it to grow out while my friends sat there giggling.

Then I met Giovanna, Yasmin, Valentina, Nejma… And Carrie Bradshaw, of course (You know it!) ! I started thinking letting your hair go natural was a pretty darn cool idea. I’d straighten it occasionally, just for fun, if and when I had a little extra time.

So there, for a year now, my hair has been completely natural. I’m like the cool girl who accepts herself for who she is.  You know, Garance, the girl who is comfortable in her own skin? Yes, oh!  That’s me!

I’m so so so proud of myself.

Then why I am suddenly taken over by envy for some super beautiful color when I know that NEVER would I have the necessary discipline to go to the hairdresser regularly and so quickly I would become Garance, I’m sure you’ve seen her, the girl with 3 inch roots! Why!?

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Welcome.  Welcome.  Come one, come all into my private life.  Welcome to the moment where I fling myself, buck naked down to my cold cold heart even in the bleak midwinter, with all the grace and lightness I can muster a few minutes after my alarm has gone off.  Welcome to this moment where I fling myself and touch down on…

My scale.

Here, there are five possible scenarios.  Five scenarios, coming to you in real time, direct from my brain:

1/ Normal weight minus 5 pounds.  Wait… Wait… That is to say, IDEAL WEIGHT!  Yaaaaaaaaahhh they love me!  They really love me!  Kate moss, my love, where are you?  Let’s have a little style competition and I’m going to wipe the floor with you!  Bliss.  The universe has come once again into perfect harmony.  Smiles for passersby, kisses for the baker, a quick snuggle for his dog.  New look for a new life, time to go buy some new outfits, lethal ones, and quick!  And so on…

2/ Normal weight minus 2 pounds.  Not bad at all my girl.  Just look at that girl there on the scale, she’s got her normal weight, but now she’s just under.  This girl, a little jogging a couple times a week, and if she keeps going like that, with a little laser work for winter, she’ll been queen of the beach, even if she doesn’t really like the beach.  If you’re lookin’ as steamy as she is, you gotta love the beach, it’s obligatory.  Only people with complexes don’t like the beach.  Hey, wait… Why is it that I didn’t I like the beach before?

3/ Normal weight.  And there you go.  Voilà.  We live in a world irrevocably just.  A world where a regular girl, regularly eating calisson ice cream* watching Mad Men, and with all of her reason, her moderation and sense of balance, and even still, now she rests at her normal weight.  A world irrevocably just and… annoying as hell.  Because, well, normal weight isn’t her preferred weight, okay?  It’s her weight.  The simple, raw, truth.  Bastard.

4/ Normal weight +2:  Okay.  Okay.  SO MAYBE THE CALISSON ICE CREAM WASN’T SO NECESSARY.  Ok.  What, the coconut ice cream?  That doesn’t count, are you crazy?!  (Right there, I was talking to mm Coriander Moisturizer from Kiehl’s, she’s quite nice), It’s SORBET!  It says so right there on the package.  COCONUT SORBET.  Sorbet doesn’t count, right?  And on top of that, it’s no big thing.  So I’m a little round, just a little.  It’s just… umm… delicious, see?  à la Scarlett, you know?  No no, à la Chloé Sevigny, yep.  Voilà.  It’s like a fashion goddess type thing.  Good shape and good fashion at the same time.  And here I am saying it’s possible!  And I’m going to prove it to the entire world!

Wait what?  What’s up with the baker?  He wants my picture?

5/ Normal weight +5: HELL & DAMNATION.  Calisson-coconut ice cream, maybe I didn’t so much need to accompany you with almond cookies.  Time to get out my boyfriend jeans AND QUICK.  YOU, SLIMMING BODYTONIC.  I see you giggling over there with your little pal, the roll-on double efficiency moisturizer that I never use.   Give me a couple days and I’ll show you, just you wait.  Today, broccoli.  Steamed.  NO.  NO VINAIGRETTE.  Wine?  You crazy?  Okay, okay.  Just because I need something to go with my little chocolate bar.  What?  You got a problem?

Yep, all that, including my little conversations with my beauty products, all of it, completely true.  

But not so fast, after my scale broke down for a few weeks I had the impression that someone shut off the light on my ability to control my weight or that I had completely lost the dialogue with my body, I decided that, well, if hysterics must be, and they must, my conversations with my scale have kept me for years now at a weight more or less reasonable.

What?

Which one am I at today?  Wait wait wait… I can’t go answering these questions and I… Okay.  Today, I am… Hmmmmm…. I am… Okay, you win.  I’m broccoli.  Okay now.  Goodbye.  NO HUGS FOR YOU.  Goodbye, that’s good enough.  Yep.  Voilà.  That’s it.  Bye.

Hehe.

Okay, you deserve some credit as you’ve made it to the end of this little voyage into my conceited little psyche.  I’ll give you the song that inspired the title today**.  Don’t say thank you.  Nope.  Not on a broccoli day.

Ah, and the silence in the middle of the song, it’s not a glitch on DailyMotion, it’s just that at the time, people were really into adding in super cool effects to clips.  Ah!!!  What freedom!  What creativity!  What a sax!  Okay, off you go!  BIG HUGS!

  Jil Caplan – Comme sur une balançoire

Translation : Tim Sullivan

*Calisson Ice Cream – Calissons are little marzipan-like candies made out of candied fruit, ground almonds and a thin layer of white icing.  They have a fruity, often melon like flavor and add them to ice cream and suddenly things get dangerous.

**comme sur une balançoire – “Like on a seesaw.”