Kids, I’m totally becoming a fashion pro. Get this :
Saturday, in the middle of August, sauna-esque heat in New York, there I am, Gaga, heading out for a winter shopping mission.

So I’ll stop you right there. All the girls I take photos of during fashion weeks are gonna say, “Well, what’s the big deal? That’s normal as can be. You’re even a little late little one!”

Still, it’s hard for me to consider it normal to get to buy a wool jacket, cashmere pants and an angora scarf on the 28th of August. But I came across Dianna at Barneys who showed the big wool winter coat and the furry shoes she’d just bought and I finally gave in. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is the perfect time to buy a fur hat, you never know.

And I need a snowboard too. It’s definitely time to order my snowboard for February.

Okay… So back to me in huntress mode. Up to the fifth floor at Barney’s, Stella McCartney, finally, ah, awesome. I love her collection. I see the coolest parka, perfect for a snowy January. I try it on, oh goodness, it’s so beautiful, and then the salesgirl corners me and says :

“JUST SO YOU KNOW, THAT PARKA IS THE ONLY ONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. And we have it because (and yeah, I stopped being able to understand her here, she was talking so fast, so here’s what I imagined she said to me) – Stella knew that you were coming today and she designed it just for you – and so that’s why we’re the only people in the world to have one and it’s the last one, IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.”

Whoa. How cool is that? The only one, IN THE WORLD. But as Scott wasn’t quite convinced by the salesgirl he told me Garance, look, if it really was made just for you, come back in three days and it’ll be here waiting for you. I listened to him because honestly, he’s a really smart guy and the parka was really close to $2,000.

So we continued our little journey down Madison Ave, following intently my little list of to-buys that I concocted – First time in my life I’ve ever done that. But now I have this new fear of waiting until it’s cold to buy a coat and then hear the salesgirls all laugh at me saying, A coat? In September. We don’t have any more of those since August, ahahah*!

On my list, there were some pointy ballet slippers… with studs, from Valentino. Kids, if you haven’t been living under a rock, then I’m sure you haven’t missed them. They’re in all the magazines, ALL OF THEM. So I went to Valentino and asked for them, and this is what I got:

The ballet slippers? The ones in all the editorials? Ahahah*, they haven’t gotten here yet, and we’ve already got a waiting-list longer than you can ever imagine.

Ah yes, I forgot. Get it published in a magazine and sales go through the roof.

Pfffff. To console myself, I stopped at Intermix, a New York multi-brand shop. I saw an entire section of Stella McCartney and, you’re not going to believe me, but I’m not kidding here :

Three other parkas just like my parka that couldn’t be found anywhere else IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

…

I let out a yelp, I grabbed it and then poof! No longer did I have any desire to buy it. The fact that it wasn’t at all unique (but what was that salesgirl at Barney’s thinking?)(Wait… Maybe she WASN’T a salesgirl at Barney’s… Ouuuh, craaazyyy.) made it – almost – a little dull.

And there you have it! I tried to get myself together and become a killer fashion pro, but I’m still trapped in the endless cycle of supply and demand. Scott winked at me.

Ahahah*! I still have many miles to go before I’m a fashion pro.

———–

PS 1 (No, not the bag. You’re all obsessed.) = This post has no rhyme or reason, at the beginning, I wanted to give you my point of view on the back to school trends, but yeah, maybe next time…

PS 2 = Don’t worry, I got a lot of pretty things. 80% of them I won’t be able to put on before November, but they’re pretty none the less, and all lined up nicely in my closet. You could even say it looks like a shop — a little chaotic, the shop.

PS 3 = New York Zara is terrible. It’s hard to get over it’s European cousin. And harder on my wallet, too, seeing as I have to live with Chloé now. Pfff! Depressing…

————–

* Ahahah ! Stupid bitch.

It’s funny, the first thing that I realized about New York, apart from it’s gigantitude and the noise, is that all the girls have PERFECTLY MANICURED nails.

Pfffff, too easy. There’s a nail spa on every corner, they have all the Essie colors in the world at your disposal and it’s quick, cheap, and so no New Yorker should have ANY EXCUSE  not be perfectly put together up to the cuticle (eww).

Still, it took me  little while to get addicted to it. But I mean c’mon! How was I supposed to know that for the perfect manicure, you need:

#1 To learn a new language.

The first time I walked into a nail spa, I stopped at the desk and I started off at the hostess,

“Hello! I want a manicure, a pedicure, some color, and what’s this paraffin thing? Can you take me right away? How long will it take? Can I bring my own polish? What are all these crazy machines over there and what exactly do you mean by “facial?” And what do you call that thing that, errrr, I forget, do you think I have good skin? What would you recommend for…”

…

Wait, what did I say? The receptionist looked at me with big round eyes, a little terrified. After a rather embarrassing two minutes of silence, she started at me, repeating:

” Manicure ? Pedicure ? Manicure ? Pedicure ? Manicure ? Pedicure ? Manicure ?”

I looked around, a little lost.

And then a very pretty and very busy looking girl blazed into the salon. She picked out a polish in two seconds, put it right in the receptionist face and with no hello, but with a big smile said, “Manicure! Pedicure! Facial!” This was met with a knowing smile and she was guided into the salon.

And then I finally got it… The receptionist doesn’t speak english.

I picked out a polish and said, “Manicure!” And look at that! It worked!

#2 Buy a pair of flip flops. Even if you hate them, get some flip flops.

The second time I went to a nail spa, it was in the middle of winter. This time, I wanted to try a “Pedicure! Manicure!” The only thing was that my feet were trapped in boots, and I got a little worried about the end of everything when I’d have to get the boots back on without letting the nails dry properly.

With the help of a few huge big gestures and hand signs I signaled the receptionist about my boots, “You have a solution for these?”

No problem, she said with her thumbs up, and showed me their futuristic drying machines.

And I thought, Pfffff they have it all together in NYC. They even have supersonic nail dryers.

…

Yep, yep yep yep. Of course. New Yorkers have thought of it all.

But then when I got back home and saw my new nails totally ruined, I finally understood why, even in the middle of winter, I had seen New Yorkers walking around the city, with perfectly manicured nails, IN FLIP FLOPS.

#3 Learn to tip fast, and well.

Yeah, so my post is much too long (no but seriously, how do I just get going like this?!) But this whole tipping thing in the States deserves its own post. And especially because the mega-terrible reputation that us Frenchies have, I’ll have to come back to it.

All this just to tell you the three fundamental lessons (talking, flipfloping, and tipping). Soon enough, you’ll feel totally at home at the nail spa and you’ll have always superb nails. You’ll be oh so very classy.

And there you have it. Now I have no excuse, and I mean NONE WHATSOEVER not be perfectly put together up to the cuticle (eww). Too bad!

———-

In the illustration, there’s one of the new Chanel Khaki polishes. When we first got them in at the studio, all the girls (and at the time, we were in the middle of a casting, so there were a few) fell all over themselves they were so beautiful. The khaki rose, aaahhh!!! It just kills me.

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Maybe I found the perfect summer job, but I was a frustrated student. I felt like I didn’t learn anything very useful in college. I was haunted by the idea of my first steps into the world of work, which seemed like a giant black hole where I would disappear into a sea of grey suits.

I spent my time ditching classes and partying entire weekends, wondering what I’d do with my life, making music and putting together rock concerts with my best friend, which I didn’t think of as a serious activity or something we could do as a career.

But of course it couldn’t be, because I enjoyed it.

So I had a good time, but thinking about my future… Made me so anxious. I could cry.

And then one day, I had to find an internship at the end of the year. I was studying communication at the time, so I could try pretty much anywhere because hey, everyone needs to communicate. And since I like contemporary art well enough, I got an interview at the MOCA in my town.

I prettied myself up, and almost totally emptied my bank account to get a pair of boots, took a nice deep breath before entering into the director’s office who… scared the shit out of me.

The meeting didn’t last long. I said goodbye politely and then practically leapt down the stairs to get outside to take a breath. And in my frenzied escape, I heard:

“Nice boots.”

I raised my head and right there in front of me, a tall, smiling man, looking straight at me. He had a rather rare elegance in my world populated by rockers in slim cut jeans. I blushed and said, “Thanks, but they ruined me!” He smiled, and I was off.

The next day, my phone rang.

At first I didn’t really understand who was talking to me, but then I realized it was the guy that I ran into for a second the day before. He was the director of the cinema department of the museum. His name was B. He loved my boots, and from this simple moment of inspiration, he decided I would be the perfect intern. He talked to the director of the MOCA who, I imagine, gave me away without a second thought.

A pair of boots. Voilà. That’s how I ended up working in cinema.

The theaters that B took care of were exciting. He decided what would be shown, and every month he put together a program the same way you put together the perfect menu. Each time, he would chose a theme, and go through tons of films, old classics or modern wonders, unknown or blockbusters, and put together the most amazing programs.

As for me, my role was to talk about what was being shown in the press.

Without me knowing, I was becoming the new cinema PR person.

With absolutely no idea what I was doing.

My first days were painful. I spent hours upon hours behind my desk trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. Every time B had his back turned, I called my best friend, who was a journalist, and way smarter than me, and she explained everything to me with more patience than I could believe.

I cursed my teachers who didn’t teach me how to make a phone call. I was writing press releases as a compilation of all the ones I could find (and this is before the explosion of the internet!).

I always waited for B. to leave so I could make my phone calls to journalists and oh man, I’d get so red, I could barely talk, and I’d say utter nonsense to them, especially if I called Inrocks or Libé, (these magazines were demi-gods to me at the time). I’d have total blackouts and hang up. Classy.

But not so fast, at the end of long work weeks full of perseverance, my internship became a real job and I got more organized, less freaked out, and starting getting results: the theaters were filling up.

There weren’t just moments of total break down, I should say. B and I got along great. Both of us had pretty much the exact same ratio of craziness to joy. We cracked up constantly and talked all the time.

He saw something in me and decided to let me put together my own programs.

Here was someone brilliant who immediately had faith in me. Here was a dreamer pushing me to work harder and making me go see movies, “C’mon already,” he’d say. “This way you’ll know why you’re working.” Ahah, oh but he was so right.

What happened because of this first experience is that I realized that I’m capable of… working. And even loving what I do! I understood that with energy and desire, you learn quickly. I was starting having just a little bit of that faith in myself.

Just enough to tell myself that maybe, maybe, maybe, if I applied myself to the point of delirium, maybe, one day, I could do what I always dreamed of doing: illustration. I never went to art school and I didn’t have a single connection in that world. I didn’t even know if I could draw.

Well really, I knew nothing at all.

I just had the impression that if I didn’t try it, I would always have this regret deep inside of me. I had finally grown up enough to be ready to take some risks. And above all, I knew if it didn’t work out, well, it wouldn’t kill me, you know? I could always work in PR, or be a wind surfing instructor in a nudist colony, voilà.

So I decided to get started. I would become and illustrator.

Translation : Tim Sullivan

In many of the e-mails I get from readers, the same question seems to pop back up time and time again. It always comes out something like this: How did you find your calling?

And I always really want to get back to them, because this question really touches me. It took me so long to find what I wanted to do with my life !

And as there isn’t just one response to this question, and since I’m not at all a reference for self-help, the only thing I can do is…
Tell you the story of my life. Hehe. Love that.

How did I get where I am now? Start with the very beginning, a very good place to start. Before anything else, I have to tell you about my first experiences in the world of work… Because I really do think that everything you do in life adds up to where you end up.

My summer jobs.

My mother, who knew the peak of the feminist movement, always thought for an accomplished life, the most essential thing was independence. Don’t depend on anyone, she’d say to me, that’s freedom. And freedom, that’s the start of happiness. Simple as that.

So she encouraged me to start working young. Very young, so I knew I wasn’t cracked up to be :

Waitress : Now I don’t know what adolescent brain deformity I had because I had the impression that taking an order at a table was the Most Humiliating Thing Ever. C’mon girl.
And on top of that, I was so insurmountably timid. And I couldn’t even carry two plates at the same time.
The day that someone asked me if the red fruits in the red-fruit tart were from frozen or not I just starting crying in the middle of the restaurant. So I made my way into the kitchen, right by the dishwasher. At least there, I could find a moment of calm. I spent most of my time cracking up with the kitchen crew.

Windsurfing Instructor : My mother, who was none too pleased with my new dishwasher vocation slash best friend of all the line cooks, had the most ingenious idea for me : since I did a 3 day windsurfing program the summer before, she thought I’d be queen of the seas, and she found a job for me as an instructor in a summer camp.

Problem #1 = 3 day training!!! I have NO IDEA how to windsurf.
Problem #2 = She didn’t know that the summer camp in training was a camp for … NUDISTS. When I first got there, I had no idea what to do, and I didn’t dare tell her because I was worried about what she’d do.
Can you imagine teaching windsurfing, which you don’t know how to do, to people who are all entirely nude? I lasted two weeks, just because for some unexplainable and mysterious reason, nude people care much less about windsurfing than clothed people.
So I spent a few blissful days soaking up some sun with scornful eyes from the nudists who disdained the fact that I was wearing a bathing suit. A bathing suit. What an idea.

Receptionist : It’s exactly like that nudist camp in the way that you can’t wear what you want. But then on top of that, you spend hours and hours doing nothing. I tried to forget how bored I was by reading paperbacks, but I handed in my terribly tailored black suit when I guy came up and slipped me his number with a knowing look. I slapped him, and left. No, seriously.

Then after a few years of barely surviving super depressing summer jobs, something interesting finally came my way. With a few friends who invited themselves that I invited to spend a summer in my village in Corsica, we created a job of our own.

My village is situated on a small bay where boats stay anchored for the night.
I had a small motor boat, and my father had a kitchen with a big oven. We thought it would be great to deliver hot croissants to all the boats in the morning. We bought the best frozen croissants we could find and cooked ‘em, tasted them, oh man where they good. The next day, we set off to work.

The first day, we came back with pockets full of change and bills. We totally got ‘em. Shit. We were rich!!!

I found my new favorite summer job. I got up early, around five in the morning. I’d say good morning to the stars, and I’d get to work in the kitchen. I’d cook all the croissants and the kitchen would give off the most delicious odor. I’d make myself a giant coffee and keep going batch after batch watching the sun rise, a true moment of happiness.

And then at 8, a friend would join up with me. We’d hop in the boat and go sell the croissants. At 10, our work day was done… And vacation time could start.

And I did that until I found… my first real job.
And that’s where we’ll start off next time I get into the story of my life, we’ll save some for next time…
But I really want to know for serious now, is it interesting for you when I talk about all this?

You have no idea how hard it is to write about fashion! It’s hell!

Not only are the terms just as seasonal as the clothes we don’t want anymore at the end of the summer, but new trends, materials, and cuts appear every three days and demand their rights: to be named!

So you’d better not let an outdated word cross your lips, ok? It’s 30 times worse than if you’re wearing a pair of last season’s Zanotti. You’ll get furtive looks and awkward smiles, and you can only hope to save yourself with an “Oh, you know, I was just feeling so 2008 today!”

In the last two paragraphs alone, I must have used, oh… at least half a dozen of them. And I pay attention to these things!

That’s why I busted up laughing the day when my friend Violaine, who’s just started the gorgeous magazine Velour, told me that she had a list of words that were banished from the magazine.

BANISHED! And you thought high heels were oppressive!?

So anyway, we were both dying laughing walking along the streets of New York, and I ask her: “Ok, so will you send me the list? So I can put it in my blog?”

Yep. And just like the thing in fashion people that I like where they take silly things completely seriously without taking their silliness seriously (did you get all that?) she, with her characteristic generosity (I really love that Violaine), sent it to me.

So here’s the list, with comments. It’s in English, but since fashion is a permanent linguistic mish mash, and since I was the first to express myself in sketchy Franglish, I figured that if there was a place to do it, this blog would be it.

SO:

+ Trendy: In France, in addition to trendy, we have tendance, the most used word in fashion. I can’t take it anymore!
+ Fashionista: Ooh, so right! Get rid of it! Along with recessionista! And everything else that ends in -ista!
+ Designer ‘being used to describe branded clothing‘ (Like: This cape is so Phoebe Philo). Oh, I don’t know, that doesn’t bother me too much really. Does it bother you guys? Violaine, why don’t you like it?
+ Vintage / Retro: This is ok with me. I like these two words. We’re not supposed to say them anymore?
+ Must have: Yeah, ok, because really, must-haves are supposed to be over. Just ask Miss Philo. I must have talked about her clogs and bags at least 2 million times this season. The must-have is here MORE THAN EVER, but we’re not allowed to say it out loud anymore. That’s called recessionypocrisy! (Voilà! I invented a word! I am a wordista!)
+ Celeb : Oh definitely yes, let’s get rid of that.
+ ‘in’: DEFINITELY YES, unless you’re humming the Gainsbourg song.
+ LBD: You know what that means, huh? In French, we’d say PRN. But we’re too cool to reduce PRN to three initials. Plus, that makes it seem like a medical term or something, don’t you think?
+ Style icon: Oh yeah. We’ve used the word icon so much we don’t even know what it means anymore. A pair of shoes can be called an icon these days. Everything is an icon.
+ Funky: Oh my god, Violaine, don’t tell me there are still people that use this word!!!

And I’ve got a few of my own to add to the list:

+ “It” thing (it-bag, it girl, it-shoes) (What? I said that yesterday?) (Moi? I don’t think so. Prove it!)

Conclusion :
#1: Fashion constraints apply not only to our clothes and bodies, but also to our minds.
#2: But of course, as everybody knows: no pain no pleasure!
#3: And that’s why fashion is funky!

And believe it or not, that’s only a tiny part of the list! There are tons more! I’m telling you, writing about fashion is hell!

BECAUSE HEY, I’M SUPPOSED TO REPLACE ALL THESE WORDS WITH WHAT NOW?

PS : Don’t hesitate to add some of your own if you’ve got any ideas! I’ll make a new list and publish it. For the moment we have “stiletto” : SO RIGHT !

Translation : Andrea Perdue

It’s incredible some of the fashion things I’ll allow myself when the temperatures start getting up. And I know perfectly well that I’d get rid of them without a regret at the end of summer. But let’s not talk of the end of summer until the end of summer, ok?

So like here, for example, I’m about to have my nails painted in fluorescent colors. I ended up convincing myself that I love the idea about 4 hours ago (I’ve been giving it a loooot of thinking, you know…) and so you get that it’s really, really urgent. I need me some fluorescent nails, like, NOW.

How did I convince myself that I like it?

- Because I don’t know what divine intervention is at work here, but it makes feet look awesome.
- Because IT’S SUMMERTIME (Yeeeeeeeaaah!)
- Because with so much bad taste, you start to touch on the sublime.
- Because black nail-polish make my hands look terrible.
- And red nail-polish fits my style a little too perfectly : it’ll be a tad too bourgeoise with my Céline ballerina flats (oh yes!), like, a little bit too First-Lady-of-France-ish. Oh, no.
- Taupe nail-polish is the least summery thing I can think of.
- And guess what? It’s SUMMERTIME (Yeeeeaaah!)
- Because I don’t know what divine intervention is at work here, but it makes hands look awesome !

So who makes the best fluorescent nail-polish? OPI? What do you like better, pink or orange? Blue perhaps? Or green? Shrek style?

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Clothes are such a small part of what makes a person beautiful, don’t you agree?

Here’s my incomplete and disorganized list of details that, to me, contributes to creating impalpable elegance.

- How you carry yourself. A sporty allure, head held high like a princess, a cat-like stroll, the swagger of a tomboy. A certain way of sitting, a poised neck, the way the hands move… There are a million ways to inhabit your own body.
Take Giovanna Battaglia for example. I would never know how to give a name to her stride that’s just so princess of cool. But what I do know, is that she could dress in a bag and she’d still be fantastic.

- A sincere smile. Not a perfect smile, no. A radiant smile. Is it too cheesy to say that? That said, it’s so rare that I can’t think of an example right off the top of my head. Oh yeah! Clémence Poésy. Pfff. One smile and poof! You fall right away.

- Ah! Having a great sense of humor, being able to laugh at yourself a little. It’s the thing that right away is so disarming to me, especially with men, or women, or kids, or my checkout clerk, or Woody Allen, or Scott, or Anna Dello Russo…

- Attention to others. Have you ever met those people who, when he or she looks into your eyes, you feel like the most interesting person in the world? Who, with all sincerity, are curious about you? You remember my post about Peter Lindbergh? Not so much about fashion but woooooooooah, all about true seduction.

- Politeness. It’s stupid, I know, and we never can learn it all, but knowing a few rules of politeness and being able to apply them naturally, without being obvious, goodness, it’s so chic. The British are so good at that. Jefferson Hack mixes punk and good manners with a virtuosity to fall for.

- Ah, and I gotta include this because I admire it so much… Well-manicured people. I don’t know how they find the time, but these girls with painted nails, perfectly hydrated skin, glossy hair… I know a whole bunch, and I admire them all, but my favorite is my sister. Well, yeah, except for last time she tried to do my nails she messed them up with a polishing machine that looks more like a Black & Decker drill, but that’s how these things go : On me, it never works, that’s all = pffffffff.

- Culture. Oh man, a sense of culture that isn’t flaunted, or in your face, but one that just shows that you are an open window to the world is soooo attractive! Like Caroline Issa, Sophie Fontanel, Salomé, my agent… I could spend entire days talking to them.

My god, this post is dripping with sentimentality, and even if it feels good, it’s not the most elegant thing to talk about myself at the end of every paragraph.

I’ve still got a ways to go, you know… But, what is elegance, for you?

In terms of city bags, there are a many schools of thought.
From the most comfortable to the almost impossible to wear :

1/

The backpack : It’s so ugly it’s beautiful, you wouldn’t understand.
The Epitome : That padded Chanel bag with two giant gold Cs, on loan from the 80s, they don’t make it anymore, which makes it even more trendy. (Personal note = Violaine, whenever you can send me that list of words that you are forbidden in your magazine, that’d be great. I think I’m gonna need it. And if you have any suggestions as to how to replace them, I’ll need those too.)

Ok, so in short… Practical, yes, but too trendy for me.

2/

The messenger bag : I’m cool. So cool. The lower I wear it, the cooler I am.
The Epitome : The Besace Upla. The US army bag.

I don’t really know what to think here, except for the fact that you can’t wear it if you have any chest whatsoever. Hope you don’t mind that I don’t draw this one out.

3/

The little shoulder bag : I’m a beautiful woman. And intelligent. Rich too. I don’t even need to work seeing as I can’t fit anything at all in my bag.
The Epitome : The Céline Classic. The Chanel 2.55.

Don’t wear it on a accross your body, oh man! It’s all in the way you wear it that gives this bag all its charm. Just put it on your shoulder, so 70s, very Céline, very Chloé, very Belle Du Seigneur, so now.

4/

The Shopping Tote : I have a crazy life. I do way too much. If you want we could set up camp here tonight as I have every thing we’d need in my bag, here, even some sausages.
The Epitome : Wicker bags. The Hermès Birkin bag.

Its so great in all its incarnations from the cheapest the most luxurious, except for me, bags are like nature : doesn’t stay empty long. And so it ends up weighing 50 pounds. You have it just in hand at first when it’s all light, and then it gets heavier and heavier, and you try to carry it on your shoulder because you think its going to tear up your hand. Have you ever tried to fit your shoulder in a Birkin handle? Or a classic wicker bag handle? Ahah.

Warning. After this line you get to bags that are a little tough to pull off.

———————————————————-

5/

The handbag. I’m a woman with a career. Sometimes, it’s hard.
The Epitome : The Speedy by Vuitton.

You carry it in hand, carelessly, sometimes you toss it on your shoulder. Every thing is good in how you carry it except for version 5.2, SO 2005.

5.2/

Wearing it on the elbow : Have you seen my bag? Because you should’ve. I just spent a month’s salary on it.
The Epitome : The Speedy by Vuitton. The Stephen Sprouse version. The Motorcycle by Balenciaga. And all this pre-recession opulence.
NO. Even if you’re sometimes tired of carrying your bag in your hand, your bag making its way onto the crook of your elbow, in 2010, it’s absolutely forbidden, especially with your fist out. Even you’re tired, you have every right to version 5.3/, MY VERSION haha.

5.3/

Handbag on the shoulder : I’m so cool. Sofia Coppola made a bag just for me. It’s a speedy, but much snobbier, and with a shoulder strap. BUT I NEVER USE THE SHOULDER STRAP TO WEAR IT LIKE A MESSENGER BAG, WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?
The Epitome : Do I really need to repeat myself again?

Warning. Bags that can be hazardous to your mental health are below this line.
Not easy to wear : you spend your whole life thinking about them.

————————————————————

6/
The clutch : My life? You can see it on Purple Diary. My life, is nightlife. You have a smoke? My Marlboros don’t fit in my clutch, sorry.
The Epitome : Vintage baby. Curse yourself for finding one. Oh and if you want to hold your glass and shake someone’s hand, put it between your legs, let your friend hold it, forget it on the bar, but you’ll curse yourself!

7 and downfall of this entire post /
The Bag So Bizarly Simple That You Have to Make a Drawing so Your Readers Understand, Like a Giant Supermarket Bag but It’s Leather Python Print : I’m so in love with Phoebe Philo. No matter what she does, I want to buy it.
The Epitome : This Céline bag up top that I saw yesterday in the shop in Milan.

Huge, so subject to the weight problem (see number 4), and impossible to wear anywhere except on the tips of your fingers. Could you find a less practical bag? Should I buy it?

Okay, so this post is entirely too long, I had to stop my literary impetus seeing as I sat down in the hotel café, it was tea-time and by the time I raised my head, everyone was attacking the Gavi and mini-pizzas. So I know I’m missing a lot of types of bags, I know, I know. So if you have other ideas as to how to wear a bag, don’t hesitate to pass it along. As for me, I’m after some Gavi.

And I know, I’m missing a chapter about pouch bags, I know, I know.

But they deserve a post unto themselves, so don’t think you’re getting off that easy.

AND ABOVE ALL ELSE, DON’T FORGET WE DON’T WEAR BAGS ON THE ELBOW ANYMORE, OK? OH NO, NEVER!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

For just a moment, we’ll set fashion weeks and men to the side and come back to what’s really important: clothes.

So it’s done, I did it. It just happened. I got out my tiny little vintage Wrangler shorts, smaller than a g-string. I unfolded them, looked at them, and then bam! Put them right on. Kids, we only have one life.

Yep. Seriously though, when I say they’re short, I’m not kidding around. These aren’t shorts for the faint of heart. They’re something this. Or this. It’s the kind of short where you see just a bit of rear, like Jane Fonda, Jane Birkin, like all the Janes. Like in the 70s!

I put on my microshorts, a loose t-shit, a pair of nice flats because heels would have been a little too hello morality police and out I went.

Okay so not quite,

I wasn’t in a big city or around a whole bunch of people or anything like that. It was a day, between Florence and Milan, that I found myself in a resort in a tiny little town right on the Italian coast, we’re talking worst case scenario is a hoard of Geneviève de Fontenay like Italians comme attacking (what a nightmare! Does that ever really exist?) and I thought that if it came down to it, I could pretend like I was just on my way back from the beach and I was in my bathing suit and someone stole my cover up. Something like that. In Italian.

Resultato : (Because I haven’t told you, I speak Italian.)

1/ Micro-shorts, they’re also called hotpants, and not for nothing. They’re hot.
2/ I insist here, whatever you do, don’t try to wear them with heels unless you REALLY want to find yourself on Purple Diary. You’re going for sporty, fresh, cool, that kind of thing, oops! I just am coming back from tennis.
3/ Because you can be SURE that all the guys are going to do a double-take on you. Even a third of your ass, but since I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, I have no idea.
3.1/ If you have a bike, like me, multiply those reactions by 10. Okay, yeah, be safe, get off your bike. You don’t want to cause a car accident.
4/ And girls love it to. They’re gonna compliment you as well. (We’ve talked about feminine complicity before, right? Still must be mentioned, because it’s such an international thing, it’s good like that.)
6/ But in the end nothing too exciting happened. No fashion catastrophe in sight. Just as we get waxed close and we don’t stop at red lights when we’re on our bikes, there’s just no reason, ahah.

So in short (ha!), if you want to give it a shot, just once, just because, just to feel what it’s like to feel super sexy, I for sure recommend it.

But if you just want to be left in peace… Go your own way.

But for me, I found it quite pretty.

So now, what would be even better is that if I tried this in Paris (Aaargggh, there’s no way I ever could!!!)(pffff, I am such a chicken) and then from there, in New York (everyone wears them in New York! No one cares! Okay, at least I think so!), just to see the different reactions.

These are the missions I suit up for, oh no, seriously?

Bonne journée !

Translation : Tim Sullivan

The first images were pretty shocking. Seriously? Wrinkles!!! Maybe the girls of Sex and the City should have stopped while they were ahead. And then does it sparkle. Where is the simple and joyous mess? And what about Carrie’s charming and slightly dated apartment? Miranda’s bizarre outfits? And what about that all-too-glossy world they live in?

And then suddenly, like a perfectly timed wink, the film starts off in the middle of the most improbable marriage that you never saw coming… And Liza Minelli starts dancing around like a kitten to Beyonce.

What I saw in the movie was a commentary on maturity. How the strange ideals of today can age, like shopping, hysteria, sex, friendship. And almost like it’s a little embarrassed of the subject (Aging? Come on, not glamourous!), the film clumsily hides it beneath layers of glitter and rubies provided by the Emirate of Abu Dhabi.

But in the end, I thought it was totally interesting to see how the women matured on screen as a testament to how we live today (You might have the right to grow old. But at the same time, you have to stay womanly, desirable, desiring.) To see the taught skin of these women, their eyes still full of ambition, absolutely undying.

My mom, who’s Samantha’s age just started up a new career. The perfect body of Carine Roitfeld that inspires young designers.
An entire movie about women over 45.

And it still makes a theater full of teenagers crack up. They will certainly have a completely different view of aging than we do.

It’s sad and it’s fun, this never ending battle to be perfect. Sex and the City 2 definitely paid homage to that, and for that reason alone, I’m willing not to toss the film in the trash. And I even hope there’ll be a third.

Oh, and Abu Dhabbi, it’s nice and all, but the starring actress of the show I’ve decided was New York, and I missed her a lot.

So here’s my super late review of Sex and the City 2. Why write about this movie when I see about three movies a week all year round? I think it’s because these 4 girls really marked a whole generation.

Granted, this wasn’t at all how the 8 year old felt that I talked to yesterday. I asked her, “Are you gonna go see Sex and the City?
and she responds, “Nooooo! Everytime I see the commercial for the movie, those girls scaaaaaaare meeee!!!”

Translation : Tim Sullivan