First I was intrigued by the Louboutin red sole, then I thought it was just the coolest idea, and then I loved the design of the shoes, and then I saw way too many of them during fashion week, and finally a few years passed and I saw Kim Kardashian wearing them. And now I’m just not interested anymore.

And then after that, I was locked up in the house because of a hurricaine and I watched the Kardashians – just to get up to date on my pop culture, of course – and of course I kind of fell for Kim’s charm and after watching her, it bothered me less that she wears the studded Pigalle – I mean, even when she practically eats it when she gets up from the table, she’s still just so cute.

I always wonder if having such a distinct marker for a brand is more of a weakness than a strength.

I know that Louboutin’s success is partly because the red heel is sort of a status symbol [and a status symbol very heatedly defended. Have you followed the Louboutin vs YSL affair?] but doesn’t that make people like me shy away from them some?  Regular folks who just love the shoes but not necessarily what the red heel says about them?

Because the quality of the design of the shoes is still fantastic! So much so that I know of one top editor who found a good solution: she just paints her soles black.

Fashion can be so ironic, don’t you think?

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Oh, of course it’s nice to eat everything you want.

In all my “Feel Good Books” and in tons of magazines I come across, I’m realizing it’s totally in right now to think that… Diets are in the past. Now you have to satiate your senses and eat until you’re full, that’s it, and that’s what’s most important.

All in all, I think it’s a good start.

It helped me to stop blaming myself in the months that followed my “crisis”. It helped me to stop blaming myself, but it also helped me a lot to continue not being able to button my jeans.

But really, the problem is that curves don’t come evenly. We’re not all like Crystal Renn, and gaining weight harmoniously… That’s luck that I just don’t have.

Life’s a bitch.

So, June arrived and I was in Paris at the Café de Flore with Sophie. We were drinking a glass of rosé and I’m watching her munch down chip after chip. She was loving each one as she always does and just as it always is, her silhouette was perfect.

And as always, I was telling her my whole life story, including my adventures with weight.

I asked her how she stays so perfect even after 40 years old rolled on by. She told me her trick.

And something clicked.

It’s not what she ate that inspired me… No, what got me was that she figured out how to really nourish herself. With her tastes, her desires, and even her lifestyle. For example, she has lunch all the time at Flore, so she’s integrated their menu into how she eats.

And right after she finished telling me all about that, she told me something that just cracked me up…

“And of course, you forget that the word dessert ever existed.”

No, no. That’s so impossible for me. No, no no no. I have my rules. And my rules, they’re as hard as iron… They’re stuff like :

• Every breakfast has to consist of toast with butter. Real salted butter. And honey, of course.
• And bread. Every meal has to have bread. My Papa taught me that just by teaching me to set the table (“Where’s the water? And the bread? Where’s the bread!?”)
• Life is not worth living without a glass of wine and 12 cups of coffee a day.
• Life isn’t worth living without snacks. And a snack is defined as a treat you can dunk in your tea.
• Every meal has to finish with something sweet, otherwise it’s not a real meal, and therefore not real life.

Oh yeah, I’ve got some other words to live by:

• Every cool self-respecting chick doesn’t exercise, because exercise is not cool. Have you ever seen Charlotte Gainsbourg exercising ? No !

And yet when Sophie talked to me about the way she feeds herself, her simplicity and groundedness inspired me.

I took a nice hard look at my “rules” and realized they were all pretty stupid.

So right then, I started changing things.

I started with giving up bread. Not completely, mind you, but in the past, I was the girl in the restaurant who finished the entire basket of bread before the appetizers arrived… And I eat out all the time.

I stopped eating desserts. Not all desserts, just mainly cakes and ice cream. I wanted to see what it felt like to end a meal without something sweet.

And the two were the same. It’s a little tough in the beginning, then you get used to it, and then you end up completely forgetting to look at the dessert menu.

After a few weeks, that’s what I did. But there would always be exceptions, because exceptions are part of life. I stayed cool about them.

I right away felt positive effects. And not only on my waistline but also with my self-image. I could eat differently without being totally frustrated. Realizing my “rules” weren’t anything more but bad habits to hide behind, not really understanding why I needed to change a system that worked up until then – even a system as chaotic as the one I had.

And I think I finally understood that if I gained some weight, it was my body telling me that it was tired of absorbing my excesses. I had to see it coming…. I’ve always eaten whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. After 30 hit, the machine got a little cranky. Metabolism just doesn’t deal with your chocolate pudding or your 3rd glass of wine the way it used to.

It made me actually stop and think about my health. Gaining weight, for me, it was never just a cosmetic problem or about pride or fashion.

There is a lot of type II diabetes in my family. And with my dumb rules, it was dangling right in front of my face.

Finding encouragement in my progress, I read a whole bunch of books on nutrition and applied some new principles that seemed to work for me. I revamped my entire way of eating.

No, it wasn’t following some diet. No, not counting calories. And it wasn’t stopping eating what I love to eat.

It was just harmonizing my way of eating with my tastes and my lifestyle. And that’s really personal. No one else can do that for you, and it would serve no purpose whatsoever if I told you what I’ve been eating. It suits no one but myself.

It’s been three months since this has clicked for me. Three months isn’t a long time, and I’m still fumbling around with how to feed myself. I’m changing slowly, one thing at a time.

I’m slowly adapting to where I live : if New York is hell to start with, you can quickly realize that there are tons of delicious healthy options on every corner.

I have a giant Whole Foods just down the street and an awesome Farmer’s Market every other day.

This weekend, locked in the house because the not so hurricane, I cooked. It’d been months since I’d fired up the stove. I forgot how nice it is.

I don’t eat toast and butter every morning anymore. That said, it’d be dumb to try to eat like a Frenchie here. Nothing tastes the same. Not even the French wine, it’s somehow too sweet… If you want a good red, you really have to go looking.

By the way, I still drink a glass of wine every day. Just one, except, you know, exceptions.

And I lost weight.

I’m far from being New York Skinny and that’s not at all my goal, but I got back to the weight I knew and the weight I feel most myself.

Now my friends ask me to be their weight-loss coach, that they’re inspired by me… And it just cracks me up.

Seriously? Me?

It’s funny… I never thought myself capable of change. And still, I wonder if I’m just dreaming here. I feel such a strong sense of balance and I hope to continue this way the rest of my life.

—-

But the craziest thing that I found, I’ll tell you about next time!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

We’re so happy at the studio. We just got I don’t know how many of the t-shirts you see in the picture. These are the ones I made for Elle UK… Okay, made, you know what i mean… I did the illustration – I have no idea how to sew, or spin cotton (oh man, this post is off to a good start… Here we go).

We started by having a little in-home fashion show (yep, because Studio + Home = Same place), and then we thought about how awesome it would be to send some to our friends, and then we thought it’d be awesome to send some to you, seeing as most of you don’t live in the UK and can’t buy them with the magazine. But seeing as we can’t send one to everyone in the world, we thought it’d be awesome if we put together a little contest. And then we thought that it’d be awesome if we stopped using the word awesome all the time.

We made the t-shirt picture and then tried to figure out how to make the contest as fun as we could.

After 8 hours of intense brainstorming (=3mins), we came up with the most awesome fantastic idea (yeah, we really like self-congratulating ourselves. I mean, did you catch the title of the post?)

If you want to win a t-shirt (or even if you don’t want to win a t-shirt, you can join in too), you have to respond to this question:

- What is the worst fashion/beauty/love (so yeah, everything) advice that’s ever been given to you? –

If you can answer in less than 140 characters (what? No, we’re not copying from Twitter!), and as funny as can be, you can submit them to submissions@garancedore.fr ASAP and very soon, we’ll have found some way or another to figure out who gets a t-shirt delivered right to her door with a sweet little note.

And then we can publish your responses on the blog with your name or your handle and we can share all the terrible advice we’ve received…

Tell me if you don’t understand what I’m trying to get across here. I’m at the Studio (= at the house) all morning. I’m going to go get a latte around 10 or 10:30, but otherwise, I should be around. Big hugs!

Oh okay, I can’t leave you with giving you at least one, “You know, best idea is to not worry at all about hair removal, it’ll eventually fall out all on its own. Look at my legs!” —-> My 75 year old next door neighbor, so proud of her smooth calf. Ew.

All right now send me a toooooon of terrible advices, I can’t wait!!!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Even if I know that fashion is not a parallel world, I have to say sometimes I have doubts.

Last time, we explored the fashion tongue of the professional life and how it required a fertile imagination. Well, today, we will study the semantics of fashion week.

Here again, welcome to the soft and fluffy world of fashion parabole. Listen up:

Due to space restrictions for the runway show, we will unfortunately not be able to accomodate your invitation request = Who are you and who is the idiot that gave you my e-mail address?

Oh you know, this time around, I decided to live fashion week a little differently. I’ve decided to only go see shows I REALLY want to see, see some of the young designers, you know, where you find TRUE inspiration = ever since I changed magazines, I’m not invited to any of the important shows.

What are you doing after the show? Arg, I just have to go backstage after, pffff. = I know the designer = I’m more powerful than you.

What did I think of the show? Oh! It always takes me a little time to digest what I’ve just seen… = I haven’t had time yet to check Cathy Horyn’s twitter to see what I thought of the show.

What did I think of the show? Oh! I loved the music = I hated the show but the brand buys 30 ad pages in my magazines every year. And we don’t know each other well enough for me to give you the truth.

What did I think of the show? Oh! My god, what a tragedy! Those clothes must be burned! Outfits like that, it’s a famine of beauty! = It’s the end of fashion week. I’ve lost all sense. My life is a soap opera and I’m the hero of it. Or I’m Andre Leon Talley.

You coming tonight? = … to the super private party everyone’s talking about. You know full well what party I’m talking about. I doubt you’re invited.

Ah? You ARE coming? = They invited YOU?!

Excuse me, what is number on your invitation ? Get out of my front row seat, bitch.

There is, of course, non-verbal language as well. Non-verbal communication… VERY important.

• I’m wearing sandals even though it’s 20 below = I have a driver.
• I arrive with empty hands and no invitation = My invitation is my face. Everyone knows me.
• I come with 12 people without being invited = I’m Kanye West.

That’s it for fashion week! Next time we’ll do beauty. Repeat after me : Fashion is not a parallel universe. Fashion is not…

Translation : Tim Sullivan

———–

The top on the illustration is inspired by a Miu Miu. Kisses!

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?

Cut off in the middle of my joy-fest heading toward the airport to head off to Tokyo, here I am today sending you a post right from my dear living room. No arigatos to be said!

Yeah, for three days now, seeing as I couldn’t get a flight to Japan, Japan came to me just to piss me off a little. I got invited to dinner and they made sushi for me. Someone asked me, “Would you mind going shopping with me?” and then brought me to Uniqlo. I said, “Oh look at that! The trees are flowering!” And I was told, “Yeah, it’s like cherry blossom season in Japan right now, oh you have no idea, it’s so beautiful over there!”

YOU’RE RIGHT. I HAVE NO IDEA. THAT’S EXACTLY WHY I WAS GOING. Thank you giant cloud of ash, thank you.

So, we’ll take this opportunity to tackle some of our most important topics. With no relation between them and in no particularly order…

Number One : The straightening. You always ask me for updates on my Keratin treatment, and honestly, it’s awesome. My hair pretty quickly stopped being super straight, and now is a little more wavy. If I would get myself a real hair cut and if I hadn’t continually forgotten to use the special Keratin Treatment back in New York, it would be even better. Because of course there’s gotta be a super special, super expensive shampoo that goes with it. Otherwise it would be no fun.

Number Two : The trend of the spring. My non-departure left me a little time to finally get some shopping done. I could finally get an idea of what I’d be wearing this spring, and the verdict is surprising. I don’t need ANYTHING.
I know, it’s not the most exciting thing to say for a woman who’s supposed to talk about fashion. I reassured myself thinking that I am simply in a very Emmanuelle Alt period. That when I feel better in my body, a new shopping frenzy will take over. So, no need for anything… Nothing, except for a Stella blazer. Ah! I am still a girl after all.

Number Three : The friends. The fact that I stayed in Paris gave me some time to do the most incredible thing: spend some time with my friends. It’s something that I used to do often enough back in the day, spending Saturday afternoons talking about our lives, watching terrible movies, going to try stuff on, spending four hours on the phone, planning out roadtrips that’ll never happen… I almost never have time right now.

And really, really, really, I missed it.

So… Long live giant clouds of ash? Uhhhh, oh man. At the same time, let’s not kid around.

PS : Oh, and you know who I am the most jealous of ? Of Scott, who left New York for Tokyo, yesterday, no problem, super easily… Grrrr !

Translation: Tim Sullivan

At the time I’m writing to you, I’m sprawled out on my couch, bundled up in a sweater and tights. AND I HATE TIGHTS.

- I just don’t like putting them on. My mama taught me to start with the feet and bring ‘em up nice and slow. It’s gotta be like in all the commercials, a moment of blissful feminine intimacy, but more often than not, you end up hearing, “Sh**!!! Another run!” – Yeah, even opaque tights. What? You’ve never gotten a run in a pair of opaque tights? You must be a friend of my mother’s.

- But then also, I’m a little weird. Warning, you’re about to enter my brain: For me, black tights ADD ANOTHER COLOR. It’s not like all the girls who still have their sanity who say it’s neutral. That hey, who cares? Black doesn’t count. But still, it creates a problem in my style equation. So like, if I have a green skirt and a grey sweater with black tights, OUH NO NO TOO MANY COLORS. THAT DOESN’T WORK. And then A BLACK COLLAR WITH SHOES THAT ARE A DIFFERENT BLACK, EMERGENCY! I pretty much have a fashion panic attack. For a while after, grey tights were a great psychological crutch, but now, it’s totally SOOO 2007. I just can’t. I told you I’m a little weird.

- I’ve just started getting used to the idea of tights with shorts. For me, until now, associating the two seemed almost as paradoxical as leggings with shorts (and those will always be paradoxical. Let’s not get carried away here.)

- And tights are complicated. What happens when you want to go to the bathroom? What do you do then? You pick up your skirt and take down your tights? What’s with this acrobat stuff? I just gotta pee!!!

- Yes OF COURSE I’VE TRIED those tights that keep themselves up. Okay, with that, two things:

little a) My skirts are too short. You see the little lacy top of the tights. I love walking around in a little micro thing, but at the same time, I’m not up for street-walking either, if you follow. This isn’t Zahm, ohhh SNAP!

little b) They’re always sliding down! And yes, definitely, tights that are supposed to keep themselves up are constantly sliding down. You can try to think to the contrary. But then give the secret address of your supplier. Otherwise, they’re constantly sliding down and always at the wrong time. And this is why I… :

little b -2) I tested out some garters for you (Yep! I figured before I became a T-Rex, I should try for a few years to be a real woman, right?). And so here listen, no seriously listen, Dita Von T., queen of the blissful femininity and sublimity:

Not only will they drive you nuts, but on top of that, they’re incredibly difficult to get on. SO, when the time comes in your life when you want to be a little classier (like, yeah, well wait, I’m not really the type to wear those vulgar come-hither tights, yeah baby, ooo look at my garter), you’ll be pretty embarrassed sitting there staring at your crotch trying to get this damned clasp in place.

And don’t even think you’ll be able to get it together really quick in the bathroom because that’ll be a total WALK OF SHAME as your tights are completely turned around and stuck. And normally, this’ll happen the night when you’re at the Château Marmont and George Clooney is sitting just in front of you and his eyes won’t BE IN HIS NESPRESSO, the fool!

Okay, I’ve gotta let you go now. I’ll remind you that I’m on my couch and that I’m wearing tights, and THAT IT’S SNOWING IN PARIS… And so yeah, for the moment, I haven’t found anything better when it’s negative 12 celsius outside to wear with our skirts , shorts and sweater-dresses  Pffff, so if I hear myself correctly, I gotta get going to a warmer country… ;-)

Translation : Tim Sullivan

I was in Milan, calm and collected, about to make the rounds for the fashion weekend while marching on the asphalt road, when a girl showed up wearing shoes, I mean,  those shoes, those strange-looking shoes.

But strangely, I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

I asked her, “Who are you wearing?”

She looked at me and said, “Oh, these are Chloé shoes!”

And then I watched the shoes walked past me. As they approached from the Marni runway, I found them a lot less strange-looking this time. They made another appearance on the Etro runway and their gold buckles seemed to wink at me. By the end of the show, they became so intriguing. While waiting in line at the Fendi show, they stepped on my feet. Since we were already friends from that first morning, I obligingly excused them with a big smile on my face. When I found them seated beside me, I took great pleasure in staring at them. Fendi shoes are good but the Chloé ones…I wonder how they’d look paired with a gauzy skirt, it’s sure to give a ultra-cool rockabilly vibe. And then with a mini-short, hmm…Oh, and with skintight jeans…

Merde, the show was over.

I applauded much too loudly while glancing for the last time. I turned away and they were gone.

Suddenly, the crowd disappeared and how I missed those precious little darlings.

Edit: Since I want to show you these lovelies, I did a poor scan from the En Vogue super-series (Vogue- June/July 2008 issue). See for yourselves. Love them, hate them, then leave them be…

Bisou, bonne journée!

Translation : Magali Eva Suárez.

Même si je vous avais prévenus de l’aspect déceptif de ma grande série de l’été (1,2,3) au suspense insoutenable, je viens vers vous avec ce dernier volet dans toute ma plus primitive humilité. En gros, je poste et je vais me cacher sous un caillou. Ok ?

Je devrais même dire, je fais des mojitos avec mes copines, j’écris déshinibée, je dors, je relis, je rougis, je poste quand même parce que quoi hein bon après tout c’est l’été on est entre nous, et puis je vais me cacher sous un caillou. Ok ?

Mais cessons de reculer, sautons, et reprenons.

Personne n’aime ma robe*, je suis très très énervée, je me défoule sur mon sorbet, et à la vue de l’orage qui gronde et du ciel couleur leggings, nous décidons, Mister Figue et moi, de rentrer à l’hôtel.

C’est l’atmosphère idéale pour avoir une petite conversation.

Sur le chemin, je suis du genre : renfrogné.
Dans l’ascenseur, je suis du style : vengeresse.
Dans la chambre, je m’assieds au bureau, je me tiens bien droite, je lève très haut un seul sourcil et je me lance :

Moi : “Bon alors, explique maintenant. Qu’est ce que tu n’aimes pas dans ma robe ?”

Lui : “Ta robe est belle, c’est juste qu’elle ne te va pas, regarde : là” (montre mes côtes) (?!!) (**)

Moi : (Le choc des mots fige mon visage. Je ressemble à Carla Bruni) “Wow. Tu es vraiment la seule personne au monde à remarquer des trucs comme ça. T’as vu les jambes, t’as vu le décolleté, t’as vu comme ça le fait trop ceinturé et t’as vu comment je me la pète ?” “Merde !” “Tu m’as cassé mon trip, maintenant je ne pourrais plus penser à cette robe qu’en pensant à mes côtes auxquelles je n’avais JAMAIS de ma vie pensé, sauf quand je m’en étais cassé une en snowboard, donc rien à voir, c’était juste pour dire que je fais du snowboard”

Lui : “oui mais tu vois, par exemple, ton débardeur de ce matin est tout simple mais il te va parfaitement.”

Moi : (L’extrême énervement pousse mes expressions dans leurs plus bruts retranchements. À présent je dois ressembler à Courtney Love en concert.)
“Je m’en fous, tu m’as cassé mon trip, cette robe, je ne la mettrais plus. En plus, je le savais, je le savais, JE LE SAVAIS QUE TU ALLAIS DIRE ÇA !!!” (ma voix ressemble à une craie qui dérape sur un tableau. C’est un moment de chic absolu que je tenais à vivre avec vous.)

Lui : “ben si tu le savais pourquoi tu l’as achetée ?”

Moi : (Là on est dans Thriller, je suis en train de me transformer en Monstroplante tellement je suis énervée) “ben tu veux savoir pourquoi ? D’abord parce qu’elle me plaît, ensuite parce que j’ai pris le risque de t’étonner, voilà pourquoi.” (Les femmes de chambre commencent à chanter We are the world dans les couloirs tellement je les émeus.)

(Je demande un peu plus de violons) “Puis parfois j’aime bien juste mettre un truc parce qu’il me plaît. Sans penser à ce qu’il met en valeur ou pas, sans me demander si ça va plaire, juste pour moi. (Ce qui est vrai, mais qui dans ce cas précis est un moment d’hypocrisie absolue, souvenez-vous des raisons qui m’avaient fait craquer pour cette robe).”

Et là, il voit que je suis une furie, que mes cheveux gonflent et que je commence à ressembler à Tina Turner, alors il me dit : “On n’a qu’à faire des essayages. Montre-moi comment tu peux la porter, cette robe. Je suis sûr qu’il y a du potentiel.” (Oh oh oh, il a senti la soirée moisie pointer le bout de son nez, il essaie de rattraper le coup, on va rigoler.)

“Tiens, regarde, essaye avec ça, là. Attends, défais-la un peu plus, là ? Je vois pas bien, fais glisser l’épaule, là, comme ça ? Et glisser totalement ?”

“Ah mais tu vois, voilà, comme ça. Je l’adore, ta robe.”

Ma robe est à mes pieds.

Les hommes sont des animaux sauvages.

————–

* Même si Géraldine demande un erratum et me dit : c’est pas que je l’aime pas, c’est que c’est tellement ton style QUE JE L’AI PAS VUE ! Vous en pensez quoi, je la crois ? C’est pas un peu comme le coup de L’HEURE SUR LE BLACKBERRY Géraldine ?

** Concédons-lui que les manches sont légèrement chauve-souris.

*** Bon. Pour me faire pardonner de ne pas avoir fait de photos de cette robe, j’ai fait l’impensable : je suis allée à un shooting pour Glamour (qui sortira à la rentrée) dans ma robe, genre, j’ai peur de rien. Donc vous pourrez la voir. Même si je ne pense pas que la réalité de cette robe soit un élément indispensable à la compréhension de la philosophie transcendantale de cette série, un peu d’imagination bordel !!!

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