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

Emmanuelle. I don’t have her wardrobe nor her sense of style. But because of the public demand and the crazy amount of comments (=2 1/2) asking about my 10 basics, I just couldn’t resist.

But on one condition. I want to know your basics as well. Maybe we’re not just like Emmanuelle, but we all have our own style and we can all share a few good ideas about basics. For me, the things I’m always coming back to are….

1 – A white shirt that saves me in every situation. I always get a men’s shirt because I don’t like the overly refined feminine shirts. Makes me think too much of Katie Couric.

2 – A pair of slim jeans. I wasn’t much of an early adopter, ohhh noooo, but I got real tired real fast of the boyfriend pants. I don’t get ‘em hemmed, I never really knew how to do it right anyway, I just cut them right off with scissors, right above the ankle. My favorites? Helmut Lang and… Zara.

3 – Grey cashmere sweaters. Bompard. The only ones to understand a true plunging V-neck. Sexy, soft, and warm!

4 – Still a V-neck, the super thin Gap t-shirts. They get the most perfect wear-holes.

5 – My Vuitton bag by Sofia Coppola. Simply the best.

6 – Brown M&Ms, without peanuts. They’re irresistible and go well with everything.

7 – Super bright red nail polish. My ideal is to always have my hands well done, and short nails freshly polished. My reality is that my ideal only happens about once every two months. The rest of the time, I have working-man’s hands. But this’ll change. We’ve walked on the moon, can we really not invent a nail-polish that dries in less than five minutes?

8 – Really high and pointy pumps. I dream about Louboutin Pigalles with the red outer-soul, but I can’t do it anymore, makes me think too much about Pamela Anderson.

9 – Watch, Rolex, only steel.

10 – For soirées, I always dream about a Yves Saint Laurent smoking jacket.

Okay, off we go. I’ll stop it with the narcissism. I’ve gotta be missing a couple of basics here, but actually, as I’m rereading this, I really think I could dress myself just with the clothes listed here without getting tired of them.

Okay… Your turn!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

EDIT : The more I read your comments, the more I am like, oh my god, I forgot my scarves ! And a trench ! And a leather jacket !!! Pfff, 10 items is not enough ;-)

Oh man. I was doing a shoot yesterday* for a summer style story**, and right there in the middle of a stall of gargantuan shoes, I saw them.

What did I see?

Oh but yes, that is the question.

Hmmmm.

Just wait…

Think about it at least two seconds!

So what we will first criticize, and then hate, and then give a second glance, and then reconsider, and then finally steal from all the stores and no one will be able to find them anywhere anymore: clogs.

Clogs!

Red, black, neon, with heels, with clasps, minimalist, sophisticated, with a mustache, there was one for every taste. Only thing they had in common? Their wooden soles and their… Grrrrr… Their return to the farm look that grrrrr…. I’m not into at all, but really, not at all. The worst is still the clogs with heels. I’d rather a clog with a mustache than a clog with heels.

No.

No!

No, clogs, vade retro clogs, you’re too ugly. I don’t want anything to do with you.

I’m not going to give in. I’m staying right here. You aren’t for me. No, not even you little Céline clog. No, not you either, don’t even ask you weirdo Miu Miu clog. And not even you camelia-ized Chanel. And even you, Vuitton monogrammed clog, you’re just too grotesque for me, looking like you do, I’d call you high-art, à la Marc.  Okay, away you go! Out!

Okay, so what do you think, with this kind of determination, you think I’ll make it all the way to spring without a pair of clogs?

——-

* Yep, it’s me with a team of 10 people. What’s this boss thing? It’s crazzzzzy. You ask for something and then bam, they bring it to you. Starbucks anyone?

** What happens when you’re shooting a model in a floral mini-dress in the middle of January in a SNOW STORM? NOOOOOTHING good.

*** What happens when you open up suitcases full of outfits from next season? ENVYYYYYYY.

PS : Sorry about the illustration, but you won’t have me draw a pair of clogs. No. Not yet.

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

Aaaaaaaand… Happy New Year!!!

I really missed you guys, and I’m super excited to get back to you with:

- Lots of new resolutions from the 31st that I wasted no time breaking on the first. Don’t ask me why I still go for the resolutions, the whole New Years thing has a huge effect on me.

And this is the only time when I read horoscopes – ALL the horoscopes. I read ‘em all until I find a good one. (This year, it was Elle’s)(Looks like Jupiter is sending me some luck this year, and is pushing me to change my job (?) (—> Wait, but what exactly is my job to start with?!!), to let my personality bloom and to travel. Wait wait, while we’re on traveling, here’s my first resolution:

Sleep. Jet Lag + too short nights + a life pace that’ll drive you nuts + no physical activity (No, walking in heels doesn’t count and it looks like flats are making their comeback.)(so not cool/so not cool)(take out whichever doesn’t work) = no joke, it’ll put 10 years on you right away and no quantity of botox can change that (… or so I’d like to think). So, SLEEP. Which hopefully will lead to me hearing things like…

When Scott got to the airport in Ajaccio, he said to me, “Whoooaaaa, I forgot how beautiful you are!!!” Hmmmm. “Thank you, but it’s just that I’ve had 4 days where I’ve gotten to sleep as much as I’d like. I came back to human form. THAT’S IT. Really though.”

To let you all in on my reflections on fashion, develop my critical thinking, analyze trends and give you my opinion on Anna Wintour the world around us. Ha!  I’m just joking here!

Be more present for my friends and read my mail instead of Twittering nothingness.

To let you in on my profound mind-wanderings about the craziness that is Twitter. Twitter is stupid. Follow me.

Continue writing in bold. Hmmm, another broken resolution.

Giving. My true resolution is to learn how to give. I’m serious here, no joke. So now I have to put together plan of attack.

Find the perfect hair products and have the hair of my dreams. (Ok. I’m a little ashamed of this one.)

Quit chocolate. My eternal resolution. It never works, but I think the guilt that this resolution inevitably leads to gives you better tasting chocolate. Yes, you can go ahead and read that sentence again. And there you go, this (the taste of chocolate) explains that (my taste for chocolate! Haha!).

Get some exercise. Give my opinion. Cook. Stop (still!) smoking. Get organized. Work more. Stop with the BS. Buy better.

Write shorter posts.

Okay.

Seeing the inconsistencies in my NYPs (Yes, of course it’s necessary, the New Years Post, it’s a main-stay here on the Doré. I told you that the new year is important to me), so seeing the inconsistencies, I went back and read my NYPs from 2009 and 2008 (Seriously? 3 years?)(DON’T EVEN DREAM ABOUT GOING BACK TO 2007. I’m not that crazy. And I’d like to leave my archives alone out of respect for the minx I was back then and just let me keep thinking that they don’t exist, PLEASE! And I realize that it’s pretty much the same kind of nonsensical and messy post but it’ll nag at me for the next few months of 2010.)

Oh man, I’ve gotta stop or else Tim is going to be translating until the wee small hours (Happy New Year Tim!) (Sorry for the lengthiness!) and on top of that NEVER do I succeed in keeping any of my resolutions.

But I’m happy that the decade has switched over, even if it makes me feel like a T-Rex being born in the 70s (and right now, seeing as I want to keep this human form, I really have to get some SLEEP, or else I’ll REALLY start looking like a T-Rex), but I do think we live in exciting times. The world is changing and I’m really excited to see what the future holds… What I’m trying to get to… The ever-present existential question:

High-heels or flats?

Ooookay. I’ll stop with the drivel. Thank you all for being here, and big big big hugs and I’ll see you tomorrow!!!

LAST MINUTE NOTE! Tim just sent me the translation and here’s what he said, “I just got back from the holidays and I’m totally excited about all the people like you who made resolutions (because that means that my yoga classes (Yep, Tim is a yoga teacher AS WELL) are full full full!”

Translation : Tim Sullivan

NYC, Sunday the 20th, 12:00 p.m., Welcome to Wordpress Garance! You have 1 comment awaiting approval:

Deborah: Oh Garance, you’re SO shallow.  This world is crazy in the head. Fashion, fashion, fashion. I mean, really, where is all that fashion gonna get you?

Pfffff… Where to start, Deborah?  I… okay you’re right! I’m superficial, JUST NOT ALL THE TIME! Not all my subscriptions have glossy pages. I’m a conscious consumer. I recycle. I vote and I also think the world is crazy in the head. Actually, we’re in the same boat, you and me. Okay, great, 1 comment approved.

—-

NYC, Sunday the 20th, 3:00 p.m., I’m stuck in the Big Apple. Huge snowstorms forced me to stay two more days here. Oh no… Life can be SO rough sometimes. When the hostess called me to tell me the bad news, I thought I was going to give her a big sloppy one on the lips* I was so happy.

Blissed out, I thought I’d do what I love most in NYC, buy books and cupcakes**, and then go home, make myself a cup of tea, and scarf all three down simultaneously***.

I geared myself up, seeing as outside was Tundra. Parka, pants, heavy socks, scarfs, hat, big hood. When I can’t see anything or move, that means that I’m all good, no more cold for me.

And then…

Then…

I got all my shoes out… And I realized that NOTHING I had would help me brave the snow. And on top of that, not only are 99% of my shoes heels, all the others I love too much to go walking out in the mud and salt (salt is terrible for shoes, TERRIBLE) that’s all over the sidewalk.

At the same time, I’m not gonna let three clods of mud get in my way, that’s right, Gawance Dowé. I get out my platform boots, (that’ll keep me far away from the mud)( =mini-skis, actually) and voilà, off I go into the blizzard.

I get a foot outside. In the snow, I walk like master Yoda, like in the first version of Star Wars, when he’s in his cave, and his light saber has lost all its worth, you know what I’m talking about? Mountains of slowly decomposing snow followed by pools of mud deeper than Pamela Anderson’s neckline.

After about three steps, I’m quite literally stuck.

I stop for three seconds to reflect on my situation and my role in the universe while I’m pretending to send some texts on my Blackberry. All around me, New Yorkers have gotten out their rubber boots. Chic and practical, they make huge bounds in the snow with a grace that rocks me with jealousy.

But even that won’t hold me back. I’ll make some detours, but I’ll get there eventually. And I can even make a little pit-stop at Marc by Marc just next to Magnolia Bakery where I’m sure to find some rubber boots for $10 (Yeah, I know Deborah, rubber boots that price are not environmentally conscious) and then voilà, I’ll have the gear of a true New Yorker. And I’m off.

A half hour later, I’m still struggling to make it around my block. I start to see my hopes on their way back down. And then there’s a Starbucks just in front of me, I could always just go get a muffin there, and then get home and finally finish Journey to the End of Night instead of buying myself some wretched chick-lit. Deborah would be pleased.

No. Not good enough. Keep going. Prove it to the world (= to yourself) that your love of heels won’t get in the way of your life as a liberated woman.

In a desperate plea (what can I do to not finish this terrible Céline paper back?) I flip an ollie on a puddle of mud… And then, without me asking whatsoever, my Cholé mini-skis are on their way… And this starts the progression toward my fatal cascade : My superficiality and me, inextricably linked, heading face first into a pile of snow.

Mortified, I make my retreat and head back home. Adieu cupcakes, Marc by Marc, and piles of paperbacks.

Pffff.

—-

Deborah: Oh Garance, you’re SO shallow.  This world is crazy in the head. Fashion, fashion, fashion. I mean, really, where is all that fashion gonna get you?

Answer = not even to the next block! Ok, ok, ok – Deborah 1, Garance 0.

—-

Voilà, there’s my little winter’s tale, taking time to wish you a holiday season filled with cupcakes. And also to give a little hint for my family about what to leave under the tree on Friday.

And of course, to promise you that it’s not gonna be tomorrow that I stop being superficial!!! Rainboots, yeah, ok. But high heels all the way! Ooookay, I’ll stop talking about nothing. Happy holidays and Merrrryyyyyyyy Christmas!!! Big, big, big hugs!

—–

* Into the telephone, the kisses, have some decency.

** I know. CUPCAKES HAVE SEDUCED US AND TAKEN THE WORLD BY SURPRISE AND THEY’RE TRYING TO CONQUER ALL THE NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS. At the same time, who cares, it’s the same with macaroons: they’re a bit cheesy but ohhh so good.

*** And then call my therapist. And then call my therapist. And then call my therapist.

Translation : Tim Sullivan

I lived in the south of France for a longtime. The weather was beautiful. I was young. I was in love. I had a scooter, amazing friends, and all was well. I tore through tons of magazines. I loved fashion, but it still felt a bit far.

But I gotta add, the simple fact that I would walk around in heels in the middle of the day would make people turn and look. Suddenly the boys felt it was ok to whistle at me. That’ll turn you off a little. So I learned to dress myself relatively simply, just to avoid the hassle. I still felt like one of the best dressed girls on the street, and I was always looking for stylish friends, exciting boutiques, and inspiring women.

The day I first arrived in Paris was a true shock. I had been plenty of times before… but to live there, it’s a totally different thing. Suddenly, me, who was relatively at ease with my own style, I felt like I got my thought of “one of the best dressed girls on the street” shoved back down my throat. Good lesson.

I met impeccably stylish girls who were relaxed, cool, unique. Girls with the most amazing looks. The most resourceful girls who could find YSL at Zara prices. Super feminine girls that never asked for a second, “What’ll they think of me?”

For the first few months, I felt like a rough draft of a woman. But when you love fashion, you learn quick.

And today, it seems only natural for me to leave my house in 5 inch heels or in a bustier in the middle of the day, or even a shirt disguised as a dress, and yet none of it even raises the eyebrow of my newspaper guy on the street and so I wonder…

Has anything really changed? What gives breath to fashion when you live far from the fashion capitals of the world?

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Continued –>

Sunday, 8:45 p.m. : I’m in front of the Espace Pierre Cardin. All my cocktail dresses and favorite outfits are lost unto forever and I have nothing at all to wear, but I could care less, I’ve got my backup Jane Birkin style with my white button-down from ‘82, I should even carry around a wicker basket to top off my look. And look at that, I even found some earrings in the pockets. Pffff. So. Classy.

8:46 : Not so fast, I wouldn’t dare get there all by myself. I try to look like I’m sending texts. I put on another layer of lipstick.

8:46 : Vanessa Seward walks in front of me, and over her beautiful face, a netted diamond veil. And with her, in a night cape, Bertrand Burgalat.

8:47 : Camille Bidault walks in front of me, with a giant hat and a sublime fur.

8:48 : Ludivine Sagnier walks in front of me in a dress full of frillies and a sublime man.

8:49 : Dita Von Teese walks in front of me in a polka-dot Dolce dress and she is sublime.

8:50 : Anna Mouglalis walks in front of me in Chanel with Karl Lagerfeld, aka – the ultimate accesory.

8:51 : Pfffffffff.

8:51 : Text message: “SOPHIE YOU SAID THAT I SHOULDN’T STRESS ABOUT THIS KIND OF PARTY!?!?!?”

8:51 : Text from Sophie : “I’m coming.”

8:51 : Text from Sophie : “I’m disguised in a Little House on the Prairie getup. If we’re gonna look stupid, we’re in it together.”

8:51 : Text from Sophie : “I’m here.”

8:52 : Sophie could have, effectively,  just walked out of Little House on the Prairie, but the Italian Vogue version. I put my arm in hers and Amira Casar walks in front of us. She says bonsoir. Cooool! Amira Casar is like a God to me. I think she’s sublime, perfectly put together, bold, and I love her voice. She gives me a huge smile and tells me that she likes my jacket. Ha!

9:00 : I’m in the middle of a big conversation with Clothilde Coureau about the future of the woman. She’s so cool! And on top of that, she told me she likes my jacket. Come into my arms.

9:10 : Babeth Dijian welcomes me with a big smile, but a bit stressed out, so not even one look at my Target lipstick.

9:49 : No, no, I don’t want to leave anything at the coat check. Why? I don’t care that it’s hot. Everyone loves my jacket. I won’t take it of for ANY reason. And another layer of lipstick…

9:56 : The room is lit in candlelight and there’s no air conditioning. I’m hot.

9:57 : I’m hot.

9:58 : I’m hot.

9:59 : I look around to see if anyone has a shirt whiter than mine. And then, look out, drum roll please… I take my jacket off.

9:59 : No one sizes me up.

9:59 : COOL! No one sizes me up!!!

10:01 : No but seriously now, no one sizes me up. C’mon. What do I have to do? Come in jogging pants?

10:01 : Sophie, “Exactly like I said!!! No use losing your head over something like this.”

Well there you have it. Sorry to lead you on, but what ended up happening was just real life: I neither won the prize for the best dressed girl of the evening, nor did I get nixed by hysteric fashionistas. What ended up happening, actually, was NOTHING.

And that’s what’s so great!

Conclusion : It’s never worth losing your head. Never cancel a party for stupid reasons. Never take yourself too seriously. Call Sophie Fontanel for all your people or fashion questions. Always leave a good staple at the front of your closet. AND ALWAYS HAVE A GOOD LIPSTICK WITH YOU. It’s good for self-confidence. It was Gwyneth who said (thank you Dana),

Beauty, to me, is about being comfortable in your own skin. That, or a kick-ass red lipstick.

Yeah.

—-

PS: It’s good to talk about nothing, but it’s important to say as well that the gala was a party to support the OTM foundation, that works with, among other things, constructing schools in Rwanda. Thank you Babeth.

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Yeeeeeaaaaaahhhh! And we’re back… To New York! This city gives me so much energy and so many new things on my wish list. I want…

More bustiers!!! Last week, I bought one at DKNY, and besides the fact that I had to run half naked through the store to find someone to help me close the thing, and that I ended up in the utility closet with 3 technicians saying I looked great in it*, the bustier is the ultimate article of the moment. Incredibly feminine with some baggy pants and heels for a party, super cool with a light sweater for daytime, oh I love them. I just love them!

Less heels!!! I walk, I walk, I walk, and I’m at wits end. It’s cold! Ballet slipper season is over, Converse, yeah they’re good sometimes, derbies are ok but less feminine. I can’t find anything. The result: yesterday, I almost bought myself a pair of Nike Air Max. These are serious times, between the shoes and my huge necklace, if this keeps up, I’m going to be the next Jay Z and Scott will have to be my Beyonce. Help!!! I need a flat shoe, cool & feminine, does it exist?

More cashmere!!! I went to Uniqlo yesterday because it’s good to spend money cold out, and today, if you aren’t wearing a cashmere sweater, no way you’re cool**. But no one had what I was looking for. So I would like to ask a question to all the sweater designers of the world. WOULD IT BE SO DIFFICULT TO DESIGN A SWEATER WITH A SEXY V-NECK? What’s with these tiny collars that only go to the clavicle? Where can I find a nice grey sweater, soft, and well tailored? Where?!?!?!!

——-

* Diane Kruger thought so too. I had dinner with her day before yesterday, and she spent some time looking at it. Well, so maybe she was seated three tables to the right, and maybe she just glanced at it for a few seconds… But I mean c’mon, minor details here.

** Though I can say that good wool is always better than bad cashmere, but I’ll stop it with the grandma talk. I mean, I’m already looking for flats.

So I leave you now with Jay Z, just to give you an idea of what I’ll become if you don’t help me find a pair of flats and quick. I’m already singing this song all day and he talks about my Yankees hat in it. You tell me when you’re sick of me talking about my Yankees hat, ok?

And what’s this craziness of Alicia Keys playing the piano in Times Square?

Raaaah! Vive Hip Hop, Vive New York!

Translation : Tim Sullivan

Outfit inspired by the Céline show.

So Sunday, I had a shoot. We all met up in the morning at my apartment. Models, assistants, but also TV, because TV has been following me around for about three weeks now. That’s a lot of people in my living room, and a lot of people I don’t know. We were all there, drinking coffee and scarfing down giant pain au chocolats waiting to head out to shoot.

Before everyone got there, I cleaned everything up. t’s a transitional time for me, time to lighten my load and get rid of stuff. I emptied out my cabinets throwing away anything I could find, like my Rabbit (yes, you heard well, my Rabbit, just like Charlotte in Sex & The City), which is bright pink and really really embarassing, looking all technological with things sticking out that move around and about every which way. And that I’ve tried to hide from my cleaning lady ever since my friends gave it to me during their Sex & The City no-woman-can-live-without-her-Rabbit delirium. Yeah…

As I like a little order in my chaos (translation: I’m a pile maker), I put everything in a big garbage bag that I leave right by the front door so the next time I’m heading out, I toss out the trash.

So we were eating giant pain au chocolats, and everyone had their coffee and we’re telling jokes, and we all get ready to head out. The sound tech told me to wait three minutes, that he’s going to put my microphone on… He’ll grab his stuff from the front door.

You see where I’m going here.

Yeah.

Seriously.

I hear someone yell from the front door,

“Heeeeeeyyyy!!! What’s going on! THIS GARBAGE IS VIBRATING OVER HERE!

Oh my god. My Rabbit wasn’t happy to see itself tossed out like an old sock and staged its rebellion. And it vibrated to the max-orgasmic, so much so that my garbage was doing leaps of joy in the front hall.

What would you have me do?

I cracked up laughing.

And here’s how I found myself explaining, to 12 people that I didn’t know, what was going on in my garbage can: and I did so exactly how I just explained it to you.

Was I blushing? Me? No, NEVER!!!

Translation : Tim Sullivan