Hangin with Giselle.

As I left my French class this morning, I noticed quite a commotion in front of the Hotel de Crillion – what is it with that place?! There were lots of sleek black cars and skinny people smoking cigarettes. A harried woman ran by with a bag of mannequin heads. Photographers clamored around the door.

Apocalypse? Nah, it’s fashion week daahhling! I’m so glad I showed up, wearing the leggings I slept in and a t-shirt. I apparently caught the end of the Balenciaga show, with group after group of very tall, very severe looking models exiting the building and jumping into waiting taxis.

I overheard a photog standing near me speaking in a breathless southern drawl, looking like his head was going to explode from the sheer awesomeness of each chiseled cheekbone that strode past. A second later there was a huge commotion at the door, and Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr appeared. I almost squealed. Almost.

Then Giselle walked out. Giselle! Wife of Tom Brady! The french photogs were all shouting “Geeee-zelle! Geee-zelle!” and I just stood there gaping, wishing I had maybe brushed my hair. And for the love of god was she tall and skinny! Weirdly so. It made me hungry just looking at her.

Then the fabulousness was over. The paparazzi dispersed, the red carpet rolled up. And I went to get a sandwich, with extra lardons, s’il vous plait.


In other news, DANGER BEES ARE REAL!

I got a comment last week from musician David MacMichael, informing me that his alterna garage rock band is in fact called The Danger Bees. Dan-ger Beeeeeeeeeeees, Dan-ger Beeeees! They’re pretty good, although I think their current set list is severely lacking in the spider man theme song department. If Homer can do it, so can you David. So can you!

Now if only we could convince him to use the photo above as his next album cover…

Oh yes.

The crazy continues: 2 posts in 1 day! But after I called Donovan my secret lover, I had to reconfirm my devotion to Bocanegra. Carlos honey, you may have questionable taste in books and shoes – but you are still my one and only.


Photo: Robbie Fimmano for Interview

Crazy town.

People, there is some wacky stuff going on today. For starters, I’m watching soccer. And if that wasn’t weird enough, there’s actually some scoring going on! I know, I didn’t believe it at first either. But then my secret lover Landon Donovan went and made this game mildly interesting. He didn’t even have to take his shirt off!

But I wish he did.

Then over at Wimbledon, which no one’s watching because they’ve been tricked into thinking this World Cup scoring thing will continue, some guys are in the middle of a 9 hour match. 9 HOURS. Over the span of two days. At that point wouldn’t you be ready to just flip a coin or something? Rock Paper Scissors for the win? Call me a quitter, but I think I’d just as soon bean the other guy in the face and get it over with than play the 65th game of set 5. But that’s just me.

Also, apparently when you talk mad smack about your boss in a major magazine, you get fired! Bananas I tell you.

Seriously, you know the world has gone bat-shit crazy when the most normal part of my day was running into Anne Hathaway doing a photo shoot with a Rolls Royce and a great dane.

Vocab Friday: Ah, la vache!

Today was a glorious day – it was warm enough for flip flops, I ate a stellar baguette sandwich, I RAN INTO ANTHONY BOURDAIN!!! Ok, “ran into” sounds like we’re old friends. And while I feel oddly close to that sharp-tongued, heavy-drinking rockstar of a chef, I think he’d probably place me strictly in the crazy stranger category. So really it was more like I was walking down the street with a friend, wondering why there was a small crowd gathering at the side door of the Hotel de Crillion and didn’t even see Anthony (Tony, T, T-bo) until said friend pointed him out.

And then I proceeded to squeal like a 12 year old with Beiber fever. I had an almost irresistable impulse to run over and start gushing, but I get the impression that he’s probably not the kind of guy who tolerates gushing idiots. I am, however, really disappointed that I couldn’t pull it together to at least go over and ask for restaurant recommendations.

Anywho, today’s vocab involves a funny phrase:

“Ah, la vache!”

Pronunciation: Ah, lah vaash

Definition: Literally, this means “Oh! The cow!” Oh man, aren’t the french cute?! This is the equivalent of “Holy cow!” or “Oh my god!”  As in:

Ah, la vache! Anthony Bourdain just invited me to join the cast of No Reservations and help write his next book! No, I’m not hallucinating.”

Just a humble servant of the people.

The best umbrella. Ever.

Let my freshly Rosetta Stoned brain translate for you: SH*T! IT’S RAINING!  Yes, it’s been sputtering and drizzling and utterly downpouring for the past few days. And it’s making it terribly hard to motivate.

Seriously, it’s nearly 1pm 2pm in Paris, Brad Pitt is out there roaming the streets somewhere and I can’t even muster the will to brush my teeth.

I know, I know, get up and get a freaking umbrella! Well, I totally would, but there are other mitigating factors at stake here:

1. I left the best umbrella ever created, pictured above, on the metro. (I guess I should have asked the Lost and Found if they had it)

2. The force of Kell on Earth on demand is a strong one. I cannot be expected to fight it alone.

I feel guilty for frittering away my precious time and opportunities here with crap american TV streaming on the computer. I berate myself with questions like, why am I sitting here wasting a day in Paris? Why have I left my hair unbrushed for two days? Why am I eating a fried egg on french bread for lunch?

Well, because I can.

Thank you to my friend Gina who totally rocked my world with that revelation. As a mostly unemployed young woman living an untethered life in the most beautiful city in the world, it is my duty to be all that most of the world can’t be. It is my responsibility to drink wine in the afternoons, read all day and scoff at things like daily showering. Why? Because a lot of other people can’t.

See, I’m doing all of this lazing around for YOU. With every post, rest assured that I am sacrificing things like personal dignity and ambition for the sake of those of us who have to live serious, responsibility-laden lives. I know this is only a fleeting opportunity, so I solemnly vow to fill my days with nothing but unserious pursuits big and small. That said, I’m off to pop some champagne, paint my toenails and study french by watching Cuisine TV.

You’re welcome.

No diamonds, but plenty of diplomats. And pantsuits!

Rocking the pantsuit.I’ve been reading Letitia Baldridge’s memoir, Of Diamonds and Diplomats, and I think it may be skewing my expectations a bit. If you don’t know Ms. Baldrige, let me fill you in: After WWII, fresh out of college, she landed a gig as the Social Secretary for the Paris embassy, then spent a few years as a personal assistant to the ambassador in Rome, then moved on as Social Secretary to the Kennedys. Oh, and somewhere in there she served as the first female executive at Tiffany’s.

Clearly this woman knows what’s up when it comes to official functions. In her day, black tie receptions were a regular occurrence. Things like seating ranks and flower arrangements were issues of the utmost diplomatic importance. Ladies got dressed up for work and for dinner.

Dinner! In a BALL GOWN. I started thinking I could really get on board with this whole diplomacy thing: spreading good will to foreign nations with every coupe de champagne! Breaking down international barriers over caviar! Representing America with a great pair of shoes!

So when I got the email invite to see Hillary Clinton speak at the Ambassador’s residence, I felt compelled to rise to the occasion. This was somewhat uncharted territory, since most days I never leave my pajamas and I don’t own a power pantsuit. But I donned a sleek wool sheath dress and my best heels and set out to be diplomatically fabulous.

US Ambassador's bad ass house

Hillary would be arriving at 4:30, so I got there right as the doors opened at 2:30, figuring I could grab a seat up front and wait. Because if you walked up to a palatial looking house, expecting to wait at least 2 hours to hear a major leader of the free world address the diplomatic community, wouldn’t you at least expect there to be a few chairs around?

Nope. Not a one. And since they took my umbrella at the gate, I arrived damp and wearied to a big empty room where I stood in my best heels for what seemed like eternity. I felt a tad overdressed. I waited in vain for someone to start serving champagne. I wondered how the hell we could get Ms. Baldrige back in charge of events.

Because believe me, it was still really amazing to see Hillary. She gave a great talk, thanking everyone for their service graciously. But by then I was so delirious from all the standing and jostling and lack of cocktails that I could barely hear her over the pain in my feet. Where was the luster? The glamour? All that really important social protocol!?

As I hobbled out to the street to the bus stop (I bet Letitia never took the bus), I bumped into a friend and asked her how her feet were doing. “Oh that was nothing. Last summer I waited for 3 hours to see Obama. In the rain. No umbrellas allowed.”

Well. Looks like this rookie will be trading in her heels for sneakers and a poncho. And trading in Letitia’s book for this one.