My Inner French Girl

Drum roll The new My Inner French Girl site is now up!

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 05:30:00 +0000

This is not a test. I repeat, this is not a test.

It's done! The new My Inner French Girl is now up and running on its own site. You can't even imagine how incredibly relieved and excited I am to actually write that.

Henceforth, I'll be posting and reviewing and doing all that good stuff on the new site, so please head on out there for the latest updates. Today is a really special day for MIFG, too, because my first, official post (after the Welcome post, that is) includes a surprise podcast interview with a well-known author and journalist.

Note: Those of you who've been subscribed (either via a news reader or email) will also need to re-subscribe, using the options on the right sidebar on the new site. I wish I could just transfer everybody, but unfortunately that isn't possible at this time. It takes just a sec to subscribe, though, so I hope you do! And please let me know what you think!

Thanks a million to everyone who's supported and cheered me on throughout this blog's two-year (!!) life. See you on the new site!

Click here to visit the new My Inner French Girl site.

Rachel Zoe in the City of Light

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 14:58:00 +0000

I do not understand the fascination with stylist-to-the-stars Rachel Zoe. Ms. Zoe is a teeny-tiny ball of lightning and fire, so combustible I fear for her luxe blonde locks and their ability to survive surefire conflagration in the wake of her manic workaholism.

And yet. And yet. I'm utterly obsessed with her reality show, The Rachel Zoe Project on Bravo, which is now in its second season. Ms. Zoe darts all over Los Angeles in her black SUV, her two hapless and bickering stylist associates (the infamous Brad and Taylor, best known for their childish antics as much as for their sartorial assistance and savvy) in tow, sporting her massive sunglasses and letting spill such gems as "I. Die." and "Bananas!" out of her puckered mouth.

Does anyone else share this keen interest in what I acknowledge is otherwise a very, very shallow show? Mind you, I don't think Ms. Zoe herself is shallow -- I have nothing but utmost respect for her as a working professional, a self-described creative artist who has clearly figured out the secret to making a ton of money doing what she loves most, i.e., shopping, and who wouldn't want that job? -- but the way the show spins the drama of, say, picking out a celebrity's outfit for a press conference or (God forbid!!!) an awards ceremony into something on the level of importance of, oh, the Japanese surrender to the Allies on the USS Missouri is insane.

Insane, as in, this week's episode reveals Ms. Zoe's physical breakdown following a crazy awards season, during which she styled the likes of Cameron Diaz, Anne Hathaway, Demi Moore, Chanel Iman, Eva Mendes, and a few other A-list actresses and models. Ms. Zoe's physician diagnoses vertigo and prescribes lots and lots of rest, but then this is Reality TV World, not to mention Los Angeles and the rarefied world of show business, where sitting on one's derriere, no matter how well-toned or bony or bejeweled, is considered a mortal sin. (I'm a Catholic, albeit a lapsed one. I know from whence I speak. Mortal sin = bad, baaad thing.) It's just not done.

And yet I can't help but watch, and watch I do every week. The wonderful thing about reality shows is that their seasons last a fraction of the length of traditional, scripted shows, so you're really only subjecting your precious brain cells to about 10 hours or perhaps even less a year on such fluff, minus commercials. I don't ever feel the need to defend my particular reality show interests (Dancing with the Stars? Nah. Survivor? Is that still even around? Give me Tori & Dean anyday.), but I will say that one big draw for me is the chance to see powerful women at work. I mean, really at work, as opposed to watching them play someone working, like Julianna Margulies as lawyer Alicia Florrick in the awesome new drama, The Good Wife.

People both within and without the stifling confines of Hollywood might consider the likes of Rachel Zoe and her folks as being superficial, shallow, vapid, and chronically self-absorbed, but one thing they can never accuse her of is being lazy. Watching her show is a bit like imagining what life might be like for a Project Runway designer to actually go on to enormous success -- what we see on the runway might be all glitter and glamour and the dreamy flicker of popping flashbulbs, but the reality of styling, like any other job, involves lots of schlepping, schmoozing, late nights, early mornings, deadlines, events, publicity, marketing, branding, networking, purchasing, management, human resources...all the endless responsibilities under the umbrella of even the smallest company, just magnified on television and, yes, overly dramatized but still quite real.

Ms. Zoe has clearly spent countless, tireless hours of her life building her empire, and it's been no small feat. Although The Rachel Zoe Project (of which the titular star is also a producer) highlights only a small fraction of that empire -- the show stars Ms. Zoe; her husband Rodger, himself a multimedia entrepreneur; Brad and Taylor -- she obviously has a bigger, more robust staff working behind the scenes, including her personal assistant, Marisa; a few other styling assistants; her makeup and hair assistant, Joey; and an online consultant named Jessica, all of whom make occasional appearances on the show. She also has her camera crew, production assistants, and the unseen, unnamed people who maintain her online Web presence and daily newsletter.

The Rachel Zoe Project may ostensibly be about celebrity fashion -- and there's plenty of that, both in L.A. and New York, where Ms. Zoe also spends a good deal of time -- but it's really mostly about the running around behind the scenes, the not-so-glamorous infrastructure of overflowing closets, fourteen-hour-days, endless meetings (even if they are with people like Diane von Furstenberg and Giorgio Armani), and the occasional mean mention on Page Six. It's about work and what it takes to become successful, and while Ms. Zoe and Co. may sometimes seem like inhabitants from an alien world, underneath it all they're still just hardworking women trying to carve out a niche and a name for themselves. Just like you and me. Except, you know, dressed in Chanel and sporting a seemingly endless collection of Hermes Birkin bags in all different colors and sizes.

For those of you interested, October 12th will be the season finale, but in the meantime, Ms. Zoe and her entourage hit Paris for Fashion Week. They'll be attending shows from Galliano to Chanel and choosing possible outfits for their clients for another round of award shows in the spring. And of course, they'll probably be indulging in a little more drama for the cameras, too. New show next Monday, 9 Central/10 Eastern, on Bravo TV.

By the way, I discovered a new blog and store, courtesy of Ms. Zoe's show this previous Monday. If you live in L.A., you've probably already heard of Decades Two, which sounds like my idea of heaven. (That is, if Heaven meant I had a limitless supply of money.) Decades Two is a designer consignment shop, while its sister store, Decades, is a vintage couture shop. I caught a glimpse of their offerings on the show and have had a little chance to peruse some of the posts and photos on their blogs (here and here) and am already planning my next trip to the West Coast. It may not involve a lot of actual shopping, but there will definitely be lots of window ~~licking~~ shopping. In fact, I've already picked out the dress I plan to wear when I win the Oscar for Best Screenplay. Very Gigi, don't you think?

Instant Gratification

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 20:39:00 +0000

I'm a big, big Starbucks fan. There. I've said it. And I'm not ashamed of it.

Of course, it's not a big secret. Anytime someone wants to meet me on a Sunday for a cup of coffee and a chat, for example, my default go-to location has often been the Big Bucks, not the least because so many indie coffee shops choose to shutter on the Lord's Day. Patronizing indie coffee shops is tres chic, tres French, but of course, even the French have embraced the Starbucks concept. It might sound like the beginning of the end of the historic Parisian cafe, but I suspect that there's plenty of space in the vast, coffee-loving Parisian landscape for Starbucks to settle into a nice niche.

Anyway, one of the main reasons why I love Starbucks is the customer service. What can I say? I'm totally American in the sense that I really do like a friendly smile and generous spirit with my cafe au lait. And believe it or not, a surprising number of indie shops don't place a high enough priority on that simple concept. Evening and expanded weekend hours are just a part of that.

This morning I popped into a suburban Starbucks after a particularly stressful morning dealing with Dallas traffic. As a lot of you are probably aware, the coffeehouse giant is rolling out their new instant coffee, Via, nationwide, and if you've had a chance to visit your neighborhood branch, you'll probably be offered a fresh, piping hot sample. I was, but I initially declined, explaining that I'm not really a straight-coffee drinker. (I often say that I like a little coffee with my steamed milk.) The cashier/barista offered to make a "Via Misto sample" (Misto being Starbucks lingo for cafe au lait), but I demurred, instead opting for a small sip of the sample he already had.

What impressed me the most about the "raw" Via is the texture. I spent half of my childhood and adolescence in the Philippines, where instant coffee probably makes up about 95% of all coffee that's drunk in the entire country, and I remember well those dark, reddish-brown granules that you poured by the tablespoon into your cup. Via, however, is extremely fine, almost like a mineral powder, and is the color of very dark chocolate. Its aroma is relatively mild, not bitter or overpowering. The flavor itself doesn't really match Starbucks coffee at its best -- sadly, the quality of the brewed coffee can still vary, depending on the branch and the barista -- but it's actually quite good in its own right. At $2.95 for a pack of three, it's cheaper than a Tall coffee but still pricier than instant coffee at the grocery store. In these recessionary times it can still be too dear for many people on strict budgets, but for someone jonesing for a Starbucks, it's worth a nice buck.

By the way, after I had taken my little sample sip, another sample cup materialized in front of me, this time looking suspiciously like a miniature cafe au lait. Apparently the barista at the other end of the counter had heard me mention that I prefer my coffee with steamed milk and prepared that Via Misto sample after all. And yup, it was even better with the hot milk. See what I mean about the customer service?

Cara Black's book spills out of YSL bag! News at 11!

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:15:00 +0000

One of my favorite mystery authors is, bien sur, Cara Black, author of the awesome Aimee Leduc series and a lovely Francophile currently based in San Francisco. (If I didn't love her and her writing so much, I'd probably hate her.) If you haven't had a chance to read any of her books, what in heaven's name are you waiting for? Our brave, fiercely intelligent and incredibly stylish Aimee is a French-American private investigator in Paris with nine successful cases under her Hermes belt. What I love most about her books, though, is how much research Black has packed into her stories. The woman doesn't just sit down at her typewriter and write -- she roams the back alleys of the City of Light, interviews real police detectives, experts, shopkeepers, and the usual "man on the street, and conducts extensive research on the history of everything from Parisian canals to the war in the Middle East to inject her stories with rich detail.

Cara kindly forwarded me a copy of an advertisement in a recent L'Officiel issue that features an advertisement for the gorgeous (and tres chere!) Yves Saint-Laurent handbag. You don't need an eagle eye to note the title of the book. (That would, of course, be, Murder in the Marais.) Congratulations, Cara, on this great exposure! (I'd be lucky to have my own book spilling out of a Target tote in a local ad!)

Check out Cara's newest novel in the Aimee Leduc series, Murder in the Latin Quarter, published in March 2009. Also stay tuned for an interview I conducted with Cara earlier this summer about her research, writing routine and her love of Paris history, to be featured in the new MIFG!

Au revoir, Prescriptives

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 15:51:00 +0000

How could I have missed this news?

As many of you probably already heard, Estee Lauder will close its Prescriptives brand as of January 31, 2010. Now, normally I'm not one to sign non-political petitions, but if anyone wants to set one up, do let me know because that's a cause I'm definitely eager to get behind.

A very perceptive sales associate of the brand was interviewed by The Epoch Times listed some of the reasons she believes underlie the failure of the cult favorite: poor branding, dearth of marketing, and its refusal to offer samples and free gifts, unlike its other, more popular sisters under the Lauder umbrella, including Clinique. (If the Lauder folks are smart, they'll hire this girl as their next product manager-in-training. Seriously, she's on to something.)

While not devastating on the scale of, say, the 2004 Asian tsunami, the news definitely left me quite saddened. I first tried Prescriptives' color-matching foundation the day before my wedding in 2003, when I was determined to find a base that would perfectly match my Asian skintone so that I could walk down the aisle without worrying that I look like a Noh actor in Western costume. (And yeah, I know, I waited until literally the last minute to get the foundation, but hey, I had four months to plan my wedding. I'm lucky I made it to the altar on time.)

The makeup artist/sales associate who worked with me that afternoon at the Prescriptives counter at NorthPark's Neiman Marcus spent over an hour and a half trying to find the perfect -- perfect -- match to my skin. He'd scrutinize my face like a scientist observing cells under a microscope, turn to his large palette of colors, do a little mixing here and a bit of mixing there, then swipe a stripe or two across my chin. He'd then expertly blend it with a brush -- blending, blending, blending -- before taking me outside in the late afternoon summer sun to analyze the results under natural light. I think we went through this ritual about five times before he finally found a blend that satisfied him. Afterwards, he spent almost as much time doing much the same thing with the matching powder.

By that time I couldn't even tell the difference between the last two or three samples he had tried on my face -- I was just hugely impressed with his dedication to his work. (Did I mention that he was gorgeous? Another reason I didn't mind hanging around for so long, despite all the other things I had yet to do in preparation for the big day.)

I bought both the foundation and the powder for a total of just over $100, a rather big expense for me as B. and I were paying for our wedding out of our own pocket and I'd just landed a job after being laid off only three months before. Still, it was so worth it. The most memorable compliment I received was when B. remarked at the reception that he couldn't even tell that I had makeup on. That he actually liked the results -- a big change for him, as he's always insisted that I looked better without makeup. Now that's magic.

I've tried other brands, including Clinique, Neutrogena, Estee Lauder, Bare Minerals, Jane Iredale, Paula's Choice, L'Oreal, Revlon, Everyday Minerals, and tons more whose names I've long since forgotten. The Prescriptives set that I bought in 2003 lasted me a couple of years, but after that I kept switching brands, mostly to save money, but each time I'm always, always disappointed. I've never found a single drugstore or department store or boutique brand that comes even close to providing the flawless look that I get from my custom-blended Prescriptives. It was expensive, sure, but I still say it was totally worth it, especially if you have challenging-to-match skintones like mine. To twist around that famous phrase: If I don't look good, I don't feel good.

Any other Prescriptives fans out there? What do you think of its premature demise? Do you think Lauder should have made more efforts to market the brand, especially given the increase in the number of ethnic minorities in this country? (Many, many women of color I know spend countless hours trying to find the perfect foundation, to no avail.) Or do you think it's past its prime?

France to call out Photoshopped images

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 11:30:00 +0000

You've probably heard about the proposal being discussed in France to slap "government health warnings" on airbrushed photos of models and celebrities, ostensibly to discourage impressionable young women from thinking that the perfection they see in magazines and billboards reflect a reality that they must emulate.

What do you think? Do you think that these labels will actually help the public to distinguish between what's real and what's an artistic ~~distortion~~ "interpretation?" Do you think this effort will combat the eating disorders and massive drop in self-esteem that plague young girls everywhere, not just in France? Or do you think that it won't affect social change at all, that the mere presence of such superhuman bodies and blemish-free complexions -- even with the big ol' labels blaring out their provenance front and center -- in the greater cultural landscape will continue to haunt us with their impossibility?

Do those cigarette label warnings actually work, or was it the staggering lawsuits, the ban against most advertising, and the growing number of citywide bans around the country, that caused a precipitous decline in the number of smokers in this country? I'm thinking the latter, but that's just a guess.

Cougar Trend: Fun? Empowering? How about Tired and Insulting?

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 16:21:00 +0000

I'm stumped over our nation's current obsession with so-called Cougars. For those of you who wisely ignore such bubble-headed pop trends, a "cougar" is (according to that all-knowing, all-seeing guru, Wikipedia) "a woman over 40who sexually pursues younger men, typically more than eight years her junior." Demi Moore comes to mind, as does Courteney Cox (married to the several-years-younger David Arquette) and Susan Sarandon. Fittingly, Ms. Cox can currently be seen starring a new TV series titled Cougar Town. Even money says it won't last a year, although I happily admit that I've yet to see the show (and probably won't) and am extremely unqualified to judge its merits. Or lack thereof.

Once upon a time, women reaching A Certain Age who were frustrated with the onset of graying hair, wrinkles, dry skin, and less-lubricated joints could at least take comfort in their hard-earned wisdom, perhaps even hard-earned paychecks, and the fact that their advancing years would allow them to finally be taken more seriously at work and in society. They were no longer cute little playthings at the mercy of powerful men (of all ages) and could therefore claim their own, fully-ripened power as mature women. They would be judged by their accomplishments, both at home and in the workplace; their looks might still get them a few catcalls and whistles, but they've reached the blissful age where their self-esteem is no longer tied to such superficial standards of beauty and appeal. Instead, they found satisfaction in the richness of their interior lives and the awesome distance they've traveled since they first set out to meet the world and all its challenges.

At least, that's how we hope reaching that milestone would be like, right? It's a cliche to note that older European women, particularly those in France, enjoy a much higher level of respect and deference than their counterparts in America. Older women here -- unless they look like Susan Sarandon or Demi Moore -- tend to disappear, or are relegated to vapid, soft-focus roles in Hallmark Channel movies that no one watches. (Okay, sometimes I watch, but usually only at Christmastime when I'm such a sucker for sappy films.) I'd be willing to bet, however, that even Ms. Sarandon and Ms. Moore have to fight for decent roles that don't involve hiding behind shapeless dresses and awful stereotypes about older women. If Ms. Moore were to allow her body to naturally age, without the help of Botox or plastic surgery or punishing hours at the gym, would she still be in our cultural radar?

The Cougar "trend" (and that's what I dearly hope it all is, one that will die a very quick death) repels me because not only does utilize a crass and somewhat seedy term, but it also takes away the one thing that comforts many of us about growing older: that we would no longer be judged solely by our sexuality but by all the other amazing things that make up our wild and unique personalities. Sure, I'd love to continue looking as taut and tight and smooth as I did when I was twenty (heck, in ten years I'll probably look back at 37 and think, Whoa, I was a lot better-looking and thinner than I gave myself credit for!). I'd love to always be enjoying lots and lots of sex with B. until we breathe our last. And my single, divorced and widowed friends would probably want to live the best life they can have, too, complete with all the sex and beauty and designer clothes that are the birthright of all women.

But to be referred to as a "cougar," as if our only worth as women will always be reduced to our ability to attract men, not only disrespects our older sisters but all of us. (And the fact that younger men is thrown into the fray, too, as if they're all that great a catch. Can I get an Amen from women who've dated younger men and found them to be, ahem, wanting? Not to generalize, of course -- I once dated a guy several years my junior who turned out to be funny, sweet and surprisingly romantic -- but is their relative youth the only thing that recommends them?) It's hard enough to get people to refer to us as women, as if the word itself were dirty. How many times have any of you been referred to as Sweetie, Honey, Girl, Darling, Young Thing, Old Thing, or Chick, even though you're probably well on the south side of your thirties? Even my own dentist -- who should know better -- called me a "cutie" the other day. Dude, I'm thirty-seven years old and paying you a couple of thousand dollars out of my own pocket for a crown. Don't call me "cutie."

[And yes, I do recognize the irony of what I just said, considering that I call this site My Inner French Girl. I've no excuse other than to say that French Girl seems to be a rather useful catchphrase that encapsulates a constellation of personality traits, habits and interests based on our perception of a particular group. Think of it like a brand: French Girl (TM).]

So please, for the love of God, unless you're referring to the animal, do banish that terrible word from your vocabulary. The sooner it can fade away from memory, the sooner we can get on with the business of growing older and getting better.

By the way, apparently I'm not the only one who finds all this talk about cougars to be distasteful and crude. Check out this PinkMagazine.com profile of Linda Franklin, the first Canadian woman to hold a seat on the New York Stock Exchange and author of a new book titled, Don't Ever Call Me Ma'am: The Real Cougar Woman Handbook. She also publishes The Real Cougar Woman Web site.

Blogs and the return of Domino....sort of

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 12:31:00 +0000

September. What a cruel month.

I've never been the best at design (long-time readers will remember how many different "looks" My Inner French Girl had before I finally, half-heartedly settled on this blah template from Blogger), but that's partly because I've not been formally trained. I've worked as a professional photographer and have a fairly good eye (in my humble opinion) for composition and contrast, but again, I never had any "real" training. Graphic design is even more complicated, and I admire those of you who pursue it as a vocation. Like writing it only seems easy -- the execution is pretty much the way it sounds: as painful as an execution.

That's a rather roundabout way of saying that I'm completing the complete redesign of My Inner French Girl, hence my silence of late. It's beautiful! It's shocking! It's sophisticated! It's bold! It's...not yet done. But soon! Soon!

My ambition -- because one must never launch these things without at least a small desire for world domination -- is to create an online magazine for Francophiles. It's something I've wanted to do for, well, years, or at least since I began this blog. The design process is rather slow, for although I'm a complete magazine junkie (I read about two dozen or so during a slow month, twice that when I'm really caffeinated) it's difficult to slough through the kajillions of possible layouts currently in existence on the Web. (Utterly useless tangent: For those of you unaware, kajillion is actually a word. Who knew that it wasn't something little kids dreamed up in the schoolyard, huh? That word won me our school spelling bee in the fifth grade and propelled me to city-wide stardom, where I was promptly eliminated in the second round after misspelling hooliganism.)

But I'm getting there, and I think you'll like the new look. My goal is to have it up and running by Monday, September 28. It will mean having to resubscribe, for those of you who receive this blog via either a feedreader or email, but it'll be worth it. I'll keep you posted!

In the meantime, speaking of magazine launches, did you hear that the old Domino folks are reuniting to put together an online shelter magazine inspired by their old employer? As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm a really late Domino mag fan, having only really discovered the publication after it had shuttered, but I join the rest of the wailing Domino crowd who miss its DIY ethos and unique vibe. Here's hoping that this new offshoot will be as memorable as its much-missed parent.

By the way, speaking of lovely shelter mags, do check out Apartment Therapy if you haven't already discovered this little gem. I've lived in apartments pretty much my entire life and have always been frustrated with the severe limitations that many offer, what with their cookie-cutter layout and eggshell walls. This gorgeous site, packed with a kajillion (there's that word again!) full-color photos of lots of different apartments around the world, offers endless inspirations for those of you -- like me -- who enjoy a love-hate relationship with our confounding flats. You can opt-in to receive a fun email delivered to your Inbox with photo-filled examples of eclectic, cool, edgy, elegant, or just plain funky apartments, from San Francisco to Stockholm. (Most of the example apartments are U.S.-based, though.) What I love about the site is that, as in real life, you can find design inspirations for apartments sized anywhere from 200 square feet to 3,000-square feet and above. It's like an online IKEA showroom -- and yes, IKEA is well-represented in many designs -- but they all do a beautiful job reflecting their residents' interests and style.

Have fun!

Book Review: What French Women Know (2009)

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 14:30:00 +0000

I have yet to master the art of tying a scarf so that I look chic rather than...strangled. Occasionally I get it right, but more often than not I end up with two loose ends desperate to meet but which can't seem to do so without compromising my overall look.

I own a Fendi, but not a single Chanel, not even the perfume.

I drive a Geo rather than a Peugeot.

My French language skills is limited to what I learned in high school, although for some reason I remember more from those two years than I do from six semesters of college-level Spanish linguistics, grammar and conversation.

Being a Francophile means many things to me, not the least of which is pursuing a life of the mind, the spirit as well as of the flesh, but right now I seem to be doing a bang-up job with the two former, and a rather dismal one of the latter. It's not that the aforementioned flesh is weak, mind you, and that the spirit is gung-ho, but rather that, as a true-blue geek and obsessive reader, art and politics and culture and literature represent creature comforts to me; in the fashion world, however, I'm still very much a virgin.

If you read any of the more popular books targeting American Francophiles, you can be forgiven for believing that plumbing the secrets of the French Woman (TM) means nothing more than buying an Hermes scarf, munching on a morning baguette with one's cafe au lait, and keeping one's Chanel Rouge lipstick tucked away, ever ready, in one's Louis Vuitton handbag. For the vast majority of us poor Yankees without the budget or the inclination to walk around in six-inch heels and leaving contrails of Coco in our wake, however, it can be awfully demoralizing to think that a wardrobe of Gap tees and Levi's jeans might disqualify us from ever being chic or being mistaken for French.

And it's with this unhappy prospect that I approached Debra Ollivier's new book, What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind. Unsure of what I was going to be up against, I braced myself for yet another thinly disguised diet book/style manual that purportedly is about, yet again, How to Be French.

Ollivier, who also penned the popular Entre Nous: A Woman's Guide to Finding Her Inner French Girl, takes all those how-to books on imitating and/or adopting French style and goes a huge step further, however. With her strong command of language and her gift for piling layer upon layer of metaphors until she dangerously comes close to confusing her reader (I admit, I would get lost in the thicket of imagery Mme. Ollivier employs, but that's not always a bad thing), Ollivier once again dives deep into the heart of Francophilia and wields every sociological, psychological and anthropological tool to slice and dice the French Woman until her wine-soaked heart is lain bare for our curious eyes. (See? I can embark on literary flights of fancy, too, albeit not nearly as well as the author can.)

To my surprise and delight, this is not a book for the woman seeking diet tips or advice on how to tie a scarf, or even how to land a Frenchman, although the assumption is that by carefully studying this almost academic text, you'll be better prepared to actually meet a real Frenchman than if you were to simply zip to Paris as your wild, unadulterated and untamed American self. It's not that Ollivier doesn't offer any insights as to, say, why French women don't get fat (Answer? The culture doesn't allow them to, dahling, as Mireille Guiliano herself pointed out in her books.), but that she has loftier ambitions with her carefully researched book.

The author offers not only personal experiences and that of her friends and acquaintances but also surveys, research studies as well as pithy quotes from everyone from Marlene Dietrich to Proust. She illuminates the French Woman's psyche by pointing out that her very soul is driven by the understanding of "the brevity of time and the immediacy of pleasure," a phrase repeated verbatim throughout the book. I suppose having that as one's underlying philosophy explains the French passion for, well, passion and love and sex and food and all those other things that endow life with meaning.

According to Ollivier, what French Women know is that ambition, money, power, material consumption, profligacy, puritanism, sexual repression, and all those other things that so plague American culture and society, are but obstacles to the pursuit of pleasure and instead contribute to pain and suffering. French women enjoy a long and rich history of women who have "had it all," not in the new American sense (work/life balance, professional success, equally successful and handsome husband, house in the 'burbs, two cars in the garage, one bathroom for every household member), but rather in the very French sense of possessing a life overflowing with love and sex and intelligence and the respect of their men.

As if that weren't enough to make you wish you were born in France, Ollivier goes on to point out that they're also quite indifferent towards the goal of perfection that we American women so desperately seek; they're pragmatic about the limits of love while at the same time are relentless in their willingness to push them; their deep and abiding respect for Freudian psychoanalysis (largely discredited in American psychiatry) has provided them with an understanding of human psychology that allows for the wholehearted embrace of our most primal (and thus most human) instincts; and, oh, they're much, much more mature about the way they approach love and family and even adultery than we priggish Americans are, and are thus able to maintain remarkable social harmony despite all that infidelity and premarital sex.

No wonder we American women have such a love/hate relationship towards our French sisters. If we're to believe Ollivier, not only do they have better sex and better marriages, they also aren't plagued with the nasty inner demons of self-doubt, self-loathing and self-criticism that seems to come part and parcel of the aforementioned American Dream, at least for American women. Ollivier's thesis seems to be not that we've been sold a bill of goods, but rather that we've brought much of our own problems on ourselves. Who wrote that awful, regressive book The Rules, after all? Two American women.

Now, if you're beginning to suspect that I'm having some doubts about Ollivier's thesis, you're on the right track. While I applaud the author's attempt to go beyond the superficial comparisons between French and American women, I have a serious bone to pick with her about her rather unsavory, condescending and -- in some cases -- downright mean portrayals of the latter.

Ollivier does have a beautiful capacity to not only showcase what it is about French women that foreigners find so exciting and alluring, but also to carefully explain why they are what they are. She pulls out the gamut of experiences and examples, from the love story of Heloise and Abelard, to the writings of Edith Wharton and Ralph Waldo Emerson, to the example of the Marquise du Chatelet. Numerous French sociologists, journalists and philosophers are quoted at length, including the writers of Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong: Why We Love France but Not the French, a well-written and surprisingly even-handed study of why France succeeds despite its many, many challenges.

Alas, however, when Ollivier turns her attention to the flaws and foibles of her American sisters, the book often reads like a high school paper (albeit a well-written one) on pop culture, with its liberal use of quotes and examples from very American cultural symbols such as The Bachelor, Something's Gotta Give, The Graduate, New Yorker cartoons, Spanglish (???), Helen Reddy, Sex and the City, the ubiquitous Happy Face, Desperate Housewives, Doris Day, and yes, The Rules. In other words, while the French are allowed Baudelaire, Colette and Flaubert, we get...Adam Sandler, Bill Maher and Marlon Brando? (We don't even get the sexy, smoldering Marlon Brando in his On the Waterfront heyday, but rather the fat and aging Brando of Last Tango in Paris.) Even the very American, Brooklyn-born Mae West is described not as American, but as an "Honorary French Girl." (We can't even claim Mae West as our own.)

That's not even including the rather tasteless joke that opens Chapter Six: Art de Vivre, one of those digs at global stereotypes at the expense of Americans, especially the American woman, and which in this book is somehow employed as a sociological explanation of why we Yankee females can't keep a man. I wouldn't be surprised if this joke were to be found in any of those countless Web sites that promise to introduce American men to "Oriental women."

If that's all Anglo-Saxon culture and history had to offer its female citizens, well, yes, it wouldn't be too far-fetched to believe that we are indeed culturally and intellectually impoverished, but obviously, despite our relatively young history as a country, America has contributed quite a lot more to literature, film, music, and even philosophy, than Ollivier gives it credit for. And despite what she may believe, movies -- especially those produced by Hollywood's major studios -- do not usually reflect the messy, complex nature of intimate life in America.

I would really like to recommend this book, and frankly, Ollivier's writing alone is worth even just a quick read. Despite the book's flaws, it's obvious that it was written with a great deal of care and forethought, and that she has spent considerable time studying and researching her chosen subject. Also, there's still a great deal that one can learn about why the French woman attracts such attention; why we Francophiles devour these kinds of books; and why we believe that our French sisters possess the secret to happiness. Ollivier offers us plenty of food for thought, if not the answers we seek.

I just wish that she would give American women at least some credit, and not elevate the French woman at our expense. After all, despite all the fawning over Segolene Royal, all the comparisons between her and our own female politicians, how much more self-assured and self-possessed and unabashedly womanly she is...lest we forget, she did ultimately lose the election. And surely there's a reason why our favorite ambassador of French femininity, Mireille Guiliano, has chosen to make her home in the United States rather than in France. (And yes, I realize I'm repeating myself, but I'll reiterate once more my theory as to why Guiliano is so well-loved in our country, and that's because she can teach us a thing or two about the secrets of French women while at the same time celebrating what makes us uniquely American.)

And of course, I'm quite proud of the fact that Muslim women can wear their head scarves and even burqas here in our country without fear that their choice of dress will be the subject of legislation. The impression that I have is that France is a wonderful country for white women, but religious and ethnic minorities -- especially those who aren't members of the middle-class and who desire to maintain some of their native traditions and customs -- live a very different reality.

Read this book with the intention of understanding more about the French woman, beyond the expensive scarves and overpriced creams and lingerie. Ollivier does offer keen insights into what makes the French woman tick and how one might be able to achieve some of that allure and self-confidence. Be forewarned that Anglo-Saxon women do not fare well under her sharp pen, but if you can ignore the not-so-subtle poison digs at us, you'll find some great, French-inspired tips on how to approach "love, sex and other matters of the mind."

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars. Not a waste of time and still worth a read, but could have been much better with a more even-handed portrayal of American women.

Man Booker Prize finalists announced

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 17:30:00 +0000

What I found most interesting about this article announcing the current Man Booker Prize finalists is the following line:

The Booker almost always brings a big surge in sales for the winner — and a welcome boost for book stores.

Oh, and this:

"For bookshops, winners with a few books under their belt already tend to be better for sales: this gets people buying more books by that author and, we hope, encourages them to start exploring beyond the best-sellers at the front of the shop."

Astounding, isn't it? And positively wonderful. I mean, our cousins across the pond actually pay attention to the winners of literary prizes.

I guess the American equivalent would be the Pulitzer Prize, but sadly, I suspect that even winning the top award does little for book sales in this country. Does anyone know the current, 2009 Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction? It's Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout. And yes, I had to look it up, too.

I think a lot of people are like me, assuming that the Pulitzer dispenses awards mostly for journalism rather than books, that newspapers like the San Jose Mercury News wins prizes but not, say, W. S. Merwin (a poet -- they give Pulitzers to poets! How marvelous!). Perhaps that's why we don't pay as much attention as we should -- the Pulitzer hands out almost two dozen prizes, while the Man Booker goes to just one lucky writer. It can be difficult enough to read one book a year for many people, let alone six or seven.

Perhaps this will be the year I actually try and read the latest Man Booker winner. Time was when even America loved and respected their fiction writers and actually cared about who won such things as the Pulitzer. (Case in point: Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, which won the Pulitzer in 1961 and which became an immediate bestseller upon publication, long before it became a staple in American high school literature syllabi.). I'm under no illusion that writers will ever enjoy such notoriety again, at least in this country, but it would be hypocritical of me to lament the state of writing and publishing if I also didn't at least support -- if only marginally -- the efforts of the industry's luminaries and award-winners.

Besides, it's almost winter. Winter's a beautiful time to read beautiful writing.

Ditching Victoria Magazine and embracing My Inner IKEA Girl

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 12:50:00 +0000

Happy Day-After-a-3-Day-Weekend to you!

Well, I think I finally figured out why I can't seem to get back into reading Victoria magazine. I'd always rifled through the stacks of back issues at my local Half-Price Books outlet, happy to pay $1-2 for each, but lately I've been giving most of them away to the Salvation Army or reselling them right back to Half-Price. Even the annual Paris/French-themed issues with their gorgeous, pornographic-like close-up shots of flaky croissants and steaming cups of cafe au lait. I'd always been unable to resist the allure of the Paris issue, what with their pages and pages of lovingly decorated interiors and dreamy models sporting romantic clothes and equally romantic expressions.

So this weekend I picked up the latest issue at the newsstand, flipped through it quickly and tried to figure out why it was that it no longer held the same appeal, why it left me feeling cold and slightly, well, repulsed. Sure, I've long recognized that it really doesn't fit my personality -- Bitch and Bust do that perfectly, and sometimes Venus, too -- but I always thought that there remained a teensy part of me that found some comfort and identity within Victoria's pink-hued, soft-focus pages. I mean, isn't Victoria supposed to be the ultimate Francophile bible on the newsstands? An erstwhile Francophile newsgroup on Yahoo! had deeply lamented its demise a few years ago, before its most recent reincarnation, after all. Victoria was supposed to be the catalog of French-inspired dreams, the slim publication you took with you to your secret garden, your boudoir where you retreated for tranquil refreshment after a particularly difficult day.

I think I may have put my finger on it, and it's not simply the often-poor quality of its photography. Rather, it's the realization that Victoria really is a catalog, yes, but only in the really pedestrian sense. Perhaps it took this crippling recession to really illuminate the meaning behind Victoria's pages, but I realized as I scanned the pages of the most recent issue that the only thing I got out of it was this vague discontent that my life doesn't mirror the expensive, conservative and very bourgeoisie life depicted on every single page.

The table of contents overflow with so-called "articles" that are really no more than extra-long advertorials of various retail establishments around the world that I have no hope of ever visiting or even ever being able to afford. (I should know -- as a writer-for-hire I've written couple of hundred advertorials myself, although at least my publishers had the decency to mark them as advertising copy.) Of course, every magazine does this -- fashion magazines with their analysis of the latest Louis Vuitton or Chanel runway shows come to mind -- but Victoria especially seems to really practice the art of coddling their advertisers by kicking off each issue with pages and pages and pages of Favorite Things that are really no more than collections of products targeting the Victoria reader. Do I really believe that these "editorial picks" aren't chosen precisely because of the staff's relationship to the advertisers? Oprah's Favorite Things is the most widely-known list of edited picks, but it receives so much media coverage that it's clear that these are really things that Oprah actually likes, and not simply a rundown of the show's (or magazine's) most sought-after advertisers. How am I to know if Victoria practices the same ethical distinction between authentic editorial and shameless shilling?

Victoria peddles a gone-but-not-forgotten world of serene homes filled with lovely British antiques, French linens, Old World china, and $200 pens, not to mention cosmetics from high-end luxury brands. I can pinpoint exactly when I start getting restless as I turn the pages: right about the time I check out what follows after the table of contents. I long for the time and the resources to decorate my home with such class and understated sophistication (French) or even with cool openness and light (Swedish), without resorting to the As-Is section at my local IKEA.

But really, who doesn't? Victoria may have re-entered the magazine industry at the most inopportune time, now that consumers have decided to scale back, retreat from the inflated expectations of the recent buying frenzy and stop comparing their quite-nice homes with the overly-styled, flawless models showcased in magazines like, well, Victoria. With many readers now deciding that a comfortable living room that their family will love no longer requires a trip to the bank for a home equity loan, and that style has little -- if any to do -- with a six-figure salary, devoting precious ink and writing talent to extolling the virtues of a $300 leather bag or a drawer full of antique, hand-sewn, monogrammed linens seems downright anachronistic, if not offensive.

Not that Victoria is completely devoid of virtues. I still have a couple of old issues hanging around the house. They serve as a quick escape and a symbol of beauty in an otherwise utilitarian world. But I've resisted the siren call of its pages to shop, shop, shop -- to seek comfort in its promise of refuge from a troubled world via damask tablecloths and toile curtains. The awful events of the past year has taught us the terrible price we pay when we turn a blind eye to reality and believe that consumption, material goods, mere things, are what make life worthy of living. That we are what we buy. Since I can't really afford to buy anything now that isn't really necessary, save for a little luxury or two here and there, does that mean that my life is somehow lacking?

I'd be surprised if Victoria remains a viable concern as a magazine by this time next year. I certainly don't wish for its demise -- I do think that it serves a purpose, if only to provide inspiration for readers who can actually afford the kind of furnishings and textiles and holidays for which it provides such lavish photo-spreads. But I for one will continue to pass on it and its promise to impoverish my wallet, if not my hopes, and will move on to something that will instead enrich my mind.

Uhm, Bitch magazine, anyone?

Film Review: Mon Meilleur Ami (2006)

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 14:09:00 +0000

In college I had a good set of friends. Not a huge crowd, mind you, but enough to keep me and them busy with "dates," get-togethers, dinners, and movies. We kept in touch by telephone (what you young 'uns call landlines nowadays), and when I moved to Japan shortly after graduation to take a job as an English teacher, by letters and super-expensive transpacific phone calls. I think my phone bill averaged about US$250 a month, which even for Japan was expensive. I didn't regret a yen of it.

At the time (1994) I had exactly three friends who were on email: Noel, Michael S. and Michael M. (None of my girlfriends had email addresses. In fact, no female I knew at my university who wasn't in the Engineering or Computer Science programs had an email address.) We would write ridiculously long emails to each other, sometimes as often as twice a week, and we would punctuate that with occasional postcards, gift packages and yes, letters. Real, live letters.

Because my dial-up account was expensive, and the telephone company also charged all of my phone calls, I would limit my Internet access to once a week, and only to download emails and upload my responses. Sunday mornings were big events in the Asturias home in Hita-shi, Oita-ken, Japan: wake up, turn on the computer and external modem, make my breakfast smoothie or prepare my cereal with the oddly soothing sound of the modem connecting to my Tokyo-based ISP screeching in the background, and then plop myself down in front of my Packard Bell laptop to eagerly download my messages. Rarely would I get that dreaded "No new mail" message. Instead, I usually had at least two really long, really juicy electronic letters that I would spend the rest of the week reading and re-reading and re-reading, after which I would spend another day or two crafting my own equally lengthy responses. Sunday morning I'd perform the same ritual, uploading my responses, and then I'd spend an agonizing week waiting for my correspondents to shoot back their quirky, funny, and usually riddled-with-spelling-errors-but-did-I-care-hell-no emails.

Deep sigh. The good ol' days.

Now my Inbox is cluttered with nothing but junk emails, e-newsletters, dire solicitations from charities, and mass-mailed jokes and prayers and pictures from friends who can't be bothered to send even an e-card at holidays and birthdays, let alone a personal message or (God forbid) an actual greeting card with an actual stamp that went through the actual Post Office. I tried getting on Facebook for a few weeks, and even spent a precious hour or two setting up my account and doing the obligatory search for long-lost friends who might be on it, but then I gave up after that one week when I realized that it was really just a glorified version of Twitter, with people who I never actually see or hear from in real life sending me and their 2,673 friends blasts about every random thought that pops into their heads.

As for my snail-mail mailbox? Fuggedaboutit. The last card I received from anyone was from -- drumroll -- B. That's right. My husband. Who lives with me. He sent me two postcards while he was in Seattle a couple of weeks ago. (What can I say? Now you see why I married him.)

Remember the days when we would all get letters and cards on occasion from friends and relatives? When was the last time someone surprised you with a real letter to let you know that they were thinking about you?

I had the pleasure of hearing from a truly long-lost friend a few weeks ago, one I hadn't spoken to or heard from since my sophomore year in high school. We had practically grown up together, both here and in the Philippines, and had known each other since 2nd grade. When I changed majors in college, though, we drifted apart and somehow never got back in touch. I'd occasionally Google her name over the years, trying to find her, but with her relatively common name it was an impossible task.

She did finally track me down on Facebook, though, and we had a fantastic reunion lunch when she was in town for a home visit. I laughed when she told me that she'd searched on Facebook for me for years and was delighted to finally find me. "Uhm, sweetie, I've had my own Web site for my various businesses for about five years. You could've just Googled me years ago and found me that way!"

Isn't it funny that, with all the myriad ways we have of connecting with each other -- telephone, cell phone, fax, Skype, instant messaging, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, blogs, Web sites, and yeah, letters -- we still have difficulty actually performing the most basic acts of communication?

How many times have you actually met in real life with a real friend in the past week? Not contacts or clients or business acquaintances. Friends.

Do you know who your friends are? Do they know you're their friend?

If you need more inspiration to get off your computer and go out and actually nurture whatever friendships you have, you need to see Mon meilleur ami. The film's tag line is, "It takes a lifetime to learn the meaning of friendship...Francois has 10 days." You, however, have approximately one hour and thirty minutes, and that's more than enough for you to be captivated by this very warm, very moving and very inspiring film.

The ever-brilliant, ever-reliable Daniel Auteiul is Francois, a self-absorbed and manipulative little shit of an antiques dealer who has no friends. How does he know this? Well, the people whom he thinks are his friends tell him so one night over dinner. Fortunately for him, these are not your average "friends." No, they're pretty darn brutal about their assessment of his character, telling him in no uncertain terms that no one likes him, no one cares about him, and hey, while we're at it, no one will probably attend your funeral either. Pass the salt, will ya?

Francois, understandably, is shocked at these revelations, although true to form, he doesn't really seem to care all that much. On the fly he makes up a best friend. Mon meilleur ami! His business partner, Catherine (the beautiful and elegant Julie Gayet), bets him a wildly expensive Greek vase (the paintings on which, tellingly, depicts the friendship between Achilles and Patroclus) that he can't produce this so-called best friend within ten days. Francois, who is inexplicably drawn to the vase, gladly takes the bet, and he spends the rest of the film trying desperately to prove to her, and then to himself, that yes, he really is capable of genuine, lasting friendship, dammit, even if he has to pay for it.

The first order of business? Finding someone who'll help him actually learn the dictionary definition of the term, and for this he hangs all of his hopes on a genial, trivia-obsessed taxicab driver whose lifelong ambition is to be on a game show. I'm probably not giving anything too much away when I write that although Bruno (played by the wonderful Dany Boon), unlike Francois, seems to have all the prerequisites necessary to make friends, he has his own share of personal troubles.

I can't tell you too much more, lest I give away all the delightful surprises and unusual twists of this film. It's fairly easy to discern the budding, awkward friendship that blooms between the two men as Bruno tries to school Francois in the subtle arts of conversation, making jokes and demonstrating empathy, all in the name of making friends. As Francois is anything but subtle, he makes horrifying mistakes along the way, so much so that I cringed every time he approached a random stranger on the street. My head kept moaning, "Oh, he's gonna f*** it up!" And naturally, he does.

Auteuil is a joy to watch, as always. He's France's answer to DeNiro, with his rugged, dour good looks and his ability to convey depths of emotion with a flick of a droopy eyelid. His transformation from a thoroughly unlikable and selfish bastard into something resembling a mensch isn't quick, nor is it pretty, but it's hard-earned and, as Bruno would say, certainly sincère.

Bruno, however...ah, Bruno. Or, more precisely, Dany Boon. He's the real talent here, the exact opposite of Francois in both temperament and physical presence. He lacks Francois' smooth, urban sophistication and coldness, and is instead the kind of open, ever-smiling, ever-cheerful person one might (or might not) want to share a cab ride with, depending on your mood or temperament. Boon shares undeniable chemistry with Auteuil -- it's a casting director's dream team here -- and holds his own against his formidable co-star. His face registers emotion more sharply than Auteuil, as befitting someone who is playing the more emotionally-available character in this odd duo, but he's never over the top. Instead, he inhabits the role so perfectly that when he has his moment in the spotlight -- literally -- in the last half of the film, he doesn't seem to be playing a role at all and instead disappears into the nervous, uncertain side of Bruno that had always threatened to overwhelm him. My heart seemed to actually stop at one point; you ache for him to do well and to finally redeem himself and, in the process, Francois.

In this film Bruno seems more Irish or English than French, the owner of what Francois perceives to be a gift for conversation, but as the storyline progresses the audience is treated to the hidden sides of Bruno, the parts of him and his history he hasn't shared with Francois or anyone else. When Albert Camus wrote about discovering an invincible summer within himself in the depths of an awful winter, he might as well have been speaking about Bruno, a seemingly bright summer who hides within himself the dying glow of a long, cold winter.

I thought I knew how this film would end, but then of course, it's a French movie, for God's sake, and that means it could end in ways one would never expect. Does Francois finally grasp the true meaning of friendship? Will Bruno finally fulfill his lifelong dream? Will the two of them enjoy an authentic friendship, or will their evolving, complicated relationship end in sorrow, perhaps even in tragedy?

The end matters tremendously, but in this case, so does the means. I began crying about halfway through the movie and didn't stop my silly sobbing until the credits rolled to a stop. (Sidenote: the final shot of a Parisian bridge against a blue, stormy sky, is beyond breathtaking.) I thought of friends, not of the electronic kind but of the real-life kind, the kind who one can call in the middle of the night when one can't sleep; the friends with whom one can share endless cups of coffee or mugs of beer during times of joy, sadness, fear, or even just plain boredom; the friends with whom one would rather spend whole afternoons doing absolutely nothing than sending pointless chain letters that threaten death (I mean, seriously?) if not forwarded expeditiously. Despite all the folks I know on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and my contact lists on Gmail, Yahoo! and Hotmail, I wonder if I still have friends who fit that description. I'm not so sure.

Francois and Bruno found the answer to the question about the meaning of friendship. But do we still remember?

Rating: 5 of 5 stars. The friendship between Bruno and Francois may not be perfect, but this film certainly is.

Beauty Review: Votre Vu T'Arte D'Amande Souffle Riche Pour Le Corps

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 22:07:00 +0000

B. stepped out of the train yesterday morning, took a deep breath and thought, "Ahhh...autumn."

Actually, it was probably a high of about 90+ degrees yesterday, but for Dallas on an early September morning, it was a pretty unusual start to the day. Relatively cool, dry and clear, the air crisp with the promise of autumn just around the corner. It's my second favorite time of year, right after spring, and really, what's not to like? Cool weather means I can break out my favorite clothes, favorite coats, favorite shoes; I have a bigger wardrobe of handbags to choose from, since I tend to gravitate towards the heavier, darker, heftier purses and totes come October; I love the fall fashions that were introduced way back in the gloom of February but which are now actually seasonally appropriate to wear; and yes, I love being able to slather on the richest lotions and experiment with new cosmetics without having to worry about it sliding off my skin mid-morning.

Which brings me to my new favorite body lotion, Votre Vu's Tarte d'Amande Souffle Riche Pour Le Corps, or in layman's terms, lotion that smells like almond pie. I've become a big fan of Votre Vu products, including their hand lotion/lip balm combo, and with this body cream I remain impressed with their skincare and body care product lines. It comes with a little white spatula, although I didn't notice it until I'd already scooped out a small handful and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed it into my slightly parchy skin, all over my arms and elbows and legs and even the bottom of my feet. I probably didn't need to rub it in that intensely, but the fragrance is so dreamy without being cloying or irritating; even B. liked it, and he's a hard man to please when it comes to aromas emanating from my beauty products. The spatula ended up being unused, as I love dipping my fingers into the little tub and applying the lotion directly onto my skin. Its ultra-light texture belies its richness, and when I woke up in the morning my skin still felt hydrated and smelled so lovely.

Does it really smell like almond pie? I don't know, as I've never actually had almond pie before, but when I first used it, B. immediately said, "I smell pie." And you know, when that's coming from a man, you know that's a good thing. Slip on the sexy lingerie, and prepare to be dessert.

Book Review: Camus, A Romance (2009)

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 12:30:00 +0000

"It strikes me often how bizarre it is to spend so much time thinking about someone you can never know."

Can you imagine a publisher requesting that the writer Albert Camus learn how to "brand" himself? That he take to Twitter, open a Facebook account, and regularly blog? That he develop a "platform" to promote his products (i.e., books) and maybe stop smoking as a concession to the anti-tobacco interest groups? That he hire a publicist who will work closely with the in-house marketing department in rolling out a promotional campaign for his work?

I think about this as I read Elizabeth Hawes' new book, Camus, a Romance. Hawes wasn't content to merely write yet another Camus biography or literary analysis; no, the book is a full-blown love letter to her favorite author, her imaginary mentor, her literary hero. In her manuscript Camus -- who died in an automobile accident in 1960 -- exists not simply as a historical figure but as someone who lived very clearly and very dearly in the author's mind and heart.

And who could blame Hawes for worshiping the world-renowned Algerian writer, journalist and activist? He was a man of both words and deeds, a fierce patriot, passionate artist and disciplined writer who committed his entire life to his work. Who thought of his work as his life, as the ultimate expression of his ideals as well as the perfect place in which to carry them out to fulfillment. He wrestled with grand ideas, debating them with fervor and sometimes anger with his friends and enemies, including Sartre and de Beauvoir, in print and in cafes, against the backdrop of a France collapsing under the terrifying weight of the Third Reich. Camus, who struggled throughout his life with his failing health as a result of a bout of tuberculosis in his young adulthood, never let his frail constitution stop him from railing against injustice and war. As a correspondent as well as editor, he wrote countless articles about the plight of Algeria under the French colonial regime and even led the Resistance movement as editor of an underground newspaper. As a writer he wrote extraordinary novels, essays, plays, and critical analyses that explore his evolving philosophy and political leanings. He died at the young age of 46, three years after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, but what he accomplished in those years was nothing short of astonishing.

Hawes packs all of this, and more, into this extremely readable and fascinating narrative of Camus' life, throwing in some literary criticism and historical background for good measure. Along the way, she effortlessly weaves her own story of falling in love with the young, restless Camus from afar. She, a young college student, had come across what is possibly Camus' most oft-repeated line, "In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer." ("Au milieu d'hiver, j'apprenais enfin qu'il y avait en moi un ete invincible.") It resonated with the impressionable young Hawes, coming as it did at an especially emotionally trying time in her life, and like a lovestruck teenager diving into the well of meaning found in the song lyrics written by a charismatic rock star, she immediately felt an intimate connection with the darkly handsome and brilliant writer with the soulful prose.

As New York magazine points out in a review of the book published earlier this summer, the phenomenon of literary obsession isn't exactly rare and, indeed, has been explored many times before, even by Camus himself. I harbor an obsession with the World War I Arab military hero and writer T.E. Lawrence, who wrote Seven Pillars of Wisdom and The Mint, and is better known in popular culture as Lawrence of Arabia. I've two dozen or more books about him, as well as some foreign lobby cards of the film that I've collected from eBay vendors around the world. I'm willing to bet that, among My Inner French Girl readers, there are probably one or two (if not more) who also carry an intellectual -- if not also personal -- torch for a particular writer or poet that, to outsiders, may seem odd but to someone like Hawes or myself sounds perfectly normal.

To her credit, however, although Hawes takes the reader with her on her journey to research institutions, libraries, archives, and important historical sites both here and in France, she lets Camus' remarkable life hold the spotlight throughout the book, and deservedly so. Camus lived during an extraordinary period in history, at a time when luminaries of French philosophy and literature lived and breathed and worked. His output, considering his physical limitations and the circumstances that often constrained his ability to work (war, foreign occupation, exile, love affairs, money woes, and even the dreaded day jobs), was astounding, a testament to his rigid discipline and the devotion he committed to his craft. He considered himself an artist and refused to compromise his principles and ideas, but he was open to considering other ways in which he could express his ideas, whether in the form of theatrical plays or novels or newspaper columns. At the end of the book, the reader is left with a comprehensive and sympathetic portrait of a complicated, dynamic and sexy genius. Exactly the man an impressionable Elizabeth Hawes fell in love with decades ago, and with whom she is still obviously enamored. It's easy to see why.

At the same time, it's an absorbing and illuminating story of a working writer, at a time when writing was a profession in which one could make a decent living, when writers didn't have to worry about "platforms" and Twitter followers and publicists and marketing campaigns. Camus only had to write well and have original ideas. I imagine that he would be absolutely appalled at the state of the writing profession today, when a word's worth is measured by the "eyeballs" it attracts or the amount of product it can sell. Where bestseller lists are dominated by books about making money or losing weight or finding a life partner. Where celebrities like Pam Anderson and Nicole Richie (!!!) can garner six- or seven-figure advances for ghostwritten novels while writers like Mark Salzman and Beth Ann Bauman struggle to find an audience. (Read Salzman's Lying Awake and tell me it didn't blow you away. I dare you.)

Would-be writers among you -- especially those with a particularly pesky social conscience -- are well-advised to read this book, especially if you're in despair about whether or not your gift means anything to the world. (As a writer, I can relate. Totally. I have my days when I wonder if my writing is really only valuable to corporate suits seeking "copy," not literature. God forbid any form of self-expression finds its way into a grant proposal.) Even those of you who don't really have any literary ambitions will likely find this book irresistible, if only for its introduction to a corner of colonial France that few people know anything about but which irrevocably changed the history of the empire. Camus loved Algeria nearly as much as he loved his own mother -- and that apparently was saying a lot -- and Hawes' extensive study of his life there reveals why. The evocation of the half-forgotten paradise that produced Albert Camus is worth the relatively small price of admission into the pages of this book.

FYI: Click here to listen to an interview that Elizabeth Hawes had on National Public Radio's The Diane Rehm Show.

Cara Black Interview on NPR!

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Exciting news! I'm a bit late posting this, and some of you may have already heard it, but just in case: Cara Black, author of the fantastic Paris-based Aimee Leduc mystery series, was interviewed on NPR a few weeks ago about the newest installment, Murder in the Latin Quarter. I interviewed Cara myself about the book, her writing and research process, and her thoughts on Paris and its hidden secrets, and will be publishing that audio interview in the next couple of weeks to accompany the launch of the new My Inner French Girl. In the meantime, do take a few minutes to listen to this podcast and read her new book!

To see the story and listen to the interview, click here to visit the page on NPR's Web site.

Ch-ch-changes! And handbags, comme toujours

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 17:04:00 +0000

A few kind My Inner French Girl readers have emailed me asking about my momentary absence, and I just wanted to send you a big Merci for your thoughts and concern and to let you know that I'm still here! The whole photography-as-favor incident is well past me, and I'm all cried-out and sick of the whole thing. Over the past week I've been doing some heavy research on my excruciatingly long novel, as well as doing some major blue-sky thinking about My Inner French Girl. As longtime readers know, I've been spending the summer planning a major overhaul of the blog and was actually hoping to launch the new site (on its own URL!) on Bastille Day (July 14th), but obviously, that didn't happen. It's getting close, though, and I'm even more excited about its up-and-coming debut because I've a few interviews (audio) lined up and ready to go, some of which are with some of my favorite people in the entire world.

So stay tuned for that, as I'm working on the project and hope to have it up and running very, very soon!

In the meantime, I want to take this time to state on the record that I hereby take back any and all nice things I ever said about Target's ever-burgeoning accessories line. Yes, I admire their attempts to stand apart from the traditional big-box offerings of cheap-and-tacky women's clothing and accessories by bringing in big-name designers like Erin Fetherston, Alexander McQueen, Anna Sui, and the man who started the whole mass-market-haute-couture craze, Isaac Mizrahi. Yes, I love the chic-but-inexpensive looks, including my personal favorite, the Jovovich Hawk line. (Sadly, Milla Jovovich and Carmen Hawk closed their line last year.) And yes, I love that Middle America has largely embraced the concept, proving once and for all that it's not that we mainstream folks lack taste, it's that we lack choices in our price range.

Having said that...I've been consistently disappointed with the quality of the products the store has rolled out the last few years, especially with regard to their handbags and other accessories. Case in point: I bought a nautical-style tote bag with cream-colored handles less than a month ago, and within two weeks, the threads on the handles were already fraying very, very visibly.

As a freelance writer with a tiny "corner office" at home (i.e., my IKEA desk is crammed into a corner of our nonexistent dining room, flanked by a super-heavy metal filing cabinet and the printer cabinet), I like the mobility that my little Asus netbook affords me. It's the best thing in the world to be able to work from home, but the big downside is that -- for writers in particular -- it can be awfully lonely. To counteract that I'll usually head to my nearest Starbucks or indie coffee shop for a few hours of concentrated work over a cup or two of cafe au lait or green tea. Even though I'm technically still by myself, just being surrounded by all the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood coffee house provides enough comforting company to keep the loneliness at bay.

Anyway, although I love the idea of the Hollywood Intuition tote bag that Target currently offers, it doesn't have the structure that I need -- even with my netbook, a few books and magazines and all the usual stuff that women like to schlep, its soft-sided form just collapses into a sorry heap. Plus, I fear that its size would encourage me to carry way more than my body can handle, and my poor shoulders -- which life's stresses love to zero in on already -- will pay the price.

I found the navy-blue nautical bag and thought it might be perfect: it was super-cheap (I think it was on sale for $19.99 when I bought it), its structure allows it to stand up on its own but it's also roomy enough to carry everything I need for a whole day of work outside of the home office. It's also cute enough, though, to double as a nice day-to-day bag for when I'm running around town doing errands, unlike a lot of other so-called "work totes" which can be too formal and structured for casual use.

It also has a nice upside: the bag's canvas material is very thick and sturdy, hence its ability to stand on its own, so to speak. Even with all the abuse I've inflicted on it the last month or so, it retains most of its structure and remains my go-to work bag.

However, the fraying threads on the handles worry me. Everything else about the bag -- including the hot pink nylon lining -- is reinforced and looks like it might survive at least another year or so of wear-and-tear, but I'd be surprised if the handles last that long. I've received free nylon totes in exchange for magazine subscriptions that have endured more than this Target bag. Sure, for $20, I shouldn't expect too much, but the unevenness of construction (great bag, awful handles) is confounding. And couldn't the handles wait longer than two weeks before they started coming apart?

This isn't the first time Target has disappointed in its ongoing bid to become the destination of choice for frugal fashionistas. My beloved gray-and-white striped Jovovick Hawk sweater developed a small tear the first time I wore it. Last month B. and I together went through three sports sunglasses from their Champion and Ironman lines; one of them broke not too long after I put them on. Okay, so they're $17 apiece and not $100, but really, that's just ridiculous.

So yes, until I see even marginal improvements in the quality of their accessories and clothing lines, I'm holding off on buying anything else. I can do better with the discounted mid-range handbags at Marshall's and T.J. Maxx, or at high-end consignment shops. For about $50 I can get a gorgeous, well-made tote that will last me at least a year, as opposed to the $20 bag that I'd be lucky to still be using a month after purchase. My $7.00 "designer" sunglasses I bought at Ross two years ago and that I wear nearly every day of the year still rocks. Like everything else in life, looks can only get you so far. Beauty is fleeting, but quality remains.

Quick Friday PM Reads

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 20:31:00 +0000

Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour, bonjour, bonjour, bonjour! (When I lived in Japan, one of my very best friends -- and a guy I used to have a huge crush on -- was Stephan Wilms, a German who lived in the town right next to mine. Every telephone call he made to me always started with, "Hello hello hello hello hello!" Cool guy. If you have a moment, do click on the link above to check out his out-of-this-world photography, currently posted on Flickr.)

Has your week been as crazy as mine? It's a bit late on a Friday afternoon, and I just realized that you folks on the East Coast are probably either winding down for the day or already on your way home, but I can't end the week without at least one Quick Reads.

Fun resource:

My Little Paris: This site is a bit like The Parisian (to whose newsletter you should definitely subscribe, even if you don't live anywhere near Paris, and even if you won't be going to Paris anytime soon), albeit much newer. Its editors scope out the hidden treasures of the City of Light -- restaurants, films, museums and galleries, fashion events, etc. -- and offer brief, tantalizing descriptions of them. It does have an English version (click on the universal symbol for the language, the Union Jack flag at the top right-hand corner of the page), but for some reason it's not updated as often as the French one. It's a little disconcerting, but I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt and hope that since they just launched the English site, they're still trying to catch up.

Fun blog:

La Bella Figura: I know a handful of My Inner French Girl readers are Italianophiles (and could someone please tell me what the actual word is that describes lovers of Italy, because that sounds a little clunky), but anyone with a passion for European culture and lifestyle might find this blog interesting. The writer offers up a daily summary of her meals as well as a photograph of her outfit for that day, then posts her thoughts on everything from books to fashion to gardening and everything in between.

On Sunday B. and I will be running a 10k in Dallas. Not racing, mind you, but a training run to shake up our usual routine. The race will take place at White Rock Lake, Dallas' version of New York's Central Park. It isn't quite as nice, but it's still a beautiful oasis in the middle of all this heat and cement. Wish us luck! And I hope everyone has a happy, happy weekend! Stay tuned next week for more book and film reviews and a new giveaway!

Today I will be fearless

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 17:46:00 +0000

Today is normally the day that I would have a new book review up, and I was really looking forward to it, as the book I'm currently engrossed in is so utterly absorbing and thought-provoking and controversial and bloody smart that I just know you'll love it. I mean, it's a book I read at night and think about all day, a book that's quite long and packed with facts but scenes as well, a book of philosophy and memory and history and all the heady, juicy stuff that makes life -- especially the life of this book's subject -- so awfully interesting.

But as I wrote in my last post, written on Friday, my time has been engulfed with work on a different project, one that I've finally been able to put behind me, much to my regret.

Well hopefully the photos from Marjorie aren't like the photographic abortions AKA Sears Portrait Studio. More like Sears "We like the desaturate button" Studio. Lay off the Gaussian blur? I know that is gibberish to you, but I'm sure you will appreciate it when Marjorie actually hands you something you can cherish. It is quick when all you have to do is push one button, I guess -- It takes time to do the job right, so why don't you let her complete her FAVOR to you in an acceptable manor [sic]? -- "Laura"

Photography is B.'s passion, right up there with his obsession with aviation. I'm not nearly as good at it as he is, but I have my moments. What I'm really good at, though, is post-production. I don't care if we're talking about a dozen photos or 1200 -- if we took them, I'm the one who'll go through every single shot on the computer, running each one through Photoshop to make sure that every image is as perfect as it can be. Because B. and I are pretty good, most of the time the only thing that I need to do is do some minor cropping, brightening/darkening, tweaking the contrast, and maybe desaturating if I thought a certain photo would look better as a black-and-white shot. I consider myself a whiz at the lower-level functions on Photoshop, while the more advanced features remain slightly out of my reach. It's okay, though -- we're pretty good photographers and have been tested quite a few times in challenging conditions. The post-production process can be long and laborious, but in our case it's mostly because a) we usually take quite a few shots, and b) I'm a perfectionist. I'll stare at a finished image for a good minute or two, examining every pixel, until I'm satisfied with it and can finally press Save.

I don't know what "desaturate" or "Gaussian blur" means. I do know this:
I get the job done right -- that is how I roll.
I get it done when I say I am going to get it done.
I don't scratch people's wood floors.
Respectfully,
"Frank"

P.S. If you count up the characters and spaces in this email, there was a lot more than pushing one button...I must have type [sic] hundreds of characters. QED.

I finished "Frank's" photos at last yesterday evening and mailed off the DVD this morning. My final count was 55 photos out of about 80 that we took that evening. All in all, I calculated that B. and I spent roughly fifteen hours on this project, for which we were not paid and for which we did not want to be paid. After all, that's what friends are for, right?

Voila! Fifteen hours for a friend:

Two hours at "Frank's" house with his family three weeks ago to do the photo shoot.
Three hours editing the digital negatives on the open source photo editing software GIMP.
Two hours doing research on the Internet for other, more appropriate photo editing software after I found out that GIMP can't open raw files and had instead opened the much smaller JPEG versions, resulting in low-resolution images unsuitable for printing. These two hours include half an hour of heartstopping drama as B. and I tried to open the Nikon Capture software that originally came with our very expensive cameras and which was still on my computer. It crashed my computer twice, and the second time B. almost had a heart attack when it looked as if the crash had wiped out my entire hard drive. It didn't, but that's not something you recover from right away.
One hour going to Best Buy and back to buy Adobe Photoshop Elements and a 4 GB flash drive, after I found out that the only decent open source program that would allow me to edit and open raw files was bought by Adobe a few years ago and was then taken off the market (of course). I would have preferred the full-service Photoshop CS4, but the price tag ($699) put paid to that desire. At $69 Elements had a more wallet-friendly price.
Half an hour uploading Elements onto my laptop and transferring all the raw files from the photo shoot into the flash drive. I had to upload the software twice, as the first attempt failed. I needed the flash drive because installing Elements would bring me pretty close to filling up my hard disk space.
Half an hour to reacquaint myself with the Photoshop interface. I haven't used it since we closed our photography business four years ago, and even then it was the full-service Photoshop CS2, not the more stripped down Elements. I'd never used Elements before, although B. has, and he hated it for being so slow and cumbersome. Fortunately, it looks as if Adobe wised up and streamlined and simplified Elements.
Five hours editing the photographs. It might have taken less time, but since my laptop is three years old, it's not as fast or as robust as it used to be. The system had to do a virtual system clean-up twice during the editing process, as I was running dangerously low on virtual memory and hard disk space. That slowed down the process even more, but at least I was able to work on it.
Another hour transferring everything (including the original raw files for good measure) to a DVD and to Shutterfly.com, where I created an album for the family to view their finished photos and order prints, if they desired.
Half an hour to drive to the post office, stand in line and mail the package to "Frank."

Marjorie,

I am in Europe now and only have limited internet, so I won't be able to view this calendar week.

Thanks for uploading them, though; I am sure the "Smiths" in Texas will look at them!

"Frank"

I asked myself last week, "What would Charlotte do?" After much thought, I've decided that, not knowing Charlotte personally and only knowing her through her movies and the few interviews I've read, Charlotte would likely finish what she started, complete the favor as best as she could and then sort of just let the friendship die a quiet death. Charlotte has always struck me as being intensely private, almost pathologically shy, but still not someone who would ever dream of rocking the boat or gunning for confrontation.

I am not and never will be waif-thin or dreamily gracious or a hugely famous French actress, but I do have some things in common with Charlotte. My mom once bought me a book called Shyness, thinking that it would help me overcome a potentially detrimental character trait, and had considered enrolling me in an acting class for good measure. I will drive a hundred miles out of my way to avoid confrontation, although when really pushed I've been known to shove back. Hard. I have my moments.

But Charlotte has always been nothing short of gracious and polite, and if she were in this situation I wouldn't be surprised if she were to indulge in a few crying jags from bitter disappointment and loss, and then move on. It may have been a favor, but I'm not built to renege even on a favor, especially when it's to do with something I've done professionally in the past, as in this case. It's our photography, after all. I can't allow crappy work to be out there, floating around in public. It wouldn't be right, nor would it be ethical. My friend may have overstepped the boundaries of public behavior, but that doesn't mean I have free rein to retaliate by refusing to do the work I'd promised to do. It's just not in me.

So today I will be fearless. I've always considered myself a very loyal friend. I've been known to hang on to a friendship even years after the other party has clearly moved on. I've moved so many times in my life (I once calculated that by the time I graduated college, I'd attended fourteen different schools, spread out over two countries) that I tend to cling to friendships I'd made earlier in life, from the cousin who's known me since before I was born to my best friends in college. Losing one is a big deal to me. I've known "Frank" for seven years. I remember when his daughter was born, when we went through layoffs, when I got married and when he went through a divorce. As he will be the first to tell you himself, he's not the most gracious person on the planet, but he's still been a friend. Losing the friendship requires a certain amount of fearlessness, a willingness to sever from an enormous part of one's past, and not a little faith, if only because I know that as we get older, old friendships are often the only ones we can trust.

What would Charlotte do? I think I'm doing it. She would not be proud. But neither am I. Just sad.

What would Charlotte do?

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 16:05:00 +0000

I have only one (1) word to say about Sam* and Marjorie:
They are the spawn of the Devil himself....
They are both inveterate liars
They have never been seen together, all at the same time, with the Devil....so they may not be the spawn of the devil but the actual Devil himself in female and male form.
They are both hermaphrodites (Sam wear's a girl's haircut and Marjorie wears a boy's haircut--what more proof do you need?)
They both enjoy taunting and torturing an 84-year-old woman who really wants to see family pictures and talks about it on a daily basis
They both better "Get 'er done" in the following ways: a) Marjorie (if that is her real name): Please get the photos formatted and edited as you like and post them on Shutterfly or some other web service for photos and tell us how to access them. Please put two (2) CD's in the USPS to me at my address with the formatted pictures on them. b) Sam (if that is his real name): Please put the photos (already editted [sic] and formatted on to some web site that the Smith/Jones* families can be directed to in order to see the work product from Sears.
Marjorie likes to destroy hardwood floors and then not get her commitments done in terms of getting photos ready.

(*Obviously, Sam is a pseudonym, as are Smith and Jones.)

Have you ever woken up in the morning feeling more than just a little blah? I mean, the sunlight is warming up your room, you're healthy, well-fed, had eight hours of sleep, and you're snuggled comfortably under layers of the softest sheets and the coziest comforter, and yet...you still feel a little depressed, maybe even a little weepy, with just a shade of the mean reds? You can't quite put your finger on any one reason in particular -- husband's out of town, assignments/job prospects not quite panning out as quickly as you'd like, too much fast food and/or wine the night before, the weight's not coming off at all, whatever -- but you just know that the morning isn't starting out as well as it logically should, given that you're not, say, a woman living in a mud hut in the Congo?

So that was my morning on Thursday. And then I woke up to the email above, from a good friend I've known for seven years.

Back story: As a favor, B. and I spent a couple of hours at his home to shoot photos of him with his large, extended family. We used to be professional photographers and still have all of our equipment, including the studio lighting, and were happy to do this for him for free. I told him that I would have the finished photos uploaded to a service like Shutterfly last weekend, but the time flew by, we were super busy, and, well, long story short, I still haven't been able to work on the photographs. (We took about 60.) They need to be downloaded to my computer, reformatted from the original RAW file (the raw, pixel information of the digital image, equivalent to a print negative) to workable JPEGs, cleaned up on Photoshop, saved to CD's, organized, and uploaded on Shutterfly. I estimate that all the post-production work will take about three hours, maybe more, but certainly not less. I don't mind the work, but I really don't think I can get to it until the weekend.

(Note: Sam is another recipient of this email who apparently has let down our mutual friend. And by the way, the entire email was sent not only to me and Sam, but to just about everyone in his extended family. The "hardwood floors" crack refers to the fact that I had scratched his floor when I moved the couch for the family to sit on during the photo shoot -- which I told him I would do beforehand and he had approved.)

Reading the message was an exercise in restraint. In her excellent book, French Toast: An American in Paris Celebrates the Maddening Mysteries of the French, Harriet Welty Rochefort describes the Frenchwoman as someone who is "witty, charming, and endlessly feminine, knowing how to converse, how to receive, how to dress, [how to be] vache."

What is vache, you ask? Allow me to quote the wonderful Mrs. Rochefort:

If you live in France for any length of time, you need to cultivate the art of being vache. Vache (yes, it means "cow!") is a word that encompasses the concepts of petty, mean, spiteful. [...] Even being vache is subtle. It is knowing how to utter that little phrase that can be interpreted however one wants. It is knowing how to send the dart without being transparently offensive. (Emphasis mine.)

Perhaps I'm mistaken but it appears that mon ami does not know how to be vache. Au contraire, in the above example he may actually be acting like un idiot. But how to respond in such as way so as to be vache myself?

Seeing as my favorite French actress is Charlotte Gainsbourg, and she represents everything that I consider good and authentic and meaningful about French culture and French women, then what would Charlotte do? I'm perplexed, not to mention hurt and angry. I haven't answered the email, nor have I returned his phone calls. I still intend to do the work and send them off to him, but at this point I'm still reeling from the shock of opening such a cruel and insulting and humiliating email and am unsure how to respond, or even if I should.

What would Charlotte do? What would you do?

Film Review: Julie & Julia (2009)

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 11:02:00 +0000

Julia: I'm going to be a writer!
Eric: You are a writer.

Julie & Julia is about many things, but surprisingly, one thing that it is not about is cooking.

As anyone who hasn't been living in Antarctica the last six months probably knows, Meryl Streep headlines this wonderful film about two parallel lives occupying two different timelines: Streep is Julia Child, the legendary American chef and author of Mastering The Art of French Cooking, and Amy Adams is Julie Powell, an anonymous government clerk dwelling in an anonymous government cubicle, who one day hits upon the idea of writing a blog that will record her experiences cooking all 524 recipes in Child's magnum opus in the course of one year.

I know. For a thirty-year-old secretary, the girl is ambitious.

The film is based on "two true stories," Powell's erstwhile blog (titled "The Julie/Julia Project") and Child's memoir, the endlessly fascinating and well-written My Life in France. It intercuts between 1950's Paris and modern-day New York, between Child's delight at living and working and loving in the City of Light, studying at the formidable Le Cordon Bleu with fellow American students (all men), and Powell's exhausting attempt to balance a demanding job trying to help 9/11 survivors and victims' families claim their benefits with her new project, not to mention her marriage to the long-suffering Eric.

While Streep (as Child) whips and chops and slices and dices and beats the hell out of that ginormous mortar and pestle in her airy Parisian kitchen, Adams struggles with murdering live lobsters in her tiny Queens kitchenette. Child blossoms from being the wife of an intelligence officer (Child herself was in the intelligence services during World War II) to collaborating with two French fellow chefs in writing what would ultimately become MTAFC. Adams lurches in fits and starts, plowing her way through increasingly difficult recipes and occasionally questioning her sanity.

The food does indeed look delectable; you want to jump at the screen and devour everything in sight, even the burned, crispy-looking boeuf bourguignon. But most of all, this is a film about two different women, one of whom inspires the other to an almost worshipful degree, who long to find meaning in what they believe to be otherwise aimless lives. Both women display remarkable stamina and bullheadedness, sometimes to the point of alienating people around her (although Paul, Julia's husband, played by the ever-reliable Stanley Tucci, takes his wife's obsession a bit more in stride than Eric does) because of their single-minded pursuit of their ambitions.

Nevertheless, with their tenacity, talent, and not a little bit of luck, they do eventually hit pay dirt, and they each experience the absolute bliss and self-satisfaction of a hard-won dream come true. And yes, again, these are two true stories. Somewhat embellished, I'm sure (especially Powell's narrative), but otherwise great, true-to-life examples of what happens when God smiles on you.

Streep is, as always, pure magic. She nails her character's walk, speech, and mannerisms, and her chemistry with her co-star, Tucci, is so touching, I cried just watching him smooth her hair or merely look at her. It's a little disconcerting at times to see the lengths to which the film crew must have gone through to give the illusion of towering height with Streep (who is 5'6" versus Child's 6'2"), because sometimes you could just tell it was all smoke and mirrors and lifts and apple boxes, but no matter. It's impossible to find a single flaw in her and Tucci's performances, so I simply sat back and bathed in the warm glow of a woman finding her voice, her life's work, her life's meaning, not to mention her soulmate.

Adams holds her own, although it must help that she and Streep don't actually have any scenes together. Chris Messina does what he can with a relatively underwritten role as Eric Powell. Like Streep, Adams has a delicate, expressive face, and she makes the most of her character's occasional mental breakdowns.

Is it perfect? No, far from it. I'm not sure that tackling parallel storylines in a single film was really the way to go. If you've read Child's My Life in France, you'll know just how inspiring and compelling her story was. It would make an appealing film in its own right. Did they really need to shoehorn Powell's own bio into it? If you have indeed read Child's book, you'll know just how much blood, sweat and tears she poured into it, the very long hours, days, weeks, years she devoted to perfecting it. It wasn't at all the romantic life of the struggling writer, and that's what Child was: not just a chef but a writer. Non-writers (and non-cooks) have a difficult time truly understanding how much real, hard work is involved in the craft. Now imagine juggling two different, but equally demanding disciplines simultaneously: writing and cooking, as Child did. (Her editor, Judith Jones, recently was quoted in an interview describing Child as a "very, very serious person with a mission." Apparently, Child wasn't too crazy about Powell's project and considered it 'disrespectful,' not serious enough. If you think of the sheer amount of work that Child put into her masterpiece and the years she spent perfecting her craft, I can kinda see where she's coming from.)

Not that Powell's story doesn't deserve to be told either -- as a blogger and aspiring writer myself, I can totally relate to her feelings of inadequacy and irrelevance, even to the meltdown she had on her kitchen floor -- but again, hers should have had its own treatment, its own two hours of film. Powell herself has admitted that the film doesn't go far enough in describing just how challenging it became to maintain not only her personal well-being but also her marriage while pursuing her goal. Her next book, Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession (forthcoming December 2009), is a brutally honest account of an extramarital affair that threatened to drive her and Eric to divorce court. At the risk of sounding like a cold-hearted Hollywood producer, that has blockbuster drama written all over it, too.

Another thing that perplexed me about this film was how different the dialogue was between the two storylines. Of course, language and speech patterns change over time, even within a decade, but while the Child segments were witty and natural and believable, the conversations between Powell & Company sounded, well, like a Nora Ephron script. And not always in a good way. Don't get me wrong, I love Nora Ephron, and have since I first saw When Harry Met Sally. I'm at least a full decade younger than the target audience in her book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, but I still laughed long and loud when I read it.

Still, you know how certain long-established directors and screenwriters with years and years of experience develop a signature look or voice in their work? Ephron has that, and most of the time it works, but in this film the contrast is too sharp between the delightful conversations Child has with her husband and friends, and the snappy one-liners Powell and her group exchange. It's as if they mashed together an old classic with a contemporary romantic comedy. I think it could work in the right hands, but not very well here.

Overall, though, I truly enjoyed this film. I'm not really sure I would agree that it's the ultimate foodie flick (unlike, say, Big Night or Eat Drink Man Woman, where the food plays as a starring role), since it's really more about two equally ambitious but very different women rather than the food they prepare. But the two stories move swiftly, and both leads are so warm and engaging, that you can't help but be carried along by their infectious enthusiasm for their work and passion. There are so few really good movies now coming out of Hollywood that highlight women finding themselves through meaningful work rather than through love and/or sex, and certainly few with the stellar cast and production values of Julie & Julia. I hope this one is a harbinger of more to come. We women deserve that much, if not more.

Frugal French Girl Week: Frugal Entertainment

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 20:30:00 +0000

Even with all the awful news about the economy, there's absolutely no reason why anyone should remove Entertainment from their budget. Just about every city in America has options to suit even the most stringent financial situation. When my brothers and I were young, our single immigrant mom -- who sometimes worked up to three jobs at a time to support us -- would take us to the park after church on Sundays. We'd load up on Happy Meals (can you believe that for $5, my mom could feed our entire family of four? Of course, this was the early '80s), then head out to the biggest park (at the time) in Irving and have a daylong picnic. Sure, it wasn't Disneyland or Wet 'n' Wild, but we've actually been to both places, and I still remember those Sunday picnics at the park most fondly.

PICNICS!

I see people sometimes spreading out a blanket at nearby parks, but just from personal observation, I would say that picnics have gone out of fashion. With kids and even their parents glued to their Wiis, weekends packed with organized activities like soccer practice, ballet practice, piano practice, etc., picnics have become obsolete and forgotten. As far as I can tell, the only folks who advocate the return of the old-fashioned picnic are retailers like Bed Bath & Beyond, who try to hawk these expensive picnic baskets. Of course, the only thing that does to a busy person like you and me is stress me out even further about picnics. Who has time to prepare the elaborate meals that those baskets require? Some of them even come with wine glasses. If you have time to pack such an elegant outdoor meal, that's wonderful, but for most of us, a run through Whole Foods or even McDonald's would be just as fun and memorable. (Hey, if McDonald's can be popular in Paris, it's good enough for the American picnic!)

The French love picnics, now and forever. They still take the time to spread out on the vast lawns of Paris' many, many parks, perhaps on a little patch of grass along the Seine, and break bread with friends or family or even colleagues. They don't need the fancy picnic baskets, either. A loaf of fresh bread from the boulangerie, a hunk of cheese, some fruit, and maybe some mineral water or even wine, and they're completely content. All you really need is food, a shady corner of grass, and the willingness to just sit still and be, to enjoy the passage of time without feeling the need to jump up and do something. It doesn't have to be done everyday or even every week or every month. But even an occasional foray into the park with your honey, your kids or a few friends will do wonders for your inner peace, not to mention your inner wallet.

MOVIES

B. and I love movies. When I was growing up, I probably saw a movie every day, sometimes twice a day. Now that I'm a grownup, it's not so easy to find the time to do that, but we still try and snatch a couple of hours every few weeks to watch a highly anticipated movie together. Still, even with just the two of us, a trip to the movie theater can run us at least $20 for tickets alone, plus the inevitable trip to the coffee shop afterwards, the gas and the time spent trying to find a parking space. So lately we've been saving the movie experience for those films that we feel must really be seen on the big screen, like the new Star Trek film, where extras like special effects can stand out and be truly enjoyed the way they were meant to.

So we have three go-tos: Netflix, the public library and our DVR. Even the cheapest Netflix option (about $9/month for 1 video at a time) is cheaper than one night at the movies (even if you end up only borrowing just one video per month). We reserve Netflix mostly for indie, foreign and old movies that are otherwise difficult to find or are almost never broadcast on TV. My favorite part about Netflix is that 99% of the time, if it's in my queue and up for delivery, it's often in my mailbox the very next day.

The library can be hit or miss, depending on the quality of the collection in your area. In Grand Junction the librarians always seemed to offer an amazing mix of new and old films, plus hard-t0-find documentaries and indie movies, but the library at which we have a membership here (Irving) is a little slower in beefing up their collection. Still, you can't beat the price. The library is a bit of a drive from where we live, though, so we don't use this option as often as I'd like.

Families with children will really benefit from their library's video collection, though, as I've noticed that public libraries in general tend to have better children's movie sections than adult's.

BOOKS & MAGAZINES

If you had to ask me what my absolute favorite hobby is, it would definitely be reading. B. sometimes laughs at me because he'll catch me reading the labels on, say, the soy sauce bottle as we're eating dinner. I just can't stop reading.

As a writer, I'm totally on board the idea of buying books brand new. When I'm an author, I certainly want people to buy my books at the bookstore! Still, the reality is that I have to be a bit more discriminating with my purchases, as books can get pretty expensive. I rarely buy novels unless they're by my favorite author (Mark Salzman), but I do like buying nonfiction, especially histories, biographies, memoirs, and writing how-to's.

Again, the library is the best place to get books. And if you haven't tried it already, the Interlibrary (ILL) Loan System (to which most public and even private university/college libraries belong) is fantastic. I can't say enough wonderful things about ILL! I can't even imagine doing all the research for my World War II novel without ILL. I would have spent hundreds upon hundreds of dollars accessing some very rare, out-of-print books and manuscripts about a rather obscure aspect of the war (well, obscure to Americans, anyway).

If your local library doesn't have a particular book in their collection, you can request it through ILL and get it anywhere from two to eight weeks, depending on how difficult it is to track down said book. I've rarely had to pay for it, too, and most libraries will let you know ahead of time if they have to charge you for it. (I've only really had to pay for an ILL book twice, and each time it was for less than $20, a real bargain when you consider that most of the books I wanted were academic books that cost upwards of $50.) Some ILL programs allow movies, too, although you'll need to ask the ILL librarian.

For families, one of the best things about the library is all the events that take place, especially during the summer. Just about every library has some kind of a summer reading club, which is a wonderful way to encourage kids to read through the summer doldrums. Libraries often have book readings throughout the year, both for adults and kids, and will host local and nationally-renowned authors. Grand Junction's library had puppet shows every week or so, and also had a pretty big play area, complete with toys that their little patrons could check out and take home.

One of the best things about the Grand Junction library was their library swap, which allowed anyone to bring in their used magazines and/or pick up ones donated by others. Here in Irving, used magazines can be donated to the library but are sold for 10 cents a piece. I've picked up probably hundreds of copies (sometimes current issues) of all kinds of publications, including domino, Victoria, Writers' Digest, Poets & Writers, Good Housekeeping, Vegetarian Times, US Weekly, O Magazine, Redbook, Glamour, and many, many more. If your library doesn't have a similar program, talk to the librarian and encourage them to start one. It doesn't require much space, and it was probably one of the most popular services the Grand Junction library offers. Plus, it's so green, allowing library patrons to share their used magazines with their neighbors rather than toss them in the trash or have them end up in the recycling bin.

Try local used bookstores, too. These have become much more popular ever since the recession hit and people have cut back on their bookbuying budgets. As a writer I'd rather buy new books, but hey, I'm also a reader, so I can't stay away from any bookstore -- used or new -- even if you paid me. (Okay, you can pay me, but you'll have to pay me a lot.) Dallas has the hugely popular (and ever-expanding) Half Price Books, but there's also the cult favorite Recycled Books in Denton. Lucky Portland, OR, has Powell's Books, Austin has 12th Street Books, Denver has Capitol Hill Books, Kauai has Talk Story, and New York, Chicago and Boston has tons of their own. Even Grand Junction has Twice Upon a Time and the Authors' Gallery. Some stores haven't quite figured out the whole pricing system (I'm looking at you, Authors' Gallery), so that their inventory may sometimes actually be even more expensive than buying a new copy, but for the most part these are fantastic sources of inexpensive books, even new ones. Many also offer used CD's, DVD's, VHS tapes, and vinyl records. Some have coffee shops and children's play areas, so you can practically spend the entire day there. (Not that I ever do that. Uhm, no, of course not.)

Of course, there's also the Internet, and that's probably my 2nd favorite place to shop for books. Amazon.com has a huge third-party marketplace that sells just about every used book you could possibly want, but so does BN.com (Barnes & Noble) and Borders.com, not to mention eBay.com. Watch out for shipping fees, though. Sometimes it can be cheaper to buy more books for one flat shipping rate, so see if you can save up your purchases for when you need to buy more than one or two.

Garage and yard sales used to be much better sources of used books, but I think more people are taking them to places like Half Price, where they might get more money. When they do show up at yard sales, they're often overpriced (when you take into consideration where they're being sold). When I was younger, you could often buy an entire box of romance novels or mysteries or thrillers for a couple of dollars, but it's rare to find that kind of a bargain. Plus, you'll have to consider all the gas and time you'll be expending just driving around trying to find these books. Stick with used bookstores and thrift stores. You'll get what you want, and for better prices.

HOBBIES

B. has a fairly expensive hobby: learning to fly. When we were in Grand Junction, our agreement was that he would use his overtime pay to cover his flying lessons. That turned out to be a dual blessing: a) he suddenly started enjoying all his overtime, which he had ordinarily dreaded before; he actually started asking for overtime, too, which was a huge step, and b) his flying lessons didn't affect our basic household budget. Now that we're in Dallas, and his new job doesn't offer overtime, he's had to cut back on his flying lessons drastically, and right now we're discussing how we can let him continue without it affecting our finances too much.

The lesson here would be, of course, is to pick a cheap hobby. (I know, duh, but if it's too late for that, at least make sure that it doesn't affect your finances too much!) Even something as innocuous and homebased as scrapbooking can be expensive, but there are ways to economize. The key is to plan ahead and to know what supplies you need so that you can take your time to source the best bargains, whether at a traditional brick-and-mortar store or online. Subscribe to local hobby store's email newsletters, which usually have great discount coupons. Sign up for newsgroups and mailing lists so that you can network with fellow scrapbookers and take advantage of any swap opportunities. Also, sign up for your city's Freecycle.org mailing list. Freecycle is a super-active and rapidly-growing mailing list offered in countless cities around the country. Members post things that they want to give away or need themselves, and their fellow members email back, either to claim the giveaway or let them know that they have what the original posters need. I've seen people give away furniture, electronics, hobby supplies, even cars. Depending on where you live, you might be part of an enormous Freecycle, in which case you'll need to be quick about claiming something that someone else wants to give away, but again, you can't beat the price.

Everyone needs a hobby. Everyone, even the busiest CEO in the world, whether it's golf or playing basketball or knitting or coin-collecting. It's an activity that's just yours, just for your own singular pleasure, without requiring any justifications or explanations. It's a reflection of your heart and soul, something that distinguishes you from the roles that society and biology and family imposes on you: mother, sister, daughter, worker, community volunteer, den mother, whatever. Whether it's blogging or painting or reading or running or doing yoga or doing crossword puzzles or playing Twister or riding motorbikes or watching movies or chasing squirrels or whatever, everyone needs something that they do just for the hell of it, just for the joy of it. The key is to find something that won't send you to bankruptcy while still providing you with enjoyment.

Oh, and if you can find something that may even earn you a bit of money (knitting, event planning, photography, etc.), even better.

What about you? How are you handling your entertainment budget in this economy? What are some of the things you've had to change in terms of how you spend your free time because of the recession? If you have more tips on how to have fun and still stay within budget, do share!

Photo, Picnic Wedding at the Fields of Mars, by garagolo. Courtesy of Flickr.

Marjorie & Andree, or My Nights Are More Beautiful Than Your Days

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Call me crazy, but believe it or not, I'm just now discovering the now-defunct-but-forever-in-our-heart-of-hearts Domino magazine. I know, I know, most of you were probably devotees from its very first issue, but I just picked up the last issue at my local library's magazine swap (can you believe someone actually donated that???). I've since ripped through it and tore out everything that interested me for my Interiors Look Book, which means I basically left only the Table of Contents and maybe a few ad pages. Don't know why I bothered.

Anyway, I found this fascinating one-page "Day in the Life"-type feature about Jill Fehrenbacher, a "sustainable design blogger"/founder/editor-in-chief of Inhabitat.com. The article provides an almost-hour-by-hour breakdown of Fehrenbacher's day, a type of editorial that's always popular among readers, but this one had a unique twist: the timeline provides not only information on what Fehrenbacher did, but also a separate listing offering up what she wishes she had done.

How incredibly cool! And yes, again, I know that this is all probably old hat to you former Domino subscribers and readers (who are likely still mourning its demise, based on the passionate pleas for its return that I periodically see pop up on the Web), but I'm a little late coming to the party. In any case, I love the idea of comparing one's fantasy to one's reality, and I think it's especially apropos to My Inner French Girl and the general, everyday life of all Francophiles everywhere. If you're anything like me (and if you're not, I suspect you're reading the wrong blog!), the ideal of the French-inspired life (the art of living, joie de vivre, etc.) remains just that: an ideal.

So herewith, my own Fantasy vs. Reality timeline, based on what happened yesterday (Wednesday). Note that it's not a typical day in my life, as B. is out of town on business until tomorrow, but it's a pretty accurate snapshot of the humdrum rhythm of my life. Oh, and the whole Andree part? Well, that would be the name I adopted for my high school French class. The obvious (Marguerite) was too obvious, and Andree sounded so hip and moderne. So, Andree it was. And is, at least in this blog. Tres chic, non?

6:00 AM

[ANDREE]: Wake up to the soothing sounds of my Zen sunrise alarm clock, my eyes teased open by its gentle light that mimics the sunrise. I rise out of bed, my silk Chantal Thomass pyjamas caressing my skin, and head to my expansive bathroom. I go for a brisk, lung-expanding run around our neighborhood, wearing coordinated Athleta sportswear. My legs fly, my breath is steady. I hop in the shower at home and then follow up with a leisurely half-hour at the vanity table finishing my morning ablutions.

[MARJORIE] I wake up at 8:15, disoriented and squinting against the bright sunlight that floods the room. I slept too late last night (1:30), and now I'm paying for it with a first-class headache. I roll out of bed and pad to the tiny bathroom in B.'s gray, faded cotton pyjamas. Grrr. No time for a run. I take a quick shower, then pull on my thrift-store jeans and T-shirt. At least the T-shirt is organic cotton.

9:00 AM

[ANDREE] I peruse the morning news on my laptop: the New York Times, the Dallas Morning News, the Sydney Morning Herald, the Times of London, and the Philippine Daily Inquirer. I drink a steaming cup of green tea and munch delicately on homemade chocolate chip/banana muffins. In the background I play one of my favorite CD's, Cafe Paris. Afterwards I go through my Hermes planner and review the day's schedule.

[MARJORIE] I pour myself a glass of chocolate milk and eat a Pop-Tart while I browse the New York Times site, after which I wander over the WonderWall to see what my favorite celebrities have been up to since I last checked the site. In the background the TV is locked onto Will & Grace. Or maybe Frasier. Something on Lifetime, anyway.

11:00 AM

[ANDREE] I take a mini-break and relax on my balcony with the black, wrought-iron railing and pots of blooming flowers. I sip more tea and wave to my handsome neighbor as he heads off to work. I settle into the hammock and stare at the blue sky as I ruminate ideas for My Inner French Girl: story ideas, possible interviewees, design elements. I think about my readership, now close to a million unique pageviews a month, and am proud of the way the site has expanded to include interviews with everyone from J.D. Salinger to Segolene Royal.

[MARJORIE] I dust the Pop-Tart crumbs off my cluttered desk and pop out to my tiny balcony. My neighbor works an early shift at the airport and has long left for the day. I lean over rental-standard railing and breathe in the North Texas air. It's thick with humidity and probably packed with carcinogens. I spot a wasp zeroing in on me, so I beat a hasty retreat back inside. So much for doing some blue-sky thinking about My Inner French Girl. Sigh. Maybe at the coffee shop. (Let's just say I'm quite a bit shy of a million unique pageviews a month.)

12:00 NOON

[ANDREE] I prepare a freshly made lunch of Caprese salad with ingredients I picked up at the Grapevine farmer's market the day before; a side of steamed brown rice with flecks of chopped garlic; and a perfectly grilled lamb chop. I pour myself a glass of lime-flavored Perrier and enjoy a delightful, pleasant meal at my antique dining table with the heavy mahogany wood.

[MARJORIE] I forget to eat. I'm distracted by an episode of Frasier, in which Laura Linney plays a matchmaker with whom Frasier falls in love. I browse through job listings and hope to find something that sounds remotely interesting, or at least pays more than $30k/year.

1:00 PM

[ANDREE] An agent whom I met at a writers' conference two years ago sends me an email inquiring about my World War II novel. She tells me that she has never forgotten the compelling narrative that I had shared with her that fateful afternoon and cannot wait to read the manuscript. I assure her that I'll have it completed by December and that the only reason I've taken so long is that I'm a perfectionist, but I think I finally have a final draft I'm happy with.

[MARJORIE] I pack up my things, stuffing my netbook and mail that needs to be sorted and lip balm and all kinds of other not-really-necessary stuff into my Target-purchased tote bag that's fraying at the edges. The phone does not ring. It hasn't run in days, save for when B. calls from his business trip. He's my lifeline to the outside world on days like this. So, to the coffee house I go. At least there will be people there.

2:00 PM

[ANDREE] I'm at the coffee shop, a cup of cafe au lait at my side, working on my book and am quite pleased with the result. My cell phone rings. The editor of a prestigious, glossy travel mag. He's heard about my work and is interested in my submitting a feature on Reunion, all expenses paid. I tell him that I'm working on a novel, but I definitely can make time for him. We arrange for me to fly to New York to take a meeting. I make a note in my planner.

[MARJORIE] I'm at the coffee shop, a cup of cafe au lait at my side, working on my book and am feeling completely inadequate. The words sound clunky, the sentences just don't flow, dammit. Argh. The phone still doesn't ring. Did all editors take the day off or something?

5:30 PM

[ANDREE] I finish working on my book, having fielded another call, this time from a different editor interested in working with me on a feature about chartering yachts in the Caribbean. In addition to the manuscript, I've also submitted a couple of queries to Ms. and Glamour, both of whose editors respond favorably within the hour. I head home, stopping by Whole Foods to pick up the makings of the evening's meal, including a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

[MARJORIE] Disgusted with the drivel I've written, I finally slog through another eight pages of truly questionable quality before switching to something less strenuous, more mechanical. I apply for an interesting-looking job working for a nonprofit in town, although in this economy, I've little hope of getting even a boilerplate response. I wander over to the part-time secretarial positions before giving up. I draft a few blog posts and ignore half the things on my ever-growing to-do list, then head home. Mindful of our finances, I nursed the same cup of cafe au lait the entire 3.5 hours. Fortunately, the cafe sees only five visitors the entire time I'm there. The place would be dead without me.

7:00 PM

[ANDREE] I eat a delicious, light dinner of French onion soup, mixed green salad and a small slice of whole wheat bread dipped in olive oil. Dessert is a banana with a bit of honey drizzled on top and a few toasted walnut pieces. I play a CD of Jane Birkin songs and light candles. B. calls and we have a long, intimate conversation with a lot of Iloveyous and Imissyous.

[MARJORIE] I rummage in the freezer and pull out a foil-wrapped turkey meatloaf from my Once-a-Month-Cooking session a couple of weeks before. That and some steamed white rice make dinner. Dessert is a couple of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Yum. B. calls and we have a long, intimate conversation with a lot of Iloveyous and Imissyous.

9:00 PM

[ANDREE] After a long, hot bath in our oversized whirlpool tub, I slip into a new set of Princesse Tam Tam lingerie. I slide under the silken sheets, luxuriating in its gossamer touch against my skin. I fall asleep immediately, content that a productive and beautiful day is complete.

[MARJORIE] I agonize over yet another cover letter, then another query letter to yet another magazine that may or may not exist by the time they even think about opening my proposal. I finally give up and watch a series of recorded shows on the DVR, mostly The Nanny and the Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. That Tori. She's so funny. I finally feel my body shut down around midnight, so I pull on B.'s pyjamas again and fall asleep immediately, my head whirring with all the things I need to do tomorrow.

Blogger Meetup in Arlington, TX

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 19:02:00 +0000

Love pastries?

Love coffee?

Love blogs?

Live in the North Texas area?

Then s'il vous plait, run, don't walk (or at least drive -- it's crazy out there), to Java Jo'z in Arlington, Texas, on Saturday, August 29th. BlogHer is holding a late summer Meetup for interested bloggers, especially those who live in the Mid-Cities/Tarrant County area, and everyone -- whether you're a member of BlogHer or not, or even if you're just thinking about starting a blog -- is invited!

We had a fantastic BlogHer meetup at the Central Market on Lovers Lane in Dallas last July, and we want to continue the tradition of offering networking and collaborative opportunities for North Texas-area bloggers. Later in September there will be another meetup in Southlake, but in the meantime, we're storming Arlington and taking our blogging energies to the Mid-Cities.

I'll bring some tasty delicacies, but Java Jo'z also offers delicious sandwiches and pastries, not to mention some of the best coffee in the region. Plus, some of you might remember that artist Lindsay Randall Boone has an exhibit of her paintings there, so it'll be a great opportunity to check out some wonderful artwork while getting to know your fellow blogging friends.

Feel free to RSVP on the BlogHer site, or you can do so in the comments section here as well. I hope to see you there!

Book Review: French Style (1993)

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Each Wednesday, I review a French-related book. The subject varies, from culture to film to memoir to biography to whatever the heck I feel like reading that week and whatever strikes my fancy at the library or bookshop.

"If women did not exist, all the money in the world would have no value."

Remember vanity tables? My mother had one when we lived in the Philippines, before we moved to the U.S., and I think it still exists somewhere, in some distant relative's home. It had a huge, sort of circular mirror and a few little drawers on either side, plus a nice, deep, polished surface in the front which my mom filled with her various perfumes, powders, cosmetics, skin creams, and hair accessories. Somewhere in storage are dozens of photographs of me and my two younger brothers hanging around that lovely table -- we were endlessly fascinated with it and the treasures it held, as evidenced by the thick layer of white powder we always seemed to sport in those early photographs.

French Style, published in 1993 by the clothing company Express (for whom writer Veronique Vienne served as spokesperson at the time) and quite an improvement over a similar book entitled French Chic (by Susan Sommers) from the 1980's, reminds me so much of that vanity table. Vienne, French writer and de facto ambassador of French culture and style, penned this loving homage to the elusive magic of French Style (her caps), complete with large, dreamy photographs of everyone from Audrey Hepburn to Anjelica Huston, as well as whimsical line drawings of everything from the traditional French waiters' vests to the legendary shopping halls of Paris.

Vienne's writing style can be erratic at times, as I've mentioned in previous reviews -- she has an occasionally irritating tendency of floating off into tangents. Still, her metaphors are so divine and so rich in emotional color that it's easy to overlook the random flights of verbal fancy. She navigates the expansive landscape between American pragmatism and French extravagance and happily bridges the gaps between them, offering her American readership the hope of capturing that quintessential French Style and making it our own. Vienne, who has spent a number of years in the U.S., does to fashion what Mireille Guiliano does to food and wine -- she nimbly translates the complexities of French dress and attitude and makes us believe that we, too, can accomplish what our French sisters seem to do so effortlessly. Vienne firmly believes that "French women are made, not born," and French Style does a yeoman's job in convincing us (well, this reader anyway!) that, yes, it really is true.

Francophiles anxious to plumb the secrets of French style will be delighted with this book, which offers not only endless inspiration via its enormous number of photographs and illustrations but also concrete tips on how to emulate your French counterparts without losing yourself in the process. She touches on everything from the history of French royalty and their critical role in the evolution of fashion and style, to the shopping style of the modern French woman. (I was happy to note that Vienne agrees with the advice I offered in yesterday's post, namely that one should always embark on a shopping expedition with the knowledge of what one wants to accomplish. Observing street fashion, perhaps by spending a few hours at a favorite cafe or other well-trafficked people-watching spot, and even browsing through magazines will give you plenty of background research on what styles and fashions might look smashing on you.) She explains in great detail the French woman's goal of "shocking les bourgeois" through one's dress and even provides a useful "Glossary of Key French Words" to assist the reader in interpreting French style to suit her own circumstances and style ambitions.

Most importantly, Vienne reminds us that looking like a French woman doesn't actually require that one be a French woman, and she points to Ms. Huston as a sterling example. The two-page photographic spread of the actress near the center of the book is indeed mesmerizing, and one can't help but agree with Vienne's assessment that she looks "more French than a French woman," and that she has "too much je ne sais quoi to be merely fashionable." Studying Ms. Huston -- lying on a bed, her arms cradling her head and her mysterious eyes staring at the camera with maddening nonchalance -- I forget that she's not French and wonder how I too can channel that aura of deep sensuality and intelligence.

And then there's the memory of my mother's vanity table and what it symbolized. What lingers in my mind long after I've turned the last page in the book is Vienne's description of the traditional lingerie. Contrary to what you might think, the word in this context refers to the room just off the boudoir that serves as a "private sanctum for clothes." Here is where the French woman transforms herself into the unforgettable silhouette on the street, where she performs the mundane tasks of dressing (ironing everything from jeans to underwear; rummaging through her piles of blouses; trying on countless pants) and eventually emerges as, well, the French Woman. Vienne then helpfully points out that French women who live in more modest homes typically commandeer a corner of the master bedroom, outfitting it with a dressing table, some chairs and a folding screen. It's their secret garden, so to speak, a place where they can relax and indulge at leisure in the arts of femininity.

My mother's vanity table served just that purpose as well. Vanity tables were once quite common in most American homes. You see it often in old movies, complete with a little vanity chair, but nowadays most women -- myself included -- are lucky enough to get a decent shower in the morning, much less a few minutes of pure indulgence at the vanity table. If we're truly fortunate, we might have an entire corner of the bathroom counter to call our own, with the linen closet or medicine cabinet or even the undersink cabinet to serve as the repository for all the extra beauty supplies in our arsenal. (B. and I share a tiny bathroom counter, taking turns using it in order to preserve marital bliss. Because there is literally only a few square inches of space around the small sink, we each have a little white plastic basket that carries our toiletries and which we stow away in the linen closet when we're done with our ablutions.) We may have overstuffed closets, wardrobes, massive flat-screen TV's, oversized chairs, and perhaps even hope chests in our bedrooms, but real vanity tables? Not likely.

French Style serves as a beautiful reminder of the priority we should place on nurturing ourselves, of seeking pleasure and happiness in our womanhood, and of bringing back the vanity table into our boudoirs, if not in reality then at least in spirit. It's an instruction manual, a history book, and a self-help tome, all wrapped into one elegant, well-designed softcover book. Vienne is utterly convincing in her conviction that absolutely anyone can have French Style, and the real value of this book is her ability to make the process seem not only quite simple, but also truly pleasurable.

Note: I'm not normally in the habit of reviewing out-of-print books, but I couldn't resist this one. Amazon.com lists this book as available through third-party sellers, but as of this writing, pricing started at US$125.00. It's a great book, but unless you're a collector, it's not worth that ridiculous price. Instead, use your public library's magnificent Interlibrary Loan service, which in my opinion is one of the finest, best things about America. Take what you can out of the book, and then return it so that others can enjoy it as well. And do let me know what you think!

If you liked this book review, you might also be interested in these:

Book Review: The Art of Being a Woman

Book Review: The Art of Doing Nothing, Simple Ways to Make Time for Yourself

Book Review: Parisiennes

Frugal French Girl Week: Frugal Fashion

noreply@blogger.com (My Inner French Girl) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:00:00 +0000

I happily admit it: I'm a thrift store junkie. I've picked up everything from designer handbags (including genuine Guccis) to designer suits, most for less than $20. I've scored some pretty good deals at yard sales, but in terms of overall time and money savings, it's really hard to beat thrift and consignment stores. Since I detest driving, especially in the maniacal choreography that passes for traffic here in Dallas, I prefer to just drive to one of my favored spots, park and shop. In Grand Junction I liked browsing through the Friday paper, circling all the yard sales that sounded interesting, and then plotting out my next-day trip on my trusty city map before setting out with a cup of piping hot Starbucks and a fistful of dollars.

Here? Not so much.

A local columnist recently wrote about her aversion to thrift stores and her reluctance to even touch something that someone else wore. I get it. Of course it's not new. Of course most of it's been worn by someone else. Of course the quality will vary, sometimes quite drastically.

But think of it this way: consider the clothes that you try on at even the most chichi department stores. Do you have any idea how often those have been tried on? How many people have struggled to stick their limbs into their arm holes and skirts and pant legs before you? Do you know who they are? Not likely.

USE YOUR LAUNDROMAT

Sure, you can never be sure that the clothes you buy at the thrift shops were washed before you picked them up, but there's an easy solution to that: wash them when you get home. Consignment stores require that all clothes handed over for consignment be dry cleaned or thoroughly laundered, and if you stick with the well-established ones with a good reputation, you can be rest assured that that policy is strictly adhered to. Certain consignment stores here in the Metroplex are a little more lax, but it's easy enough to tell which ones they are. Use your nose, in other words.

GET TO KNOW CONSIGNMENT STORES

At Clothes Circuit, my favorite Dallas consignment shop, the clothes racks are pushed very close together, so much so that it can be difficult to casually browse, but the quality of the pieces and the amazing selection makes the hunt worth the time and effort. Plus, they have what I consider the best handbag selection in the north Texas area -- everything from Nine West to Lulu Guinness to Prada to Louis Vuitton. Like many consignment shops, the space is intimate but brightly lit and has plenty of mirrors to check out your soon-to-be-purchased. And because of its prime location off Northwest Highway and Preston, it attracts the well-heeled and well-dressed consigners of Dallas.

DON'T FORGET THRIFT STORES

But don't just stick with the consignment shops. Even the smallest towns can unearth some surprising treasures within the stacks of faded T-shirts and raggedy socks. I picked up a brand-new, never-been-worn black Ralph Lauren jeans in my size at a small thrift store in Grand Junction for $8.00. The original price tag still dangled tantalizingly from the waist. Even the cashier was shocked, and of course, I walked out feeling quite self-satisfied and smug. The thing about these shops, however, is that you have to be willing to really dig through what could be stacks and stacks and stacks of clothes, most of which should never see the light of day ever again, in order to pull out the hidden jewels.

TRICKS OF THE SAVVY SECONDHAND SHOPPER

Before heading out, know what you want to buy. I have a list in my smartphone of "essential items" I've been searching for for awhile, including a well-tailored blazer, dress shirts, denim skirt, and fitted jeans. If I can't find an essential item after a certan period of time (usually six months), and I still consider it essential, then I'm willing to pay retail for a well-made, quality piece. Otherwise, I'll keep looking. Some things can be hard to track down, like the aforementioned blazer (I suspect I'll have to make the trip to Ann Taylor or even Nordstrom sometime soon) or maybe the elusive Perfect Tote, but the hunt can be quite pleasurable, especially if you know what you want.

Keep up with what's trendy and what's not, and have an idea of what clothes you might like to wear and what would look good on you. I read tons and tons of fashion and style magazines but also the celebrity gossip weeklies. Seriously, it's great research as to what current fashion trends are and what's available on the market. Unlike runway and catalogue models, celebrities come in all shapes and sizes (yes, they actually do), from Salma Hayek to Cameron Diaz, from America Ferrera to Gwen Stefani. Chances are, you might find someone who resembles your body physique and style sensibility enough that you can glean some ideas as to what might look good on you based on how they (or their stylist) dress themselves.

Of course, there's nothing like actually wearing all kinds of different clothing styles and fashions and trends, experimenting with a variety of looks, to really separate the perfect-fits from the unwearables. I guess that's one of the blessings about being older -- at 37, I have a much stronger sense of what looks good on me, what works for my quirky frame (short-waisted, not quite petite but not quite "regular" either, and fairly curvy) and, most importantly, what doesn't. If you're not quite that, uhm, experienced, however, you're probably young enough to make a few mistakes and get away with it! Still, even if you don't like leafing through fashion magazines or celebrity gossip rags, keep an eye out for the best fashion row on earth: the street. Even in Grand Junction, where the most popular designer label was Columbia Sportswear, occasionally I would spot a truly original, stylish woman. Visit popular "streetstyle" blogs like The Sartorialist or the occasional videos that Elle Magazine posts on their site, highlighting "Street Chic" in various locations around the world.

RETAIL BARGAINS

I just visited Target -- is it obvious that this place is one of my favorite haunts ever? -- today and was struck by how much they've really expanded and enhanced their women's fashion lines. Merona, one of their house brands, has some gorgeous handbags and tote bags, some of which are now in their Clearance shelves in order to make way for the fall collections. And their new dresses! The Merona belted dress -- fully lined, if you can believe that of a superstore dress -- comes in a variety of colors (including a flattering "cherry glow") and would be perfect either for a dinner date or even as part of your work wardrobe.

The Gap, while quite a bit more expensive than the superstores and bargain shops, has great classics to fill out your wardrobe, especially if you're in an autumnal, back-to-school mode and are seeking to shore up your everyday work and/or school wear. I love their Classic Trench Coat, and for less than $100, it'll be a relatively inexpensive way to channel your Inner French Girl, especially if you pair it with a pair of oversized sunglasses from the Marshall's accessories aisle.

AND DON'T FORGET YOUR OWN CLOSET

I have a pretty simple wardrobe. I take up three racks and share a small walk-in closet with B. Most women I know take up several closets, relegating their significant other's clothes to a hallway closet or, at best, one of those portable wardrobe racks. And yet I still manage to find new ways to mix and match the few pieces I have to create new and fresh combinations. It doesn't happen often, but consider what you can do with your own wardrobe. I have about two dozen scarves and a ton of jewelry, both costume and real, plus a whole corner of the closet dedicated to a motley crew of handbags and tote bags and even a couple of classic briefcases.

Shopping in my own closet can be fun, especially when the seasons change and I can unearth some forgotten pieces as I pull them out of storage. If you have a chance, take an hour or so on the weekend and pull out all the clothes you currently have hanging in your closet. Cast a critical eye on them, making note of what your needs are (work, school, play, dates, casual, shopping, errand-running, etc.) and possible combinations of your disparate pieces to create new looks. If something looks like it would work perfectly with another piece and yet needs some minor alterations in order to complete the look, put it aside into a "To be altered" bag and make a note in your calendar to get that to your tailor ASAP. Trust me -- an outfit tailored to fit your measurements exactly will nearly always look much better than the most expensive designer outfit on you.

Take photos of the combinations you come up with and create your own "look book," either on your computer or using a binder with sheet protectors. (I prefer the latter, since I don't normally use my computer in my closet.) Do the same thing with any magazine fashion layouts that catch your eye -- tear them out and just pop them into your look book for future reference. You'd be amazed at how quickly you begin to learn more about fashion as well as your own wardrobe, for that matter, just by capturing these images on film and organizing them into an easily accessible book for your own personal use.

CHANEL LOOKS, CHEAP PRICES

Dressing frugally but fashionably doesn't really take any more effort than dressing expensively. Getting to know your body type, what looks good on you and what doesn't, all still take time and money and a keen and honest eye, no matter how much money you may have. The key is to use your imagination and to be willing to experiment and play around with the myriad options that are available to you. Since fashion is a form of art, like any other creative endeavor it takes a bit of courage, a sense of fun and whimsy and a healthy sense of humor, something you already have in abundance. It has nothing to do with what label you're wearing or what color is "hot" right now, and everything to do with what flatters you and enhances your natural beauty.

(I think back at all the "awful" mistakes I made in the name of fashion, some of which occurred as recently as, oh, a few months ago, but that's part of the fun of the process. It's a lifelong education, and I'm a slow learner.)

Don't be afraid to try something new, or to venture out into territory you may never have explored before. If you've never tried thrift shops or consignment stores, now would be the perfect time to do it, since it's become all the rage in the wake of the recession. Maybe you can try out clothing and accessories swaps with your close friends and neighbors, a fantastic and fast-growing trend that women everywhere are embracing for the opportunity it gives them to try on and walk away with new outfits while at the same time giving away their own pieces that they're no longer interested in.

What about you? Has your sartorial sense shifted since the recession hit full blast? Have you changed your shopping habits and/or haunts over the last few months? What do you do now what you didn't do before? And what are some of your favorite shopping places? Do share!