Im drunk

Smooth Criminal is on tv right now. The super pop, super cheesy version of MTV in france is called NRJ. promounced "energyyyyyyyyyy."
Its nice to have friends over and be completely entranced by the TV. Its also funny as hell to see my french friends try to sing the words to MJ songs. Last week at a party "Man in the Mirror" was playing and my friend was singing, " Man in the middle...." And I was like, " Dude, you just gave the song a totally diffeent meaning. But i think my boys in the Castro would appreciate your version..."
I imagine that this experience for me is quite similar to when I sing french songs... "je suis ah blah blah(insert made up french words here) lalala."

Im leaving France in 3-4 weeks to move to London. Dont remember if i mentioned that. But yah, im goin. Im audi 5000. Bon voyage. I will miss France. I will Paris. I will miss my friends. My apartment. and thats about it. But I guess when you leave somewhere that really all youll miss.
My family still isnt here so im left with friends, cafes and architecture.

I like my life here. Its chill. the lifestyle agrees with me. But somehow its different for me than when i first moved here. I had a sense of entitlement at first. I was pretty sure I was better than everyone else. Now Ive grown to appreciate their way. their manners. their fashion. and you know what? americans have a lot to learn. We are so in-n-out. Dinner in under an hour. I mean, who goes out to just eat? here, dinner is an all night festivity. 3 hours minimum. Apero, Entree, plat, dessert, cafe, digestif and then shots if you know the staff... its so nice to just be left alone with your friends. these cafes and restaurants quickly become your home. why? because youre there more then in your own house. and they leave you alone! in America, you think the waiter is rude for ignoring. here, its custom. you stay as long as you like. its yours. everything here. its slow. its appreciated.
i took a cruise on the seine yesterday with Michaela and her sister who was in town from Germany.it was really cool. the buildings, the achitecture, the fucking apartments with floor to ceiling window views of the seine.. oh la la. c'est magnifique! if i had an extra 20 million lying around- mark my words- id buy it up. of course this comes with a trade off. yesterday it was 90 and humid. humid like the tropical jungle. it was awful. and the sun beats down with no wind. the concrete breathes up at you. you get sticky and tired. i curse this weather. but how can you complain? its summer in Paris and i dont work! i can do whatever the fuck i want! this is the point that i think for the rest of my life i will be making--a summer in paris to do nothing. im a 20 year old with longer hangovers and a language barrier. cest la vie.

Im pretty drunk at the moment as im waiting for my friend on the scooter to pick me up. this was the orginal thought for this blog but i expired. blah blah blah. i do love the scooter in Paris. its so fun! its so French. and also, yes so dangerous. but oh so fun. for better or worse, it equates to everything else in my life thats dangerous.

Alors this entry did give me the idea that I need to write a recap of my american vs french differences. bring it back to basics.go back to day 1. ill go back to year 1 in france. to the entries when i had to sign language the doorman and couldnt get a decent drink.

i think ill go back. and i think ill smile.

more to come...

Be Another Me

The drums, the violin, the strumming guitar are beating in my ears. I took you for a walk today. The song is "Be Another Me" by Curtis Newton. The song that carries me through this beautiful sunny afternoon in Paris. Life is not so bad.

Ive been cruising around my neighborhood all afternoon and have decided to stop at a cafe in the sun for lunch. Salad, Rose, ciggys, pen and paper.

My perfect combination for happiness.Enjoying my last few days of "french-icity" before I move to London in 3 weeks. Ive taken a job at a design agency as a Producer. This should hold me over and pay my bills until I can retire and just take on the greatest job in the world. Oh. Publishing my book and having it become the next BestSeller and go on Oprah etc. then Ill just travel the world and sign copies of my book. Ill bring along my assistant and my air-kisses. It'll be fantastic. Its amazing how much time a day i can spend thinking about this scenario. In my head, its quite real. Its what its like to " be another me."

One of the best things about not working at the moment is that I have plenty of time to daydream. Hours upon hours to think about me. What I want. What I want to do, to be. This is time well spent. It keeps me off the bottle during the day (sometimes) and fills me with inspiration that I can be and do anything I want. And why not? I have so far.Ive never been one to sit back and rest on my laurels so I use my time wisely. I try not to get bored but its hard. I keep writing. My book is half finished now and im getting pretty excited.

Ive decided that the first half of the book will be my time from SF to Paris. And the second half will be from Paris to London. Unless of course my publisher wants to keep it in two separate novels. What would Oprah do? Oh well ill cross that bridge when I get to it.

Now back to being another me.

In N Out

Its been a while. I needed to get out of the house. Here's the problem. Its safe in there. Im not agoraphobic or anything, but when I leave the house, I tend to drink more. Et voila, here I am at The Ren...drinking. Standard. Cote du Rhone. Waiting for a friend to come over for a dinner and dish sesh.
In the meantime, heres the latest. The man, the "Marseilles move-in" has now moved out. Er rather, has been asked to leave. Shocked? Probably not. Did anyone make wagers on my fast and furious attempt at domesticating? You should have. It was a long shot, but I thought I had good odds. Anyway, basically it just wasnt working. Between his ocd jealousy and my crazi, I mean me-ness, it just didnt work out.
Still friends I think. I hope. But not sure. I mean you never want to have to say, lets still be friends, but I think really we will. That said, I offered him the casual romp and dinner tryst, so we'll see what happens. However, I dont know how one will take the offer of sex as you are being urged out the door with duffel bags and toiletries hanging off your limbs. But Im still attracted to him, and I meant it, so I said it.

I know I know, "Oh Diane" is actually what I thought too. Its nice to know at least some things never change. So its back to me. Square one and loving it.

Invincible

Lets go back to early February 2009 when I orginally wrote this post.

Im trying to drink less. Its better for me I know, but why does everything good have to be so bad? Ive noticed a trend in my writing here as Im sure you guys have too, that drinking seems to be this American's favorite pastime. True nuf. But when in Paris, do as the Parisians do. They love their cafe, but really how many cups can one have? Newly unemployed and on the market, isnt wine simply a wiser option? I mean lets face it. When you dont have to set an alarm, because your only task for the day is to eventually wake up and check facebook... Im all in. Lets go drink!
But alas, this is not so good for me.
And really more than anything else, I believe that alcohol is the gateway drug we should all be so wary of. What to do when drinking a nice wine, or a spritzy cocktail or ice cold beer? Smoke a ciggy of course. And its all downhill form there. Once youre drinking and smoking, whats to stop you? Youre invincible. But lets be clear. Im not talking standing on the ledge of a 40 story building on PCP invincible, but rather you just generally feel happier than everyone else. And your question here, inevitably, "Are you masking unhappiness in your life with a bottle and a box?" Perhaps. But at least, Im aware of it. And I can still read my writing on the page so thats good. And No, Im not staggering down the street like a hobo in heat. I look pretty and im dressed well. I just happen to be inebriated, so what? Defensive? No no. Just explaining. Thats what us writers do, explain. Tell stories. Enlighten even.

Marco Polo

Marco Polo and the search for a new world and love. And yes, sometimes a fish out of water. Thats me more often than not. So heres what Ive gotten myself into recently...

We met. We saw. We met again. Et voila. That was it.

Yes him. The Marseille guy. He is not only now my wonderfully sweet and sexy boyfriend, but he is also now living with me. Chez Diane has very quickly become chez nous. What can I say? Thats how I roll.

There are a million reasons why this is a very bad idea, but there is also a strong handful as to why this can be good. Im not going to pro and con list here so lets just review some things that we know to be true on both sides, 1 thru 10 in no particular order.

1. Regular sex is good. A live-in boyfriend provides frequent, uninhibited sex.

2. I can be psycho and crazy. Its possible I lose my shit, and he and the relationship are out the door next week.

3.You always have someone to eat dinner with, have impromptu dance party with, and wake up next to.

4. He speaks French and English, hence he can read my mail for me and help me with those a**holes that work in French administration.

5. He goes to school all day so I still have my afternoons of Leisure all to myself.

6.My Mom called me a "cougar" and although offended, everytime I think about it, I laugh. (btw-hes 26 people. get your heads out of the gutter. im not Mary Kay Laterneau or anything)

7. Im generous to a fault, but I also hate to share. I usually prefer to buy you your own so I can keep mine to myself. Spoiled much? maybe. But lets look at this as a win-win, not me being a brat.

8. The only other time I lived with a man, was when my ex moved in with me after 4 days. I think this is the only way I know how to do it. (or not do it, but lets think positive;)

9. Im staying in Paris a bit longer than expected, so this is happily substituting as the next adventure until the rest of the plan unfolds.

10. I think we're in Love.

aaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwww

Debauchery, Pornography etc etc

Lets talk weekend shall we? This is where I would ideally let someone who could accurately recount the events of the past few days step in, but im the writer. So here goes...

It started out as an innocent Karaoke experience with some French, german,a couple polish and an american to boot. soon to follow was what turned into a weekend of debauchery, pornography and photography.

Lets go back. a few weeks ago, my friend michaela suggested i come with her to Karaoke at someIrish pub in Republique. she says,"its really fun, you'll love it!"

So of course most of you know my response."Have we met?"

But my new years resolutuon was to try new things, so after a year and a half in Paris, i guess my number was up, so to speak.

So head held low, i accompany my friend to Corcorans for Karaoke. Ok- straight to the bar. I start with a large beer, but quickly realize that the alocohol percent there is just not gonna cut it. i quickly switch to a vodka redbull. afterall, you need to be quick on your game to read all those colored letters flashing by with unknown lyrics, but a chorus you could sing deaf and blind.

None of this relevant however, because frankly,i dont sing. This was quickly discovered and fairly acknlowged by all those in the now growing group of regiular karaoke-ers in my presence. BUT what i CAN do my friends, is motivate a fucking crowd. I just sort of smile and dance along the perimeter with my hands in the air. this is better for me. so its like im participating without actually comitting. (note: see Love life)

Anyway, karaoke was actually very cool. a thursday must do. cool people, good friends, a highly energetic drink mix and a mirophone. nuff said. Thursdays are Karaoke night. its 2009, people.

Ok so shoot to 3 weeks later. My friend Olga has her boyfriend in town from Marseille with a few of his buddies. "The Marseille Crew." This is important to note because this group single handedly changed my perception of french men.They were funny, nice, handome,charming, open...etc.Bravo moms of Marseilles-you did good ladies!

Lets get to the debauchery shall we? The boys arrived just in time for karaoke on Thursday and fun times had by all. Saturday turned into what i could best describe as "my time as a Polish Vodka souvenir. " Never in my life have I continued with shots of vodka one after another and another. People I love vodka. Im a believer. dont underestimate the Poles. They will bring it. Hard. Needless to say my saturday ended with about 10 people leaving the apartment around 6am, and about 2 people staying. She got some. oh yes she did.

She got some again sunday.

And Monday.

But lets go back to sunday. I offered a small apero to the crew at my house in the next afternoon just to laugh and recap and think about all the other things we have going for us in our lives aside from alocoholism. (ive found this a great retreat and zen- some would compare it to Yoga or Pilates, but i prefer the "drink through it method")

So the nice glass of white wine eventually turned into yes you guessed it, vodka shots. Clothes are coming off, dancing on the couch, on the ceiling, pirate swords, headbands, blindfolds and "the lift" all come into play. Its pure filth. And as i looked around to this group from atop my wicker bench, I felt so proud. here they are. The smiling, the shining, the true, and well yes, the drunk.

Sunday turned into monday and there I was, just a (un)mindful lady of leisure, hungover with breakky in bed from marseille guy, and a (big)handful of cryptonite.

Deflowered

In lieu of the book, for now... take a sneak peek!

http://www.defloweredmemoirs.com/

Feeling Rogue-ish

Im going rogue. This is me going rogue. Not sure if i can make this decision myself or if my team of republican monkeys needs to make it for me, but yes, Ive decided, Im going rogue.
With cigarette in hand and glass of red by my side, ABBA on the itouch and James Bond photos posted all about my house in lieu of the weekend party, i feel rogue-ish.

I was recently laid off my job at cbs. People, it was like winning the lottery. If you had any idea how much money the French government is willing to pay you to remain jobless youd move here tomorrow. So i can basically stay without a job for about the next 2 years and live quite comfortably. Once i understand what the French mean when they tell me that even for french people its extremely difficult to go through the "administrative" bit of collecting unemployment Ill feel better. Once thats done, the only problem is that ive been jobless with savings before and it wasnt pretty. Out every night, friends over all the time, the best clothes due to daily shopping expeditions... wait what was i saying...?

So now the question- what do I want to do when i grow up? OK, so ideally Id open a taqueria in Paris, then London. We'd serve tacos and burritos by day then a dope bar at night. Sort of like Nicks Crispy tacos in SF, but without that lame ass club cluttering it up. I just dont know if the french would like mexican food? Maybe theres a reason there are no taquerias here. I mean the french Love to cut their food up into small bites and a taco just doesnt fit that mold. Also theres no cream or butter involved with burritos. I cant imagine a burrito with steak tartare inside with a lovely cream sauce on top. Its gonna be my way. Fresh. In all senses of the word, like with a PH. PHRESH.
ok ok so if i dont do that heres the plan. I just spent a week in London interviewing and checking out neighborhoods that would potentially suit me. London. wow. I was like a kid in a candy store. I wanted to talk to everyone! Hi Hi how are you, whats new, just being charming and witty and letting everyone talk to me. I feel like Ive been dead the last year. Its sad to say, but the french just dont get Americans. And lets be real. Im cool. I can blend in and I can take the back seat, but Im OVER it! Why should I? This last London trip held good talks with friends, a great vibe, a positive outlook on the job search and sex. So what the F am i still doing here? OK I need a visa. thats the next step but then im golden. Im actually looking forward to writing the French with English Subtitles recap probably as much as you are, but for now I think I may foray into British with American Subtitles.
Until then, Ill be here. If not, leave a message after the beep and Ill call you when im back from shopping. xx

Cold Hard Facts

People should read more. Get out more. Learn how to conversate. How to tell a story. Its come to my attention recently that people dont know how to tell a good story.

Is the art of conversation gone? What ever happened to witty anecdotes and tales of interest?

Does the art of conversation exist only with alcohol and a possible side of drug use? Are good stories only told at night when the bottle is open and the cards are on the table? I know sometimes I tell too much and for those of you out there who may find this in reference to them, well Im sorry. Oops. But at least you made a good story.

But not all stories at have to come at the price of another. Ive embellished and re-hashed many a tale of myself just for the amusement of others. And the point here? Well I think you know... Its that yes, Im interesting. I try to serve my stories Up with a twist. I dont waste time on non sense and unimportant details that really no one cares about. I mean have you ever listened to yourself tell a story? If you did would your mind wander halfway through and would you want to walk out of the room? Now imagine you hear yourself umming and awwing and desperately trying to make a stupid story interesting by adding immense details and the all-too-obvious fiction thrown in just for the sake of making yourself sound fascinating. Just stop. Because guess what? People like you better when you're quiet. Just sit there and look pretty and laugh at everyone else's stories. There's a time and place for everyone to shine. And yours my friend, just isnt in the spotlight. mmmk?

So next time you find yourself wanting to contribute, make a brief outline in your head and think of what the possible outcome you desire will be. A laugh? A cry? A phone number from the hottie across from you? I mean what is it exactly you are trying to achieve?

And lastly, Say it, dont spray it. Nobody likes to be covered in spit-- especially during Cold season.

G'Day Mate

So I just got back from a week in Australia. Spent one week in the land down under, first in the Gold Coast and then down to Sydney for a few days. Let me start here--28 hours of travel time, 24 hours of flight time. yeah...

I started with the first leg of 14 hours from Paris to Singapore. After landing at Changi Intl, I desperately needed a massage. My ankles were huge and my shoulders tense. More so than anything else, was the pure stress of knowing that I had 4 hours to kill and another 10 hour flight to take from Singapore to Brisbane.

As soon as I stepped into the airport, I thought it was a mirage. voila. SPA.

"Hello, pretty lady. You want massage package? I give you good price on complete package."

Yes I wanted it all. Pile it on. I killed 2 hours on a table and in a jelly foot bath in Singa. Lovely.

Then to board the next plane which had me locked in for 10 hours. All said and done, I left on a Thursday, arrived on a Saturday, and can safely say I look forward to never having to make that trip again.

Turns out, that although its summer season down under, it also happened to be an unlikely storm season. I went from a brisk 12 degrees in Paris to a humid 30 degrees in oz. Although hot, my hopes of returning to Paris tanner than the whole of the city, were quickly dashed with my first lightning sighting straight off the runway. That said...

By the time we arrived to Sydney, it was clear blue skies and Bondi beach had my name on it!

Sun, sand, clear water, and yummy food! hurray! All of a sudden, I was immersed! It was "g'day mate, g'day mate" all over the place! Especially when it was totally inappropriate for me to say it, I felt obliged. At night, in the morning, in the store, to the toll collectors on the road etc etc, Gday Mate!

All in all, I had a fab time in OZ and returned back to my beautiful Paris tan and happy.

The 4 Point Plan

The colors are changing. The trees, the clothes, and even the mood. Its autumn that has me feeling this growing need for

change and that has me missing home more than I ever have. Its also that Ive been here for just over a year and im really starting to feel it. Let me count the ways in my new 4 point plan for missing America...

1. Politics and the presidential race. Let me be clear my friends, I love this time of every 4 or 8 years. I cant get enough of it. I race home from work so I can get to CNN and watch the latest on gaffes and poll results. The poor state of America and its finances and the ugly war for the Chief, while highly amusing, also really tears at my heart strings. I cant explain it. I didnt used to be like this, but now for the love of God, I miss my people and find nothing funnier than watching John McCain discuss Jello and Joe the Plumber. There is nothing sexier than Barack Obama in a shiny suit staring back at me while Im curled up on my couch watching the race from afar. I guess my point is that i that I feel so far from my country's history in the making. On the bright side, Ive always got sexy Sarcozy to keep me grounded.

2. Frenglish. The biggest adjustment for me by far has been accepting the fact that in France, um really they dont speak English. Now Ive been trying to keep an open mind, and up to now I have been owning to the hope that one day France will turn to me and say "haha just kidding! we speak english, we just wanted to see what you would do!!" Sadly, I dont think this is going to happen. My french is minimum. Hear me out. I will not make excuses because I should be farther along than I am. The thing is, I tend to work on a compromise scale. I learn a word you learn a word.Ca va? Non. I have to do everything in this relationship and I feel like im being taken advantage of.

Between moving here and not knowing one single person, not speaking one word and not knowing one place of local interest (not tourist attraction), Id say learning french should have been at the top of my list.

For me though, it was broken down to finding friends, learning the wines and the art of chain smoking, and lastly, finding an apartment. In the first 3 months I lived here, I moved 4 times! Yes friends, 4. These are things that weigh on your mind that tend to put learning a new language on top of everything else in your life, well kinda at the back. And like I said, wheres the compromise? English can be nice. Yes its an ugly horrible language, but its not my fault its universal. Its universal. Love it or leave it alone. Its bad enough when I speak English here now I only speak in present tense. My french friends have minimal English that matches my French, so we speak in simplicity. For example, "Yesterday, I buy this sweater." Entre nous, c'est tres tres facil!

3.Ringleader. In San Francisco, my home, where my friends whom I call my family live, I was a ringleader. I made a plan, I set it into action and more often than not, people followed. I have that way that makes people like to do what I do. Its not egotistical. I just have good taste, so jump aboard the D train, Its fun here! Alors, a Paris, I cant take this role. I am perfectly happy following. I trust my friends judgment, and after one year, yes I have some reallly great friends. But the thing is, I really dont get to have a say. Why? Because I dont know what to say about it. Theres never anything I know I want to do. Expos and day stuff, yes thats fine. But at night, I cant recommend the new restaurant that my friend just opened or drag a crew to the club where my fave DJ is playing. Yes these are all things I guess I should have realized before (see part 3 re: not knowing anyone or speaking french when moving to France) but for gods sake, I want to contribute!

4. Le Mec. (the French man) Leaves a lot to be desired. They are generally all players. Or at least in my experience, I think le mec feels like he can woo me, and tell me tales of romance and love that will ultimately end me up in his bed at the end of the night. (Maybe because Im American and they think I dont know any better?) What I want to say is shut the F up. Youre full of it and I dont need to hear it. Look, if i find you charming and handsome, chances are youve got good chances. But I dont like to listen to the neverending (and trust me it can go on and on and on) saga of how and why I am the most beautiful woman in the world and we belong together. Cant we just talk casually, you buy me drinks and maybe we have a fling after? I prefer the direct approach and the large amount of bullshit that gets put it in my face is actually a turn off. But how do you say this nicely and in French?

Oh and I also dont like men who wear tapered jeans. its a thing I have.

I speak English like a Bitch

The past couple months the girls and I have been dining out weekly with our good friend Jean Marie. Jean Marie is a very dear friend of Eva, with a wallet of green and a heart of gold. He loves to dine out with 5 or 6 girls at a time and let us entertain him with our stories of non-sense and our funny and romantic flirtations. Most recently we joined JM with 2 of his friends Ludovig and Christophe at one of my new favorite restaurants, Orient Extreme. This restaurant is my favorite for 3 reasons. The food, the drink and the staff. The first time I dined at Orient Extreme the high pitched waiter was trying to speak English to me and I didnt really understand him over over his French, Korean accent.I was smiling at him and looking a bit puzzled, when finally he stops and says, "I speak English like a bitch, I know." And it was there and then that I fell in love with the wait staff.
Orient Extreme also happens to have fantastic sushi and a black cod that I loooove, but more importantly they have a beautiful Rose that is to die for. Obviously I love it so much, I can never remember the name. Normally on these dining adventures we end up getting pretty drunk by the end of the night, but on this particular night I was going to remain sober. Well fairly sober anyway. The next day I had a high profile video interview with one of the biggest Rock stars in Europe right now, Keziah Jones. I needed to look my best the next day and be in top form. Eva was going to sleep at my house so we could do hair and make up for me in the morning and choose outfits accordingly. I needed to play it safe. Calm, cool and collected.
Sadly, these deams of sobriety were quickly smashed when I got seated next to Ludovig at dinner. Easily one of the most charismatic men I have ever met, he could make you do just about anything even before you realize your pants are down and youve got a clown hat taped to your ass. He's just like that.
So you take a cross of Ludo and 7 bottles of Rose for 4 people and voila. We all leave the restaurant and decide its a very good idea to go to another bar for cocktails. Im pretty sure I was leading this charge but cant be sure. Mojitos, margaritas, and a few glasses of champagne several hours later, Eva and I end up back at my house completely smashed and decide its best to just pass out. Actually I dont know if it was a conscious decision as much as it just organically happened.
Fast forward to my alarm beep beep beeping at 7am. I force my eyes open only to see my half dressed, make up on from the night before, disheveled self. I sadly moan "No No No!!!!"
What had I done? How could I do that? I hadnt been drinking like that in months and why on the night I decide not to drink do I go out and get completely blotto?
My head was pounding beyond belief and awake for only a mere matter of minutes I was already fighting the urge to vomit. Saliva building up, head in my chest and really really hurting, I just needed more sleep. I beg Eva to make the coffee so I could rest my eyes for a few more necessary minutes. What else can you do?
Finally I drag myself up, shower, sit in a coma like state while Eva tirelessly straightens my hair. I chain-smoke and drink my coffee while my faithful friend helps to beautify me. We make it out the door a couple short hours later and off to work I go. Well dressed, looking pretty (I think) and yes, of course sweating. It was coming out my pores and I was sure I wasnt going to make it all the way to Levallois on the Metro without dry heaving a couple times. Just as Im about to resign to my ailment, a beggar man gets on my metty car and begins to play his accordion. Normally this everyday occurrence of beggars on the metty bugs the shit out of me, but today was different. I was so in the zone, so focused, that my only thought for this man was, "wow, synthesizers are totally underused."
So I make it to Levallois and to my interview. I had a crazy long day of running around being a famous press journalist- very circa Bridget Jones. Ill post my interview with Keziah Jones tomorrow for your viewing pleasure. The bright side of this day though was that I think the interview went really well. I was so focused on appearing professional and beautiful, that it didnt even occur to me to hit on Keziah Jones or mess up questions. I just went with it and kept reminding myself not to speak English like a bitch.

Playing the V card

I had just turned 17. He was 19. The best of friends with the biggest curiosity between us. Would we, should we, could we, lose our V card to each other?

I was recently approached to submit a story for a book anthology titled "Deflowered." The book will tell the tales of 5 or 6 modern women and their parlay into womanhood. Its to be funny, tongue in cheek, capturing and true. Not a "Dear God, Its Me Margaret" type of thing. Well maybe sorta. But I believe in this version of Vcards lost, its more along the lines of squeaky back seats, morning breath, popping condoms and afterthoughts.

My version will contain smiles and laughter, a broken car, a small scar on my forehead that I will live with forever, and an ensuing 1 year friendship that results in monogamous sexual trysts around the neighborhood. Can you imagine now? Having sex with just one person and you are both virgins?
The trouble. The discovery. The happiness. The secrets. Well, they were secrets anyway. Until now.

Sound interesting? You'll have to buy the book, people. Deeahhne is going to be published.

Hugs

Hugs
One small outreach for Americans, one giant stretch for the French.

Ive made it mandatory that all my French friends greet me with not only the customary kiss kiss, but also with a hug. Seeing as how the French are not very tactile as a people in general, this rule doesnt necessarily sit with a great deal of joy in my compadres. But they manage. "I make eggs. You give hugs." Its a trade off. But I dont care its gotta happen. Hug then kiss. Kiss then hug. Whatever. Lets go freestyle. But lets just do it. Hug it out.

Many people have said to me since moving to Paris, "Diane dont change. Dont lose yourself over there. The French can be really cold."

So Ive decided to be an asshole that likes to give hugs.

Everybody has to compromise.

Kiwi

In less than 2 weeks, I have a man arriving from half way around the world to see me. To spend time with me. To be mine. For 2 weeks. Im scared out of my mind, but Im not.Im panicking, Im freaking, but Im not. Here's the story of Blair.

Nighttime. Weekday. Im researching alone and having dinner in Saint Germain. I overhear English with an accent. Something like Australian. I look over to discover a stunning man fumbling with his order to the French server. I smile. The winning one, as the best chick lit would describe. The smile that could make even Hitler blush. We lock eyes for just a moment but then I quickly look away still smiling of course. Its then that I think he says something to me, but I am so lost in that moment I literally just see his mouth move, but I dont hear a sound. Everything is quiet. He moves closer for a reply and all I can beautifully conjure up is, "huh?"

"Do you neeed a light?" he repeats. He is keen to the ever-infamous purse dig. Im gonna have to be careful with this one.

"Oh. Yes please... would you like one?" offering him a Parly in my nonchalant, but clearly intrigued way.

"No thank you, I dont smoke."

The man with the lighter who doesnt smoke. A gentleman across generations. This says to me he doesnt judge. He is open. He wants to make my life easier and please me. What a catch!
Have I been single for too long? Perhaps. Is this man charming with an accent? Yes, perhaps. Am I reaching here? Yes perhaps.

On we go..

We sit. We talk. Turns out he is a kiwi from NZ, but he lives down under in Australia. Fascinating.He is a hotel architect. Fascinating. He is in town for business. Fasc... ok you get the point. He is a sagitairre, like yours truly. Born same year and 12 days before me. Its fate. Its the bottle of wine, its the exchange of email addresses. Its the fact that we spend hours talking and drinking and then what feels close to reminiscing... Its refreshing.

Its here that our story ends without even a kiss. Without sex. With though, an undeniable chemistry and attraction that 3 months later still has me completely focused and well, smitten. Its weird. I cant really explain what happened.
Since this June, every day, without fail, we "sext", we chat, have phone calls, facebook, emails etc...sometimes we are doing 2 or 3 of these at the same time. Everytime my fone 'beep beeps,' the girls all exclaim, "kiwi!" highlighted with their outstanding french accents. We're already one big happy family.

So he arrives August 14 to Paris. My sister's Birthday, so a dual celebration of sorts. But I've got this feeling that when I go to meet him at the airport, on this day, within the first minute I will know. I will know if Ive been in my head or if this person really is the person I most adore at the moment.
"You'll just know," say my Mom and Dad the eternal lovebirds. And I admire them for always believing in reality. But what I really admire here is me going 3 months without sex.
The girls will be coming over the night before his arrival to sufficiently booze up with me, plan outfits and help clean the apartment. This should help calm the nerves and ease the excitement that yes, continues to grow.

So heres the tale of Blair, and of what could be my essential forbidden fruit, Le Kiwi.

The Metro Whisperer

This particular day last week I was sitting in the 4 box, as I call it. Not next to the window, but on the aisle. This is my least favorite seat on the metro because this is where you are most open to people having to touch you. Its really a double whammy of people on the aisle waiting to scrounge your seat and its also the outlet to the people on your inside needing to get out. Being that I have a 36inch inseam, my legs are usually in the way, and almost always over what would be the half way mark for me and my opposite companion. It's not knocking boots. Its more like knockin knees and its not cool.

So there I am, staring blankly as one does when on the metty, listening to itunes on Bond, and then I see her. She comes and sits right in front of me. My direct opposite.
Ok how do I explain this lady? Have you ever just seen someone walking down the street or something and you can tell they're pissed? Like their face is all red or flushed and they're just super mad about something? Their gait is a little faster, a little more determined? Because maybe they are going to cap someone? So OK. This is her. Sitting right across from me. Seething and enraged, face scrunched up and twitching and now looking right at me. She moves her glance from me to the outside window, and then back at me. Its almost as though shes thinking of tossing me over. I can feel it. But what did I do? Ive been here minding my own business for at least 4 stops before she even got on. Ive been having phone text sex with the kiwi, so actually, if anything, Ive been sitting here with perma-grin, and maybe even a little squirmish in my seat. (note to readers: yes this is what people are doing when they are smiling and texting on public transportation) Im happy. Im fine. Whats the deal with this bird??

So she is looking at me. I look back. She is now muttering and mumbling and lost in the glare from her reflection in the window. I then decide to lean forward a touch to see if I can smell any booze or other contaminants on her. She seems to be scent-free. So I continue looking, ok fine, Im staring, but not directly. Im staring just past her, but really Im looking right into her. Im filled with nice and calm thoughts for her. Her distress is making me so uneasy I decide to invoke" the secret." I am going to mentally talk this woman down from the ledge. Just thinking to her "Ok ok ok its gonna be OK. Everything will be fine. Deep breaths..." Then I look away to give her a few minutes to absorb. When I looked back she wasnt shaking anymore and her face had relaxed a bit.

Back to me. Phone text sex, phone text sex... la la la la la..giggle giggle

Back to the lady. She is still on edge so I try it again. "Its ok. Its all gonna be OK. What could be so bad? Look how calm and happy I am? Just relax. Everything is going to be fine..." All this with my distant stare into her. Then- with God as my witness, the woman relaxed her face, she just completely changed gears, and even broke a faint smile. She got up and exited the train a stop later.

It was then that I realized my true calling. I am the Metro Whisperer.

Made in America

When my friend Anthony came over for a visit from New York a few months ago, I asked him to bring me some very important necessities from state-side:
1. A carton of Parliament Lights from Duty Free
2. Airborne Vitamin Tablets
3. Peanut Butter

Did you know that they don't have peanut butter in France? I mean, it's out there. Dont get me wrong. The one time I did see it, it was nestled deep in the Mexican Food section next to the tortillas and fajitas kits. And Im sure this was no accident. The French are expert merchandisers so I could only assume they had no idea what to do with the product when the distributeur accidentally sent them a case of the stuff. They had the Nutella next to the jams and honey and chestnut spread. Right where the PB should have gone, but no. Lonely, in Mexico, by seasonings and other misc items.

So... when I went to breakfast last weekend with Eva and the girls to "Breakfast in America" (not my idea but proved to be fantastic) I was not the least bit surprised to learn that Eva had never tasted Peanut Butter. So we ordered a side. There we are, 4 girls at brunch digging into a cup of peanut butter like christmas day! All the girls adored the peanut butter and I adored the fact that I for once got to translate the menu to them!

It was fantastic! A joyous day pour moi. "She'll have the eggs and she'll have the pancakes..." Which by the way, Eva and Gaelle had never had pancakes before either! The feeling on pancakes was that they were "special."
Let me explain. This is not a good thing. We generally save the word "special" for guys we date that dont have their shit together.
"So do you like him?"
"Eh. , he is special." And thats that. No more will be spoken of him.

So Heres the thing about Breakfast in America. Well actually there are several things. The place is like no other place I have ever seen or been inParis. I mean it really is the epitome of us loud, big mug coffee drinking, poorly decorated, over-ambitious eating Americans. Its just too much food. Plain and simple. Not to mention it took me about 10 minutes to explain what bottomless mug of coffee was and after that I had to explain what a bagel is. Which actually got funny because I ended up using a rather funny hand gesture to demostrate the hole in the middle, nevermind. You get the point. But for me, this was non-stop french/american laughs.

And Even before we had the Breakfast in America experience, I was granted my own coin by a rowdy group following a long night of binge drinking. Back to chez moi we headed for breakfast.
I whipped up a simple egg scramble with mushrooms, tomatoes, avocado and cheese. The Frenchies I was serving had never seen a scramble like this.
"Deeahhne, this is delicious your eggs! This is Made in America!" So now I am often at request for "Made In America Eggs."

Much like a short order cook at a 5 Star day camp, I will continue to tread my way through the plethora of French intricacies. One condiment at a time...

2 Drink Minimum

At the hospital-- again. I feel like Im here all the time. Maybe I should take up residence? Its close to my office in Levallois, the café here is great, and most everyone speaks English--fluently.

During my last visit, I accidentaly called my Doctor "dude." So I guess you could say we've grown quite close as I usually save that term of endearment for my brothers, my sister, close friends, my parents and business associates.

The Doc asks, " Are you still smoking?" And I reply to her like I would my own Mother. With a looong drawn-in breath followed by an even deeper, and overly-exaggerated exhale, "duuuuuuuuuude." And then we share a laugh and that's that.

Maybe its these nice moments that keep bringing me back or maybe its the fact that Ive been urged to come in to make a mammogram apearance. But as long as Im here I thought Id pick up a prescription for an upper of some sort and am also thinking of going back on the pill. And statistically speaking through my thorough calculations and research, it appears as though I was having a lot more sex when I was on the pill before. I stopped taking it when I got to France, so actually, now that I think about it, what brought the slow spell on? The pill or the France?

My original theory to go back was out of sheer optimism but now that Im having second thoughts maybe its better I go off the French? Maybe Ill look into some import/export action? I have had my eye on this kiwi for a while now. Maybe its time to flirt with that disaster for a while? And by disaster I do mean me. This man has me shaking with excitement lately and I dont really know what to do about it for once. All I know for certain is that Id much rather be in Australia with him than sitting in the waiting room of this fucking hospital. Oh God I hope I dont have to do any needle blood stuff today. bah. See its happening. The longer I sit here, the faster and further my mind wanders. Needles, plastic thingys, charts, graphs, and swabs- I hate it.

More than this though, I hate waiting! Why havent they called me yet? Im so tired.I could just take a little napper snapper while Im sitting here bored. The AC does feel nice and my legs are already partially numbed from the increasingly uncomfortable chair im sitting on. A little doze might be fine, then again, I snooze, I lose and I might miss my turn. Ok new plan.
(clear throat, sit up straight) Look alive!
Too bad my Doc is a woman. If she were a man I could just flash some cleav-o and be on my way. Not to mention I am the only "un-prego" bird in this place. At least I think! Fingers crossed and add that to the list of things to sort with her today.

Lets see what else do I need? what? I mean as long as Im here and all... Its like stopping at a 7-11 on a road trip. You may not have to go pee now, but you certainly will as soon as you pull out of the lot. Guaranteed. Same goes for canned coffees and sour patch kids. Yes you just had breakfast but inevitably it'll be time for a snack. So get 'em while the gettins good! Thats what I always say. (Actually Ive never said that before, but it did seem to work nice in the context). Lets see what else have I never said? "If you cant beat em, join em!" "Take time to smell the roses!" OK Im sufficiently bored now and in desperate need of a nap. If anyone is still reading, please accept the following: "On behalf of Diane and I, we'd really like to offer you our sincerest apologies for boring you while we wait for the dude." Which by the way, Where is she? Does she have other patients or something? Im clearly irate now.

[30 minutes and one successful disco nap later!]

"Deeaahhne Meeshelle? ... Deeaahhne Meeshelle?"

Oui Oui! salut!

In I go.

We ca va and how are you for a few minutes before we get down to business. (At the AHP, American Hospital of Paris, its not enough to just " its good" in French. you must also "its good" in English. Its a bi-lingual comfortable thing I think) Anyway, Ill tell her Im here for the 6h30 Mammo (yes I call it that) and she shakes her head No and then asks me what Im doing here? She says, " oh well honey, you need to be over in radiation for that. We dont do that here."
I look at her with complete disbelief and fascination.

"Well how was I supposed to know that? I told your lady friend out there in the front office with the phones and files that I was here for my mammo appt and she didnt say a word! Did she not think that supplying me with that bit of valuable information would be important for me today, or...?"

"Oh," she says, "I dont know. You know how it is."

Actually I didnt. But whats done is done.
"Ok, well lets come back to that. Ive got a lot of other ground to cover with you today. First off, I never received that upper prescription you were supposed to send me in the mail a few weeks ago? Also, I think I need to go back on the pill. For regulation and optimism purposes only. And actually while we are on the subject of babies, you think you have time to check on that last bit? Ive actually missed a couple months..."

"Sure! she says. "Go take your pants off and put your feet up!" This is also what I imagine the dialogue to be at both the Playboy mansion and the seedier parts of Bangkok. Both comfortable and awkward at the same time...

Ok so up-up-up(this is my newest and latest french-ism. its sort of like tac-tac-tac). Anyway, she works her magic and does some investigatory research, and suddenly says,

" Well, you're pregnant."

I gasp in horror, voice raised well over louder than appropriate, "What? What!!!!!!!!!!"

I mean I wanted the test, but truly didnt think that a positive result would even be an option. I just like to be sure and cover my bases and well Ive only had one close call in the past couple months so... I mean Ive never in a million years thought this would be possible. Not now! I mean, this kind of stuff doesnt happen to me. It just doesnt! The panic set in, Im closing in on tears, and then the vomit started to crawl up into my throat... and finally

"Just kidding," she says.


And at this I am completely dumbstruck.My mouth hanging open. I look at her. I look down. I look left. I look right. Back and forth trying to find the words. I couldnt speak.

"Oh," I say slowly. "Well... if its a reaction you were looking for I guess we got one didn't we?"

"yeah, really!" she says.

And then in the next breath, I kid you not, she says, "So...are you stressed?"

"um yeah. Remember me? Im deeahhne? We spoke about 5 minutes ago about you giving me an anti anxiety prescription? I said I wanted to be medicated and thought coping through drugs (read: and alcohol) would be a great idea for me and you said fine... Any of this ringing a bell or were you too busy plotting out your next one-liner?"

So the rest is downhill, all went fine, but still no mammo, so I have to go back yet again in the next couple weeks. Obviously I'm really looking forward to it.

Who knows though, maybe the technician peeps in radiation have a stage and lights for their comedy routine... 2 drink minimum please.

Cocktail Napkin Fiction

I brought in some old writing to the office today. The half filled notebook my friend Sean gave me before I left SF, the random paper menus and napkins Ive scrawled on across various cafes and bars through all of Paris, the scratch paper, the ancient notebooks...the gum wrapper. Yes the gum wrapper. At one point, apparently my thoughts were so important and in need of etch, I scribbled on the back a of a Hollywood gum wrapper.This is just one of the reasons I can continue to call myself a writer and believe it. A true scribe. Maybe a gum scribe, but one nonetheless.

So here I am. Faced with hundreds of thousands of words needing online translation. And here I am again, tirelessly faced with the fact that I need an assistant. Ill get to it. But heres the thing...

I recently finished the new David Sedaris book, "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" and I cant help but think...I love this gay man.

Seriously though, his writing is truly inspiring to me. I have read every single one of his books at least twice, some of them 3 times. I read his articles in New Yorker and Esquire. If he is published, I have read it. He is the only writer, present day, that truly keeps me motivated to continue writing. To finish my work, to find a publisher, to be able to quit my job and to become famous.

Alors, I have begun to compile my short stories, my long stories, my nonsense and my gum wrapper thoughts. Its here that I think I found my niche. Who else is looking to publish "cocktail napkin fiction"(ps. thats a working title for the book. you like?)

In Cocktail Napkin Fiction we discover a beautiful and charming girl's journey into what its like to grow through SF to Paris in a matter of months. This compilation of short stories aims to be funny, hopeful, fashionable, and very real. I want to capture the essence of what its like to not only be me (bc I know a lot of you have been wondering) but to be me, here. Here by myself. Here alone.Its amazing what solitude and an abundance of french wine can do to a person's psyche in just 10 months, truly. And its confusing. And its real. Its very, very frighteningly real.

But funny too.

The other part of this motivation to publish the book is due to the fact that my beloved French Toast got burned. Thats right folks. Its still in the pipeline somewhere, but between the CBS merger and the Americans, French Toast has been shelved. The France office wanted to incorporate the show on chow.com in the US. They said if Chow is in, we're in. Sure enough, Chow has its own niche that doesnt include me (go figure) so I remain bummed and furious with America. What? I can do that now. Im French!

Shhhhh!

Occasionally I am called upon by my fellow French co-workers to translate copy in English. Today one turned to me and asked,
"Deeahhne, what is gooks and nips?"

"Eh hem? Excuse me? What do you want to know?"

He says "gooks and nips." Totally straightfaced.
So I ask him to send me a link as these requests usually accompany an online article from the US or UK. I must not be hearing him properly. I couldnt possibly be...

So he looks at me, deadpan, and says again pretty loudly, "pakis, blacks, gooks and nips..."

"ok okok ok stop!"

Im sure I turned bright red and I looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this rather profane language spouting from my general direction. And of course, no one. Not one person even turned a shoulder or batted an eyelash. it was amazing and eye opening. I mean I could literally say anything I wanted to and no one would be any wiser. (Not a good point for me to be aware of, truly.)

So I ssshh'd my co worker and had him send me the link. Sure enough, he wanted me to translate for our music site what was the latest news on pop sensation Amy Winehouse. Wow. And there it was. In song none the less. Only in France. Well and in UK too I guess.

Heres the article:
http://news.aol.com/entertainment/music/music-news-story/ar/_a/winehouse-apologizes-for-racist-video/20080608170309990001