A French Woman's Guide to preparing for the End of the World

copyright @Sanaa.k

I'm French. Therefore, I am the epitome of style. 

Mais bien sûr, I had my legs waxed and my hair styled, because I wouldn't want to be caught with a bad hair do, especially for the end of the world. There might be a photo op on the way.

I went to Chanel. I bought a dress and a pair of souliers. Formidable! There was a pair of impractical seven inch high boots, sublime! I opted instead for the three  inch pumps with a platform, because we might have a bit of walking and waiting to reach the other side of the end of the world. 

I was a bit disappointed that Hermès did not design a limited edition "End of the World" scarf. Do you imagine how much it would fetch next week on eBay?! 

My wine cellar? I drank a bottle of Aloxe Corton yesterday. Today, I'm opening the Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1982.  I'm taking the Domaine Romanée-Conti with me. Well, no one said that wine was not allowed on board. 

And fuck this "aging with grace" concept so dear to my kin but not to my skin! I can now leave that to Catherine Deneuve, Cabernet and other non perishable goods. Merde, alors. I finally had Botox. 

Americans Have Easier Access to Semi-automatic Weapons Than to French Cheese

Sixty six point two million French nationals as well as 90,000 Americans living in France are exposed to high doses of French cheese, demonstrating no health damage from the exposure, and yet, it is easier for Americans in the U.S. to get access to a semi-automatic rifle than, say, to the stinky Vacherin Mont d'or or Corsican cheese.

Of course, French cheese is not protected by any article of the Constitution. No amendment guarantees any right to cheese. As a French citizen living in the U.S. for the past 16 years, and who eats her average annual 24 pounds of cheese, I struggle to understand why the right to own a semi-automatic rifle is so sacred in America, circa 2012.

According to recent polls, a majority of Americans believe that access to weapons is a right that should not be restricted. According to Brady Campaign records of mass shootings, there are 20 mass shootings per year.

So what are the solutions to the national epidemic that plagues the country?

Gun laws as they are drafted are unable to keep children and innocent bystanders away from bullets that may or may not have been destined to them. New York City principals sent an email to parents assuring them that a security protocol is in place in each and every New York City public school -- and that should the unthinkable happen, the schools know what to do.

Securing schools is a minuscule part of the solution. Ultimately, it will only serve the security gate makers. Of course, you can be sure that once all the schools are secured, the next nutcase will practice his shooting skills on a church assembly, or maybe a funeral procession. The opportunities are endless and the bunkerization of America can only go so far.

"A dinner which ends without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye," said Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin a French lawyer and politician, epicure and gastronome. But one struggles for a quote praising in such poetic and elating terms the gun, the pistol, the bullet or the rifle with a large magazine.

Barack Obama, the president of the United States of America, and a Nobel Peace Price winner has an opportunity to show true leadership, not as a pastor providing comfort in time of tragedy, not as a father weeping for the lost lives of children, but as a political leader willing to change policy, for the greater good of the people, even if at this time, the people disagrees with the measures taken.

What REALLY REALLY happened to Strauss-Khan

The only hard fact we know is that former IMF director's semen landed on Sofitel chambermaid's blouse.

It's like the Exxon Valdez: conflicting theories abound as to how the spillage occurred. Now that the parties have settled out of court, the mystery will forever remain.

Was Nafissatou Diallo, the hotel maid, part of a conspiracy, as investigative reporter Edward Jay Epstein suggests in his sensational article published in The New York Review of Books and titled "What Really Happened to Strauss-Kahn"?
Did the French right wing party warp a plot to eliminate DSK, the then presidential candidate hopeful? Did the Russians get involved? Al Qaida? The Mossad? James Bond?

Now that both parties have settled, for $6 million according to French newspaper Le Monde, the light of truth will never have a chance to shine on DSK's crotch, nor on Diallo's blouse.

So here's my theory. No facts, no evidence, no interview, no proof of anything to base my story on. But give it a read. You might think that it makes more sense than any of the other theories you've read so far.
The night before, he was in Washington DC enjoying the company of French ladies brought over the pond to him by his like minded friends from Lille. Once in New York, he hooks up with his blond lady friend who joins him in his room and leaves the hotel alone at 2am.
After a good night sleep, DSK feels great. Well rested, relaxed, calm. Whether he orders a bowl of Special K, or a coffee and croissant remains unknown. His flight to Paris is at 4pm. The day after, he will be in Berlin to discuss the Greek crisis with Angela Merkel. He has plenty of time. He feels the longing again for more action, and he thinks, "Mais, oui! Why not! One for the road" "Un dernier pour la route" as we say in French.
DSK is a well traveled man. He's been patronizing five stars hotels for the better part of his life. He knows that if you need a toothbrush, a magazine, a bottle of mineral water or a girl, you just call room service. These hotels are always well stocked.

"Hello, this is room 2806. Can you send me a nice lady to spend 10 minutes in my lovely company"
"Mais bien sûr, Monsieur DSK. We will send someone shortly. Would you prefer sparkling or still?"
 

DSK decides to jump in the shower to be nice and fresh down there. Nafissatou Diallo, a chambermaid at Sofitel hotel, knocks on the door. DSK doesn't hear her so she lets herself in.
He comes out of the shower, dressed in nothing more than his virile pride.
"Hello, I did not expect you here so soon, but please be welcome", he says with Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau's accent.
"Very glad to see that you are ready for me" she replies.

They sit on the bed. He is naked, she is dressed.
DSK spots that she is from Western Africa and offers to continue the conversation in Français, an idiom he has better command of than English. Contrary to Diallo's account, the encounter probably occurred entirely in French.
"Que tu as de beaux cheveux" "You have very nice hair", DSK whispers, before adding « Suce-moi » which I cannot translate because it's X-rated !
She obliges and performs what is known in French as Une Pipe. I'm sure you can figure out the analogy.
This is most probably around that time that DSK's semen was transferred from the comfort of its owner's holding cell to Diallo's blouse, establishing that a blouse there was, and it was buttoned up, which leads to suggest that DSK is not a boob guy.
DSK says "Merci madame" to which she replies "Where is the money?"
Grave mistake. Everyone who's turning tricks and their pimp will tell you: "Always get the money first".
He hands her $50. The current rate for such commodity, or so he was told. "Mais ça va pas, Non!" she objects, which could be loosely translated by « who do you think I am? »
"That has been established" DSK thinks. "Now we are negotiating the price."

Why did DSK decide to cheat Diallo out of her wages? Maybe there was a little bit of a colonial afterthought, maybe a bit of a banker-in-chief instinct. Or maybe the genuine thought that that's what it's worth.
But Diallo gets really really upset. "50 bucks?! You're out of your mind grandpa! The current rate is $500. Spit it out."
DSK is unmoved; he does not even make a counter offer.
She spots DSK's Rolex on the bedside table. She grabs it and says "This will do".
"T'es folle, salope" DSK screams "rends-moi ma montre, @*#" "Crazy B@*#! Give me my watch". He tries to snatch the watch out of her hand. She jumps out of the room and runs into the suite's corridor. He follows her, locks the room door shut to prevent her from escaping with the watch. They fight. He pushes her against the dresser; they wrestle, she resists. Finally DSK manages to recover his prized possession.
Diallo leaves the room, visibly shaken and really not stirred. Still full of rage, she wonders how she can get back at this odious man who doesn't know that in today's day and age, the "Droit de cuissage" (literally "Right of the thigh") is as antiquated as economic prosperity.
Diallo tells the hotel security that room 2806 client just raped her.
And as they say, the rest is history.
In essence, she loaned DSK $450, and he repaid her $6 million, or slightly above usury rate. She should think about a career in banking.

Semper Fi(landerer)

© Sanaa - K

In English the expression says stop beating a dead horse. In French it would be stop flogging a cheating husband.
General Petraeus had an affair? So what? James Bond usually has sex with at least 3 different women in any given James Bond movie. What do you expect from the US top spy. Petraeus does not have license to kill. At least give him license to fuck. Otherwise what's the point being a spy?

My fellow French citizens are looking under the sheets of your latest sex scandal thinking that decidedly we don't have the same values. When Mitterrand was president of France, it was all well known, and yet never mentioned, that he had a wife, a mistress, a dog, and an illegitimate child, who lived in an apartment paid for at tax payer's expense.
The media "omerta" surrounding the lives of our rich and powerful is such that we all collectively kept quiet on our president. When his wife decided to trudge her way to the Mexican revolutionary Subcomandante Marcos, under the pretense of a keen interest for his political views, no one thought of questioning her motives. Some said she was having an affair with the great Marxist leader. And no one really gave a damn. When François Mitterrand passed away, the wife, the mistress and all their children attended. (Marcos stayed away though!)

Absorbed by the US elections, and then entwined in the Petraeus scandal, have you noticed the latest French scandal? A new book claims that France's First Lady, Valérie Trierweiler, was having an affair with Patrick Devedjian, a right-wing politician as well as Socialist François Hollande, while still married to her (second) husband the French journalist Denis Trierweiler. 

Did you hear about it? Probably not. The French media has been mostly unfazed by the news. The US news found it unremarkable. I myself had to read about it in a British publication.
The shocking part of the story according to British media lies in the fact that both men knew about the other, and still agreed to partake in the affair. Rest assured, they took turns!

Do you know how to count in French? Valérie Trierweiler just invented a new learning method. Repeat after me: Ménage à trois, ménage à quatre, ménage à cinq, ménage à six...

Sandy, Barack, my freezer and I.

Ten days after Sandy wrecked havoc in New York City, Manhattan is back to normal. Even the president that we have today is the same as the one we had yesterday.  The subway is slow and overcrowded, another storm is pounding us, and Donald Trump.. oh well, let’s not bring Donald into this. Sandy was a bitch. Whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, you’ll agree: Sandy was a bitch.

I lost power for 5 days, and upon my return to my apartment, I pondered what should stay and what should be tossed away. I’ll concede that my fridge was smelling funny. But being French, my fridge always smells funny. I looked at the Camembert, I examined the Munster, I sniffed the Epoisse cheese. They were all stinky. So I decided to apply the rule of stink. 

Therefore be it resolved that if you were stinky before and you are stinky after and provided that the stink is of equal quality, you shall not be discarded. Very sadly, a couple of white truffles did not pass the mu(n)ster and were reduced to pieces by a well powered in-sink-erator. A jar of mayonnaise from the brand Real Mayonnaise® on the contrary seemed to still smell very good. I checked the sell by date:  MAY 2309. Well if it’s good for another two full centuries… Unless it was past its sell by date by three full years. In any case, the Real Mayonnaise® looked superbly unaffected by Sandy. 

 

Sandy was a bitch. And some blame Romney's defeat on her. She allegedly made Obama look more presidential. Although, I can assure you that Obama did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Sandy.

Romney's French Connection

I told you a few weeks ago about Bill Clinton who would fancy himself as the French Prez. I shocked you this past spring, when I revealed to the incredulous world that Newt himself had a deep affinity with France, where he lived for a few years as a teenager. Yes, yes! Le Newt speaks the language of Molière . Bien sûr he'll trash his opponents on francophone grounds because being versed in French has become so anti-american. I wonder what the Statue of Liberty thinks of all that conneries.
But I digress. As we ready ourselves for the last presidential debate, it's timely that I tell you about Mitt's French Connection. Mitt Romney speaks French fluently. Voila. The theme of the debate will be foreign policy. So let's talk about La France!
Am I trying to launch a smear campaign against Mitt? Quelle horreur! Of course not. (Mitt doesn't need me for that). Mitt has tried to conceal it really carefully, he's flip-flopped on it like on healthcare reform or on family planning policy, but there's no escaping that he's fluent in French language and mores. Mitt really has a very strong relationship with France.
You wouldn't associate a white middle-aged Mormon man with Paris? I wouldn't either, and I have to say that sending a guy who's not allowed to have premarital sex, not allowed to drink coffee or wine to Paris is truly a cruel and unusual punishment. Yet this is what happened to Mitt when he served for his two year mission as a Mormon. He was sent to the birthplace of temptation.
At the age of 21, the legal age for drinking, provided you're not a Mormon, Mitt was sent to France. He arrived to the Northwest port-city of Le Havre and went on to live amid hookers. Shocking? But true!
According to an article by Bloomberg.com, Romney mistakenly checked into a hotel in an area frequented by prostitutes. He was too naïve to notice. I guess there's been a pattern to exercise poor judgment while traveling abroad.
During the primary, Romney's then opponent Newt Gingrich launched an ad campaign trashing Romney for his bilingualism. Oh la la. Mon dieu! It's such a disgrace to speak the language that invented words such as croissants, lingerie and entrepreneurs! Indeed, Romney has erased his French connection from his bio, his website, his résumé.
You see, Mitt's campaign is working: a recent poll shows that 82 percent of Europeans view Obama favorably, while Mitt Romney is only viewed favorably by 23 percent of the population.
So if someone tells you that Mitt Romney does not have any foreign policy experience, tell them that on the contrary, he is ready!
How do you say Binder in French?!

Vive le Bill (Clinton)

Oh Mon Dieu. Bill, mon président!
While Bill Clinton was the uncontested winner of the Democratic National Convention and its aftermath, many thought, if only he could be president again.
Think no more: Bill Clinton, being the genius that he is, has found the solution.
And I support this message.
Bill Clinton can, and should be president of France!
Earlier this week, he explained to Piers Morgan on CNN that he could become president of France, because Arkansas where he was born, was once part of French Louisiana, and as such, Bill is eligible to receive French citizenship, the (almost) only requirement to run for higher office in France.
It is so thrilling to know that Bill wants to lead my country. Vive le Bill. Vive la France.
Unfortunately, while it used to be true, this whole Arkansas-Louisiana-France connection no longer works. But there are many other simple ways to gain French citizenship. So let me volunteer to marry Bill.
As spouse of a French citizen, he could immediately apply for citizenship. You might argue that the process would take a long time. No problem. The next French election is five years away anyway. By then, I can guarantee that under my training, Bill would be fluent in the French language (another requirement) and mores. French political lingo is full of English words anyway and impeachment and term limit are not among them.
Bill would have to own a home in France, which sounds only a sensible thing to own whether you are planning your retirement or launching your next political gig. He would not even have to renounce his U.S. citizenship.
As French president, he would know how to charm Angela Merkel into embracing a European stimulus package. He would (finally) pass healthcare reform. Who better than him to bring France onto the path of a three-trillion surplus? And trust me, the Socialist party is so much further to the left than he is, that no one would even think of calling him a Socialist! Sign me on!
The French have always liked Bill Clinton's personality, lifestyle and values. When he came under fire during his presidency, France felt outraged at this invasion of privacy.

But since he left the presidency, Bill Clinton has changed. Bill has cleaned up his act. No more excess. No more ravenous appetite. And the French don't like that.
We have traditions in France. We expect our politicians to be bon vivants. And Bill no longer is.
He used to eat burgers and steak and chicken enchiladas. According to CNN, "At one campaign stop in New Hampshire, he reportedly bought a dozen doughnuts and was working his way through the box until an aide stopped him."
Today, Bill is a vegan and France simply can't relate. As my friend Guillemette Faure, a French correspondent who covers French and American politics, noted, "You can't rule France if you don't eat dairy."
President Charles de Gaulle once said: "How can you be expected to govern a country that has 246 kinds of cheese?"
So Bill, let me tell you: If you want to be president of France, you'd have to eat them all!