My love affair with endives

Today, I was sitting at a café, and couldn’t help but hearing the three rakishly thin French girls chatting about how fat they were. At one point “Marlene” took off her stylish Fall-blazer and said,

“Anne-Sophie, look at this arm fat (read skin), I mean I know now, no more crepes, chocolate, pasta…”

The rest of the girls widened their eyes in awe of the centimeter of flesh hanging from Marlene’s arm. Then one of the other girls demonstrated some arm exercises-one of them was picking up her pint of beer (not light) sipping it and replacing it in front of her. She could probably do better with a fork loaded up with mashed potatoes.

Disgusted, I continued to sip my highly caffeinated espresso in hopes it would suppress my eternal longing for a lemon tart.

With the guilt of even thinking about a lemon tart I settled down to continue my reading of “Je n’arrive pas à maigrir”. Or for my fellow Anglophones, “I don’t know how to get skinny”.

The premise of this diet book was aimed at the entire spectrum of the French female-including those who are:

• Snackers
• Stressed out
• Thyroid problem
• Menopause
• Stopping smoking

And my personal favorite

• Can’t be bothered to get off their bums and bouge (sedentary life-stylers)

Generations of women have looked to the svelte Frenchies on this tantalizing subject-in fact there are cookbooks and diet books dedicated to solving the mystery of how French women stay thin. This is why I thought it would be highly educational to read a French diet book.

Well, I’m just going to go ahead and burst the proverbial bubble: French women stay thin because French people make babies with French people and stay in France, thus preserving their glorious ballerina bodies.

Strolling the boulevards in Paris is the best window-shopping, because the majority of Parisian women are living, breathing, smoking…hangers. Perfect for displaying Falls’ newest trends. I usually leave the house feeling good, but a moment in a trendy area surrounded by these gazelles gliding around in their effortless skinny jeans leaves me feeling like a frumpy, dumpy American with a resolve to live off of endives and celery for the rest of my life.

Anyway, flipping through this astounding literary achievement (and their subsequent regimes) taught me one thing. That for any of the cases listed above, I should be eating lots of bread, red-meat, dark chocolate, red wine, butter, fat and cream…in miniscule portions. Aaand, if my weight goes over by .000002 I had better not eat one thing until that microscopic ounce has vanished from my scale. Whatever the cost may be.

Literally, if worse comes to worse, I can drop hundreds of euro at my local pharmacy loading up on calorie burners, appetite suppressors and full lines of smoothing panty-hose. Apparently, appetite suppressors are a highly recommended and effective weight-loss method by the author of this diet book. I’m sure they mix great with the red-wine.

I think we (the rest of the female world) must come to terms that the bone-structure and gazelle like bodies that we so covet are genetic…so tant pis and eat a baguette. French women don’t actually know how to get thin. They are thin, and stay thin by being French. Le voila!

So I (hopefully) will shed pounds by reading diet books, chuffing along the Seine, and using diligently the ‘think’ method to release my inner ballerina.

A Street-Sign named "______"

I admit that I am not that fabulous at taking pictures of the sites in Paris.

However, there is one thing that makes me stop in my tracks, rifle through my purse, get out my iphone and with blatant joy take a photograph...and that is: ta ra ta ra...

STREET SIGNS NAMED AFTER COMPOSERS!

This is the start of my collection. Call it what you want...but this is the Lauren-geek-project-whilst-she-lives-in-France.

To be continued!

Curling Irons and Cutlery

In my destitution of learning that my faithful curling iron had heated its last hair, I went in search of replacing my essential beauty tool.

I was not excited at this prospect-although it did mark the grand occasion of buying a French appliance that wasn't a convertor. Upon much consideration, I decided to brave once of the most populated areas in Paris.

The BHV.

Quelle horreur! My previous purchases in this mega-department-store were nightmares. Searching for a pillow that wasn't a gigantic square (yet another French conundrum) or a rectangle of flaccid feathers was to be found on a floor that mixed 'bedroom' with 'lingerie/swimwear' and 'art supplies'. To find a simple convertor took a 45 minute underground tour in a veritable maze of anything you can possibly imagine that had to do with housework.

However because this is store is a literal bazaar (BHV: Bazaar de Hotel de Ville) I was certain that a curling iron was to be found.

Arriving on the floor that promised all things electrical I was dazzled-not by the abundance of hair supplies, but by each gleaming surface covered in kitchen wonderment. A wall of Pyrex, three full aisles of Le Creuset products, shiny pots and pans of every distinguished mark and happily-a customer service agent just for asking questions about knives.

All frustrations forgotten, I was in my dream kitchen, I meandered around contemplating the benefits of 'Tefal' versus 'Le Creuset, knives that never needed sharpening, found the perfect sautee pan and appreciated the sparkling splendor of the pyrex wall.

I realized, a solid 40 minutes later, that I had yet to purchase my curling iron and I was going to be late for my practice hour. So I scampered to buy my curling iron (apparently in France they don't believe in a girth larger than 1 inch) and hurried to my rehearsal thinking of non-stick cookware.

There might be a movie in the making:

Breakfast at BHV...there really isn't any place as lovely.