Month: October 2006

I’m gonna be on the radio – Making off (Final installment)

jetsetHere is the rest of the story of the days I almost joined the merciless world of jet-set. In case some of you think the interview is to come, I have to disappoint, we are actually talking about the chronicle which was on air last week on France Inter [1]. It’s like a flash-back, backward zoom on a founding even, you see [2]?

Come on, let’s go back in time…

Tuesday

– 8h00: I buy my newspaper at a kiosk next door. I’m wondering if I’ll still do this after. The vendor barely looks at me. Poor thing, when he’ll know, he’ll surely regret not paying me more attention.

– 8h25: I climb in the 47.

– 8h26: I’ll still take the bus, that’s for sure. I don’t what to cut myself off from real people. It’s my inspiration.

– 8h35: An old lady stands in front of me, with a nasty look. She wants to sit. Can’t wait to have my own driver, real people are a pain.

– 9h00: I get to my office, all my colleagues are there, working, as if nothing were happening. My boss points out that I’m on time and it calls for celebration. Poor thing, when he’ll know.

– 9h45: What’s the point to keep working? In a few days, I’ll simply have to choose between TV and feminine press. I feel it will be difficult to decide. All I know is TF1 [3] never. Mougeotte [4], drop it, you’ll never have my soul. No but anyway I’ve always felt ‘very Canal [5]’. Daphne, Mlle Agnes [6] and others, you’ll have to squeeze on the fame bench, I’m coming…

– 11h00: I think I’ll go for a massage, right now. I can’t face my colleagues, hiding the truth from them is too hard. And I have loads of tensions in my body. Can’t wait to have a coach. It is said that Sophie Marceau’s do wonders.

– 15h00: My boss wants to speak to me. Does he suspect something?

– 18h00: I dash off hugging the walls. I need to find a proper outfit for the interview.

– 20h00: The man doesn’t seem to understand that I needed 120 euros Repetto ballet pumps for the interview. He shouts the words ‘telephone’ and ‘radio’, as if there were a link.

– 20h30: “But of course it is linked!” he vociferates.

– 23h00: I can’t sleep, I mentally repeat my text, I’m scared.

Wednesday

– 6h00: It’s the big day. Glory is waiting.

– 7h00: My toilets are also waiting. I’m sick to death. Becoming a star is also about that. After all, Adjani vomits before each of her entry on stage …

– 7h00: Ok, diarrhea is less glamour.

– 8h15: I prefer light makeup, I feel D. likes natural women.

– 13h00: I slip away from the office and wait at home for THE phone call that will change my life.

– 15h00: D. hasn’t called yet.

– 15h30: I check for the 30th time that the phone is indeed plugged. Maybe my provider is down. We should NEVER have chosen that one. It was a mistake.

– 16h00: I call the man and thank him for choosing to change our provider a few months before I’m given a unique chance to make my way in the media world. I warn him I won’t forgive him for wasting my life changing opportunity. All that to save a few cents. It lacks magnanimity. Yes, perfectly. We have to stop playing small.

– 16h01: Second call waiting.

– 16h02: I’m struggling to take that waiting call.

– 16h03: Before R1 then R2 was working, shit. I mentally prepare a punishing trip to our provider.

– 16h04: The call drops.

– 16h06: All my nails are gone. I’m about to start with phalanx when the phone rings again.

– 16h07. It’s him. D.

– 16h08: I’m out of breath. I’m sitting, I haven’t moved for the past three hours and I’m out of breath.

– 16h10: My pulse is over 150 per minute. So I’m bound to need oxygen.

– 16h12: I breathe from my belly.

– 16h13: I finally manage to express myself. The more I speak about me, the more interesting I find myself.

– 16h15: I love it, D. sounds fascinated by my life. It’s a thousand times better than my last session with my killjoy of a shrink. And you don’t pay at the end. However hard I search, I can’t find any bad side to my new life.

– 16h16: D. and I can’t stop laughing, it’s incredible what’s happening.

– 16h17: He tells me my voice is great for radio. I’m dying to ask him to pull strings for me. But I won’t do it, I have my dignity and it would waste everything.

– 16h18: “Hire me. I’ll pay you. I have a saving account”.

– 16h20: D. explains a bit embarrassed that he himself is freelance and he doesn’t know the boss personally.

– 16h22: D. asks me to stop crying.

– 16h23: We finally hang up and I feel it’s not easy for D. to leave me. I promise to call him back very soon. He says he prefers leaving some time. Poor thing. He knows deep down, I’m already far away. I’ll never forget he was the first to give me a chance.

– 16h24: I send an email to D. to thank him for this magical moment. I ask him to let me know when the show will be broadcasted.

– 20h55: Message from D.: “OK, will let you know. Not before two weeks. Other priorities before. D. ”

– 21h00: This man is broken.

Two weeks later…

Thursday

– 10h00: Message from D. “You’re on tomorrow. Later. D.”

– 10h10: This man has such elegance… coming back to me when he is suffering. Hats off.

– 10h12: The 122 persons I know on this planet are all aware I’ll be on the radio tomorrow. Recognition is tomorrow.

Friday

– 6h12: The alarm goes off an hour earlier than usually. It’s dark outside. You’d think we’re leaving for a ski outing. The man puts the radio on.

– 6h18: In two minutes I’ll be known worldwide. For now I feel exactly the same.

– 6h20: My head is right next to the man’s chest so I can’t hear very well. But a hug is nice. Even when you’re famous.

– 6h21: That’s it. It’s my turn. I can’t recognize my voice. I feel weird.

– 6h24: The news presenter will read an extract of my blog. Wow. It’s “Apostrophe [7]“, my word!

– 6h25: I can’t believe it. I’m chagrined. 345 articles on my blog. And she had to choose the one about firemen. About firemen’s ass more precisely. You don’t become famous talking about firemen’s ass. No one EVER became famous checking out firemen’s ass. So long calf, cow, pig. The milk pot of fame just broke in thousands of pieces with sirens in the background.

– 6h26: The man holds me tight. He can’t stop laughing because of the firemen. He says he is proud. He says he loves me. He says there are fourteen minutes before the alarm goes off again…

 


[1] TN: French radio station

[2] TN: in English in the original text

[3] TN: TF1 is a French private TV channel.

[4] TN: Etienne Mougeotte was TF1’s director.

[5] TN: Canal, aka Canal +, is another private French TV channel

[6] TN: Presenters who started their career on Canal +.

[7] TN: French TV show about literature.

I’m gonna be on the radio – Making off

starRight, it’s not that I absolutely want to come back on the amazing episode of me being interviewed over the phone, but, still, I have to admit that, within a few days, my life has almost been turned upside down. I owe you a small minutes of the days I became a star.

Or almost…

Sunday

– 19h00: We’re coming back from a walk in Paris. While the man is bathing the kids – he is an ideal father on top of being an awesome lover but I won’t tell more because since I mentioned him in this blog he has a slight tendency to show off – I rush to my mailbox. After three hours without drumming on my keyboard, I started to feel withdrawal symptoms.

– 19h10: It’s there. THE email from THE person who’s supposed to spot me amongst thousands of Internet bloggers. This email expected innocently, without mentioning it for fear of looking like a pretentious fool. Right, let me stop you right away, we’re not talking about Valérie Toranian, let’s be serious.

– 19h11: He is a journalist from a radio. He has a slot in the morning at about five during which he speaks about blogs. Yeah but it’s a start at least. He asks me if I would agree to be interviewed.

– 19h14: I storm in the bathroom, shouting. The man’s face is white, he thought someone died.

– 19h16: My son would like to understand why his mum is red and shouting.

– 19h18: I feel that it’ll take me two day to make my little boy understand what a blog is and why I’m hysterical when a radio journalist is going to interview me.

– 19h20: “It’s nothing actually sweetie. It’s just that mummy is becoming famous. Like Dora The Explorer, you see? ”

– 19h22: My daughter starts crying because Dora doesn’t exist and she doesn’t want her mum to become a cartoon. I leave the man trying to find the right words, for now I’m too shaken myself.

– 19h25: I delete for the tenth time my answer, I would like to look natural and enthusiastic but nonetheless dignified and full of distance.

– 19h45: “Dear D., I will play along with your interview with pleasure. I don’t have much time during the day but I can totally take a week off for you to be able to call me at anytime. The best is for me to give you my cell phone number as well as my work and home landline. Thanks a mil for being interested in my prose, I will be forever grateful. By the way, should you require a remuneration feel free to let me know.”

– 19h50: “D., I’m writing again to give you my mother’s contact details as well as my best friend’s, in case you don’t manage to reach me on the other numbers.

– 19h52: “D., another word, I realise I forgot to mention how much I like what you do. And sincerely, I would tell you even if you’d finally decide to cancel the interview. Hoping it will not be the case, of course.”

– 20h00: I’m afraid I’ve put too much distance or sounded too detached.

– 20h10: I have the man read what I sent, he doesn’t seem to think I’m too detached. He asks me with a weird look if it’s however possible to recall the messages before D. reads them. I’m a bit worried.

– 20h40: I called my whole contact list to announce the news. I’m not sure they all grasped the consequences of what’s happening to me.

MONDAY

– 04h12: I wake up sweating, I’m afraid it was only a dream. I switch on my laptop, the message is still there.

– 08h14: I check my emails again.

– 10h00: D. sends me another message asking me to explain my blog’s how and why.

– 12h00: It’s the fourth version of my explanations, however brief I want it to be, I don’t see how I can skip the time when my mother forced me to wear a brown kilt in 5th grade. Without this event, there might not be a blog. In an artist’s life, there are founding events you can’t skip.

– 12h30: I’ve visibly reached the maximum limit in terms of allowed characters in an email. It’s incredible, in less than 30.000 characters you can’t say anything, not the main things anyway.

– 16h00: “Dear Caroline, thank you for your explanation. I think I have enough input with these 20 pages. May I remind you the interview will last only a few minutes. Don’t write to me until I contact you. I beg you. D.”

– 16h10: I feel something very strong is happening between D. and me. It’s so tough he’d rather take some distance. The man will be sad, probably, but if the two of us must have a passionate love affair, there will be nothing he can do. My god, what will happen to the kids?

– 17h00: I start to understand the suffering of famous people. Fame forces you to make cruel choices and makes you weak. I feel weak by the way. Luckily I have my family, they stay my anchoring point. And I almost left them.

– 17h10: I call the man to tell him I’ll never leave with a famous man. I will never sacrifice the fruits of my loins. I promise I’ll stay the same. I swear there’s only mutual admiration between D. and me and a professional bond he can’t understand.

– 17h12: The man asks me not to forget the bread.

– 20h00: The interview is tomorrow. I’m scared. I feel there will a before and an after.

– 21h00: I’m wondering if there’s still time to stop the diabolical machine of fame. Once I’ll be on the radio, gone will be quiet restaurant evenings, as well as incognito walks.

– 21h10: The man informs me he might not be able to stand me for much longer.

– 21h30: I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for my family. Only a few days after my entering the elite and my couple already is shaky.

To be continued…

The pullover dress

robepullI guess no one missed the fact that this winter’s killing hype accessory is the pullover dress. In the first place, I was glad. Why? Because, sincerely, for the past six months it was bermuda shorts and, inevitably, you could count me out. Not really because bermuda shorts reminds me more of boy scouts uniforms than of a sexy outfit but because you can imagine that it’s out of question for me – and even under the knife – to consider exposing my calve, those ones that refuse to fit in any boots.

So, I was saying, pullover dress. Initially, I told myself, ‘pullover dress, easy’. No buttons, no stiff seams, child’s play when you’re curvy. I’ll just have to pick an extra size not to look too stitched in it and this winter, for once, I’ll be in. Thus I started my Grail quest with loads of optimism.

15h00. I take the metro to: Les Halles [1]. I’m going to buy a pullover dress. I feel sexy just thinking about it. I can already picture myself with my riding boots. Emma Peel, just wait for it. The fashion lesson I’ll give you, you won’t get over it.

15h10: At Zara, there are hundreds of very elegant girls and almost as many pullover dresses. If I have to, I’ll kill but I’ll have one too. I want to enter this hyper select club.

15h45. That’s my luck. Queuing for half an hour to try on a common jumper. Thanks to the ill-bred who put it back with the dresses, all this only by laziness of going to the jumper shelf. There’s no more respect.

15h48: My bad, it is a dress. On the hanger it’s a dress. On me it’s a jumper.

15h57: Zara visibly doesn’t fit me. Anyway, all these formatted girls who rush towards those dresses – which aren’t actual dresses – are pathetic and lack personality. Let me go to a more specialized shop.

16h20: I enter C&A.

16h23: This one has horizontal stripes, it’s made for me. It looks like a Rykiel. It’s obviously the 2007 must have. And it’s high time we kill the shameful reputation we’ve always laid on stripes’ back.

16h24: May the one who had the idea of putting stripes on a pullover dress die in atrocious throes.

16h26: Even vertical stripes are a don’t. Listen Sonia, let me tell you, you screw that one up. That’s it, it must be difficult to admit for a great lady like you, but drop the stripes. Focus on ducks.

16h30: I take off in a sweat from Camaïeu. The last style I tried enabled me to notice I have back muffin tops. I think I also counted four breasts which is, obviously, not totally normal.

16h45: At Comptoirs des Cotonniers, they have openwork pullover dresses.

16h50: I try to convince the shop assistant that the dress was that openwork before I tried it on. She is extremely nasty and assures there NEVEEEEEEEEER was openwork under the arms. I look down on her and run out of the shop. Anyway, ‘Comptoirs stuffs’, your clothes, they stink.

17h20: At ‘Zadig et Molière’ pullover dresses cost 450 euros. In a size XL, I’m as comfortable as a sausage wearing a g-string.

18h00: I must have tried 38 pullover dresses on. Scratching wool, frowning jersey, sagging cotton. With or without stripes, shiny bling or very chic mouse grey. Not one, hear me out, not one made me look like something different from a delicatessen product.

18h20: I buy bermuda shorts.

To conclude, the pullover dress is not such a good idea, especially if you have, tick your choice, boobs (especially with horizontal stripes which don’t stay horizontal), a bulging out stomach (pregnancy effect and seated place in the bus guarantied), a big butt (the dress pulls up gracefully over your butt and dangles in the front). Also note that it’s extremely difficult to maintain and, unless spending 500 euros, it pills.

At least bermuda shorts, it’s handy and matches everything

Ok, I’m kidding about bermuda shorts, I just couldn’t find a punch line.

 


[1] TN: big shopping mall in Paris.