Posts By: Aurélie

Emmanuelle? This is me.

Well, there you go, I went through an extraordinary experience last week. A photographer came to my place to shoot me.


Now, honestly, I think we can say I’m a star, that’s it. Well, ok, it was for an article in “Bien dans ma vie [1]”. Which, personally, I don’t know. You neither I guess. Don’t give a shit, an image professional, an experienced photographer came to my place, paid to immortalize me. It’s simple, I can’t get over it. Wanna read about it?

09h00: My fairy Babou, baby-sitter but also beauty coach, official hair dresser for my future wedding, Baron’s regular – nothing to do with the price of tea but I’m SO SO proud to have a friend who’s under 25 and who frequents the Baron, the most hype club in Paris – and fifth member of the family, arrives to watch the kids.

09h02: Uh, yes, today I’m being photographed and my ‘black and blond’ (according to my daughter) hair is not an option. So I dash to sell a kidney of mine before running to my hair dresser and get a bit of dignity back for my mane.

09h12: I’m not at all ashamed of leaving my children on a Wednesday, a day theoretically dedicated to the flesh of my flesh.

09h14: In fact, I’m super ashamed.

09h17: I’m super ashamed, yet, I’m doing it for them. Indeed. Do you think it’s good for children to have their mum photographed with back regrowth? It’s the kind of humiliation that’s passed down several generations.

10h00: Arrival at D’s… I show David a picture of Emmanuelle Seigner and tell him I want to be like her in two hours.

10h02: David giggles.

10h03: David stops giggling, he understands I’m not kidding.

12h04: I will never again ask a hair dresser to turn me into a blond and irresistible rocker.

12h05: I have exactly the same hair style as Emmanuelle Seigner.

12h06: Except I look like Courtney Love

13h00: Fairy Babou tries to comfort me and assures the fringe suits me very well. She tries to take my mind of it and asks me what I’m going to wear.

13h01: I laugh, she’s too funny. As if she didn’t notice I’m wearing MY mythical black dress.

13h02: Babou thinks it’s not a good idea to stay in black, especially as the photographer asked me yesterday to wear a colorful summer dress.

13h03: I’m sorry but my back dress IS a summer dress.

13h05: Babou asks me if I’m sure I can’t find something more flowery.

13h06: Why not a stripped shortalls? Even under the knife, I won’t wear anything flowery.

13h07: I explain to Babou that I look like Maïté when I’m wearing flowery outfits.

13h08: I just found a super summery and colorful dress, black with white dots.

13h12: Babou is not totally convinced by the colorful aspect but thinks it’s better.

14h00: The intercom rings. It’s Fabrice, the photographer. I rush, bump into the table and tear my tights, right before the shooting.

14h01: I definitely give up on Emmanuelle Seigner. Even Courtney Love, I guess, doesn’t tear her tights right before a shooting.

14h04: Fabrice comes in and assess the living room to decide on the place I will stand.

14h05: I look at my living room at the same time and the mess explodes in my face.

14h06: I try innocently to hide an apple core lying around on the coffee table and whisper to the kids to put away their yogurt pots from breakfast.

14h08: Fabrice swears it’s not a big deal. It shows there’s life in the apartment.

14h10: Fabrice is a gentleman.

14h12: Personally, I still think the fact my bra’s lying around in the corridor next to my cowboy boots mainly shows I’m a slattern.

14h15: Fabrice explains we’ll take it easy, I shouldn’t worry, and I can take two minutes to change my tights and put make up on.

14h16: I AM wearing makeup.

14h17: Babou proposes to powder my nose. In her eyes, there’s pity.

14h20: In the bathroom, Babou takes charge and asks for my make-up case.

14h21: I give her my Terracota.

14h22: Babou asks calmly where the rest is.

14h23: My look must be desperate because she says softly that it doesn’t matter if I can’t find my eye shadow nor my lipstick. The only thing she needs is a kohl.

14h24: I don’t have a kohl.

14h25: Babou becomes washed out.

14h26: I call Fabrice so that he helps me resuscitate Babou.

14h28: Babou pulls herself together but something died in her eyes.

14h30: I comfort Babou promising I’ll buy a kohl tomorrow. Babou doesn’t speak to me anymore, she smears Terracotta all over my face frantically. I think she’s in a post-traumatic state.

14h32: I have Terracotta all over.

14h33: I ask shyly if it’s mandatory to put Terracotta on my ears.

14h34: Babou throws me a lifeless look and answers that she refuses to justify herself to a 36 years old woman who doesn’t have a kohl and looks like Courtney Love.

To be continued…


[1] French magazine, the title says ‘Feeling good with my life’.

The little black dress

There we go, it’s hard to better describe the evening at Ginette’s than Helen already did. Moreover, it’s not cool to lay it on thick for those who were not here. But at the same time, it was so nice that I feel like telling, in my own way. But since you already know how it went, I’ll tell you the ‘before part’, alright?

– 15h00: I receive Helene’s 57th email in two days to tell me she found her dream dress for 193 euros and a pair of biker boots, easy to put on and which rooocks. She’s spent more than three hundred euros so far and is not sure it’s reasonable. I do what you must always do with friends when it comes to inconsiderate purchase. I lie and say it’s very reasonable.

– 15h03: Julie still hasn’t chosen her outfit, it worries her.

– 15h05: Pomme is planning to wear a super sexy low-necked tunic. But she hesitates.

– 15h08: I know too well what I’m going to wear. My magic Promod dress bought during sales for 29 euros. With my green cowboy boots, which don’t win unanimous support but are as comfortable as sleepers.

– 15h15: It’s really really nice to have your outfit sorted in advance. No worries, no hassle. When I see the girls worrying so much, I have a good laugh. But I understand, it must be really hard to meet your public without THE outfit in which you look fabulous.

– 15h18: I like my black dress too much. It fits closely round my tummy but now I’m a girl who assumes so I don’t give a damn.

– 15h30: Hélène has a headache, she doesn’t know if she will come to her own party.

– 15h34: I don’t want to copy but I also have a headache. Luckily, I know what I’m going to wear tonight otherwise I wouldn’t be overconfident. Meeting your public is already super stressful, thus without THE little black dress, no way.

– 16h00: I’m not sure there will be a speech but in doubt I prepare a small one. Whatever I say, don’t forget anyone during the thank-you part.

– 16h12: I’m afraid I won’t know what to write on my books when I’ll have to sign them.

– 16h16: I call the man to tell him I’m scared by the autographs and also to meet my public.

– 16h18: The man reminds me my book is not out yet.

– 16h23: It’s crazy how male jealousy can make them mean.

– 16h30: I hope it won’t be too crazy. Becoming a star is very psychologically perturbing. But I owe my public everything, thus I’m willing to throw myself with all my might in the crowd.

– 16h45: Now normally I should start getting ready. But I know exactly what I’m going to wear, so I’m zen. I’m going to watch an episode of Desperate Housewives to relax. I must be very calm to meet my public.

– 17h30: Off I go, I’m going to put my magic dress on, a touch of Terracotta and I’m ready for the show.

– 17h45: I’ve LOST my black dress.

– 17h47: It’s crazy, I’ve looked everywhere.

– 17h48: I cancel everything. So long my public.

– 17h49: I want to die.

– 17h52: The man says I can wear something else.

– 18h00: I have NOTHING else. Moreover, I can’t fit in my jeans for the past three day. Because of period hormones. And M&M’s too maybe. And WHO bought M&M’s? Right? Yeah. Exactly.

– 18h04: The man says I can very well wear an overall he doesn’t give a shit.

– 18h08: I do him a concession over the phone to sort things out. Right, I’m ready for anything. That’s it, a Caro without her laser saber, is like a Sego without her Francois (yeah, I know, it’s a subliminal message. Even wearing an overall, I’m left-wing)

– 18h12: Girls tell me to put on my green tunic.

– 18h14: It’s in the laundry.

– 18h16: I’m going to meet my public with a green tunic which smells like panties.

– 18h19: I extract my green tunic from the laundry bag. That’s weird, there’s a black rag wrapped up around the belt.

– 18h23: “Girls, no panic, found the dress. All is fine it was in the man’s closet. The bastard.”

– 18h27: I know that’s not nice but I’d rather die than admit I’m going to Ginette’s to make love to my public with a dress that has been rotting for ten days at the bottom of the laundry bag with socks and underwear. Anyway, Febreze will help.

– 18h30: I’m out of Febreze.

– 18h33: I spray half of my perfume on my dress and iron it.

– 18h38: That’s great, Chance by Chanel and old sock give something like tartiflette[1] smell. I’m pushing my luck tonight.

– 18h40: I’m so nervous I drop my TerraCotta. I have to wipe the brush on the tiles to be able to finish my makeup.

– 18h46: I’m going to meet my public in the best possible conditions.

That’s it, the start was not very easy, but the rest of the event unfolded as if I were floating. I didn’t see all of you, neither did I speak to everyone but I loved meeting ClaireMM, Karine, Sofiso, Fanny, Dola, Yasmina, Laurenn, Annelise, Lilo, Delphine, La fée Daubette, Estelle, Lili, LN75, Lovepink, Marion, PetiteLouise and so on. Please forget my oversights, I had a lot to drink even if we swore not to drink and behave. You were handsome and pretty, you were exactly as I wanted you to be. I read somewhere else that nice souls were there and I don’t see what to add.

There you go, I don’t know if I deserved all that warmth but I don’t care, I learn as I’m getting older to take what I’m given and enjoy, enjoy, enjoy…

Edit: If you agree, we’ll do it again on the 25th of April. Same place, same cause, same punishment. And this time I’ll be able to sign autographs because my book will be out… YEAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!

Edit (2): to all my friends from before the blog, thank you for being there. I care for these things.

Edit (3): I forgot but Esme was there too. And truly, I feel bad not to have mentioned her when I was truly, truly happy to see her, this charming and sweet young girl. Do you forgive me?

Edit (4): here’s the proof of alcohol’s ravages. Joelle. Joelle was here. And forgetting her is in itself the proof I should NEVER drink again. Never EVER. Joelle, I meant everything I said, even if I was probably thrilled by Champagne. You have to keep doing those interviews.

[1] TN: sort of potato bake made with ‘reblochon’, a strong smelling cheese from the Alps.

Another five minutes and then I stop… The End

Well, to tell you the rest of the story, I won’t make a ‘Minute by minute’ because for the past four years, nothing, nada, not even one cigarette. So a ‘Minute by minute’ to describe four years… you’ll have to admit it will be slightly tedious.
So let’s say, higgledy-piggledy, in the days that followed me stopping smoking, I first thought I could manage without a patch. Until the day I wanted to smoke a spring roll. Then I realised a bit of help wouldn’t be superfluous
Besides, I have of course recovered taste. I wish not to such an extent… of putting on 10 kilos in 10 months.
My skin indeed looks younger.
14 years old to be precise.
Pimples included.
I quarreled with half of my relatives, mainly smokers of course whom I reproached for having no will, for being no more no less than losers and putting my life in danger.
I refused all evening outings because without ciggies nothing seemed worth it.
I stopped drinking coffee because it reminds me of cigarette.
I stopped drinking alcohol for the same reasons.
I finally decided to start drinking alcohol again to forget I wasn’t drinking coffee anymore. I noticed after a certain number of drinks you don’t remember you want a cigarette.
I realised that because of my dawning alcoholism my complexion was sallower than when I used to smoke. Blackheads as bonuses.
I was allergic to patches so I had to change its spot every day. It made me use original parts of my body.
I had a red circle on the right butt for one month.
I became addicted to nicotine chewing-gums which are yet the most disgusting thing on earth. Worse than Smecta, that’s something.
I finally gave up on gums thanks to Tic-Tac.
I gave up on Tic-Tac thanks to Kiss-Cool.
I gave up Kiss-Cool with ‘Orange and Mint’ Ricola,
I gave up on sugar free sweets because of stomach disorder I wouldn’t wish to my worst enemy.
I wrote to the inventor of aspartame to ask him why Kiss Cools make your farts so smelly.
I spent whole evenings explaining that I didn’t miss cigarette to people who visibly didn’t give a damn.
I learnt to wait for five minutes for the desire to go.
Still today, it seems the five minutes are not over.
I’ve been happy on Sunday night to be out of cigarette and not to have to cross Paris to find some. I don’t even notice it’s Sunday and I don’t have cigarettes.
I don’t smell like tobacco anymore.
I’m not afraid to have a bad breath anymore.
I manage to lie in the sun on the beach with one of my favorite song in my ears without carving for a smoke.
I finally understood I can enjoy a moment without lighting a cigarette.
I started chocolate.
I hope there will never be a doctor to decree that you can die from second-hand cocoa.

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Another five minutes and then I stop

Yesterday, Raphaelle asked me how I managed to stop smoking. Thus I thought I could tell you. Because after all, we can still laugh from this, can’t we?

It was a 31st of December, four years ago…

– 20h: I’m about to live my last evening as a smoker. I’m super proud I made that decision; already I feel really good, it’s incredible. So long dictatorship. Vade retro my dependence. Tonight, I’ll be free again.

– 20h02: Fuck, where are my fags?

– 20h05: Up to midnight, actually, I don’t mind my liberty. I could decide to end it right now, but no, I’m keen on the New Year’s symbol.

– 20h06: I have only ten cigarettes in my packet, it’s not enough. Especially as they are my lasts, just watch me! I pop to the shop and buy a carton.

– 20h10: A carton might be too much. But if I’m frustrated tonight, for sure I’ll start again tomorrow.

– 21h03: I haven’t smoked for twenty minutes and I don’t give a damn. Tomorrow will be a piece of cake. I wonder why I bought patches which cost an arm and are not even nice. When you have as much will power as I have, no need for those crouches.

– 21h05: Three euros per packet times 365, I’ll indulge in so many little pleasures… I love it already. When I think I waste almost 1000 euros per years for my coffin’s nails, I’m dismayed by my stupidity. When it’s child’s play to stop. Honestly, it’s good I’m aware of it now. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the Spa in Meurice hotel to celebrate.

– 21h12: If I find the bitch who stole my packet, I kill her. Doing this to me while I’m in a stopping stage, it’s mean.

– 23h00: One hour from now I’ll be giving myself a new chance to live old. I find it great. Already when I check in the mirror, I find my complexion lighter. It’s crazy. The only thought of stopping makes me a new woman. Moreover when I see this poor Sophie who smokes like a chimney, I feel sorry.

– 23h14: I feel sorry for her but tomorrow she won’t have three extra kilos. Whereas I already crave sugar. I’m going to smoke three fags in a row in order to put me off my food for now.

– 23h55: Five minutes. It’s the time I need to have a smoke. On the other hand, the party’s so awesome I almost don’t feel like lighting it. It’s amazing how much I love these people. They are beautiful I find. Great, ‘Like a Virgin’ is playing. I’ll be a nicotine virgin soon, so class. Honestly, I can totally dance on Madonna’s songs without smoking.

– 23h56: I can but I won’t.

– 00h00: Happy New Year. Long live liberty.

– 00h01: I’m bored.

– 00h10: I’ve never spent such a crappy New Year’s eve party. No atmosphere. And it’s full of disrespectful people who smoke right under my noise. If you can recognise your true friends during this kind of moments, it’s scary…

– 00h12: Good news is I’m not carving for a smoke at all. Since 22h00 I smoked 34 cigarettes. I read it’s very efficient to disgust yourself for LIFE.

– 01h12: 34 were not enough or, in my world, ‘for LIFE’, means one hour.

– 02h12: No one wants to slip me a cigarette. I shouldn’t have annoyed everyone for the past two weeks with the fact that I was planning to stop at midnight. They made it their business, too bad.

– 03h14: It’s incredible, I’m out of talking point. It looks as if my legendary come-back was hidden in my Lucky Strike. Actually, I’m a dull and sad girl. I want to be the old me again the one who knew how to party and was funny.

– 03h18: Can’t that bitch of Madonna just shut up? I can’t stand her voice anymore.

– 04h34: I don’t understand I apply all advice from the book how to stop smoking without suffering. Each time I feel like having a ciggy, I have a drink. And well the more time passes, the more I feel like it.

– 05h56: Maybe the guy from the book meant drink water.

– 06h02: Stopping smoking sucks, I puked all my whisky.

– 06h12: The man warns me he prefers to live with a smoker than with Sue Ellen

To be continued…

I’m not an idiot… and neither are you

There’s a little something I want to tell you about, a little something that of course I’m delighted with. Wanna read about it?

A day in October 2006

18h00: A new mail in my mail-box. “Good day, I am a publisher for Hachette and Helene from ‘Mon Blog de Fille’ advised me to take a look at your blog. What I read there makes me think you could be the type of author we are looking for, for a new book collection. Should you be interested, please contact me.”

18h02: I’m hyperventilating.

18h03: I’m doing ‘choo-choo’ train breathing but it doesn’t go away. I’m going to die on the eve of my career as a writer, it’s really sad.

18h10: After several abdominal breathing exercises, a Lexomil and a glass of Calvados, I get a grip on myself.

18h15: I’ve just been contacted to write a book.

18h16: I want to marry Hélène.

18h18: I look at my kids playing in front of me. They are still ignorant of it but they are descendants of a writer. So much pressure on their frail shoulders and at the same time what a chance for them…

18h19: I announce to the man, with tears in my eyes, that I’m on the eve of an amazing career.

18h20: The man answers that if it’s the same drama as for the radio interview he’ll leave me right away.

18h23: I’ve been stricken by the obvious. I can’t be a writer and live in the 13th arrondissement. I inform the man that I need a studio flat in Saint Germain Des Prés in order to isolate myself. It’s a matter of inspiration but also credibility. After seeing how stunned the man look, I pointed out that I would be surprised if Anna Gavalda was living above Tang Bros[1]. Hu!

18h30: I don’t know why but I feel I must go to the Flore right now, otherwise I’ll feel bad. I guess I’m learning the hard way.

19h00: Writer’s block is starting  to choke me.

19h12: Since they are screaming like slaughtered animals, I guess my children are more stressed by their empty plates.

19h14: I don’t think you can be a mother, spouse and writer at the same time.

19h16: The man confirms his doubts on me assuming the three jobs.

19h22: I realise with terror I’m willing to let go of my family for Hachette.

19h30: I decide to start writing the story of my life right now. I can feel I’m going to shake up the quiet world of edition.

20h00: I ask the man if he prefers San Fransisco or Nassau for our holidays.

20h30: The man reminds me I haven’t even written one line and we are two rents behind.

20h32: The man doubts Prix Femina [2] is lucrative enough to cross the Atlantic Ocean with 4 persons.

20h34: I don’t see why the four of us would go since we’ll have an English nanny at home to take care of the kids.

20h36: I explain it is primordial for our children to speak a perfect English, given that one day we’ll live in New York, in order to remain anonymous.

20h40: The man announces he won’t be able to take on his role as a father and as famous writer’s husband.

20h41: I have to make a concession to put a smile back on his face (for those who don’t know what ‘a concession’ is check this)

20h54: The man finds that finally writer suits me perfectly.

A few days later…

13h00: I run out of work and fly to the Mecca of Mecca: Hachette Livres’ head office.

13h30: Arrival at reception, seeing all those recently published books stirs me deeply. In a few months my baby will sit there too.

13h32: I hope the publisher will see no harm in my life story taking several volumes. I have so much to say, so many cry to let out…

13h35: I enter the office. The two publishers are lovely. I think they are impressed. Maybe more than me. It’s crazy the power writing has on normal people…

13h40: They speak about a new collection. I’m not really listening, I soak up the atmosphere of this place where renowned artists and their creative souls have wandered before me…

13h42: I hear the words “small books”, “girls”, “frivolous”.

13h43: I hear the word “Libido”.

13h44: I hear the words: “Spice up your relationship”, “insolence of tone”, “toning down”.

13h45: I understand I’m being asked to write a book about sex.

13h46: In one volume.

13h47: Fortunately, in fact.

13h48: Forget about the Flore and Saint Germain.

13h50: Right but sex is lucrative, I tell myself. Just check out Sonia and her ducks.

13h52: I say yes because there’s no other option.

13h54: I call the man to explain we can forget about the Flore. I explain I’m not going against my principles even if I’ve said yes. You can write about sex and be subtle. Besides, lots of great writers have started their career writing about sex. Régine Desforges for example.

13h56: The man says he finds it funny and is looking forward to experimenting the advice I will give. We giggle. And I almost sacrificed him on the alter of writing.

13h58: The man calls me back and warns me, if I mention that his penis is too small, he’ll kill me.


Well, long story short, there you go. The information to keep in mind absolutely are:

1 – Hélène is the fairy I mentioned, the one who gave my blog’s address to Hachette and thanks to her I became in one afternoon Mrs Sex for Hachette. Thanks Mam!

2 – Hélène’s book will be out, in the same collection, on the 21st of February. It’s called  “Pas besoin de souffrir pour etre belle”[3] and it rocks.

3 – Pomme, is another angel and her book will be out on the same day and titled En finir avec les boulets et les empoisonneurs[4]. It should interest a few of you, given there are drags… everywhere !

5 – My book, titled “Libido en berne ? Pimentez votre couple”[5], will be out later, on the 15th of April.

6 – The collection is called “Nous ne sommes pas des courges”[6]. These small books are for women and aim to make us smile and think about futile and important subjects.

7 – The man doesn’t have a small penis, it was only to have a funny punch line.

8 – When you’ll be reading those lines, the longest post ever actually, sorry, I will most probably be dying beaten by a man with a huge penis.


[1] TN: the 13th arrondissement is known as Paris’ China town.

[2] TN: The Prix Femina is a French literary prize created in 1904 by 22 writers for the magazine La Vie heureuse (today known as Femina). Source: Wkikipedia

[3] TN: No need to suffer to be pretty

[4] TN: Getting rid of drags and pests

[5] TN: Libido down? Spice up your relationship

[6] TN: We are no idiots

The day I became a Miss…

Right, it’s a fairly open secret, that’s it, I’m a Miss. Miss Canalblog. And not ‘analblog’ as I inopportunely wrote to a friend yesterday. X rated articles start to go to my head, or a bit lower maybe. In short, there you go, this time it’s for sure, I am famous[1].Wooooooow… I can tell you, since nominations, I’m ecstatic. I’ve been through several states, close to Ohio. Wanna read about it?

A Tuesday at the end of January

14h00: I receive an email warning me I’m part of the three finalists for Miss Canalblog competition. I’m super surprised, it’s incredible, people visited my site and they voted me in without even me knowing.

14h01: Ok, I confess, one week ago I saw a classified ad on Canalblog’s website calling all volunteers to come forward to take part in the competition.

14h02: I answered to this ad.

14h03: Five times.

14h04: With my account number and a picture of me half-naked.

14h05: Nevertheless, I’m amongst the three finalists. When we were at least 2000 to apply.

14h07: Alright, 126.

14h12: I’m really happy to be nominated. It’s a victory in itself. For that matter, I don’t care if I am the winner. Wanting to win at any price is so vulgar, I think. It’s the taking part that counts. On top of that, other candidates seem really nice, so, them or me, same difference!

14h15: Actually, only taking part sucks big time.

14h17: “Mr. Organiser of Miss Canalblog competition. You don’t know me but please be informed that Ms X and Ms Y, two finalists of the competition, have weird habits and are allegedly using their blog for rather shady purposes. It would be a huge mistake to select them. Caroline from ‘Pensees de Ronde’[2], who, on the other hand is an extraordinary woman as well as an amazing lover.” Signature: An anonymous person who wants your own good.

14h18: Even if I want to win, I prefer not telling anyone about my nomination. That is so me. On one side I take part in this competition and on the other I hate being in the spotlight. I think that, actually, I want to keep this victory to myself. It will be my own private world.

14h34: Alright but modesty is like losing, it sucks. And it will earn me no vote.

14h36: “My dear readers, thanks to an incredible combination of factors, I’ve been nominated for a small unimportant competition. If you have five minutes, you can even vote for me.

PS: I’ll pay you.”

The next day

08h03: I start to realise little by little the weight of responsibilities meant by such a nomination. Being is a miss is something and I know I will have to represent a whole people without ever deceiving it. From today onwards, I will stay away from alcohol and all other vices. You have to know what you want. And I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be a miss.

09h00: The man wakes up with a huge huge… desire. He is all over me right away.

09h02: I explain it isn’t possible and I just kissed all vices goodbye.

09h03: I confirm to the man, blowjob too is a vice.

09h12: No but it’s true. Being a miss entails being chaste during the whole year after the election. By the way, when I’ll be on TV, I’ll say I’m single. I’m not ashamed of the man or my kids. But a miss must make people dream. And an almost married miss with 2 children is not the stuff of dreams.

09h12: The man says if I lie about the children, he’ll tell Geneviève de Fontenay [3] I sometimes give blowjobs.

09h23: I have to put my chastity aside for ten minutes in order to buy the man’s silence. Being a Miss is also about making concessions.

09h34: The man has me promise never to make any concession to Jean-Pierre Foucault [4].

10h00: I’m wondering if I already have a lot of votes.

10h02: When I think of my daughter, I tell myself I’ll give her a nice example of femininity.

10h05: On the other hand, it will be hard for her to rival perfection made woman. If I were a true perfect mum, I’d drop that whole question not to threaten her future blossoming.

10h07: Good thing is I’ve never pretended to be a perfect mother. Anyway life is a jungle. Protecting your children does not do them a favor, believe me.

A few days later…


06h00: Verdict is given today. But I’ve been waiting for so long, I don’t give damn. No way I’m getting up earlier to check if I’ve won.

06h12: Oh well, 6h00, 8h00, it’s really close.

06h23: It’s amazing how I don’t care. To such an extent that I’m currently switching on my computer but I could do something completely different, given how relaxed I am.

06h24: If Internet doesn’t work within ten second I’ll make that fucking provider eat its modem.

06h25: Either I suffer from a start of Parkinson disease or I actually care.

06h26: It’s like Bac’s[5] results. I want and don’t want to check at the same time.

06h27: If I’m not elected, shame on me and all my descendants. I shouldn’t have told the 213 persons I know about this competition. Plus two millions blog readers. But I’m a big girl. If it’s not me, I’ll be just fine.

06h28: I can’t believe this. It’s incredible. Something crazy is happening to me. It’s as if Earth stopped turning. I’ve been elected. Victory is like a shoot of chocolate, damn it.

06h29: When I think about it, my two competitors were really nice indeed. And their blogs are as good as mine. Not far at least. I’m so sorry for them. For that matter, it makes my success a bit ridiculous. I could almost give them my title.

06h30: They can die.

Edit: More seriously, thank you for voting for me, thanks to Transs, who organized everything and who stayed hard-nosed about my bribing attempts and of course congratulation to ‘Mister’ Canalblog Judark. Last but not least, congratulations to my two competitors Emilie and Fred, whose blogs truly deserve a visit. Girls, I won’t give you my title but the thought is there.


[1] TN: in English in the original text

[2] TN: Former name of the blog

[3] TN: former president of the Committees Miss France and Miss Europe

[4] TN: Famous TV presenter who hosted for year the Miss France election show

[5] TN: Bac, short for Baccalaureat, is the exam student have to pass to graduate high-school in France.

Night flight

By popular request, the rest and end of my near death experience…

16h00: I’m in a taxi to Roissy.

17h00: 69 euros for a Porte d’Italie – Roissy trip. 450 francs.

17h01: I’ve made up my mind, after quitting my dangerous job, I’ll become a taxi driver.

17h05: I’m in Roissy. It feels as if someone were squeezing hard in my chest. I take directly two quarters of a Lexomil.

17h07: It doesn’t have any effect. I have difficulty breathing. I’m scared.

17h12: I take another quarter.

17h24: I register my luggage. I’m told all liquid must be gathered in a see-through bag. In relation with the fact that you can make a bomb with a tube of toothpaste. It’s crazy how our liberties are restricted little by little. This clampdown climate is unbearable.

17h30: On the other hand, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t highlight that the man over there, with Middle East origins, has a weird behavior. He keeps READING his newspaper.

17h32: Marine Le Pen [1] please leave my body.

17h45: I go through the metal detection. I’m against denunciation but I can’t pretend I didn’t see the old lady before me INTENTIONALLY forgot to remove her belt when we were EXPLICITLY asked to do so. If everyone doesn’t put their shoulder to the wheel, don’t be surprised if in one hour we’ll be throwing ourselves against Montparnasse tower.

17h46: I’d love an explanation on why this young, very vulgar, girl deserved a close frisking with this handsome security agent when for me it was Gertrud whom I got stuck with it.

17h50: That’s it, I’m in the boarding area. I buy a huge Toblerone bar. I haven’t eaten Toblerone in ten years. When you’re about to die, you go crazy.

17h52: Toblerone rocks. I’m wondering if they chuck down Lexomil in it. I’m not scared anymore.

17h55: I’ve finished my Toblerone. I’m scared again. Moreover, if I survive, I’ll have put on one kilo. It’s too late now anyway, I’ll have another one.

18h40: “Passengers on flight Air One 675 to Turin are invited to proceed to gate 10 for boarding”.

18h42: I’ve eaten an overdose of Toblerone, I can’t stand up. I can’t find gate 10.

18h45: I painfully manage to show my passport and my boarding pass. I point out to the hostess that it’s dark outside. She answers she noticed. Right, the information visibly takes time to reach her brain. It is DARK damn it. She gives me back my passport and invites me to move forward. Too bad, I gave it a try at least.

18h47: I’m entering my coffin. “Buongiorno” says a silly looking steward. I feel like hitting him. It must be a bad trip from Toblerone.

18h50: A hostess shows us how to use safety jacket. I take notes.

18h52: No offense but no one is listening to the hostess.

18h53: They do what they want but I’m sure if we crash in the Atlantic Ocean in one hour, we won’t be many survivors. In any case, once we’ll be in the water, don’t count on me to explain how the jacket works. It will be every man for himself, I’m warning you. Especially that whole kit looks complicated to operate. I barely dare to picture what it will be like in full panic mode.

19h00:Ready for take off[2].

19h01: I can’t believe this, there’s a guy listening to something with his headphones when we’re about to take-off. Although Captain warned us, not even two minutes ago, it’s STRICTLY prohibited.

19h03: I’m so close to Petain’s[3] method right now that I inform the hostess immediately.

19h04: It’s a hearing aid.

19h06: Right but with me, no details are left out.

19h07: The plane rush forward on the runway. I feel like I am propelled at 300km per hour. I’ve taken so many Lexomil that I’m super scared but my heart beats very very slowly. I’m going to die, not even because of the plane. With my luck, I’m reacting to the mix Toblerone, anxiolytics.

19h10: We’re taking off. I have 300 tons on my stomach. This is the end.

19h15: I open my eyes, I’m still alive. Through the windows I see Paris’ lights. And the Eiffel Tower too. I might die but I had never seen something so beautiful.

19h20: I feel super brave. I’m an adventurer. I’m Florence Aubenas[4].

19h40. I’ve just recovered from take-off and here come turbulences.

19h41: I put myself in brace position.

19h45: I explain to my neighbor that I use that position in case of emergency landing.

19h46: I explain to my neighbor that if, for him, the fact that there are never any survivors in case of crash makes plane the safest transport mode in the world, it’s HIS problem.

19h48: The hostess looks super stressed. Something is happening, it’s for sure. She pretends all is fine but I’m no fool.

20h00: I take my IPod and play Marc Lavoine. If I have to die, I want to die with him.

20h12: The hostess shakes me violently. We are in landing phase and, apparently, with my IPod I’m putting the whole plane at risk.

20h13: The man with a hearing aid throws me a nasty look.

20h20: I don’t see how the pilot can plan to land in two minutes when we are a few meters above the ground and faster than 450km/h. We are going to die this time, it’s for sure.

20h22: We bounce on the tarmac. I brake like crazy with my armrests.

20h23: It’s an unexpected miracle: we’re in one piece. And tomorrow I’ll do this again to come back. I hope they sell Toblerone in Turin…

[1] TN: Extreme right party leader

[2] TN: In English in the original text

[3] TN: Petain was a French general who reached the distinction of Marshal of France, and was later Chief of State of Vichy France (Chef de l’État Français), from 1940 to 1944. In modern France he is remembered as an ambiguous figure, while pétainisme is a derogatory term for certain reactionary policies. Source : Wikipedia.

[4] TN: Florence Aubenas is a French journalist, who worked until 2006 for the French newspaper Libération. She was taken hostage on January 5, 2005, in Iraq along with her translator Hussein Hanoun Al-Saadi. Source: Wikipedia.

Night flight – First episode

avionYesterday, I was in Turin. In Italy. It sounds harmless but you must know that apart from my tendency to food compulsion and a very very light hypochondria, I suffer from another sickness: plane phobia. So, let me tell you the least business trip turns into a pathetic saga… Wanna read about it?


-14h: My boss arrives in my office, looking satisfied with himself. I know this smile, I’m scared.

– 14h01: “You’re leaving tomorrow to Turin until Thursday. Isn’t it great?”

– 14h02: True, it’s awesome. I’m a real adventurer; I love the image it gives of me: “Cinema on Wednesday? No, sorry, I’ll be in Turin, on Wednesday.” Moreover I love Italia. Italians too. Anyway, I’m like that, I’m unable to stand still. Office life, no thanks.

– 14h03: I ask my boss from which train station I’ll be departing, for planning purposes.

– 14h04: I’ll leave from Roissy.

– 14h05: I didn’t know some TGV [1] leave from Roissy to Italia.

– 14h06: It’s not a TGV but a Boeing, my boss giggles.

– 14h07: I’m going to take a plane.

– 14h08: My children are too young to lose their mother. Some much fuss simply to go to Italia. When everyone knows Italians are thieve. Just check the World Cup.

– 14h10: I chance the dentist appointment I can’t postpone. Plus I’m falling behind with several files. My boss doesn’t look satisfied with himself anymore. Neither with me. I pretend I was kidding.

– 14h15: I call the man to inform him I’m leaving to Turin tomorrow. Flying.

– 14h16: The man finds it great.

– 14h17: I hang up on him, I can’t believe he finds it great I’ll be risking my life.

– 20h00: I remain motionless on my couch, looking in distress at my flat, as if I had been sentenced to death.

– 20h10: I apologise to the man for inflicting such a life upon him. I promise to resign, if I get out of it alive. When you’re a mother you can’t afford having such a dangerous job.

– 20h11: The man thinks archivist is not a dangerous job.

– 20h12: Poor thing. He does all this to hide his pain. It’s a real shock. If he had to leave to the other side of the world, I’m not sure I would have the same dignity.

– 20h13: The man asks me to write the check to pay the rent.

– 20h14: I find it petty to think of such things when it might be our last night together. Right but I must think of our children. Their mother might be gone by tomorrow, the least I can do for them is to ensure they have a roof over their head.

– 20h15: The man assures it has nothing to do with Turin, we are two weeks behind and we’ll pay a fine otherwise.

– 20h16: It’s crazy how everything seems derisory when you’re about to die. I write the check anyway. I feel a great wisdom seizing me. I’m completely detached from material eventualities.

– 20h20: The man reminds me it’s my turn to empty the dishwasher.

– 20h22: He is right. Life goes on. He is so brave, I’m impressed. I hope you don’t empty the dishwasher anymore when you’re dead though.

– 2h00: I wake up sweating. It takes me ten minute to realize I’m not locked up in a baggage hold.

– 2h15: I breathe from my belly.

– 2h30: I over did it, I feel sick.

– 4h00: I’m watching my kids sleep. They are so beautiful. They don’t suspect anything. I have no right to do this to them. It’s disgusting.

– 6h00: I pray.

– 7h00: Alarm clock rings. I don’t want to go. I want my mummy

– 7h30: The man holds me tight and assures everything’s going to be okay.

– 8h00: I say goodbye to my family and home. I’m flying tonight at 19h00 and will never see them again.

– 8h01: I realise it will be DARK at 19h00.

– 8h12: But it changes everything. Taking a plane that will take off BLINDLY is out of question. Dare-devil, alright, suicidal, no.

To be continued…


[1] TN: French high speed train.

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…


– 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.


– 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…


– 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.


– 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…


– 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.


– 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…