Not my kind of beauty mask

And while I'm on the topic of beauty products, here's an odd one:

image via Yves Rocher

The Anti-Asphyxiation Flash Mask from Yves Rocher.

I like Yves Rocher products.  And I bet this mask is great one.

But, c'mon translation people.   Really?

Brilliant French Eye Drops: les Gouttes Bleues

There can be many signs that it's time for a return trip to Paris.

(One of the most cruel is that some prankster recently signed me up for email alerts to Météo-France, so every morning my email inbox lets me know the Paris daily weather forecast.  It actually says "Vos prévisions météo aujourd'hui" which to me officially translates as "Time to pack for France!")

Image via Innoxa

Another sure-fire indication is when my stock of only-in-France beauty supplies is depleted.  Now, my last drop of Gouttes Bleues -- French blue eye drops by Innoxa -- is gone.  Time to make the plane reservations.  Pronto.

You've never heard of les gouttes bleues?  Do you think it sounds weird to put blue drops in your eyes?  Won't it tint your vision?

I learned of les gouttes bleues the way I learned about most treasured classic French beauty regimens -- by seeing them on a friend's bathroom shelf, and asking nosy questions.  Voila!   Another secret of French beauty unveiled.  And so subtle.

Unlike Visine or other products that get the red out, les gouttes bleues are designed to make the whites whiter, much in the same way that laundresses of yore used bluing to make white cottons brilliant and white. (Actually it turns out that you still can find old-fashioned laundry bluing.)

It isn't weird or unusual -- you just drop a few soothing drops in the corner of your eye as you would with any eye-drop, only make sure you have some Kleenex for dabbing at the spillover, which is decidedly blue-tint.  It doesn't affect vision.  But it does improve others' vision of you.  Le look.  Le regard.

And it's an all-natural classic, having been around since 1950.

Eyes look brilliant, brighter and whiter -- which is what we want for the firing up when they see the whites of your eyes.  N'est-ce pas?

Do you know about this magical French oil?

Second Avenue in New York City may not have the same panache as Madison Avenue, or even Lexington or Third, but it now forever holds a spot in my francophile heart.

Striding down the sidewalk the other day, I caught a glimpse of something so totally French in a storefront window that I stopped in my tracks and entered.  It was a hair salon, and they were selling Nuxe Huile Prodigeuse Or, a product I had never seen outside of France. 

It had been a staple in my batterie de maquillage in France. Tested chez des copines, forever enamoured of the little bottle of gold. A little on the cheekbones.  A little on the hair. A little mixed in with the body lotion for that overall glow.  My French friends all knew the subtle beauty secret.

I had assumed that I'd have to wait until my next trip to France to re-stock. (Because, in a moment of  extreme maternal generosity,  I had offered the rest of my precious bottle to Miss Bee, who loved the stuff SO much.)

But.... how could I have presumed that Nuxe Huile Prodigieuse Or was not available in the U.S.?  Silly me!  This is New York.  New York has everything.  

But the best part?  I entered the salon, Marianne Vera, a beehive of activity, and headed straight for the Huile Prodigeuse in the window display.  The owner approached me and didn't even attempt English.  "Bonjour, je suis Marianne, je peux vous aider?"

We started jabbering away in French, and I was happy to have a new acquaintance in the neighborhood who understood French beauty products (and maybe, eventually, my hair?).

"But... but...  how did you know to address me in French?" I asked, bewildered.  "This never happened to me in France! Despite my efforts, I am always pegged as an American."

"Simple," she replied.  "Only Parisiennes see it in the store window and stop to buy the product.  Les Americaines don't know what it is."

But now you do.

How to Walk Like a Parisienne

Ladies, have you always longed to acquire the allure of a chic Parisienne walking along the Place Vendôme or the Champs Élysées?  Me too!  I adore walking, and especially walking in Paris.  The best exercise of all.

Here are a few tips, with photos to illustrate.  Oh, well, yes... they are from a Madame Figaro article from the late 1940s, liberally translated by yours truly.  But really, has that much changed?  Read on! (I'm off to do my basket-balancing exercises.)


Grace and physical allure are qualities that are more precious than the beauty of face or body. And did you know that nothing reveals more about the inner you? A physical bearing that is confident, free and easy, will never belong to a shy woman; and men simply are not drawn to a woman whose demeanor proclaims grumpiness.

There are nevertheless exercises that can help you achieve that allure: practice walking with basket on your head, juggling, jumping rope, walking on tip-toe.

Walk without hurrying. Relax, throw your shoulders back, plant the sole of the foot on the ground, and walking will be, even in the city, the most beneficial sport of all.

Don’ts (illustrated in photos):

1.  Certainly we have to open our stride from the hip, but, ladies, please:  taking “giant steps” is not pretty. And bending the knees makes walking exhausting.

2. L’air perché – the heel touching the ground before the toe reaches the pavement. Non, non!  And where is this pocketbook going, grasped in the fist like a dangerous projectile? And where is this doll going, arms and legs akimbo? Slow down!

3.  Oh, dear.  Drooping shoulders, hunched back, hollow chest, head bent over… this demoiselle glumly counts the cobble stones. This posture is just so sad.

4. Right-left, right-left, 2-3-4. Oh, no!  The hips swing back and forth, taking the jacket with them in their movement. Nothing less gracious than this swaying.

5.  Over-arched derrière, chest forward, arms going nowhere.  Does this young woman hope that her nose will arrive before she does?

The couture has certainly changed in the past 70 years... but does the posture advice still hold?

French Chic Book Giveaway

Weee-o!  (Or in French, ouais!) 

This is my first ever book giveaway!  In the past I have been supplied with books to read and review upon occasion; but this time the generous folks at Simon & Schuster have sent me an extra book to offer to readers of Polly-Vous Francais? in a Book Giveaway!

Drum-roll, please.

And this is not just any book.  It is Lessons from Madame Chic:  20 Stylish Secrets I Learned While Living in Paris by Jennifer L. Scott.

Okay, well, damn, I thought when I first heard about this book.  Or "Sniff!" as I wrote to the lovely  Simon & Schuster publicist who offered me the advance review copy, "This was the book I was going to write," I whined.  "Oh well, she who hesitates... blah blah."  So I swallowed my pride (and that half-written manuscript) and eagerly agreed to read the book and offer a book giveaway on ye blog.

Mardon me, Padame, but how the h** does one do a book giveaway?

Keep reading.

Of course one googles the phrase "Book Giveaway" and then picks from the best of the ideas and marches onward.

And so I present:  the Polly-Vous Francais first-ever book giveaway!

Are you still awake?  Would you like a free book?

If you'd like to learn how to be chic like the French women in this book, and get a free book which gives you all the details, simply leave a non-spam, non-anonymous comment below.  And while you're at it you can "like" our Facebook page!   I will print out all the names and cut their email addresses in little strips of paper and then place all the names in a beret before November 6 (the release date of the next edition) and then I will ask a random friend to extract the names from the beret.  Then the winner, selected at random, will be contacted.  Said winner will have to have enough confidence that I am not an axe-murderer to give me her (or his?) mailing address, and then I will send that winner a pristine copy of the wonderful Lessons from Madame Chic.  And I'll actually pay the postage.   And I actually promise to put it in the mail, unlike most of the other letters on my desk which have been languishing in the "to be mailed" pile for lo these many months.

But don't stop reading yet. You need the preliminary review!   Lessons from Madame Chic arrived in this afternoon's mail.  And I can't put it down.  It is a fabulous look at French savoir vivre.  Jennifer Scott never attempts to generalize or make stereotypes, but simply offers one view of chic French life as she observed from a year living in Paris with Madame and Monsieur Chic in the 16e arrondissement.  She balances it with great observations about Madame Bohemienne in the 11e.  No broad-brush "the French are this or that" statements, but simple and astute observations from her year in Paris.

I like that.

I think perhaps some cultural/social evolution has happened since the author first spent her junior year in France (most chic French women now wear jeans?), but this book is nevertheless a great resource, with helpful tips on how to incorporate French chic and practicality into your everyday life.  In every realm from fashion to food to family living to feeding your brain, with chapters such as "Exercise is Part of Living, Not a Chore." You'll be glad you read it. And I think you'll keep it on hand as a reference book.

So, my friends, submit comments below (and "like" us on Facebook for a plus) to qualify to win a free copy of Lessons from Madame Chic!  Comments (or new Facebook "likes") must happen before November 5.

The winner will be informed by November 6.

The Charm of Paris

Today I did something I've never done before.  I bought a charm for a charm bracelet.  Not just any charm, but a silver miniature Eiffel Tower.

I found it in a bowlful of charms for sale at an Upper East Side rummage sale, and it was perfect inspiration for a project that has long been on the back burner: to transform my childhood charm bracelet, and update it into a necklace.

When I was 12 or 13, my father gave me this sweet silver charm bracelet.

A horseshoe, for good luck, with my birthstone, a garnet, which has long been missing.  The great state of Tennessee, where I spent my early childhood.  A cruise ship, for the transatlantic trip our family took when I was five, ultimately arriving in Beirut to spend a year in Lebanon, where I learned my first French.  An airplane (don't you love the propellers?!) for all the shuttling back and forth between parents that made me an ace traveler at an early age.

This bracelet has been relegated to my keep-forever jewelry box, but never worn in many, many decades.  I don't really wear much silver jewelry, and noisy tinkling bracelets on my arm are so distracting.

BUT.  I've seen a few charm-bracelet necklaces with mixed gold and sterling charms and found them to be  ... charming!

So next all I need to do is to find a gold (fill?) chain like this at an appropriate length, and then add  meaningful charms as I find them.  I've already decided not to use any charms with enameled color, but to stick with gold and silver.

And now I have my Paris charm -- the Eiffel Tower.  Yes, a cliche, but so much more delicate than the Arc de Triomphe. Right?

What do you think?  Any advice?  I don't even know how to remove and add the charms.  I am a total novice in the jewelry-making hobby.

I need help for charm school!

Paris Patterns #2

Paris is a constant kaleidoscope. Of course there is the magnificence of  the 'capital-a' Art, grand architecture, and masterful sculpture; but there is also the adrenaline rush of people-watching, le lèche-vitrines (window shopping), patterns, and 'small-a' art everywhere.

In homage to small-a Parisian art, here are more Paris Patterns.
This time more linear, angular.


Lattice-weave mosaics on a doorway of a residence near Vavin in the 6e arrondissement.


Screws and nails on display at the Marché aux puces at Vanves.


Ceiling at the Sainte Chappelle.


Exterior mosaic of a café on boulevard St. Germain in the 7e.




Windows of an office building at Montparnasse.

The Tipping Point

1. Oy. Aie. Just when I think French-American fraternité seems to be getting back on an even keel, I stumble across this tidbit in the Love/Hate section of this week's Charleston City Paper. (The link is here.)

Poor waitperson. S/he deserves not only a hefty tip, but also a consoling pat on the back. We can only hope that the French tourists in question were freshly arrived on our shores, where (ahem) tipping in restaurants is de rigueur. Especially when the waitperson has been so helpful. We hope that someone will advise them that in the US, le service n’est pas compris, before they create a mini-international diplomatic rift.

Oh, the tipping conundrum! In France it’s never required, of course, since it’s included in the TVA/service compris. It is hard to shake the mindset sometimes, especially when you’ve just arrived on one side or the other of the Atlantic.

So, for what it's worth, here’s a brief guide to tipping in France.

I wonder if the French guys just couldn’t believe that American restaurants don’t use those handheld credit card machines.

2. Random observation having nothing to do with pourboires.

I love the fact that a “French tip” manicure didn’t really originate in France, so if you want that white-nailtip look from a nail salon in France you have to request “une French.”

One of these Things Is Not Like the Other

Go ahead and laugh. Laugh yourselves silly. Hahaha. What do I care?

We all did. How I remember tears streaming down our young cheeks, holding our sides because howling with glee for so long made our bellies hurt. Just hearing the tale of our grandmother inadvertently brushing her teeth with a dab of pale blue Head & Shoulders because it was in a toothpaste-shaped tube. Our unbridled hilarity about materfamilias misfortune. (Because she wasn’t the Fun Grandmother, she was the Other Grandmother.) Imagine, she washed her own mouth out with soap! We kids were thrilled.

So, like I said, go ahead and laugh at me.

Is it my fault if French cosmetics come in deceptively-shaped packages? Is it my fault that I don’t always wear my reading glasses in the bathroom because I’m trying to remove mascara?

Have you guessed which one is not like the other?

It’s the bottle of skin lotion in the middle. The other two are nail-polish remover.

Le Look: Le Book

I arrive, late as usual, at Marie's luminous apartment in the 16th, for our regular working meeting. Opening the door, she instantly apologizes after we trade our bisous. "Je suis desolée, I didn't sleep well last night, " she explains. "I look awful."

I examine the scenario. Marie has not a milligram of makeup on her lightly-tanned face. Her hair is pulled back in a pony-tail. "Tu me vois 'nature'," she laughs.

"This isn't fair," I am thinking. She looks fabulous. On a good day, when I've made a huge effort to pull together my face-hair-clothes French Look before our meetings, I still fail miserably in measuring up to Marie on a supposedly bad morning after a sleepless night. She's thrown on a Claudie Pierlot sweater, boot-cut jeans, high heels from Calypso, a silver charm bracelet, a beautiful ring. Elegant, svelte, understated chic.

Maybe I should give up all hope. Me? I'm wearing the usual American-in-Paris mish-mash, pulled together in a panic-induced half hour before I meet with the Queen of Chic. Jeans, heels, Gap deep-V top, skinny cardigan, hand-made necklace from a vente privée. But it still is ... too pedestrian. It's been like this every week for over a year since we've been collaborating on our book.

I've improved mon Look since the early days, most of the time, and now at least I know the major no-nos to avoid. But I despair a bit. The French transformation of Polly isn't an overnight phenomenon. If she's been coaching me all along as we write, and I am still so not with-it yet, how can we ever explain it in our book? Another how-do-you-do-it question for me to ask.

Our work pace is heating up now because a French literary agent might be interested in pitching our book to his roster of publishers. Oh, for a contract! This book project, where I ask Marie how anyone can learn the elements of being as Parisienne-chic as she is -- is it an impossible dream? She answers every question, no matter how absurd sounding... or personal. We write simultaneously as we discuss, she in French and I in English.

"Just now, when you spoke on the phone twice," I insist, "you used two very different voices for different conversations."

"I did?" she asks, surprised.

"Yes, both were for business, but with one person you were insistent, with another your voice was high-pitched and flowery." We drill down on the reasons for this. There is so much ineffable about being a Parisienne, why and how they are the world-famous chic charmers that they are. So many pieces to the puzzle. I want to know it all. Can I ever learn how? Can I ever learn how to adopt the charming aspects and appeals of a Parisienne while still retaining the positive elements of my easygoing American self, and articulate it to readers?

We've finished the summary and the introduction, have the chapters mapped out, and now are cranking through chapter-writing. It's hard work, this book, but it's also a lot of fun. Our Parisienne-scouting field trips are a riot. And it shows in the manuscript. I can hear our laughter of discovery in each paragraph. She is amazed that I ask about the smallest French feminine details which she takes for granted. I am impressed by how much her French elegance and chic is simply second nature to her. Each writing session is another step at bridging the gap.

Marie doesn't know that I've been taking notes on what she's wearing at each meeting. I check my observations from last week. It was the exact same outfit, just a floral print blouse, untucked, instead of today's sweater. Her staples. What looks good.

On the other hand, I sure hope she hasn't been keeping a log of my pathetic daily attire. I have, but I'm not spilling those beans. Not yet.

Desire to Please

Desir de plaire -- desire to please. Of course the -- uh -- words weren't what caught my eye as I headed down the sidewalk. Always checking for new windshield flyers for Pare-Brise du Jour, naturally I spotted this one. But believe me, anyone would have noticed her.

I've been in France for a while and really don't find pictures of nudity in public places startling or offensive in any way. So I don't know why I was so taken aback by this brochure. I guess the notion of its headline being "Desire to Please," and then it's clear that this woman's left hand is doing just that. It's not modesty that she's going for in this pose.

And anyone who says that the 7e arrondissement is stodgy and boring just needs to come on a stroll down the street with moi. Every car, up and down the street, with pictures of jaunty mademoiselle here having a good time underneath the windshield wiper. Flapping in the breeze.

This being a PG-13 family-style blog, I of course pasted rectangular virtual fig leaves over the racy bits. I hope it is appreciated that I color-coordinated with the text, at least!

Needless to say, the advertisement is for a "lose-two sizes-now-without-dieting" beauty center. "The liposuction alternative!" it crows.

So you can please someone else, en principe?

If the shoe fits

Pointure à la ligne! In this month’s Marie Claire, French journalist David Abiker reflects on his wife’s wall of shoes. And on French men’s and women’s relationships with women’s shoes.

I realize as I'm reading his column that in English we don’t have an equivalent verb for chausser, to put on or wear shoes. Shod, which is more befitting of a horse, doesn’t even come close. We don’t have a separate word for “shoe size,” which is pointure in French. The French relationship with shoes, according to Abiker, is another world.

So before you slip on your Birkenstocks or head to your Imelda Closet of Shame, here are a few of the salient points of his essay to ponder.

1. His wife’s wall of shoes is the architecture of her life, in a way. French women don’t buy just a shoe, he claims. They “put their foot in a parallel universe,” a life in color, to create a story, paint a picture. A woman's shoe is an intimate reflection of her femininity.

2. According to his brief survey, French men like on women:
1) high heels 2) tall boots 3) high heels. Period.

Why? It rounds the curve of the derrière, emphasizes the chest.

3. He says, “For girl-watching in the streets, all I have to do is follow a shoe. The other day I was awestruck by a high-heeled boot that I saw emerging from a big leather Gestapo-style trench coat. I didn’t even see her face. Didn’t even see the boot. I saw a movement and the drape of fabric on an insolent calf, heading across the crosswalk. Sometimes just a brief nothing is enough to drive me wild.”

Speculating on what other men are thinking of his wife while she’s at work, he muses, “Is that colleague watching her cross her legs and eyeing all the way to the tip of her shoe? Bastard!”

4. Abiker admits that sometimes he’d like to see his wife wear a pair of fire-engine-red patent-leather hooker heels, rather than the latest trendy pair of sober grey strappy pumps. But its more important for her to love the shoes she’s wearing. It affects – creates -- her mood, her allure.

5. He says “I can’t conceive of a woman being mal chaussée.” In general, worn or damaged shoes are simply unappealing. “It pains me,” he says, “ to see a woman wearing shoes that aren’t pretty. In every Frenchman there lies a Prince Charming waiting to help Cinderella find her perfect shoe.”

6. Ballerina flats: “Though I realize they are the latest fashion, at first I didn’t like them: no curves, no legs, no breasts.” Ditto for fat furry boots. But he says part of the appeal of any woman is when she knows she’s looking good. Makes the men want to run after her!

7. Simply put, the shoe makes the leg. And a François Truffaut line from The Man Who Loved Women:

“Les jambes des femmes sont des compas qui arpentent le globe terrestre en tous sens, lui donnant son équilibre et sont harmonie.”

"Women’s legs are like compass points, circling the globe in every sense and giving it its balance and harmony."

illustration from Marie Claire

Tingle to the Touch

"Tingle to the touch... of Jean Naté," the ads used to say. In the 1970s, Jean Naté Friction Pour le Bain was In. If you, too, were In, you splashed it on after a shower, you knew how to pronounce every syllable in French, you privately snickered at the girls who pronounced it Jeen Nate. For an adolescent female it was the ultimate in cheap glamour. It made me feel so French! So worldly! Slap on a navy blue beret and a little Jean Naté, and I was raring to go.

Of course, no one really paid attention to the fact that the company that produced Jean Naté was 100% American: Revlon. Sounded a bit French. Who cared?

Eventually most femme fatale-wannabes matured and moved on from the citrus-y, zingy carefree scent of Jean Naté, to find our own more sophisticated grown-up fragrance. I was peeved to discover recently that Revlon had changed the descriptor for Jean Naté. It is now "After-Bath Body Splash." B-O-R-I-N-G! What happened to the French? Friction sounds so ...suggestive, so je ne sais quoi.

At least the original friction pour le corps that Jean Naté was probably modeled on is still available in France. Le Friction de Foucaud. It's touted as an energizing tonic for men and women, with a new marketing strategy for active, sporty types. Still produced in Paris, for over 60 years, in the 14e arrondissement. I have a bottle that I bought at the pharmacie. And I certainly splash some on after every daily 3-hour cardio-abdo-pilates-yoga-powerplate work out. Every single time. I tingle to the touch.

But the search for a personal "signature" fragrance beyond Jean Naté has been a winding path. In my twenties and thirties, in my endless quest to be more French and thus more alluring, I spent years wearing Chanel No. 5. I continued for a long time, even after Candice Bergen's wildly popular Saturday Night Live parody of the classic Catherine Deneuve Chanel commercial.

Eventually I moved beyond the cliché that Chanel No. 5 had become, though I still revere its iconic place in French lore. About a decade ago, on advice from a French friend in the states, I spent a year trying a new eau de toilette each day or whatever fragrance du jour the department store cosmetics ladies were spritzing on unsuspecting passersby. I had to find the subtle one that suited me just so.

I'm no fragrance expert -- offhand, I still couldn't tell you the difference between eau de toilette and eau de cologne, for example. But I know that you have to wear what suits your body chemistry. First off, any perfume that precedes you when you enter a room: big no-no. Or one that makes you smell like your grandmother's hope chest. You have to see how it lingers on you, and never buy it at first scratch-n-sniff. Go for the alchemy, the magic, the mystery. Not the marketing. Finally, after revisiting my top five favorite eau de whatever, I settled happily on 24 Faubourg by Hermès, named for the address of the flagship store in Paris.

My little shopping secret: one of the side benefits to wearing 24 Faubourg is that it's about the least expensive item in the Hermès shop. I get treated just as royally as the next customer, even though I'm not waiting in line for a Birkin or a Kelly bag, or even a silk scarf. I exit the boutique toting my own little orange Hermès shopping bag.

The brief annual shopping-bag moment alone is worth it. Makes me feel tingly, that feminine frankly-I'm-worth-it feeling. A definite improvement over the old days, swinging a plastic CVS bag containing pseudo-French after-bath body splash.

Sometimes it's nice to be a grown-up, isn't it?

How Fuite it Is

As I was watching Claire Chazal, a popular news presenter on TF1, I thought, Damn, she looks pretty good, and she's about my age. I remembered having read in Paris Match or Gala last summer an interview with her in which she divulged her beauty regime for keeping her youthful good looks. I recalled something like a cold shower and 200 abdominal crunches every day.

Inspired, I started Googling like crazy to see if I could find the Magic of Claire. She's French, fiftyish, gorgeous, articulate, successful: what's not to imitate?

Well, I never found the Secrets, but I found another secret. La Sante au Feminin. Mostly a women's health web site, it has one rather insistent icon to click on: la fuite urinaire.

God, I just love the French language. It's so poetic. Une fuite urinaire. Sounds like a lilting piano melody, when it actually means -- yes -- incontinence. French is just sublime! Instead of a weak bladder, you have une faiblesse urinaire. Sounds like a Perrault fairy tale. Instead of Depends, there is a lovely line of products called Tena. That sounds like a garden party, not a diaper.

Think about it. Wouldn't you rather say "Oops, I've got a little fuite urinaire. Anyone have a spare Tena?"

But here's the amazing thing I found. One method of treatment for incontinence and other gynecological muscle problems: a little device called KEAT© (pronounced kay-ot). There is a video tutorial you can watch. And all you wise guys can stop cracking jokes right this minute that this looks like a vibrating thingy. It's way too small for that. It is for rééducation périnéale à domicile.

You gotta just adore French. A most mellifluous and charming language. There's no question that it's so much more elegant to say "I'm doing some rééducation périnéale à domicile" than "I gotta go home and do my kegel exercises."

But I still couldn't find Claire Chazal's French beauty secrets. Maybe this is one of them.

Have Yourself a Hair-Free Little Christmas

Paris has an abundance of instituts de beauté, beauty salons specializing in one form or another of spiffing up your body parts for everyday or for special events. Nails, soins de visage (facials), drainage lymphatique, gommage -- the gamut. All in the quest of the Holy Grail of more perfect beauty.

This windshield flier for laser hair removal caught my eye. First, a fifty-percent-off introductory price sounds good for starters. Second, no toe-curling wax strips to make you scream. Why, gee, this new technology laser hair-removal place sounds not bad at all! If you feel the urge, that is. And razors (in France at least) are sooo last century.

Then I started to do the math. Women seeking silky private and public parts have multiple price structures to fret over. And for the truly hirsute male, you could find yourself semi-permanently smoother than a Mexican hairless for a mere 2475 €. That's about $3725 at today's depressing exchange rate -- not including tip. Oops! There goes the holiday budget.

Lexicon:

(Of course you remember that ou means "or" and et means "and.")

Women
Lèvre supérieure - upper lip
Menton - chin
Bande de ventre - abdomen
Sillon fessier - er, buttocks crack
Aisselle - underarm
Maillot - bikini
Maillot brésilien - yup, a brazilian
Maillot intégral - the whole bit
Bras entier - whole arm
Avant-bras - forearm
Demi jambes - calves
Cuisses - thighs
Jambes entières -- entire legs

Men
Cou - neck
Main - hand
Doigts - fingers
Torse - upper body
Ventre -- belly
Epaule - shoulder

Hmm. A gift certificate could be the perfect stocking-stuffer for the favorite warm-and-fuzzy Teddy-Bear on your Christmas list.

This advertisement would normally have been an entry in my sidecar blog, Pare-Brise du Jour, but it was just too tendance to pass up.

13 details

I picked up a free copy of Marie France magazine the other day at the coiffeur. In this month's issue is a three-page Cosmo-like guide listing the female attributes that drive French men wild. "Les 13 détails qui les affolent". Written by Danièle Laufer with expert input from French psychiatrist Marc Adrien, and Philippe Brenot, author of Sexe et l'Amour. You can read the details in the magazine.

So ladies, read up. Here's the list. You men can go polish your golf clubs for a moment.

1. Curves. Les Rondeurs.

Stop obsessing about the scale. Really? Even in Paris?

2. Bedhead. Les cheveux en bataille.

It seems that men love hair that looks as if you've just gotten out of bed. So why was I at the coiffeur? Damn.

3. Short hair. Les cheveux courts.

As in short hair that men can run their fingers through. I remember something in Hemingway about this, too. Is Marie France trying to put coiffeurs out of business, I wonder?

4. A round derrière. La chute de reins bien cambrée.

This got me to thinking about phrases, actually. I wonder briefly why I never hear anyone in France refer to their posterior as their derrière; ironically, that term is mostly used in English. Also, "chute de reins" threw me for a loop. I'm finally figuring out that "les reins," in addition to meaning kidneys, also means "lower back". As in the brilliant movie Le Diner de cons where Thierry Lhermitte, who has thrown his back out, says he has a "tour de reins".

5. Pouty lips. La bouche pulpeuse.

Don't worry, if you don't want to pay for pricey injections for the Angelina Jolie bee-stung-lips look, the shrinks claim that a bit of gloss and keeping your mouth slightly open will have the same effect.

6. Hairy underarms. Les aisselles non epilées.

Evidently it's an aphrodisiac/hormonal effect that drives men bonkers. So no need to go to the centre d'epilation and get your armpits waxed, which is usually so de rigueur these days. I'm still so American; I wince whenever I even think of that painful option.

7. A small, well proportioned chest. Une petite poitrine parfaitement assumée.

Whew.

8. A copiously endowed chest. Une poitrine généreuse.

I think it's safe to assume that men like numbers 7 and 8, and let's hope that the mid-sized model is okay too. Marie France does say that leaving a bit of mystery is the key here. Just show a little decolletage, enough to get a man's mind wandering and wondering. A note to August vacationers: MF says men are more attracted to boobs covered in a bathing suit than to the naked knobs sunny side up on the beach.

9. A thong. Le string.

Now is the time to get this nomenclature all settled. In the US, pleeez, let's use only the word flip-flops for those sandals we wear. Thong is now the term to use for the undergarment that divides and conquers. In France, un string is the undergarment. Les tongs are this summer's uber-tendance foot wear. Hear those tongs as they flip-flop all over town and resorts.

10. Old fashioned cotton briefs. La culotte un peu grand.

Reverts to childhood fantasies, apparently. As long as it's Petit Bateau.

11. Great gams. Les jambes fuselées.

Makes the eye go up. And up.

12. Garter belts. Le porte-jarretelles.

Need we say more?

13. Spike heels. Les talons aiguilles.

Not sure I buy the idea that it makes women as tall as their men for subliminally easier approach. What if you're already tall? But I agree it does give an appealing curve to the calf. And keeps the podiatrists happy and well-paid.

Well, I'm exhausted from the possibilities. Time to head south on the TGV for some R&R.

Bonnes vacances!

Le Bon Mot

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Especially when living in a country where you think you know the language. And especially when you think you know the local argot.

Ensconced in the beautician's chair, listening as my cheery young coiffeuse regales me with stories of her sleep-deprived evening, initially I am mildly taken aback. I am not so sure that I want a woman who is functioning on double-espressos and three hours' sleep to be making major decisions about the length and long-term sculptural quality of my hair. But I can live with that. Valerie is so talented.

Lithe and exposing just a hint of tattoo on her flat midrift (which is right at my eye level), she prances around the swivel chair, laughing as she launches in on the reasons for her lack of sleep. "My husband and I got home from a dinner at midnight and started to papoter, papoter papoter, and the next thing we knew it was 5 am and we hadn't had a wink of sleep."

Hmmm. Papoter. Under my furrowing brow, my brain races through my mental French glossary. This is a relatively new word. Not one I learned in French class decades ago. I conjure up the mildest acceptable definition: to tap or strum lightly. I've read it in cosmetics information: e.g. to tap the face with your fingers. But it doesn't seem to fit - they tapped each other lightly with their fingers all night? Don't think so...

Then I scrape the recesses of my "I've- heard-this-somewhere" contextual language memory and come up with a similar sounding word, but I think it means, er, to caress erotically.

I nod and chuckle amicalement. She is a bit of a wild character, that Valerie, but I love her. Always le bon mot. The stand-up comic of the salon. But would she really be confiding in me that she and her husband were in the midst of conjugal groping all night and that's why she's so exhausted? I wonder, I fret, I ignore, I give a little Americo-Gallic shrug and keep smiling.

Haircut gloriously finished, generous tip to Valerie plunked down, I wend my way home.

I head straight to the bookshelf to look up the answer in Le Petit Robert. Whew. Papoter means to chat. They were up gabbing all night!

Tapoter means to tap. Se tripoter means...yeah, that.

Shaken, not Stirred

During my summers as a kid in Tennessee we used to go over to my cousins' house and play with Aunt Betty's Vibrabelt. (Ahem, you wise guys: it's not that kind of vibrating thingy. Get your minds out of the gutter.) It was one of those contraptions for spot-reducing that, as its name suggests, had a vibrating belt that you looped around your derriere and let it shimmy away the fat. In theory.

We cousins mostly goofed around and set it on high to make our voices jiggle when we talked as we leaned our backsides into the wide shivering belt. Far from slimming myself in those chubby pre-teen days, the only result I noticed was a sudden urge to pee. Aunt Betty, on the other hand, was a true Vibrabelt devotee. I can see her now, hair perfectly coiffed, laughing in her luscious throaty Southern drawl and deeply inhaling her Salem menthols while her bum was shimmering away at 100 rpm. Oh, Aunt Betty. She was so glamorous. She had perfect nails and central air conditioning.

In a Proustian-madeleine-dunking way I conjured up vivid images of Aunt Betty today when I visited the newly opened Powea Power-Plate center http://www.powea.fr/ around the corner from me on rue Pierre Leroux. Power Plate is the buzz to beat all buzz, so tendance with the I-need-instant-fitness crowd. In fact, I'm still buzzing a bit from the experience, but more in a literal sense. Either you know all about Power Plate or you've never heard of it, apparently. I only knew what I had seen in a French chic flick and read in fashion magazines, so I was a wide-eyed novice.

Charming, effervescent Regine Petit, the coach who was running the sleek boutique, led me through the motions -- and quelle motions! -- on the big vibrating plate. Regine was delighted to find out I was American and begged to do the session in English. (I used to bristle at such efforts in my naive desire to masquerade as a Parisienne. Now I find I don't mind that sort of request any more -- I know I'll have ample time to practice my impeccable French.) So we swapped vocab while she coached me: you know, technical terms like buttocks and pelvic tilt. I stood on that big plate and held on for dear life while my eyeballs rattled and my thigh muscles really began to burn. And except for the fact that I tend to forget to breathe when exercising (a minor drawback leading to turning beet red) it was a pleasant experience.

According to Regine I accomplished 1-1/2 hours of exercise in the 30-minute session.
She explained that the machine also helps with stretching, improving circulation and lymphatic drainage, and bone density. My muscles feel as though I just trekked the Himalayas. If Powea's Power-Plate is everything they claim, I'll be as glamorous as Aunt Betty in no time. And maybe more svelte.

Free half-hour trial session by filling out this coupon and calling for a reservation.

Powea Power Plate
21 bis rue Pierre Leroux
75007 Paris
tel 01 56 58 23 10

Another French Paradox

I've discovered a new French Paradox. I took part in it. Yes, a paradox because it is, at once, the most French and the most un-French thing I've done in the 8 months that I've been in Paris. And I paid to do it:

Facial gymnastics.

Here is the scenario. Four parisiennes and me, sitting around a formal dining room table in a swish but hip comme il faut apartment in the 16th arrondissement. We had enrolled in the class through a group called La Belle Ecole. Catherine Pez, our instructor, tells us her story. She's 58, her doctor husband had long ago banned any form of plastic surgery, so she had to invent her own way of preserving her looks. She thought she was doing fine until 3 years ago when her dermatologist told her that her neck looked like chair de poule (chicken flesh). That launched her into action. She investigated facial exercises from all parts of the world, adopted the best ones, and became so renowned for having restored her youthful appearance that she started giving lessons and, of course, wrote a book. http://gymnastiquefaciale.com/

So, where is the paradox? Mais oui -- in order to become beautiful and wrinkle-free, we had to spend two hours making the most hideous grimaces and facial contortions. An American and four French women sticking their tongues out at each other, and enjoying it. And if we want to keep our faces maiden-smooth and taut, and scalpel-free, we'll have to do at least 15 minutes of the terrifying facial feats daily.

And who said the French don't know how to celebrate Halloween?