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This Month: Springtime in Paris. The daffodils, roses, magnolias and linden trees simply bursting with heavenly colours and smells make April in Paris so perfect that not even an attentive and loving husband could ruin it. It reminds me of the first enchanted spring days of my childhood at La Paumardiere, when I used to watch my father caring for the horses, rams and bulls, and I'd hop up and down like a little bunny and beg "Papa, please let me use the emasculator." And it has been a stellar time for France, with victories at home-Nicolas' triumph over a creepy foreign enemy at the National Livestock Show (Foreign Enemy: "Don't touch me, you soil me when you do." Nicolas, ever the grand statesman: "So get lost, mother f%cker." (www.youtube.com/watch)-and abroad: after conquering America with an Oscar, we conquered England with a brilliant visit in late March, and I haven't felt such a bounce in my step since last year's fashion week in Paris when I saw American Vogue editor Anna Wintour's ten-foot black pashmina get caught under the revolving door at the Ritz and watched her being dragged around repeatedly to bloodied unconsciousness before finally being spewed out onto the place Vendôme during the garbage strike and I rushed to her and said "Why bangs?" MARCH Bonjour, mes chéries! You won't believe it. Carla Bruni-Sarkozy and I were having our claws sharpened two weeks ago at Carita-—there's nothing like a mani-pedi with your BGF to make you relax, I mean other than a Top of the Pops mix of monoamine oxidase inhibitors in a bottle of perfectly chilled Taittinger brut rosé prestige, of course—when she turned to me and said "Loulou darling, I have wonderful news. Nicolas told me that I'm pregnant!" I let out a little squeal and said "A baby in the Elysée palace!" This, I told Carla, is going to be like that magical time of Camelot that all of us here in France remember from the adorable images of little John-John Kennedy peeking out from beneath the skirt of Marilyn Monroe in the Oval Office while his mother sat out on the Truman Balcony getting hammered and it made me nostalgic for those first days of autumn in Paris each year when we would send the children off to school with their new book satchels and crayons and cigarettes. How I miss hearing them ask all of those precious, unanswerable questions that delight mothers everywhere: "Maman, what does God look like?" and "Maman, what's the difference between a president and a rich thug with bodyguards?"and "Maman, where does the sun go sleepy-bye?" and "Maman, what's the difference between a church leader and a corporate shill for the pedophile industry?" So sweet! FULL STORY FEBRUARY Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni's Secret Wedding!
OMG BGF FLF! as I said in the text message that I sent to many of you late last night. And I still can't believe it. As of 7 p.m. yesterday, Carla Bruni, my best girlfriend ever since we met at the age of twelve at L'Etourneau boarding school in Switzerland, where we shared tears, laughter, phenylcyclohexylpiperidine and lymphogranuloma, is now the First Lady of France. Yes, the Carla Bruni: former model, singer-songwriter and muse to the rich and famous, actually married my old and dear friend President Nicolas Sarkozy in a secret ceremony here at my home in the rue de Varenne. Carla and I are proud to call each other best friends: we're both beautiful, talented, well-educated and chic, but above all we care deeply about each other. Carla helps me to feel better about myself and I try to help Carla to be less of a whore. FULL STORY
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COLUMNS
- 60, rue Varenne: Postcard from Paris
- Bride Dish by Christina Delia
- Goddess Horoscopes by Debra Victoroff
- Godmother by Pamela Monk
- Science by Emma Rowley
- Special Reports by Kate Heidel
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