The French Girl’s Guide to Holiday Gifting

Note to self: Never buy a French woman a water pitcher for Christmas.

Last December, a Parisian girlfriend received a simple glass carafe from a man she had just started dating, his reasoning being that she was “always thirsty.” This well-intended household object served as a running joke for months to come, earning the poor fellow endless mockery among her inner circle. The gift, she explained, was “impersonal, generic, and banal,” making it the worst of all French evils. Turns out, holiday gifting is yet another endeavor that the French have elevated to an intricate art form, one that doesn’t stand for shortcuts—or, evidently, water pitchers.

The No-Cuffing Guide to Winter Survival

Those Who Can't Do, Teach · by Marina Khorosh

Do you remember Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield of Sweet Valley High, i.e. the Jekyll & Hyde of the paperback series generation? Jessica was a dazzling and ruthless b*tch who could mesmerize any man with one impeccably-calculated stare. Her twin sister, Elizabeth, was a mind-numbingly boring model citizen who scared off men with her prudishness (all with the exception of one basic vanilla boyfriend named Todd). They looked the same, but they were polar opposites.

I have come to the conclusion that Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield are the Summer and Winter Me.

The Rise of the Star F*cker

Typecasting · by Marina Khorosh

When I was a little girl, my mother urged me to work hard and do well in school so that I would grow up and get a good job and make heaps of money and never have to depend on a man to support me. (The result? Questionable, although I can assure you that no man has ever so much as hinted at his desire to support me.) To the best of my recollection, never did she advise me to get a good job and make lots of money in order to attract a man, which goes to show that the world may have changed dramatically over the past 20+ years.

The Dbag Dating Guide to Southern Boys

Typecasting · by Marina Khorosh

Who else remembers Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash, cajoling Reese Witherspoon into agreeing to marry him in front of a mass audience? “June, you’re my best friend. Marry me.” he poignantly drawled, and the crowd cheered, and our hearts skipped a beat, and Southern men were never the same again.

This vision was fresh on my mind when I headed down to Nashville, Tennessee over the Winter Break, joining some friends in the exploration of all things country, cowboys included. Always on the investigative prowl, I made it my mission to talk to as many lads as possible, mainly by forcing them into the popular local activity of playing pool. (The other option would have been the popular local activity of singing karaoke, but I usually reserve that for enemies that I want to leave deaf.) Below is my takeaway, spruced up with some notes from an anonymous southern friend!

Adonis the Architect

Misery Loves Company, Typecasting · by Flora Alexandra

This story is brought to you by Flora Alexandra, the London-based founder of Arteviste.com.

This is not a love story, but the sorry tale of l’eboueur (a fancy French word for “bin man”), who arrived on the scene during one fine Parisian summer a couple of years ago. Over my summers of living in the 10^th Arrondissement, I had the pleasure of dating a broad spectrum of Parisian hipsters, many of whom were well-acquainted with the popular national concept of ‘les pieux mensonges’ – little white lies. And yet, none proved to be as amusing as J, the bearded bachelor who emerged from the darkness of Nüba, an uncharacteristically bobo haunt on the Left Bank.

The French Girl’s Guide to New Year’s Resolutions

DD x Vogue · by Marina Khorosh

It is often said that nobody does life on earth better than the French. If this is true, then the holidays must be the pinnacle of this journey, complete with gluttonous feasts and debaucherous parties to rival no others. But what comes after, when the Dom Pérignon buzz fades and the New Year rolls in? Does the accompanying spirit of new beginnings and quest for self-improvement reach French turf, or is this yet another banal pursuit that this nation is (enviably) resilient to?