memoirs by me

memoirs by me

I knew I would be a palentologist by age five, I would bury my dad's car keys in the backyard and excavate them months later. In high school, I took samples from the tiles of

the corridor. I explained to the principal someday nothing would be left of the school but these tiles & a few skeletons. I just wanted to be like Indiana Jones, but the truant

But I knew I had to placate him. "Look buddy, can't we just pretend that nothing happened here?" I asked the truculant truant officer. "Let's just go have a beer or something, OK?"

"'Buddy'? I'm no one's buddy, ma'am," said the officer. I, aghast, removed my wig and lipstick. "I'm no one's ma'am, sir, but I'll gladly be your man." "I don't date speeders."

"And I don't date pigs." With that, I threw the wig in his face, pushed the turbo button and left him in the dust. I realized that without lipstick, I was just another dude in a

pair of slacks with a heart full of nails. Chanel Rouge Noir was needed BOTH on my lips and fingers. I took the overnight flight to Paris. Stubble is enhanced by the berry lipstick

, at least that's what my friend Alain from work says. I rushed from Charles de Gaulle Airport to Le BHV Marais, in search of that perfect berry hue of nail lacquer and lipstick.

"There is no such thing as a perfect berry," said the girl at the counter. "The closest color we have to a theoretical perfect berry is contusionnée ivrogne." Life is compromise.