Jenna’s Model Life

The Turkish Giant and I found some common ground recently: Orhan Pamuk. Istanbul. And Desperate Housewives — which is, in whatever season is currently running in France, doing a cancer storyline, a fake-pregnancy storyline, a teen pregnancy storyline, two marriage storylines, and innumerable adultery storylines. I’m waiting for an evil twin to pop up to be absolutely sure it’s jumped the shark.

TG and I watched with a similar sort of bemusement, both having found the show late and enjoyed the campy, pitch-perfect first season on DVD. She shared a bottle of red wine, and I became willing to conclude that, as two somewhat strongminded types, perhaps our problem all along originated in our similarities rather than our differences. That and the problem that she hid my clothes. But she did apologise, so, you know.

The shoot last week was fun, aside from the 1-hour walking commute (pity the Scientist: He’s been walking two hours each way to the Institut Pasteur every day). This strike is making me murderous. I understand that driving a train used to involve shoveling coal and contact with dangerous machinery and other things that made retirement at 50 an earned perk: But driving a train, especially urban light rail, is now one of those ridiculous government-funded button-pushing jobs that leftists such as myself are supposed to natively want to protect. Tripling my daily walking distance for a week-plus does not endear me to your cause. Instead of supporting you and your ridiculously generous pension scheme, train drivers of France, right now I am quietly hoping that technology will (continue to) render you totally unnecessary. See: Ligne 14. You have been warned.

Last Thursday, aside from that: They took my picture. I got to be the smiling girl of the editorial — an effect achieved by the photographer and the fashion editor wearing a variety of funny hats from off the accessories table. The hairdresser combed me, mussed my fringe, told me I was beautiful and pronounced me ready to go. The makeup artist gave me a manicure which, astoundingly, is still 95% in place as I type this. My hair proved long enough to preserve my modesty (or, rather, to hide my concave chest from the world) in the requisite topless shots. I ate some delicious lamb rogan josh for lunch. And wore some killer Chanel sandals. A good day.

The Australian left yesterday, and in fact should be touching down to 30-degree weather in beautiful Brisbane in about an hour. Her trip to shoot an editorial in Morocco was wonderful — she rode a moviestar camel, slept in the desert, breakfasted on apple-orange-cinnamon jam, etc — and I only envied her a teeny bit (I have wanted to go back to Morocco basically ever since I left in 1998). Her last day here in Paris, we went out for lunch at our favourite bakery, got terrible service and wonderful food, and it was just really nice. I’m happy she gets to see her loved ones. Still miss her though.