Don’t “F” with the French Darling…

Did you hear the bitchiest news out of Fashion Week? It happened at Zac Posen, involved French and American relations and ended with an infamous quote, “Don’t f— with the French!” No lie, this happened. Oh, if only I could have borne witness, to pay homage to the importance of fashion across all continents!

The Americans and French have been taking jabs at each other for so long we don’t remember why. Basically, we in the United States don’t take kindly to countries that refuse to bow down to us after we save their asses in a World War and give them back their country. That’s what we’re mad about–World War II. We have a long memory. They have a long history of bowing down to no one, mostly because their men are so short their haughty gaze would look down on nothing but sidewalk.

Which is a funny thing. Yes, the French are arrogant. Yes, some of them smell. For some reason, short French men think odour might be endearing. Hmmm. Yes, their woman are impossibly thin. Yes, they have noon time trysts. Yes, they drink wine from birth. Yes, they wear exquisite under things and pay half a months salary for them. Yes, they grasp the quality over quantity concept and will wear the same blouse all week because it is the very best they can afford and would rather die in the street like a small rodent than wear “off the street.” You won’t find Marshall’s or TJ Maxx on the streets of Paris my dears.

But, take heed. When it comes to fashion the truth is, bow down girlfriends, bow down. If you have meandered the streets of Paris, the rues of Nice or the breathtakingly stunning view when one first spies the Port of Hercule in Monaco, you know we have been trounced. We should just get out of the game. Perhaps it is the beauty of their land that inspires the beauty of their clothing. Whatever, the French have got it going on, whether dressing up or dressing down. And all hail the place where pearls became a mainstay. A million thanks Goddess Coco.

We have dear Coco to thank for heaps of pearls that make us divine. We have Givenchy to thank for exquisite silks in perfect shades to match our overcoats and cover our sagging necks. We heap adoration on Hermes while we gladly sign up to wait eight years for a bag. Who can ignore a Dior suit or Chanel’s interior chain that explains the flow and drape of the perfect fit. Coco, darling, thank you for liberating us from the constraint of corsets. On and on we could continue; thanking Gauthier, LaCroix and Rykiel.

One who is not French but resides there and has taken on Francophile nastiness is Karl “The Mean” Lagerfeld. The man will simply not recover, ever, from calling Adele fat. Nothing worse than a formerly fat man casting aspersions on women more talented and lovely than he. Did you learn nothing Karl dear in ’93 when the great Anna walked out of your show as strippers mounted the runway? Silly boy. And to take on dear Pippa–the sister of the future queen. This from a man clearly passed his prime sporting a pony tail. Pfft.

Evidently a certain PR person in New York either has not studied or did not get the memo that the French were in the house at Zac Posen last week. The story takes on a level of deliciousness one can only imagine. It is a story that should begin with, “And then this bitch,” prompting you to pour a drink and pull up a chair.

Jennifer Eymere is the editor of the French mag, Jalouse, which means, you guessed it, jealous, to be jealous of. Snarky, non? Anyhoo, limited seating at Zac Posen left poor Jennifer’s mother without a seat. As any French fashionista might do, she called over the PR person at the show, Lynnn Tesoro. I do not know of her but evidently she is big deal in New York PR, which could mean just about anything. You know how I feel about New Yorkers. Get rid of that accent and I’ll actually believe you have a brain in your head. Tesoro evidently did not take kindly to being yelled at publicly, being a New Yorker and all. (Pot meet kettle?) When Tesoro yelled back, Eymere slapped her. No shit. Right across the face, right there in what I’m assuming was a pretty front row area–slapped her. Why am I never there for the good stuff?

It gets better. Eymere, not bothered a bit, said mais oui, but of course, I slapped the bitch. She embarrassed my mother. Don’t you know who we are? (She stole that from me.) But here’s the best part. Are you ready? She actually said, “It was a small slap. It was not strong. I didn’t hurt her, it was just to humiliate her.” The French are masters of the slap, non? This would have only been better if done with a pair of leather gloves in her hand. But there’s more–really. I know, squeal.

She went on, “Voila. Now you know you don’t fuck with French people.” Case closed. Ha. I am giddy with fashion snarkiness. My heart is beating faster and I am lmao-ing while I write. Of course, this being an American PR person, she is suing for a million dollars, claiming assault, battery, emotional distress, slander and/or libel. I’ve never heard of and/or libel but no doubt Jalouse will be paying up, this being the slap heard round the world and all.

I am tempted to call Ms. Eymere and ask how much for lessons so I can take this method to my friends at the IRS, slap them soundly with my glove and stomp off in my Dior suit and stadium pumps. Day made.