So despite the book, and my self-imposed isolation, I got dressed and went to the airport, and took the dog, and it was such a thrill to see her bounce out of the airport after her ski weekend. (Even though I lent her ski clothes she made fun of!! But wore anyway. She had the nerve to call them ‘vintage’!!! My favorite ski suits imagine that!!) She climbed into my car, and we spent an hour and a half talking and laughing and gossiping, and chuckling, and having a good time, talking about nothing in particular, and enjoying each other, and even hugging and holding hands, and trying to figure out when we can next see each other. It was just perfect, and really fun, and I was so happy I had decided to go out to the airport, and not worry about the book!! She is sooooo MUCH more important than a book, all of my kids are!!!

The moment came at last when she had to check in for her next flight, and I walked her into the airport with a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart. I hated to see her leave. The little time we had together had been so sweet. We hugged about five more times at the entrance to security, and I reached out for just one more. And then she went through security with her carry-on and her dog. I had tears in my eyes. She’s in her 20′s, but they remain our babies forever, no matter how grown up they are. As I stood gazing at her going through security, like a watchful mother hen, an incredibly grumpy security man told me to move away (as though I was a threat to airport security, waving at my daughter, a harmless woman with tears in her eyes.)  I stepped aside, blew a few more kisses and waved again, and that really pissed him off, scowling at me he told me to move far away, and pointed to a distant corner, where I could still see her through the glass wall. He must have had a really bad day, or a miserable life. In any case, I moved, and found myself standing next to a Greek man, waving just as frantically at his daughter, who looked about the same age. “Your daughter?” He asked me and I said yes, “Me too,” he said, “she lives in Vancouver”. I told him mine lived in LA. And the two of us were waving and blowing kisses at our two girls, who were blowing kisses and waving back. I was suddenly reminded of leaving her on the first day of school in Kindergarten, or standing mesmerized at the window of the hospital nursery where they are so brand new. Nothing had changed. We loved them just as much, and seeing them leave was clearly hard for both of us and our girls. (My family travels a lot, as do I and I normally don’t go to airports to see them off, but this special moment was like a gift when I could have an hour or two with my daughter in the midst of her travels, when I might not see her for another month or two).  “They’ll always be our babies”, the man commented next to me, and we chatted then about how old they are, what they do for work, how often we see them, as we continued to wave through the glass wall, and our girls continued to wave back. And then finally, they passed to the other side of security and we couldn’t see them anymore. I saw that the man had the same tears in his eyes that I did, and surely the same lump in his throat, as his daughter disappeared. “Good luck”, he said wistfully, and we shook hands…..good luck with watching them grow up….saying goodbye….watching them leave…..standing in an airport all alone, and wishing you could turn the clock back to another time, when they still lived at home, and you never had to say goodbye.  I went back to my car and drove home, thinking how lucky I was to have these precious moments with a child I love, and how blessed I am when I see them, for however little time and far too seldom, living in different cities now from several of them. That 90 minutes of hugging and talking and laughing today really was a gift, an island of joy in a turbulent world. And all I could think was Thank God, I stopped working and went to the airport to see her, even for a short time, even if it slows the flow of “genius” for an hour or two—who cares??? I was so grateful for that time with my daughter, and that I’d been smart enough to seize it, with the excuse of taking her dog. The Greek man I chatted with had the same feeling I did, of how lucky we were. Such tiny precious moments…..I will never forget them, they go in a memory book of motherhood and get tucked deep into my heart. And on the way home, she texted me from the plane, and felt the same way I did, of how lucky we had been to have those precious moments today…..I smiled through my tears when I read it…..what a beautiful day.

I’ve had all kinds of Christmases, both good and bad, starting with lavish ones as a child, in the German traditions of my father (he loved Christmas!!!), but I had no mother to share them with, since my mother left when I was 6, which was a gaping hole in my life then, as a young child. I had happy Christmases at the beginning of my marriage, and sad ones at the end. And a few completely alone when, divorced, I had a young daughter who went to visit her father in France every other year, and I just sat home and cried, alone. I have had fairy tale Christmases, surrounded by my many children when they were young, when everything went the way it was supposed to and most people dream of….and then the shattering Christmas, 3 months after I lost my son, when we all sat paralyzed with grief. To try and lighten the mood, I decided to give an ice skating party for my friends and their kids. It didn’t fill the void, but reminded my family that life goes on, and there is still laughter and love and fun in our lives, surrounding ourselves with good friends. I’ve had romantic Christmases and some really depressing ones, since I’ve been single….the man I loved passionately (and later married) who decided that being in Antarctica was more fun than being with me, so he spent the holiday with penguins, and I wound up alone that year, an all-time low. Even in a good, happy, wholesome life with family and a solid marriage, Christmas isn’t perfect every year, and I’ve spent enough hard ones to be sensitive to the fact that the holidays are really tough for some people, particularly if they’ve encountered disappointment or loss, or are alone. There are a lot of lonely people in the world, and contrary to common belief, having a family isn’t always a guarantee that the holiday will be great. Some of us go home to parents we never got along with in the first place, and all the same problems surface again, or siblings we have nothing in common with, or we have to send children to a divorced spouse, and sometimes we are just so stressed out that we wind up fighting with people we love, in spite of good intentions. Truly, despite my many children, I know how hard holidays can be, and they underline the fact that we’re alone, or what’s not going right in our lives.

There are several ways to view how to handle difficult holidays. Forget them: not always so easy to do, with Jingle Bells playing in every elevator and supermarket, and a Santa with his beard askew on every corner. (And shouting obscenities at street corner Santas, and taking our frustrations out on him is not considered ‘cool’).  You can spend the holidays with good friends and people you really like to be with, which is a warm way to spend it. Or remember that it is one day, and not a year long. You can get through one tough day, you’ve done it before. And gratitude for what you do have: even if it’s not perfect, there must be ONE thing you can be grateful for. One particularly awful year many years ago, the only thing I could think of to be grateful for was a new pair of shoes I had bought myself and loved (that was a particularly low year). And also, giving up your time to people less fortunate and in great need. I’ve spent many nights in my years of street outreach, with the homeless, and let me tell you, seeing the misery they’re in will wake you up to just how lucky you are to even come home to a warm bed. I don’t think fabulous holidays just happen in many lives, I think sometimes we have to work at keeping our spirits up, and making the holiday good for others. Usually, when I stop worrying about how happy I’ll be, and just concentrate on making others happy, I wind up happier myself. (Some of my Christmas dreams and wishes have been slow in coming, or Santa lost my list along the way, but I have so many things/people to be grateful for that in the end I feel blessed anyway). Maybe the answer to better holidays is to try to avoid the things that stress you most, if possible, and depress you, and make sure you do some of the things that are really meaningful to you and make you happy, whatever that is. I have spent Christmases in poverty (in my early writing years) and in wealth, and although it’s a great feeling to be able to buy somebody a great gift you know they want, the year that I bought items and furniture in junk stores and refinished them for people I loved was one of my best years. I worked so hard on gifts I hoped they’d love. (As for what I get, it’s often weird. People view me as having ‘so much’ or ‘everything’ that it intimidates them, so they give me nothing, or a candle—-or a fruit cake!!! (I accept chocolate all year round), what they don’t realize is how touched I am by small thoughtful gifts, however small. And there is always one gift every year, which touches my heart, and shows that someone cares and knows me well. Maybe that’s all that really matters, showing the people you care about that you’re thinking about them and care about them. Even a phone call to a beloved friend can show them that at the right time.) Anyway, try and plan a little so that the hard parts of Christmas don’t hit you quite so hard. And I’ll try to do the same!!! And if your family drives you crazy, try to shield yourself as best you can, so they don’t ruin the holiday for you, and remember that you only have to put up with them for a day or two. I never went home to my parents for the holidays after I was married, but if I had, it would have been miserable for me. (And at some point, you have to give up torturing yourself, even for a good cause, and do what’s right and good for you. You have a right to spend the holidays with who you want to be with, not people who are unkind to you, if that’s the case, and make you feel worse).  Try to shelve the old bad memories, and just focus on today. You can get through today. One day at a time, as they say.

I hope that your holidays will be fantastic. And for those of you who have the kind of Christmas we see on a Christmas card, you don’t need my help, support, or advice. But for those of you for whom the holidays are challenging, I will keep you in my thoughts. Most people don’t have such an easy time with the holidays, even though we think they do. Life is not a greeting card; sometimes it’s all too real!!!

Your mission (and mine) is to find something we love about these holidays, something to be grateful for, something fun to do (even if it’s watching your favorite TV show or old movie, with a bowl of popcorn you made yourself!!). Be good to yourself, no matter what Santa does, or how annoying your family might be, or how alone you feel. We are all in this together. May your holidays be blessed in ways you never expected, cherish the tiny moments, and the joys. I wish you the happiest of holidays…and I hope Santa comes through for you!!!

With much love, Danielle

Like everyone else, I get down in the dumps sometimes, with life’s up and downs (and sometimes more downs than ups). And we all have our ways of dealing with it, and how we pull ourselves out of a slump….talk to a friend, indulge ourselves for a while (sometimes I go shopping when I’m feeling sorry for myself…buying shoes can cheer me up). Other times, it takes more effort to rev our engines up again. When a slew of things knock us down, it can take a while to get back up.  And although it’s not for everyone, I’ve mentioned before that I’m religious. That’s a very personal choice, and it works for me, and keeps me afloat, on a daily basis, and particularly in bad times. I don’t sell it to anyone, it just works for me. I’ve been married to an atheist, and a non-practicing Catholic, and I’ve never expected anyone (not even my children) to follow what I do. It is an entirely personal choice. So I’m not selling it to you either.

A few years ago, while staying in a hotel in New York, I flipped through the channels of the TV and came across a young minister doing a TV show. He was from Texas, but it wasn’t religion of the bible-thumping variety. But just a very positive, practical view of life, which really touched me—and would have made sense even without religion. It was a way of looking at things, of focusing on the positive, rather than the negative, and being grateful for what’s right in our lives, rather than dwelling on what’s wrong. I loved what he said. His name was Joel Osteen. And not long after, again while travelling, and walking through an airport, I saw a book he’d written and bought it. The book became a #1 bestseller, and I loved it. It was that same warm, practical, positive philosophy I’d seen and heard when I saw him on TV.

I just finished his third book today, and I loved this one too. He reminds one that even if your life seems to be in the pits right now—-any minute it could turn around. Your health could improve, you could get a better job, your marriage might get better, or you may finally find the man or woman you’ve been looking for. What he gives in his books is Hope, something I think is so essential in life. And it’s easy to lose hope sometimes, we’ve all done it. I have. Maybe you have too. When things just get so bad, you think you can’t stand it anymore. The death of someone you love, the end of a marriage, a bad divorce, money troubles, a child you are desperately worried about, or a serious health problem, or even a slew of smaller problems that add up, or a failed romance, or you’ve just had too many disappointments in your life. Or sometimes just an overlay of gray on your life. We forget that things could, might, and will get better again, that things will shift and improve. I forget that anyway, when things are looking bleak, and they have at times, I think it’s ‘all over’, and it will be that way forever.  In his books, Joel Osteen gently turns you around to see a different view, a different side of things, a better perspective. His books really work for me. They pull me right out of the dumps and get me back on my feet and headed in the right direction. Even without the religious aspect or inspiration, his positive philosophy really does make sense, and gives me hope, and the tools and inspiration to look at things more positively again.

When I finished his book today, I had the same feeling of hope I had after reading his other books….and I found myself thinking….Yeah, I really CAN do it….yes, it will be okay….and that the knotty problem of the moment could and will improve. He reminds you that your dreams can come true, that the ‘curses’ people put on us (family beliefs, or bad things people have said to us) have no power, and can’t hold us back.  I love thinking that my dreams will come true.

Something he said toward the end of this book rang a chord of memory for me, like a giant reminder. It was like having a window thrown open and seeing bright sunlight, instead of a gray drizzly day. He said “The best is yet to come”. And you know what? I believed him. He did it again. I don’t care how old you are, or how scared you are, or how sad you are, or how bad it’s been, it CAN get better and there is always hope. So I am sharing that with you, and wanted to remind you of it. I needed the reminder too. I felt as though I’d been lifted up when I read it, and was almost saying to myself “Yes…..that’s right!!!….” So now I’m telling you, the best is yet to come. I believe it, and I hope you do too. It helps hearing it, and remembering it, even in tough times…..the best is yet to come!!!

Love, Danielle

Meanwhile, I have one daughter who, like her older brother Nick was, is obsessed with music. She has very definite, distinctive tastes, is knowledgeable about current music, and seems to know every band playing. She goes out to some form of music show every night (she’s a senior in college). Music is her passion!!! She also knows all the venues, and she never invites me to join her at the concerts and shows she goes to. That’s HER world!!! And I respect that. But recently, she made an exception, and invited me to join her at a concert on her birthday, along with some of her friends. (I almost never achieve ‘cool’ status when my kids are younger. I only get slightly more ‘cool’ as they get older!! And more tolerant!!). I was very excited to be invited to a concert with her, and intrigued that it was going to be at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. I’ve heard about it for years, and it is a very famous venue. I had no idea what to expect, and was curious to see it. But how special or exciting could a music venue/concert hall be? The answer to that is ‘Very’.

We entered the theater through a single door with the usual suspicious looking, very stern, slightly ominous security people outside. I was very insulted however that no one asked for my ID (boo hoo), but they checked everyone else diligently, and then we headed up the stairs. And what struck me immediately as we entered the lobby outside the main concert hall was that this was no ordinary theater. It had the instant aura of history, with framed photographs of all the famous people who played there in the 60′s and 70′s when it started. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and all the faces of a long lost time. And I’m not even sure why, but there was an instantly friendly, cozy atmosphere that reminded me of those days, in my youth. I was never part of the music scene, having married someone much older when I was 17. And at the age when my contemporaries were going to concerts, I was in college at 15, and then married and had a child in my teens. So rock concerts were never my thing. I was going to dinner parties with my French banker husband as his child bride. And THIS was a whole other scene, the world of Jimi, Janis, and all those immensely talented people who were casualties of an era, and have long since disappeared. It was almost as though one could sense them there, as benign spirits. The Fillmore seemed like a throwback to me of those early days of hippiedom and flower power, and so much hope for the future, a new era, and a generation who demanded and established change. The Fillmore almost seemed like a monument, and even shrine, to that time.

We went upstairs to a kind of balcony, looking down at the floor of the theater. There were no seats downstairs, everyone was standing, and in the darkened room, the band came on, and everything came alive. I’m embarrassed to tell you that I don’t know what kind of music it was, what genre, and don’t remember the name of the band (a long name!!), but the music was great, the beat was good, and the crowd loved it (and so did I). They swayed and waved to the music. It was mesmerizing. My daughter and her friends loved it, and so did I. And upstairs where we were, there were seats and tables, and walls covered by more of the framed photographs of an earlier time. I felt enveloped all night by the aura and spirit of those earlier singers, once so beloved, so famous, so talented, who changed the whole music scene, many of whom died so much too young. There wasn’t an eeriness to it, and it wasn’t sad, it filled me with a kind of awe and respect, and nostalgia as I remembered them. It was impressive to think that they had played in this same hall where I was standing, and it must be equally impressive for the musicians who play there now. Imagine playing on the same stage where Janis Joplin once played and others like her. I couldn’t voice my feeling of nostalgia to my daughter and her friends, they were too young to understand—-and it would only have confirmed how ‘un-cool’ I am. A friend had come with me, who is between the generation I was remembering, and the young ones now, he’s a great music fan, and admirer of Joplin, Hendrix and the others, and when we spoke about it later, he had the same feeling I did, that we were standing in hallowed halls. It really touched me, and it was a wonderful evening in a remarkable and truly historical place. I really loved it!!

Standing there, I also couldn’t help remembering Bill Graham, who founded The Fillmore all those many years ago. He was a truly remarkable man. I met him several times when I first came to San Francisco, and had dinner with him a few times. He was totally immersed in that exciting music world. I was in my twenties by then, the sixties were long past, but he ran a remarkable music venue, and had established an important institution in the history of that time. He was an intriguing person, who had survived the holocaust, although he had lost almost all of his family (except one sister, I think). He had a son he adored, and told me that he had survived most of the Second World War in Germany, hiding on the streets, as a child and young teenager. I didn’t pry about his experiences, but one could tell that they had formed a remarkable person, tough, strong, creative, a genius in his field with his finger on the pulse of the musical world, and yet a person of great tenderness and humanity. He had clearly lived an interesting life, and left an extraordinary legacy behind. I was saddened when a few years later he died in a helicopter accident at a relatively young age. But he left something very special behind for so many people to enjoy and remember him: The Fillmore is a monument to the man, that remarkable time and the people who played there. I was very moved by being there, and even now, it is a very, very special place, and a part of history, culturally and in the music world, that we will all remember forever. And even now, the music goes on…….

Love, Danielle

The festivities began the night before, with a fun dinner at a local bistro for all 150 guests, many of whom were children, who were included at all the events. So everyone got to meet, greet, eat, and hang out together, enjoy a great dinner, and see old friends, and meet new ones. As with all weddings, everyone was excited and happy to be there. (I came from San Francisco for it, through Hurricane Irene in New York, where I got stuck for several days, and made it to Paris just in time to pick up my suitcases and head for the South of France. And others had come from a lot farther than I did, so we were ALL excited to be there).

And the next day was the big day. We were to meet in the public square in St. Paul de Vance, which is about half an hour inland from the coast of the French Riviera. And the old part of the town is for pedestrians only, and the church is on top of a hill. All l50 wedding guests walked the bride and groom up the hill to the church, up narrow (about 5 feet wide at most, and sometimes only 4 feet) cobbled, stone paved streets (we had been warned not to wear high heels, fortunately, and those who hadn’t heeded the advice, wound up taking off their shoes, and walking up the hill barefoot). It was about a ten or fifteen minute walk, as locals lined the street and smiled as we went by.

The church was exquisite and tiny, filled with beautiful flowers, and the church service (a traditional Catholic mass) was very touching. Members of the family read from the Bible, and there were scores of adorably dressed children in the church. The French don’t have adult bridesmaids, they have children in the wedding. And almost all the wedding guests were wearing beautiful hats. The bride looked beautiful, and both the bride and groom cried during the service, as did many of us. It was just perfect and very touching.

After the church service, several locals in ‘Provencal’ costumes were waiting outside (with aprons and caps), little children with the same costumes, and drummers to announce the good news, as people cheered along the narrow cobbled street as we made our way down to the public square again. There, a Southern treat had been set up, a special oven to make something local called ‘Soca’, which is a bit like pizza, made with chick peas. It was delicious!!! And after that and a lot of champagne, some people went off to fancy lunches, and others went back to their hotels to relax (I was one of those, the Soca was enough for me, and it was yummy).

I spent the afternoon relaxing, and the wedding reception was that night, at a beautiful beachside restaurant with a private beach and a dock. Cocktails were on the dock, dinner was in the open air restaurant, and the kids were playing on the beach (until the music started). There was a fabulous buffet, lots of speeches, fascinating guests, and the music and dancing were terrific!!! One of the family members (the bride’s mother) even sang “La Vie en Rose” to the bridal couple. And everyone had a ball on the dance floor. I think people danced til 4 am. I didn’t get back to my hotel until 4:30, so it was a lively group, and it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to. I talked, danced, and laughed all night. And I was told that after I left, the remaining guests went swimming, so they went home even later.

We were all back at the same spot at noon the next day, for a massive buffet lunch, more swimming, and chatting with the other guests. I left the party around five in the afternoon, as I had to change, pack and catch an 8 pm plane back to Paris.

It was an absolutely wonderful weekend, and a truly beautiful wedding. And unlike a lot of weddings (which can be incredibly dull, but this one sure wasn’t. Even the guests were great!!), I had an absolute ball. So I wanted to share it with you. It was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to!!!!

Love, Danielle

Her story, and what happened to her, is every parent’s worst nightmare, or second worst. A parent’s worst nightmare being the death of a child. But this comes as a very close second. Abduction while an innocent child is walking to school, stolen from a mother who loved her and never gave up hope of finding her again. Torture, isolation, rape, living in horrifying conditions, hidden and locked up and often handcuffed in a backyard compound by a man who was a convicted felon, and his wife who was his willing accomplice for 18 years, giving birth to 2 babies when she was barely more than a baby herself, and then trying to take care of and protect her daughters. Her fear of offending her captors, her hopelessness of being able to get away and ever see her family again, her acute loneliness for 18 years, and surely despair, the incredible trauma she went through. And yet she tells her story simply, and quietly, without sensationalism, but with gentle grace and honesty. The story simply is what it is, and you can sense her quiet striving for normalcy now, her gratitude to be reunited with her family, and her determination to make a good life for her daughters. Jaycee Dugard is truly an amazing woman. Remarkable in every way.  She has come through an experience that would destroy most people, and break the spirit of people older and stronger than she was at the age she was abducted. It was no less awful than being in a prison camp, or a prisoner of war, tortured and humiliated and humbled. And yet, it is extraordinary what the human spirit can survive. And clearly, Jaycee Dugard has survived it as a whole person, with dignity and grace.

I was enormously impressed by the woman, and saddened by what happened to her. She was the victim of unthinkable emotional and physical abuse, and yet has come through it admirably. I wish her well in the life she will lead now. When you think of what you were doing 18 years ago, you realize how long that span of time is. My children were tiny then, and are now adults, with jobs after college, except the youngest who is still in college, and would have been a toddler then. My marriage lasted 18 years, which seems a very long, respectable length of time these days. We’ve been through several presidents. She was abducted for nearly 2 decades, was taken as an 11 year old, and rescued at nearly 30. How lucky her mother was to find her again, and how incredible that she always believed she would see her daughter again. How did she not give up hope? How did she stand the not knowing? How did Jaycee live through it? The book, the story, and the woman who survived it are haunting.

I admire her remarkable uncrushable spirit. There is not an ounce of bitterness in the book, only the simple facts, and her story told in a straightforward way. She has my admiration, compassion, and very, very best wishes that life will be kind to her in future. And I think it is wonderful that she had the courage to write the book. It will help others not give up hope, in less daunting circumstances, and is a tribute to her as a survivor.

I wanted to share this remarkable book with you. It is horrifying that things like this happen, even more so, that her captor was on parole, parole agents came to the house regularly to check on him, and never discovered the secret backyard where she and her daughters were hidden, and she was often handcuffed, locked in a small hut, and existed for 18 years.  May something like this never, ever happen again.

Love, Danielle

Happy Birthday

In Stores:  July 19, 2011

Valerie Wyatt is the queen of gracious living and the arbiter of taste. Since her long-ago divorce, she’s worked hard to reach the pinnacle of her profession and to create a camera-ready life in her Fifth Avenue penthouse. So why is she so depressed? All the hours with her personal trainer, the careful work of New York’s best hairdressers, cosmetic surgeons, and her own God-given bone structure and great looks can’t fudge the truth or her lies about it: Valerie is turning sixty.

Valerie’s daughter, April, has no love life, no rest, and no prospect of that changing in the foreseeable future. Her popular one-of-a-kind restaurant in downtown New York, where she is chef and owner, consumes every ounce of her attention and energy. Ready or not, though, April’s life is about to change, in a tumultuous transformation that begins the morning it hits her: She’s thirty. And what does she have to show for it? A restaurant, no man, no kids.

Jack Adams once threw a football like a guided missile. Twelve years after retiring from the NFL, he is the most charismatic sports analyst on TV, a man who has his pick of the most desirable twentysomething women. But after a particularly memorable Halloween party, Jack wakes up on his fiftieth birthday, his back thrown out of whack, feeling every year his age.

A terrifying act of violence, an out-of-the-blue blessing, and two extremely unlikely love affairs soon turn lives inside out and upside down. In a novel brimming with warmth and insight, beginning on one birthday and ending on another, Valerie, April, and Jack discover that life itself can be a celebration—and that its greatest gifts are always a surprise.

Normally, I would be here with my 3 daughters who work in fashion, but sadly, due to the very recent death of my ex-husband/their father, none of the girls came to this exciting, festive week. But as I had already planned to be at our home here to be with them, I decided to go to a few shows anyway. It’s not nearly as much fun without them. And they helped me select my outfit last night on Skype…no, not THAT!!!!!!!! You can’t wear THAT!!!!!!!….after many suggestions, we figured out what I was going to wear, which I’m sure didn’t look like it took 2 hours to figure out across 6,000 miles of Skype. But hopefully, I looked okay.

More importantly, the show was great. I saw the Balenciaga show today, which was exciting and new and different, woven leathers, layered clothes, interesting colors, fluid shapes, beautiful models, and excitement in the audience, and lots of press. Fashion is an exciting world. The show was held at the beautiful Crillon Hotel, a very old and elegant hotel in the Place de la Concorde. (Notable historically because the original guillotine used to be right outside where the hotel is now, which is not a fact usually advertised to tourists. But there is no sign of it now).

I was happy and excited to run into several editors of Vogue, whom I know, and several fashion journalists I know as well. But it still wasn’t the same as being there with my girls. I was also very happy to be introduced to the designer, who is a lovely, very quiet, unassuming man of great, great talent.

The big news in Paris this week is a bit of a shocker. The very famous English designer John Galliano, who designs for his own label, and is the designer for Dior, was involved in an incident, concerning racial slurs, as a result of which he was first suspended by Dior, and then fired, all in the midst of fashion week. Galliano is a man of huge talent, and whatever the truth of the incident is (one never really knows unless one was there), it is sad to see a career shattered, and a life altered by sudden events. The incident and the fallout from it have shaken the fashion world.  People have spoken of nothing else. It is a milieu that is always buzzing with gossip anyway, and this has been a very big deal, and big news. And the big question mark is who will design for the house of Dior now?

So, it’s been a busy week. It’s fun to see people flooding in from around the world for these exciting shows. I am going to two more in the coming days. And for now, that’s the news from Paris….it’s not about romance or April in Paris this week…..it’s about fashion week in Paris and all the excitement and chaos that go with it!!!

Love, Danielle

I don’t know about you, but I tend to make many of the same mistakes again and again, and again. It’s not that I’m unaware of them, but our patterns are so hard to change. I have gone to groups, done a lot of soul searching, read self help books, and REALLY worked hard at changing some of the things I do. And some of it has worked, but sometimes, more often than I like, I find myself doing the same unconstructive thing again, let people get away with things they shouldn’t, being too cowardly (myself) to speak up when someone is standing squarely on my toes, or just doing the same things myself. I don’t want to. I’m aware, but our old habits die hard, and sometimes I hear my own voice and think, OH NO!!! Not that again. I guess life will be a work in progress til the end.

I suppose we need to be compassionate with ourselves and others, for repeating the same mistakes. (No, a husband who beats you up repeatedly is not suffering from Ground Hog Day, he’s a sick person who needs help and you need to get away from. But your allowing him to do so, again and again, and not leaving him, although complicated and due to your own history—-there’s a little bit of Ground Hog Day to that).

I’d so much rather make new mistakes, than do the same stupid things again. We probably all do it. But I really don’t want to ride into the sunset one day, or be l00 years old, and still be doing the same dumb stuff I did at 20. Personally, I think we should cancel Ground Hog Day. I want a fresh slate, wiped clean of the old mistakes, so I don’t repeat them again!!! Today is a new day.  I hope you have a great one!

Love, Danielle

Love, Danielle