Nouveau Parfum Video & Lyrics

Original Lyrics

Soit Prada, Hugo Boss, Chanel, Giorgio Armani, Cartier, Azarro, Sisley, Escada, Gucci Naf Naf, Nina Ricci, Lancôme, Kenzo et encore, encore

Soit Bruno Banani, La Bastidane, Estée Lauder, Guerlain, Burberry et Thierry Mugler, Bourjois, Chloé, Jean-Paul Gautier, Valentino et je n’en sais plus

Lequel je choisis?
Pourquoi je choisis?
Qui veut que je choisisse?
Je ne suis pas leur produit
De beauté, d’préciosité Ils ne peuvent pas me changer
Sans pareille, nonpareille,
Le nouveau parfum, c’est moi-même, le nouveau parfum, c’est moi
Nouveau parfum, nouveau parfum

Soit Roberto Cavalli, Bulgari, Givengi, Dolce & Gabana, Paco rabana, soit Lacoste Tommy Hilfiger, Yves Saint Laurent et je n’en sais plus

Lequel je choisis?
Pourquoi je choisis?
Qui veut que je choisisse?
Je ne suis pas leur produit
De beauté, d’préciosité
Ils ne peuvent pas me changer
Sans pareille, nonpareille,
Le nouveau parfum, c’est moi-même, le nouveau parfum, c’est moi
Nouveau parfum

De beauté, d’préciosité
Ils ne peuvent pas me changer
Sans pareille, nonpareille,
Le nouveau parfum, c’est moi-même, le nouveau parfum, c’est moi
Nouveau parfum Nouveau parfum Nouveau parfum

English translation

Is it gonna be Prada, Hugo Boss, Chanel, Giorgio Armani, Cartier, Azarro, Sisley, Escada, Gucci Naf Naf, Nina Ricci, Lancôme, Kenzo, or still more?
Is it gonna be Bruno Banani, La Bastidane, Estée Lauder, Guerlain, Burberry and Thierry Mugler, Bourjois, Chloé, Jean-Paul Gautier, Valentino?
I just don’t know anymore

Which do I choose? Why do I choose it? Who’s making me choose it? I’m not their product As for beauty and preciousness, They can’t change me Matchless, without equal, The new perfume is myself. The new perfume is me. New perfume

Will it be Cavalli, Bulgari, Givengi, Dolce & Gabana, Paco rabana, or Lacoste, Tommy Hilfiger, Yves Saint Laurent? I just don’t know anymore,

Which do I choose?
Why do I choose it?
Who’s making me choose it?
I’m not their product
As for beauty and preciousness,
They can’t change me
Matchless, without equal,
The new perfume is myself.
The new perfume is me.
New perfume

As for beauty and preciousness,
They can’t change me
Matchless, without equal,
The new perfume is myself.
The new perfume is me.
New perfume

Lovely song, equally lovely video to express the sentiment.

 

Up in the Country, 3

Previous — Next

“You should write about this.”  My 84-year old mother gestures broadly and speaks in a voice weakened by months of illness and hospitalization.

“Write about this what?” I ask.

“This whole … experience.”

“You mean with you?”  I have to laugh.  I’ve been trying to write my mother out of my life for the last 40 years.  This particular experience was a trip to buy new hearing aids and I’ve loaded her in the car with her wheelchair in the trunk and a burly nephew in the back seat. Snow is predicted, but I was desperate to turn the tv down to a mere 3 or 4 decibals.  We’re in a suburb of Atlanta, so I really felt I was ahead of the weather when I left to make the 15 min trip to town.

That was an hour and a half ago and we are now thoroughly in the grip of what comes to be known as Snowpocalypse 2014.

The problem with snow in Georgia is people crowd the streets to buy ‘snow groceries’ or some other thing they can’t live without for 24 hours, but no one has thought to buy a set of chains or snow tires since they got their “I survived the Blizzard” t-shirts, circa 2011.

The people crowding the roads are driving no faster than 2.5 mph and sliding sideways into ditches every mile or so. And I’ve got at least another 8 or 10 miles to go …

I had not spoken to my mother in several years when my brother told me she was having surgery last July.  I hoped she’d go into the surgery with a good outlook if she knew I planned to be there when she woke up.  I had intennded to see her in recovery, make a few hospital visits, and fade away again.

I’m sorry to say, she may have birthed me, but beyond that the mom gene didn’t really kick in for her.  Not with me at least.  We had a rocky 16 years or so, then I was out of her house and on my own.  I’ve spent years pretending we had a mother-daughter relationship and I modeled my own mothering on the things I needed and never got from her.

I guess I learned what love is from her mother, with whom I lived til I was five.  And, if my own mother wasn’t controlled by what other people think of her, she probably would have left me there forever.  Now I think it might have been better for all of us if she had.

Instead, she brought me to Atlanta to a stepfather who resented my existence and who she tried to please by emulating his hateful treatment of me.  They were not much nicer to the two sons they had, but did treat his namesake, Albert, Jr., like a little prince when they weren’t disabusing him for some slight failure.

After years of therapy I came to understand that what I’d come to recognize as mother love was, in fact, abuse.  And at 35 had come into my own enough to get her out of my life.  It lasted a few years and I wa blissfully happy; like childbirth the memories faded.  And so it went, I’d let her back in my life, she’d go back to her nasty habits and I’d cut her off again for my own mental heath.

Her surgery last summer went badly.  She had a stroke sometime during the days after, developed pneumonia and went on a ventilator in a drug-induced coma for 10 days.  The doctors called us in for a family conference, my brothers and I and told us she need a tracheostomy for the vent so they could take her off the drugs.

I didn’t want her to have any more surgery – they’d harmed her so much with the first they were keeping her in a coma and now they wanted to do more. It seemed they’d gone from care giving to pure torture.  When the doctor asked if she had a living will, or had named someone to make decisions when she couldn’t, the answer was no. No one.

Ditto, to the question abut a husband to make decisions.  Nope.

“So who’s the oldest child here?” the doctor looked at the three of us.

“I know Albert looks like the oldest, but it’s me.” Not really kidding, but hardly appropriate.

The law in Georgia designates that the oldest child will make decisions for a parent when they are incapacitated. The doctor stopped talking to my brothers (and by the looks on their faces I could see they were as surprised as I was) and concentrated on me.

Suddenly I wasn’t the prodigal daughter, soon to disappear again.  I was in charge.

I should have gone with my instincts and walked out then. The only thing that kept me there was the thought of what I was teaching my own children through my actions.

So I became her voice 8 months ago with no clue how enmeshed we would become while we tried to keep her alive.

 

 

 

The Summer of My Last Innocence | Poetry

innocence tag cloud ©2013 traci gregory 

As I drive into the hills
The towns roll by
Ballground
Jasper
Ellijay
There is a melody,
a cadence to these names.

I’ve ridden these roads my entire life
Moving from the city
To my mountain kin
And back again.

The mountains tug at me
Pull me
Call out to me
Drawing me inexorably to my past.

You ask, what did I leave here?
My youth?
No, it was intact when I left.
My virginity?
No, gone before I got here.
Then what?

That summer
The summer of my last innocence
The world changed
And it wasn’t safe for me anymore.
No matter how many times
I travel these roads
I can’t reclaim my safety here.

Or anywhere.
These mountains aren’t my refuge
Or my asylum,
as much as I want them to be.
I still need a shield for my heart
And the lance I craft with words
To keep the world at bay.

 

 

Up in the Country

I was raised in a small town in the South.

“I was born in the Blue Ridge mountains, at the foot of the Appalachia Trail.”

I grew up in the Sixties, with my mother, step-father and two younger brothers. My mother had “Help” when I was growing up, not live-in help, but help a few days a week who cleaned the bathrooms and mopped floors and ironed.

Juanita, Marie, Jessee.

They were soft, sweet-smelling Black women and they made my house smell fresh and clean. They made me feel like a person instead of a ghost in my mother’s house.

This is our story. All the way back to Appalachia, up in the country.

 

Her parents were as mismatched as ever a couple was. He was a cocky kid from Copperhill, child of abusive parents and a broken home in the 40′s. She from a union still together in name: her father an alcoholic womanizer and her mother afraid of everything, her husband and 7 children included.

He, Carl, at 17, had pronounced to his friends that he was marrying the prettiest girl in Blue Ridge.

Dan, not a close friend, but someone to drink with, and brag to, responded with a snort. “You don’t even know the prettiest girl in Blue Ridge.”

“Yes, by damn, I do.  Marilyn Hunt.”

“Not even close, you dumbass. The prettiest girls in Blue Ridge are the Mashburn girls. Four of em,”

“Yeah? Who’s the prettiest of the four?”

“That’d be Miss Amurica. “

“Thought you said they was Mashburns?”

“They are, you dumb redneck, we call her that cos she’s a beauty queen.  One a these days she’ll be in the Miss America contest. And she’ll win it too.”

“Which’n is that? The one you call Miss Amurica?”

“That’d be Rubee. She’s the third one.”

“Rubee? Then that’s who I’m marryin’.”

“You ain’t even met her. You just heard about her. How you aim to marry her, Carl?

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