Lorelai: I don't understand, Michel. You and your mother seem to have the perfect relationship.
Michel: Yes. Because I tell her nothing. We keep all subjects light and fluffy. We talk about clothes, and food, and Posh Spice and David Beckham, and that is all. Nothing of value. Nothing of substance.
Lorelai: I'm sorry.
Michel: Now she knows I've been hiding something from her. Suddenly she's asking questions. Why did I leave France at 18? Where do I go at night? Who are my friends? What do they do? Where do they live? Why have I chosen this career? On and on and on and on. It never ends. I can't stand it. She's a complete pain. She won't stop. I took a six-hour bath last night just to escape the incessant nagging. You did this to me! You turned my Giselle into a mother, and I hate you for it! I hate you very, very much!