Rosie O'Donnell Is Simply Insufferable!

My goodness gracious, dahlings.

It's getting so that if you turn your television on in the mornings to anything but Turner Classic Movies, you are taking your very life into your hands!

My topic today is Rosie O'Donnell's behavior on "The View." It is at the tip of everyone's tongue (especially if they are women who like to dress in extremely masculine clothes and pomade their hair). The woman must be stopped. Yesterday she attacked Joy Behar. Now, Ms. Behar dresses abominably. But she is tres amusant and seems like someone it would be enjoyable to have a glass of Scotch with. However, Rosie said of her, "It's this witch I can't stand." Now if that isn't the pot belly calling the kettle black I don't know what is. Ordinarily I would defend one of my large-size sisters, but really, Rosie must be stopped. Does one need to spend one's mornings looking at an enraged bull-dyke in primary colors? "The View" is rapidly turning into the late unlamented "The McLaughlin Report."

The only woman angrier than Rosie O'Donnell is Mrs. Cheney, which is why the latter is assiduously never shown. Come to think of it, neither is her husband, but no matter. Rosie's eyes absolutely SIMMER with rage, dahlings. Perhaps some medication is in order, and I don't mean for moi in this instance. Now, why is Rosie so angry? She is famous, married to a lovely woman, has a number of children and more money than George Bush. Not choices that I would make (except the money and fame), but honestly.

I do hope it is not her weight, which after all she has always worn beautifully. She is comfortable with her body. If anything, I would put her in clothes that emphasize her size and her sexual preference. Do away with the bulky blazers and black underlayers! Choose beautifully tailored menswear with plenty of cleavage, wingtip shoes, and bold jewelry. We are talking silk blouses in those bright colors she loves, and perhaps gray pinstripes in a cashmere/linen blend. Now, don't you think that would make the poor woman feel better?

That's my advice to ALL of you, dahlings. Celebrate who you are! Even Bucky sulks if I put on his plain black harness...he much prefers the Burberry. But not the Chanel, he tends to be a bit overly macho. But that is how miniature pinschers are.

Speaking of celebrations, I shall be listing more beautiful things today...silk dresses, silk blouses, coats...every piece of clothing a celebration of you. As long as you buy it, of course.

Ciao for now,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Bothersome Technical Details

Oh, it's just too much, but I do have to deal with technical details. My personal assistant can type, but she acts like a complete moron when it comes to dealing with the computer!

Technorati Profile

Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude...

Dahlings,

Sunday night I attended a wonderful seance, even if it was in the Bronx. There was my dear dead friend Lana Turner, lovely as always, tonight in a white crepe gown trimmed with black (I think it was black...the dead tend to be a tad monochromatic). She brought along the FABULOUS Clark Gable! In the afterlife, he doesn't need to wear false teeth. Oh, they don't make them like that anymore. "Frankly, my dear, you have really big tits," he said, gazing into my eyes. At least I believe it was my eyes. I nearly SWOONED.


(Here is a picture of my dear friends Lana and Clark in their first film together, "Honky Tonk".)

But then, who should turn up but Elie Wiesel. The fellow was in a state of high dudgeon, because I had compared the anorexic Fashion Week models to Auschwitz survivors. "The Holocaust is nothing to make cheap jokes about, Miss!" he snapped. "My wife and I started a foundation, I'll have you know! I have devoted my life to the truth!"

I merely stared back at his spirit languidly. "Oh dear, oh dear, Elie dahling, if you can't make jokes about the Holocaust, what can you make jokes about? I have devoted my life to fashion. Really, Elie, I'm far too superficial for such a deep thinker--and a good-looking man--as you to worry about."

Well, my dears, the man just melted. Intellectuals love to be told they're sexy. Oh, yes, the Nobel Prize is nice, but they think girls really only date them for their awards. Elie gave me a big smile. "Perhaps I was a bit harsh," he said. But then, I had the most ghastly surprise. I unthinkingly laid my hand on his lapel. And Elie was ALIVE! He was a GUEST, not a GHOST!

I let out a shriek. Lana and Clark promptly disappeared, and our hostess switched the lights on.

"I'll let myself out," I said quickly, and strode out the front door, grabbing my Mr. John wool cloche hat (so chic with its multicolored rhinestone pin!). How could I know Elie Wiesel was still alive? After all, nobody knew about Noam Chomsky until a week or two ago. I was so distraught that I stumbled out into the rain, and ended up in a cemetery!

To find out what happened next, you need to read my Ebay auction, 'Vintage Corpse Bride Costume.'



Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

When Thin Is TOO In! Fashion Week finis

Good evening, dahlings -

I am SO SORRY that I have not written further about Fashion Week! All of you poor souls are slavering for my opinions on all of the shows I went to, whether by invitation or sneaking under the tent folds.

Some of the shock and awe I experienced can be explained in one picture:


There isn't enough tulle in the KNOWN UNIVERSE to make these emaciated drug addicted children look like women in any sense. You could get razor cuts by shaking their hands. And they were everywhere at Fashion Week, dahlings, staggering down the runways. At the Behnaz Sarafpour show, there was so much room room between Natasha Poly's thighs you could hear the wind howling...or perhaps it was the horrified spectators. The Luca Luca show, where the fashion was as redundant as the label's name, bony knees and gaunt arms were the order of the day.

As a shall we say, robust female, I was deeply disturbed by the prevailing notion that to be fashionable is to look like you've been rescued from Auschwitz. Or like a bobblehead doll. Even such steadfast purveyors of beautiful clothes such as Vera Wang and Carolina Herrera used these stick figures.

I made sure to sit in the front row of every show, blatantly eating chocolate. And enjoying the moans of hunger from the models as they passed before me. Hana Soukopova nearly leapt off one runway and attempted to seize the Toblerone from my hand, dahlings, before her harried handlers dragged her off screaming in some foreign language. I think she was saying, "Give me some food! Or some more heroin!"

But enough about that. I shall be selling some divine Halloween costumes at my Ebay store, Elisa's Bounteous House of Style, in sizes from Small* to Extra-Large, with an accent on the Extra. Do come take a look!







Ciao for now, dahlings,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

* Small as in stature, not as in anorexic.

Further Critique of Fashion Week

Good morning, dahlings -

Fashion Week is over, thank God! My head! My feet! My eyes! My very soul has been wrenched, dahlings, wrenched to its core by what is going to be inflicted on the buying public next spring. But more on that later. First, a tad of my gadding about with fashion's finest.

I met Sun, 'Japanese Pop Sensation,' at The Daily Penthouse Suite at the Bryant Park Hotel, and if this is what they consider a sensation, then suddenly I understand the phenomenon of William Hung. Sweet little thing. Bob Morris of the New York Times kept trying to get his hands down Vincent Gallo's pants, but Vincent was too busy posing and didn't want his codpiece knocked askew. I won't go into detail about my chats with various editors, creative directors, and hairdressers, because that's private dirt. At least until I get annoyed with one of them.

Anna Wintour was at every show, of course, striding about in Mahnolo Blahnicks and lashing at the proles with a riding crop. Sweet, sweet Anna. And of course Mischa Barton, who nearly trampled me trying to get to the photographers. Amazing how fast someone can move when they need publicity that desperately.

I spotted Winona Ryder at the front row of Marc Jacobs's show, and other than furtively snatching a few pieces of candy from the runway into her handbag, she was quite well-behaved. Also Dita Von Teese, a role model for women everywhere. It's so sweet how she looks after that handicapped half-blind husband of hers. Apparently Guy Trebay of the New York Times feels that Monsieur Jacobs has come into his own at last, designing clothes for those of his own generation. I'm so happy he's happy, if you know what I mean, since it's certainly not Mr. Trebay's generation. Or mine, for that matter.

Oscar de la Renta's show was tres' chic, if exactly what he has been designing since time began. Still, it's wonderful that the old dear can still work up some enthusiasm for his profession...I think. A particularly enjoyable touch was a nod to his salad days in the 1980s, as all of the models had gigantic blonde hair. Ah, for the days of Aquanet and hot rollers!

My personal favorite was Monique Lhuillier, if only because the models looked like they might have had lunch. Elegant shapes, dahlings, simplicity, simplicity, simplicity, and I don't mean Simplicity.

Later today, I will dissect some of the Crimes Against Fashion I was witness to. But in the meantime, I need to go bathe my aching tootsies. A week in stilleto heels takes something out of a woman. But it was worth it to tower over everyone else...makes it so much easier to be seen in the group shots, don't you know.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Do take a look at my store for Real Fashion

IT'S OFFICIAL: 'FAT IS THE NEW BLACK!'

DAHLINGS -

That wonderful Isaac Mizrahi just pronounced that "Fat Is The New Black." On national radio, no less!

I have been promoting this idea fashion-wise ever since I was a buxom young lass. At last, society has caught up with moi.

Fashion Week has been quite, quite the experience, as I might have written before. One designer's show could have been titled "Attack of the Skinny Teen-Agers," as a parade of bulemic heroin addicts in 5 inch heels stumbled down the runway in evening gowns meant for women twice their age and size, with that glazed look one associates with continual hunger and drug abuse. There were a number of paramedics outside the white tents at New York's Bryant Park (yes, I know it's near the Fashion District, but it's so...midtown). They dashed into the backstage areas periodically, signalled by frantic designers, to administer emergency doses of protein powder and methadone.

All for now. I shall celebrate Mr. Mizhari's pronouncement with a banana split (Kahlua makes an excellent substitute for hot fudge, dahlings). It almost makes me forgive him for Target.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Rescuing Bucky From Connecticut!

Dahlings,

I'm so sorry I didn't finish the tale of my Adventure, but that man from the foundation almost talked my shell pink ear off! He has some RIDICULOUS idea that the fashions have to be “practical.” HA. When was fashion ever practical? Did Dior think practical when he designed the New Look? Were the British being practical when they introduced the mini skirt? Have the Japanese been practical when they design anything? If the proletariat want practical, I say, give them blue jeans, not Balenciaga.

Back to my Adventure. I got out of the taxi, pulled a strange piece of paper off of the back of my suit (it must have been something on the taxi seat…ugh…I should have used a private car service), and rang the bell. The couple that live there was unpleasantly surprised to see me, as well they should have been. I towered over both of them, simply quivering with righteous rage.“GIVE ME BACK MY DOG,” I said, my eyes boring into the husband’s. He flushed and invited me in.

My dears, the interior was a nightmare of Ikea and Target! I mean, they had a Thomas Kinkaid painting over the couch. Painter of light, indeed. After I had settled myself delicately on some Swedish thing passing itself off as a sofa, they proceeded to ply me with cheap Chianti and Philly strawberry cream cheese (served in the container) and crackers.

Then they told me:Bucky had loosed his collar and run away, apparently because he missed me.

I couldn’t believe my ears. They said it had happened days ago, but they had been too heartbroken to tell me that my darling little dog had disappeared into the woods of Connecticut. Probably to be devoured by a raccoon, or worse.

My heart cracking, I let out a wail of grief—and was answered by a storm of barking! BUCKY!

I dropped my Chianti and Philly smeared cracker on the floor (no great loss, the carpet was white shag), and leapt to my feet. Which is no mean feat when you’re wearing stiletto heels! “Bucky, my precious, Mummy is coming!” I cried out, and ran out of the living room in the direction of the frantic barking. My incredibly keen hearing discerned that it was coming from upstairs. How could I have ever thought his barking was piercing?

There was a huge pile of dirty laundry at the top of the stairs, but I vaulted over it, to be confronted with Walt Disney wallpaper and pink moldings. Faint from the décor but determined, I followed Bucky’s barking to a bedroom door where he had been shut up, and yanked it open. BUCKY!

He hurled his tiny, wiggling self into my arms, and at that joyous moment of reunion it didn’t even matter that he urinated down the front of my Yves St. Laurent suit. We were Together.

But then I turned, and heard the sound of the unspeakable couple coming up the stairs! With my free hand, I grabbed a handful of soiled laundry and HURLED it into their faces! Fortunately, it was dirty underthings! And not dainty wisps, I can guarantee you that!

Blinded and gagging, they fell back down the stairs!I ran down the stairs, past the couple trying to extricate themselves from the compost they called underwear, and leapt into the taxi.

“FLOOR IT,” I screamed at the driver. He had been amusing himself with a copy of “Barely Legal” and didn’t anticipate my sudden arrival into the back of his automobile. But to his credit, he dropped the magazine and gunned the motor, even though I assume his fly was open. (I was not about to look over the driver’s barricade.) We flew out of the driveway, spitting gravel. I kept my head down until we were back on the highway.

So, THAT, my dahlings, was my Adventure. Bucky is laying in his little marabou trimmed handcrafted artisanal dog bed as I write this, and all is well with the world. Except for the hired help. Where IS that lazy maid with my chamomile tea?

I shall write about Fashion Week a bit later today. For now, all I can say is...ugh. If I wanted to dress like an anorexic teenager, I'd have my jaw wired shut.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Rescuing Bucky from Connecticut Prt.1

DAHLINGS,

I am going to ignore that comment on my previous post. Let's just say that I have the employment agency on speed dial. One cannot trust those foreigners...

AHEM. But back to moi, a personage of far greater importance than someone who cannot appreciate the finer things in life, even though she has the privilege of dusting them.

About my Adventure, the effects of which I am still feeling, sensitive soul that I am…

As far as I was concerned, it was time to get back my darling Bucky (a pure-bred Miniature Pinscher of impeccable background, if a bit too inclined to lick his private parts when I am entertaining). I had threatened the upstarts who had him with legal action, and their response was too vulgar for me to retype here. I didn’t appreciate the poor dear until I had the damnable Japanese puppy…sometimes, as the song lyric so eloquently put it, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
So, yesterday I took a taxi out to Connecticut, to confront these nouveau riche riffraff. I was garbed in an impeccably tailored I-mean-business suit by my good friend Yves, and stiletto heels to further emphasize my height. I told the taxi to wait for me, because I had a feeling this was not going to be pleasant. Little did I know…

Oh, drat, that’s the cell phone. The representative from the foundation where we are setting up “Haute Cou-Poor,” what can he want NOW?

Later, dahlings. My apologies for calling you hooligans. The intolerable strain I’ve been through made me momentarily lose my tact.

Au revior,
Elisa

Anna Nicole Smith

Dahlings,

No sooner had I opened a copy of the National Enquirer (my maid's, not mine), I discovered poor Anne Nicole's son had passed away at age 20. Of a massive heart attack, in a hospital, no less. I will refrain from speculation in honor of the dead. Poor Anna Nicole. I sense a VERY large box of Ding-Dongs in her immediate future.

With all due respect,
Elisa

Tiny Sarah Jessica Parker's Soap

Dahlings,

I had the most EXCRUCIATING adventure yesterday! But I am still trembling, and ever so fatigued, so the telling of my escape will have to wait until later today.

For now I have to have my maid draw a hot bath (no, not with a pencil, you hooligans), and soak in the tub with my custom-made lavender fragranced soap that Sarah Jessica Parker created just for moi...it had a little SJP monogram on it, until it got washed off.

Sarah's a lovely little person, very little, in fact she frequently gets lost when she stands behind Salma Hayek or Anna Nicole Smith in crowds. But with Anna Nicole, who wouldn't? Not that I should speak ill of one of my sisters in bosomhood. But Anna Nicole is even more common than my assistant, and that is saying something.



Until later, dahlings -

Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Busy, busy, busy

DAHLINGS,

Sorry, no time for chit-chat. I'm busily filing a lawsuit against those parvenus who have Bucky and refuse to give him back. It seems he has not bitten any of THEM. Give it time, I say, give it time.

You might like to know that I am wearing a cunning little--well, not SO little--wisp of rose chiffon, this time trimmed with sable. It's vintage (of course it has been thoroughly cleaned, or so my assistant assures me), so it still has the little heads on it. Very cunning, so animalistic, don't you know. And when I get annoyed, I bite one of them, and it can't bite back. One head is nearly chewed off, but that's all right. I'll toss it in the trash with my other used wisps.

Do you know, two weeks ago I found my assistant rummaging in the trash to pull out my wisps? I suspect she sells them on Ebay...part of what dahling Ebay CEO Ms. Whitman calls "the clutter.” Very elegantly put, if I may say so. The Japanese puppy is being returned to the pet store by my personal assistant even as I type this myself. She tried putting an alarm clock next to it during the night, but the idiot used an AM-FM radio alarm clock and it went off on a rap station at 5 AM! MY GOD! I thought I would lose my mind, dahlings. Stupid beeyotch, if I may borrow a phrase.

For those of you who inquired privately about my thumbs, as long as I do not do my own text messaging for a while, I shall be tip-top. And, of course, taller than most of you.

While she is returning the puppy, I must do my own typing (ecch). This keyboard is sticky. Filthy beast probably never washes her hands. That would explain a few things. Never mind the details. It's sultry, hot and damp here today in fabulous New York City. Very much like myself. I only have a minute before I must dash to look at some rare Japanese pottery. It's supposed to be ornamental, but I am far too delicate of constitution (if not of build) to eat off ordinary plates. And if it doesn't survive the dishwasher, so be it.

I went to MySpace and looked about. Oh, dear. I admit, I have not heard of most of the musicians they were yapping about. My taste runs to Mozart, and I only met him once at a séance. He was quite rude, to my disappointment, and insisted on trying to put his hand up my Harris Tweed skirt. Not only that, I couldn't understand a word he said (fluent though I am in French, the little gibbon spoke German or Austrian or one of those strange Teutonic languages). One woman of my acquaintance mentioned going to school with some strange person named Jello Biafra! What were his parents thinking?

But as for Mr. Biafra, I will say that once I returned home unexpectedly and discovered my last personal assistant dancing in my office, while "Too Drunk To F*ck" blared out of my Bose radio! Needless to say, she was fired on the spot. And NOT rehired. Talk amongst yourselves...I also have a secret errand that I dare not write about, but will apprise you of the details if successful. I shall be shrouded in mystery...and Yves St. Laurent.

Ciao,
Elisa

Siblings Marrying Well...NOT

Dahlings,

I beg your pardon, I have been, as the young folk say, "Hella-busy."

My Friday and Saturday was taken up by wheeling and dealing with the famous and the powerful, using text messaging. My poor thumbs will never be the same again. So here I sit, my thumbs soaking in a sterling silver engraved bowl of iced Evian, while my idiotic sniveling assistant types this out for me. Baggage. If my maid spoke English...

And I am exhausted, because my assistant REFUSED to clean up after that damned Japanese puppy messed up the kitchen floor! How could I know that Xanax would loosen its bowels to that extent? I fired the lumpkin on the spot! I was PELLUCID with fury!

Look it up.

But then I had to rehire the swine, because of my throbbing thumbs. I needed to use the telephone to finish up a deal I've made to sell vintage to one of Bill Gates's foundations. It's called "Haute Cou-Poor," and it would give the chance to the great unwashed to wear Oscar de la Renta, Chanel (note correct spelling), even Hilo Hattie. But not Poiret. One has one's limits.

It behooved me to share with you, you mass of short-legged bourgeoisie out there, that I am all too familiar with Siblings Marrying Well, as mentioned by the unfortunate author of "How to Sell Clothes To A Movie Star." Or rather, I am familair with the opposite. You see, they were not blessed with the ineffable air of, how do you say it in English, modishness that descended upon my shoulders at birth. Need I say they are also short? I am trying to be tactful, because one never knows if they might somehow read this...

DON'T YOU DARE CALL THEM AND TELL THEM, OR MY THUMBS WILL BE OUT OF THE WATER AND AROUND YOUR THICK, CLUMSY NECK!

Ahem. Excuse that unladylike outburst. My patience is being tried beyond measure, and that damnable puppy is barking again...oh, Bucky, where are you when I need you?

But back to my dictating--(I SEE YOU SMIRKING!). As I was saying, one sister lives in Nebraska, the other in Trenton (ugh) New Jersey. JOHO, indeed. She married a fishmonger. The reek of their family home can be smelled across the Hudson River on a hot summer day. And all of their children look like fluke.

As for my other sister, she married an auto mechanic in Nebraska, because, well, she had to, if you know what I mean. Quite enough said about that. He works at one of those gas station franchise things, I can never remember the name, you know, where the truck drivers go to eat, shower, and spend an hour of lust for money. Quite pathetic, really. My sister keeps getting crabs and wondering why. So I do my best not to stay in touch.Let that be a warning to you all.

And now, my day is done, my thumbs need pampering, and I can't look at this lump of ordure that I call a personal assistant one moment longer. I'm off to the boudoir to slip into another wisp of chiffon...I don't bother having them cleaned, I just buy new ones, wisps are easy to come by in ultra-fashionable New York City...and give myself over to my beauty sleep. Now, where did I put those Winkies and Frownies?

Ciao,
Elisa

Question From A Reader, Poor Dear

Dear Elisa,
I’m tall and thin...but the closest I’ve come to a rock star/celebrity was almost meeting Barry Gibb (missed him by 5 minutes!) ...what am I doing wrong?
signed, Kim

Kim, to answer your question: from your address, I deduce that you live in central Pennsylvania. Your problem is a simple as that. The last time I checked, there were no Amish celebrities (Weird Al Yankovick does not count, my dears). You might move to--ugh--Pittsburgh, where an occasional celebrity or power dealer is known to pass through the airport.

Oh, dear that dratted Japanese puppy is still barking. YOU THERE! GO GIVE THAT DOG ANOTHER HALF A XANAX, THAT SHOULD SHUT IT UP! Bucky has gone to a lovely home in Connecticut, and his new owners are very happy with him. Damn. I might have to sue to get him back. He didn't bark nearly this much. Perhaps I'll have him surgically altered to look like a French bulldog, they're tres' chic.

Addendum to earlier post!

I'm sorry, I should have said that I was referencing my post of August 29th. I forgot that I have readers with Attention Deficit Disorder.

How To Sell Clothes To A Movie Star cont.

DAHLINGS, I have returned to wonderful New York City, my helpful doormen, and an utter lack of sand. My relief is boundless.

Back to "How To Sell Clothes To A Movie Star."

We were discussing the rich and famous. Speaking of which, I will only say that I caused several of Dick Cheney's heart attacks in earlier days. Darn, the Secret Service won't let him near me now, that would put a swift end to the war.

Also, during a séance, I had a profound conversation with the ghost of Lana Turner. She isn't as dumb as she looks, especially now that she's dead.

Well, I re-read the OP's post and thought I would share some tips of my own for you pitifully deprived masses out there. I have had my personal assistant correct the typos and misspellings to the best of her ability.

Hey guys,* Since so many of you have expressed skepticism on this subject, I thought I'd list some fun and easy tips so that you to can sell clothes to movie stars.
* Note faux folksy tone, and the OP's addressing of the reader as "guys" makes one suspect she is from a very tough neighborhood.

1}Go to NYC. Since NYC is very expensive it's best if you can arrange to be from there. If you can't arrange to be from there at least have very close friends and relatives that live there so that you will have a free place to stay. Please don't. We have too many fabulous people, and not enough room. JOHO {often referred to as New Jersey} All I can say is...New Jersey. Pitiful. No amount of acronyms makes it smell or look any better. The best thing to do is to already live here, and if you can't, stay home.

My idiotic personal assistant and I are sitting in my beautiful Louis Quinze office, with its view of Central Park West and the greenery beyond. There's a lot of barking coming from the kitchen. That Japanese thing is certainly noisier than Bucky!

2}Get invited to display your stuff at one of NYC's prestigious antique shows. This can be tricky as sometimes these shows have waiting lists and sometimes they are vetted, but it would help if you became a rock star. You don't have to be a super successful famous rock star you can be a cult fave or a critically adored darling, someone who say has to supplement their meager rock star income by selling vintage, but everyone loves rock stars A total misconception. Rock stars tend to weave around like Ozzy Osbourne, rip precious Erte costumes, and then claim they want a discount because it's "not good enough.” I suspect the OP to be a rock star who never got farther than the preliminary auditions for "American Idol."

3}If you can't pull off the rock star thing have your sister marry one of the people who runs the Winter Antiques Show. The cheapest booth at this show is $25,000 and it's amazing how many doors the words "winter antiques show" will open. An upside to this approach is that you will quite likely get invited to the young collectors ball {which usually costs $150 but don't worry your sister will get you in for free}. Put on your most fabulous vintage dress (GOWN, you peasant) and hang about sipping champagne. When people ask where you got your dress well then tell them!

All I can say is, arriviste (look it up). Probably slugged down as much Krug, Clos du Mesnil 1995 as she/he could get her hands on and followed it up with Jagermeister shots. Personally, I find it more elegant to hold a martini glass...displays my perfectly manicured hands so beautifully, don't you know.

4}Maximize the possibilities. Make appointments with high-end vintage retailers in NYC who regularly sell to movie stars. Sadly, if you choose this method you can only expect to get about $800-$1500 per dress and you won't actually get to meet any movie stars but it's still a good fall back option. One expects by retailers she is referring to Mays Stores and Value Valley. I was going to say Dollar Tree, but that would be catty, and I don't stoop to such things.

KEEP TYPING, YOU FAILED FASHIONISTA! DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW YOU GOT THAT PRADA COPY AT DAFFY'S? Excuse me.

5}Be tall, very thin and striking. You don't have to be beautiful per se but you do need to have a killer sense of style so that the movie stars can pick you out of a crowd at a show.

The bon ton in NYC (at least the parts I frequent) are all striking and have a killer sense of style, including moi, even if I am not thin. I more than make up for it with my abundance of décolletage. I assume the vintage seller advising us has been picked out because she is short and wearing a shiny 50s day dress and a very large flowered brooch, ala Aunt Clara on "Bewitched."

Don't be fat Movie stars and NYC in general disapprove of fat people.

I believe I have addressed this topic before. No further comment is necessary. I would not have reached the pinnacle of fabulosity if my avoirdupois had been a detriment. Nor would certain NY politicians (and one very famous NYC movie actor/mogul--no names, just think of a taxi and a huge mole on one cheek, and I don't mean John-Boy) crossed my threshold eagerly awaiting my favors.

6}Go to the couture auction houses with stuff that maybe is way cool but not so movie star so that you will cover more bases on your trip. Bring your 30s chanel Boue Souers etc Even if your stuff doesn’t sell you will have really pretty pics of your stuff in auction catalogues to show your mom who has always been skeptical of your rock star-ness

We come here to the crux of this post, in the psychological sense. This desperate seller is trying to impress her disapproving mother, and is reduced to pasting photographs of her broken mannequin into already-published catalogues. Unfortunately, Mom isn't fooled because auction catalogues aren't filled with crumpled pages marred with Elmer's Glue. I mean, spelling Chanel chanel. Really. Perhaps she meant cheval.

7}Party and shmooze a lot{ this is self explanatary}

This is self-explanatory. Things seem ever so much more glamorous when you're extremely drunk. At least that's what poor Lana Turner's ghost told me.

8}Come home exhausted, kick back on the couch with a copy of Vogue. Congratulate yourself on a successful trip and laugh you *ss off at anyone who thought well connected meant the ** boards

I would have serious doubts about anyone who writes "laugh you *ss off". I think perhaps my personal assistant might have written it. Well, did you?? DID YOU? YOU PATHETIC SCUM!

Pardon me, I have to make a phone call to the employment agency.

While I do that, please do take a look at my lovely Ebay store, Elisa's Bounteous House of Style. I have just finished the Vintage Blow Out Sale and am now busily restocking with wonderful goodies for all, male and female.

Kisses,
Elisa The Ever-Modish

A Laborious Labor Day! (Plus Today's Fashion Tip!)

Dahlings, it will take me AGES to forget this nightmare of a weekend...wind, wind, wind! And that was just my dinner guests!

But seriously (even a maven of modishness such as myself can crack wise once in a while), the storm was Quite Too Much. Quite, quite too much! The havoc it has wreaked is simply devastating. My Zen Rock Garden, lovingly cultivated, has been destroyed. My beloved hydrangeas--or chrysanthemums, I'm not sure, I'd have to ask my gardener--blown to bits! My windows covered with sand! Now my beautiful oceanfront home is really on the ocean, if you get my drift...get it, drift, drift? Another joke! Oh, dear me, I'm getting hysterical...

I beg your pardon. I took a short break and downed a few Xanax, I feel ever so much more sanguine. Returning to the subject of Ernesto, a charming name for a bloody awful, messy storm. All night the wind howled about the house, the windows rattled, and when I dared look out the window, the ocean was an angry vista of white froth! I wrapped my wisp of chiffon (trimmed with navy marabou to denote the seriousness of the occasion) tightly about my Rubenesque figure, and pondered what a tragedy it would be if I and my (featured in Architectural Digest) mansion were swept out to sea. Something like that makes one ask oneself the big questions:
What Is It All About?
What Am I Here For?
What Is That Strange-Looking Metal Thing Out On The Deck?

Fortunately, I fell asleep before I could answer any of the questions, save the last one (a blown-over hibachi).

I awoke to a scene of disaster, dahlings, pure elemental disaster. Nature had spoken, and not in my garden's favor. Not only was my Rock Garden a mess of pebbles, everything else was simply covered in gleaming white sand. Which, on the previous afternoon, had been on the other side of my garden fence! The entire dune had been BLOWN INTO MY GARDEN, if you can believe it! With my infallible sense of the appropriate, I changed out of my wisp and into a sturdy costume of tweed and leather patches that would withstand the lashing rain. Not to mention a fetching hat with a leather tie-strap. I walked to the stairs beyond the deck that led down to the dune...

Or used to. Now, there was merely a foot of drenched sand, the churning ocean, and a few idiotic gawkers who had used my stairs to sneak onto my beach! A few shots from my pellet gun scared them into my neighbor's territory, thank God.

Since then, it has been time to take stock, to clean up the mess, and to look ahead, as was said after Katrinka or whatever that other storm was called--

Oh, dear, dahlings, I must dash. That IDIOTIC gardener is trying to use a snow-blower to blast away the sand, and in the process he's blasting away what is left of my precious petals. By which I mean the garden of course.

Kisses,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

TODAY'S FASHION TIP: (Special Ernesto Version)

If you are going to sneak over my stairs to gawk at the ocean, PLEASE put on a proper pair of shorts with a decent inseam under your 'poncho,' and not a bathing suit. In a time of crisis, we can do without seeing your cellulite. And the bottom of your buttocks, God help me.