DAHLINGS -
In the last few minutes of the old year, I must tell you a tale. A tale of courage, a tale of genius, a tale of magnificence. All of it mine, of course.
There is another seller on Ebay, a man who presumes to dress in womens' vintage clothing. I believe this gentleman thinks that he is amusing. Perhaps, in a sordid way. However, my delicate sensibilities were so offended at womens' clothing being thus mistreated, I set out to beat him at his own game.
No, I did not have a sex change.
Instead, I challenged the man to a POSING CONTEST on Ebay, which is going on as I write this. I knew that, even if I am not a professional model, I could outpose this poseur, if you will pardon the pun. Normally I shrink from publicity, unlike, say, that tight-faced pr slut Madonna. But if I was to do this properly, I would have to let the spotlight shine on my creamy white skin.
We chose two forms of vintage auctions. One is called "indie boho emo," which seems to mean "ugly 70s clothes bought at exorbitant prices by teenagers." The other is called "rare couture," which needs no explanation, n'cest pas? In the titles we put the letters GPO, for "Great Pose Off." (I would have preferred something more literate, but one mustn't confuse one's buyers.)
The auctions started in the wee hours of Thursday night, and instantly became phenomenons far beyond what anyone expected (except me).
The reason your faithful correspondent is telling you this is so that you, dahlings, have the opportunity to Vote For Me, because a Vote For Elisa Is A Vote For Vintage In The True Sense.
Here is what you do--go to Ebay, with as many of your Ebay IDs as you care to use, go to the Vintage Clothing Category, and search "GPO" in Womens Vintage Clothing. Or, to make it simpler, you can click on the link to my store, Elisa's Bodacious House of Style, and find my auctions there. On my "About Me" page is a link to the poll, hosted by Trophy Girl Vintage, bless her.
In the spirit of fair play, I should inform you that the man is question sells under the ID shop4youby4me. But I know you will vote for moi.
Because a man in a dress is funny, and that is such an unfair advantage. Strike a blow for women everywhere, and Vote For Me!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
President Clinton, the Messiah, and Moi
DAHLINGS –
It’s almost Christmas! Hanukkah ended the other night, so it’s time to put away the menorah and get out the votive candles.
Last night, my escort for the evening was in the mood for some high culture. So we went to Carnegie Hall to hear Handel’s “Messiah,” performed by the Masterwork Chorus and Orchestra. Of course we were sitting in a First Tier Box where only the elite sit, compliments of the management. They are too kind.
For the occasion, and since it was all about religion, I chose a classic Donna Karan black dress that was a miracle of simplicity—black, with a low square neckline, long tight sleeves, and a flowing skirt that revealed a hint of satin-shod foot. Many admiring glances were shot in my direction.
Imagine my outrage, then, as the chorus trooped out onto the stage—all of the females wearing non-designer copy versions of MY DRESS! Quel horror! Why wasn’t I informed? Thinking quickly, I drew my magenta cashmere shawl around my shoulders, pretending to have a slight chill.
Then, as the orchestra tuned up, I looked over to the next box and saw…
President Bill Clinton. And Senator Hillary.
Dahlings, your faithful correspondent was struck dumb (which takes some doing). The man is simply magnificent in person, sex appeal personified. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with a bright red tie (why do politicians wear red ties even after they leave office?). The estimable Hillary was nicely turned out in an elaborately embroidered multicolored long jacket. Even the Secret Service men looked toothsome.
A memory flashed in my mind: six years ago, Mama informed me that a portrait painter in their building was going to be painting President Clinton. Visions of somehow trapping myself in the elevator with Bill filled my brain. I said something on the telephone of that nature to Mama, who snapped, “He’s not getting any blowjobs here!” (Mama can be rather outspoken at times.)
Unfortunately, my very young nephew was visiting at the time, and I gather hearing that exchange was rather traumatic for him. I think “Grandmama” and “blowjob” had never been linked in his innocent brain prior to that.
Back to Carnegie Hall: our eyes locked, and we exchanged meaningful smiles. Oh, those blue eyes, almost as blue as my own! That thick mane of white hair. Those powerful hands…More than anything, I wanted to reach across the box and squeeze his thigh. However, the Secret Service was between us.
And perhaps he remembered that I had caused Dick Cheney’s first heart attack. (Mentioned in a post several months earlier, faithful readers shall recall.) I shuddered to think that President Clinton might think me Republican. So near, and yet so far…
As for “The Messiah,” the music was lovely, but the lyrics seemed a trifle silly. They reminded me of opera supertitles, with the same phrases repeated over and over again. Don’t they know we get “He shall feed his flock like a sheperd” the first time?
I have never understood why works such as this (and most operas) don’t get updated by modern songwriters , such as Jerry Herman. He could have easily trimmed the “Messiah” by forty-five minutes to an hour.
To moi, the story didn’t quite hang together, although the four solo singers all had beautiful voices. I am no expert on religion of any kind. Far from it. It gives me a headache when I have to think about Deep Things. Act One was about Him getting born, Act Two was utterly indecipherable, even with the lyrics in the program. “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach peace”? What on earth does that mean? Do they get pedicures?
And we all had to stand up for the Hallelujah Chorus, which was belted out quite properly. I managed to sneak another look at the President, but he was gazing at the stage.
The thought crossed my mind to sneak into his box during the Chorus, but a warning look from a Secret Security man checked me. (They can read your minds, dahlings, I swear!)
When the Hallelujah Chorus was over, a significant portion of the audience left, although we still had another three hours to go. My escort asked me in bewilderment, “Why did Handel put the money shot in the second act?” I shushed him.
Act Three, to be honest, was a bit of a yawn. I believe that it was about the Rapture or whatever some people call it. If indeed all of the dead are raised, I certainly hope I do not have to meet Richard Nixon. And who knew it could take half an hour to sing the word “Amen”?
When it was all over and we stood to applaud, I exchanged another long, meaningful look with President Clinton. And then he and Hillary were swept away, and the Secret Service made the rest of us all leave from the other side of the building.
Ah, another time, another place…and I might have caused his first heart attack. A girl can dream, can’t she? Sigh...
Bucky and I wish all of you dahlings out there a very Merry Christmas, with goodwill toward all!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
It’s almost Christmas! Hanukkah ended the other night, so it’s time to put away the menorah and get out the votive candles.
Last night, my escort for the evening was in the mood for some high culture. So we went to Carnegie Hall to hear Handel’s “Messiah,” performed by the Masterwork Chorus and Orchestra. Of course we were sitting in a First Tier Box where only the elite sit, compliments of the management. They are too kind.
For the occasion, and since it was all about religion, I chose a classic Donna Karan black dress that was a miracle of simplicity—black, with a low square neckline, long tight sleeves, and a flowing skirt that revealed a hint of satin-shod foot. Many admiring glances were shot in my direction.
Imagine my outrage, then, as the chorus trooped out onto the stage—all of the females wearing non-designer copy versions of MY DRESS! Quel horror! Why wasn’t I informed? Thinking quickly, I drew my magenta cashmere shawl around my shoulders, pretending to have a slight chill.
Then, as the orchestra tuned up, I looked over to the next box and saw…
President Bill Clinton. And Senator Hillary.
Dahlings, your faithful correspondent was struck dumb (which takes some doing). The man is simply magnificent in person, sex appeal personified. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with a bright red tie (why do politicians wear red ties even after they leave office?). The estimable Hillary was nicely turned out in an elaborately embroidered multicolored long jacket. Even the Secret Service men looked toothsome.
A memory flashed in my mind: six years ago, Mama informed me that a portrait painter in their building was going to be painting President Clinton. Visions of somehow trapping myself in the elevator with Bill filled my brain. I said something on the telephone of that nature to Mama, who snapped, “He’s not getting any blowjobs here!” (Mama can be rather outspoken at times.)
Unfortunately, my very young nephew was visiting at the time, and I gather hearing that exchange was rather traumatic for him. I think “Grandmama” and “blowjob” had never been linked in his innocent brain prior to that.
Back to Carnegie Hall: our eyes locked, and we exchanged meaningful smiles. Oh, those blue eyes, almost as blue as my own! That thick mane of white hair. Those powerful hands…More than anything, I wanted to reach across the box and squeeze his thigh. However, the Secret Service was between us.
And perhaps he remembered that I had caused Dick Cheney’s first heart attack. (Mentioned in a post several months earlier, faithful readers shall recall.) I shuddered to think that President Clinton might think me Republican. So near, and yet so far…
As for “The Messiah,” the music was lovely, but the lyrics seemed a trifle silly. They reminded me of opera supertitles, with the same phrases repeated over and over again. Don’t they know we get “He shall feed his flock like a sheperd” the first time?
I have never understood why works such as this (and most operas) don’t get updated by modern songwriters , such as Jerry Herman. He could have easily trimmed the “Messiah” by forty-five minutes to an hour.
To moi, the story didn’t quite hang together, although the four solo singers all had beautiful voices. I am no expert on religion of any kind. Far from it. It gives me a headache when I have to think about Deep Things. Act One was about Him getting born, Act Two was utterly indecipherable, even with the lyrics in the program. “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach peace”? What on earth does that mean? Do they get pedicures?
And we all had to stand up for the Hallelujah Chorus, which was belted out quite properly. I managed to sneak another look at the President, but he was gazing at the stage.
The thought crossed my mind to sneak into his box during the Chorus, but a warning look from a Secret Security man checked me. (They can read your minds, dahlings, I swear!)
When the Hallelujah Chorus was over, a significant portion of the audience left, although we still had another three hours to go. My escort asked me in bewilderment, “Why did Handel put the money shot in the second act?” I shushed him.
Act Three, to be honest, was a bit of a yawn. I believe that it was about the Rapture or whatever some people call it. If indeed all of the dead are raised, I certainly hope I do not have to meet Richard Nixon. And who knew it could take half an hour to sing the word “Amen”?
When it was all over and we stood to applaud, I exchanged another long, meaningful look with President Clinton. And then he and Hillary were swept away, and the Secret Service made the rest of us all leave from the other side of the building.
Ah, another time, another place…and I might have caused his first heart attack. A girl can dream, can’t she? Sigh...
Bucky and I wish all of you dahlings out there a very Merry Christmas, with goodwill toward all!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Bruce Springsteen Goes To The Theater
DAHLINGS -
Earlier this week I attended a performance of my good friend Martin Short's Broadway show, "Fame Becomes Me". (And it does, even though the show is closing January 7th. If you are in New York, run to the box office before it's gone!)
As my escort was picking up our tickets at the box office, I noticed a small man waiting behind us, rather scruffy, wearing a blazer that was too tight. With him was a beautiful redhead. Suddenly I realized that this little man was the immortal Bruce Springsteen, The Boss, Whatever Else He Used To Called. And the redhead was his wife, Patty Scialfa. I was a bit puzzled by his clothing--aren't shrunken blazers only worn by very young woman? However, the world of rock fashion is hardly my bailiwick. In person, Bruce looked more like Keith Richard than one would have thought, but my escort was convinced both Patty and Bruce had "work done," as the saying goes.
The sweet part was that they were bringing their teenage children to the show as well. As I passed into the lobby, a young man grabbed my sleeve.
"That's--that's Bruce Springsteen!" he said, in the tone of one beholding the Taj Mahal for the first time.
"I know, " I said, shaking him off. Let other people stare at TheBoss; I am far too sophisticated to indulge in such a pastime. Particularly because we were seated at either end of the orchestra and I had forgotten to bring my opera glasses.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Earlier this week I attended a performance of my good friend Martin Short's Broadway show, "Fame Becomes Me". (And it does, even though the show is closing January 7th. If you are in New York, run to the box office before it's gone!)
As my escort was picking up our tickets at the box office, I noticed a small man waiting behind us, rather scruffy, wearing a blazer that was too tight. With him was a beautiful redhead. Suddenly I realized that this little man was the immortal Bruce Springsteen, The Boss, Whatever Else He Used To Called. And the redhead was his wife, Patty Scialfa. I was a bit puzzled by his clothing--aren't shrunken blazers only worn by very young woman? However, the world of rock fashion is hardly my bailiwick. In person, Bruce looked more like Keith Richard than one would have thought, but my escort was convinced both Patty and Bruce had "work done," as the saying goes.
The sweet part was that they were bringing their teenage children to the show as well. As I passed into the lobby, a young man grabbed my sleeve.
"That's--that's Bruce Springsteen!" he said, in the tone of one beholding the Taj Mahal for the first time.
"I know, " I said, shaking him off. Let other people stare at TheBoss; I am far too sophisticated to indulge in such a pastime. Particularly because we were seated at either end of the orchestra and I had forgotten to bring my opera glasses.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Saturday, December 16, 2006
When Is A Pigeon A Turkey? When It's Marc Jacobs
Dahlings -
Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
It's Official - Oprah Winfrey ADORES Breasts!
Dahlings –
Far be it for moi to criticize anyone else’s lifestyle (although if you dare criticize mine, beware! As it says below, I have efficient and nasty lawyers).
However, the hypocrisy of that Oprah Winfrey person. Yes, I know, she's rich, she pulled herself up by her anklestraps, she insists on being on every cover of that damn magazine urging women to "be the best you can be" or "build strong bodies 12 ways" or "Join the Army" or whatever it is. Etc. etc. etc.
So, in this day and age, why bother to pretend that you are a player of the pink oboe, when it is transparently obvious that you would rather eat the dark oyster? (Note I did not say “bearded clam.”)
My personal assistant had the television on this afternoon when she was supposed to be steaming my fabulous outfits. I'm going to the Marc Jacobs soiree at Gotham Hall this evening, and I need to have a selection of devastating garments handy.
Before I had a chance to discipline the foolish lumpkin, the sight on the plasma screen rooted me to the spot. Oprah Winfrey, delightedly standing behind a half-naked woman and fondling her breasts!
“I didn’t know Oprah had a side career in soft-corn pornography,” I thought. Then, I realized Ms. Winfrey was ostensibly fitting women for brassieres on her television program.
Perhaps it was the manner in which her hands caressed each woman’s poitrine, big, small and in between. The way she lovingly fondled the curve of the cups of the lingerie. Perhaps it was the rapturous gleam in her eye. But Oprah was enjoying this far too much!
Suddenly those 'rumors' about her friendship with Gayle seemed quite plausible.
And I’m certain that the participants on the show enjoyed themselves as much as Ms. Winfrey, if the eagerly screamed “THANK YOU, OPRAH!” s from the half-naked women were anything to go by. Who knows what happened when the cameras were turned off? Probably most of these women hadn’t been felt up so well since high school. (Although there were so many women, one has to admire Oprah’s stamina.)
The rest of the program was the usual women’s’ kerfuffle, how to find the perfect pair of jeans and such. (Using size 10 women as examples--of COURSE size 10 women can find perfect jeans! My God! )
But I digress. Ms. Winfrey examined each woman’s derriere with a scrutiny that was quite discomfiting.
Yes, we all know she’ll never marry that eunuch Steadfast or Stiffpole or whatever his name is. If only she wouldn’t keep blowing smoke in the media’s eyes by pretending to blow Stiffpole. Come out, come out, Oprah! Then we will all know you are being your best possible you, as you like to say.
Must dress! Kisses!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Thought:
We all know there is nothing like a dame. I've always liked the word dame. I hope someday I will be remembered as such: “She was a great dame," "She was one tough dame,”
I think of a dame as a gal who knows who she is. Who can be tough when she needs to be, but knows when mercy is called for.
Great in bed. Feminine without being prissy.
From "Damn Good Vintage," by the Zaftig Goddess
Far be it for moi to criticize anyone else’s lifestyle (although if you dare criticize mine, beware! As it says below, I have efficient and nasty lawyers).
However, the hypocrisy of that Oprah Winfrey person. Yes, I know, she's rich, she pulled herself up by her anklestraps, she insists on being on every cover of that damn magazine urging women to "be the best you can be" or "build strong bodies 12 ways" or "Join the Army" or whatever it is. Etc. etc. etc.
So, in this day and age, why bother to pretend that you are a player of the pink oboe, when it is transparently obvious that you would rather eat the dark oyster? (Note I did not say “bearded clam.”)
My personal assistant had the television on this afternoon when she was supposed to be steaming my fabulous outfits. I'm going to the Marc Jacobs soiree at Gotham Hall this evening, and I need to have a selection of devastating garments handy.
Before I had a chance to discipline the foolish lumpkin, the sight on the plasma screen rooted me to the spot. Oprah Winfrey, delightedly standing behind a half-naked woman and fondling her breasts!
“I didn’t know Oprah had a side career in soft-corn pornography,” I thought. Then, I realized Ms. Winfrey was ostensibly fitting women for brassieres on her television program.
Perhaps it was the manner in which her hands caressed each woman’s poitrine, big, small and in between. The way she lovingly fondled the curve of the cups of the lingerie. Perhaps it was the rapturous gleam in her eye. But Oprah was enjoying this far too much!
Suddenly those 'rumors' about her friendship with Gayle seemed quite plausible.
And I’m certain that the participants on the show enjoyed themselves as much as Ms. Winfrey, if the eagerly screamed “THANK YOU, OPRAH!” s from the half-naked women were anything to go by. Who knows what happened when the cameras were turned off? Probably most of these women hadn’t been felt up so well since high school. (Although there were so many women, one has to admire Oprah’s stamina.)
The rest of the program was the usual women’s’ kerfuffle, how to find the perfect pair of jeans and such. (Using size 10 women as examples--of COURSE size 10 women can find perfect jeans! My God! )
But I digress. Ms. Winfrey examined each woman’s derriere with a scrutiny that was quite discomfiting.
Yes, we all know she’ll never marry that eunuch Steadfast or Stiffpole or whatever his name is. If only she wouldn’t keep blowing smoke in the media’s eyes by pretending to blow Stiffpole. Come out, come out, Oprah! Then we will all know you are being your best possible you, as you like to say.
Must dress! Kisses!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Thought:
We all know there is nothing like a dame. I've always liked the word dame. I hope someday I will be remembered as such: “She was a great dame," "She was one tough dame,”
I think of a dame as a gal who knows who she is. Who can be tough when she needs to be, but knows when mercy is called for.
Great in bed. Feminine without being prissy.
From "Damn Good Vintage," by the Zaftig Goddess
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Jennifer Hudson Is Not Even 'Chunky' - Plus Today's Fashion Tip!
DAHLINGS,
I have meant, over and over again, to return to this little forum to opine about the important subjects of today, such as: who thinks the bubble skirt actually looks good? And aren't we all delighted that Jennifer Hudson stole the show in "Dreamgirls"? Of course, she is Hollywood's version of overweight, which means she is slightly underweight rather than seriously gaunt. I saw the original woman, something Holliday (do you think I have TIME to look it up?) who was large and amazingly talented.
But, it would seem the genitalia of most the males who run Hollywood shrink up when they see a powerful large woman. (The poor dears really do need therapy to get over their mothers.)
Ergo, the "semi-fat" sidekick, who isn't fat but slightly more rounded than the hollow-cheeked heroine. Such as Jennifer Coolidge. Why are all these women named Jennifer, anyway? And in that "Shoes" movie about sisters, the obese, slovely one is played by Toni Collette--Toni Collette!--whose one concession to reality is to have her bras a bit too tight in the back. At least she isn't named Jennifer.
All for now -- but I wanted to let you know that I have a singular selection of dazzling holiday fashions and jewelry, to wit:
"Dreamgirls" era 60s pink lace dress, XL:
Vintage Weiss green rhinestone necklace, signed:
Vintage 80s Joan Collins crystal pleated shoulder and bust emerald green, XXL
NWOT Niki Livas blue-green organza formal cocktail dress, size 16W:
And much more to come.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Tip:
Prescription For Dressing: BREAKFAST
It's good psychology to start the day with bright colors, so choose something gay in a washable fabric. Breakfast coat, brunch coat, house dress, smock, skirt and shirt or slacks and shirt; + apron if you're cooking; + casual shoes, sandals or flats.
Edith Head, "The Dress Doctor"
I have meant, over and over again, to return to this little forum to opine about the important subjects of today, such as: who thinks the bubble skirt actually looks good? And aren't we all delighted that Jennifer Hudson stole the show in "Dreamgirls"? Of course, she is Hollywood's version of overweight, which means she is slightly underweight rather than seriously gaunt. I saw the original woman, something Holliday (do you think I have TIME to look it up?) who was large and amazingly talented.
But, it would seem the genitalia of most the males who run Hollywood shrink up when they see a powerful large woman. (The poor dears really do need therapy to get over their mothers.)
Ergo, the "semi-fat" sidekick, who isn't fat but slightly more rounded than the hollow-cheeked heroine. Such as Jennifer Coolidge. Why are all these women named Jennifer, anyway? And in that "Shoes" movie about sisters, the obese, slovely one is played by Toni Collette--Toni Collette!--whose one concession to reality is to have her bras a bit too tight in the back. At least she isn't named Jennifer.
All for now -- but I wanted to let you know that I have a singular selection of dazzling holiday fashions and jewelry, to wit:
"Dreamgirls" era 60s pink lace dress, XL:
Vintage Weiss green rhinestone necklace, signed:
Vintage 80s Joan Collins crystal pleated shoulder and bust emerald green, XXL
NWOT Niki Livas blue-green organza formal cocktail dress, size 16W:
And much more to come.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Tip:
Prescription For Dressing: BREAKFAST
It's good psychology to start the day with bright colors, so choose something gay in a washable fabric. Breakfast coat, brunch coat, house dress, smock, skirt and shirt or slacks and shirt; + apron if you're cooking; + casual shoes, sandals or flats.
Edith Head, "The Dress Doctor"
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