Lana Turner Gives Me A Warning...

DAHLINGS –

Let me tell you a story.

A few nights ago, I was lying abed, in my usual wisp of chiffon, a scented candle made by Sarah Jessica Parker burning near the bed. Bucky was in his little dog bed, making soft woofing noises, presumably chasing a one-foot-high Andre Leon Talley in his dreams. I was in that mystic state between sleep and waking.

And then I heard someone softly calling my name. Thinking my assistant had locked herself in the armoire or some such, my eyes snapped open and I said, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Standing before me, as beautiful as ever, was my dear dead friend Lana Turner!

She was in her spangled costume from “Dancing Co-Ed,” back in her red-haired days, and gazing at me with a disapproving smile on her lovely young face.

“Lana, dahling! How nice to see you, and without even a medium around!” I cried, sitting up. Bucky looked up, blinked, and went back to sleep. Dogs are overly pragmatic sometimes, if you ask moi.

“Oh, honey, I had to come. I’ve been watching you for a while.”

“Moi? Whatever for?”

Lana hesitated, and then said, “The way you treat your help. I mean, when I was alive I was plenty temperamental, and I fired my fair share of folks. But you—you’ve got to slow down! Soon you’ll simply run out of hired help! Even prisoners on work release wouldn’t work for you.”

I drew myself up, gathering my wisp around me. “I hardly think my attitude towards the idiots I hire is your business, my dear Mademoiselle Turner. After all, things have changed since your time. People don’t know their place.”

She shrugged her shoulders, sparkling slightly. “There’s something I learned about where I’ve been, honey. It’s called karma. Or as we used to say, what goes around, comes around. And oh, boy, do you have it coming around! When I was first at Metro, and I wasn’t a star, they worked me like a dog. School, acting lessons, dancing lessons, publicity—I didn’t have a minute free. That’s what you’re doing to your staff, and they don’t get to be movie stars in return like I did.”

“Merde,” I retorted.

Lana threw up her hands. “Okay, don’t listen. But you’ll see what I mean, if you know what I mean. See ya round the séance table!”

And with that she vanished. But I was later to learn exactly what she meant.

To be continued –

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Such A Relief to Order People Around Again!

DAHLINGS -

Pardonnez moi once again for not having posted recently, but I had to hire a maid and a new personal assistant! Exhausting, I tell you. Checking mountains of references, having my detectives send the videos to my Blackberry, making sure all of the apartment Hide-A-Cams are in place--

Not to mention, shall we say, "arranging" to have my former assistant--well, what is the word I want? Silenced? Yes, I believe silenced is the safest choice.

After all, she did resign without notice during Fashion Week Spring 2008.

Now do not leap to conclusions--she's not dead, just a tad, well, shaken up.

My new assistant is easily intimidated, and that makes things so much smoother. And there are several new riders on the confidentiality agreement. My new maid is not only childless, but unmarried, so there should be nothing that prevents her from fulfilling my merest whim day or night.

GUADALUPE! GET IN HERE! I NEED A CUP OF CHAMOMILE TEA, AND I NEED IT NOW!

Ahem. What was I saying? Oh, dear, my assistant jumped a bit when I called to the maid.

It's all right, dear, I won't hurt you. If you behave. Just keep typing until I tell you to stop. And remember, don't get your face too close to Bucky's mouth. He's adorable, but those teeth are razor sharp and he has, as the television hosts say, "issues" about anyone but moi being too close to him.

Ah, I must tell you, my faithful readers, this is sheer bliss. I feel like Anna Wintour.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

It's all right, dear, you can stop typing now. No, really, NOW. I mean NOW. STOP TYPING! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, YOU IDIOT? DO I HAVE TO PULL YOUR HANDS OFF THE KEY--

A Parade of Shoes Marches To The House of Style!

DAHLINGS -

There is currently a girl from the temp agency here (I would not trust her with this blog-thing, but she seems to be competent at steaming clothes) until I can get someone up to my standards.

Is that TOO MUCH to ask? Sometimes it feels like such a bother to learn my assistant's name, since there's going to be a new one ere long. No loyalty these days, that is the problem. No loyalty at all. Maybe I should call them all "Smithie" and leave it at that.

In any event, the Bodacious House of Style is offering some new and vintage footwear for fall, and some of them are already up, so do please take a look!

New With Tags Faux Leather Sandals, size 11W:



Vintage 60s Coquettes Hot Pink Fabric Kitten Heels, with original box, size 8:



Strappy Evan Picone High Heels, size 8.5:



New With Tags Fioni Black and White Ankle Cuff Sandals, size 12:



New Without Box Steve Madden Silver Wedge Platform Slides, size 10:



Vintage 80s Midnight Blue Satin medium heel Pumps with rhinestones in the bows, size 12:



What are you waiting for? Start shoe shopping!

Oh, dear, I heard a scream from the workroom...the temp/"Smithie" must have had an accident with the steamer. Why do these things always happen to moi??

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Tyra Banks Speaks For Us All!

DAHLINGS -

This must be short, because I have a parade of candidates for a new maid to interview today. (After the previous incident, I shall make certain they are childless.)

However, this was sent to me by an admirer. I do not watch television, but I do know who Tyra Banks is, and I believe this should be viewed by all of the women who read this blog:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ5unYaNd3c

While I would never use such language, I applaud her courage. Particularly after watching dozens of starving teenagers stagger through Fashion Week.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

The Three Tomatoes Write About Moi!

DAHLINGS -

Fashion Week is over at last, and now I have some time to myself. And I truly mean to myself, because my assistant and my maid both resigned during the past week. So, it's been calls to the employment agencies and take-out from Pastis, until this dry spell is over.

Fortunately, my wonderful pup Bucky is always there for me, in good times and bad. As I type this, he is on my lap, which makes typing slightly difficult. Because his head is resting on my right forearm. But move him? Never! A dog's love is forever--

Oh! He jumped off my lap and trotted out of the room! Damn the beast! Bucky must have smelled the leftover coq au vin in the kitchen that I was heating up.

Heating up my own leftovers...that is what your faithful correspondent is reduced to. But life could be far worse.

This same week, I was profiled in The Three Tomatoes, a simply marvelous e-newsletter aimed at the fairer sex, with both tremendous aplomb and wide circulation. It's an absolute must-read, mes amis.

Here’s the link to yesterday’s newsletter:
http://app.e2ma.net/campaign/ac406fa71ac2798786156408886d7501

Read and enjoy! And envy me, of course. (But then, who does not?) The only fact they got wrong is that I have never been in rehab...that horrible doppelganger with the same name of mine has been, and HOW she got mentioned in the article is beyond me! Being confused with her is so deeply annoying. I have sent letters from my lawyer demanding she change her name, but so far the upstart has refused.

With that one small exception, it is a delightful article in a wonderful publication, so I shall graciously overlook it. Pardonnez moi, I have to go rescue the coq au vin. Bucky has a terribly sensitive little tummy and I cannot have him messing the carpets.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the not-so-Wonderdog

Fashion Week. Marc and Marc: A Study In Contrasts

DAHLINGS -

As you might guess, my new assistant did not quite work out.

So I am actually transcribing this myself, which explains the delay. I have tried to keep up, but there are only so many hours in the day, particularly when you have to keep changing your attire. (I dreaded being criticized by the Fugly Girls in New York magazine for wearing the same outfit twice! They are tres amusant, but merciless.)

Unfortunately, on Monday I had the unpleasant task of not only firing my would-be assistant, but that meant that my maid resigned as well. I was effectively left with NO staff whatsoever, except for my limo driver!

However! Your faithful correspondent is not a woman who bows down before Fate; I dressed myself in a silk robins-egg blue Calvin Klein dress with matching shoes and a carrier for Bucky, and packed a vintage Chanel outfit for the Marc Jacobs show.

I started by attending the Marc Bouwer show at the Promenade. The set design was cool and apaiser, a glowing green runway and backdrop. On each seat was a little tin of sugarless mints, labeled Marc Bouwer Glimints. (Since I arrived early and several seats were still empty, I helped myself. A woman can never have too many breath mints. One might find oneself talking to Roger Federer!)

At first I was a tad de'céu. The first dresses were well cut, but so billowy. Perfect if one is having what is called a “fat day,” but not my idea of Fashion In The True Sense. And there was one white bathing suit that was the image of Rudi Gernreich. The models were all wearing top knots that looked extremely painful, except for one blonde with short hair. So no hats.

However, once the colors came in, matters quickly improved! Turquoise is one of my favorite colors, and it was well represented in dresses, bathing suits, and other garments. The rest of the show was a dazzling sea of color. There was a magnificent red gown that I would have torn off the model’s back had I been sitting close enough. The overall look for the collection was flowing, drapy, and soft.

The only misstep, to moi, was the simply hideous sequined beaded patchwork minidress. What was the man thinking? That Halloween is coming?



However, he saved the best for last: the spectacular dress that closed the show, a turquoise goddess gown with a satin and chiffon train and a matching shredded capelet that mimicked feathers.



Ivana Trump was in the front row near me, of course, with her youthful charge, and on the other side sat a number of models who were to do the Marc Jacobs show much, much, much later in the evening. Tim Gunn and Veronica Webb were there. Fortunately Mr. Gunn didn’t recognize me in the dark. Also nearby was Lisa Marie Presley, who has gone blonde, a most unfortunate choice.

Backstage, I snuck out my camera and got a shot of the designer being interviewed by Veronica Webb (forgive the quality of the shot).



There was an after-party at a hot, tiny storefront down on West 18th Street, where I drank diet soda and made small talk with a rather drunk foreign blonde whom I believe was Donatella Versace.

Then it was back into the limo, out of the Calvin Klein, into the Chanel, put Bucky in a matching burgundy carrier, and back to the Lexington Avenue Armory for the Marc Jacobs show. I had already been informed it was going to start late, but two hours? I had been banned from his show during the last Fashion Week, but I managed to wrangle an invitation in exchange for...well, let's just say it was not exactly legal and involved going to Chinatown in dark glasses.

I am sorry, mon cher readers, but I simply. Didn’t. Get it. There was all this talk of “breaking the barriers of old fashioned sexuality,” which is a lovely idea…Victoria Beckham looked truly ridiculous in the tightest dress this side of a Lower East Side drag queen…but to moi, this is not what is going to take its place. Who needs funny hats when you can have hair like a homeless person?





Courtney Love, swaying slightly, seemed to be enjoying it all, however. I was going to take her to task for inflicting babydoll dresses on us all. But then I remembered it was actually her husband, Kurt Cobain, who introduced that particular phenomenon. A pity that he was the one with the looks and the talent.



The only thing more ridiculous was this outfit from Marc for Marc Jacobs...he absolutely outdid himself, if that's the word I want.



What the well-dressed young lunatic is wearing, no doubt.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

from ms decarlos notes fashion week

this miss decarlos new assistant. she a mean lady. a very mean lady. but my mother said i gotta do this or things gonna get way fucked up.

miss decarlos notes

luca luca was dull dull. transparant shapeless dresses one after the other i cant spell the names in the front row what kind of name is ivanka? gawnt models covered up, thank g-d.

on the other hand, the diane vonfirstenberg show was marvelous. colorful, femenine, and fun. i intend to order a number of her dresses.

(dios mio, this woman has money!)

despite her browlift diane looked radiant at the end as well she should. and the funny hat kwowshent was low. a few straw hats, but mostly had scarfs.

Chow

Ralph Lauren Has A Surprise...

DAHLINGS -

At Ralph Lauren’s 40th anniversary celebration at the Central Park Conservatory, your faithful correspondent was truly rendered speechless. It was not merely the celebrity-packed audience, one gets used to those, it was not even the fashions. They were marvelous. Although I shall never understand the appeal of jodhpurs. Why intentionally make one’s thighs look larger?

It was the hats. Not a single funny hat to be seen in the entire collection of over 70 looks! Wide-brimmed hats, top hats with veils, chic little 40s hats…all exactly right. I was slack-jawed with amaze.



The other simply astounding feat pulled off by the designer was that some of the models…

Smiled.



After the endless misery I had been watching on the runways since September 5th, there are no words.

But then I returned home the next morning before dawn to—DISASTER!

My assistant, that lumpkin, that peasant, that selfish pig, had RESIGNED in my absence!

There was a letter on my desk. I refuse to reveal the contents on the grounds that I might incriminate myself, or whatever it is they say on Court TV. Suffice to say she was not coming back.

The impudence! During FASHION WEEK, of all the times to quit! The baggage knew exactly how this would stab me in the back.

I fell back on the chaise lounge, Bucky licking my face sympathetically. Thank goodness dogs don’t know how to give notice. I had to think, and think fast. I needed an assistant, but where to get one?

Then I remembered…my maid has a teenage daughter, who speaks passable English, at least better than her mother’s. What girl wouldn’t leap at such a chance, if only for a few days until I could hire someone better qualified and kick her out?

I summoned the maid, and ordered her to bring her daughter to me immediately. I will write more later, after I get the detective’s report on where my assistant has vanished to.

No-one leaves the Fashionista in the lurch. No-one.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

As Fashion Week Continues, The Funny Hats March On!

DAHLINGS -

I could kill that idiot of an assistant of mine! I send her my notes from my Blackberry, and the fool DELETES two of the shows I attended on Thursday!

Bad enough that she made utter HASH of the names Badgley Mishka, but then to ERASE my deathless impressions of Stephen Burrows and Miss Sixty! She knew enough to be nowhere in sight when I reeled in on Thursday night after the after-party at Fashion Rocks. (Note: Carrie Underwood again displayed the common touch, which seems to be her strong suit.)



Miss Sixty displayed utterly ridiculous acid-washed jeans, low-waisted and short. Only the Olsen twins could pull them off, and that is being charitable. The hats were, for the most part, large-brimmed and transparent. Really, the only redeeming feature were the enormous envelope clutch bags.

I much preferred the Burrows show, if only because I love bright colors and I needed some cheering up. The dresses were lively and sweet, and more important; there wasn’t a hat to be seen!

Naturally I had written much more, but it is all GONE.

And my assistant was not in the office yet when I set out this morning. DAMN!

Nevertheless, I bundled up Bucky in his hand-made Dooney & Bourke carrier and hopped into the limo. This year, perhaps to make up for the starved appearance of the models, there are abundant sweet treats everywhere. The models merely stare at them, a little drool escaping their pale lips. And most of the fashion industry folk look as though—how do I describe it? —as if they are looking at the opposite of crystal meth. But I’ve been thoroughly enjoying myself. Too bad poor little Bucky cannot have chocolate…but he did get a praline or two.

Behnaz Sarafpour seems to have gotten back onto her medication. Which has also had the effect of dulling whatever creative faculties she possessed. Dozens of dull identical shirtwaist silhouettes, although she had her own contribution of the Fashion Week 2008 theme: funny hats.




Max Azaria’s show was quite nice if you like lingerie, and I do, but I could not quite imagine it as daywear. Although the heterosexual men in the audience, what few there were, seemed to be able to. As I watched the models march down the pink runway to the tune of "I Like to Play," their expressions numb with misery, the thought came to mind: "Would it kill them to smile?"

Perhaps it would. Perhaps they would simultaneously combust or some such.

The major commotion at the show was caused by celebrity void Nicole Richie, who, it is rumored, is pregnant and has what is now tastelessly called a “bump” showing. If indeed this gaunt attention addict is pregnant, we can expect some very special attention at the preemie ward at Lenox Hill hospital.

Meanwhile, Demi Moore was at the Proenza Schouler show at the Armory, surrounded by bodyguards and looking astonishingly wide-eyed at close range. (In fact, one is not sure she can actually blink.) My revered Anna Wintour was there, in what appeared to be a vintage dress! Oh, be still, my heart!

I am not a fan of this design team, and their choice of layered vests over various...things was only redeemed by the funny hat of choice for this show: tall military helmets with feathers. (Yes, one can quite imagine the fashionable young things at luncheon getting their helmets caught in the chandeliers and hanging plants.)



Ciao for now,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Bill Blass Goes Ebay: Fashion Week, Day Two

DAHLINGS -

Mon dieu, those after-parties can leave a female with quite the hangover!

Not to mention strangers in the bed, but I got rid of them with dispatch.

Because I was bound and determined to get to the Miss Sixty show, so I could at least smell Clive Owen. It was all the way down on the Bowery! Demi Moore, she of the liposuctioned knees, was there as well.

I left early to make the Bill Blass show at the New York Library. That was a mistake. Last fall the library was a wintery cavern, but this morning, because of the weather, the lights and the cameras, it was a bit stuffy. Like many of the attendees. I wore a light and airy maxi-dress from the mid-1970s, in yellow, to match the large Toblerone I was carrying.

Micheal Vollbracht has left Bill Blass, and so three ‘interim’ designers did the show. Thank goodness they are ‘interim,’ because the term ‘plagiarists’ would have suited them far better. Prabal Gurung, Ana Carolina Coelho, and Tyler Rose claimed to have gone into the designer’s archives and been inspired.

But the collection reminded moi of nothing so much as our great nation’s Internet flea market, Ebay. Really, doesn’t this look like every other strapless bridal gown out there today?



And although much of Ebay’s Vintage collection is outstanding (including, of course, mine), there are dozens of variations on what is called 'the secretary dress.'



In fact, many, many of the dresses at the library I saw could be found on Ebay, some of them by Bill Blass himself. However, one cannot imagine many of the socialites in attendance knowing enough about how to use a computer to actually take a look for themselves. So you will have to trust me on this.

The Badgley Mischka show in the Tent was far more satisfying, but then, evening gowns do something to a woman. To this woman, at any rate. And there were a plethora of evening gowns, many almost stupefyingly delightful.



Apparently the actress Teri Hatcher is the pair's muse. (Although this frock would look far better on moi--I have some flesh on my bones, and I don't dye my skin.)

She was in attendance, in a silver dress and spray-on tan. As was Kenneth Cole, Ivana Trump once again with her young charge, and many others of Ivana's social set. At times when they applauded, their jewelry rattled louder than their palms.

The funny hat factor was limited to a few huge floppy straws that bounced as the models strutted down the runway. Having changed my outfit between shows, I changed my sweets as well. As is my wont, I sat in the front row, munching on a large box of Godiva chocolates. (I always love the looks on the models’ faces when they first smell the chocolate—it reminds me of Bucky when he smells a far-away fire hydrant redolent of other dogs. Yearning, don’t you know.)

More later, mes enfants—it’s back to the limo and into another outfit! Dear me, I am getting quite the sugar buzz.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Is It Fashion Week ALREADY? Oh, Dear Lord...

DAHLINGS -

Sorry to be late to the party, as the current phrase goes.

So far, on the first day of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, the theme on the runways seemed to be funny hats.

I confess, I arrived quite late on September 5th. Somehow, my zest for Fashion Week was a bit muted by the closing of my oceanfront mansion. I was sorry to miss Yigal Azrouel’s show, if only because the gossip was that the models were wearing simply hilariously huge bucket hats.
However, the Nicole Miller show at the Promenade was sheer delight, my loves, sheer delight. As you know, jádore classic lines, and her show was almost all sweeping classic lines. (The blue evening dress was simply breathtaking!) The only misstep, in your faithful correspondent’s opinion, were those asinine little hats perched on the model’s heads. They reminded me of the tiny hats monkeys used to wear when they were alongside organ grinders. Not, one is certain, the intended effect.

However, any designer who can make Coco Rocha look good has to be acknowledged as masterful!



I then shoved my way to the Tent where Gwen Stefani’s L.A.M.B. show was taking place. It was simply mobbed with celebrities and people who looked like celebrities (I really should read US more often, but my maid does all of the marketing).

There was Sean Combs, who did not look the least perturbed about having recently been left by the mother of his three children (after he fathered a fourth by a comparative stranger). Then there was the ever-tighter-faced Ivana Trump and her luscious youngster-for-hire. And Carrie Underwood, who provided the common touch by wearing a Wal-Mart soccer jersey. The designer/singer herself, Ms. Stefani, was clad in a hound’s-tooth mini dress, so short that you could see from either end, that not a hair was out of place.

As for the fashions. Oh, dear.

Other than more bizarre hats (these were enormous black things), and some pretty 40s-inspired hip swagged skirts, most of it was stunningly repetitive. If one had to sum it up, the words “rape-able schoolgirl” came to mind most often. (I would have written “promiscuous,” but the models looked too dazed to care. Those that could see past the hats, that is.)



Thank goodness Ms. Stefani has a thriving music career.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Kudos to Justin Timberlake, Bringing Sexy Back!

DAHLINGS -

I never thought I would ever mention pop singer Justin Timberlake in my blog-thing...I mean, wasn't he married to Britney Spears or Pamela Anderson or Marilyn Manson? Or someone of that low-class ilk? That is the sort of music my personal assistant listens to.

When I am not around.

Be that as it may, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of attending a dinner party in East Hampton; to my horror, the after-dinner entertainment was to be Justin Timberlake's concert on HBO!

I would have stalked out, but my escort insisted on staying. He's quite aged, but tries desperately to stay "hip" (one of those bald-headed men with ponytails, don't you know).

Well, the music was repetitive, as least to my shell-pink ears. Mr. Timberlake is a slight, handsome, unintimidating person--he reminds me of a restaurant parking valet--who wears suits, or parts of suits, and he rarely stops moving during his show. There was a lot of platforms going up and down as well.

The reason I felt compelled to write was the dancers--! The female dancers were deliciously curvaceous, with real hips, thighs, bellies, all of the standard accoutrements of a normal female anywhere outside of a fashion magazine. Your faithful correspondent was astounded. Where were the stick-thin anorexics usually seen during such spectacles? When these women shimmied, they had something to shimmy with! And the costumes emphasized their fleshiness...underwire bras, garters, wonderful panties gathered across the hips! (There was one dancer with oddly striped blonde and brown hair, but a phenomenal blonde more than made up for that one strange lapse of taste.)

In short, the female dancers were as sexy as old-fashioned pin-ups, and at the same time, in tune with the new curviness about to be trotted out for Fashion Week. Or so one hopes.

And so I must tip my fedora to Mr. Timberlake for being in show business and still appreciating what real women look like!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog