Dateline Washington DC: Inauguration Fashion!

(This is Mademoiselle's assistant, writing up her notes from the Inauguration. I hope she gets good and looped at the post-Inaugural luncheon, she's been impossible.)

It is absolutely frigid out here, even my silk knit lingerie does not help. I am bundled up top to toe. Thank goodness Bucky is back at the Willard Hotel; the little darling does not do well in these temperatures. The estimates of the crowd range from 1 million to 16 million, but all I know is that my toes are frozen.

Hillary Clinton is wearing a cobalt blue coat that would be perfectly acceptable except for that strange ruffle across the back. Laura Bush is wearing a suitably toned down gray ensemble; considering how loudly her husband had been booed on his entrance, it wouldn't do to dress to be noticed.

Dick Cheney is being wheeled out in a chair...how did I ever bring myself to sleep with him back in the day?

Ah, Jill Biden is wearing a wonderful lipstick red coat with an assymetrical collar. It is a bit hard to tell, but I think she has on black gloves with large black bumps on them that resemble nothing so much as Elephant Man disease. Her husband, the Vice-President elect, has on more makeup than she does, it seems from here.



Michelle Obama is wearing a marvelous sheath with a matching coat over it, in gold with white embroidery by Isabel Toledo. She has accessorized it with green gloves and matching green pumps. This is definitely a First Lady with a style mind of her own. I don't care for the jeweled collar, but otherwise, this is an instant classic. (Pardon my fawning, but this is the new administration and your faithful correspondent knows which side her bread is buttered on.)

They are beginning the ceremony--whose hair is stiffer, Dianne Feinstein's or Joe Biden's? Neither one's is moving in the icy wind.



What does Aretha Franklin have on her head? Oh, dear, she is not in good voice this cold morning. Somebody just called out "Sing good!" Poor Aretha cannot oblige. She must have a cold. All the moaning and melismas in the world can't cover up the fact that the woman is having a hard time hitting the notes.

WAIT A MINUTE--I SEE A SPACE HEATER! MOVE IT OR LOSE IT, OLD MAN!

Ha. Cheney thought he could hide it under his wheelchair. Oh, that is such a relief...to be continued!

Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog

Bringing Beauty to Washington, DC!

DAHLINGS -

With the upcoming inauguration of President-elect Obama, the media has begun squawking away about the impending "return to glamour" and "re-emergence of Camelot" and similar nonsense. Female politicos are panicking. Suddenly there is tremendous pressure about not appearing their best in the new administration. During the Bush administration one could look like a billy goat and it did not hurt one's credibility. In fact, it helped.

But with the elegant Michelle Obama becoming First Lady, suddenly all of the Capitol Hill femmes, particularly those of high profile and dumpy blue suits, are terrified that they will be scrutinized as closely as celebrities. That could mean appearing in the pages of "US" magazine in the "Why Did She Wear That??" section. And then how could you get your appropropriations bill passed?

So, your faithful correspondent and an entourage of assistants were whisked off to Washington this past weekend with a truckload of designer fashions! We were booked into several suites in the fabulous Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, a mere block or two away from the White House. My hand still aches from signing all of those confidentiality agreements!

Our floor had to be "Secret Service Cleared" so that all of the luminaries could be fitted in comfort and safety. Several lady Secret Service agents requested their uniforms be tailored in a more shapely cut. My seamstresses had their work cut out for them (pardon the pun), particularly because of the body armor and holsters.

The biggest obstacle to my work was not the figures of the women--I believe there is beauty in every shape and size, as you well know. It was the mindset: rigid conformity to outdated fashion norms, fear of change, fear of appearing "weak" if wearing anything too feminine. Since you, my faithful readers, know that I do not appear "weak" in the least, even wearing a wisp of chiffon and stiletto heels, you also know that these fears were simply too maddening! Several times I had to retire to the hotel's Round Robin Bar for a quick mojito to quell my rising temper.

Difficult clients are one thing; but difficult clients with immense legislative power must be handled with tact and delicacy, something I could only manage with some alcohol sloshing through my system.

If I may opine for a moment, I believe that suits are detrimental to women in politics. For one thing, female politicians have to wave all of the time. And we know that suits bunch up and pull over to one side when a woman waves--particularly if there are shoulder pads. Now, we are used to men looking that awkward, but women should be spared. Hillary Clinton, if you are reading this, please do stop wearing suits! You have such lovely curves, why not a dress now and then?

Oh, and the Inaugural Ball gowns...MTV is hosting the Inaugural Ball, which also wreaked emotional (and public relations) havoc amongst the women. High-neck? Low-neck? Contemporary look? Conservative? (You try getting a Republican who isn't Sarah Palin to wear a fitted, low-cut gown...a recipe for blinding migraines, mon chers.)

However, I was flown back from Washington, the trunks empty, my coffers bulging, and my wrist aching. If I have just a tiny bit of impact on how women in Washington look, that is all I ask.

That, and a hefty fee.

God Bless America.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

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