My Near Death Experience, Courtesy of Business Class

DAHLINGS –

I am so sorry that I have not, as they say here, ‘blogged’ for some time. Goodness knows the antics of Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump have caused me to tell my personal assistant to LEAVE THE TELEVISION TURNED OFF, whether I am there or not! It might have been fodder for thought at one time, but tonight I am thinking Very Deep Thoughts. And yes, I have a dreadful headache.

DON’T BOTHER MAKING THOSE SYMPATHETIC SOUNDS, YOU LIAR! I KNOW YOU ENJOY MY PAIN!

Excuse me; my assistant was giving me a laughably bad imitation of a concerned smile.

I’VE HEARD YOU TALKING TO THE MAID ABOUT ME, SO DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU’D LIKE MY HEADACHE TO BE A BRAIN TUMOR!

Ahem. I do get a little short when in agony.

The Very Deep Thoughts were the result of a simply terrifying experience I had the other night. No, it wasn’t seeing Cameron Diaz at the Golden Globes in that hideous white ruffled thing and dyed black hair (some rag called her “statuesque”—the woman is as wide as a hairpin!).

I’ve been down in North Carolina, to visit a friend. And oh, I should have taken my personal Lear jet! When will I learn? Instead, I flew (ugh) commercial, on an airline not to be named.

We were supposed to fly out of Raleigh-Durham on Monday night at 8 pm, arriving in LaGuardia at 9:30. Short version: the plane left at 10:30 pm, did a forced near-crash landing in Richmond, VA, then hours later I was forced to board the SAME PLANE and fly to my beloved New York, arriving at 3:30 AM.

I was sitting in business class, attired in a beautiful Yves St. Laurent suit, but even the cushioning of the business class seats could not conceal the face that this flight was more turbulent than Britney Spears and K-Fed in a cage match. I was drinking the rather bad champagne the airline had to offer, but it did not still my delicate nerves. I took a few Xanax, but still, something felt deeply wrong.

I could not believe my shell-pink ears when the captain announced something was badly wrong with the left engine and we would make a forced landing. And that there would be fire trucks and emergency crews on the ground. The flight attendant told everyone to strap in. I have NEVER been on an aircraft that went toward the ground so fast!

The plane hit the runway hard, as hard as Rosie O’Donnell could bitch-slap Donald Trump. There was a loud scraping noise as the plane careened down the runway. We came to a screeching halt, and then the flight attendant told us we would be allowed to disembark to the airport once they determined it was safe enough.

We passengers sat there for a long, long time. I demanded more champagne to while the time away, but the attendant refused to pay attention to me. Commoner.

With nothing to occupy my attention, I began to think about Very Deep Things.

What if the plane had exploded?
What if it merely burst into flames?
What if I had been burnt and my beauty scarred? Would I still be welcomed at Hype?
How could the world of fashion survive without MOI?
My head began to throb in earnest.

There was supposed to be another plane waiting for us. Ha! Instead, your faithful correspondent was forced to sit for hours in the Richmond, Virginia airport. Believe me, there is no more desolate place than a closed airport terminal, except perhaps the inside of Paris Hilton's head. Before my Deep Thoughts were able to drive me to the brink, I found a copy of “French Vogue” in my carry-on.

Again, my shell-pink ears could not believe that we were told to board the same PLANE OF NEAR-DEATH!

“I demand my money back and a First Class upgrade on the first flight out in the morning!” I thundered at the man making the announcement.

The clod ignored me! I wrote down his name, and believe me, there will be hell to pay at the Richmond, Virginia airport.

I strode back onto the jet, making sure to swipe the attendant with my (authentic) Gucci bag. We made it back to LaGuardia, where, emphatically not dead, I dropped with exhaustion into my limousine. Bucky gave me an ecstatic welcome, which made me particularly glad that I am not dead.

Since then, I have been up to my exfoliated elbows in business, particularly setting up “Haute Cou-Poor” at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Now that I have told of my Adventure, it’s off to bed. Remember to kiss your dog.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

As Ever, Gracious In Defeat...

Dahlings -

And the winner of The Great Pose Off is. . . Fred. The polls do not lie.

(Although there have been some rumors that the poll was rigged by jealous vintage sellers out to sabotage my burgeoning modeling career. Don't let anyone know you heard it from me.)

However, in truly gentlemanly fashion, Fred pronounced that we are "co-winners"!

Because, after all, The Great Pose Off was my brainchild. And because we brought so much joy with our little contest to the great unwashed out there in Ebay-land. In fact, one seller, who goes by the ID of majickal_moon* created a picture of Fred and me with the Great Pose Off Trophy:



(I admit that I do not expect this to do me any good where A Dress A Day is concerned. But one cannot have everything.)

Fred has won my admiration, which is not easy. I admire very few people, among them President Clinton and Dita Von Tease, for the wonderful way she takes care of her poor handicapped husband. And of course my dear dead friend Lana Turner, who offered to pose for me, until I had to break it to her that generally speaking, dead people do not photograph well. They go all ectomorphic or protoplasmic or whatever that word is for "gray and foggy."

In the meantime, to business. For the discriminating buyer, I have some delightful items in my shop.

Soft Brown Faux Fur Coat, New With Tags, size 3X:

SOLD

Satin Wrap Robe, size 8X, in gold, red and burgundy:



Long Blue Stretch Velvet Dress, 3X, and Vintage Milk Glass Bead Matinee Necklace:

DRESS: SOLD
NECKLACE: In My Store

I must hie myself off to bed, after taking a hot scented bath (using the fragrance specially created for me by wee Sarah Jessica Parker). I wish you all a good night.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

*One suspects this ID has something to do with dancing naked at night, hmmm?

Quel Horror! Dissed By A Dress A Day!

DAHLINGS -

I would have written earlier, but I have been lying on the divan with a cold cloth over my head.

Imagine my shock when browsing through the Internet earlier today, I looked at one of my favorite sites, A Dress A Day, written by a lovely woman named Erin. Well, I thought she was lovely. Hmmmmph. In any event, my profound shock at seeing MY OPPONENT, in full regalia, with the title, "Have You Met Fred?"

Have I met Fred, indeed! At this very moment I am still recovering from a night of posing the likes of which will not be seen for a long, long time.




Yet here I sit, dictating to my personal assistant, who works my fingers to the bone, having slaved to bring Fashion in The True Sense to the bourgousie, unknown, surrounded by an uncaring world.

And this--this arriviste gets an entire post to himself! Has Erin ever acknowledged my existence? No! Oh, the heartbreak of it. To know that because I don't look funny in a dress, I am cast aside in favor of those with hairy legs. 'Twas ever thus, dahlings.

Bucky is giving me a soulful look. He Understands, in the way dogs do. I am off to cuddle with him, because he doesn't care if I look funny in a dress or not.

Ciao,
Elisa The Obscure and Bucky the Wonderdog