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
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
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
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
Thursday, September 7, 2006
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.
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.
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