Fashion Week Goes On, and On, and On...

DAHLINGS -

I've been thumbing through my notes (or rather, listening to them), and wanted to mention a few shows I forgot to Blackberry to my assistant until today. Pardon my unforgivable laxness.

The Michael Kors show on Tuesday was THE show to be at, dahlings, so naturally yours truly was there, in the front row, resplendent in a quilted cream velvet trenchcoat, carrying a large lacy cream-colored chocolate box of...what else?...chocolate creams. My dears, I plan these things to the tiniest detail. Matching stilleto-heeled cream glove leather boots. I would have worn gloves, but one needs to be able to lick the chocolate off one's fingers in order to get the maximum suffering from the catwalk girls.

I sat in the front row, quite near Sarah Ferguson the Duchess of York, who politely asked for a chocolate cream. But as soon as she took it, she had to stuff it in her mouth lest the photographers see her eating it. It must be such a bore never to be photographed eating! It quite undid any semblance to royalty, watching her chew the candy like a cow chewing its cud.

Seated next to us were Donald Trump, his hair, and his latest wife, as was a security guard to keep The Donald's hair from moving whenever there was a stray breeze from outside the tent. Amazing how fast the man could move! Plus every fashion editor of every magazine, dressed in an array of fur, leather, and various warm things. As usual, it was the actresses and the lower-paid who were shivering in sleeveless dresses. They don't have health insurance, what ARE they thinking?

As for the collection itself, it was all about luxury, which is my bread and butter. Once again, the models were dressed more warmly than many in the audience. Even Coco Rocha was completely swathed, which is a blessing. One does wish Kors would use more than a splash of color here and there. However, the fur dresses--a mink shift!--did make me feel a bit wistful about my decision not to wear fur during this particular Fashion Week. I have such lovely things at home--but then I saw some more of those idiotic Russian hats and my self-esteem rose to its usual high level.

Back to the limo!

Ciao,
Elisa (who still doesn't dare bring Bucky the Wonderdog, who is sulking)

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