Out in the Hamptons With The Ultra-Fashionable

DAHLINGS -

Bucky and I are happily esconsced in my exquisite (featured in Architectural Digest) oceanfront mansion. I was reading the Easthampton Star, but I find myself gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean as the sun gleams upon the whitecaps. I have a large contingent of guests here, some of the most famous names in the fashion community. However, they have asked me not to reveal their whereabouts for fear of being swarmed by the paparazzi when they go to the local market. Especially the little stout man who likes to start his day with a six-pack of Budweiser. He has to buy it himself every day because I refuse to put such a common brand on my shopping list!

Each guest tries to outdo the others in fashionable beachwear...quite amusing when one female guest wore one of those stylish outdoor oversized straw hats to the breakfast table. The brim dipped into the Eggs Benedict and we had such a laugh!

As hostess, my only rules are:

• You are not allowed to be boring
• No thong-style bathing suits, no matter how much work you have had done on your buttocks
• Do not try to pick up Bucky and give him a kiss; he looks cute but he will rip your nose off*
• You are NOT allowed to try on my fabulous wardrobe, even if you are male

I believe that is rather liberal of me, don't you? Particularly among people in the fashion industry, who can come to blows over the exact meaning of "bubble dress."

Speaking of which, two of my guests are arguing who is less relevant, Paris Hilton or Lindsey Lohan. That comes under the subject of boring. Excuse me.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

* My guests have to sign a waiver to that effect.

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