DAHLINGS -
This is the first Christmas I have spent without my beloved Bucky. Every year I would post a greeting from the two of us. This evening my eye fell upon it in a file and I wept. I am weeping now. The loss of this dog has been more of a blow that your faithful correspondent could have comprehended. Much of the first half of 2011 was spent mired in grief. (If you think this prose is a tad purple, tough.)
After the death of a loved one, there is the dreaded firsts: first birthday, first anniversary, first Thanksgiving, and now, the first Christmas.
Fletcher is sweet, albeit as neurotic as as a boxcar of Baldwins. But of course it's not the same. It can't be the same. I love him, but you cannot compare months to years.
Next month will be the anniversary of Bucky's death. If you don't hear much from me, that's why. Reviews of "House" might be the only things I write in this blog-thing.
Then again, I could post one sentence or picture a day, and pretend this is Tumblr.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and whatever it is Buddhists do at this time of the year.
Elisa
Showing posts with label dog love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog love. Show all posts
Friday, December 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Small Meditation on Grief
DAHLINGS -
Yesterday would have been the ninth anniversary of the day that Bucky the Wonderdog came into my life. He died mid-January, and I have been dreading June 27 for weeks. As I anticipated, I spent much of the day in tears, which Fletcher the puppy was hard-put to understand.
There have been a great many losses this year. As you know, I do not divulge personal details about myself. Unless it is about my sex life or my great beauty.
Grief has taken its toll on me, and on this blog. I have failed my readers by failing to provide content, letting slip my part in the zeitgeist. In part it is because I cannot care about the usual matters that obsess moi. Rien enlève le chagrin. Interests and people will snatch one away for a short period, but then that’s over and it’s mourning in America. (Or at least New York.)
On Twitter I can be as carefree as I want, in 140 characters. An entire entry does not have to be composed. I don’t seem to be able to do that right now. There are many topics I wish to write about. The New York Senate bill legalizing gay marriage filled me with joy, as did attending the Gay Pride Parade. I wanted to snatch off half of the drag queens’ outfits. There is no such thing as too much sparkle.
Leo has been no help. He has this damn cat he lost in childhood and if I so much as mention Bucky he bursts into tears and isn’t good for anything the rest of the day.
I could say the same for myself. Here in front of my monitor, I sit, crushed, uninspired, sad.
But, as Scarlett O’Hara said, “tomorrow is another day.” Or rather, Margaret Mitchell did, but let’s not confuse the young ones.
Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog
Yesterday would have been the ninth anniversary of the day that Bucky the Wonderdog came into my life. He died mid-January, and I have been dreading June 27 for weeks. As I anticipated, I spent much of the day in tears, which Fletcher the puppy was hard-put to understand.
There have been a great many losses this year. As you know, I do not divulge personal details about myself. Unless it is about my sex life or my great beauty.
Grief has taken its toll on me, and on this blog. I have failed my readers by failing to provide content, letting slip my part in the zeitgeist. In part it is because I cannot care about the usual matters that obsess moi. Rien enlève le chagrin. Interests and people will snatch one away for a short period, but then that’s over and it’s mourning in America. (Or at least New York.)
On Twitter I can be as carefree as I want, in 140 characters. An entire entry does not have to be composed. I don’t seem to be able to do that right now. There are many topics I wish to write about. The New York Senate bill legalizing gay marriage filled me with joy, as did attending the Gay Pride Parade. I wanted to snatch off half of the drag queens’ outfits. There is no such thing as too much sparkle.
Leo has been no help. He has this damn cat he lost in childhood and if I so much as mention Bucky he bursts into tears and isn’t good for anything the rest of the day.
I could say the same for myself. Here in front of my monitor, I sit, crushed, uninspired, sad.
But, as Scarlett O’Hara said, “tomorrow is another day.” Or rather, Margaret Mitchell did, but let’s not confuse the young ones.
Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Meet Fletcher
DAHLINGS -
Mes lecteurs chérie, meet Fletcher, the newest occupant of my fabulous Central Park West apartment. He is a miniature pinscher puppy, with impeccable bredding and a tendency to lick himself when important guests are around. The world is his toilet.
Mes lecteurs chérie, meet Fletcher, the newest occupant of my fabulous Central Park West apartment. He is a miniature pinscher puppy, with impeccable bredding and a tendency to lick himself when important guests are around. The world is his toilet.
Fletcher is going to be a sizeable small dog, as evidenced by his large front paws. He uses them like paddles, particular when the maid gives him access to my boudior in the morning. I wake to the sensation of paws slapping my face in greeting. Not quite what I would wish for, but he is so adorable that I forgive him.
The loss of Bucky still gnaws at my heart, and when Fletcher came into my home a month ago, I wondered if I could bond with this flailing black and tan puppy. Fortunately, his personality and appearance is quite different from my late darling's. If one had to choose a descriptive word for Fletcher's personality, the word "goofy" comes to mind. I find myself succumbing to his charm.
Il faut être prudent éviter de marcher dans des tas de merde de chien. As cleaning up his messes is the maid's job, I care not where Fletcher relieves himself. As long as it is not one of the rooms that I myself use. The kitchen, pantry, and the servants' quarters are all fair game. I've heard the maid muttering in Spanish as she walks past me, carrying paper towels and something called 'Nature's Miracle'.
Fletcher is not an aggressive dog. Not to worry, I'll have a trainer up here to teach him to bite people without warning in no time.
Ciao,
Elisa
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bucky The Wonderdog, Rest In Peace
DAHLINGS -
I shall keep this short. Bucky the Wonderdog, after having a series of health problems, including chronic bronchitis and an enlarged heart, died of heart failure early Monday morning, January 16th. He could no longer breathe, and so my beloved dog was euthanized in my arms.
You shall not be hearing from me for a while. I am beyond devastated. He was my closest companion for over eight years, and died too young at the age of nine.
Rest in peace, my beloved.
Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog
I shall keep this short. Bucky the Wonderdog, after having a series of health problems, including chronic bronchitis and an enlarged heart, died of heart failure early Monday morning, January 16th. He could no longer breathe, and so my beloved dog was euthanized in my arms.
You shall not be hearing from me for a while. I am beyond devastated. He was my closest companion for over eight years, and died too young at the age of nine.
Rest in peace, my beloved.
Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog
Monday, July 26, 2010
Justice for Dunkin' Dog, Part Two
DAHLINGS -
You may remember my post last year about the tragic death of Dunkin' Dog. Here is the first paragraph from that entry:
A horrible tragedy occurred last month, when a woman's service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa's story. She is pursuing a Master's Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.
You can find the rest at: http://diaryofamadfashionista.blogspot.com/2009/08/please-help-dunkin-dog-get-justice.html
I recently received the following communication from the bereaved owner, and decided to print it to get the word out. Our beloved pets deserve to be treated as such, and not as soulless creatures to be hurt for other people's pleasure!
I remember last year you were supportive of my tragic event. Well, emotionally, nothing has changed except I am a numb creature who is great at "playing it off" in terms of my loss. In terms of spreading the news and awareness of the tragedy, a lot has occurred.
Please visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4M2luaVbtQ and listen to my interview on the globally viewed Alex Jones radio show. It went from 0 to over 10,000 in less than one week.
You can support the cause at http://www.facebook.com/JusticeForDunkin
People want to support and send donations to cover my legal expenses. The FB page has a NOTES tab which explains how to donate.
Please post this, as my new mission in life is to spread awareness of what happens on our roads to our American citizens and to change the law to protect us from this happening to another valuable life, my own and Dunkin's, who was sacrificed to make this all happen. I greatly appreciate your time and your support.
Kind Regards,
-Rosamaria
I urge all of my readers to donate to this worthy cause, as I shall be doing. What Rosamaria was put through was unconscionable. And what Dunkin' was put through was tragic and unnecessary.
You may remember my post last year about the tragic death of Dunkin' Dog. Here is the first paragraph from that entry:
A horrible tragedy occurred last month, when a woman's service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa's story. She is pursuing a Master's Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.
You can find the rest at: http://diaryofamadfashionista.blogspot.com/2009/08/please-help-dunkin-dog-get-justice.html
I recently received the following communication from the bereaved owner, and decided to print it to get the word out. Our beloved pets deserve to be treated as such, and not as soulless creatures to be hurt for other people's pleasure!
I remember last year you were supportive of my tragic event. Well, emotionally, nothing has changed except I am a numb creature who is great at "playing it off" in terms of my loss. In terms of spreading the news and awareness of the tragedy, a lot has occurred.
Please visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4M2luaVbtQ and listen to my interview on the globally viewed Alex Jones radio show. It went from 0 to over 10,000 in less than one week.
You can support the cause at http://www.facebook.com/JusticeForDunkin
People want to support and send donations to cover my legal expenses. The FB page has a NOTES tab which explains how to donate.
Please post this, as my new mission in life is to spread awareness of what happens on our roads to our American citizens and to change the law to protect us from this happening to another valuable life, my own and Dunkin's, who was sacrificed to make this all happen. I greatly appreciate your time and your support.
Kind Regards,
-Rosamaria
I urge all of my readers to donate to this worthy cause, as I shall be doing. What Rosamaria was put through was unconscionable. And what Dunkin' was put through was tragic and unnecessary.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Please Help Dunkin' Dog's Owner Get Justice!
DAHLINGS -
A horrible tragedy occured last month, when a woman's service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa's story. She is pursuing a Master's Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.
Here is the beginning, with a link back to the blog. Please read the entire story.
The Tragedy of Dunkin' Dog
On July 4th I was driving alone with my service dog of almost 8 years of age, Dunkin’, in the rear seat towards the middle. I was pulled over on I-17 after being tailed for about one mile. The cop was very close to the rental car I was driving which was a gray Toyota corolla. The vehicle was due back on Sunday and I had planned on returning it, then utilizing the airport shuttle to catch my early flight back to New York’s La Guardia airport with Dunkin as my travel companion.
I pulled over to a safe spot on the shoulder of the road and the cop opened the door and drew out a shot gun. He actually AIMED it at me. I could see his eye aiming and it made no sense. I was shouted at and told to keep my hands where he can see them. This seemed very strange and not at all common for being pulled over. I could hear shot gun cocked and I realized that something was not right. I obeyed his shouts to keep my hands up and I allowed Dunkin to continue sleeping in order to keep us both calm.
I was ordered to get out of the car, walk backwards without looking, and was very confused… I was going further and further away from Dunkin’.I was shouted at to kneel, yelled at and then immediately cuffed and put in the back seat of a cop car. I immediately told him that my service animal is in the back of the car and to please be careful with him as he is licensed in NY state and is official for my Multiple Sclerosis. The car was overwhelmingly hot and my MS symptoms began as I tried breathing for fresh air. It was getting hotter and now he was drawing a weapon to the vehicle. I was very frightened that they would kill Dunkin’ as they looked like they would do so with the weapons drawn so intently. The cop opened the rental car door which was nearest the I-17 traffic. Dunkin’ rested soundly on that side of the vehicle. When the door was opened, the cop let him get out of the car onto oncoming traffic.
Dunkin’ got out of the vehicle confused. He ran into oncoming traffic, looking for me. His mission is to look for me, wherever I may be. As cars swerved and missed him… I screamed. I prayed and screamed at the top of my lungs for my companion’s safety.
The cop S.D Soto (who was the one who aimed at me through his shotgun, also cuffed me) walked to the front of the car passenger area. He pulled out Dunkin’s fluorescent orange service vest and read the insert in his pocket which states that he is a service animal and he is protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. S.D Soto read the facts, read my rental agreement (which was located on the passenger seat area) and continued to ignore my pleas for help and air conditioning.
For the rest, please go to:
http://justicefordunkin.blogspot.com/
For the love of dogs everywhere, please help Rosa find justice for her terrible suffering. She is actively looking for a civil-rights lawyer. If you know of one, please feel free to email me.
R.I.P. Dunkin' Dog.
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
A horrible tragedy occured last month, when a woman's service dog, a miniature pinscher (the same as my beloved Bucky The Wonderdog) died as the not-so-indirect result of police brutality. Please help get the word out about Rosa's story. She is pursuing a Master's Degree here in New York City, but has been permanently traumatized by what happened to her and her dog.
Here is the beginning, with a link back to the blog. Please read the entire story.
The Tragedy of Dunkin' Dog
On July 4th I was driving alone with my service dog of almost 8 years of age, Dunkin’, in the rear seat towards the middle. I was pulled over on I-17 after being tailed for about one mile. The cop was very close to the rental car I was driving which was a gray Toyota corolla. The vehicle was due back on Sunday and I had planned on returning it, then utilizing the airport shuttle to catch my early flight back to New York’s La Guardia airport with Dunkin as my travel companion.
I pulled over to a safe spot on the shoulder of the road and the cop opened the door and drew out a shot gun. He actually AIMED it at me. I could see his eye aiming and it made no sense. I was shouted at and told to keep my hands where he can see them. This seemed very strange and not at all common for being pulled over. I could hear shot gun cocked and I realized that something was not right. I obeyed his shouts to keep my hands up and I allowed Dunkin to continue sleeping in order to keep us both calm.
I was ordered to get out of the car, walk backwards without looking, and was very confused… I was going further and further away from Dunkin’.I was shouted at to kneel, yelled at and then immediately cuffed and put in the back seat of a cop car. I immediately told him that my service animal is in the back of the car and to please be careful with him as he is licensed in NY state and is official for my Multiple Sclerosis. The car was overwhelmingly hot and my MS symptoms began as I tried breathing for fresh air. It was getting hotter and now he was drawing a weapon to the vehicle. I was very frightened that they would kill Dunkin’ as they looked like they would do so with the weapons drawn so intently. The cop opened the rental car door which was nearest the I-17 traffic. Dunkin’ rested soundly on that side of the vehicle. When the door was opened, the cop let him get out of the car onto oncoming traffic.
Dunkin’ got out of the vehicle confused. He ran into oncoming traffic, looking for me. His mission is to look for me, wherever I may be. As cars swerved and missed him… I screamed. I prayed and screamed at the top of my lungs for my companion’s safety.
The cop S.D Soto (who was the one who aimed at me through his shotgun, also cuffed me) walked to the front of the car passenger area. He pulled out Dunkin’s fluorescent orange service vest and read the insert in his pocket which states that he is a service animal and he is protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. S.D Soto read the facts, read my rental agreement (which was located on the passenger seat area) and continued to ignore my pleas for help and air conditioning.
For the rest, please go to:
http://justicefordunkin.blogspot.com/
For the love of dogs everywhere, please help Rosa find justice for her terrible suffering. She is actively looking for a civil-rights lawyer. If you know of one, please feel free to email me.
R.I.P. Dunkin' Dog.
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
TAXES--And No Deductions for Bucky!
DAHLINGS -
I do wish I had come up with a cleverer title, but what is a tall blonde buxom style goddess to DO? I met with my accountant yesterday (a tall, irrestible man who is--yes--taller than moi), and each year the list of deductions grows smaller. I tried everything...batting my eyelashes, showing some leg, unbuttoning the top button of my Chanel blouse. Nothing worked! Was the man made of stone?
The final insult was to learn that I could no longer deduct Bucky the Wonderdog! He has been a goldmine of deductions, what with wardrobe, vet care, the finest food money can buy, toys, accessories, plane fare...I swear, that miniature pinscher has more deductions than his owner.
"But Bucky is an essential part of my business!" I cried, trying to keep my voice as high and feminine as possible. "He is part of my trademark! He is almost my partner! Without this little dog, I...I couldn't possibly run my fashion empire!"
"I'm sorry, but he's a pet,'' said the accountant in a steely voice. "You can't deduct him as a dependent." The man was becoming less irrestible by the second.
"What about a therapy dog?" There was desperation in my tone. "You handsome man, you must realize what a comfort my little darling is in my business. The stress relief alone is saving me hundreds in doctor bills!"
"You have to have the correct paperwork, which you don't have. I warned you about this last year, that if you wanted to continue to deduct your dog you had to get the right paperwork. He's a pet."
Bucky was curled in my silken-clad lap, as he is wont to do. At the sound of raised voices, he lifted his head with a menacing growl. This was not the way I intended to make my case! So what if the man was tall, he was a beast! An unfeeling beast!
"How could I be expected to remember something like that?" If only a tear would trickle down my cheek! "You should have told my assistant to remind me!"
"I did. You fired that one months ago, according to these W-2s."
Bucky's growling grew louder, and he was showing his little fangs. Any moment, blood could be shed. Hopefully not mine.
"And he certainly isn't behaving like a therapy dog right now," the abominable fellow pointed out.
I drew myself up, surreptitiously tightening my hand around Bucky's Burberry harness. "That is where we part ways, my good man." My tone was as steely as is. "My beloved therapy dog knows exactly what I feel at all times, and right now he is protecting me--no, Bucky--OUCH!"
Unfortunately for the sake of my argument, Bucky lunged forward, I jerked him back, and he bit my right hand, which was holding his harness. For the sake of appearances, I quickly moved my bleeding hand out of sight and sat on it, simultaneously taking hold of the Bucky's leash (the harness was obviously not the best idea).
"This conversation is at an end," I said stonily, brushing the growling dog off my lap and standing. "Send me the forms when they are ready. And I promise you, there will be repercussions."
The accountant stared at me. "Very well. You should have the forms in plenty of time for April 15th. Oh, and be careful, your hand is bleeding on the carpet. Wipe it down with hydrogen peroxide when you get home. Dog's mouths are full of germs."
"Not this dog! His mouth is probably cleaner than yours!" With that, I wheeled out of the man's office, keeping my throbbing hand out of sight.
I must confess, dictating this today, the bite is rather red and swollen...thank goodness last year I had a tetanus shot.
The nerve of some people!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
I do wish I had come up with a cleverer title, but what is a tall blonde buxom style goddess to DO? I met with my accountant yesterday (a tall, irrestible man who is--yes--taller than moi), and each year the list of deductions grows smaller. I tried everything...batting my eyelashes, showing some leg, unbuttoning the top button of my Chanel blouse. Nothing worked! Was the man made of stone?
The final insult was to learn that I could no longer deduct Bucky the Wonderdog! He has been a goldmine of deductions, what with wardrobe, vet care, the finest food money can buy, toys, accessories, plane fare...I swear, that miniature pinscher has more deductions than his owner.
"But Bucky is an essential part of my business!" I cried, trying to keep my voice as high and feminine as possible. "He is part of my trademark! He is almost my partner! Without this little dog, I...I couldn't possibly run my fashion empire!"
"I'm sorry, but he's a pet,'' said the accountant in a steely voice. "You can't deduct him as a dependent." The man was becoming less irrestible by the second.
"What about a therapy dog?" There was desperation in my tone. "You handsome man, you must realize what a comfort my little darling is in my business. The stress relief alone is saving me hundreds in doctor bills!"
"You have to have the correct paperwork, which you don't have. I warned you about this last year, that if you wanted to continue to deduct your dog you had to get the right paperwork. He's a pet."
Bucky was curled in my silken-clad lap, as he is wont to do. At the sound of raised voices, he lifted his head with a menacing growl. This was not the way I intended to make my case! So what if the man was tall, he was a beast! An unfeeling beast!
"How could I be expected to remember something like that?" If only a tear would trickle down my cheek! "You should have told my assistant to remind me!"
"I did. You fired that one months ago, according to these W-2s."
Bucky's growling grew louder, and he was showing his little fangs. Any moment, blood could be shed. Hopefully not mine.
"And he certainly isn't behaving like a therapy dog right now," the abominable fellow pointed out.
I drew myself up, surreptitiously tightening my hand around Bucky's Burberry harness. "That is where we part ways, my good man." My tone was as steely as is. "My beloved therapy dog knows exactly what I feel at all times, and right now he is protecting me--no, Bucky--OUCH!"
Unfortunately for the sake of my argument, Bucky lunged forward, I jerked him back, and he bit my right hand, which was holding his harness. For the sake of appearances, I quickly moved my bleeding hand out of sight and sat on it, simultaneously taking hold of the Bucky's leash (the harness was obviously not the best idea).
"This conversation is at an end," I said stonily, brushing the growling dog off my lap and standing. "Send me the forms when they are ready. And I promise you, there will be repercussions."
The accountant stared at me. "Very well. You should have the forms in plenty of time for April 15th. Oh, and be careful, your hand is bleeding on the carpet. Wipe it down with hydrogen peroxide when you get home. Dog's mouths are full of germs."
"Not this dog! His mouth is probably cleaner than yours!" With that, I wheeled out of the man's office, keeping my throbbing hand out of sight.
I must confess, dictating this today, the bite is rather red and swollen...thank goodness last year I had a tetanus shot.
The nerve of some people!
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The Love Of A Dog On Christmas...
DAHLINGS-
As you all are aware, I lead a madly glamorous life, dashing from one soignee event to the next. However, I always come home (if not always alone) to my wonderful dog, Bucky, my 13 pound miniature pinscher. And every year, that is my true Christmas gift.
Except for the year I stupidly gave him away. (Look it up.)
At night he curls up in his handmade artisanal dog bed. But come morning, I find Bucky snuggled under the embroidered down coverlet next to me, black nose buried in my silk nightgown. And firmly wedged between me and any male companion that might be there. Needless to say, the men come and go, but Bucky stays. And sits. And rolls over.
This Christmas, I opened a mountain of gifts. But once the paper was thrown into the fireplace (my personal favorite part of Christmas morning and a perennial family tradition), the gifts stacked in place, the uglier gifts regifted to the maid, there was, in the middle of the living room floor, among the mink coats and the diamond necklaces...
Bucky. Wagging his tail and wearing his new green and red Christmas sweater (my apologies for not having a picture). Shredding what was left of the Christmas wrappings. A happier dog you could not imagine, although I had sustained minor injuries getting the sweater on him. My heart filled with love, and I exclaimed aloud:
"Merry Christmas to all--especially me--and to all a good night!"
And I gathered my wiggling little darling into my arms and gave him a Christmas kiss!
One hopes the bandages come off in time for New Year's. It's just a minor flesh wound.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
As you all are aware, I lead a madly glamorous life, dashing from one soignee event to the next. However, I always come home (if not always alone) to my wonderful dog, Bucky, my 13 pound miniature pinscher. And every year, that is my true Christmas gift.
Except for the year I stupidly gave him away. (Look it up.)
At night he curls up in his handmade artisanal dog bed. But come morning, I find Bucky snuggled under the embroidered down coverlet next to me, black nose buried in my silk nightgown. And firmly wedged between me and any male companion that might be there. Needless to say, the men come and go, but Bucky stays. And sits. And rolls over.
This Christmas, I opened a mountain of gifts. But once the paper was thrown into the fireplace (my personal favorite part of Christmas morning and a perennial family tradition), the gifts stacked in place, the uglier gifts regifted to the maid, there was, in the middle of the living room floor, among the mink coats and the diamond necklaces...
Bucky. Wagging his tail and wearing his new green and red Christmas sweater (my apologies for not having a picture). Shredding what was left of the Christmas wrappings. A happier dog you could not imagine, although I had sustained minor injuries getting the sweater on him. My heart filled with love, and I exclaimed aloud:
"Merry Christmas to all--especially me--and to all a good night!"
And I gathered my wiggling little darling into my arms and gave him a Christmas kiss!
One hopes the bandages come off in time for New Year's. It's just a minor flesh wound.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Monday, September 24, 2007
Such A Relief to Order People Around Again!
DAHLINGS -
Not to mention, shall we say, "arranging" to have my former assistant--well, what is the word I want? Silenced? Yes, I believe silenced is the safest choice.
After all, she did resign without notice during Fashion Week Spring 2008.
Now do not leap to conclusions--she's not dead, just a tad, well, shaken up.
My new assistant is easily intimidated, and that makes things so much smoother. And there are several new riders on the confidentiality agreement. My new maid is not only childless, but unmarried, so there should be nothing that prevents her from fulfilling my merest whim day or night.
GUADALUPE! GET IN HERE! I NEED A CUP OF CHAMOMILE TEA, AND I NEED IT NOW!
Ahem. What was I saying? Oh, dear, my assistant jumped a bit when I called to the maid.
It's all right, dear, I won't hurt you. If you behave. Just keep typing until I tell you to stop. And remember, don't get your face too close to Bucky's mouth. He's adorable, but those teeth are razor sharp and he has, as the television hosts say, "issues" about anyone but moi being too close to him.
Ah, I must tell you, my faithful readers, this is sheer bliss. I feel like Anna Wintour.
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
It's all right, dear, you can stop typing now. No, really, NOW. I mean NOW. STOP TYPING! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, YOU IDIOT? DO I HAVE TO PULL YOUR HANDS OFF THE KEY--
Pardonnez moi once again for not having posted recently, but I had to hire a maid and a new personal assistant! Exhausting, I tell you. Checking mountains of references, having my detectives send the videos to my Blackberry, making sure all of the apartment Hide-A-Cams are in place--
Not to mention, shall we say, "arranging" to have my former assistant--well, what is the word I want? Silenced? Yes, I believe silenced is the safest choice.
After all, she did resign without notice during Fashion Week Spring 2008.
Now do not leap to conclusions--she's not dead, just a tad, well, shaken up.
My new assistant is easily intimidated, and that makes things so much smoother. And there are several new riders on the confidentiality agreement. My new maid is not only childless, but unmarried, so there should be nothing that prevents her from fulfilling my merest whim day or night.
GUADALUPE! GET IN HERE! I NEED A CUP OF CHAMOMILE TEA, AND I NEED IT NOW!
Ahem. What was I saying? Oh, dear, my assistant jumped a bit when I called to the maid.
It's all right, dear, I won't hurt you. If you behave. Just keep typing until I tell you to stop. And remember, don't get your face too close to Bucky's mouth. He's adorable, but those teeth are razor sharp and he has, as the television hosts say, "issues" about anyone but moi being too close to him.
Ah, I must tell you, my faithful readers, this is sheer bliss. I feel like Anna Wintour.
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
It's all right, dear, you can stop typing now. No, really, NOW. I mean NOW. STOP TYPING! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, YOU IDIOT? DO I HAVE TO PULL YOUR HANDS OFF THE KEY--
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Three Tomatoes Write About Moi!
DAHLINGS -
Fashion Week is over at last, and now I have some time to myself. And I truly mean to myself, because my assistant and my maid both resigned during the past week. So, it's been calls to the employment agencies and take-out from Pastis, until this dry spell is over.
Fortunately, my wonderful pup Bucky is always there for me, in good times and bad. As I type this, he is on my lap, which makes typing slightly difficult. Because his head is resting on my right forearm. But move him? Never! A dog's love is forever--
Oh! He jumped off my lap and trotted out of the room! Damn the beast! Bucky must have smelled the leftover coq au vin in the kitchen that I was heating up.
Heating up my own leftovers...that is what your faithful correspondent is reduced to. But life could be far worse.
This same week, I was profiled in The Three Tomatoes, a simply marvelous e-newsletter aimed at the fairer sex, with both tremendous aplomb and wide circulation. It's an absolute must-read, mes amis.
Here’s the link to yesterday’s newsletter:
http://app.e2ma.net/campaign/ac406fa71ac2798786156408886d7501
Read and enjoy! And envy me, of course. (But then, who does not?) The only fact they got wrong is that I have never been in rehab...that horrible doppelganger with the same name of mine has been, and HOW she got mentioned in the article is beyond me! Being confused with her is so deeply annoying. I have sent letters from my lawyer demanding she change her name, but so far the upstart has refused.
With that one small exception, it is a delightful article in a wonderful publication, so I shall graciously overlook it. Pardonnez moi, I have to go rescue the coq au vin. Bucky has a terribly sensitive little tummy and I cannot have him messing the carpets.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the not-so-Wonderdog
Fashion Week is over at last, and now I have some time to myself. And I truly mean to myself, because my assistant and my maid both resigned during the past week. So, it's been calls to the employment agencies and take-out from Pastis, until this dry spell is over.
Fortunately, my wonderful pup Bucky is always there for me, in good times and bad. As I type this, he is on my lap, which makes typing slightly difficult. Because his head is resting on my right forearm. But move him? Never! A dog's love is forever--
Oh! He jumped off my lap and trotted out of the room! Damn the beast! Bucky must have smelled the leftover coq au vin in the kitchen that I was heating up.
Heating up my own leftovers...that is what your faithful correspondent is reduced to. But life could be far worse.
This same week, I was profiled in The Three Tomatoes, a simply marvelous e-newsletter aimed at the fairer sex, with both tremendous aplomb and wide circulation. It's an absolute must-read, mes amis.
Here’s the link to yesterday’s newsletter:
http://app.e2ma.net/campaign/ac406fa71ac2798786156408886d7501
Read and enjoy! And envy me, of course. (But then, who does not?) The only fact they got wrong is that I have never been in rehab...that horrible doppelganger with the same name of mine has been, and HOW she got mentioned in the article is beyond me! Being confused with her is so deeply annoying. I have sent letters from my lawyer demanding she change her name, but so far the upstart has refused.
With that one small exception, it is a delightful article in a wonderful publication, so I shall graciously overlook it. Pardonnez moi, I have to go rescue the coq au vin. Bucky has a terribly sensitive little tummy and I cannot have him messing the carpets.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the not-so-Wonderdog
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Those Big Fur Hats Conceal Big Swelled Heads!
Dahlings -
It is with utter disgust that I report to you the reprehensible behavior of many of the magazine staff and internet reporters swarming around Fashion Week! Ninety percent of them swathed in huge Russian fur hats, the better to contain their egos. Yes, it is bloody cold here in New York City, but can't anyone wear something original?
Even Andre Leon Talley, my dear, dear friend, who is going to be speaking at "Haute Cou-Poor" next month, had one of those things on his head. Although if you were shorter then me, you probably wouldn't have been able to see it. More on Andre's upcoming appearance when I have a minute to breathe!
I myself have been wearing a variety of chapeaus and scarves, refusing to wear fur. (I actually love fur, but one must make a statement, no matter how subtle.) You can practically get trampled getting around, and the parties--! Mon dieu!
Bucky the Wonderdog has been an invaluable companion. When someone tries to cut me off or push in front of me, with lightning speed Bucky's little head comes out of my carrier bag and bites the offender! Since it's winter there have been no flesh wounds, but he has ruined countless Pradas, de la Rentas, Anna Suis, and such. So satisfying. However, I am going to leave him at home for a day or two...his nerves, you know. Plus he tried to bite one of those dreadful tiny children at one of the shows, and I do not want to get sued. It looks so bad when the newspapers get hold of it.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the True Wonderdog
It is with utter disgust that I report to you the reprehensible behavior of many of the magazine staff and internet reporters swarming around Fashion Week! Ninety percent of them swathed in huge Russian fur hats, the better to contain their egos. Yes, it is bloody cold here in New York City, but can't anyone wear something original?
Even Andre Leon Talley, my dear, dear friend, who is going to be speaking at "Haute Cou-Poor" next month, had one of those things on his head. Although if you were shorter then me, you probably wouldn't have been able to see it. More on Andre's upcoming appearance when I have a minute to breathe!
I myself have been wearing a variety of chapeaus and scarves, refusing to wear fur. (I actually love fur, but one must make a statement, no matter how subtle.) You can practically get trampled getting around, and the parties--! Mon dieu!
Bucky the Wonderdog has been an invaluable companion. When someone tries to cut me off or push in front of me, with lightning speed Bucky's little head comes out of my carrier bag and bites the offender! Since it's winter there have been no flesh wounds, but he has ruined countless Pradas, de la Rentas, Anna Suis, and such. So satisfying. However, I am going to leave him at home for a day or two...his nerves, you know. Plus he tried to bite one of those dreadful tiny children at one of the shows, and I do not want to get sued. It looks so bad when the newspapers get hold of it.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the True Wonderdog
Thursday, January 18, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Why I Love My Dog, Bucky
Dahlings -
Forgive this uncharacteristically sentimental entry, which I promise will not descend into bathos (look it up). But yesterday Bucky the Wonderdog, my miniature pinscher, was nestling in my lap. He would have been purring if dogs purred. As it was, he made little happy noises, barely audible, burying his nose in my hand. I stroked his black silky ears and thought, what a comfort the little fellow is in this mad existence of mine. My nights spent in a whirl of parties, my days spent up to my elbows in fabrics and berating my assistant...it's all too much, my dears, too much. I have a very sensitive nervous system, which too few appreciate.
I HEARD THAT SNICKER, YOU!
Excuse me. The new maid was bringing in my morning Hawaiian kona coffee and croissants. Two days and the woman has already developed a most unpleasant attitude. She even disabled the Hide-A-Cam in her room, and threatened me with legal action if I tried to have it repaired! Hmmmph.
But back to Bucky. Animals have such purity about them. Whether they're loving you or trying to kill you, one always knows where one stands. I adore this little dog, and he adores me. His glossy black coat is soft, his little brown eyes are bright, and his tail wags all of the time. The barbaric practice of cutting off miniature pinscher's tails after they are born...it should be outlawed! I mean, what if people went about cutting off parts of their babies after they were born?
Oh, wait, some do. But not their tails. Yes, I know babies don't have tails, but I'm only writing this on one cup of coffee.
Pour me another cup, you. Milk, no sugar. Now go and set out my wisp of chiffon for the day. I'm in the mood for pink. SCAT! (Haven't learned the thing's name yet, I'll have to ask my assistant when she comes in.)
I shall never FORGIVE myself for giving Bucky to those hideous peasants in the wilds of Connecticut! But Bucky has forgiven me, that is what is important. Selfless love, that is what a dog offers. And the ability to look adorable in funny little outfits.
This is his custom-made raincoat by Dogedesigns in Canada. You can find them at http://www.dogedesigns.com/, they carry a marvelous range of things! Ever so much more chic than Petsmart. I admit, Bucky did bite me pretty hard when I was putting this raincoat on him, he has an aversion to clothes. Ironic, is it not? It is the one thing my assistant simply refuses to do! Dressing Bucky! 'Twas ever thus, they try once and never again. So it is left to me, which is why all of his outfits have Velcro. Otherwise my beautifully manicured hands would look like ground beef. The little dear has such sharp teeth, and can move so fast! I'd be quite proud of his prowess if it weren't for the pain, the blood, and the tetanus shots.
Lest I give a false impression of my dog, please realize that his is a loving nature, as many can attest. When I come home, he simply explodes with joy, wriggling and licking my face. He jumps up and down, until I pick him up, whereupon he licks all the more. Bucky follows me from room to room, hopping up next to me whenever he can and nestling his little warm body against mine. He sulks when I am at the computer because there is nowhere for him to sit. He is just slightly too big to sit in my lap when I'm at the keyboard. As I write this, Bucky is rolled up in a cashmere throw on the Louis Quinze sofa. There is a chill in the air this morning. I have considered having a chair made with a doggie bed attached. And there is a great deal to be said for having something to love, so much.
Enough sentimentality, back to business. But one small peeve: I am NOT Bucky's "Mommy". I did not whelp him. I can almost stand the term "companion animal," but don't push it.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Forgive this uncharacteristically sentimental entry, which I promise will not descend into bathos (look it up). But yesterday Bucky the Wonderdog, my miniature pinscher, was nestling in my lap. He would have been purring if dogs purred. As it was, he made little happy noises, barely audible, burying his nose in my hand. I stroked his black silky ears and thought, what a comfort the little fellow is in this mad existence of mine. My nights spent in a whirl of parties, my days spent up to my elbows in fabrics and berating my assistant...it's all too much, my dears, too much. I have a very sensitive nervous system, which too few appreciate.
I HEARD THAT SNICKER, YOU!
Excuse me. The new maid was bringing in my morning Hawaiian kona coffee and croissants. Two days and the woman has already developed a most unpleasant attitude. She even disabled the Hide-A-Cam in her room, and threatened me with legal action if I tried to have it repaired! Hmmmph.
But back to Bucky. Animals have such purity about them. Whether they're loving you or trying to kill you, one always knows where one stands. I adore this little dog, and he adores me. His glossy black coat is soft, his little brown eyes are bright, and his tail wags all of the time. The barbaric practice of cutting off miniature pinscher's tails after they are born...it should be outlawed! I mean, what if people went about cutting off parts of their babies after they were born?
Oh, wait, some do. But not their tails. Yes, I know babies don't have tails, but I'm only writing this on one cup of coffee.
Pour me another cup, you. Milk, no sugar. Now go and set out my wisp of chiffon for the day. I'm in the mood for pink. SCAT! (Haven't learned the thing's name yet, I'll have to ask my assistant when she comes in.)
I shall never FORGIVE myself for giving Bucky to those hideous peasants in the wilds of Connecticut! But Bucky has forgiven me, that is what is important. Selfless love, that is what a dog offers. And the ability to look adorable in funny little outfits.
This is his custom-made raincoat by Dogedesigns in Canada. You can find them at http://www.dogedesigns.com/, they carry a marvelous range of things! Ever so much more chic than Petsmart. I admit, Bucky did bite me pretty hard when I was putting this raincoat on him, he has an aversion to clothes. Ironic, is it not? It is the one thing my assistant simply refuses to do! Dressing Bucky! 'Twas ever thus, they try once and never again. So it is left to me, which is why all of his outfits have Velcro. Otherwise my beautifully manicured hands would look like ground beef. The little dear has such sharp teeth, and can move so fast! I'd be quite proud of his prowess if it weren't for the pain, the blood, and the tetanus shots.
Lest I give a false impression of my dog, please realize that his is a loving nature, as many can attest. When I come home, he simply explodes with joy, wriggling and licking my face. He jumps up and down, until I pick him up, whereupon he licks all the more. Bucky follows me from room to room, hopping up next to me whenever he can and nestling his little warm body against mine. He sulks when I am at the computer because there is nowhere for him to sit. He is just slightly too big to sit in my lap when I'm at the keyboard. As I write this, Bucky is rolled up in a cashmere throw on the Louis Quinze sofa. There is a chill in the air this morning. I have considered having a chair made with a doggie bed attached. And there is a great deal to be said for having something to love, so much.
Enough sentimentality, back to business. But one small peeve: I am NOT Bucky's "Mommy". I did not whelp him. I can almost stand the term "companion animal," but don't push it.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
