Monday, October 30, 2006

Give Me Your Poor, Your Tired, Your Unfashionable

Dahlings -

I have reason to celebrate tonight! Break out the Krug!

That marvelous Bill Gates, when he was throwing all of his money at charity, happened to hit a foundation that has made a deal with moi to sell them vintage clothing. The purpose: to introduce the great unwashed to the great couturiers. The program is called "Haute Cou-poor." Isn't that simply cunning? (I thought of it, of course, mostly because so little goes with "indigent.")

We shall have classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology (Parsons School of Design turned me down FLAT because of my remarks about Project Runway--petty, petty, petty!). Some of the proposed class titles are:

Why Foundation Garments Are Vital To History, or: Would Marie Antoinette Have Been Such A Fool If She Didn't Have To Wear A Corset?

Stylish Is Better Than Stylin'

When Too Much Is Simply Too Much - The Aesthetics of Bling

A History of Fashion In Pictures (with flashcards for students to study)

How To Pronounce Poiret, Vionnet, and Schiaparelli

The Little Black Dress - Why?*

How To Talk Down To Salespeople And Employees - An Invaluable Skill

The students shall be as putty in my beautifully manicured hands. No, of course I am not going to do any of the actual teaching! I'm far too busy being fabulous to soil myself by hard labor. Interns will be hired from FIT, with a tiny stipend (I deserve most of the money, seeing that I am not only designing the courses, but also selling--er, providing--many of the finer examples of couture to be used as examples.) I have always wanted to feel that I was giving something back.

As long as it didn't take too much effort.

My prayers have been answered!

Off to pour some Krug into Bucky's Waterford crystal water dish,

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

* I think at least one philosophy class should be included, don't you agree?

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Neck-Thing Wins Project Runway! Quel Horror!

Dahlings -

My deepest apologies for taking so long to write. However, when the Neck-Thing WON Project Runway--(I can barely bring myself to type this)--

I KNOW I'M NOT ACTUALLY TYPING IT, YOU FOOL, BUT I MIGHT AS WELL BE, FOR ALL THE HELP I GET FROM YOU!

Ahem. As I was saying, the Neck-Thing won.



Jeffrey's hideous hodgepodge lacked taste, talent, and something beginning with t that I cannot think of just now. I have been in a swoon ever since Black Wednesday, lying in my boudoir, the shades drawn, barely able to eat the tidbits my maid brings me. In fact, Bucky managed to snatch quite a few of them before I could reach the plate. He's little, but he's fast. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that horrendous milkmaid dress with the poufy skirt coming at me-- AAAAH!



Pardonnez moi. I'm still quite frail.

WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? GET BACK TO THE KEYBOARD!

I gaped in horror as rag after rag paraded down the runway (thank GOD I was at a real fashion show at the time!). Laura Bennett's collection has been done hundreds of times, but it was rather like an old friend showing up to hold your hand. Uli's collection actually had a few wearable garments that would show off my poitrine most cunningly--



But Michael...dear, sweet Michael, what happened? Your collection reminded one of Times Square in the 1970s! (Not that I spent much time there, but I did occasionally look out of Mama's limousine window at the passing parade.) That gold bathing suit could have been worn by a female extra in the old Star Trek series.

And then, of course, we were subjected to Heidi Klum and her team of fashion assassins. She was salivating at the idea of kicking off not one, but three exhausted designers. I am sure that if Ms. Klum had her way, they would have been drawn and quartered as well. (One question has bothered me, and I would love to have it answered: when Ms. Klum kisses some one's cheek, is it burned?)

Well, it is over and life must go on. Perhaps tomorrow I shall be able to Face Life again. I shall start by calling the fellow over at the "Haute Cou-Poor" project. It will raise the spirits to discuss Balenciaga. He must be spinning in his grave like a top right now.

Ciao,
Elisa and 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

Friday, October 13, 2006

Project Runway Scandale! And: Size 6 is Plus Size?

Dahlings,

Yes, I needed a very large daiquiri, but I steeled myself and watched the 'Finale Part One' (isn't that an oxymoron? Moron being the operative word) of Project Runway the other night.

Mon dieu. So it seems the Neck-Thing, or Jeffrey, as he is named, did not do the sensible thing with his $8,000 and get a chin implant. Rather, he outsourced his sewing. Naughty boy. Meanwhile, poor Laura, who simply cannot stop breeding, was upset enough to report him to that tall fellow who oozes sympathy. Emphasis on the ooze. I checked the Project Runway message board out of curiosity. Again, mon dieu! Do these illiterate peasants know how to spell? They certainly do not know how to type. In fact, they are as pathetic as my personal assistant--

DON'T YOU DARE GIVE ME THAT LOOK! KEEP TYPING, YOU NIGHTMARE IN LEGGINGS!

Excuse me. As I was saying, are these people all in junior high school? (Public junior high school, I hasten to add.) All of the messages calling Laura obscene names, threatening to never watch the show again if Neck-Thing gets disqualified...

I was going to say, Get A Life, but William Shatner beat me to it, years ago. Damn. The home visits were nice enough, thank goodness Vincent did not make it to the Final Four. And the program was blessedly Klum-free. Although I did not believe for a moment the tall man's comment that she finds kicking people off the show painful at times. If she does, it's painful in a good way, if you know what I mean. The woman should have been a dentist.

Speaking of dentists, I had the oral hygienist give me a thorough cleaning. My teeth are as sparkling as when I first got my Zoom whitening. And my assistant has been interviewing new maids. It's impossible to get good help these days, as my dear friend Foxie remarked.

But I digress. While perusing the website, I was shocked--shocked!--to find out that a size 6 model is considered PLUS SIZE. Are these people deranged? That model was the only one whose knees looked remotely like knees, and not like baseballs balanced on twigs! THIS is what an actual size 6 looks like, my dears:



I have written here before about the shocking trend toward the Dachau look in fashion, and the disturbing rise of the clavicle. (And an ill-tempered clavicle it is!) We women of Rubenesque dimensions must band together and DEMAND that fashion take note of bosoms, buttocks, legs, plump dimpled elbows, and all of those other beautiful touches that make a female...well, female.

One can only be grateful to have missed the 'Everyday Woman' episode. These people must be stopped. Please send in suggestions for ways to take action!

And now to business--here are some lovely fashions I am offering for the normally-endowed female:







Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog




Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Dung Toothpaste Or Simply Organic?

Oh, dear, dahlings, and here I thought it was that new organic herbal toothpaste...I swear you cannot tell the stuff apart. Thank GOD for Listerine!

ISABELA, PACK YOUR THINGS! NOW! BEFORE I CALL THE IMMIGRATION SERVICE!

AND YOU'D BETTER BE GONE BEFORE I GET BACK!

AND REMEMBER, THERE ARE HIDE-A-CAMS EVERYWHERE, SO DON'T YOU DARE STEAL ANY OF MY WISPS!

Off to the dentist...

Ciao...yeeech...

Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Monday, October 09, 2006

Further Thoughts On Project Runway (Plus Today's Fashion Tip!)

It behooves me, dear readers and seekers of Fashion in the True Sense, to enlighten you as to what I thought was the greatest Crime Against Fashion committed during that hideous television program "Project Runway."

The necklines. Plunging necklines, with nothing to plunge under them! The clavicles, my God, the clavicles! The models were stick figures with the boniest clavicles since Audrey Hepburn (yes, yes, I know she had great style and a lovely accent and every teenage girl who doesn't want to grow breasts adores her).

But dahlings, in later life Audrey CONTINUED to appear in strapless gowns, with collarbones larger than cricket bats! Did the woman have her mirror smeared with Vaseline?? What sort of an example to set is THAT?

As my dear dead friend Lana Turner told me, "It's better to have big Bazooms, because you can always buy a push-up bra." Yes, her phrasing was common, but it was SINCERE. From the heart. A no longer beating heart, true, but a heart nonetheless. (I didn't bother to enlighten dearest Lana on the latest surgical techniques, it might have gotten her upset and she would have vanished into the hereafter.)

Au reviour,

Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Today's Fashion Tip:
Cowboy boots are being worn by women in large metropolitan cities in the Northeast, often with short flirty skirts. Bear in mind: unless you are under 18, you will look less like Daisy Duke and more like Daisy Duck.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Project Runway or Stalag 17?

Dahlings,

We are back in New York in my fabulous Central Park West apartment. Bucky has been rescued from the doggie spa, where his toenails were trimmed but NOT painted, an omission I will remind them of. I like to have Bucky in a French manicure, it looks SO stylish on naturally black nails. My hostess in North Carolina, although a woman of great style and taste, does not care much for dogs.

I had the (mis)fortune of tuning in to "Project Runway" last night. My dears, is this Fashion In The True Sense? I think not! Is this how we want to encourage the next generation of designers? By disemboweling them on the tube? Heidi Klum, who reminds me of nothing so much as a sadistic Nazi commandant in drag, has ruined the sunny, happy image I had of her from those glasses ads in shop windows.

Not that the other fashion phonies surrounding her were any better. They'd all sell their mothers into prostitution if they thought it would get them a network deal. Perhaps they already have?

The gleam in Ms. Klum's eye as she surveyed the formerly disgraced contestants (that strange female hippie and the angry old queen--yes, I know he's married, but spare me) walking out in confusion, and the other designers grabbing each other's lapels and looking as if they'd soiled themselves--well. Our Ms. Klum was having a high old time.

Doubtless she spends her private time torturing mice at the bottom of wooden barrels: "You. First you are in. Then you are out. But now you are SQUISHED!" I pity her children.

And the clothes--mon dieu, the clothes! If that strange little blond accented female--Oolee, I think her name was--made one more colorful flowy boho dress, I was going to throw myself out of the nearest window. Laura Bennet, the preggers one with the ostentatiously dyed red hair and razor cheekbones, did lovely things, even if they were all painfully derivative of styles past. However, she does live in New York City, so one must forgive her mistakes and move on.

But who was that THING with the tattoos around his neck? Does he have the faintest idea of how that will look when he is a chicken-necked oldster? (Oh pardon me, people like that don't tend to grow old.) All it did was draw attention to the fact that he could use a chin implant. Not the intended effect, one supposes.

Call me mad, but the fashions that Michael Knight made...with the exception of that long purple dress that belonged on a female extra in "Shaft"...were quite marvelous. He has a real respect for the rounded female figure, and when was the last time you saw THAT quality in a fashion designer?

Must dash - I have many splendid things to list. Halloween has turned out to be very busy at the Bounteous House of Style, so I have to keep listing! First I have to locate my assistant, who sneaked out of here while I was dictating this into my personal recorder for transcription. Probably on the floor of my closet sobbing again. I do wish she wouldn't do that, she tramples my gowns.

Here is some of what you will find:





Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog


Sunday, October 01, 2006

Way Down South In Dixie

Hi, y'all -

Dahlings, I am in beautiful North Carolina, where the weather is simply too luscious for words. Rather like moi. Blue cloudless sky, perfect temperature, and so many trees! It is quite startling how many trees they have down here. Miles of them.

"But what," I hear you ask, "is a cosmopolitan to the core such as voux doing in the land of the deeply in-bred?" My dears, I traveled here to visit the most adorable man who has an ENORMOUS...

Basement full of vintage clothing. Now clean your minds out with soap.

Beautiful things, classic things, and also some rather horrendous things from the 8Os that I recoiled from touching. Racks and racks and racks. My assistant gave some ridiculous excuse for not traveling with me (family emergency indeed--is her mother's quadruple bypass surgery really more important than preventing me from touching anything dusty? So I brought a box of latex gloves. I simply THRIVE under duress). The proprietor was simply too divine, waiting on me hand and foot, and a font of information about his wares. And one suspects, heterosexual. Always a rarity in this business, and such a pleasure to run across.

I came away with some fascinating items which I will be listing the instant the limousine deposits me at my fabulous New York home.

One must keep one's horizons broad by leaving even such a wondrous place as Manhattan occasionally, and getting in touch with the peasants. I did that by attending the Dixie Classic Fair, an experience which will have my creamy skin crawling for years to come. When I tell you that the best looking attendants at the fair were the swine in the livestock shed, and I do mean the pigs, you will know what I mean.

At every turn, my senses were assaulted by bad taste. While I was garbed in a beguiling sundress, large yellow picture hat, and moderately high-heeled sandals, all about me were women in ill-fitting lace trimmed camisole tops and bursting short-shorts, and men in witty t-shirts such as "I Don't Have A Drinking Problem. I Drink, I Get Drunk, I Fall Down. No Problem!" or "My Teammate In Duke Lacrosse Raped A Girl And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt." Riotous, I tell you.

No hair-do was too outdated to be worn by either sex, although the women had the slightest edge, between the peroxide and the backcombing. Plus, many of their "menfolk" wore duck billed caps, some hilariously decked out with fake (I assume) dog poo. Although from the general lack of personal hygiene, it could have been real. Perhaps even their own.

Maybe putting poo on display is a code among these people: "Look what a big'un I did this morning! Gotta love them biscuits!" Who knows?

I took refuge in the agricultural shed, where a tall old man named Virge attempted to take advantage of me near the Large Vegetable exhibit! He was a fairly large vegetable himself, cooing idiocies through his few remaining teeth: "You're a Yankee, but you're not a damn Yankee. You're mighty fine, come on, rub those mamas against me." I tried to struggle in a dignified way, not wishing to give a bad impression of the North.

When fortunately Virge's wife Suzi, a square woman with a block of white hair in a Quacker Factory knock-off, clocked her husband on the back of the head with a sample book of "How To Make Desserts With Honey." I quickly made my escape and ended up in the poultry shed.

To digress: when I was a wee (well, not so wee) girl, I was attacked by a duck at the Central Park Zoo. I thought it would be an excellent idea to take one of her ducklings home. Mother Duck differed, to the tune of using her beak and sharp talons. My nanny beat the feathered terror off with an umbrella. But to this day my flesh crawls at the sight of mallards. There were no ducks in the poultry shed, but the sight and smell of all of those feathers...UGH.

Speaking of people who look like ducks, what is that skinny bitch Nicole Richie up to these days? I knew her adopted father, in the Biblical sense, in his salad days. He must be so embarrassed by her. If you speak to him, let him know all he has to do is pick up his Razor and give me a jingle. Once you've had semi-black, you can never...well, actually, that's not true. Sorry.

Excuse me, my hostess is calling me to late supper...later, dahlings.

Elisa