Rosie O’Donnell Is Simply Insufferable!

My goodness gracious, dahlings.

It’s getting so that if you turn your television on in the mornings to anything but Turner Classic Movies, you are taking your very life into your hands!

My topic today is Rosie O’Donnell’s behavior on “The View.” It is at the tip of everyone’s tongue (especially if they are women who like to dress in extremely masculine clothes and pomade their hair). The woman must be stopped. Yesterday she attacked Joy Behar. Now, Ms. Behar dresses abominably. But she is tres amusant and seems like someone it would be enjoyable to have a glass of Scotch with. However, Rosie said of her, “It’s this witch I can’t stand.” Now if that isn’t the pot belly calling the kettle black I don’t know what is. Ordinarily I would defend one of my large-size sisters, but really, Rosie must be stopped. Does one need to spend one’s mornings looking at an enraged bull-dyke in primary colors? “The View” is rapidly turning into the late unlamented “The McLaughlin Report.”

The only woman angrier than Rosie O’Donnell is Mrs. Cheney, which is why the latter is assiduously never shown. Come to think of it, neither is her husband, but no matter. Rosie’s eyes absolutely SIMMER with rage, dahlings. Perhaps some medication is in order, and I don’t mean for moi in this instance. Now, why is Rosie so angry? She is famous, married to a lovely woman, has a number of children and more money than George Bush. Not choices that I would make (except the money and fame), but honestly.

I do hope it is not her weight, which after all she has always worn beautifully. She is comfortable with her body. If anything, I would put her in clothes that emphasize her size and her sexual preference. Do away with the bulky blazers and black underlayers! Choose beautifully tailored menswear with plenty of cleavage, wingtip shoes, and bold jewelry. We are talking silk blouses in those bright colors she loves, and perhaps gray pinstripes in a cashmere/linen blend. Now, don’t you think that would make the poor woman feel better?

That’s my advice to ALL of you, dahlings. Celebrate who you are! Even Bucky sulks if I put on his plain black harness…he much prefers the Burberry. But not the Chanel, he tends to be a bit overly macho. But that is how miniature pinschers are.

Speaking of celebrations, I shall be listing more beautiful things today…silk dresses, silk blouses, coats…every piece of clothing a celebration of you. As long as you buy it, of course.

Ciao for now,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Bothersome Technical Details

Oh, it’s just too much, but I do have to deal with technical details. My personal assistant can type, but she acts like a complete moron when it comes to dealing with the computer!

Technorati Profile

Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude…

Dahlings,

Sunday night I attended a wonderful seance, even if it was in the Bronx. There was my dear dead friend Lana Turner, lovely as always, tonight in a white crepe gown trimmed with black (I think it was black…the dead tend to be a tad monochromatic). She brought along the FABULOUS Clark Gable! In the afterlife, he doesn’t need to wear false teeth. Oh, they don’t make them like that anymore. “Frankly, my dear, you have really big tits,” he said, gazing into my eyes. At least I believe it was my eyes. I nearly SWOONED.

(Here is a picture of my dear friends Lana and Clark in their first film together, “Honky Tonk”.)

But then, who should turn up but Elie Wiesel. The fellow was in a state of high dudgeon, because I had compared the anorexic Fashion Week models to Auschwitz survivors. “The Holocaust is nothing to make cheap jokes about, Miss!” he snapped. “My wife and I started a foundation, I’ll have you know! I have devoted my life to the truth!”

I merely stared back at his spirit languidly. “Oh dear, oh dear, Elie dahling, if you can’t make jokes about the Holocaust, what can you make jokes about? I have devoted my life to fashion. Really, Elie, I’m far too superficial for such a deep thinker–and a good-looking man–as you to worry about.”

Well, my dears, the man just melted. Intellectuals love to be told they’re sexy. Oh, yes, the Nobel Prize is nice, but they think girls really only date them for their awards. Elie gave me a big smile. “Perhaps I was a bit harsh,” he said. But then, I had the most ghastly surprise. I unthinkingly laid my hand on his lapel. And Elie was ALIVE! He was a GUEST, not a GHOST!

I let out a shriek. Lana and Clark promptly disappeared, and our hostess switched the lights on.

“I’ll let myself out,” I said quickly, and strode out the front door, grabbing my Mr. John wool cloche hat (so chic with its multicolored rhinestone pin!). How could I know Elie Wiesel was still alive? After all, nobody knew about Noam Chomsky until a week or two ago. I was so distraught that I stumbled out into the rain, and ended up in a cemetery!

To find out what happened next, you need to read my Ebay auction, ‘Vintage Corpse Bride Costume.’

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

When Thin Is TOO In! Fashion Week finis

Good evening, dahlings –

I am SO SORRY that I have not written further about Fashion Week! All of you poor souls are slavering for my opinions on all of the shows I went to, whether by invitation or sneaking under the tent folds.

Some of the shock and awe I experienced can be explained in one picture:

There isn’t enough tulle in the KNOWN UNIVERSE to make these emaciated drug addicted children look like women in any sense. You could get razor cuts by shaking their hands. And they were everywhere at Fashion Week, dahlings, staggering down the runways. At the Behnaz Sarafpour show, there was so much room room between Natasha Poly’s thighs you could hear the wind howling…or perhaps it was the horrified spectators. The Luca Luca show, where the fashion was as redundant as the label’s name, bony knees and gaunt arms were the order of the day.

As a shall we say, robust female, I was deeply disturbed by the prevailing notion that to be fashionable is to look like you’ve been rescued from Auschwitz. Or like a bobblehead doll. Even such steadfast purveyors of beautiful clothes such as Vera Wang and Carolina Herrera used these stick figures.

I made sure to sit in the front row of every show, blatantly eating chocolate. And enjoying the moans of hunger from the models as they passed before me. Hana Soukopova nearly leapt off one runway and attempted to seize the Toblerone from my hand, dahlings, before her harried handlers dragged her off screaming in some foreign language. I think she was saying, “Give me some food! Or some more heroin!”

But enough about that. I shall be selling some divine Halloween costumes at my Ebay store, Elisa’s Bounteous House of Style, in sizes from Small* to Extra-Large, with an accent on the Extra. Do come take a look!

Ciao for now, dahlings,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

* Small as in stature, not as in anorexic.

Further Critique of Fashion Week

Good morning, dahlings –

Fashion Week is over, thank God! My head! My feet! My eyes! My very soul has been wrenched, dahlings, wrenched to its core by what is going to be inflicted on the buying public next spring. But more on that later. First, a tad of my gadding about with fashion’s finest.

I met Sun, ‘Japanese Pop Sensation,’ at The Daily Penthouse Suite at the Bryant Park Hotel, and if this is what they consider a sensation, then suddenly I understand the phenomenon of William Hung. Sweet little thing. Bob Morris of the New York Times kept trying to get his hands down Vincent Gallo’s pants, but Vincent was too busy posing and didn’t want his codpiece knocked askew. I won’t go into detail about my chats with various editors, creative directors, and hairdressers, because that’s private dirt. At least until I get annoyed with one of them.

Anna Wintour was at every show, of course, striding about in Mahnolo Blahnicks and lashing at the proles with a riding crop. Sweet, sweet Anna. And of course Mischa Barton, who nearly trampled me trying to get to the photographers. Amazing how fast someone can move when they need publicity that desperately.

I spotted Winona Ryder at the front row of Marc Jacobs’s show, and other than furtively snatching a few pieces of candy from the runway into her handbag, she was quite well-behaved. Also Dita Von Teese, a role model for women everywhere. It’s so sweet how she looks after that handicapped half-blind husband of hers. Apparently Guy Trebay of the New York Times feels that Monsieur Jacobs has come into his own at last, designing clothes for those of his own generation. I’m so happy he’s happy, if you know what I mean, since it’s certainly not Mr. Trebay’s generation. Or mine, for that matter.

Oscar de la Renta’s show was tres’ chic, if exactly what he has been designing since time began. Still, it’s wonderful that the old dear can still work up some enthusiasm for his profession…I think. A particularly enjoyable touch was a nod to his salad days in the 1980s, as all of the models had gigantic blonde hair. Ah, for the days of Aquanet and hot rollers!

My personal favorite was Monique Lhuillier, if only because the models looked like they might have had lunch. Elegant shapes, dahlings, simplicity, simplicity, simplicity, and I don’t mean Simplicity.

Later today, I will dissect some of the Crimes Against Fashion I was witness to. But in the meantime, I need to go bathe my aching tootsies. A week in stilleto heels takes something out of a woman. But it was worth it to tower over everyone else…makes it so much easier to be seen in the group shots, don’t you know.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Do take a look at my store for Real Fashion

IT’S OFFICIAL: ‘FAT IS THE NEW BLACK!’

DAHLINGS –

That wonderful Isaac Mizrahi just pronounced that “Fat Is The New Black.” On national radio, no less!

I have been promoting this idea fashion-wise ever since I was a buxom young lass. At last, society has caught up with moi.

Fashion Week has been quite, quite the experience, as I might have written before. One designer’s show could have been titled “Attack of the Skinny Teen-Agers,” as a parade of bulemic heroin addicts in 5 inch heels stumbled down the runway in evening gowns meant for women twice their age and size, with that glazed look one associates with continual hunger and drug abuse. There were a number of paramedics outside the white tents at New York’s Bryant Park (yes, I know it’s near the Fashion District, but it’s so…midtown). They dashed into the backstage areas periodically, signalled by frantic designers, to administer emergency doses of protein powder and methadone.

All for now. I shall celebrate Mr. Mizhari’s pronouncement with a banana split (Kahlua makes an excellent substitute for hot fudge, dahlings). It almost makes me forgive him for Target.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Rescuing Bucky From Connecticut!

Dahlings,

I’m so sorry I didn’t finish the tale of my Adventure, but that man from the foundation almost talked my shell pink ear off! He has some RIDICULOUS idea that the fashions have to be “practical.” HA. When was fashion ever practical? Did Dior think practical when he designed the New Look? Were the British being practical when they introduced the mini skirt? Have the Japanese been practical when they design anything? If the proletariat want practical, I say, give them blue jeans, not Balenciaga.

Back to my Adventure. I got out of the taxi, pulled a strange piece of paper off of the back of my suit (it must have been something on the taxi seat…ugh…I should have used a private car service), and rang the bell. The couple that live there was unpleasantly surprised to see me, as well they should have been. I towered over both of them, simply quivering with righteous rage.“GIVE ME BACK MY DOG,” I said, my eyes boring into the husband’s. He flushed and invited me in.

My dears, the interior was a nightmare of Ikea and Target! I mean, they had a Thomas Kinkaid painting over the couch. Painter of light, indeed. After I had settled myself delicately on some Swedish thing passing itself off as a sofa, they proceeded to ply me with cheap Chianti and Philly strawberry cream cheese (served in the container) and crackers.

Then they told me:Bucky had loosed his collar and run away, apparently because he missed me.

I couldn’t believe my ears. They said it had happened days ago, but they had been too heartbroken to tell me that my darling little dog had disappeared into the woods of Connecticut. Probably to be devoured by a raccoon, or worse.

My heart cracking, I let out a wail of grief—and was answered by a storm of barking! BUCKY!

I dropped my Chianti and Philly smeared cracker on the floor (no great loss, the carpet was white shag), and leapt to my feet. Which is no mean feat when you’re wearing stiletto heels! “Bucky, my precious, Mummy is coming!” I cried out, and ran out of the living room in the direction of the frantic barking. My incredibly keen hearing discerned that it was coming from upstairs. How could I have ever thought his barking was piercing?

There was a huge pile of dirty laundry at the top of the stairs, but I vaulted over it, to be confronted with Walt Disney wallpaper and pink moldings. Faint from the décor but determined, I followed Bucky’s barking to a bedroom door where he had been shut up, and yanked it open. BUCKY!

He hurled his tiny, wiggling self into my arms, and at that joyous moment of reunion it didn’t even matter that he urinated down the front of my Yves St. Laurent suit. We were Together.

But then I turned, and heard the sound of the unspeakable couple coming up the stairs! With my free hand, I grabbed a handful of soiled laundry and HURLED it into their faces! Fortunately, it was dirty underthings! And not dainty wisps, I can guarantee you that!

Blinded and gagging, they fell back down the stairs!I ran down the stairs, past the couple trying to extricate themselves from the compost they called underwear, and leapt into the taxi.

“FLOOR IT,” I screamed at the driver. He had been amusing himself with a copy of “Barely Legal” and didn’t anticipate my sudden arrival into the back of his automobile. But to his credit, he dropped the magazine and gunned the motor, even though I assume his fly was open. (I was not about to look over the driver’s barricade.) We flew out of the driveway, spitting gravel. I kept my head down until we were back on the highway.

So, THAT, my dahlings, was my Adventure. Bucky is laying in his little marabou trimmed handcrafted artisanal dog bed as I write this, and all is well with the world. Except for the hired help. Where IS that lazy maid with my chamomile tea?

I shall write about Fashion Week a bit later today. For now, all I can say is…ugh. If I wanted to dress like an anorexic teenager, I’d have my jaw wired shut.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Rescuing Bucky from Connecticut Prt.1

DAHLINGS,

I am going to ignore that comment on my previous post. Let’s just say that I have the employment agency on speed dial. One cannot trust those foreigners…

AHEM. But back to moi, a personage of far greater importance than someone who cannot appreciate the finer things in life, even though she has the privilege of dusting them.

About my Adventure, the effects of which I am still feeling, sensitive soul that I am…

As far as I was concerned, it was time to get back my darling Bucky (a pure-bred Miniature Pinscher of impeccable background, if a bit too inclined to lick his private parts when I am entertaining). I had threatened the upstarts who had him with legal action, and their response was too vulgar for me to retype here. I didn’t appreciate the poor dear until I had the damnable Japanese puppy…sometimes, as the song lyric so eloquently put it, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
So, yesterday I took a taxi out to Connecticut, to confront these nouveau riche riffraff. I was garbed in an impeccably tailored I-mean-business suit by my good friend Yves, and stiletto heels to further emphasize my height. I told the taxi to wait for me, because I had a feeling this was not going to be pleasant. Little did I know…

Oh, drat, that’s the cell phone. The representative from the foundation where we are setting up “Haute Cou-Poor,” what can he want NOW?

Later, dahlings. My apologies for calling you hooligans. The intolerable strain I’ve been through made me momentarily lose my tact.

Au revior,
Elisa

Anna Nicole Smith

Dahlings,

No sooner had I opened a copy of the National Enquirer (my maid’s, not mine), I discovered poor Anne Nicole’s son had passed away at age 20. Of a massive heart attack, in a hospital, no less. I will refrain from speculation in honor of the dead. Poor Anna Nicole. I sense a VERY large box of Ding-Dongs in her immediate future.

With all due respect,
Elisa

Tiny Sarah Jessica Parker’s Soap

Dahlings,

I had the most EXCRUCIATING adventure yesterday! But I am still trembling, and ever so fatigued, so the telling of my escape will have to wait until later today.

For now I have to have my maid draw a hot bath (no, not with a pencil, you hooligans), and soak in the tub with my custom-made lavender fragranced soap that Sarah Jessica Parker created just for moi…it had a little SJP monogram on it, until it got washed off.

Sarah’s a lovely little person, very little, in fact she frequently gets lost when she stands behind Salma Hayek or Anna Nicole Smith in crowds. But with Anna Nicole, who wouldn’t? Not that I should speak ill of one of my sisters in bosomhood. But Anna Nicole is even more common than my assistant, and that is saying something.

Until later, dahlings –

Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog