Meet Fletcher


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.



Fashion Week Continues–Recovering From Heartbreak

This is Miss DeCarlo’s assistant…I snuck out of here and didn’t dare come back until she left again. A girlfriend of mine over at Bryant Park said she saw this big blonde screaming in French at a huge black dude who was cowering behind Rachel Zoe. That is so my boss. Jesus wept! So, like I made sure I was outta here. She left me a ton of stuff sent from her Iphone, so I guess it’s going to be one of those nights. What a weirdo.


Genuine apologies for the interruption. My delicate nerves are unraveled, raw, indeed, flayed! Andre Leon Talley shall never darken my silk napkins again.

But to business. Before I was so rudely interrupted (and betrayed!) by Andre’s alliance with that Los Angeles trend-hound, I was about to tell you of Fashion Week on Saturday. The first show I attended was Abaete, designed by Laura Poretsky. One was so hoping to be diverted from one’s private pain by wonderful fashion. Instead, a parade of fashion oddities strutted before me. I know that vintage is in, but this made me think of men’s swimwear circa 1910. All the model needed was a large mustache to sing in a barbershop quartet.

And I am sorry, but this was simply what the young folk like to call “a hot mess,” as was much of the show.

It was simply a MONSOON outside all day, and my poor dear darling Bucky detests the rain! It is a known characteristic of miniature pinschers, along with licking their private parts when one has company.

My little dog was trembling so violently that he urinated on my Oscar de la Renta dress, so it was back to my luxurious apartment on Central Park West to change clothes and let the poor little dear stay home (after giving him a pinch of valium in his dog food). I chose a Bill Blass pants ensemble designed by Peter Som for the 2008 Pre-Fall Collection, opting for fashionable comfort over getting my legs drenched.

At least not by the rain, this time.

My return, unfortunately, coincided with the Alexander Wang show. Back down to 21st Street…I should have confined myself to the tents! Wang had declared that he was going to give us “color”, and this was his version of color.

Ah, yes, tres jolie, particularly with the “Pinhead” horror movie hat on.

Your faithful correspondent should have known better than to return to Bryant Park in time for the Rock & Republic show. Why, oh, why, would they let one of those horrendously emaciated anorexic models pretend she had even a chance in Hell of looking curvaceous?

One flashes back to a childhood memory of watching Fred Astaire with dear, darling Mama at the Museum of Modern Art. I might have been an adolescent by that time, but Mama was still forcing me to pretend I was eleven years old (explained elsewhere). The thought occured to moi that having sex with Mr. Astaire might result in some very bad cuts from his razor sharp elbows and knees. Thank goodness I did not yet know about hipbones!

Until next time,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

TAXES–And No Deductions for Bucky!


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 meno, BuckyOUCH!”

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!

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Imitation Is The Insincerest Form of Flattery


It seems that my little blog-thing has garnered SO much attention (including being a favorite of one of the designers at Badgley-Mischka, although, I hasten to add, it is neither Badgley nor Mischka) that some other vintage sellers have seen fit to create blogs themselves very recently. And to create titles that have a very odd resemblance to…mine. (I will not to deign to name them; you can find them on your own.)

Yes, I know, if you sell vintage, you must have a blog-thing. Actually, if you are a semi-sentient being, you must have a blog-thing.

But what makes it terribly fascinating (to moi, at least, and that’s who truly matters) is that these sellers belong to a society of vintage sellers who wanted me to join them.

The only hitch being that their leadership is afraid that your faithful correspondent’s tendency to speak her mind, and perhaps occasionally be a bit too forthright for their taste.

They warned that if I did not toe the (very straight and strict) line they dictated, if my public persona deviated in any manner from the vintage corporate image they aspire to, my membership would be promptly revoked.

Hard to believe, mon cher readers, but there it is. I believe myself to be a model of propriety…well, possibly not all of the time.

My sporadic slips of tongue, pen and incriminating photograph already had me barred from the Vintage Fashion Guild some time ago. I will spare you (and myself) the details.

But apparently the bursts of publicity and readership I have been getting recently rub certain people the wrong way. And other certain people have hoped to gain from my celebrity, rather like one of the less talented Baldwin brothers. I take it as a tribute, as long as they bear in mind, as it says on the bottom, I have extremely vicious lawyers. Rather like Bucky, but with much bigger teeth.

And like Bucky, they love any opportunity to use them.

Enough of this dreariness…I’m off to soak in a hot tub and dream of Johnny Depp.

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

April 3:
Errata: Said blog has changed its title, with apologies, saying it was an honest mistake. Friends we have in common agree…apparently your faithful correspondent is getting into the collective unconscious!

Disaster and Despair…


I awoke so unhappy this morning, so desolate, I knew that it was my duty to share it with you, my faithful readers.

Your faithful correspondent has survived divorce, death, and severely horrendous fashion.

However, now I cannot show my face in public for the foreseeable future. The unthinkable has happened.

I have a bad haircut.

A short history: my hair stylist, the ONLY man who could make my abundant locks look their best, disappeared! For years he had been my hair stylist on good hair days and bad. No challenge was too much for him, even when I foolishly tried to dye my hair brunette by myself. (I confess, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but there were far too many Cosmopolitans involved.)

Then, he left the salon he co-founded and took a chair at another salon. Of course I followed, but then, a few short weeks later, he was gone. Wiped from the face of the earth! No response to phone calls, emails, text messages…what WAS I to do? Turbans and scarves could only cover the unruliness on my head for so long.

My first mistake: I took the recommendation of a friend who has entirely different hair than mine. Hers is thin, fine, straight as opposed to my thick, abundant waves of liquid gold.

My second mistake: at the risk of being politically incorrect, I advise you to find a hair stylist whose English is impeccable. I tried to make my wishes known, but it was impossible.

My third mistake: I stayed in the chair. And watched in horror as she hacked away at my crowning glory in large chunks. Then she blow-dryed it so that it bore an unnerving resemblance to my mother’s hair circa 1969.

Words cannot attempt to describe the result. Suffice to say that a friend tactfully commented how brave I was to have a haircut that was so “anti-fashion.” As soon as I arrived home, I rushed past my horrified staff and plunged my head under the shower.

It did not improve the results. Even Bucky, my darling miniature pinscher, barked at me!

I am in despair, dahlings! When one is known for one’s impeccable grooming, a bad haircut is the equivalent of leaving the house not having showered for a week and wearing a Forever 21 dress.

Learn from my mistakes, mon cher amis. If nothing else, I can pass along this devastating experience in the name of knowledge.

In the meantime, I doubt I shall be leaving the apartment, unless I am wearing a hat and dark glasses.

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

The Love Of A Dog On Christmas…


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.

Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Out in the Hamptons With The Ultra-Fashionable


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

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

As hostess, my only rules are:

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

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

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

Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

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