More Plus Size Pretties For the Manhattan Vintage Show!


It is absolutely FRANTIC here, I tell you! I’ve had to cancel all of my social engagements (Ashley Tisdale broke down in tears, poor thing, and Barbara Walters was extremely ungracious about my not attending her dinner party. Perhaps I will send Rosie O’Donnell in my stead.)

The Manhattan Vintage Show opens this coming Friday, October 10th, and if you love vintage, you will be a fool to miss it!

Here are some more vintage lovelies I have in store for you at my booth, The Mad Fashionista’s Plus Size Boutique!

A 1963 gold silk jacket dress with flocked velvet roses, size XL. This was originally designed as a wedding dress for an older bride:

A beautiful boiled wool jacket by Reinalter, with the most cunning big silver buttons:

And for now, a GORGEOUS mink-lined raincoat, custom-made by Weisberg in size XXL. Not only is it lined with gorgeous, soft mahogany mink, it has mink lapels and cuffs. But that’s not all–the lining zips out so that you can wear it as a lightweight yet stylish coat! Modern size 16/18/20:

Please bear in mind that my mannequin, Bodicea, is six feet tall and a plus-sized full-figured size 16. Almost as beautiful as I am, although not quite.

For those that have asked, Bucky the Wonderdog will not be in attendance; the insurance risk is too great. If he bites Hamish Bowles, well…one shudders to think.

Next up, hats, hats and more hats!

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Oscar Night Marches On!

(Note – this is being transcribed by me, Miss DeCarlo’s personal assistant…she threw her Blackberry into the office early this afternoon when she got in, and went straight to bed. If I knock on the door I could get severely hurt. I need a new job…)


Next stop, the Entertainment Weekly magazine party at Elaine’s! Now THIS is a soiree! I fit right in. My favorite film critic, Lisa Schwarzbaum, is sitting in the last remnant of lap Harvey Weinstein still has. Can you say ‘conflict of interest’?”

Half the casts of all of the various permutations of “Law and Order” are here…of course, I forgot that they film in our dear city. And there is Liev Schrieber, whose Hamlet I am still trying to forget…wasn’t he supposed to be at the New York magazine party?

Dear God, I look up at the television monitor to see Randy Newman and James Taylor. Sweet Geezer James always sounds exactly the same, whether he’s singing ‘Fire and Rain’ or Randy’s latest piece of Oscar dreck…time for another cocktail, pronto.

There’s Chris Noth…be still, my heart (and other parts of my anatomy). He’s sitting with one of the hundreds of cast members of “Law and Order.”

But our eyes lock, and we move across the crowded room toward each other. It is almost as good as meeting George Clooney. A girl can’t have everything, but this is pretty darn close. We watch the monitor as Emily Blunt and Anne Hathaway present Best Costume Design. I think it’s rather silly to have extras in the clothes rather than mannequins, and, looking at the corgi onstage, reflect on just how badly Bucky would behave under the circumstances. (Peeing on the Queen would be so low class.)

“Marie Antoinette”?? Is the Academy mad? They will always go for the foo-foo and ruffles over the more sophisticated and realistic designs. My personal choice was ‘Dreamgirls,’ it brought back so many childhood memories. Not that anyone I knew dressed like that, but I did see them from the limousine window.

I am sorry, but I like Anne Hathaway’s dress. I realize that I am in a distinct minority.

Chris Noth smells wonderful…it’s quite distracting… (leave that part out, you idiot!)

Every time Ellen Degeneres comes on, she’s got one another ugly outfit (she needs Melissa Etheridge’s stylist, if not Melissa’s make-up person, who made her look like a plastic punk rocker), and somehow seems to leave a hole in the screen. Yes, she’s being all shucks-folks-I’m-just-happy-to-be-here. But that is how Rosie O’Donnell used to behave at the Tony Awards, and look how that turned out!

Thank goodness for Jerry Seinfeld…he’s funnier in eight minutes than poor Ellen has been all evening. Part of it is that he could not care less. He doesn’t need the money or the exposure–wait, I think we have our perfect next Oscar host! Just please, please don’t bring back Whoopi Goldberg, or I might have to get a restraining order against the Academy.

Oh, it’s time for the “Dreamgirls” song montage! And doesn’t Jennifer Hudson look PERFECTLY MAGNIFICENT in that sparkling red dress? You go, girlfriend, as the young people say! Beyoncehas abandoned that mint green monstrosity for some sort of flowing thing, but unfortunately she still has the stage presence of an apple. She can howl like she was on “American Idol” as much as she wants to, but it doesn’t make her any less of a Mocha Diva Barbie. Ah, and there’s that third girl they made look so goofy in the movie…she obviously laid down the law to the costumer, because she is working some serious bling in that dress. But it’s Jennifer all the way. She and Queen Latifah…women with actual BREASTS on the Oscars…oh, and of course Helen Mirren.

Excuse me…Chris wants to have a word in my shell-pink ear…

Fashion Week – Coco Rocha, Why??


I had to take a break to Blackberry my assistant to send you word of the shows…I only hope no mistakes are made in translation.

Since Saturday I admit, I have been looking at the collections with an even more jaundiced eye than before, if such a thing were possible. I was refused entrance at the Marc Jacobs for show for my unflattering remarks about his Venice party a few weeks ago. I say, if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the atelier.

Speaking of heat, we are having some of the coldest weather in donkeys years here in New York City. I jump into my limo as soon as I’m finished with one show to go to the next (and to change my outfit and my chocolate box–each have to match!). But all the same, those five seconds on the sidewalk make me quite sympathetic to the less privileged. As long as they don’t try to touch me.

Carolina Herrera’s collection spoke to moi the most. So elegant, so classic, a little flat, but after some of the ordure I have seen on the models’ backs I was grateful for some dullness. There was some lovely dresses, in sophisticated purples and the ever-present gray (too much like the weather for my taste). Including a strapless number I will be ordering for myself that will show off my creamy shoulders perfectly.

Jill Stuart showed her collection at the New York Public Library. If there is a worse setting for a show than a huge, frigid marble cavern in winter, I’d like to know where it is. She claimed to be “inspired by vintage,” and yes, most of the outfits were copies of Swinging Sixties styles. Inspiration, my foot. I see the same things on Ebay—A-line dresses, peacoats (although Stuart had a lovely shade of blue for many of her things), fur toppers—for a fraction of the cost. For a change, the models were dressed more warmly than the crowd, which included many shivering interns in thin blouses and short skirts.

If Stuart’s inspiration seemed a little thin, perhaps it is because she is busy launching more product lines than Halston did when he was desperate for drugs. Not that I imply a thing, mind you. Just musing.

Lara Stone receives my vote for Model Who Looks Most Like She Was Just Hit By A Two By Four Before Her Entrance
The ubiquitous Coco Rocha for Model That Makes You Ask, Why?

Tanya Dziahileva for Most Starved Model (A Ferocious Competition, but Tanya tried to snatch a truffle from my hand at the Luca Luca show!)

The Oscar de la Renta show was wonderfully luxe. Furs, checks, so much to buy! I’m wondering who has had the tightest brow lift…Barbara Walters or Diane Von Furstenberg? Feel free to write in with your vote.

I am simply mad for his beautiful evening gowns. This was my personal favorite:

Of course the ubiquitous Coco Rocha was modeling, as was Tanya Dziahileva, who can look staggeringly gaunt in anything:

Off to see more…I’ve heard that Rod Stewart is in attendance. Did you know that he looks remarkably like my dear Mama did in her dotage?

I did have a lovely time at the Marchesa party (banned from the Marc Jacobs party, of course, and I know better than to try to get in). Harvey Weinstein is such fun, and we played “find the almond” in my decolletage.

A few more days of this and Rosie O’Donnell is going to seem like a breath of fresh air.

Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

My Near Death Experience, Courtesy of Business Class


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.


Excuse me; my assistant was giving me a laughably bad imitation of a concerned smile.


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.

Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

Chatting With Lana Turner – Plus Today’s Fashion Tip!

Dahlings –

Tonight I turn my attention to lighter topics. It’s time to start Christmas Shopping for all of your loved ones, and what better place than my store, Elisa’s Bounteous House of Style (link at your right)? The Vintage Blowout Sale is still going on, until November 29th. And I am also stocking my store with plenty of goodies for her, him, and the four-legged set. For example:

Patrick Cox black satin evening slippers with rhinestone buckles:

Cunning little Christmas wreath pierced earrings:

Goldtone faux ruby brooch by Monet:

Vintage stunning 50s R&K Originals turquoise wool dress, size Large:

Vintage 60s tan wool Italian cut man’s two-piece suit, 42 Long:

And so much more! Yes, it is indeed a great deal of work, but as long as my personal assistant scurries at the sound of my footsteps, it is all getting done.

Which is how it should be, n’cest pas?

This weekend I attended a seance, and who should pop in but my dear dead friend Lana Turner. Lana is such a delight. We sat in the corner and chatted about the recent revelations about the bisexuality of both Katherine Hepburn and her longtime beloved, Spencer Tracy (or “Ol’ Granite Face,” as Lana calls him). Although it is a trifle unnerving to picture Spencer in a passionate clinch with Jimmy Stewart, as Lana said, “They can say anything about you after you’re dead, and I oughta know.”

Lana is a trifle envious of today’s stars, who can be openly, even annoyingly, gay (Rosie O’Donnell leaps to mind), or bisexual (Madonna, although I doubt whether she notices her bed partners–she is far too busy staring at her ceiling mirror). Lana herself prefers gentlemen, but her daughter is a lesbian and it does not bother Lana in the least. “For one thing, women smell so much better than men,” she remarked to me. “Anyway, most women. Some of ’em smell like tuna that’s been out of the can too long, if you catch my drift.”

If she had been corporeal, I would have patted her hand and agreed. But maybe it’s better I didn’t. One would have hated to have one’s actions misconstrued.

Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

“As a seller, I feel black velvet….all velvets, but particularly black… the most underrated textile in the vintage world. It indeed is more common, and as dressier items tended to be the ones people held onto, it’s more plentiful. But despite that…’s still the most elegant. Easily accessorized, instantly glamorous. ”
Vintage or Bust, the eVintage Society blog

Ana Carolina Reston, R.I.P.

21- year-old Ana Carolina Reston, who had worked in China, Turkey, Mexico and Japan for several modeling agencies, died Tuesday, according to Sao Paulo’s Servidor Publico Hospital. The hospital said the infection that killed the 5-foot-8-inch model was caused by anorexia nervosa, a disorder characterized by an abnormal fear of becoming obese, an aversion to food and severe weight loss. She weighed 88 pounds. (Reuters)

Dahlings –

I know that I have railed in these pages against thin models, decrying the prevalent mode of stick-figuredom that is the standard of contemporary fashion. I myself am anything but thin, for which I am profoundly grateful. Dying for Fashion is intolerably sad, and I will use this bully pulpit to say:

Shame on the fashion industry for promoting this horrendous ideal

Shame on the entertainment industry for encouraging actresses to do likewise

Shame on those who believe that womanly curves constitute obesity, or that anything short of this unrealistic, deadly ideal is bad, ugly, worth starving yourself and cutting off parts of yourself for.

Bravo for those women who stand up to this and say NO. A short honor roll:

  • Rosie O’Donnell
  • Mo’nique
  • Camryn Mannheim
  • Every Marilyn Monroe impersonator, because you have to be voluptuous to be believable
  • Delta Burke
  • Queen Latifah

And let me leave you with these two images, one of the late Ana Carolina Reston and one of the fashion model known as Velvet. Rest in peace, Ana.



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