The Fashionista Files (31 page)

GOIN’ TO THE CHAPEL

White Plastic Versace?
MELISSA

I had a vision for my wedding. White. Plastic. Versace. And knee-high patent leather boots. A drag-queen chorus singing “Here Comes Your Man.” But it was the dress that always figured highly in my dreams. Sometimes it was a white shredded-chiffon minidress from Balenciaga (from his naughty Angelic collection) with ankle boots. Other times it was a Helmut Lang tulle cocktail dress with wide spandex strap sandals. Or else an Alexander McQueen white leather corset dress. But the basic idea never changed. My wedding dress would definitely be short. Very short. Very fashiony.

Weeellll . . . things didn’t quite happen that way. Mike and I had said that we would have a “cool” wedding. We would buy his groomsmen Prada knockoff suits from H&M (a steal at $150), and I would wear some crazy fashionista outfit. I was all ready to book the drag chorus. Then it hit me. I was really getting married. I would have these pictures for the rest of my life. I thought about my mom’s wedding album, and how I loved poring over it and dreaming about how my wedding would be exactly the same as hers. And how she would not understand about the white plastic Versace.

Mel couldn’t resist the princess dress.

I thought about all the things I would be missing if I bought my wedding dress the same way I bought all my clothes—alone, with no one to cry and tell me I looked beautiful, and none of the great emotional bonding moments that weddings bring. I decided I wanted a more traditional wedding—and I wanted the big-hankie moments more than the Helmut Lang off the rack.

My mother and I went to the bridal shop together, and we picked out a beautifully beaded, embroidered, ivory tulle dress that had a big ball-gown Cinderella skirt, completed by a handmade pearl-studded veil. As Mom dabbed her eyes and fluffed up my multiple petticoats, I looked in the mirror and smiled. I could wear Versace any day. I would never be able to wear this princess dress ever again.

I took a page out of Grace Kelly and added a mink stole as my cover-up. (It was October, after all.) And with my J.Lo-style orchid bouquet (the one from her marriage to Chris Judd!), I was set. I had my tiara, my mom’s diamond earrings, and, of course, my Christian Louboutin heels (with a blue sole instead of a red one for his wedding collection—and one of my favorite bargains—$40 from $550 at the Barneys warehouse sale).

I walked down the aisle feeling like all of myself.

Bride to Be?
KAREN

I am not engaged. I never have been. And while I’ve never been one of those girls looking for the rock on her finger, desperate to land a man to take care of her till death do us part, I often fantasize about my wedding. It’s not about the man, actually. Not even close. It’s about what I’m wearing (surprise, surprise). I love to pretend any designer of my choosing will create my dress, which would definitely be far from brides-y, far from off the rack, but definitely off the hook.

I can’t imagine anything about my wedding being traditional. No bridesmaids. No walk down the aisle by my father who “gives me away.” That seems so chauvinistic to me. I imagine walking down an aisle with my guy—or by myself, behind my parents. I imagine being wed by some kind of spiritual healer, a shaman, perhaps, atop Machu Picchu. Or maybe a cool interfaith minister, poolside by the Delano Hotel. I would want a rockin’ DJ, not a band. I would want great food. But most of all, I want to be sexy.

No tulle. No poof. No big updo. Some days I imagine myself in all-beaded corset-y dresses by McQueen. Other times it’s sexpot chic from Tom Ford. Once in a while I’m a twenties flapper girl from Valentino. I want to look back on the pictures and think,
God
damn, I was hot.
God knows how I’d afford it. But I’ll deal with that later, just like having someone say, “Will you marry me?”

What to Wear as a Fashionista Bride

City wedding—Sleek, chic, like Caroline Bessette Kennedy’s Narciso Rodriguez slip dress. Or try a different color—burgundy or black. Helmut Lang’s white taffeta dresses are also a good choice. (Stella Tennant wore one to her wedding.)

Beach wedding—Fresh flowers and a sarong, or try a short beaded slip dress and bare feet à la Cindy Crawford.

Traditional wedding—The bigger the better.

What to Wear as a Fashionista Wedding Guest

City wedding—Cool black, über-sleek, one-shoulder, hot jewels, outstanding cover-up—maybe fur or orange velvet.

Beach wedding—Cool black. Tropical wear? What’s that?

Traditional wedding—See above. There’s nothing traditional about you.

DINING OUT IN STYLE

Restauranting as a Sport
KAREN

Restaurants, for fashionistas, are just as much about being seen as being fed. While we love a good four-star meal and a culinarily exquisite experience, we also love frequenting the latest, newest, hottest, trendiest restaurants around. It’s not unusual to hear a fellow fashionista say, “Oh, you have to go to [insert name of restaurant here]. You’ll hate it. It’s so pretentious.” No matter how badly a place is received, if it’s hot—usually something that comes with a celebrity type of chef (they’re rock stars in New York), a high-profile designer who turned out another Zen-like minimal postmodern space, and a killer location—we need to check it out. Just to say we’ve been. A hot restaurant, regardless of food quality, is very hard to get into. So being there is a feat in itself.

The first issue is a reservation. They’re very hard to get. You usually have to know someone—or know someone who knows someone—to get in. Even then, you may be relegated to the five P.M. or eleven P.M. seating. And God forbid you arrive five minutes late! If you do, your table is as good as gone. Pretty ironic considering that they make you wait for forty minutes before your table is ready anyway. I think it’s a control thing. Inside, however, you are sure to spot some A-list fashionistas—a supermodel or two, a B-LIST celebrity wearing YSL, those who are always written about in gossip columns, fashion girls and their gay best friends. Waiters give you long speeches about how the menu works, as if you were unable to figure it out.

And then you order. Things like foie gras dumplings and grapefruit dipping sauce are menu regulars, as are whole grilled bronzino, the occasional frog-leg situation, and at least two types of tartare. The food is never as big as the price. There is almost always a rest-room doorman, showing you the way to the bathroom, which is often stocked with perfume and Doublemint gum. Everyone around you is acting very smugly fabulous. And it’s a joy to be a part of it all. Just to say you’ve been.

Isn’t life delicious?

Do Fashionistas Eat?

Studies have shown that a woman dining on less is a lot more attractive than one who has ordered a three-course meal. That’s unfair and wrong, but that’s life. So the answer to the question is, Of course we do. In private, we shovel down steaks and cram as many Magnolia cupcakes and pints of Häagen-Dazs as we can handle. But in public, most of us pick at the following foods, in order to raise our attractiveness quotient.

Here’s what to order in a restaurant when dining with other fashionistas:

Flat bottled water—Carbonated water leads to bloating. Skip the Pellegrino.

Grilled fish—Usually salmon (good for curing wrinkles, says Dr. Nicholas Perricone, celebrity derm) or seared tuna.

Any kind of salad—The one filled with bacon and avocado and blue cheese dressing is still fashionista-approved. Just request that it be finely chopped. Send it back if it isn’t. You almost want to be able to drink it with a straw.

Dessert—But only with the caveat, “I haven’t eaten anything sweet in three weeks (months/years)!” Dessert is usually consumed ravenously by a pack of hungry fashionistas.

The Gin Revolution
MELISSA AND KAREN

For years, fashionistas relied on Cosmopolitans and Dirty Martinis, but how many can a girl (or guy) drink without getting sick of them (read: not sick
from
them!)? Exactly. That is why the modern-day fashionista sips gin, darling, like they did once upon a time. Damrak, the oldest gin recipe out there, is our brand of choice. It’s smooth, refreshing, crisp, and it mixes well with lemonade, tonic, or nothing but olives, martini-style. Bottoms up!

Stop Your Whining! How to Deal
with Champagne Hangovers

Take aspirin, not Advil.

Drink one glass of water for every glass of bubbly.

Stay home, snuggle on the Cappellini sofa in your cashmere robe. Cancel all your morning appointments and ask your man to give you a foot massage.

Treat yourself to a yummy, greasy brunch. The best cure!

THE FASHIONISTA DATING HISTORY

You’re Just Like Cher in
Clueless MELISSA

I was twenty-two years old and my boyfriend at the time, Sasha, was ten years older. I thought he was really cool; he thought I was really cute—you know how these things go. He was a writer, too— an aspiring playwright, who worked nights at an investment bank as a word processor. I had a day job, too—as a computer programmer—and had written an unpublished novel on the side. But somehow he never saw me as a writer, just as a shopper.

It’s easy to get categorized and labeled and put in a nice, easy package when you’re a fashionista. People don’t see beyond the blowout, the well-chosen outfit, the expensive shoes. What you get is what you see, and to him I looked like some trendy, fashion-obsessed chick, which, of course, I am. But just because I was fashion-crazed and knew to rotate my conditioners daily didn’t mean that was all there was to me. Why is it always smart versus beautiful? Or fashion versus intellect? Why can’t a girl have both? I was becoming increasingly annoyed by his condescending treatment.

Especially when he suggested a career as “costume designer” for me. Now, there’s nothing I respect more than designers of any stripe, and costume designer for a film would be a great fantasy job—but it wasn’t my dream. I swallowed my irritation when he said “You’re just like Cher in
Clueless.
” I had loved the film, and, of course, empathized with Alicia Silverstone’s Cher. But I hadn’t grown up in Beverly Hills, spending Daddy’s credit cards. I loved to shop; did that make me a ditz? I decided it was time to show my true colors.

Sasha was obsessed with games—board games, like Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, and Risk, as well as puzzles and crosswords. He equated winning with superior intelligence, which is such a silly way to live. Everybody knows whoever makes the most money always wins. (I’m
kidding
!) We often played Jeopardy on his computer. I’m a very competitive person, but had been suppressing my gamer’s instincts. One night we played Gestures with some of his friends. “Oh, look how cute; she even laughs like a doll,” said one of the frumpy women in the group, all wanna-be writers who took themselves too seriously and probably had reindeer sweaters in the back of their closets. It was enough to set my (very whitened) teeth on edge.

The next day, Sasha brought out the Jeopardy and I beat him handily. (My dad’s ambition for me is to go on TV, meet Alex Trebek, and win the championship.) He was stumped, and wanted to play something else. He had one of those handheld puzzle things, kind of like a Rubik’s Cube, where you have to fit all the pieces together by moving in only one direction. “Ha!” he said. “I did it in seventy-five moves! Let’s see you try.” I took the game from him and returned it after a second. “Fourteen moves,” I said flatly. His eyes widened, and he started to panic. We played Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit. I beat him at every game. (I can be quite ferocious when I’m angry.) When we played Risk and I marched into Russia and claimed all his territories, he waved the white flag. I had destroyed him and his ego. I wasn’t happy about it, but I was sick of being treated like some featherheaded “little squirrel” from
A Doll’s House.

I never heard from him again. Good riddance.

You Wear Such Silly Clothes
KAREN

In January of 2003 I met a guy. Not just any guy, but a gorgeous, smart, successful, tall, athletic guy with a chiseled face, aqua-blue eyes, and a full head of thick brown hair. Our first date was amazing. He even brought a digital camera to document it and told me he wanted to capture all of our great moments. He held my hand, told me I was beautiful, kissed me for hours, and shared his wine by passing it from his mouth to mine. It was all so terribly romantic. We began to spend every day together for the next two months. He brought me flowers, sent me sexy text messages on my phone, and treated me like I was special.

My friends liked him. And I thought, just maybe, he could be “the one.” We got along so beautifully. We appreciated the same kinds of food, skiing, home design, and architecture. We went to museums, spent entire days going around Manhattan to look at the most famous buildings and show each other our favorite blocks. He even brought up getting a loft and living together—in the not-so-distant future. He was so dreamy.

For Valentine’s Day, he took me to his winter home in Utah for a week. I couldn’t wait to be away with him. And I packed so well—my Christian Dior green-and-orange sweater and Rock & Republic jeans to be worn with Uggs, the fox-fur chubby for Juicy sweats, and two supersexy outfits for the big nights he had planned. I wanted to look like a cute little ski bunny. Sadly, that was when things started falling apart.

My first sign was when we planned a party at his house for his friend’s birthday. I helped him devise a fun menu of small PB&J sandwiches, cupcakes (Duncan Hines), shot glasses of mac-and-cheese, and s’mores. As we cooked and scurried around his kitchen—a huge kitchen with three stainless-steel fridges, a Viking stove, and limestone counters—he noticed that after I washed my hands, I shook them out as I walked across the room. “Um, we do not shake our hands out over the floor and ruin the marble. We use the towels in the top drawer,” he scolded as if I were some three-year-old. I made a mental note of his behavior (possible warning signal) and continued. Insult number two came next. As I poured the cupcake batter into the pan, he yelled, “That is not how you do it. Use a different spoon. You’ll make a mess.” Okay. I figured messes could be cleaned, but I’d use a different spoon. Before I knew it, everything I did was wrong. Apparently I couldn’t even light the candles correctly. (“Use a lighter, not matches,” he reprimanded.) My perfect man turned into the most awful control freak.

I went to shower in order to take a break. When I emerged from the bathroom, wearing low-waisted shiny black Stella McCartney pants and a one-shouldered wine-colored top and big hoop earrings, he gave me a double take. I thought for sure a compliment was coming.

“What are you wearing? You look like a tramp,” he said.

A tramp? “This shirt is hot. It’s Calvin Klein.”

“God, you’re such a label whore. You wouldn’t know good design if it bit you on the ass,” he said.

I told him he was being passive-aggressive and that that was no way to talk to a lady. And he told me to change. Screw that. No man tells me how to dress! I gave him the benefit of the doubt, however, and figured he was nervous or stressed about work and the party that was about to begin. The next night he took me to a big benefit for the opening of some public library designed by a famous architect. I put on a ruched black Chanel dress from a sample sale and he looked me up and down and barked, “What are you wearing? This is Utah. You don’t need to be so dolled up. And that dress is so hoochie-mama.”

It was a classic Chanel, anything but hoochie. I said, “It must be lost on you, and I love it.” I wore it anyway and got a dozen compliments from women I didn’t know.

The next day he lost it on me. “You wear such silly clothes. You look ridiculous,” he said when I put on jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that I had cut into a V-neck. Could I have been more basic? “Why do you have to cut your tops to reveal your breasts?” he asked. First of all, the cut was nowhere near my breasts, and second of all, I’ll cut what I want to cut! “Don’t you have any respect for your clothes? You just cut them,” he barked.

The next two days, things got worse. Every minute of the day I was told my jeans were too tight (ironic, considering he told me he thought I had a good ass), my slit-sleeved shirt was impractical (okay, so what if it kept dipping into the garlic-butter sauce of my king salmon?), and the lingerie I had bought specifically to surprise him was “dumb.”

That was the last straw. I packed my silly clothes, took a cab to the airport, and went back to New York, where my style was much more appreciated.

The Five Guys Fashionistas Date
Before They Settle Down

The troubled artist—Because your friends will respect you for it. You love going to see his work at a gallery or on a stage, where he’s performing. And he will treat you like you’re his muse. Be warned: He’s whiny.

The gift-giving finance guy—Because lavishing you with luxury is part of his self-esteem. Be warned: He can be truly wretched and boring. You’re definitely dating for dollars here. And don’t think he’s rewarding just you with gifts. He goes to strip bars on his lunch break.

The gorgeous model—Just so you can say you did. Complain about his self-involvedness.

The totally inappropriate guy—He’s a bartender; you make seven figures. He’s your plumber or your gardener, but truly hot. You can’t imagine marrying him, but some of us do.

The tattooed bad boy—They walk on the wild side. Live a little.