The Fashionista Files

by Karen Robinovitz

  Fashionistas also favor going out on the nights of the week when everyone else is staying at home watching Must-See TV. They are out on Monday and Tuesday nights, but on weekend nights can be on la sofa, tucking into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and happily watching such secret fashionista favorites as the Sci-Fi Network’s Farscape and Lifetime, Television for Women (fashionistas never miss an episode of The Golden Girls).

  In this chapter you’ll learn about the nightlife of fashionistas— what they do in their off time, a list of boyfriends every fashionista has in her dating history, and why she must always “not-eat” at the newest restaurant in town.

  THE BEST PART OF EVERY EVENING: GET TING READY

  Social Schedule and Reality MELISSA AND KAREN

  There’s nothing quite like the anticipation of an evening out. Most of the time we will plan our social calendar far in advance. It usually looks something like this:

  MONDAY NIGHT: Dinner party with publicists, editors, and architect friends.

  TUESDAY NIGHT: Cocktail party to celebrate a new store/product/magazine issue.

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT: Opening party at new nightclub/restaurant. THURSDAY NIGHT: Charity benefit.

  We spend the weekend planning, going over our closet, trying on all our clothes, shopping, preparing our outfits (from the shoes to the coat to the jewelry) in advance. We meet at our favorite nail salon to get our special Orly manicures (the classic red for Mel, dark, vampy almost-black for Karen!), chatting, gossiping, and talking about the events we will be attending.

  And then it happens . . . all that work . . . all that anxiety and social psyching-up! Here’s what really goes down:

  MONDAY NIGHT: We arrive in time for dessert.

  TUESDAY NIGHT: We sleep in front of the latest reality TV show (take your pick).

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT: We drag ourselves out to do a five-minute lap around the room (after two hours of getting ready). Don’t worry. We record The Bachelor.

  THURSDAY NIGHT: We find better things to do with our $200 contribution.

  It’s just all part of the game. There’s nothing fashionistas like more than being invited to everything, having a seemingly packed social calendar, and then blowing it all off to sit in front of the television. After all, in our heads, we’ve already gone to the party!

  How to Get Ready in Style

  Hair—Do you need a blowout? Book an appointment at a salon. Or if you’re doing it at home, set aside an appropriate amount of time to deal with your locks.

  Nails—Nothing looks worse than chipped polish and raggedy, bitten nails. Get your butt to a salon and get buffed to a shine!

  Bath—Calgon, take us away! All the pressure of looking good can get to a girl. Soak your troubles in the tub, just like Diane von Furstenberg, who never takes showers. Epsom salt is great for muscle relaxation post–fashionista workouts.

  Music—Cue up something that makes you feel happy.

  Prepare clothes the night before so you’re not running around in a frenzy, and arriving way too late.

  The Fashionista Saturday Night

  A LIST OF ACTIVITIES WE DO ON THE WEEKENDS

  Movies with friends—or solo. It’s good to have some personal time.

  Farscape. Hello!

  Turn home into a spa—oatmeal facials, coffee-bean exfoliation, anyone?

  Catch up on reading—those Vogues have really piled up.

  By all means, don’t go out! Saturday night is for amateurs! Unless, of course, you have a hot date. Then do it up and take no prisoners.

  THE ARRIVAL

  The Stars Are Here? MELISSA AND KAREN

  Summer 2002.

  We had just published our book How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less. The hard part was over. Now it was time to hit the book-launch parties (the really, really hard part!).

  We would get only one chance to make an entrance at each of our events, and we wanted to make a huge impact. In New York, our party was at the Paramount Hotel lobby. We holed up in a private suite, getting manicures and blowouts, and doing television interviews while sipping champagne and hanging out with Lou, our bodyguard, who brought us borrowed rocks from Harry Winston. The phones were incessantly ringing, and our publicist answered it like this: “Famous suite!” Finally, it was an hour after our party had started. Time to join the mayhem. (Mel had to restrain Karen from popping out of our room too early and spoiling our arrival!)

  We slowly walked hand in hand down the glass staircase as David Bowie’s “Fame” blasted in the speakers. The crowd of seven hundred went wild. Camera flashes were blinding. “Mel, over here! Karen, over here!” We paused at the bottom for some pictures. The blowup board from our book was nowhere to be found, so Heidi, our PR gal, found it and—with her Yorkie, Isaac, in her bag—ducked down and held it up behind us so the book would be seen in all the pics. We were escorted outside before we could give even our parents a proper hello. There, more paparazzi awaited us. We posed with one leg facing forward, held our book for the cameras, and then strangers got in on the action, snapping away, as well. This is what being a rock star feels like! Pretty darn good!

  The grand staircase arrival—very fashionably late

  Arriving on our red carpet in Chicago

  For our Los Angeles party, we had to get ready (look at our priorities—the getting ready is always high on our list!) across town at Privé, where they were doing our hair and makeup for free. Mel’s mother kept calling—“All the stars are here, your party’s started, where are you?!” The publicist called. “If you don’t get here right now, your press will leave!” she fumed.

  We arrived an hour and a half late. All the celebrities (from Jenna from Survivor to Paris Hilton) had arrived promptly. They were gone by the time we showed. And we had our assigned book escort, who drove a Ford Escort, drop us off fifty feet from the entrance, so it wouldn’t seem like our moms had to drop us off. Once we got there, we knew no one inside, Mel’s family notwithstanding.

  In Miami we were an hour late, but only because we had to do so many television interviews. It was so humid that by the time we arrived at the party, our hair was flat from the heat. Oy.

  For our Chicago party, we donned ball gowns from Escada to wear to our party at the Escada store on Miracle Mile. Mel wore a red beaded number (once worn by Vivica Fox), Karen a brown-and-white-striped sequined zebra. We traveled in style, in a Bentley specially on loan to us for the occasion. We were half an hour late, and greeted by a Joan Rivers impersonator. We were getting the hang of this.

  We arrived right on time for our Las Vegas party. The only problem was, we were the only ones there! Sometimes it’s even better not to show up!

  How to Make an Entrance

  Exactly what time is fashionably late?

  When you should be prompt: Weddings, especially when you’re in them.

  Fifteen minutes late is acceptable: Dinner with friends, lunch.

  An hour after it started, at least: Fashion parties, gallery openings.

  Two A.M. is prime time: Nightclubs.

  Great excuses for being late: Traffic, Mom called with serious news, badly stubbed your toe scurrying around to get ready, lost ATM card, stuck in elevator, struggled with a mugger (and won).

  CHEEK TO CHEEK

  Fashionistas always air-kiss each other so much not because they’re fond of each other but so they can whisper fresh insults into each other’s ears. —MOSCHINO

  The Perils of Air-kissing

  MELISSA AND KAREN

  We’re the types who kiss everyone we know—even vaguely. We kiss our editors, business acquaintances, people we don’t even like. After all, it’s just a greeting—and not even a kiss—more like a smack in the air next to someone’s cheek. How harmless is that?

  Mel bumped into a familiar-looking person on the street once. The person gave her a hearty hello, and she responded automatically. “Helllooo!” she said, trying to cover up for the fact that she couldn’t remember his name, and proceeded to give the standard double-ki
ss greeting. It was only when she walked away that she realized she had just kissed the doorman of her old building.

  How to Perfect the Double Air-Kiss

  Woooooo! The excitement. Mouth open, elbows bent, hands up!

  Lean in to one side of cheek. It doesn’t matter what side to lean toward first; you’ll pick subtle cues from the other fashionista on where to go. Must remain at least two inches away from the cheek. Notice the space between us. Hands still remain in the air as if your nails are wet—fresh from a manicure.

  Lean back, lips remaining slightly puckered.

  Go in for the second cheek. Remember: An air-kiss is always both cheeks! Sometimes it seems as though you’re kissing hair, not air. It’s all about gesture anyway.

  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.