Project Elegance

It was one too many Hitchcock films (if that's even possible) that sent me over the edge. And I took a friend with me.

Last night, while watching To Catch a Theif (Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Edith Head...enough said), J and I made a vow to live a life of elegance. It doesn't matter that she's bald and I'm broke, we are going to going to be elegant, dammit! Worship at the altar of Audrey, Grace, Bacall and Bergman. Bring a little of that sass and class into this modern and maudlin age.

I know I've been harping about this for a while now...but, America, I'm sick of looking at your t-shirts and jeans! Would Grace Kelly or Cary Grant be seen in acid wash? Would they don Micky or Minnie and call it fashion? Wear sneakers anywhere but the tennis courts? No. Why? Because it's wrong. Not to mention lazy. And unsightly much of the time. Remember when "pajamas in public" was a fashion trend? I don't think I need to list any more of our sins. America, we have to start dressing better!

Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some jeans. I pretty much live in denim. But look how Grace wore those 501s at the end of Rear Window. Now, *that's* how a lady wears dungarees!

Not only that, did you see how she packed her overnight bag? Truly a bit of movie magic there, but how elegant. No matter what the occasion, ladies and gentlemen were dressed for it. It just seems we don't have "occasions" anymore.

Speaking of occasions, when was the last time you packed a picnic basket? Did you keep it simple or go all fancy? Fancy can be a pain in the neck. Keep it simple, darling. Just chicken and beer. Baked chicken, a salt shaker, bottled beer (Belgian, perhaps?) and a glass for the lady to sip from. Grace and Cary can make even paper napkins trés chic.

This morning, I came up with the idea for Project Elegance. Hey, being unemployed, I have a bit of time on my hands. The concept is rather basic: To lead a life of elegance in an everyday way. I don't have the money to revamp my wardrobe, redesign my duplex or hire staff. But I can make the most of the mundane. For instance, I am giving my my beloved, oversized mug and will sip my homemade lattes in a proper cup properly placed on a saucer. It might sound like more work and more dishes to some, but it sounds much more civilized to me. And then there's the apron. My lovely, yet often forgotten, aprons. Some might say, "Why bother?" Not only are aprons functional, they are dead sexy, too. My biggest challenge: Overcoming my fondness for four-letter words.

Yes, elegance takes a bit more time and effort to pull off...in the beginning. Then, it becomes a way of life. I'm not talking about affect or pretense but an appreciation for the finer points, a delight in the details. Taking a moment longer to savor something. I'm a little too punk rock for all the propriety but, in this day and age, propriety might be one of the more subversive things I can indulge.

So, you are cordially invited to join Project Elegance where J and I will blog about our attempts to bring elegance into our lives...in spite of our situations and ourselves. (You can follow us on Twitter, too: @ProjectElegance.)

Feeling the Hitch in my Head

In order to escape the insanity that has been the last few days (sorry, I don't see the point of canonizing a pederast with a penchant for painkillers), I turned to TMC. There, I was transported back to the 1950s and 60s, and the world of Alfred Hitchcock.

I love Hitch. Absolutely adore the man. I was raised on his television show and quickly fell in love with his movies. Imagine watching "Psycho" alone while babysitting on a huge piece of property on a desolate road during a windstorm with patio furniture hitting the side of the house and deer heads staring at you from the walls. I was thirteen and terrified, and absolutely mesmerized. He didn't need monsters or gore to put us at the edge of our seat. He delivered exquisite tension and lip-biting suspense. He also gave us sassy dames in dandy dresses dreamed up by Edith Head.

I once got booed at a symposium on feminism in film (held at UCLA) for going against the panel (and apparently the audience) when I declared that I thought Hitchcock gave us strong female characters. His women were smart, mouthy, fearless and unapologetic of their sexual power (with the exception of "Marnie"). But, I guess because they were in WASP-waist dresses, gloves and high heels, that didn't make them feminists. At least not at UCLA. Alfred Hitchcock (along with Alan Parker and David Lynch) was why I went to film school. And, by the way, I went to CalArts. You won't find a more politically correct, pro-feminist film school...so all those who booed can bite me. We can argue the whole victim/need to be rescued by a man issue at another time (though, let's also remember the era in which these films were made). As a feminist, right now, I want to talk about the clothes.

While I wouldn't be able to survive a day in the repressive landscape that was the 50s and 60s (they would have lobotomized me á la Frances Farmer), I would love to dress for dinner, have a man who wore a suit and hat as well as Cary Grant did, don gloves, have a closet full of shirt dresses (I have one, but it just isn't enough), and indulge in three-martini lunches without it being frowned upon. Twin sets, skirts and pearls. Cocktails at five. Pocketbooks. Upper-crust, faux-English accents. Witty repartee. The style and silhouette of the 50s (at least how it's portrayed on television and film) has always been my favorite. And the designs of Edith Head make me crave a return to that time.

I see now how people carried themselves with a bit more dignity then, and much of that had to do with how they dressed. Sure, it was a constrictive uniform. But, clothing then was also a show of self-respect. Women didn't need to dress like streetwalkers to be sexy. They knew it was never the exposure of skin that was alluring as much as it was the reveal...or the anticipation thereof. A bare shoulder. An exposed back. A soft hand removed from a glove. I think that beats pasties and a thong any day. (And, guys, there's nothing better than removing your tie.)

Even then, in Hitch's world and Edith's clothes, good girls did bad things. Even better, they wanted to break the rules. Yet they did it in a really classy manner. Maybe it was the gloves or heels, the cinched waists or petticoats. Perhaps a girdle instills a sense of propriety. Who knows? Whatever it is, it would be nice to have a little more of it these days. Turn on "Notorious" (not the Biggie bio pic) or "Rear Window" to take a peek. Tell me you don't feel the urge to put on a hat and some gloves and greet people with, "Good evening," "Good afternoon," or "Good day." Don't you think it would be simply grand to have a bit more social decorum and class without any of that pesky social repression? Wouldn't you agree, darling? Wouldn't you agree? [Insert martini glass clink here.]

Yes, they are only movies and, no, Edith didn't do all the designs. But, in spite of the murder and espionage, it all comes off a bit more...civilized. And maybe that is what I'm craving most.

Tiffany Blues

Breakfast at Tiffany's was on cable this weekend. And there went my plans for the midday. Who doesn't want to be Audrey Hepburn for a couple of hours, even if she's a poorly disguised call girl? The clothes are so chic. She is so beautiful. George Peppard is rather dishy. It's a fun little escape in spite of the shoplifting, cigarettes and Mean Reds.

However, I am always completely annoyed by the repeated use of "Tiffany's". It's not like they are going over to a cheerleader's house for muffins. No. It is Tiffany. As in Charles Lewis. One fails to acknowledge the "Co" by adding the possessive. It's just Tiffany. But I'm funny like that. It's not a foy-yer but a foy-yay. Not nyk but nigh-key. And if you are going to swallow the price tag, might as well throw in the extra syllable and refer to it properly as a pour-sha instead of a porsh. I think this desire for proper terminology comes from finding my family's use of "chester drawers" was just a tad off. Don't even get me started on "you-tildie room" and "torlet". Then again, every once in a while I throw out "boughten", my own hybrid for those occasions when I cannot decide between saying "had gotten" or "had bought"; thus, I had boughten. I suppose we all have a touch of Lula Mae in us. Quel drag.

Perhaps due to Audrey as Holly, Tiffany holds a bit of allure for all of us. I recall the first time I went in to one. It was sort of like Fantasy Island; everyone had smiles. Everything sparkled. Everything was a tad out of my price range. I was there to exchange a gift. It just wasn't my style. And the things that were more of a fit were still beyond my dollar's reach, even with the exchange. After an extensive browse, I smiled and asked about the telephone dialer. The saleswoman tilted her head at me and furrowed her brow. Please. I wanted to tilt my head as well and say, "Look, lady. Borrow a sense of humor. You are in the Century City Mall Tiffany, not the one on Rodeo. Snobbery doesn't fly here. Ease up," but I didn't. I just batted my lashes asked her to please show me the key rings. I left with one rather cumbersome, U-shaped, heart-tag version of such, and a gift card for the remainder of my return.

There are many beautiful but very few practical things for me at Tiffany. So, the gift card stayed on my shelf for many moons. I considered it a boon when I discovered their appointment diary. See, I'm a pen-to-paper gal at heart. The worst thing I ever did was give up my Filofax. Had they kept making my coveted double-pen slot, money-sleeve and coin purse back, calf skin design (sorry PETA), I would still be on it (mine, after ten years, was beyond repair). But they no longer made what I needed. And there was a Palm Pilot on sale for less than the Filofax I was going to settle on (and the Palm Pilot was cute and matched my graphite Mac clam laptop). I've been forever ruined by that choice. Shortly there after, my life went on BlackBerry and my calendar quickly got screwed. I don't think BB and Entourage always get along. (Might be nice if RIM started actually supported Mac users.) After one too many pooch screwings (and having grown tired of writing everything down, putting it into my computer, then syncing the Berry in order to avoid accidental deletions), I decided it was best to keep appointments on paper. And so to Tiffany I went, gift card in hand, to get my "bible". That's what the appointment journal looks like. All 5.5"x8" of it in black leather (sorry again, PETA) and gilt-edged pages (or the silver version thereof). And I treat it as sacred.

For the past two years, that's where my life has been contained. It's a bit of a splurge, but it makes me happy. I jot down not only the appointments themselves, but notes on the day. Reactions. News. Since I've had this blog (for nearly eight years), I don't really keep a personal diary anymore (hello, redundant), so additional musings have been put on those Tiffany pages, mostly for my amusement.

While I was watching Holly and "Fred" go through the Tiffany aisles, I thought, "Merde. It's December already. I'd better get on the horn and order up a new bible. I mean, appointment journal." I've learned you can't call it a calendar. You can't even give out the measurements and price points to the people on the phone and expect them to find it. I found this out when I rushed over to the Century City store last year and was greeted with a pocket annual diary. So not in the same ballpark. Thus, I've learned the importance of specifics. I went to the website to get the order information. But my appointment journal wasn't there. Oh, they had the big one and the small one, but not the Goldilocks-just-right one for me. I called customer service. Perhaps it could be special ordered. Nope. It has been discontinued. I suppose the lack of order form in this bible should have been a clue. [Insert litany of curse words here.]

Not only will I have to spend twenty dollars more on the bigger annual desk diary version, but they don't even have it in black leather (I'm not apologizing anymore). Oh, they have black patent leather, but that's just too shiny. Oh, I could get it in pink leather, or Tiffany blue leather, but not in regular-leather black. Whaddafug? I mean, if you can't count on Tiffany for tradition and keeping classics classic, who can you count on? Who, I say! Pink leather? Come on.

I haven't placed the order yet. Still haven't made a decision on the red leather or black patent or to go back to Filofax (the Eton is as close as it comes to my old version...but at a steeper price tag...effing inflation). I have to bust a move soon, though, because my 2009 is already blowing up.

A Thousand Words (x2)

It's a sign the world is coming to an end. Or that metrosexualism is desperate for a comeback. Seriously, I want to meet the man who will go out in public in these. Well...maybe not. But you can send me his name and picture and I'll post it here.

The shorts+longjohns mismatch of the 90s was one thing, but mantyhose are just -- as Tim Gunn would say -- preposterous. Faux tat tights? Who would dream this stuff up? And who would buy them (and not for a costume or gag gift...emphasis on gag)?





This is just too good for words. Feel free to add your own, though, or visit DListed to find the caption contest winners. Seriously, someone needs to sit down with John and explain that he's not funny. Really. That joke he calls a running mate was bad enough. Cracking himself up at the debates was absolutely cringe-inducing. This, however, just says it all.