I'm leaving for New York this morning. I can't say why I'm going but you'll read about it in the tabs and no I'm not going into rehab. Been there, done that.
After years of traveling as a stand up comic, I have it down to a science. A really sick, anal-retentive kind of science. First come the outfits. All hung on closet knobs to make sure I can make 78 outfits out of 3. Notice they are all various shades of black. I'm living in LA now but I have the black heart of a New Yorker always and forever. I've spared you the close-ups but the necklaces, cuffs and even bras are hung up with each outfit. A black bra is not just a black bra. Some go under see-through tops and they have lace and are different.
I'm only taking two bags. It's between the Betsy Johnson on the left and the House of Dereon (Beyonce's line) on the right. The one in the middle is the Nicole Miller I take to all parties only because it fits things like a camera, a phone and a 16 oz. can of beer.
I will put in a shoe for every occasion. Rain, beach, ice skating, you name it, I've got the shoe. Sometimes when I read about celebrities and how they need 27 pieces of luggage for three days I stop laughing long enough to remember how demented I am. I love clothes and am an unapologetic fashionista. Jeans and a tee shirt are not fashion to me. They're just a lack of imagination. It's why I loved living in New York. New Yorkers can dress. Here in LA? Not so much. The first 4 years I lived here people kept telling me I was overdressed. Like there is such a thing.
The only thing that bothers me about traveling is all the useless crap I think I need to do. Seriously, am I really going to brush my teeth twice a day? Condition my hair every time I wash it? Wear a different thong every day?
I've always been into clothes. Some people are good at math. I'm good at fashion. Bad clothes make my head hurt. People who don't care about it make my head explode. And then some people (men) wonder why they have no girlfriends. It's your shoes! Good God man, it's your fucking retarded shoes, the first thing a woman looks at!
Once when I was just beginning stand up and had to work part time jobs to make my rent, I got a job at Harper's Bazaar in New York.
Sidebar: Grace Mirabella was the editrix at the time; she later went on to have her own eponymous magazine, Mirabella.
I remember the whole crew had returned from the fall shows in Milan and Grace waltzed by my desk wearing a deep violet dress with a matching cape and shoes. I'm half French so we normally can speak when confronted with sartorial splendor but I was struck dumb. About an hour later I walked by her office and she was sitting there in all her violet finery and I couldn't help myself. I also didn't know fashion protocol. I popped into her office.
"Ms. Mirabella, that outfit, it's really, totally, just fabulous." She looked up slowly and gave me the once over and that must have been painful. I was probably wearing a Girl Scout uniform.
"Thank you, darling." And she went back to what she was doing. I was the talk of that office for a fucking week. "She went into Grace's office and SPOKE TO GRACE and now she's probably going to get fired by Grace." I didn't get fired but it would have been worth it if I had.
I love fashion so much that I'm one of those women who is not concerned with how the man I'm dating is dressed. Unless he asks me, I offer no suggestions or criticisms. I really don't care because I will always look better than he does and eventually he will be handed a ticket and asked to bring someone's car around. And that will make me laugh, and what is better than a man who can make you laugh? Especially if he's wearing bad shoes.
End of chat.