“Why don’t you tie big tulle bows on your wrists instead of bracelets?”
“Why don’t you have your guests autograph a mirror-covered table with a diamond tipped pin?”
and my fave
· “Why don’t you wash your blond children’s hair in dead champagne as they do in France?”
which I always accidentally invert to the much creepier “…wash your dead children’s hair….”
Vreeland fascinates and inspires me the way professional football playing thugs apparently inspire straight boys. She ordered Billy Baldwin to decorate her home all in red, like “a garden in hell”; she created the Met’s Costume Institute; she painted her ears with rouge (is that true? I’ve always heard it, but don’t know and don’t really want to know differently. I retract the question.)
I once had a dream, a nightmare, really, wherein someone corrected me by saying “O honey. It’s not Diana Vreeland it’s Donna Vreeland” and I was overcome with mortification. I have never before or since been embarrassed in a dream, not even the walking-around-Kmart-in-my-underwear ones, but I was there. Thank god it was just a dream. I don’t think I would want to live in a world where such a vivid icon was named Donna.
I gotta go