Is That Mold On My Chanel? Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much. I’ve even contemplated re-buying a used version of it off eBay. But couldn’t really bring myself to do it, in the event that I may end up with a fake.

That would be a disaster. I mean $3000 for a fake??

I would plotz.

It’s very difficult to tell a fake on eBay. Some of them look so good. At least in person you can get a better look.

Some consignment stores carry pre-owned Chanel bags as well. They are guaranteed. And at least you can inspect them. But I’m still having a problem committing to one.

Like, I just can’t see paying so much for a used Chanel. I’m kind of skeeving them. (I’m really not sure how to spell that.) Even the ones that are in good shape.

There’s a consignment chain based in the Hamptons. I will not name names. But I’ve been to all of them. There’s like six stores. Last summer my buddy, Yenta Hessa and I visited them all.

The last time I was in the Hamptons, I dragged her to a few of the stores to look for the Chanel flap bag I wanted.

I have decided, by the way, that I would not re-purchase the turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag. Turquoise metallic may go out of style and then I couldn’t wear it. So I’ve decided on a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware.

Gorgeous.

But expensive.

And not so easy to find.

But I was on a mission. And don’t mess with BSM when she’s on a mission.

We went from store to store, checking out the Chanels.

Nice.

But still. I couldn’t see dropping thousands on a used bag that I’m not even sure is authentic.

And is not really even exactly what I want.

But I continued to look.

Eventually, we made it to the store in Sag Harbor. Low and behold, there was a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware in the glass display!

Great.

Perfect!

Just what I was looking for.

Only $2995.

I asked to see it.

The woman removed it from the glass display and handed it to me. She started blabbing about how something something it was.

Whatever. Just hand it over lady.

I grab it.

Inspect it.

Lift the flap.

Hmmm.

What’s that greenish whitish stuff inside?

There was a strange blotch on the inside flap of the bag on the black leather.

Looked like mold to me.

I showed the sales girl, who quickly showed the manager, who quickly grabbed it and began trying to wipe the mold away.

They both made some excuse as to why the mold was there or that it wasn’t mold at all.

Yenta Hessa and I just looked at each other. Appalled and disgusted.

I left the black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware there on the glass counter with the manager. I couldn’t look at another item in the store without being grossed out.

I was in the Hamptons this weekend. It rained all day. Yenta asked if I wanted to go to the consignment store.

“No thanks,” I said.

Dancing With the Star

I attended a gala last weekend.

Gilles Marini, the sex-on-a-stick hunk from the first Sex and the City movie was going to be honored there.

Before going, I fantasized about meeting him.

I envisioned the meeting in my head.

It was kinda like the law of attraction.

Because I met him! Almost the same way I pictured it in my mind.

We were at cocktail hour and I saw Gilles from afar. Oo! And he was…

… Sex-on-a-stick all right.

I almost spit up a mini crab cake when I spotted him.

He was even dreamier than he is in the movie and on Dancing With the Stars.

Later on, at the dinner, I saw him taking pictures with some women.

I thought, “Let me get my camera!”

And another woman at my table grabbed me and announced, “We’re gonna meet him!”

I was in.

So we B-lined it over to Gilles, who was glowing on the dance floor.

Snapping pix with this one and that one.

Then, he turned around and looked right at me and said, “Whew!”

I smiled and nuzzled next to him. Unable to breathe.

His arm, around my waist.

Mine around his.

On the outside, I was giggling. But on the inside I was screaming with glee, “Gilles!!!!”

The camera flashed and he was gone.

But it’s three days later and I am still happy.

The Sleepover

A few weeks ago I posted about a friend who invited herself for a sleepover at my apartment after a gala.

Well.

It hit the fan.

A few weeks prior to the gala, she asked (over text message) if I wanted to go. She had a table. I accepted.

Then she asked if she could sleep on my couch.

I reluctantly texted, “kk.”

I hate it when people put me on the spot like that.

She asked what ‘kk’ meant. I answered that I meant ‘yes.’

So, the day before the gala, she texted me, “What are the logistics for tomorrow?”

I answered, “You can park on my block and we can go to the gala together.”

She started writing something about putting her car in a lot, yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m like, ok, do whatever.

Next day. Day of the event, she called on her way to New York. (She was driving in from New Jersey.)

I told her to come and park her car on my block. We’d take a cab to the gala. But since she was running late, she said she’d meet me at the venue.

“Ok. Whatever.”

So, we met at the venue.

We were having a fun time. The whole time, I’m still assumed she was staying over. Heck, I’d spent the whole day cleaning. She’d better stay over! (But you know what they say about assuming.)

But neither of us spoke about it. I just figured it was a done deal.

Toward the end of the evening, Yenta Hessa said to me, “I asked her if she was sleeping at your place and she said, ‘No’.”

“What? What do you mean she’s not staying over?”

I was confused.

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And happy at the same time.

Is that bad?

My instinct was to confront the friend. But something made my stay silent. I don’t know why.

I wanted to say, “What’s going on? I thought you were staying over.” But it wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

So the rest of the night passed and I didn’t say anything. And she didn’t say anything.

At the end of the night, I went home. And she went home. And we never said anything.

The next day I felt really bad about it. I called her. Left a message.

She called back, so she couldn’t be mad, could she?

She was.

She told me she was waiting for me to invite her over. That her bag was in her car.

I was nauseous.

Are you kidding me?

“What do you mean? You asked me if you could stay over. I said yes. I didn’t realize I had to invite you!”

“Well,” She said, “You only said ‘kk’. I gave you several opportunities all night long, to ask me to stay, and you didn’t.”

So what does that mean? Does that mean a communication over text message is not as binding as a verbal communication? Then, why the fuck did you text me bitch?

Personally, I think texting is stupid. But if that’s the mode of communication one chooses to correspond in, then I’ll go with it.

I had a guy I was dating tell me he loved me for the first time over text message. I was highly insulted. What the heck was I supposed to do with that information over text?

Anyway, I apologized, but I was secretly happier that she didn’t stay if she was going to friggin’ play head games with me.

F- that!

The shit hit the diva fan. And it’s on her.

Head to Head

Yesterday morning, I left for work. As usual. Went down the elevator. Doors opened at the lobby. As they opened, I heard the doors of the adjacent elevator open simultaneously.

Weird.

So, as I exited the elevator, I glanced at the person coming out of the other one through my peripheral vision.

It was a woman.

She looked familiar.

I looked away.

Then realized, it’s my arch enemy.

My stalker.

My cousin Ramona.

The one who followed me to my apartment building, then bought a unit in it. Now she lives downstairs.

Ugh.

I looked at her again.

She was looking down.

I don’t think she saw me or knew who I was.

For a split moment, I thought, “Maybe I can just walk away right now and she won’t realize it was me!”

Um, really? Do you think I’d really get away with that?

I couldn’t turn around and walk the other way, or go back into the elevator and wait for her to leave, like I did one time before.

Or could I?

No. There we were. Head to head.

There was no where to go. No where to run. No where to hide.

I figured, I made enough enemies for one week. I better just take my medicine.

Dammit.

So, instead, I stopped. Stood in front of her with my hand on my hip, and stared at her until she looked at me.

“Oh, hi BSM! How are you?!” Kiss, kiss.

"Hello Ramona." Smooch, smooch.

We walked through the lobby and out to the street together. All the while, I was wishing she was not there.

We talked. But I didn’t hear a word she said. All I could only think was, I need to move!

Immediately.

A new couch or a new pair of shoes?

My couch is ripped.

But I have thousand dollar shoes.

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Hmmm.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Hmmm.

I can select and buy a pair of fabulous and expensive Christian Louboutins in a hot minute. But a couch?

I can’t decide.

Too expensive.

A pair of my shoes are most likely much more expensive than a couch.

So, I’m dragging my feet on this.

But I guess I really don’t care that much. Otherwise I would have bought a couch by now. Wouldn't I?

I’d rather look fabulous outside the house than in.

But then, I wonder why I don’t invite anybody over.

Then again, really. Who’s coming over?

Wardrobe Malfunction!

I love the fashion of the 1940’s.

My mother has kept a lot of the clothes she wore back then. I love to wear it. So I go through her closets often.

There’s a suit from the 50’s that I like to wear. The last time I wore it was in the 80’s. But I found it in my closet recently and thought I could resurrect it. Since I finally waxed my legs for spring, I decided to wear it to work yesterday.

Put it on.

Yey, it fits!!

Even with my minor weight gain.

Looked fantastic.

Off to work!

Get my coffee.

Jump in my car.

Rrrrrrrriiiiiiiiippppppp!!!!!!

“Huh?”

“Did I hear something?”

“Was it a rip?”

“No. It couldn’t be.”

Started the car.

“I must have imagined it.”

Turned on Elvis Duran on Z100.

“Let me just check.”

Reached down and felt the back of the skirt around my bottom. All I could feel was my tights.

“Oh no!”

“It’s ripped!!”

Now what was I gonna do? If I go back up and change, I’ll be late. If I go to work, I’ll have a three-foot rip in my skirt all day.

Guess I’m going up to change.

Called work to tell them I was going to be late.

Scurried up and found the first dress I could find.

Stepped into it.

Zipped it up. “Ah. Thank goodness it fits!”

Went right back out the door.

Made it to work only 15 minutes late.

I got compliments all day on my dress.

Go figure.

BSM Meets SJP

I went to the New York City Ballet opening on Wednesday night. Yenta Hessa wrote me there would be celebs there, but I was skeptical.

I went straight from work, so I was not dressed up. Luckily, I was wearing my fabulous long animal print coat.

As we walked up to Lincoln Center on the warm spring evening, I took in the beauty of the area. As I came closer to the theatre doors, I saw a crowd. There were paparazzi and a red carpet. Mind you, the red carpet was about eight feet long. Somehow, I always thought it was longer.

Stopped and stared. Well, there were no people yet. But waited a minute.

One or two folks went onto the red carpet.

Then, I heard Yenta say, “There’s Sarah Jessica Parker.”

“Whaaaat? Where?”

I looked and looked. And there she was. SJP!

I love her.

I am a big Sex and the City fan. Obsessed.

I looked down to grab my cell phone. I still didn’t get an iPhone. By the time I get it working, she was gone. Blocked by the paps.

Damn.

But I could see her shoes.

Christian Louboutin nude patent leather pumps.

Fabulous!