Moons over My Hammy
by Betsey Morgenstern
Off Our Backs Assistant Contributing Fashion Editor
Because of my recent arrest (someone tell Tom Arnold that asking for a month's rent if I blow him is not prostitution!) and subsequent parole violation, I'm not allowed to leave New York County. But when I heard that Whitney Port would be showing her line Whitney Eve at the Gen Art fashion show during Miami Fashion Brunch, I had to be there. Since my P.O. told me I couldn't go, then I had to call up "Betsey's Angels," my three evil Miami operatives, to try to ruin Whitney Port's show. After all, she was down there with only Roxy Carmichael Olin—who can't find her ass with two hands and someone else's flashlight—and without her guardian angel Kelly Cutrone. This should be easy.
I called up Lauren Hurley and Marcia Callaghan, who were running the fashion show, and they agreed to make life as difficult as they could for Whitney. But I had a few more strings to pull. The next call was to designer Romina, who used to work at Vogue and who owed me a favor for scoring her some free tabs of E for Grace Coddington and André Leon Talley when they were on their way to Ibiza. You know Romina is badass because she only has one name like Cher or Iman or HueyLewis. She's a designer now and was going to be putting her clothes in the same show as Whitney, so this is the perfect gig for her.
According to Romina, she really tried to fuck with Whitney at the model casting by taking all the best mannequins and trying to poach one of Whitney's. However, the silly Ms. Port had already sprinkled pixie dust on the best model and spun around in a circle three times and shouted "Dibs!" Anyone who has survived fifth grade in a public school knows that spell can not be broken. Thanks for nothing, Romina.
Looks like it was going to be up to Lauren and Marcia. They told me that they made the whole show total chaos in order to throw Whitney off her game. She has a hard time concentrating so any whizzing, moving, or running around causes her to fall back on her haunches and let her furry puppy dog ears hang over her face. Her dog park playmate Roxy tried to talk to Marcia and she barked, "I can't talk right now, I'm working," and walked away. Then it was Whitney's turn to try to figure out what was going on. She talked to both Lauren and Marcia who said they had everything in control even though they didn't. They shooed her away and laughed behind her back.
Apparently Whitney looked sad and defeated and didn't know what to do. Then Roxy asked her the world's most important question, "What would Kelly Cutrone do?" Sadly, Whitney has actually learned a lesson or two from her guardian angle and she started running around and barking out orders. She got her models together, did their hair, stole a necklace off a stylist, resewed seven of the dressed, chewed out a photographer, fired an assistant, and wrote a book about how to raise children, all within 15 minutes. Then it was time for her to go on and she was saying, "That's a go for Carise. That's a go for Claire-Melania. That's a go for Espadrille." Damn, Kelly would be proud (and damn, models have some fucked up names).
I was in New York, stroking my long-haired white cat and painting a scar over the eye that didn't have a monocle in it like a true dastardly villain, when Romina called all frantic. She said, "The show happened and Whitney's clothes walked down the runway. And they looked good. What should I do?"
"Make sure she doesn't sell anything!"
Romina got the buyers from the only store in town that attended Miami Fashion Brunch and was showing them her clothes inspired by Monet paintings. God, I should have known better than to trust some girl who takes her fashion inspiration from the Impressionists! These tie-dyed frocks couldn't keep the buyers' interest. Whitney, who was still running around at hyper speed and blinking in rainbow colors like Mario after he touched a star, walked right up to the buyers and said, "Buy my stuff." And they said, "OK!"
I didn't have much better luck in New York at the Zac Posen for Target party. Olivia Palermo was there trying to get an interview with the designer, because they're besties. This time she actually got access and they giggled into the camera, talked about their outfits, put on green peel-away facial masks, and talked about which boys in their class they thought were cute and which ones were gross! Joe Zee was very impressed.
The wonderfully amazing Erin Kaplan just rolled her eyes. If Joe wouldn't fire Olivia, she was going over his head. She showed the tape to Elle Editor-in-Chief Robbie Myers (whose smartest decision was hiring that dreamboat Seth to be her assistant) and she was all, "Olivia isn't horrible."
And Erin said, "Yes, but look at this chick," and it was a video of my arch nemesis Louise Roe who stole my beloved Freddie Facklemeyer from me! She must pay. But Robbie was all, "I like her, too. Let's have both! Is my hair too high?"
Erin slammed her fist into her knee and said, "Damn! Are you ever going to fire Olivia?" And then she made a face like she just spilled a Diet Coke all over someone else's desk and said, "Sorry," while running out of the room.
Looks like I'm going to be stuck covering Louise for awhile. A few days later she came by the Elle office and bumped into Olivia. You would think Miss Palermo would be pissed that this lady was trying to take her job, but she said, "Wanna go look at purses with me?" and Louise said yes and they sauntered on down the hall together, their too-expensive skirts swishing simultaneously. The look Erin gave them could have burned a hole in both of their backs. Looks like I might have an ally to destroy Louise after all! Bwaa-ha-ha-ha!