Posts Tagged ‘Carine Roitfeld’

Hey, I’m running a hotel here. By choice. I think.

Busted: I "style" the Wee Lass's closet.

Busted: I actually “style” the Wee Lass’s closet.

If you put a gun to my head (please don’t) and forced me to choose between living in a hotel, Eloise-ish, and dwelling in my lovely FLA home surrounded by all my lovely, cherished stuff (armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books, a towering stack of fashion mags…not to mention my husband, daughter and precious meow-meows), there is zero question which one I would choose.

The hotel, baby.

In a heartbeat.

Right this second, I’m forgetting which of the god-like fashion stylists – Carine Roitfeld or Camilla Nickerson – said her numéro un goal for her home was that it look like a hotel.

Wait, I just looked it up in an older blog post about a field trip to the Caudalie Spa at the Plaza. It’s Carine. You’re welcome.

Now that that crisis has been dealt with, let’s move on to Casa Moi, and the struggles contained within.

Actually, it’s really just one struggle. And her name is Wee Lass.

Faithful readers know how hard it has been for me to corral my toy-hoarder daughter and all her many, many teensy-weensies.

Her current teensy-weensy obsession is Shopkins. We’re overrun with Shopkins.

I’m sorry, but I think it’s weird that she’s still so into toys at age 8.5.

Am I glad it’s toys she’s into and not something more nefarious, like boys? Of course. Bien sur. I’m not an idiot.

It’s just that she’s a complete and total slob. A cheerful, loving, diligent-homework-doing complete and total slob, mind you. But a complete and total slob all the same.

But here’s the happy part of this tirade: If you march into her room, Hefty bag in hand, and say: “It’s time to clean up and give away some of your stuff!,” she’ll do it. She’s shockingly unsentimental about 95 percent of the stuff in her life, including art work she slaved over.

That’s why our egg-timer organizing sessions have been such a great success in the past. Bearing her short attention span in mind, we set a minutes goal and purge, purge, purge. (I apply this method to my own organizing, too. Because as much of an Organizing Nerd as I am – I literally have like 20 books on the topic – even I start to get a little cross-eyed after a while…)

Anyway, earlier this week, after the school run, I came back home determined to restore order to my little piggy wiggy’s base camp.

And as I was cleaning, and chucking, and shelving, and chucking, I had an epiphany:

I’m doing this for me.

No one wants order around Casa Moi more than I do, so I’m the one who needs to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, Hubby helps out a lot around here. Not only does he do plenty of chores, he also doesn’t contribute to the mess in any way, shape or form. He’s a neat-nik. And he isn’t a hoarder, like me with my armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books and towering stack of fashion mags.

Or the Wee Lass, with all her Shopkins and American Girl Dolls…













So what’s my stunning conclusion about all of this?

Wait for it, I actually have one:

I need to realize that the “hotel thing” is for Me, not Them.

That takes the martyrdom out of the equation. Being a martyr is super uncool.



Field Trip: Caudalie Spa at the Plaza

I think I was in this very room. So lovely and relaxing.

I trust we all had a wonderful holiday? And that our assorted tot-lets turned cartwheels over their prezzies? The Wee Lass certainly did, especially over her pretty new Schwinn Dee-Lite, as well as her bespectacled Molly McIntire doll and the mega Palomino to go along with it.

And how’s this for perfect? Last Thursday, the Wee Lass thought it would be “fun” to hide one of her Zhu Zhu pets in a box of packing peanuts headed for the recycling center in our building. Guess who freaked out when she realized, much later in the day, what she’d done? Quelle surprise, after begging our super to sift through all the crunched-up cardboard in the basement, he came up Zhu Zhu-less.

But happily – if 1000 percent coincidentally – Aunt Jan had sent her another Zhu Zhu for Xmas, complete with a skateboard and U-turn track. Crisis averted.

Of course, the best news of all is that she doesn’t seem that into her new toy Singer sewing machine. Which is exactly what Momover Lady was hoping would happen. Thus she won’t know, or care, if I spirit it off for a few covert stitching sessions.

Aaaaah life is good. And it was made even better when I nipped off on Friday for a little pre-holiday pampering at the Vinotherapie Spa by Caudalie at the Plaza.

I guess I should have realized how packed the Plaza – perhaps the most storied hotel in New York – would be at this time of year. And indeed, it was Tourist Central, with peeps literally tripping over each other with their shopping bags and packages.

But tucked away on the fourth floor, the Caudalie spa is the very definition of oasis. So quiet and soothing, with a wine bar in the central hub, so you can get a tad hammered between treatments, if you’re so inclined. I didn’t imbibe, shockingly, but I will circle back to the wine bar in a second.

My purpose that day was to test-drive one of the “Beauty Under An Hour” treatments that I’d learned about when I attended the FITist FIT MOM press event several weeks ago. There are four treatments in total – all lightning-fast combo packs for face and body –  and I chose “Vine Power,” which included a full facial, manicure and a “petite” pedicure. (Which basically meant a buffing, sanding and clean-up for the tootsies sans nail lacquer, which I don’t bother with during the non-summer months anyway.)

The facial rocked. My aesthetician, Aniko, was a straight shooter, doling out the stern advice and the compliments in equal measure. On a nice note, she said my skin looked “excellent for your age” but she was not down with my recent Refissa use, which she thinks is rendering my mug entirely too sensitive. Though it might be okay in warmer months when the humidity is higher, right now, it’s giving me the scalies and flakies. Not good. Thus, I agreed to scale back to once every four weeks or so, to see how I fare.

Oh, and she was a little appalled by my messy eyebrows, which are actually kind of growing, thanks to my diligence with the neuVeau Brow. “I’ll just clean up a bit, if you don’t mind,” Aniko said, whipping out her tweezers. “No charge.”

Meanwhile, Gina, my nail technician, was busily engaged in ministering to my feet and hands. I feel like a Kardashian, I thought, as one woman tended to my facial pores as the other buffed and sloughed.

Though I almost never wear nail lacquer on my hands – because I don’t have the patience to wait for it to dry and I abhor chips and smudges – I thought I’d try it to appease the Wee Lass, who is forever up in my grill for not being fancy enough. Her frequent lament: “I wish I knew you in your high heel days.” Sniff sniff.

But I have to say that at the Caudalie spa, waiting for your nail lacquer to dry is a blast – especially for une Francophile comme moi. That’s because the wine bar | lounging area is packed with books like Paris Living Rooms.

Ooh la la – how did I not know about this book already? It sooooo has my name written all over it. Why? Well, the very first of the living rooms is Carine Roitfeld’s, stripped down to its bones. I mean, it looks exactly like a hotel. And faithful readers know I am forever on a quest to make my home look as austere, forbidding and utterly untouchable as a high-end hotel. How much does it figure that one of my idols has already completely nailed that look? In fact, it’s even less cozy, because La Roitfeld doesn’t even have a single piece of art on the walls.

Okay, I’m on nanny duty this morning so I better jet. But here’s to successful holiday prezzie-gifting, gorgeous spas and homes that look like hotels. Yay!


Extreme Parisian chic evidently runs in families…

Comme maman, comme fille...

The fashion mag world was aflutter yesterday because Emmanuelle Alt was named as the replacement for the so-chic-it-hurts Carine Roitfeld, who is stepping down as éditrice en chef of Paris Vogue after one hell of a ten-year ride.

The fact that Alt, a 45-year-old hot mama, was moved into the number slot wasn’t a shocker; she’d been in the number two slot as fashion director for a decade.

So while no industry insiders were denying that she has the chops to pull it off, there was a little bit of skepticism (from Karl Lagerfeld, mainly) about whether Alt will want to cover the sartorial waterfront for her readers, and not just commission shoots that reflect her own image: tough and edgy, invariably clad in sharp-shouldered jackets, skinny skinny skinny jeans and towering spikes.

Though I’m hoping Carine keeps a high profile (I totes worship her, and I’d be bereft if I couldn’t see 8 million new pics of her on a daily basis), I’m also rooting for Emmanuelle. How could I not, when she dresses her adorable daughter comme ça?

I wish I could hop an aeroplane right now, for a Wee Lass / Chic Parisian Missy playdate in the City of Light.