News Archives -- Michele Mode

A JOLLY HOLIDAY: Have a Beautiful Black Friday and Cyber Monday

November 26, 2025 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

By MICHELE MEYER

We can’t resist presents that are presentable on their own. It’s an irony given that we take pride in our meticulous gift wrapping. Samurai, snakes, skiiers, sensuous scents—and much more—seduce us this season. Some are affordable, but not all. We love fantasy, really.

CERERIA MOLLA

IRRESISTIBLE SCENTS. We’re head over heels for heady aromas and exquisite, minimalist packaging of Cereria Mollá 1899, a Spanish fragrance firm. We fell first for Bulgarian Rose & Oud. Like a warm hug, smoky wood enwraps velvety, rich floral. Equally tantalizing is Oud & Leather, with its deep, mystical character of oud balanced with the soft, velvety intensity of leather and hints of clove and ambergris.

Each candle is handmade of soy wax with 100% cotton wicks, encased in hand-painted glass. 2.4 oz, $20; 8 oz., $50; and the piece de resistance, a 7-wick, 15.4 lb., $800.

BLUEME

SMELL THE ZEN. What gives us joy is Blueme’s beatific packaging, starting with handcrafted, ceramic vessels that are keepers. Fragrance becomes a mindful ritual and smorgasbord with aromas cultivating calm, healing, self-care and pleasure. The eight-piece votive set serves as a sampler, with romance (oakmoss and sandalwood); calm (osmanthus, sandalwood); spirituality (palo santo and vetiver); balance (white lotus and tea); nostalgia (bergamot and musk); focus (eucalyptus and lime); renewal (ivy and rose); and happiness (yuzu and ginger). Some packaging is claret-colored with velvet bows. Others are adorned with snakes, The votives are 2.45 oz. each. They and other candles and diffusers start at $85.

MAISON MARTIN MARGIELA REPLICA

HEAVEN SCENT. Turns out the scents of Hollywood and libraries are heavenly. And, better yet, the Replica Maison Margiela Paris labels tell you accurately what you’re getting. A gift without guesswork. We’re sold. (Actually, we’re writers so yeah, we love the smell of newly printed books.) Candles and body lotions called Whispers in the Library, Jazz Club and Lazy Sunday Morning are our love language, $95 and up.

LOUIS VUITTON

SPENDING MONEY IS OUR FAVORITE SPORT. And our choices could be no chicer: Monogram pocket organizers adorned with skiers and other athletes, come with three credit card slots, five inside pockets and an outside pocket. The exterior is canvas, and the interior cowhide, 3 x 4.4 x 0.4 inch, $495.

For guy who has everything including imagination,

TIMELY TICKER. This Louis Vuitton men’s watch is $755,000 – that’s no typo. Why splurge on the Tambour Bashido Automata? First, you’ll be the sole person on the globe to own this wow-watch. It touts a striking enamel and engraved Samurai mask with five animations. The Japanese warriors are known for their strength, discipline, artistic expression—and having been part of our pastor’s wedding sermon. (Yes, we’re sentimental.) The 46.8 mm case is rose gold, with a manual winding movement. If you’re not willing to spring for the art piece, we might sell you our house for $754,000, sight-unseen.

LOUIS VUITTON BEAUTE

GLAMPING. The new Louis Vuitton Beauté line—created by makeup artist Pat McGrath—sounds like a steal in comparison to the watch. But do brand cachet and “upcycled” wax justify charging $160 for lipstick (above)—given that McGrath also formulated $48 Armani Beauty lipsticks and $39 Pat McGrath Labs’ MatteTrance (below)? We’ve never seen any of this line in person, so splurge at your own risk. We’ll stick with our Armani.

RIZZOLI USA

BOOK IT. Your favorite fashionista may already have the work of late great photographers Helmut Newton, Richard Avedon, Peter Lindbergh and Irving Penn on their book shelves and coffee tables. But Pamela Hanson The 90s would be an exciting addition to their collection. Even if they’ve seen the photog’s recent images of Hailey Bieber, Adut Akech and Karlie Kloss for Vogue, Dior, Ralph Lauren, Estée Lauder and InStyle, they’ll be excited to own this tome. It features the greats of that era, including Christy Turlington Burns, Linda Evangelista, Milla Jovovich, Carla Bruni Sarkozy, Stephanie Seymour and Eva Herzigová. $85.

BACK IN TIME. The Nineties x Anna Sui takes you back to a time when the quirky designer’s work appeared on the bodies of Burns, Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Shalom Harlow, Stella Tennant and Kirsty Hume, as well as the cover’s stars Zoe Cassavettes, and Sofia and Roman Coppola. $75.

GEORGES SIMENON

MARVELOUS MYSTERIES. A handsome yet haunted Parisian cop–Detective Chief Inspector Jules Maigret–made must-see TV this fall. But the best is yet to come: Picador’s gradual reissue of the full series of 75 Maigret novels that inspired the show. The covers are gorgeous and the mysteries are quick reads with intriguing plots and fascinating characters. You can read the tomes in any order, but the first in the series is Pietr the Latvian. The covers may evoke Sherlock Holmes, but you’ll find Maigret is his own man, cherishing a tender romance with his wife, Louise.

Amazon doesn’t need you to survive. Independent bookstores that specialize in mysteries do. We recommend New York City’s The Mysterious Bookshop, Houston’s Murder by the Book and Scottsdale’s The Poisoned Pen. They’re staffed by devoted readers who gladly will help you choose the best books for yourself and others, $16 each.

Whatever you buy, make merry and go with the flow. And enjoy your family, whether it’s by blood or by choice.

Giorgio Armani: An Appreciation

September 4, 2025 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

BRAVO, GIORGIO ARMANI

Be honest. What do you remember most about recently deceased designer Giorgio Armani? Probably American Gigolo, where Richard Gere danced and pranced in Armani suits – never getting them sullied by the cocaine he snorted.

Or the parade of stars that march the red carpet, starting with Jodie Foster. If anyone deserves credit for soft-shouldered power suits and using stars as models, it’s Armani, as he preferred to be called. He quicky capitalized on the Gigolo phenomenon by being the first designer to open an office in Los Angeles, expressly to court celebs and their stylists. His initial target was the Academy Awards—and his arrows hit the bullseye.

You could say he trained the wealthiest stars to demand free frocks which spiked his sales. The system paid for his yacht and St. Tropez villa—but became a burden for financially-strapped designers.

If anyone trained me as a fashion reporter, it was Armani. Shortly after I arrived at his Milan mansion, the lights lowered in his pristine, stark-white, multi-tiered theater, the ultimate showcase and brand statement. Before I could catch my breath, I witnessed a speedy stream of 100-plus outfits. Back then, I had no iPhone to capture the androgynous glamazons. Instead, I had to rely on my memory and notes, as I shaped the story in my mind and chose which exquisite power suits and evening gowns I’d feature.

His quickness and prolificness extended to spinning off diffusion lines, hotel suites and stores – all in his sleek aesthetic. The designer himself was muscular and fit well into his 80s, dapper in a T and trousers that showcased his frame as he confidently strode onto his runway for a bow.

His jackets were so beautifully crafted, I confess I bought one—no freebie, no discount.

Later I purchased a costly silk Armani tie for my boyfriend. I knew I had it bad.

When we got married, Armani sent me the most exquisite and huge navy leather duffel suitcase. As an ethical newspaper journalist, I couldn’t accept it.

While his aesthetic remained the same, times changed.

Sadly, age slowed him down. He became markedly frail, needing two models to help him gingerly down the runway in recent seasons.

His final show heavily featured funereal black evening gowns—delicate and beautiful. The models clapped profusely in his honor. But for the first time ever, he did not appear.

The fashion industry sensed his inevitable passing was coming.

And, if you didn’t count the garb of starlets-turned-mannequins highly paid to wear a single label, the recent Venice Film Festival’s red carpet was wall-to-wall Armani. Cate Blanchett and others were saying goodbye.

My power-shouldered jacket is still perfect. Armani’s work was built to last.

He’ll be missed.

With Leonardo DiCaprio

SORDID? PERHAPS, BUT NEVER UNSIGHTLY: ALLABOUTVISION.COM

February 5, 2025 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

Eyeglasses addict tells all: Fashionista ‘Fesses Up

By Michele Meyer

Before we plummet down the spiral of my addiction, please remember it’s legal in every state — and in Paris, France.

Glasses — they’re an obsession I can trace to my twin sister sitting on my specs when we were 8. I’m still scarred by the loss.

I’d like to think my next pair scored me my first kiss, from Charlie on the school steps during recess, proving pundit Dorothy Parker wrong: Boys do make passes at girls who wear glasses.

Years later, someone broke into my new Toyota and stole my mother’s original vintage Ray-Bans I’d stupidly left on the dashboard. I bemoaned the gone glasses more than the smashed window and cracked car door.

An eyeglasses obsession begins

In 1995, my world was upended — in a good way.

I learned about the just-launched Parisian brand Face à Face at their first trunk show in the U.S. Such bold shapes and colors, flattering to so many. Gawd, I couldn’t choose. So, I didn’t. I bought them all.

From that point on, I followed Face à Face like a groupie. Each time they returned, I was first in line to buy (and buy I did).

That year, I even trekked to their sole store in Paris, in what was then considered a seedy area on the outskirts of town.

At first, co-owner Nadine Roth and her daughter were perplexed at why an overly excited American had shown up — at that point, they were virtually unknown. Three pairs later, they understood.

I’ve returned since to the now über-hip neighborhood. In fact, their website is my version of porn.

Satisfying my glasses craving closer to home

I later graduated to an exclusive local glasses boutique — and believe me, the manager’s eyes lit up each time I entered.

But I had needs beyond my addiction. My oversized Jackie O-inspired Armani shades literally fell apart with overuse. And my Sama tortoise-shell sunglasses broke clean when I tripped while speed-walking.

They had to be replaced. See? I don’t have a problem.

Yet I knew I was in big trouble on a flight to Manhattan when my seat happened to be next to my dealer of choice, the manager of my spectacle store. Lee — of course we were on a first-name basis — was on his way to the annual Vision Expo, a mecca for eyeglasses pros and the No. 1 event on my bucket list. Two and a half hours later, we both were dreaming about the new eyewear I’d buy.

When Lee died I went into mourning, and I didn’t buy any frames for more than a year.

But that break was no fix for my addiction.

My new glasses connection

My husband must rue the day I entered the new eye boutique next to our lunch haunt. But enter I did, and I was introduced to Tina — my current “dealer” — and her gorgeous wares.

Since then, I sneak in when my hubby is otherwise occupied. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me, right?

Like any addict, I gather with others of my ilk. My dermatologist admits to owning nine pairs from Tina. I confess to eight (wink wink). We show off our haul to each other. His assistants just roll their eyes.

At least my brother gets me. When our parents died, he sent me a pair of glasses from each of them, no questions asked.

Sharing my glasses addiction

Red eyeglass frames with heels at the end

Now I’m trying to turn others on to my passion.

My most recent low was flaunting to a 15-month-old neighbor my Face à Face Bocca sunglasses, which have Louboutin-soled feet at the ends of the arms (or should I say legs?). What stems!

She was skeptical about spectacles. Indeed, she turned to her father, as if to say, “Who is this insane lady, daddy?”

Maybe someday she’ll understand.

I admit to eight pairs because I’m ashamed to confess how many I truly own.

Aluminum, titanium, acrylic. Burgundy, crimson, cobalt, forest green, red-tipped black. I’ve got them all. My stable still veers to French labels. Vintage Face à Face, Anne et Valentin.

Right now, I’m drooling over Theo’s bi- and tri-colored frames, which hike my pulse to lethal levels.

I. Must. Have. Those. Glasses. MUST.

This won’t end well.

Perhaps I need to enter spec rehab. I suspect if I did, I’d be sitting next to rocker Lenny Kravitz in group therapy.

He recently begged fans on Twitter to return his missplaced vintage silver square-shaped frames, no questions asked.

Kravitz even created an email address for tips (kravitzglasses@gmail.com).

“They’re incredibly sentimental to me,” he said “They are vintage and belonged to a family member.”

Sure, that’s all it is. Sentiment. Right. An addict knows another addict.

THE PLAYBOY PLAYBOOK: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 9

November 12, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

My Cover Story

LESSON: If you’re a germaphobe, don’t sit on the furniture at a Playboy shoot.

Yes, I was in Playboy. But get your mind out of the gutter. I wrote “The Women of Enron” cover story for Playboy’s August 2002 issue, after the Houston energy giant’s historic bankruptcy.

In keeping with the magazine’s spirit, I did playfully ask my editor if he’d double my pay if I wrote in the nude. He was not amused.

Besides pay, why did I take the gig? Because the pink-slip pictorial sounded like crazy fun.

No alt text provided for this image — Did you get my best side?

Plus, there’s no shame in writing for Playboy. I’d follow in the hallowed footsteps of John Steinbeck, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, Stephen King, Roald Dahl, Margaret Atwood, Arthur C. Clarke, Vladimir Nabokov and my beloved P.G. Wodehouse.

And I was curious. Why would energy traders, web developers and recruiters shred rather than file financial documents—yet be shocked when the Feds pounced and the company collapsed?

I also wondered why female former employees would shed, not shred, for far less pay than Playboy perennial Anna Nicole Smith (whose marriage to an ancient oilman was another notorious Houston tale). She reportedly got $25,000 to pose for one issue. Most Enron women scored a meager $1,000.

Doffing their duds also seemed an odd career move for women needing new jobs and wanting to become a midwife, an art gallery owner and a math teacher. (Imagine the parent conferences for the last woman, if hired.)

So, spurred by my inquiring mind, I geared up to do my best and write text for a T&A spread smacking of journalism, not voyeurism – even though I knew many subscribers wouldn’t admire my carefully-crafted words, at least until they’d lingered on the photos around them.

For on-site research, I had my own clothing dilemma: Dear Abby, what does one wear to interview a naked woman, so she’ll be comfortable?

I chose a plain black pantsuit and no jewelry to attend a photo shoot which was done, fittingly, at the home of a plastic surgeon known for enhancing the ta-ta’s of strippers, reality stars and his own daughter.

I needn’t have worried. The poser didn’t seem to note my attire or seem remotely perturbed by my presence. She had a crew of 20-something guys in hoodies and faded jeans to satisfy.

They posed her bare body here, there and everywhere in a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. (The home’s gardener seemed most efficient that day, devoting special attention to the hedges.)

The only other female present was a 50-something peroxide blonde with her own improbably perky rack flaunted in a sheer top. She rummaged through her bag of tricks, filled with corsets, fabric filigrees and barely-there blouses.

The goal was to coyly highlight models’ hidden assets while obscuring what the cool dudes deemed figure flaws. And their standards were brutal. (Between takes, I witnessed their gleeful joy of judgment within the bare-assed beauty’s earshot.)

I soon learned why one of the 10 Houston “hotties,” Shari Dougherty, had needed no such accessories while posing starkers on Enron’s former garage rooftop one Saturday downtown—to the delight of a quickly expanding crowd.

The self-proclaimed exhibitionist wound up with eight photos and two pages devoted to her, while the other women had one picture each.

Shari was among five women I invited to dine (and be further peppered with questions) on Playboy’s dime, also for the story.

Though her scanty “blouse” left nothing to the imagination, I still felt compelled to admonish her repeatedly at the table, “Shari, put your top down.”

It was rush hour and we were on the patio at Maggiano’s Little Italy in the bustling Galleria area. By dinner’s end, nearly two dozen waiters had gathered around our table—and not to refill our glasses.

It also was Dougherty—who else?—who posed for a Playboy video at a Houston luxury hotel.

I was there, too. And as videographers unloaded their equipment, suddenly we were surrounded by the Secret Service.

It turns out our video shoot was across the hall from then-Vice President Dick Cheney’s dinner meeting with a Saudi Arabian crown prince.

Rather than run us out, the Secret Service simply monitored us. Closely. For international security, of course.

As for me, while my pay was paltry compared to princely sums, the experience was priceless.

And I still get to say, “Yes, I was in Playboy.”

SPEAKING OUT OF TURN: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 8

November 11, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

That, sir, is a recording device.

LESSON: When you start recording a meeting or have an audience, it’s on the record. Don’t say anything you’d regret.

As a fledgling journalist, I covered small town council meetings—the yawners that few constituents attend.

I always arrived on time and sat in the front row. Imagine my surprise during one of my first weeks when a half-dozen councilmen in business suits loudly traded astoundingly racist jokes.

They turned and looked at me briefly, but anxiety turned to relief when they spotted the new “girl reporter.”

Too bad the meeting was otherwise lacking in news. I led with their comments.

The next week I again arrived early. A councilman—face red and veins throbbing—called me over. He yelled, and I calmly reminded him the council recorded everything. Then, despite a growing audience, he threw me against a wall and choked me while my feet dangled.

Five 50-something councilmen tried vainly to rip him off me. It was so bizarre to look down on their fearful faces and his enraged one. Finally, they were able to calm him down.

You could argue that should have led the next council story. Instead, I tried to hide the bruises in turtlenecks and knit scarves and declined to press charges.

I was there to serve the readers—and the council learned the hard way. From then on, the council was all business. And so was I.

STOP THE PRESSES: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 7

November 10, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

Homecoming royalty are more popular than they appear

LESSON: Rather than let the word “NO!” close doors to you, react with “Challenge accepted. You’re ON!” and reach higher.

At my school, popularity trumped talent. You were as likely—or unlikely–to be cast as the lead in school plays or be named prom queen as become a writer on the school paper.

And being shy and driven, I wasn’t social catnip. Not even close.

Yet somehow I managed to become a successful journalist. I just did it my way.

I was far more likely to tutor football players than date them.

Not to sound obnoxious (OK, to sound über obnoxious), but I launched our school’s literary magazine and was an editor at the nerd bastion known as our yearbook.

Aw, my first review–and no, I didn’t write it! But I may have staged that photo–literally.

The ambition, audacity and naiveté of youth also spurred me to march into the newsroom of the city’s leading newspaper.

My goal: convince an editor that their Saturday Page 2 was dead space—and that I had the solution. I proposed the paper run creative writing by students at the city’s high schools.

As if, right?

Astoundingly, he loved the idea, and “Generation Rap” was born.

I found volunteers at the other high schools to round up fiction. Naturally, I gathered my school’s creative writing, and my short stories ran regularly, along with those of other students.

Shy yet ballsy. Odd combo, but that was me in high school.

We weren’t paid, but who cared? We were in the city newspaper! And I had clips for my portfolio, which I needed to get a job as a professional journalist.

I didn’t make Page One till freshman year of college. Say is that a sudoku?

Of course, I had to top that feat as a college student. While home for the summer, I applied to be fashion editor.

I owned just two skirts, a few tops and one pair of jeans—essentially my entire wardrobe for a decade. Fortunately, the editor-in-chief never noticed.

Does the top look familiar? College–and fashion editor attire. (Dorothee Bis bag costs extra.)

The first story he assigned me was to interview the city’s most successful designer-boutique owner. I didn’t tell him we shared the same last name because she was my mom.

But she deserved the focus. She was charming, had a British accent and had brought top-tier brands to our city. She was a local institution.

My mom — elegance personified.

As a former journalist, she also had a well-rehearsed, polished script from doing radio and other interviews. But unlike other reporters, I had nearly two decades of first-hand research, and I wasn’t about to settle for the same old story.

The editor was delighted with the resulting profile—and my mom probably gained respect for me.

I resigned at summer’s end to return to college, a good thing since my paychecks remain MIA.

I wish I had a copy of that story, as well as a Page 1 exposé I wrote for my university newspaper. (They didn’t care about social standing.)

That exposé changed how FedEx Office—then called Kinko’s—did business.

Yes, FedEx, I was the one. My bad.

Back then, many professors encouraged students to photocopy pages from textbooks rather than buy the book (unless it was a book they’d written, of course).

It bothered me that authors weren’t getting paid their due. So I called the American Booksellers Association and American Library Association.

Neither was amused.

I knew I was hurting myself, given the three tomes weekly I read as a double major in French, and French, Spanish and English Dramatic Literature. But author rights were right.

The week after the story appeared, a previously unapologetic Kinko’s changed its policy. It would no longer allow photocopying of books—nationwide.

Great news, even though I had to buy all my textbooks and show my driver’s license to photocopy my own articles at—oh, the irony, FedEx.

Willkommen, bienvenue, bienvenido, welcome to my discretionary income.

As they say, truth is more expensive than fiction—or something like that.

But more importantly, only you can be you. So own it, revel in it and help others do the same.

And bring your I.D. to copy shops.

RUNWAY WITH ME: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 6

November 9, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

LESSON: Dream it. Plan it. Do it. Just remember that it takes more than a magic wand to fulfill your fantasies. It takes hard work–and it’s so worth it.

If fashion fixation had rehab, I would’ve been committed in childhood.

As the daughter of a fashion retailer, my gossip sheet was her trade newspaper, Women’s Wear Daily. I adored and devoured its exquisite fashion sketches, snarky reviews and reports of bon mot battles between designers.

Like a computer, I became able to spit out who made an outfit and when.

So when WWD offered the opportunity, I signed up my mom to attend the runway shows in Europe. Surely, she’d be thrilled.

She was not.

I was 10—and grounded. From then on, she hid her WWDs in the garage—where I found them, just as I’d find Christmas gifts.

What I didn’t do was give up. I clung to my ultimate fantasy: attend the Paris collections myself. And years later, I did.

Sorry mom, you had your chance…Finally, I had mine!

Ultimately, I covered fashion shows 12 hours a day in Paris, Milan and New York, then wrote reviews deep into the night for magazines and newspapers.

Am I griping? Are you kidding? I was in nirvana—especially when I wore comfortable shoes.

I’ve never understood how anyone could complain about being invited to watch the grand theater of glamazons gliding down runways, then being able to go backstage to interview the creators.

That’s not to say the designers knew my name as well as I knew theirs. As if.

So at first I crashed the gates to the hallowed kingdoms of Seventh Avenue.

I even bought a fabulous hat just to get into one year’s hottest ticket, Isaac Mizrahi’s first show. And It worked.

A love letter won me a seat at my ultimate event: Geoffrey Beene’s runway show. He’d recognized my ardor for what it was: educated and unabashed.

I soon discovered fashion editors were a traveling sisterhood, all in black. We spent so much time together that if all our clothes were thrown in a pile, we’d know which inky attire belonged to which editor.

But I did stand out—as a writer, editor and fashion photo stylist. My goal was to show garb for women of all ages and shapes. I kept it real and fun, even tabulating nipple sightings.

And I learned so much from the people I covered.

NEW YORK

I observed how New York designer Bill Blass skillfully worked any room. At cocktail parties, he’d observe from the sidelines and swoop in where he could have an intelligent conversation—or tap a well-dressed shopper’s bank account.

Cher’s costumer, Bob Mackie, was as kind as his smiling eyes, and Oscar de la Renta was such a gentleman—even when I nabbed him for an interview in a stairwell—while Carolina Herrera was class incarnate, with minions who served her water in a wine glass on a silver tray.

Badgley and Mischka–Mark Badgley and James Mischka–love what they do and each other. And it shows.

Badgley Mischka Bridal

LONDON

London’s Zandra Rhodes took me on a madcap race around the city as we chased her not-so-ex boyfriend before Rhodes welcomed me not only into her home but her workroom.

For a madcap ride through London, call on Zandra Rhodes. Yours truly.

MILAN

Milan was a grimy city with impossibly snarled traffic. There, Dolce & Gabbana perplexed me by parading so much underwear, which they didn’t even sell back then.

Then I realized what they did sell was the blazer or skirt with each look. They wanted to jolt the jaded press, so they used the oldest lure: sex.

Models Yasmine LeBon and Naomi Campbell, Leaving Dolce & Gabbana

Models Gail Elliott and Linda Evangelista Leave Dolce & Gabbana, Milan

Giorgio Armani’s building had its own theater: a permanent snow-white runway, with three-tiers of alabaster benches at the sides. More than 100 looks would race by. My husband marvels how I can catch every detail speedily. But Armani trained me well.

I was so lucky to witness Gianni Versace wrapping up Milan’s collections spectacularly, with the very best models, including the holy quartet of Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington, Linda Evangelista and Naomi Campbell.

*Gianni Versace at work. Christina Turlington Burns.* *A trio of brightness — tweaks make a mini memorable, model Heather Stewart-Whyte. Arguably, Gianni Versace’s best show.*

Carla Bruni, future First Lady of France in Versace, Fall 1991

YSL 1991 actually by YSL

As for Paris, it was everything I’d dreamed. I saw the fragile yet gifted Yves Saint Laurent before he died.

Linda Evangelista in John Galliano, 1998

Meanwhile, Chanel’s Karl Lagerfeld invited me not only to his shows but also into his atelier. The kaiser of courting controversy also was a machine, cranking out three brands each season. And perhaps most impressively, he had the most powerful woman in the room, Vogue editorial director Anna Wintour, wrapped around his once pudgy fingers

Rush hour outside Coco Chanel’s salon. P.S. I’m the one who isn’t 6’3.”

*Like you don’t recognize Anna Wintour, in Paris.*

HEAVEN

But the highlight of the time I spent covering fashion remains a day with Beene in his atelier on New York’s 57th Street.

To be in the presence of my all-time favorite and to watch him whip up gowns was amazing. This was someone who once presented his wares on dancers. Other designers traveled from Paris and Milan to witness his wizardry each season.

After my photographer shot a beautiful creature in a lace evening column, Beene balled it up in his fist. His customers could pack lightly. He also knew where on the body to flash a sliver of flesh that would flatter any woman.

Beene there and so grateful. Just a handful of lace, in Geoffrey Beene’s atelier. Ballet Collection, 1995

Then Beene sketched my own dress. Swoon. I framed the design. That was enough for me.

Heaven didn’t have to wait. I’d already arrived.

WORKING 9 TO 9: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 5

November 8, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

THE LESSON: If you’re going to do a job, why not do it well?

The daughter of a successful retailer, my bucket list had only one item: Cover the fashion collections in Paris.

Blame my mom. I spent much of my youth in her luxury fashion boutiques, where I witnessed the power of display, packaging, elegance and a British accent.

Alas, despite having lived in England, I cannot mimic my mum’s speaking that so charmed everyone.

But the other skills and traits I absorbed have served me well—including when I worked in retail at Macy’s from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. during summers and holidays to pay for college.

As a floater, I toiled in almost every area. Soon customers would ask for me at the front door and I’d serve as their personal stylist, pulling complete head-to-toe looks from the various departments.

But the powers-that-be never assigned me to the candy department. It’s as if they knew I’d eat the merchandise.

On one occasion I drew what others considered the black bean: working in luggage, an area tucked away on the top floor next to appliances.

There I observed that the most expensive brand (Hartman) was not selling—at all.

I made it my mission to change that. First, I learned all about its quality and history—why it was worth buying.

Then I created a beautiful display of Hartman at the front of the department.

I told customers why the brand was the best value – and boom, Hartman was hot.

The day I gave notice after that first summer, I was working in the shoe department’s backroom.

“You’ve got a call!” another salesperson said.

“We can’t take personal calls,” I replied.

“This isn’t personal. Take it,” he said.

I did. Corporate (Macy’s) tried to convince me to stay as their luggage manager instead of going back to college. As if.

Maybe I should’ve negotiated to be candy department manager instead. Ha!

I was still going back to the university because I’d known since age 10 that I’d be a writer.

So I left my longing for the elusive sweet stuff of my dreams: the candy land at the store’s center. Each day I had seen it and craved to work with it.

That dream never was fulfilled. But journalism—the career I chose over baggage—has been the joy of my life. I even covered the fashion collections for a decade–including in Paris.

The thrill of chasing stories has triumphed over my shyness. I became a more daring person. I have no regrets.

P.S. Years later, I interviewed jewelry designer Alexis Bittar as we sat in folding chairs in a Neiman Marcus storeroom. Both of us felt at home–and customers couldn’t interrupt us.

THE INVISIBLE PEOPLE: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 4

November 7, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

Household confidential

THE LESSON: “I’m not really a waitress” is one of OPI’s all-time bestselling nail enamels—and it’s a good reminder. Everyone has dreams, no matter how they pay the rent. Keeping that in mind, the kinder and more open you are, the more likely you’ll succeed in business.

In my case, I’ve broken major stories by going the extra step to interview housekeepers, taxi drivers and others often overlooked.

Whatever you do for a living, appreciate that the “invisible people”—the ones many ignore—may have as fascinating backgrounds and ambitious goals as the prominent.

I know because I once was a hotel maid, one of the people whose eyes you avoided while I *kinda* cleaned your toilet.

Hey, I’m no saint.

As if!

But I could strip and make a king-sized bed immaculately, with hospital corners, in nine minutes.

Impressive, huh?

Room without a view

Not to the head housekeeper, who chugged from a whisky flask while timing me.

A head housekeeper essential–apparently.

Fail. The expected time: 4½ minutes.

Times up.

But even slow housekeepers, in hotel parlance, earn their pay.

Have you had to pick up a stranger’s soiled panties from the floor—or on occasion, restore order to a completely trashed room?

I’d also never seen hashish before I had to clean a tub a quarter full of it. Perhaps its potency explains how the guests were able to slash the “art” and rip it from the wall, and move the king-sized bed.

And in case you’re wondering the size of the tip that party animal left behind, it was nothing, nada, zip.

It’s a dirty job.

Three weeks was all I could handle as a maid, even at a Midwest city’s finest hotel.

Yours truly, in the hotel’s bowels.

But I did have stories. And years later, I suggested to author Elaine Viets that hotel maids would be perfect for her Dead-End Job Mystery series. So I spilled my escapades in cleaning–and her readers responded to *Murder* *With* *Reservations*. Her book and her credit, of course. Not mine. I was still invisible.

But I did gain–in perspective. I realized that the unnoticed may have lofty aspirations. I certainly did. My array of temp and full-time summer jobs helped pay my pricey tuition at Paris’ Institut des Etudes Politiques (Sciences Po) and Université of Paris IV.

And they were no dead-end. As intended, my college education opened the door to my long-desired career in journalism.

So get to know your hotel maid, waiter, Uber driver or neighborhood patrol–they may have fascinating stories to share.

Most importantly, treat others as you’d want to be treated. Be kind. It’s free. And you can enrich two lives — theirs and your own.

The payoff.

Published by

Michele Meyer

Award-Winning Freelance Journalist, Profile Writer, Storyteller, B2C B2B Content Marketing Writer/Editor on Health/Medicine, Design, Marketing. Known for compelling, clear copy enhanced by strong visuals. Master pivoter.

BOMBS AWAY, BELFAST: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 3

November 6, 2024 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

THE LESSON: Never stand next to a man with a gunshot wound in his face.

You could call it my Years of Living Recklessly.

YOUR TIME IS UP, NO. 1: As a young reporter, I decided to enter a killer-rapist-pizza chef’s house when assigned to interview him.

I realized I couldn’t talk with him outside as my Dallas newspaper editor suggested, due to the six cops surrounding his house.

Once I realized the situation–hard to miss the cop cars—I called everyone with his last name to find his mother, and I brought her with me. I hoped and prayed he wouldn’t kill me in front of her. I interviewed him for an hour though he kept pacing barefoot and repeating “I’m not innocent. I’m not innocent.”

Say, how many knives does a pizza chef need, and where’s the missing one?

I couldn’t help notice the array of chef knives on his kitchen counter, visible from my seat.

Then the cops, pistols drawn, stormed the house. That was when I thought I’d die.

YOUR TIME IS UP, NO. 2: As a Page One reporter for the same Dallas newspaper, my job was to clobber the competition. And that meant getting the story first and better. But when an editor told me and a fellow reporter that one of us needed to go into the barrio to find and interview another murderer—neither of us wanted the byline.

We stood in the newsroom volleying reasons why we shouldn’t go (code for why we should live). Back and forth we went until she said she was a single mother. I couldn’t beat that. I got my car keys to head out.

Abruptly, she said she’d go. She was gone for two hours and received a hero’s welcome upon her return, despite a failed mission.

Later she told me she’d volunteered because she realized I actually would go door-to-door in the barrio.

She’d gone shopping.

Did you say there’s a huge sale at Saks and Zara? Be still my heart.

Did that stop me from going to an IRA funeral at the invitation of Gerry Adams, head of the Sinn Fein? No, of course not. (See: foolish youth.)

As I stood as near to him as possible, the sound of fireworks—gunfire—drowned out the solemn rites. Gravestones exploded into dust—and we were like the ducks you shoot down at a county fair. I realized two gunmen lobbing grenades were trying to assassinate Adams—the man who had a crater in his cheek from the last such attempt. I plunged into the mud first, shielded by two bodies on top of me. My first thought was I’m not Irish. The second was I seriously could die–actually die—nonetheless, and posthumous awards are meaningless.

But then the gunfire stopped.

They carted out the newly dead and gravely injured in the carts that had brought in the coffins. The funeral resumed. This was Belfast, after all, and The Troubles had ceased to detonate fear among the locals.

That should’ve been my cue to exit. But no, I stayed, hanging onto Adams’ every word.

The funeral earned its own Wikipedia entry.

Then the gunfire resumed. I spotted a gunman on top of a building pointing his rifle at me—well, Adams.

Same rifle, different shooter.

The next 15 minutes seemed to last a lifetime. In some ways it was like the worst annual job evaluation ever. To the sounds of rat-a-tat-tat, I reviewed my questionable decisions—such as going to Belfast during The Troubles. I decided that if I survived, I needed to become a better person.

I was fortunate. My slacks were shredded by shrapnel but I didn’t have a scratch. I later discovered I’d written down in my notepad every word people had said. Confirmation came from the local paper, which oddly ran a photo of my hand atop a gravestone taking notes.

Three people died and 72 were injured. Adams was fine. Of course. ‘

I was petrified but stayed, interviewing people from all faiths and walks of life over the next two days.

My stories ran on page one of newspapers across the country, including the Chicago Tribune and the Providence Journal.

The better news: I’d live to read those stories.

And the best news of all was that I decided to retire from mortal combat. That was my last reportorial dance with death. And I’m far better for such changes to my life.

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