“I cannot wait to see Michelle Obama!” said the fit morning-talk-show host Kelly Ripa, adding that she was wearing fake eyelashes for the occasion. “I love her whole physicality—she’s so tall and statuesque and good-looking!”

Ms. Ripa was wearing a strapless navy Alberta Ferretti gown with a taut bodice. “I chose it because—I know this will sound silly—but I thought it made me look busty!” she said. Asked whether her bare arms were a sartorial tribute to the first lady, Ms. Ripa giggled. “Let me tell you about the arms,” she said. “It’s springtime, but it’s very cold tonight and it’s very hard finding anything with a sleeve. Trust me!”

The actress Lindsay Price arrived in a mermaid-style dress designed by Carolina Herrera, an honorary co-chair of the evening along with Ms. Obama, Caroline Kennedy, socialite Blaine Trump and actress Renée Zellweger.

“I’m over the moon!” Ms. Price said about the sheer possibility of being near the first lady. “I think I’ll be too shy to go out of my way to meet her, but I’m happy to just be in her company.”

Behind her, be-furred Vogue editor Anna Wintour, arms crossed and sunglasses in place, was being escorted inside. Vanity Fair’s Amy Fine Collins was close behind. “I’m very excited. Not only do we have ballet tonight, but we have politics, too,” said Ms. Collins, whose upper arms were also exposed.

Calvin Klein designer Francisco Costa arrived with model Dree Hemingway, granddaughter of Ernest, on one arm and socialite Amanda Brooks on the other, each outfitted in one of his minimalist dresses. Is he hoping to woo Ms. Obama?

“Why do you think I’m here? I bought a tuxedo for this!” Mr. Costa said. “She’s proven she has a great sensibility. She’s figuring her own way out and doing an amazing job.”

Actress Mariska Hargitay proclaimed herself above all this fashion flim-flam. “I’m not obsessed with what she wears, I’m obsessed with Michelle Obama,” she said firmly before ducking inside. 

Meanwhile, Lynda Carter, the original Wonder Woman, recalled the year she attended the ballet in the company of another first lady: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

“She was so chic,” Ms. Carter said. “I am excited to meet Michelle Obama. She’s just killer. And tall!”

As guests took their seats, Senator Chuck Schumer welcomed Caroline Kennedy to the stage. Ms. Kennedy in turn welcomed the much-awaited first lady, who (having snuck in through an underground entrance) appeared from behind the gold curtain in a sparkly black Azzedine Alaïa cocktail dress. A standing ovation ensued. (Real estate developer Janna Bullock even put her BlackBerry away for a moment to clap.)

After a few gracious words about the importance of “learning through the arts,” Ms. Obama headed to a private box containing Jill Biden, Ms. Kennedy and the White House social secretary, Desirée Rogers.

During the intermission, the VIPs thronged a roped-off reception area. Ripa chatted with Caryn Zucker, wife of NBC president Jeff Zucker; Ms. Wintour greeted billionaire David Koch; and Ms. Rogers huddled with anchors Al Roker and Deborah Roberts.

“There’s just something kind of special about this night to begin with, and then you add Michelle Obama on top of that and …” Mr. Roker gushed.

“You’ll really stay awake,” Ms. Roberts said.

“Yeah, normally I look at this as a good shot at napping,” admitted Mr. Roker. “But I’m thinking this is actually something I should probably stay awake for.”

Wearing a formal belted black dress, Ms. Rogers told the Daily Transom that she and Ms. Obama were enjoying the show.

“It is a great night for America, really,” she said. “To see this lovely ballet, to see these children from the Jackie Kennedy Onassis school perform for the first time, it just brings everything full circle and we’re just delighted to be here.”

Alas, there was no sign of the first lady at the glitzy intermission. And as Mr. Roker pointed out, it would be fairly difficult to clink champagne flutes with her anyway.

“There’s this little thing called the Secret Service that I think will keep everyone from flocking to her,” he said.

According to a bunch of well-dressed people, the Lower East Side's Chloe 81 is becoming the "Biggie to [the] Beatrice's Tupac." [Grub Street]

Sienna Miller and Balthazar Getty are not back together because it turns out they never broke up in first place. [P6]

Beyonce and Adrien Brody seem to have enjoyed making out with each other on the set of Cadillac Records. [R&M]

Donald Trump is "fuming" at his brother Robert, who is currently in the middle of a divorce battle with wife Blaine, for failing to arrange a prenuptial agreement and for using ex-wife Ivana's old divorce lawyer, Robert Cohen. [P6]

Crystal Stewart, a.k.a. Miss USA, can't wait to dress up as Cat Woman this Halloween. It's a role she's been plotting for years. "So watch out!" she said. She'll be trick or treating somewhere near her home in Midtown, which she shares with "Miss Universe and Miss Teen USA." They've all been loving New York. "At first I thought it was a little too free," says the Texas native, "but now I just have too much fun. I'm addicted."

Blaine Trump's son Christopher Hollister Trump-Retchin showed up because he likes "any opportunity to support my mom." What's the good son going to be for Halloween? "The devil!"

Honoree Harry Slatkin, president of Limited Brands, brought his wife Laura and nine-year-old daughter Ali to cheer him on. Ali can't wait to be a cowgirl on Halloween. She has the whole costume ready, except for the hat.

"Because I'm in charge of the hat!" Mr. Slatkin said.

Jonathan Adler—brand new husband of The Observer's Simon Doonan—confessed to the Daily Transom that his family had recently experienced a case of mistaken identity. As his mother and sister (NYU Law's exotic dancing expert Amy Adler) left the Adler-Doonan wedding ceremony, "people were throwing rice at them because they thought they were a lesbian couple."

Some partiers were even trying to be... us! Four people snuck into the dinner by pretending to be press. Why would they want to do that?

"I don't know! For a rubber chicken?" said Gary L. Snieski, assistant director at the hosting charity, God's Love We Deliver. Then he corrected himself. "No! It's not rubber!"

A baggy-suited Mayor Michael Bloomberg and the characteristically cool Vera Wang had one thing in common last night: they both declared they wanted to be themselves all the time, even for Halloween. "That's the scariest thing I can think of!" said Ms. Wang.

Ms. Trump was not alone in rhapsodizing about Capezio flats and tutus after the elaborate performances, which featured company members Irina Dvorovenko and David Hallberg in intricate costumes. “I was taking ballet till I was about 10,” said the designer Tory Burch. “But then the toe shoes came and that was about it for me.”

“I took ballet for about six years when I was growing up, but I was no swan,” said 5-foot-9 model Molly Sims. “I had a very pretty pink tutu, but I didn’t know my left foot from my right foot.” The leggy lady admitted to being envious of the dancers: “Their bodies are just perfectly sculpted—of course I’m jealous!”

Speaking of bodies: Donald Trump Jr.’s wife, Vanessa Trump, was eager to tell Ms. Sims about her postpartum weight loss. “Sixty pounds!” she proudly declared. (Kai, a girl, was born in May 2007.) “Being a mom is like the hardest job, but it’s the best work; just seeing her say mama and wanting you to hold her,” Ms. Trump said as Ms. Sims smiled and tilted her head understandingly.

More Trumps! Donald Sr. arrived with wife Melania, wearing a black backless gown with an empire waist by Versace. NBC morning guy Matt Lauer, with wife Annette Roque, said he enjoyed the performance quite a bit, despite not really knowing his way around a plié. “Do I look like the kind of guy that did ballet?” he asked the Transom. Sorry we asked, sir....

Meanwhile, Taylor Momsen, who plays improbably impoverished Brooklyn private school brat Jenny Humphrey on Gossip Girl, arrived with her parents, wearing a gown that appeared a bit roomy on her 14-year-old frame. “It’s wild, I love New York,” said Ms. Momsen, who grew up in St. Louis. “There is just so much to do.” The actress took ballet for nine years. “I started when I was 3, when it was all about tutus and stuff, so I didn’t really know what I was doing,” she said, marveling at the show: “The clothes and the dancing and the legs in the air!”

Blaine Trump, wife of Donald’s brother Robert, has thrown in the towel on her marriage. [Page Six]

Play-by-play of Hillary’s 60th b-day bash at the Beacon. [Gatecrasher]

Rocker Cisco Adler ran around an L.A. club in his underwear, causing some to wonder, Why so much clothing? [Page Six]

Russell Crowe outed Leonardo DiCaprio as a 17-year-old virgin. [Page Six]

More good goss from Hillary’s party, which “rocked.” [Rush&Malloy]

Lindsay Lohan moved into the Beverly Hills Hotel…uh oh. [Page Six]

Actress Kristen Johnson (3rd Rock From the Sun) threw a tantrum onstage at the American Airlines Theater over forgetting her bleeping lines. [Page Six]

How many bold-faced names can appear in one Page Six item (or in two dining rooms)? A: 23 [Page Six]

Broads," my probing tribute to the gutsy, hand-bag-swinging chutzpah of the

collective New York psyche. Last week, we put Susanne Bartsch-party-promoter,

mom, Nivea devotee and Chelsea Hotel resident for more than 20 years-under the

microscope and found out how she survived the last two decades, and how she's

coping in post-catastrophe Manhattan. This week, we head uptown to meet former

pouf-skirt-wearing princess royal of 80's Nouvelle Society, Blaine Trump. The

big shocker? She's even more uptown than I thought.

Unscathed Broads, Part II: Blaine Trump.

"I go to 125th Street-the Mount Moriah Baptist Church on Fifth

Avenue-every Wednesday at 11 a.m.," chortled the friendly and glamorous Blaine

Trump, wife of Trump Management chief executive Robert Trump and sister-in-law

of Donald and, formerly, Ivana. "It's the Hour of Power with Reggie Williams

and the A.R.C. [Addicts Rehabilitation Center] choir." According to Ms. Trump,

this hour of gospel singing lifts the spirits and leaves an optimistic

afterglow that helps a girl combat post-traumatic stress.

The already incredibly optimistic Ms. Trump and I were seated in

the Sixth Avenue offices of God's Love We Deliver-the charity that brings meals

to homebound AIDS sufferers, of which she's vice chair-within yodeling distance

of ground zero. "On Sept. 11, we opened this building," on the corner of Spring

Street, "to the stampede of people coming up Sixth Avenue. Then the Red Cross

called us to set up food stations. We all pitched in." Ms. Trump, who was

wearing Celine jeans, high-heeled Celine boots, a kingfisher blue silk shirt

from Pink and a sporty leather Gucci jacket, and whose attractive hands were

kneading the well-clipped torso of Pearl, her Yorkshire terrier, said, "We were

not able to resume normal deliveries until the following Monday."

Their proximity to the tragedy left Ms. Trump and her team

profoundly traumatized, yet focused and determined. How come-you're no doubt

asking yourself-a prissy society broad like Blaine wasn't at home in the fetal

position on her Aubusson rug? I hate to disappoint you, but she's just not

prissy.

Blaine's foofy-socialite period started when she careened onto

the Women's Wear Daily Eye page in

the mid-1980's. "I look back and think, 'Oh my God, did I really do all that

crazy stuff? Did I wear that?' It was all too-oo

insane!" Mrs. Trump said of that period when Christian Lacroix was, justifiably,

the most important designer in the world. Blaine Matterhorned to Park Avenue

prominence in 1987, when she chaired the annual Memorial Sloan-Kettering

benefit. "Yes, I wore a Lacroix dress," she recalled mistily. "In fact, I still

have it. Christian and I became friends." The following year, she hosted the

American Ballet Theatre gala of La Gaieté

Parisienne , the ballet for which Lacroix designed brilliant costumes.

Monsieur Lacroix also dressed a phenomenal number of attendees in his signature

lampshadey folklorica, with hilarious results. This seminal event is etched

into my unconscious: It was the last big blowout before rich ladies eschewed

szhooshy junk-bond opulence and went all modern and slick. Quel drag!

The poufs didn't survive, and neither did the Mortimer's-lunching

Nouvelle Society. But Blaine did. She tore off her tiara, threw preconceived

notions of WASP appropriateness out the window and embraced the quotidian, sort

of. Today Blaine still goes to fancy parties, but she also rides the subway,

eats Cal Ripken bars (800-682-2760; $20 plus shipping for a box of 40), takes

her makeup off with Vaseline, cooks on a George Foreman grill and, most

shocking of all, sells blouses on QVC.

"I started three years ago," said Blaine. "We pulled things out

of my closet-handbags, sweater sets and cotton shirts-interpreted them and

called it 'American Classics by Blaine Trump.' The money goes to God's Love. My

next on-air [segment] is Nov. 9 from 2 to 4 p.m.," enthused Blaine, with the

air of a woman who enjoys the gritty déclassé of hard-core salesmanship.

Whatever do mater and pater make of all this?

Blaine was born in Orlando,

Fla., the daughter of Joe and Jean Beard, but not raised there. "My dad worked

for I.B.M.," she said. "I grew up in Japan in the 1960's, when the sewers were

open and people wandered down the street in their underwear to the bathhouse."

The Beards encouraged their four kids to take full advantage of this

unconventional location. Egged on by Jean, the Auntie Mame–ish matriarch ("lioness

hairdo, caftan, cigarette holder"), Blaine developed a freewheeling confidence.

A stint at a Swiss finishing school gave Blaine her poise and good manners, but

her biggest advantage is probably that her college education-a liberal-arts

degree-took place in Japan. Were she to have attended college in America circa

1974, she would undoubtedly have undone all the good work of her mother and the

mademoiselles at La Chatelaine-i.e., she would have become an irate,

introspective, self-doubting, unhappy, man-hating freak with bad posture.

Instead, she moved to New York in the mid-70's, worked at Christie's, married,

had a son (who is now 22) and divorced. Then, in 1981, she met Robert Trump.

They were married in 1984 and are currently living happily in the Trump Plaza

building on Third Avenue and 61st Street.

"Robert and I are big on

chocolate bars," said Blaine, with a sugar-lovin' grin. She feels that candy

and comfort food are the best antidotes for post-traumatic stress: "This isn't

a time for egg-white omelets!" Blaine also strongly advocates nesty home

cooking with close pals and family. "I just bought a Ron Popeil Rotisserie

& BBQ Oven. You know the one: 'Set it and forget it,'" she said, referring

to the infomercial. Her fave eatery? After their Hour of Power, Ms. Trump and

Reggie Williams are wont to head to Sylvia's (328 Lenox Avenue) for a

life-affirming lunch of "fried chicken, fried catfish, dirty rice, black-eyed

peas, topped off with peach cobbler."

It's hard to believe that the

tall, svelte Ms. Trump is the down-and-dirty, gravy-guzzlin' blue-collar

gourmand she claims to be. Does her wartime coping regimen include a workout?

"In 2000, I gave up physical fitness for a whole year and I felt fantastic,"

she said. "And now I'm crawling reluctantly back to Lotte Berk [23 East 67th

Street]. I went to two classes last week and one this week, which is not a good

sign."

Lotte will have to wait: Currently, Blaine's waking energies are

focused on keeping God's Love afloat. "When I started, we were serving 50 meals

a day. But thousands were at home dying of AIDS. We had to expand." She started

a capital campaign and somehow talked David Geffen out of $1.5 million. Blaine

used some of that cash to acquire the current 18,000-square-foot headquarters,

the David Geffen Building. "In 1993, we bought it at auction from the city for

$570,000," she said. In 1996, 10 years after Blaine got involved, GLWD moved

into its current space. Having been so instrumental in facilitating its growth,

Blaine is determined not to lose funding because of the World Trade Center

disaster. "People have to dig deep and keep the existing charities alive. Our

clients rely on us." Blaine and her team plan to meet their annual fund-raising

goal of $7.8 million through a plethora of upcoming events, including the Race

to Deliver (Nov. 18) and the Swatch Wristory Auction at Sotheby's (Dec. 3).

If you are too lazy to run four miles and you don't happen to

fancy a Sam Francis paint-spattered Swatch circa 1992, then at least buy your

gifts from God's Love (800-889-6515). This year's holiday catalog is jammed

with spiffy designer items: e.g., tree ornaments from Gucci ($100 for a set of

three) and Versace ($75), and a Burberry stain-resistant nylon cook's apron

($75). The catalog also sells amusingly snotty items: e.g., David (Viscount)

Linley's potpourri ($22.50) and a Blaine Trump candle ($32), created by Slatkin

& Co. and "inspired by Blaine's favorite mulling spices." Don't mock!

You're just jealous because you don't have a favorite mulling spice!

Before departing, I probed

the well-preserved Blaine for any last beauty and survival tips. Her answers

were tinged with her signature blue-collar pose: "I wash with Ivory soap. I get

my mani-pedi done at the Nail Nook on Third and 61st. I use Philip Kingsley's

shampoos and volumizer spray [$16 and $23, respectively, at Philip Kingsley

Trichological Clinic, 16 East 53rd Street]; Stephen Knoll's Healthy Intensive

Rehydrating Treatment [Sephora, $38.50]. Garren cuts my hair [841-9400].

Heather does it when he's not available, which is quite frequently. I paint my

portrait with M.A.C.: I love Spice lip pencil [$11] and Plum lipstick [$14].

M.A.C. has great glitter [$13] for the holidays, which I use on my hair and

eyelids."

Blaine, refreshingly, did not mention yoga or aromatherapy once

during our interview. Her only crunchy tip: Bach Flower Remedies for unblocking

your energy frequencies (GNC stores, $9.99). "I use the 'comfort-and-reassure'

remedy. A couple of drops will get you through anything."

Blaine saved her best tip for last: "Slow down on the media-fest.

I never watch TV, and I gave up looking at the newspaper a week ago. We lost 11

firefighters in our local firehouse, and I'm still trying to deal with that."

York psyche. Our city is peopled by unstoppable Type A's, all throbbing with passion, ambition and creativity. Anyone who tries to rain on our parade will be beaten into submission with our unique brand of chutzpah, bravery, purses and street smarts. There's a bit of Leona Helmsley in all of us. And I mean that in a complimentary and inspirational kind of a way. In celebration of the New York survivor gene, I would like to present the first in a two-part series entitled "Unscathed Broads."

I asked Susanne Bartsch and Blaine Trump how they made it, not just through

the last six weeks, but through the last two decades in New

York. In the 1980's, these two can-do gals

represented the two factions of the now-defunct Uptown (Trump)–Downtown (Bartsch) schism. Looking back at this period of hedonistic

freedom, one can't help thinking that this is what it must have felt like to

look back at the roaring, gin-soaked 1920's from the grim vantage point of the

early 1940's. But Blaine & Bartsch have a down-to-earth, Piaf-esque lack of regret. In fact, they both poured forth oodles of survival tips, lots of verve and more than a dash of Clicquot.

Unscathed Broads, Part I: The Swiss Miss.

"Nivea cream, can you believe it?"

gurgled the heavily accented Susanne Bartsch when asked to disclose the secret of her milkmaid's

complexion. "I love Nivea. Sometimes Bailey,"

continues the bird-like, beautiful Ms. Bartsch,

referring to her 7-and-a-half-year-old son by

gym-owning husband David Barton, "he takes it and hides it as a joke. He knows

I can't live without my Nivea cream."

Though separated in 1999, Mr. Barton and Ms. Bartsch remain tight, connected by a surprisingly

conventional commitment to parenting. On the morning of Sept. 11, the Barton-Bartsches were on their way, by town car, to Bailey's

school in Brooklyn when the first plane hit the World

Trade Center.

"When we got to Brooklyn, we felt the ground shake. I

thought it was a bloody gas explosion," remembers Ms. Bartsch,

who then watched the towers come down from across the East River.

"We were right in the path of the cloud of debris. Bailey picked up burnt memos

from people's desks. I explained that it wasn't an accident, but when we got

home I didn't let him watch TV."

That very evening, Ms. Bartsch

embarked on a beginners' course at the Sivananda Yoga

Vedanta Center

(243 West 24th Street,

255-4560). Ms. Bartsch had already taken a set of

eight classes ($85) last summer, after Rob Moritz, a 22-year-old filmmaker with

whom she was collaborating, was hit by a car and killed. "We were one week away

from shooting. I was art-directing and producing. I was so excited; it was my

new incarnation. And then-poof! Up in smoke. The

fragility of life! It was my own warm-up for the World

Trade Center."

Ms. Bartsch is now, six weeks later, a Sivananda devotee. "It's not Prada-handbag-trendy

yoga. It's about looking good inside."

Ms. Bartsch has also, if you'll

pardon the double-entendre, been under the doctor. Susanne's woo-woo but

fabulous physician, Dr. Linda Lancaster, specializes in naturopathic

treatments, which she defines as "physical and mental balancing through

homeopathy, herbal vitamin and mineral support, and other therapies." For

Susanne, Dr. Lancaster prescribed "shock remedy," a homeopathic medicament

consisting of arnica, ignatia and passiflora

to quiet the nervous system and a homeopathic opium to

counteract that dazed feeling. According to Dr. Linda-and Ms.

Bartsch-this fabulous concoction "gets you out of

shock so you can take care of yourself. It cleanses the liver and gets

the immune system working." A consultation with Dr. Linda costs $150, and the

shock remedies are $10 to $20 each. (Check out her Web site at

lightharmonics.com.)

Other post-catastrophe survival tips?

"Open your handbags, girls!" advocates Ms. Bartsch,

who has a knack for inserting the word "handbag" into every other sentence.

"You're helping yourself as well as other people. We gave to the local fire

station and the Twin Towers Fund. It gives you a sense of participating and a

bit of control."

Ms. Bartsch also feels it's

important for New Yorkers to have an escape plan. "I have a little house in Canada,

near Montreal. It's good to know

it's there. But since Sept. 11, I've been here." Susanne is referring to her

gaudy, mural-covered apartment in the Chelsea

Hotel, where she has lived, worked,

shagged, cooked and gotten tarted up since she came

from Switzerland

via London 20 years ago. "I was

born in Bern sometime in the last

half-century. I'm postwar. That's all I'm telling you, bitch! Oh, and I'm a

Virgo."

She pronounces it "Wirgo": Ms. Bartsch does to V's and W's what the Japanese do to L's and

R's. I once heard her telling a costume maker, "I vant

something wery showgirl-something viz

a vig inwolwed." During her

late-80's-and-early-90's reign as Queen of the Night, there was inwariably a vig inwolwed.

Susanne did not start out as a wig-wielding nightclub

promoter; her first incarnation was as a shopkeeper. "I started with a boutique

on Thompson Street. It was

1981, during the New Romantic scene-London street

fashion, Bodymap, John Galliano and that lot." In

1983, she attempted to represent these unruly designers and wholesale their

wares. "I love 'em, but they drove me fucking

bonkers-so I went back to retail." In 1985, she opened a much larger designer

shop in Soho on West

Broadway-next to Artwear. "It was doing well, but I

walked away in 1987 because I wasn't happy with my partner's visions."

One day, while shaking out her piggy bank, Susanne noticed

that downstairs from the Chelsea Hotel,

somebody was putting the finishing touches on a disco called Sauvage. "I had all these flamboyant clothes and nowhere to

wear them, so I thought, 'Why not?'" Tuesday nights at the Sauvage-hosted

by Ms. Bartsch-were

"high-energy, very mixed: straight, gay, uptown, pier queens to trust fund. My

mission was to get people to mix and dress up." The ever-nimble Susanne quickly

outgrew the Sauvage and moved to Bentleys-"a black

secretaries' dive"-in the 40's near Madison Avenue. "Drag queens downstairs,

and upstairs we had house music with fabulous strippers," recalls Ms. Bartsch with a huge grin. The weekly quest for new and

unusual "industry" acts became Susanne's hobby.

Next came the Copacabana, where Ms.

Bartsch added Brazilian samba schools, bodybuilders

and voguers to her three-ring circus. The Copa-Ms. Bartsch's Sistine

Chapel-had all the high-low, countesses-to-rent-boys democracy of Studio 54,

without the polyester pretension. Less druggy and dark than the Michael Alig Club Kid scene, Ms. Bartsch's

Copa-like the Swiss Miss herself-was cheeky, sexy, unsnobby and fun.

Her next incarnation was as a philanthropist. "By 1988, AIDS

had taken half of my Rolodex. I survived this period by becoming a

fund-raiser." For inspiration, Susanne tapped the world of vogueing

balls. (If you're not familiar with this milieu, then rent

Jennie Livingston's sublime 1990 documentary entitled Paris Is Burning).

With Swiss anal retention, Ms. Bartsch set about

organizing the Love Ball: Instead of Harlem gangs competing, Susanne enlisted

corporations from Armani to Sara Lee. Held at Roseland in 1989, this event was

the apotheosis of Uptown-Downtown crossover: "There were Harlem

ball queens serving champagne to C.E.O.'s." After a sequel-the Crowning Glory

in 1991-and a couple of smaller events, the Swiss Miss had raised over $2

million for DIFFA (the Design Industries Foundation Fighting AIDS) and APLA

(AIDS Project Los Angeles) at almost no expense. "I even got the bloody union

to work for free," recalls Ms. Bartsch with a proud

chuckle.

Her next incarnation-her personal fave-was

motherhood. "In 1992, I met David Barton. He opened his gym, and I helped him

make it trendy. We're a good combo-nightlife and health life-and then along

came Bailey." Though Susanne still works regularly-she is hired to create

events by corporations like Chiquita, the Grammys,

Dewar's, Ian Schrager and Sony-her son Bailey is her

current raison d'être. He has also helped her cope with her post-9/11

melancholy and paranoia. "When you have a child, you can't lose it-you have to

set a good example.

"I'm an innovator," Ms. Bartsch

boasts legitimately. "I got copied a lot, but I'm not bitter. I took the drag

queen out of the shadows; now they do bar mitzvahs! That's all thanks to me!

What a contribution to society!" Her curiosity and self-deprecation intact,

survivor Ms. Bartsch is poised for her next

incarnation. Whatever it is, I can't help feeling there will somehow be a vig inwolwed.

Before departing, I ask Ms. Bartsch

for a few beauty and survival tips other than Nivea.

She obliges: "Apricot kernel oil to clean off my makeup, which I buy at the

health shop, and witch hazel and rose water, which I mix myself, as an

astringent. And I like to bathe in baking soda … I do! For my lips, I actually

use M.A.C. Russian Red," Ms. Bartsch continues,

rolling her R's. "I only put it on with a brrrrush.

Putting on lipstick without a brush is like eating dinner without having anyfood on the plate … or something like that."

Ms. Bartsch says she "cannot live without Angel perfume by Thierry Mugler. I drink it." And

what about that tight skin? "A no-surgery instant face

lift with a ponytail. I have these rubber bands from Europe,

and sometimes when I feel tired, I'll make a really tight ponytail to look morealive." For what Susanne calls "day drag," she looks to Diesel. For everything else, it's Zaldy

couture, head to toe. "He makes me sexy things. I'm not a Swiss hausfrau."