Oct. 8. Paris. 8:01 A.M. Dear Diary: C’est moi , Phyllis Stine, c’est moi . Here I am in the middle of European fashion for the rigamorole of spring 2000 ready-to-wear shows, which I am meant to regard from a calm yet enthusiastic vantage point essential to my newly employed state– mais oui , I Read More
J une 28. Flight 199 to Los Angeles, American Airlines. Dear Diary: C’est moi , Phyllis Stine. Who else should it be in Seat 2A?
Très désolée . Très, très désolée … not to mention desolate, disconsolate and heartbroken. Ferociously depressed. It has been over two years since Mr. Stine went the way of all Read More
Dear Diary:
April 26: C’est moi, c’est moi , Phyllis Stine. Sorry I haven’t written lately. Think I’m going out of my head. Still recovering from chafed neck which resulted from carrying white Prada shoulder bag slung across the torso as advertised. Consulted skin specialist Dr. Patricia Wexler, who says I take fashion too literally. Read More
May 20, 6:30 A.M. C’est moi , dear diary, c’est moi : Phyllis Stine. Sorry I haven’t written much lately, but I’ve been blue. Haven’t been read much, either. I mean, how many months have I been making these journal entries? Sharing my feelings about fashion shows, estranged husbands, Helmut Lang and the spiritual life? Read More
March 30: C’est moi , dear diary, c’est moi : Phyllis Stine. Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but deliver me (C.O.D.). I’ve become the veritable “b” in the word busy lately.
Because why? First, the prospect of employment–in just two days, two days dear diary , the Mayor will announce my job as Read More
March 3: Dear Diary, c’est moi: Phyllis Stine. Guess what! Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani is going to make me his Commissioner of New York City Politesse. Just asked me last weekend. I’m like sitting here in my divorce purgatory suite at the Carlyle Hotel with nothing to do on a rainy afternoon except organize my Read More
Jan. 17: Dear Diary. C’est moi . Phyllis Stine redux in Paris, France. Smooth flight to Orly-Sud, despite turbulent boarding at Kennedy. “Stewardess,” I asked when I got on the plane, “where’s my seat?” I’m wearing tailored, to-die-for, gray Helmut Lang trousers, a black cashmere thermal-knit top by Marc Jacobs, and crocodile stilettos from Manolo Read More
Dec. 27: Dear Diary. “This will wipe the smile right off your face, Phyllis Stine,” Ian Schrager calls to me.
Having met by pure coinkydink (that’s Miss Porter’s speak for coincidence) this dawn on the American Airlines flight from Kennedy International Airport to Sint Maarten, Ian offered me a ride in his chartered prop from Read More
