News Archives -- Michele Mode

THE PLAYBOY PLAYBOOK: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 9

October 12, 2023 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

October 12, 2023 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

October 12, 2023 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

June 1, 2023 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

May 5, 2023 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

April 20, 2023 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

April 20, 2023 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.

OF COWS AND MEN: Story Behind the Stories, Chapter 2

April 20, 2023 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

You talking about us?

**THE LESSON:** You need to aspire, take action—and ask the right questions—to succeed.

When I applied for a national internship with the communications office at the U.S. Department of Agriculture, I thought my chances were nil.

After all, I’d only been on a farm once in my life—and had no intention of returning.

What’s that aroma?

Shockingly, dear reader, I was hired.

Ever since, I’ve pursued my dreams. Why not? I had nothing to lose, but a lot I could gain.

Still, I had much to learn.

The biggest surprise at USDA wasn’t that my boss nixed my first-day proposal to write a press release on a fascinating study that showed death-row inmates drink more milk than other people. And it wasn’t that I’d be able to attend press conferences where fine national journalists peppered the secretary of agriculture with questions.

Making a splash with my first pitch–or not.

We’d like to say, “No comment on the advice of our farmer.”

It was how many scandals we hid.

My task often was to remove incriminating pages from thick reports before they were delivered. No one who then received the reports asked where the missing pages were, so perhaps they just skimmed—as they’d done in school.

I’d also churn out a flood of innocuous “news” releases to distract from wrongdoings about to surface. My colleagues taught me how to say “No comment,” yet appear helpful.

That was “No comment. If you’d like, I can say it in French, Spanish, German, Italian or Russian.”

Sometimes that wasn’t enough and we brought out our big gun: the “information” officer we dubbed “Mr. Doublespeak.” His gobbledygook should’ve been a signal that journalists should start digging. But they didn’t.

No comment on the advice of Mr. Doublespeak.

Yet one morning I awoke to find the headlines blaring a disgrace we had successfully squelched for months. How the heck?

It turned out that Bob, the sharpest tool in the reportorial shed, had phoned a press officer at 3 a.m. And she spilled–everything. That taught me persistence pays when seeking deeply buried treasure.

With my mother, who preferred boutiques more than bovines.

A few years later I became an investigative reporter. Our team was a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize for public service.

Declaring my appreciation is long overdue. Thank you, USDA. I couldn’t have done it without you.

U.S. Department of Agriculture, The Whitten Building, Washington, D.C.

Oh, and of course you, beloved bovines.

IS THAT A BOMB? Stories Behind The Stories, Chapter 1

February 20, 2023 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

THE LESSON: The chisel that cracks a glass ceiling is made of passion, bravery and excelling in your craft.

The Watergate scandal birthed many journalists. But my career sprang from a visit to London’s Fleet Street and accompanying my aunt Caren Meyer, then a reporter at The Evening Standard.

As we entered the newsroom, her boss approached carrying a package she’d received. How gentlemanly. Not quite. He was concerned that the ticking parcel was a bomb.
I backed up as quickly as I could. Caren did not.
I don’t recall what was in the box. All I cared about was what wasn’t. We were safe.
Then I looked around and realized I’d entered a ‘40s flick starring Katharine Hepburn. Only in this case, the ballsy, pants-wearing Woman of the Year was my aunt.

As for the Spencer Tracy, there was no shortage of potential male leads. More than a dozen crusty men reeking of tobacco sat at old-school gray metal desks.
Caren introduced me to each of them, desk by desk. Maybe because it was the holidays, every one of them opened their bottom right drawer, pulled out a whisky bottle and offered me a drink.

I was 13. And no, I did not imbibe.
No matter. Off Caren and I went to do interviews for the latest investigative series that was drawing her death threats.
On the way, she suddenly did a U-turn into a petrol station. She’d spotted a shiny ‘30s auto with wooden spokes at one of the back pumps. Instinctively, she knew a fascinating story would be behind it.
She was right. The man who’d inherited the property had chopped down a tree with a trunk as thick as a VW because it blocked the garage. He’d had no idea that a mint-condition car was inside.
Then it was on to our original destination: decrepit flats (apartments) with elderly tenants. My heart went out to them as they quaked with fear while revealing how strongmen would threaten violence and eviction should they squawk to her or authorities about the squalor they endured.
Afterward we returned to the newsroom, where Caren wrote her stories on an upright typewriter while puffing on a foot-long cigarette holder, like Marlene Dietrich in the oldies.

I was mesmerized.
I’d known since age 10 I wanted to be a writer, but that experience birthed a journalist—and not because my aunt later won the British equivalent of the Pulitzer Prize for the slumlord series.
Mostly, I fell in love with how my father’s sister saw stories everywhere and pursued them, no matter how off the beaten path they might seem. And, like Barbara Walters, she didn’t allow sexism or ageism to block her path.
She stayed the course—and so would I.

JOLLY HOLIDAYS: Our Seventh Annual Beauty Gift Guide Lets You Glide Through

November 4, 2022 By Michele Meyer Leave a Comment

We expect the end of this year to wrap up nicely–thanks to the presentable and delectable presents we’ve discovered. Here are our favorites:

CARRIERE FRERES

WHY: Nothing smells more like the holidays and warms us up on a cold winter’s night than these candles. The Siberian Pine trio includes Rose, Ginger and Smoke Wood.

DEETS: 2.5 oz., each, $130, CarriereFreres.com

RUKSKE CANDLES

WHY: Hello, darkness, our old friend. You are welcome at our home year-round.

Perhaps it’s because we live in black. Doesn’t everybody? OK, maybe not. But this candle is so chic that we wish we could afford to burn one in every room. Even the soy/coconut wax is ebony–making this the Little Black Dress of fragrance. Surely, your favorite fashionista or Goth chick would covet one–or six. We certainly do. The OG aroma–Trois No. 1–transports us to spas with a gender-neutral mix of amber, musk, cedar and cardamom. Celine is an ultrafeminine and heady blend of orange, mint, jasmine and rose–and it’s more affordable than the designer’s bag we currently covet.

DEETS: Trois No. 1 and Celine, each 8 oz. 50-hour burn, $65, Rukske.com.

BALMAIN HAIR COUTURE FALL/WINTER GIFT CALENDAR

WHY: The ultimate countdown, as far as we’re concerned, is the large luxe Gift Calendar from Balmain Hair Couture. It includes travel-sized temptations: Moisturizing Shampoo, Moisturizing Conditioner, Argan Moisturizing Elixir, Texturizing Salt Spray, Leave-in Conditioning Spray, Styling Powder, plus a mini candle, detangling spa brush and Christmas Nutcracker ornament.

Runner-up is the Medium with five tress tantalizers, the Leave In spray, a Moisturizing Styling Cream, the Argan elixir, mini candle and Christmas Nutcracker ornament. They had us at Nutcracker.

DEETS: Large, $330; Medium, $189, BalmainHair.com.

KRIGLER OPUS VERDE GREEN FIR 11

WHY: We feel strongly that this potent but poignant aroma suits the power players in our clique. Pine, eucalyptus, leather, moss and mint bring the outdoors inside–without the chill or shedding needles. Ben Krigler, head of House of Krigler, designed the lime glass container, itself a keeper, while his ancestor Albert Krigler created the scent to evoke a Colorado high.

DEETS: 7 oz., 40-hour burn, $175, Four Seasons Hotel-Houston, Krigler.com.

ALPHA-H GOLDEN HAZE FACE OIL

WHY: Liquid gold. I’d never paint my body gold like in a Bond film, but I love to pamper my skin–and that of my dearest friends. My Midas touch is this Golden Haze Face Oil with soothing and plumping jojoba, camellia and watermelon seed oils.

DEETS: $45, 30 ml, Alpha-H.com

NATURA

WHY: Hello? Winter is brutal. Natura’s velvety, silicon-free and 100 percent vegan Ekos Tukuma Body Lotion soothes chapped skin, making it a Brazilian beauty bonanza–well, behind Gisele Bündchen, Adriana Lima and Alessandra Ambrosio. The trio of hand creams also make a lovely gift, as are the quartet of moisturizing soaps in different decadent scents. The creams absorb quickly and are my go-to for sandpaper skin!

DEETS: Lotion, 400 ml., $27; Hand cream trio, 40 g. each, $29; Soaps, $32, NaturaBrasil.com.

LELAND FRANCIS

WHY: The names of the new eau de parfums and candles–Stoner and Dirt Roads–are amusing and appealing. They’re the latest from the vegan, organic luxury brand by celebrity makeup artist Dillon Peña. Rest assured: Candles are 100 percent soy wax, and eau de parfums are free of parabens, formaldehyde, synthetics and artificial colors. As for the aromas, Stoner is an earthy smoke and leather with a dash of neroli and lavender. Dirt Roads blends orange, patchouli and cedar. Inhale and relax–what better gift is there?

DEETS: 1 fl. oz, $98, and candles, 7.5 oz., $48, LelandFrancis.com.

TRUDON

WHY: Diffusers make scents–for three months or longer. That’s how we’re trying to justify being seduced by Trudon’s newest fragrance, Gabriel, a blend of leather, wood and candied chestnuts. At $240, we’ve got sticker shock. And we wonder whether it costs more because it’s French or because the bottle and gold emblem look as expensive as they are. We’re not sure, but either way this present will impress. (We’d leave it out long after the aroma faded.)

DEETS: 350 ml., $240, with refills, $98-$105, Trudon.com.

EVE LOM

WHY: A longtime pal always has had enviable glowing, youthful and perfect skin. She credits Eve Lom. I remained skeptical for years. Then I tried it. Now I’m addicted. I’d like to think it spares me Botox or any other age-defying agents. Nobody tells me otherwise, but then again, I do have wonderful friends. So pamper yourself or those you love.

Both ritual gift sets include cotton muslin cloth and the OG Cleanser Balm that also tones, hydrates and exfoliates. So get your glow on with the radiant renewal set, which also includes Radiance Repair Retinol Serum and hyaluronic acid Moisture Cream. Or go with my personal fave, Decadent Double Cleanse, which also features Foaming Cream Cleanser, gently exfoliating Rescue Mask and a faux silk headband,

DEETS: Decadent Double Cleanse Ritual Set, with cleanser balm, 200ml; foaming cream cleanser, 20ml; rescue mask, 100ml, all for $155. Radiant Renewal Ritual Set, with cleanser balm, 50ml; serum, 9.5ml; moisture cream, 30ml,, all for $110, EveLom.com.

SUSANNE KAUFMANN

WHY: Deja vu? For good reason, Susanne Kaufmann’s calendar was so popular last year that it returns. If you’re not already a devoted fan of the holistic brand, this is a great introduction to its most beloved body, face and bath products. They use the finest locally sourced natural ingredients and cutting-edge science. All packaging is recyclable. And for those who saved last year’s calendar, 25 mini refills are sold as a planet-friendly alternative to a whole new calendar.

DEETS: Calendar, $510 and refills of 25 minis, $280, SusanneKaufmann.com

AUGUSTINUS BADER THE WINTER RECOVERY SET

WHY: Winter is wicked, even beyond holiday prep. This lauded brand offers a beautifully packaged recovery kit worth savoring, with serum, eye cream, face cream and lip balm–the latter two of which I’m addicted to! My skin is silky, despite brisk wind and inhumane temperatures.

DEETS: Serum, 30 ml, eye and rich creams, 15 ml each, and lip balm, 4 g, $575, augustinusbader.com

NEST New York

WHY: If you’re still hunting for the perfect gift, these aromas are irresistible, the packaging gorgeous, the glass containers festive and the prices reasonable. My traditional fave is the pomegranate-, mandarin- and clove-laced Holiday, but I’ve fallen in love with the latest scent, Crystallized Ginger & Vanilla Bean, which has a hint of cinnamon.

DEETS: Three-wick candles, 21.2 oz., and 75-plus hour burn time, $78; classic, 50-plus hour burn time, 8.1 oz., $46; and votive, 20-hour burn time, 2 oz., $18: https://www.nestnewyork.com/

HERMÈS

We confess we STILL have yet to catch a whiff of these lotions and soaps (or any Hermès fragrance), but the art is exquisite. If they’re in your price range, the Parfums-Jardins collection includes lotions and soap trios in three fragrances: Le Jardin de Monsieur Li (bergamot, jasmine, kumquat and a hint of mint), Un Jardin sur le Nil (Egypt via a fruity floral blend of mango, sycamore and lotus) and Un Jardin a Cythère (Greece via a woody citrus with olive wood, citrus and pistachio). Each pebble-shaped soap is slipped inside a paper box illustrated by an artist, including Elias Kafouros. If you are not concerned about the aroma or its potency, you might consider this gift for yourself or for a loved one, presented in the house’s famed orange box. Les Jardins 3 soaps gift set ($95). The lotion comes in those and other scents but doesn’t in the trademark box, at $90, 6.7 fl. oz.

DERMAFLASH LUXE

WHY: Because you and your best buds deserve smooth, unblemished faces. This spa secret is now available at home, not just as part of facials at many top spas.

DEETS: Available in three hues: pop pink, blush and stone (off-white), with blades and charger $199, Dermaflash.com.

My insider’s tip: Shop quickly–before these beauties sell out. I may add items when they’re restocked, even in the new year for those of you who prefer to shop then.

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News Archives -- Michele Mode

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