The Lost Art of Being a Dame

Barbara Stanwyck is Awesomer Than Anyone

First, a trailer for BABY FACE, a 1933 movie that instigated the infamous Production Code:

Next, a great scene with Fred MacMurray in DOUBLE INDEMNITY:  

And this famous scene from THE LADY EVE:

Stripper as Role Model...?

When it's Barbara Stanwyck, hells yeah! 

In LADY OF BURLESQUE ( a film based on Gypsy Rose Lee's mystery novel THE G-STRING MURDERS) Babs plays Dixie Daisy, a burlesque headliner and the smartest, savviest, least whiny member of the troupe. In many of her films, notably THE LADY EVE and BALL OF FIRE, Stanwyck embodies the quintessential dame. Supremely feminine but also sharp as a tack (certainly sharper than the men around her), self-reliant, quick with a quip to defuse and debunk, and clearly as tender as she is tough. It's hard to get a decent print of LADY OF BURLESQUE, but it's practically a manual for how to get by in life living la vida dame.

Sorry about the cheesy music;  couldn't find another clip without this. But what a great example of how we may have advanced technologically, yet culturally...maybe not. In 1943 pop culture strippers were whipsmart heroines, while today they're relegated to objects or tired plot devices. They're maybe holding a whip, but not so smart.

Les Dames du Boeuf Were the Boeufiest

Despite it taking over an hour to get a cab (!) I finally made it to Le Boeuf a la Mode for last night's swingin' soiree with the infamous Les Dames du Boeuf. The dames were as fetching, fascinating and well-dressed as advertised. One cute vintage outfit after another, oh, and the hairdos!  I was among many women who share my abiding love for the short bang. I don't know what the other patrons thought of the big, loud table of women sporting Eisenhower era frocks and Bettie Page fringe. Each of the women though had her own unique style and story to tell and I was thrilled to be with so many like-minded vintage vixens. 

After polishing off my 2 salads (I'm a vegetarian after all, no boeuf or rabbit sausages for Dixie) I had a plate of frites. Around dessert I regaled the poor, trapped ladies with The Cutest Story Ever Told ^tm -- the story of how I met my boyfriend which involves metaphysics, pricey underwear, philosophy, the New York Transit System, pancakes and adultery. It takes about 8 hours to tell and they were all very patient. I made it home close to midnight and Dr. Waffles and Lulu were mighty glad to see me, especially their bladders.

And here's my adorable palsy walsy, the cute cute cute Coco Doane, with me apres le Boeuf bash. She is hilariously showcasing my business card, whilst I look on, apparently, musing on man's inhumanity to man.

(And check out my groovy 50's "Try Your Luck" Las Vegas purse with  glitter and real dice.)

Let Us Eat Boeuf Cake

You can keep your Nobel Prizes, your Emmys, Grammys, Tonys, Sneezys and Grumpys; I am about to receive one of the highest honors known to dames. The Dames du Boeuf have invited me to one of their rarefied outingss tonight. Les Dames are a select group of groovy ladies who appreciate the finer, older things in life. These vintage vixens get together every few months or so to have some smart cocktails and dine at one of New York City's old-school boites. 

As their feature in the New York Times put it: "They favor places with a sense of history and glamour, even if the former is sketchy and the latter has faded. And they dress the part, donning vintage clothing culled from years of diligent thrift shopping. With their combination of appetite, style and moxie, they manage to resurrect and inhabit a bygone New York most of us know only from the movies." 

And, as if that weren't enough -- and let's face it, it IS -- the Dames even have their own insignia. I'm down with anyone or anything with an insignia. (I'm thinking mine would include a picture of a lipstick, a puppy, and maybe a stack of pancakes on it.) The insignia is "shaped like a heraldic crest...[and] features a fork and a knife, a cocktail shaker, a diamond and a "No squares" symbol. Many of the Dames proudly wear the emblem on a notebook, a wallet or some other accessory. The other marker is a medallion with a steer's head depicted on the front. (It was a part of the uniform Miriam Linna, a Dame member, wore when she waited tables at a Brew Burger in Manhattan in the 1970's.) At the conclusion of each outing, the medallion is awarded to the Dame who best exemplified the group's ethos that night." 

Anyway, my friend the preternaturally adorable Coco Doane is one of the beefy "dame-sels" and through her sweet efforts tonight they have seen fit to let me in on the action. As if eating weren't enough -- and let's face it, it is -- I get to meet some fabulous women who love les vielles choses as much as I. For once I won't be the only woman in the joint flossin' a wasp-waist and rhinestones. 

True to form, tonight's restaurant is charmingly antiquated; there's apparently no door, one has to be buzzed in. When I arrive I won't be a bit surprised if I see Anita Loos and Robert Benchley at the bar, telling me yes, I am in fact dead and I've arrived in heaven just in time for cocktails. Whee!

Faux-litas

In Britain, preschool girls can learn to strip with their very own Peekaboo Pole-Dancing Kits – complete with kiddie garter belts and play money. I shit you NOT. On both sides of the pond, first-graders can buy shirts emblazoned with slogans like "So many boys, so little time."

One of the reasons I wanted to write the book THE LOST ART OF BEING A DAME is the paucity of bona fide dames around these days. This is particularly true when I look at a lot of young women. I hope I don’t sound priggish when I say a lot of ‘em look like prostitutes. Those who know me are now thinking to themselves, “But Dixie, aren’t you normally a fan of all that’s tramp-y?” Well yes, because I am a fan of style; women of ill repute, and those who don’t give a flying fig about their repute, often dress more creatively, whimsically, and goddess-y than those of with shiny reputes.

But today’s faux-litas and ho-litas haven’t any style. (And a lot of them haven’t any panties either.) These tabloid-androids and their fans aren’t being creative, whimsical, or reveling in their divine feminine awesomeness. They seem to mistake flaunting their bodies with celebrating their bodies. But I doubt they’re even enjoying their bodies much; with so much pressure to be unrealistically skinny and simultaneously voluptuous, girls are striving for Barbie bodies and not much else. Today too many girls are single-mindedly pursuing a one-dimensional appeal that has nothing to do with substance or style.

In her new book, THE LOLITA EFFECT, Professor Gigi Durham criticizes the damaging representations of female sexuality today. She shines a bright light on the plethora of products aimed at very young girls, prepping them for the cradle-to-grave inadequacy and consumerism.

Neither Dr. Durham or myself are anti-sex. But selling sexuality to very young girls is actually anti-sex. It’s inauthentic, unhealthy, and Durham and I believe we have a responsibility as adults and shouldn’t abandon our little girls to navigate this territory on their own.

My Britches

This morning I was thinking about all the things I've been taught about not being big. When I was a girl, I'd often hear things like"Don't get too big for your britches!' and "Who do you think you are?" (Actually, I heard those exact things.) When I was in elementary school my parents would often tell me, "Don't be a Philadelphia lawyer." I wasn't completely clear on what that admonition was all about (I was, after all, like 8) but I got the gist; it meant don't argue, don't question, just accept things.

I learned my lessons well. To this day I've been terrified of doing or saying anything that might possibly construed by anyone (strangers, friends, passersby) as "being too big for my britches." I've literally been terrified of seeming not only arrogant, but its little sisters: ambitious, confident, assured, self-possessed. The line between feigning smallness and feeling smallness had become completely blurred for me. I knew, KNEW, that to get along, to be liked, to be not disliked, I had to make myself small. At the very least smaller.

No more. I'm done. It's still a big part of my psyche. It's still my default response, my go-to emotion, my comfortable way of navigating the world. But I'm interested in being myself. I'm ready to dame up. Yeah, it takes me out of my "comfort zone," WAY out, but that's where I aim to go.

What Would Maisie Do?

Maisie -- the unsung-est of all the unsung dames.

In the late '30's and throughout most of the 1940's, M-G-M produced a series of movies centering around the character Maisie Ravier. It was originally slated to be one movie, MAISIE, starring Jean Harlow, but Harlow's death meant that Ann Sothern took over. The character proved to be so popular the series went on to have 9 more follow-up films, including MAISIE GETS HER MAN, GOLD RUSH MAISIE, CONGO MAISIE, MAISIE GOES TO RENO, and my personal favorite, SWINGSHIFT MAISIE.

Ann Sothern is completely natural as this quintessential dame (rather than coming across as an actress playing a dame). The Maisie character is everything a dame should be: comfortable in her own skin, resilient, self-reliant, tough, soft-hearted, sexy, wise, and quick with a quip. Maisie was "a sweetheart with bite," writes Monica Sullivan, "She took no nonsense from anyone, was impervious to wolves, loved guys she could help in some way, was a great friend to other women: Who wouldn't want "Maisie" around?" She was so good at the character Sothern went on to play similar roles in DULCY and PANAMA HATTIE.

It's a shame that almost no one knows these films today. Though they may not be classics, Maisie provides a great lesson for women in how to negotiate the world. While she might struck some as being a rather unsophisticated model not worth emulating, I find her attitude toward life and the circumstances she encounters to be a perfect blend of idealism, cynicism, practicality, sentimentality, glamour and guts. I wish Maisie were my fairy godmother, or at least my next-door neighbor. But I'll have to settle for Maisie as muse, and use "WWMD?" (What Would Maisie Do?) as a touchstone for living life with verve, self-assurance, kindness, independence, and optimism.

We Must, We Must, We Must Think Hard About Our Bust

This just in: Apparently the most competitive domain name up for auction this week is (sigh): breastenlargementhypnosis.com.

Seth Godin sees this as horrible because of the trickery involved bilking hopeful girls and women. But I am horrified -- well, sad really -- that there is such a demand for bigger breasts. Again, I don't see ng>dames reclining for hours, eyes closed, brows knitted, intoning over and over, "bigger bosoms, bigger bosoms." (Anyway, if one COULD enlargen one's breasts through focused hope and diligent concentration, I'd have had ginormous breasts for the last 25 years.)

Do any of y'all remember Mark Eden? I used to tear out his ads when I was 9 or 10 and I came so close to sending away for his bosom boosting kits back in the '70's. (WHY is a fourth-grader reading Cosmo and tearing out as for bust-enhancing devices you ask? ng>Don't.) There was always some beautifully bosomed girl and lots of text promising results. I heard a rumor that some woman had ordered the kit and all she got in the email was a rubber hand. (I totally bought that story at the time, but now I'm suspicious.) At least I never actually bought the actual product. Luckily, even as a youngster I had my erstwhile twin faculties: cheapness and cynicism. Those 2 c's outweighed my hefty yearning for some, well, hefty C's.

After all these years I was intrigued to finally see what the thing actually looks like. So, it turns out it's not a magic pump or a magic cream at all. Just a pink piece of shit. Still, it is rather vagina dentata-ish...

Hmmm, I'd like to some-orafice-dentata that Mark Eden if I ever meet him in a dark alley. Mark Eden, you've been warned!

Hell, Meet Handbasket. Handbasket, Meet Hell.

Hey! You know what's really, really great about being a dame? You're not a bimbo, that's what.

For reasons I don't fully comprehend, and that make me want to smack somebody up 'side the head, there's this new popular online game for girls called Miss Bimbo.

“Stop at nothing to become the reigning bimbo!” So exhorts the game where girls try to make their avatars into the biggest bimbos "across the globe." Miss Bimbo is popular in the UK, with about 200,00 players, "mostly girls ages nine to 16” (mostly girls?) who are required to maintain their characters' weights with pills and crash diets. Plastic surgery isn’t mandatory, but it is encouraged.

This this right here, that's the confidence, self-reliance, sexiness and substance of a dame. And see that way, way, way over there. That's this horrible game. It might be funny as satire, except that these tweens are not playing with irony. I doubt its creators are all that ironic either. They are business people who saw a need and filled it.

What I want to do is wipe out that need.

Where Have All the Dames Gone?

I grew up watching and being inspired by the women I saw in those old black and white 30's and 40's movies. Women like Claudette Colbert, Ginger Rogers, Barbara Stanwyck, Myrna Loy, Paulette Goddard, Rosalind Russell, Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Jean Harlow -- all dames. Dames were self-reliant, they were funny, they were straight-forward (though they could bend the truth when necessary), they were smart, they were sexy, and they didn't take themselves too seriously.

Today, most of the women populating popular culture are vapid at best, and stark-raving nuts at worst. They're largely dumb, self-obsessed, substance abusing, promiscuous, lacking in self-respect and underwear. In fact, their stock in trade is actually BEING dumb, crazy, and promiscuous. (If you think I'm wrong, ask yourself: Right now, in 2008, what is Britney famous for? What is Lindsay famous for? What is Paris famous for?)

I miss dames. I want to see more dames. And I want to see more dame-ness in myself. When confronted with a situation or problem, I like to ask, "What would Myrna do?" When I find myself acting coy or self-abnegating or coquettish or simply "less-than," I confront myself with, "Is this how Barbara Stanwyck would do?" (And if the answer is no, I immediately "dame up.")

So I'm writing a book called, The Lost Art of Being a Dame. In an era when standards about what it is to be female are either cracked or creaky, I suggest we brush off the cobwebs and take another look at a model that embraces authenticity, independence, confidence, compassion, wit, wisdom, strength, sexuality and style. It’s time the “dame” was resurrected, and her unique blend of substance and style was newly celebrated and cultivated.

Part self-help, part memoir, part pop culture, part relationship and style, The Lost Art of Being a Dame encourages girls and women to really own the entire span of their feminine arsenals. Helping readers channel the “dame within,” The Lost Art of Being a Dame is a guide to the lost art of living life with poise, brains, gumption, and style.

I really want to hear from you. What are your thoughts on dame-ness? Is it a lost art? What makes a dame? How can one foster dameness in oneself? What are your favorite dame sayings, and who are your favorite dames?

In the meantime, let's all dame up.