I was getting tired of staring at my unborn flowerbeds, so I jumped at the chance to attend the first day of the 35th annual Macy’s Flower Show on Sunday, April 5. The event coincided with a return engagement of the Petacular, a day of celebrating animals, kids, and a few other oddly mismatched but truly American traditions, including boy bands, Colonial Williamsburg, and of course, face painting. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to have so many different parts of my brain stimulated.
Nor could my dog, Turbo. We were up early to customize his monkey/banana costume purchased just the day before at Baby Gap. (We needed to cut a hole for his tail.) It was Turbo’s second costume party, and he now knows the initial humiliation of the costuming is worth it.
But before I tell you about the dog/catwalk on wheels, let’s take a look at the flowers. The Macy’s Flower Show is really quite amazing, and even you snobs who claim to have never set foot into the world’s largest department store should get over yourself and head for the garden miracle on 34th street. You have ’til the 19th.
It is a throwback to a kinder, gentler time, when Macy’s had a carriage trade. There are zones with tropical plants, European manicured gardens, topiary displays, and my favorite, the Bouquet of the Day. Sunday’s offering was a peacock made of orchids and feathers.
There are official tours of the show every half hour, and a horticulturalist wields a laser pointer and tells you names of species and areas of origin. Wait…is that right? Actual information and content? In a department store? Maybe there is hope for mankind.
But even more impressive is how Macy's weaves the floral promotion into all parts of the store. This is an old-fashioned store promotion, the kind where every department has to pay homage to the theme. (Bloomingdales was famous for theirs, often overdone, under the Marvin Traub tutelage. One year, near the end, the theme was Russian tsars, and I remember fondly the samovars in the fragrance section.)
Macy’s 34th Street windows displayed Vivienne Tam’s long flowery sundresses, quite chic, accessorized with nifty ($700) red floral HP notebooks. Outside the window were Murakami-esque characters, humans with giant inflatable heads. This was a new one on me. They were the Harajuku Lovers, the five new fragrances pushed by Gwen Stefani, for whom motherhood has not slowed the march of self-promotion one little bit. A five-fragrance sample card allowed us (I had two sophisticated women on hand as testers) to choose G—tropical, sunny, delicious, with a gentle note of coconut as the favorite. My judges voted Lil’ Angel—colorful, tasty, sweet—for elimination.
On the main floor, Dooney & Bourke has done an exclusive line of cotton floral bags with Vachetta leather handles, quite ladylike from a brand I now see on TV (and thus immediately dismiss). Worth a look.
On the Cellar floor, a mini theater was set up, and appearances are scheduled for flower powers Preston Bailey (April 17 and 19) and David Tutera (April 15 and 16). Fantasy tables were linked to tabletop designer names. Martha Stewart’s table used tropical leaves (so in now, but move fast they’ll be over soon) placed in large cylinders of water and limes, an arrangement done over a decade ago by legendary French florist Christian Tortu, who had a shop in the much-missed Takashimaya. Still a good look. But I couldn’t get behind Martha’s scalloped nesting bowls, in five shades of gradiated pink that were just a little too Fiestaware for me.
My favorite plates, though not necessarily a part of the cleverest table, were white heavy china with a lavender Chinoiserie print by Rebecca Moses, who comes to tableware from a fashion accessories background. Her contrasting purple and white polka dots were also chic, as were the plastic tumblers.
But Turbo and I were anxious to get to the Petacular, so we exited onto Herald Square, where Macy’s had shut down the crossroads for a wide-reaching family fun festival. I should mention that I worked on this event with my client Disney Publishing many moons ago. I brought my last dog, Hagar. Back then, like so many, the event got tired and was canceled. But I was glad to see it reborn. There are too few things like this in the city for kids.
Where to begin? Ah, with the pet registration tables first. Other people with pets decorated far more idiotically than mine were lined up waiting to take their turn on the elevated catwalk, which was really a flatbed truck with a green painted base. Once your pet was called, you and your pet would work it on the runway while three to four youngish and too casually dressed hosts gave audio commentary. One girl brought her hamster in what I would call a day dress. There were a bunch of single women of a certain age who had dressed to match their pets.
There was also a boy band alley, where Push Play was performing. Boy, did I want to Push Stop.
In the dog run, Turbo and I met the other city dogs, including the recent Westminster Kennel Club winner Stump, a Sussex Spaniel, who sat on a throne and was unfriendly, good breeding notwithstanding. There were a few weird dog stalkers, though, which I find to always be the case at city pet runs, so we kept our run short.
But while there, we watched the karaoke station, which seemed to appeal mostly to young girls who all sang the same Hannah Montana song. Next to the stage was a chipmunky looking thing encased in a plastic bubble. I can’t keep up with these new characters, can you? No sooner had I started memorizing the Power Puff girls’ names and superpowers then along comes a bunch of talking sushi. In an effort to keep up, I approached the wranglers of the giant inflatable dog from the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade that served as an umbrella to the fiesta.
“What’s the name of your celebrity dog?” I asked.
“Frieda the Dachsund”
“Teriffic. And what is the name of her book or television show?”
“She doesn’t have one.”
Thinking maybe she was a movie star who I’d insulted by mentioning the dreaded world of television, I tried a more open-ended line of questioning, “Well why is she famous?”
“From appearing in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”
It was almost time to wrap things up, but not before a parting glance at the Colonial Williamsburg station. Here, a forlorn fife and drum line lingered sadly on the stage, waiting in vain for a break in the sound shelling from boy band alley. Instead, we took in a demonstration of traditional wigmaking, which involved human, horse, and goat hair. Now let me just say that health codes allowing, wigmaking serves as an absolutely mesmerizing party entertainment. Even Turbo was fascinated.