Smile Like You Mean It

The phrase is an homage to my mother, and perhaps some of the best advice I have ever been given.

My mother is from Panama, and a secluded part as well. But she was raised with the values that have been passed on to me: be good to yourself but be better to others, don't be a pest, if i can't lift something - get stronger, no whining, no frivolous laughter, and no matter what happens - put on a pretty face.

What she meant by that is - always show a pleasant face on the outside, and don't let your personal problems show on a frowning face, because you never know who you are going to meet at any given moment. People will want to be around you more if you are pleasant to look at.

I have seen this advice at work. My mother, being in a foreign country with 5 ankle biters who constantly bickered, and my father who worked alot to provide for the single income family, had very little to smile about at times. She had to smile through so many instances when i knew she felt differently: Company Christmas parties where she knew no one, and many of the other adults didn't understand her in her thick accent. Football games. PTA meetings. Camp Fire campouts. And everytime, in every single instance, my mother always came out as a really classy lady with the brightest smile that lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle.

This advice BY FAR has proven the most valuable, and has shaped the way people respond to me, and i to them. When i started working at 16 in the field of modeling, it was my mask. Smiling through scenarios and situations where I knew i was out of my depth and uncomfortable opened more opportunities and more people responded to me - i was always pleasant. A happy laborer. Someone who didn't mind working long hours, or being asked to do more... always with a smile on my face. Even in character on set with a serious look, the spell would be broken as soon as there was a small break and my smile would emerge like the sun after a quick rain. Here i am! Mona Lisa smile.

To this day - its the best thing i have learned in my life. I do enjoy my work, even after tromping for four hours through a leech infested jungle to shoot wild orangutans - my smile is there to show that i am having a good time, and its ok to have a good time too... my mother's smile.

Look ma! No leeches!

There were instances of course when i was not on guard. Once when i was working a holiday job in the Grapevine Mills Mall, i was managing a store kiosk. It was lunch, and i was not in my usual jovial spirits. Things were not great with my then boyfriend. It was the holidays so no modeling jobs, and another one of my employees quit out of job dissatisfaction. Family issues were weighing on me. And in full view of some 200 strangers who were shopping and eating and not noticing this skinny withdrawn tall girl who looked like she was going to cry into her lunch tray - 1 person did notice. i finished my meal, and a stranger approached me. He said, "Excuse me. You don't know me. But i want to give you something." He slipped me a piece of paper and walked away. I opened up the piece of paper and it read, "I'm sorry you are having a bad day. I hoped this note would cheer you up." I considered it for a bit. I looked around, but the man was gone. How could i have forgotten my mother's advice? Someone was watching and when my guard was down, they noticed me not smiling. I don't want to be remembered like that. I didn't want to make an impact like that. Immediately that little smile crept onto my face - and its been there ever since.

When things turn bleak, when arguments or conflicts at work arise, when friends' trials and tribulations weigh on my mind - my smile can disappear. After so many years of practicing it, my muscle memory in my face can pull right into it.

Is this to say my smile is fake? not at all - a smile can be a powerful thing. it can calm others in an intense situation, it can convey that i'm open and ready to listen to friends who have problems, and it always makes my son brighten as well. But it also can mask a secret, or cloud the exact truth. But it always always saves the day and makes a bad situation better.

So as difficult your situation may be, no matter if you really don't feel like it - you never know who is watching who can change your fortune. So always smile like you mean it.  :)

My Mama

Having too much fun with that gorgeous smile

Don't Mess with Texans

You know something that really grinds my gears: its meeting new people who think they already know me, either because they are from Texas, have been to Texas, or can spell it.

Case in point: in the last 2 weeks, i have found myself at events where i am casually seated next to or have a conversation with a stranger, and the conversation oddly enough, has progressed just like this:

"Hi, I'm so and so."
"I'm Linda, how do you do?"
"Great. So where are you from?"
"I'm from Texas."
"Oh! Texas! Which city?"
"It's a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. I'm sure you have never heard of it."
"Houston?"

Granted - Texas is an enormous place, and the natives penchant for tall tales and the everything-is-really-bigger-in-Texas punchline is taken very seriously. But Houston is HUGE by Texas standards, is not a small town, nor in the middle of nowhere. On the map above, it would be located in the country of Austria - and as point of fact, probably bigger than Austria too.

But here is my beef: Texans are a very proud people. We are so proud of being Texan, that we very rarely admit that we are in fact, American too.

But at least no one gets onto me for my accent. Being raised in a bicultural family, there was little chance i was ever going to develop a serious one. But i know what it sounds like, and when i hear it - its honestly like music to my ears. Just like spanish spoken from a Latin American (not Mexican tho - the accent is different) it just makes me want to listen, and i can easily fall into a trance. And i have been asked to mimic it on occasion - like i was a parrot. I do entertain, but usually for money, or for my own sordid amusement. So its hit or miss whether or not i will actually do it.

But i digress - i know these people are just trying to find a commonality with me. Some way to pass the time with pleasant small talk that are as light as the bubbles in our champagne. Words that have no weight or presence, nor staying power, to float above our heads and swirl away into the night sky. I find myself in the most beautiful and scenic of places, with crowds of people whirling about me, all of us drunk on company, or booze. And i have to rehash the same chat about being from Texas. 

No I'm not from Houston. Or Dallas. Or Austin. I'm from the middle of Nowhere... and its my own private place where my family and favorite childhood memories live. It's called Lorena, and being small in population does not in any way diminish its importance to me. 

More hilarious maps of Texas - all hail the mighty state!  :)

Another Post about Fashion Show

Singapore Fashion Fest 2007 - Aigner

Current mood:complacent

hello my friends and welcome to the first entry for Singapore Fashion Fest for 2007. Now i know that some of you are already models and have been subjected to the cruelties described herein, but if you are not a model and have not had the pleasure of being ridiculed, poked, stabbed, walked on, laughed at, stuffed into a size 0 outfit, or being called a "ponce" by a clearly flaming 5'2 rotund gay singaporean man who wishes he were a 6'2 anorexic woman - then i'll do my best.

now i've done my share of shows - being in singapore for over 2 years (and indeed, around the world for the rest of my long career) i've done EVERYTHING - and this year i thought would be just as horrible as last years travesty called Fashion Week. so i gracefully BOWED OUT. yes my friends, i took one for the team, i flaked, i simply EXCUSED myself from the whole affair altogether. no going to cattle call castings (these are where the ENTIRETY of southeast asia is invited to come to a massive casting for a fashion show. meaning if i had diegned to attend one, i would have to sit in a roomful of bitching models and guys who say its too hot and swiftly remove their shirts and do a handful of pushups to the delight of the teen models for a quick hook-up.. eeeeyewwww). No walking in high heels that strain by formerly broken ankle (and thus end up with horrible cramps in said foot for a night)
but then the agency calls - as the often do - and says, "Linda, you were requested to do Aigner show. Interested, can?" (can = yes in singlish).

sigh. of course i'll do it. i'm requested, which means i get to skip the casting process altogether and just go straight to a fitting and show.

time for the casting arrives! i go to a warehouse that i'm familiar with, and i try on some amazing clothes from the designer Aigner. very simple, yet futuristic, dark somber colors and the most amazingly high, frilly (yes FRILLY) boots i had ever seen. the first outfit was something actually a bit forgettable, judging by the fact i cannot recall it at this moment. the second was a purple shift dress with a copper jacket. no prob there. the third outfit was passed to me from another model who could not fit in it. well i have news for you - if she ain't gonna fit, chances are I"m not gonna! i was right. i put the pants on... there was no zipper on the side, and we had to pinch it together to see if it would close. let me put it to you this way: it WOULD have closed IF i actually ZIPPED an INCH of my HIP FAT INTO IT!

have you EVER done this? let me tell you, it is painful. when you are backstage, and some eager beaver dresser who has NEVER done a show before (the dresser of choice at sing fashion shows because they don't demand PAYMENT. no one learns this the first time.) zips you into a side zip right on your ribcage and you have NO CHOICE but to UNZIP and try again and NOT BLEED ON the heavily embellished gown???!!! oh... you haven't? oh... gee... let me assure it is not PLEASANT. i'm a bleeder... and a crier too.)

anyhow...
i thank the ladies (they are lovely) and head home, happy that the fitting went reasonably well.

ok SHOW TIME!!!

The aigner show as one of the ones done on opening day. I go to check my clothes (all good trained runway models check their clothes BEFORE the show to make sure that they fit and there is no damage that you can be blamed and docked payment for later...) and there are those damned pants. with a zipper. i start to sweat. i can feel my hip fat start to prick a little with anticipation... i reach for them and put them on.....
THEN.... SNAG!!! THEY DON'T FIT! I CANT' GET THEM OVER MY LOWER THIGHS!!! apparently when a new zip was sewn in, they made the pants SMALLER by 1 inch!!!!! NO WAY could i fit in that!!!

sigh of relief! my hip fat has stopped tingling and relief floods my system. excuse me, Jack (choreographer) these pants don't fit! yay!!!

there was a tiny little size 0 model who was wearing a flaming red gown that was STUNNING, but looked on her like she was little more than a glorified coat hanger. not so nice.

"say, jack... she looks tiny enough for these pants..."

i was just trying to offload the pants, not take over her dress. but instead of me going down a change, i was then given this gorgeous red dress. by the way - she was unhappy with me, but the pants fit her like a glove, and truth be told, they were a little too big for her.

and i get to OPEN the show with this gorgeous red dress!!!

such is the fortune of fashion week. unintentional, and i got rave reviews from the audience. i was happy for that.
wanna see????

click below for your own upload....
http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/51584040/?qo=11&q=singapore+fashion+festival+2007&qh=boost%3Apopular+age_sigma%3A24h+age_scale%3A5

Fun from the Past

I have been looking for a place to start a blog, as i've had a few starts and stops before: but since most of my time is spent running around after my son, i'm going to have to start with a few gems from another blog site that i have and have since abandoned it.

They are good stories from some experiences that i've had backstage.

Enjoy.

WHY AM I MAD??! (from Oct '06)

but seriously folks, why am i spitting nails mad?

i'll tell you...

it was a dark and stormy night... - actually i had just gotten off the plane from bali and i had to rush like mad to get to the ritz-carlton for a fashion show for all the IMF people who had flooded this little island that i now deign to call home. oli was going to meet me to bring me all i needed for the show - my black pants and my shoes.

my darling shoes. 3 pair that are my little saviors for my fashion shows. they go with everything under the sun that a designer is going to throw at me last minute: a pair of black stilettos that would qualify as a dangerous weapon (about 5 in heels), my gold studded bcbg pair that scream "i'm a facking QUEEN and i dont care who knows it", and... my new Singapore brand silver heels - glittering and bright, they are the only pair i have that is under 5 inches and more than 2. so they made the cut. plus they are easy to slip in and out of - and when you are running backstage and have to change in 30 secs or less, these are genuine lifesavers.

so i hurry backstage. as usual, i'm the loudest ( i AM an american!), the most experienced (14 years under my belt and going for big bad I-hope-i-at-least-get-a-gold-watch-for-this 15 )- and the oldest.

i mean the other girls are BABIES. some are even half my age! honestly, its enough to make me consider retirement, but when you have the reputation for opening and closing shows with finesse, and showing these "girls" how its done - i have expectations to live up to. and i can't say no.

so i walk backstage, sizing the girls up - really trying to get a feel for them. i smile a lot. i meet a lot of pouty looks back. i ignore those. i hear alot of romanian, brazilian portuguese - and once in a while, english. so i gravitate to those girls.

as asked oli brings my accessories and i place them on a table. thanks sweetie.

then - the interviews - yes i give interviews. why? because i'm good at them. but probably more to the point: i'm the only one who speaks english. and loudly, i think i already mentioned that.

anyway... the show begins and i'm dressed by an army of ladies who treat me like a mannequin in a store window. i'm opening the show - so more attention is paid to me. my tummy is bruised from harsh fingers forcing a gorgeous sari into my waistband. yeowch. pull my hair. force earrings in my ears. twirl me around. it is brutal.

but a good seasoned model knows what she is wearing. its a sari for chrissakes. simple. i had about 3 more saris in the show, and 4 other outfits. i had my shoes laid out.

during my 3rd change i knew i had to change shoes to my silver beauties to match the outfit i was wearing. when i raced to my pile to retrieve them - they were missing.

i yelled for them like they were going to come out from under the racks of clothes and let me scold them for running away. then... the cold realization... they had been abducted.

i go backstge to wait for my turn, now distracted by the fate of my favorite shoes. i find them alright. perched on the fat feet of a non-english speaking pouty lipped 18yr old girl from brazil. or romania. i'm not sure which.

so i point at her and say - my shoes! before i'm thrust back on the catwalk and there i go... midsentence about those damn shoes.

a few seconds later i am racing backstage throwing clothes from my body as if they were on fire and getting more clothes back on... i pass the girl again. i point to her feet and cry, "those are my shoes! you COW!"

the last insult was hurled because she gave me a look. you know the look. the narrowed eyed, glare of ignorance, but petulance all the same.

at the end of the show i have a press junket, fotos, video, general schmoozing.. all the while in the back of my head i'm wondering if she walked out with my shoes still on her stinky feet. finally when all that is over, i hurry backstage - ready for the inevitable confrontation.

but all i found was a pile of clothes with my gorgeous shoes, somehow dulled of their sparkle, lying in state on the floor. used, abused and discarded. i slide one on my daintier slender foot... and it had been stretched beyond what will stay on. like it had been molested, raped, and left for dead right before my eyes... and i was powerless to stop it.

this is why i hate working with little girls. granted this little girl was an amazon compared to me, i still have to deal with their ignorance. they will NEVER have the opportunities that i have had. they will never achieve what i have achieved in this business. so when i'm slighted without even asking to borrow my things or even a gruff thanks for my baling them out of trouble, i get a little upset. no. i get mad. mad enough to spit nails.

oh i still have the shoes. they are recuperating at the bottom of my models bag, fondly wrapped in soft sacks so they won't get dirty. just like before the rape at the show. they are the reminders that working in this business is like that experience - to be used and abused and eventually... thrown away.