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.