Ms. Haiti

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beauty_pageant# 

Magdala was nerve-wracking for me to be around, a feeling that was soon shared by the entire small family business that hired her. She's tall, smart, pretty, and cultured; in short, she is exactly like every other gainfully-employed woman working in Manhattan and its environs, which caused her an enormous amount of distress. In Queens, she was just another Haitian-American, but something happened to her during her long subway commute into the city. She began to have dreams and visions of her self that she could market and sell to us as her co-workers, which was the exact job description she had, as so many of the marketing/acquisitions/sales staff who function as our support personnel and in-house cheerleaders. She is, to be succinct, a fan of mine, without being a friend or even particularly friendly.

At the time of her hire, she was "engaged" (or "enfianced" in Magdala's irritating patois that was designed to be "exotic") to a short, bland, and rather unattractive French man who's also a single father, which was absurd. She was better-looking than him, and as pretentious as she could be, that tall black girl ain't never gonna be no damn Parisian white girl, knowwhatimsayin'? Too many big white teeth in that large head of hers. She's "bougie" as fuck, fellas, but to so many Euros who drank the waters deeply from our American import t.v. show that now reads like a prolonged tampon commercial about boring yentas living (and sexing) in the city, she was just the ticket he needed to take to New York and our lifestyle here, like a pretty tour guide on his payroll.

His daughter was disastrous for her, too. She was blond, petite, and Euro-pretty, which means she missed her French "maman" the way I miss really good baguettes and appropriately-named croissants livin' in the 'burbs. Oh, well. Ain't nuthin' but a thang, right? Whereas the little Chinese girl of our house bookkeeper spoke broken baby "Engwish" to me and wiggled onto my lap in a record-breaking couple of seconds the first time she ever met me, this carefully-dressed girl of eight or nine spoke haltingly and bristly to a very nervous, buck-toothed, skinny older girl of about 28-34, also over-dressed for her role as part of our sales staff.

She was obsessed with her looks, too, making sure she rushed into my office to tell me "the good news" about her lunchtime experience with a former model's outdoor staff working the line around the block for her t.v. talk show in the nearby studio, asking her to stand in line for hours to try-out for the star's main show about amateur "would-be" models. Again, I was nonplussed as a native New York girl. Well, yeah, sure. You're tall and skinny enough. I mean, that's where it starts nowadays, before attractiveness and beauty. Fit the tiny clothes, first. Them little rich kids in Hollywood diet all the time. Also, how good do you look in pictures? She went into a fretful paranoia right after her initial bout of giddiness, which is not a good sign for any industry, particularly the extra competitive ones. My queries to her were brief and direct, because any really good art director knows I just don't have time for it while I'm on the clock.

She was less sure about her photogenic qualities ("Well, take some pictures. You have a camera, right?"), and her "prominent mole" (honestly, I hadn't noticed) that she felt sure would make her fodder for the people on the show. Well, that and her age. "Oh, they'd just choose me to 'make fun' of me." Yeah, well, if that's your attitude, then modeling isn't for you, because if this little brush-up freaks you out (where it's all about how you look and what doesn't look right), then the actual business of modeling is out because of your sensitivity to perceived criticisms, so I guess publishing was a better choice for you. End of story. I mean, really, where could you go with it? Rehabs are filled with insecure girls waiting for their next big break. Be a scholar!

But, of course, she was massively problematic in our equally competitive book program, questioning her every decision with an infamous defensiveness that was even more offensive when spoken in her hackneyed "Franche" accent that she put on for show. She was a generic drama queen, which is the absolute kiss of death in a town filled with the real deals "trodding the boards" never-so-lightly each and every night. An egotistical diva who doesn't make art...what the fcuk is that? I had no idea what to do with her in our company, and soon my co-workers filed complaint after complaint about her attitude, too. She was snippy and disrespectful, even "on paper" in our in-house emails, and keeping track of the written word is what we do best. Poor thing. She was on a short clock with us.

Within fairly quick succession, she broke up with her "Fiancee" (we weren't impressed enough by her overt "bling", I guess), had a bad affair with an actual good-looking Frenchman with his own media company who soon got his other French (and white) girlfriend pregnant right before Magdala quit our outfit to go work for him in Paris, but she didn't care. She was going to be "a star", baby! With his over-priced "Breakfast at Tiffany" books that were Euro-friendly and arty enough for his snobby coffee-table audience? Yeah, right. 

But, things had been going downhill for awhile. She began showing symptoms of our temperamental publisher's typical firing arc: too many sick days taken without advance notice, eating quickly through his 50/50 health insurance for her bad teeth and multiple gum surgeries brought on by anorexia and bulimia (that raises some red flags, even in New York, as a notorious food town), and then her too-gossipy friendship with our ferociously evil Jewish secretary sealed her fate at the business, forever, all of which I had warned her about during her first few months of employment.

At a company and a town as fucked up as Manhattan, not even a wanna-be media type like the kind who hides months without lunches, punctuated by the occasional fast food binge that's stuffed hurriedly into her mouth for publicity's sake in the company's kitchen (on recommend as a political tactic by the daft-idiot white-blond yenta aggressively manning the front desk) can sneak past us. Yeah, bitch. We know. It didn't work out the way you thought it would. Fantasies can be like that, though: brutal and cruel and quick, kind of the way I imagine most beauty pageants and their contestants are. In real life, I mean. Not theirs. Ours. The real thing. Living a real life is the only true thing we have on this earth, girl. Get some before it's gone.


For Mr. and Mrs. Jay, of "ANTM" fame: yeah, girl,  I saw you scoping me on the down-low while you was underground during my daily subway commute, wit ya reared-back head and "dah-yummmm, 'cuse me!" look on yo' face and your seven foot frame dressed in all black pretending to clutch at invisible pearls. I do know I look that good. And Mr. Jay, ain't nobody incognito at 6'5 with silver-blond hair gelled into spikes walking around Chelsea. That was an "off" day for me visually, BTW. I was on break from the office getting a lunchtime walk after too many years eating at my desk. Feel me? Yeah, you do. I know fellas too scared to approach a lady, even plush "shorties" like me :) Bahaha! Booyah!

The Suit Makes the Man

http://tinyurl.com/oz4a9vy

"Flava" comes in all shapes, sizes, shades, cuts, and styles. You can't pin it down like a fine fabric, but you know it when you got it, and when you got it, flaunt it. Hard. Some guys don't know how to feather their own nest, and that's okay, too. A great tailor and master suit-maker will make you feel like a million bucks, at a much better price. Don't believe me, kid? That's fine. 

Go find out for yourself, and see if you don't feel better with your waist tucked in and your shoulders lined up just right. Then, you'll say what they all say to me, one way or another, on some day soon, or way into the future: what does it feel like to always be right? 

To which I say this: it ain't right to be abused and havin' to fight your way to the top (yet again), but the view from here suits me just fine, because like you, I know exactly where I belong. Right up there with you, and nowadays the feelin' is fine, my friend. 

Enjoy the good life that's sweet, just like we do, ami. There ain't no betta gift than being the best you there is, the "you" you were always meant to be. Give the gift of your own self back to yourself. Go on. Shine!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Greenfield

Genie Jeggings!

Oh, yeah! I saw an ad for these on t.v.

Ever wonder if those "As Seen on TV" products for sale at the local drugstore are worth the money? Me, too! I've been wearing a lot of leggings and jegging-type pants lately because I'm more muscular then ever, which means additional mass on a petite frame like mine, that's still rather recent for me (read: MMA training and other physical arts). 

Sounds miraculous and life-changing at $12.99 a pair!

It also means most rough, stiff jeans are so chafing to me as to be almost unbearable, and they really haven't ever been flattering on a woman. They're designed for a man's frame. I know I've always looked better in dresses and skirts, and that's a lot for an active former tomboy like me to admit, but it's the truth. I have a fully mature woman's body. So, what else is there to wear?

They're actually double layered leggings:grey tights over spandex.

Enter a t.v. ad for a certain type of leggings that look like jeans (called "jeggings"), but are way more comfortable than the tight fit of a denim waistband that also presses a large metal button deep into your body, leaving grooves all over your body, especially when you sit in them for long periods of time. Aha! Genie Jeggings! I saw the ad, and went online to investigate. Uh oh. 

Oh...that's rather low.

I found users complaining about shady "scammy" type of behavior, with bad reviews, and/or poor customer service, no product returns, or not answering product-related emails and phone calls. Not a good sign in business, and besides that, if it's a bad deal, I don't want three pairs of the same shoddy product! So when I saw them on sale locally at a drugstore chain packaged as a single pair, I figured I'd try them out. They'd either work or not, just like any other pair of leggings or tights at a similar price. 

Ugh: the dreaded plumber's crack. That's not good...

And they do, if you like really low-waisted, tight leggings. In other words, you gotta have the body for it. They are not "miracle slimmers" as advertised on t.v., but for the average gal running around town doing errands, they're just fine: just don't wear them like ordinary jeans, with a short t-shirt. Treat them like a double-layered pair of leggings with a long shirt, and you're done! Because the inner layer looks like grey flannel, I'd also wear them in the Fall and Winter with boots and a long sweater, not in the damp heat of Spring and Summer.

...and you have to be in good shape to pull them off as replacement jeans.

Good luck, gals! It's a jungle out there, so give yourself a break today during your daily fight for truth, justice, and the American way. 

Wear something comfortable! You totally deserve it.

Definitely not like the box or on t.v.: no high slimming indigo waistband.

Ah! Much better when worn with a longer shirt.

Yep, better with coverage. I won't be followed around town!

The Vintage Tee

Still looks fresh!

Back when I was a kid, "vintage" did not apply to fashion trends like denim jeans and old prom dresses. "Retro" was not yet the Bettie Page hipster living in Williamsburg off daddy's dime, working a cheap, low-level design job. Antiques were things our parents bought from old barns upstate, found in dusty attics, or buried in basements with years of wear and tear on them that had to be lovingly and patiently removed. Same thing applied to my clothes. They were mostly hand-me-downs from my older brothers, because my parents bought me clothes a few times a year: right before the new school year started in fall, at Christmas time, and for a December child like me, it was also for my birthday. If I grew a shoe size during the interim, we may have made a special trip to Sears or Buster Brown's, a chain that made Mary Jane's and Oxfords for kids; not exactly "hip" by any means, but such were the times. I did not wear pricey Gloria Vanderbilt jeans in the 80s that became a huge trend almost overnight, because my parents argued that it was a complete waste of time and money to buy something we would outgrow so quickly, and they were right. 

Can't touch this!

So now, when I go through lean times (like the phase I'm currently in), I know what exactly to do, and that does not include tightening the belt on a pair of $500 jeans. Thrift becomes a habit, just like it was for my Depression-Era grandparents with their survival skills, as does the art of searching for what you need among the things you already have. I read an absurd tag line for an article some weeks back that said mending and tailoring old clothes is now back in style in England. Ha! When I was forced through economy to spend some time last year with a family member, I did so with my typical aplomb, along with my inherent sense of style. 

Lo and behold, there among my mom's old stuff in a musty, dark, drippy basement (which I cleaned for her, under her supervision, for a few days straight, wearing plastic gloves as I sorted through the mildewed cardboard and rotting wood), was a box of our old clothes from childhood, and then, like a flash of sunny daylight in the dank depths, there it was: the first ever MTV birthday t-shirt from 1982, celebrating their first year on air (and yes, I did see the first very first MTV video, The Buggles "Video Killed the Radio Star" with my brother after school one afternoon, in total awe) that our dad, who worked in the city for Time Warner Cable, brought home, along with promotional mugs, trade show tote bags, and the latest movie posters. And guess what? You can't buy it anywhere, you fucking hipster.

The Weirdest Show on T.V.

I submit to you, dear readers, that ANTM is the weirdest show ever to air on television. For those of you not in the know—and how dare you—it's "America's Next Top Model". And it is a long running show. 

You may ask yourself this question every time you watch an episode (as I do), between the cringing and head-turning embarrassment, for the judges and contestants: how does a bunch of "Zoolander" NY fashion-types rule the tube?

Because the host, Tyra Banks, has created this exercise in vanity to let you know that she is still the prettiest girl in the room. She creates these gawd-awful "challenges" for would-be models to try (and fail at), so that she, and her panel of judges, can make fun of them. First, she has to prove that she can "make it work", by posing in the challenge photo herself, then mockingly showing it to the young girls at their judging, like this fine example of bald Tyra. Most of the models looked like an absolute horror freak show afterward, but of course, TyTy already knew that, and so did we.

Tyra and her cronies also like to take perfectly fine-looking young ladies and give them ridiculous hair-dos. They hover around the girls, ganging up on them when they react poorly to the overwhelming situations they are placed in, constantly reinforcing the message that this is what "real models" endure. As they sit in the stylists' chair, wigs are painfully sewn onto their scalps, or their long locks are sheared off, as it is hammered into their heads over and over, that they must suffer for "fashion". Inevitably, one lost sheep starts to bawl, when she comes out of the "makeover" part of the show looking like a little boy. In response, they create a peer-pressure environment around her, telling her to grow up and quit acting like a diva, while they film their latest victims' meltdown.

Another surreal game they play with contestants is to place a beautiful girl in a twisted fantasy, just to see if she can "model through it". Here's a neat scene from a previously aired show, when they forced a girl to model with actual homeless people on a set, styled like a back alley nightmare, to capture "hobo chic". WTF?! Isn't fashion about selling clothes?

The next hat trick these cruel magicians perform is caking the girls in unflattering make-up, obscuring their natural beauty as much as possible, with the premise, once again, to see if she can "model through it". And fail at it, as they rip her to shreds, while high-ranking, imposing industry gurus sit behind an intimidating desk, on a raised podium, firing off at her. The girl has to shakily stand there in front of a line of them and take it, but not show any nerves.

If the girl currently up at bat reacts in any way that Tyra doesn't like, they criticize her into acquiescence. If another girl has too much sang-froid about it, they tell her she is an emotionless robot, creating a constantly shifting and uncertain landscape to maximize breakdowns, so they can film the results. Keep in mind, readers, that they are girls, between the ages of 18-21. The derisive"old" comments typically start when the young women on the show are 24 to 26 years old.

When a girl tries to defend her relative inexperience, Tyra berates her for that, too. She tells them how cool and tough she is compared to them, because she was a high-fashion runway model at age 14. Many of the girls have never been away from home, or outside of their small town. Tyra likes to toss that aside in her scathing "critiques" by bringing up her modeling experiences as a comparison. After a few contestants remain, she ships them off on an arduous journey to a hereto previously unknown destination (so they have no time to prepare), and crams them into tiny overseas hotel rooms, for a more "authentic" experience. They get maps in foreign languages, then they are sent out to navigate a new city and its unknown mass transit system, under a time limit, to get harshly judged at go-sees, their first. Often, they are not educated enough to succeed under these particular conditions. What a disadvantage!

The outfits aren't much better either, to go along with all that heavy, drag make-up. Where are the gorgeous, sumptuous designer clothes? Not here! This young model has to endure weird petals stuck to her head in a freaky sunflower tableaux, which represents, oh, who the eff knows. Model through that, honey! How about a bizarre hat three times too big for your head? Is that too challenging for you? Because I'm sure TyTy can dig through her archive and find a picture where she did it better than you ever will. Again, how dare you.

So, why do I watch it? Because I'm a New York girl, and fashion is a daily part of life in this town. The streets are our runways, and every major designer has a house here that has sample sales, with incredible clothes at major discounts. I also love photography, which is a part of my artistic routine. Models walk the streets everyday. They can be seen teetering on high heels, making their already tall frames even more so; skinny, pale, and extremely young, carrying portfolios under their arms.

In truth, it can be a rough life, and it is not for everyone. But for those hungry for that type of success, it can be yours, for a price. Strange as the show is, for some young girls out there, it represents their version of the "American Dream". Certainly, it does for the current crop of NY models, many of whom emigrate from very poor Eastern European countries. This is their ticket to a better life, and their families, so they'll take any shot at it that they can get. If you happen to come across the many, many reruns of this show during on a random channel surf, just turn the volume down, and check out the clothes in peace. It's much better that way.

 Go out there and strut your stuff this Friday!

And have a great weekend.