Take Me to "The Wilhelmenia". No, Because You're 35, Ugly, and have a Bad Attitude.
2010 February 25
You know what I dislike? Worse than eggplant, radical Democrats, or Hitler?
Fake 35 Year Old Models from Hungary That Give Shit to The Boyfriend Because They Book a Fashion Shoot and (Surprise!) Look Old.
This past week we’ve been trotting around Manhattan doing a flurry of backed up fashion shoots that The Boyfriend has had scheduled for months. Wiping the slate clean for March. Getting crazy people out of our minds and inboxes.
Enter: The Former TV Star That Wants to Have a 3-Some. He’s a former client that shot with The Boyfriend nearly a year ago, and takes every opportunity imaginable to fish and re-fish our interest in having “a party” with a certain iRobot star. Wife swapping, man. Sounds great (and theoretically very flattering) but not… er, not really our style.
He settles into becoming a somewhat regular client, and shoots us an email during our busy shooting week.
“Have a friend coming from London, can you squeeze in / lookbook shoot?”
Sure thing, Former TV Star. Of course we can squeeze in a referral for you!
We find out she’s a model from Hungary, 5’11, startlingly blonde, and she’s coming over with her hunky cousin who won The Most Awesome Model in the Ukraine or something of the like. We schedule them for a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the day before we fly back to Los Angeles.
9 a.m., Tuesday, Studio. We’re in the middle of setting up… when two GIGANTIC individuals of ridiculously oversized appendage-proportions attempt to fit themselves through the standard-height studio door. This chick is not 5’11. She’s about 6’3, wearing five inch stripper heels a la Jessica Simpson, and looks about 40 years old. Her blonde extensions are Rupunzel-flung down to her butt.
Tossing her head haughtily, she looks around the studio with unnecessary scrutiny.
“This where shoot takes place?”
“I hope so, considering I have all my equipment here,“ chuckles The Boyfriend, looking at me and briefly bulging his eyes. She glares at us. I immediately simmer. We’re not only giving this “chick” a severely discounted shoot as a referral from an [eccentric] buddy of ours, but renting out extra studio space to even do the session with her! And not only is she unattractive and of no use to The Boyfriend’s portfolio… but she she thinks she and her 3rd world Botox are the #*!@.
“I suppose is fine,” she finally states, sauntering over to the window like she’s lost a hip joint. I raise an eyebrow.
“I am here for Ford, and The Wilhelmenia,” she says, gazing out at the rain — attempting emotional depth or Method or… whatever it was, I nearly snorted into my Starbucks.
“I have friends at The Wilhelmenia,” I mention lightly, walking over to the iPod player and restraining myself from subjecting her to The Greatest Hits of Cher and telling her it was Boyfriend’s required mood music.
“Gooood…” she turns, attempting a pose, her eyes flashing in sudden I-Can-Possibly-Use-You,-Little-Person interest. “You invite me to see them? I am very good at catwalk and posings in my country.”
Really. So your country employs over-the-hill, annoying, FAT, gargantuan Amazon women to flaunt ripped size 2s?
Not to be mean. Even with her height, this woman was like 180, easy. Considering runway models are 15 years old, underdeveloped, and weigh less than a stack of Staples copy paper…
“Of course.” I smiled. I actually did have a friend at Wilhelmenia. And she would put this chick in her place.
Twenty minutes later — the shoot proceeds to ‘happen’, and Ursula or Paprica or whatever the hell this woman’s name was pulls out tiny tanktop after tiny tanktop — I <3 New York tees — anything found in the Junor’s aisle at Macy’s — and poses like the mom on The Graduate would if she were a stripper and just recently tried LSD.
Three hours later — we finish, she pays (only after the assurance that she would be heading to Park Avenue directly after), and The Boyfriend and I are left in silent, disturbed wonder. We review the photos a few hours later — and surprisingly, The Boyfriend has managed to capture some really good stuff, all Paprica’s non-model factors considered.
The next morning, we receive a text message from her gargantuan cousin. ”We are very disappoint with the images, and no sign with Wilhelmenia” he states, “What happen now? Refund?”
We stare at the phone. Not only did Paprica not send the message (she gets her familial minion to), but we actually got GREAT IMAGES of this UGLY, FREAKISHLY LARGE CHICK, dealt with her personality for three hours, gave her a discount, and she’s still not happy?
The Boyfriend (being an artist) is distraught. I assure him it has nothing to do with his shooting style… but the fact that this… woman… could have booked the body double for Benicio del Toro in The Wolfman. Post transformation.
I’ve never been so annoyed or had such a severe distaste in my mouth for stupid, ungrateful, bitchy women who are old, unattractive, physically humongous, and should head back to the jungles of Hungary ASAP.
Wanna be a fashion model?
– Go back in time 15-20 years
– Get rid of your under-chin jowls and bad attitude.
– Get some lipo, buy conditioner for your knockoff Great Lengths
Then go talk to The Wilhelmenia.
Time for coffee.
– Ashley
2 Responses
leave one →
Hahaha…I LOVE the brutal honesty of your blog! It’s mean, and hilarious at the same time…my type of leisure reading material!
I was wondering, do you think you could perhaps give me a breakdown of The Boyfriend’s fees? (I’m in NYC) My boyfriend and I, by no means model-y looking, photograph like we’re tourists. For our anniversary this year, I was thinking about getting some professional pictures done of the two of us as a gift to him, something to frame in our apartment that is not another shot of us in front of The Bellagio, etc…
Does The Boyfriend shoot non-models with no prior posing experience?
You can email me if you’d like…and thanks for your time.
Keep up the good work with the blog!
“and poses like the mom on The Graduate would…” Now *she* was hot. She puts those 15-year old models to shame. Seriously.
