Take Me to "The Wilhelmenia". No, Because You're 35, Ugly, and have a Bad Attitude.
2010 February 25
2 Comments
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
I love it when random people you haven’t seen, heard of, or spoken to since the FOURTH GRADE suddenly get bored one day and Facebook stalk you.
Within the course of twenty five minutes, they’ve suddenly friend-requested, messaged, and subsequently IMed you (I would like to spit venom at the person who developed the IM capability of Facebook, by the way — more access to me when I just want to drink wine and eat cookies? Leave me alone!)
This happens to me this evening. I’m enjoying exactly the aforementioned delights — WINE and COOKIES. I get the annoying “tock!” sound, like someone popping a finger in their cheek or whacking a small hammer against a block of slightly damp wood:
“Hi Ashley!”
A message from Frank Trundlemuffin*. My boyfriend from (literally) the FOURTH GRADE. We both went to Catholic School together. I remember holding hands during mass one day after school — then throwing up in a pew.
Vomit-induced memories aside… WHY are you contacting me NOW?
We begin chatting, and I grow more and more frustrated that my attempt to watch The Dutchess is being foiled by having to answer random questions from someone — not to be mean — but someone that exactly doesn’t catch any light in the facets of my existence anymore.
I answer politely, concisely, and attempt to end the conversation. I contemplate signing out of Facebook. But Frank seems far too excited to be chatting about Life together. He asks about my parents. I “ask” about his. I watch more Dutchess, grinding my Ginger Snap with increasing irritation.
FINALLY — after a long inquisition (paralleling my observation that Kira Knightly has a serious underbite) as to what I’m doing with my life (answer: not stalking people I used to trade “Do You Like Me, Check Yes or No” notes to, but that’s just me). People with too much time on their hands, man. Or perhaps I’m just way too cynical. Probably both.
Time for more wine. Goodnight!
– Ashley
Wednesday, 10:07. The Boyfriend’s Sister’s Brooklyn Apartment.
Minutes since waking up: 12. Sips of Coffee: 19.
This morning, I was awoken by the weight of a large, odorous object being slowly lowered down across my abdomen. Startled, I waited a few seconds in calculated, ridged stillness… then shot straight up — flinging the offending Thing far away from my expensive Victoria’s Secret purchase-clad-body.
I forgot. I was in Brooklyn. The Boyfriend’s Sister has a dog.
The Boyfriend also happened to be up. As the film of sleep cleared from my eyeballs, I came to realize he — and Sister — were both standing in the bedroom-area of her graciously lent Studio, silently wondering at my odd behavior, and her recently flung mammal.
Ugh.
As they brewed coffee and conspired in muffled tones (as I lay in bed, awkwardly, wondering how to get out as I was barely covered in anything but lacy lingerie), I pretended to fall back asleep. As I did, I unintentionally listened to the conversation that ensued:
Sister: I am so hungover, man.
The Boyfriend: Why?
Sister: Wanted to Piss Bob* off. Came home at 2:30 waaasted. He’s pissed. Yes.
I mulled over this logic. Understood it. Had implemented similar strategies in the past.
When The Boyfriend finally left to go shoot some woman in her underwear all day (fashion model from Holland, great), and Boyfriend’s Sister left the apartment to go walk The Mammal, I extracted myself from her [wonderfully fluffy] Pottery Barn sheet set, threw on respectable clothing, and shuffled over to the Krups Coffee Making Wonder.
As I brewed, I pondered. The things we women do to in relationships.
Now — I’ve been with The Boyfriend for close to three years. Granted, we had The Separation for a few months (realistically, weeks) last year… but we’ve been going strong for quite awhile.
This is going to sound absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably retarded — but it bothers me that The Boyfriend still lists his relationship status on Facebook as “Complicated”.
I know I know I know how that just sounded. And I feel like my IQ has been forcibly dropped several points for just admitting it out loud. And more on the Retard Scale of Life? After finally voicing that it was kind of odd a week or so ago…. after The Boyfriend kept loudly wondering why (upon coming back to New York for a few weeks) women from his past kept sending him messages about getting drinks… going to dinner… hanging out…
“Because you ‘read’ single on Facebook,” I stated bluntly, over carefully taken bites of a Cheerio.
“Oh. I don’t even check that,” stated Boyfriend, “and it’s good to look kind of single for apperances.”
Whatever. I told him to do what he wanted. I used to play that game, too, and I did it wonderfully well.
But now? I’m spending my Morning Coffee Time to actually write A BLOG as I’m contemplating — just to tick Boyfriend off and additionally reprove him not not noticing my awesome lingerie for the past WEEK — whether to change my status, too.
AND in actually writing that — I’m going to go take a cold shower and remove the #&$@-ing Facebook app from my iPhone. Sweet jesus.
Good morning!
– Ashley
Wow. So a friend of mine runs a PR company that I helped establish (do the webdesign, help out with marketing, etc) that is targeted towards actors. The amount of money they charge is a pittance compared to any of the other PR companies in town (100 bucks, 200 bucks, compared to the thousands upon f-ing thousands demanded — and rightfully so — by 42West, Workhouse, etc).
Here are the keywords highlighting the initial business-model mistake of this friend: working with actors, working with actors for $100, marketing to the Crazy Actor Demographic.
If you provide something insanely beneficial but undercut yourself and your prices — naturally, the resulting clientele will be 95% out of their damn minds.
They’ll be overdemanding, call you at all hours of the evening wondering why the shitty reel they put together isn’t getting press (clue: you’re a terrible actor and you produced it yourself), and then when they DON’T get attention on a red carpet (clue: you’re not attractive, you have no real credits AND you’re crazy) they’ll send you a four page email about the things they’d like to do to you / your company / your physical well being, etc.
Actors, man. I’m an actor. But I’m finding out… as I help out friends who start companies like mine that target this insane (albeit interesting) demographic — we’re all @*!$-ing nuts. Not to knock us all — I have a select group of relatively sane Broadway and television friends that are actually working on projects that mean something… real actors… but the majority of this industry?
Go Meisner-kill yourself, already.
Sincerely,
Ashley
Ashley
Okay. So if I’m sitting in a Starbucks, holed up IN THE CORNER with my laptop — brow furrowed in intense, I’ll-eventually-need-Botox-screw-you concentration – obviously, quite obviously, I don’t want company. Communication of any kind. My angry black leather jacket and body language, in any way you Star Magazine slice it, reads LEAVE ME ALONE.
But no. As I’m in the middle of Photoshopping the graphic for my newest entrepreneurial venture — and only halfway through the coffee that will eventually render me remotely civil to the rest of Starbucks kind — some rejected extra from the 80s version of Gulliver’s Travels saunters up.
My eyes barely flicker from the toolkit of CS4. Go. Away. Asshole. I silently chant to myself.
Keep in mind The Boyfriend is presently out shooting someone (fashion versus killing spree), and I have this woman’s crap around the Starbucks table and my feet. You actually had to STEP OVER half of the contents of her Studio apartment to access the other chair.
Gulliver stands there for a good five minutes, shifting his weight indecisively and occasionally clearing his flem-filled throat. Finally, just as I’m in the middle of a one-pixel-wide effort to remove an under-eye bag, he speaks.
“Eafreuahm. Can I… fish, sit?”
What the fuuuuck, I silently yell at myself. I look up. Once, and briefly. ”Uh…”
Manhattan Ashley kicks in. I continue working.
He keeps shifting.
“Menh… yes! May I sit? I— fish.”
I’m so confused at the antics of this odd human being that I look up, again, and stare at him in the face.
“Sure.” I stated, flatly. Nobody sensical would have sat. I might as well have said “I’m going to murder you in your sleep with a fork.”
He bobbed his head, taking a large step over the three pieces of luggage that formed a moat around my solace. Nearly tripping on a large blue hat box, he sat.
He looked at me. I glared back at him, and — without blinking — slowly slid my computer toward me with only my forefingers.
“You don’t — ehaiifahg (cough) — have to mouv’it.”
I didn’t answer. I looked down, and continued working. I allowed my fingers to ram the keyboard with every stroke.
None of the hints worked. He continued sitting there for THREE HOURS, attempting to make small talk to the front of my head as I silently ignored him, built things in PHP, and wrote some stuff. I went through four Green Teas (did you know Starbucks now charges you $2.45 for a teabag and WATER?!) before I finally gave up and called The Boyfriend.
The shoot promptly ended. The Boyfriend came to the rescue, his client in tow. She carefully extracted her hat box from beneath Gulliver’s knobby (still immobile) legs.
It wasn’t until I got up to go to the bathroom, leaving The Boyfriend and Boyfriend’s Client standing over the table — that the guy finally put down his crossword, slowly ripped the black and white box parts from the paper — and placed them over my open laptop. His number was scrawled in each box. Roses littered the margins.
He then got up, and left.
Jesus. If I knew I’d attract men by killing them slowly with my mind while sipping overpriced Chai, I’d have stayed single for longer.
Time for a cup of wine.
– Ashley Avis
Oh sweet jesus. You know how sometimes when you drink several Guinness after a forcibly watched women’s UCONN Basketball game — you might unintentionally slip into a state of vegetable and randomly Google yourself?
I’m hardly ever surprised anymore (between the nation of Ghana publicly hating me after Miss Teen Universe ’03 and a having a porn star with a very similar Google name) … but today I found something I actually wasn’t aware of.
Enter my sixteen year old self getting brought in to audition for a TV show — booking it — having the old host suddenly get fired — and suddenly being thrown into an IndyCar Series race 24 hours later to interview (and er, eat cheesecake with and… er, eventually date) Indy500 winner Dan Wheldon, Danica Patrick, and Tony Kanaan. Makes me miss the lack of pores and fabulous hair extensions of the younger years.
Enjoy.
tony kanaan and ashley avis
February 20th. 10:51am. Minutes after waking up: 4. Gulps of coffee: 1
Woke up about four and a half minutes ago to something utterly and extordinarily delightful. Usually I’m like dealing with one of those petstore Feed The Mouse to the Snake rodents in the morning. Confused by the light, two seconds away from biting you, and infused with an understandable immortal cynisism.
One thing awesome about my morning, however — as I stumbled into the kitchen, glaring at things — was the realization that it’s pretty awesome to have The Boyfriend. I mean, just in general. The Boyfriend does stuff for you sometimes. The Boyfriend has a practical application to everyday, make-things-easier Life.
For example. This particular morning I threw on my gigantic purple ski socks, shuffled past the coffee maker, and it was as if Edgar Poe himself reared up from the half-empty Starbucks bag an announced that his Raven would be personally concocting my Mocha.
The Boyfriend had brewed coffee. The Boyfriend is useful.
List of Other Things The Boyfriend Is Useful For:
- Making coffee
- Sex
- Petting my hair when I eat MSG.
- Fighting with gigantic bouncers when I get drunk and belligerant and insult them
- Kissing
- Telling me when my outfits look like Star Wars
- Insulting people I don’t like by sending them singing telegrams
- Proof reading my It’ll-Make-Me-Feel-Better I HATE YOU, DUMBASS!! emails to clients / employees / etc.
- Sexy stuff.
- Pretending to be my assistant when I’m actively avoiding creditors
Yeah. The Boyfriend is pretty cool. I’m going to go jump on his bed with my coffee and wake him up now. Good morning, Saturday.
– Ashley
Okay. I have two INSANE, can’t-sit-still-for-desire-to-vomit and/or sprint out of the ROOM while glaring at you — absolutely unresolvable pet peeves.
One is the general concept of chewing. I have to actually restrain myself from physically maiming someone — even The Hot Boyfriend — when someone decides to, you know, stand over you, sit directly next to you, get within about six feet of you and stand there blankly staring at the wall doing nothing for society and CHEWING. Munching. Grinding their stupid teeth on whatever piece of lard they happen to have immediate access to and having that SOUND reverberate in your EARLOBE.
My second biggest pet peeve isn’t ridiculously off-base from the first… but deals with individuals who also STAND OVER YOU either staring at THE AFOREMENTIONED WALL or talking TO A SIBLING while eating something large and fluffy that takes forever to consume and generally fills the oral cavity almost completely. Then they proceed to converse. Nonono… not only converse, but continue on nonsensically for HALF AN HOUR while you are attempting to work and potentially do something productive instead of talking with your mouth insanely full of Costco-sized marshmallows or a loaf of bread or last week’s homogenized LASAGNA.
Face Stuffer: “You didn’t even (stuff face, stuff stuff) recognize Jeremy, did you?”
Sibling: “He’s taller. He looks angry to me.”
Face Stuffer: “Yes (stuff stuff) he’s got (stuff) a (stuff) bad (stuff stuff stuff) attitude”
Sibling: “Maybe deep down he’s like, I Don’t Wanna be a Christian. I Don’t Wanna be a Carpenter”.
Face Stuffer: “Maybe he’s like (BIG STUFF) oh shit.”
…
I desperately need coffee.
– Ashley
Well if this one goes down, I’m screwed.
American Airlines flight 203 from Miami International to LAX. Finally going home. Finally.
However, printing out my boarding pass after a foiled attempt to upgrade (calling the airline when you’re in the back of a line of 30 trying to do the same thing you are is theoretically very crafty, until some wheezy chick named Arlene tells you that you aren’t a preferred “AAAdvantage Member” and unworthy of first class upgrading), I was placed in seat 32A.
Back of the plane. Window seat. Ugh.
I suppose it could be worse. I could be fated to a middle seat at the VERY back in row 39, in between a cueball bald gangmember type and this gorgeous African American woman I’m 95% sure is a vampire. I stood behind her on the breezeway. She has acrylic toenails. I’m not sure what else could possibly be a sign.
However, as I made my way down the aisle — past the coveted First Class rows and the oversized, square-shaped grey glory of the actual person sized seats — I suddenly noticed something amazing. Spectacular! Mind-blowing, even.
Wait for it……
The coach seats. Had. PILLOWS.
Pillows! With mini-blankets! Awaiting our bottoms to mistakenly sit on them while trying to lodge our Second Personal Items beneath the prison seats and balance a Chai Latte at the same time!
I stared at my pillow-mini-blanket set and all of it’s shrink wrapped wonder. ”Hello,” I murmured softly, carefully plucking it from 32A’s scratchy cloth seat and depositing it onto my lap. ”You do exist…”
There’s an airline out there that still gives you pillows. I could see a unicorn now and be significantly less astonished.
Now if they would only serve me a damn drink…
Severely deprived of an Adult Beverage, Ashley Avis
12.15pm, Monday. 7-8 minutes early. We’ve finally landed in Miami International, an airport I’d graced once before at age 18, attempting to fly from a tragically ending Miss Teen USA pageant to my Tampa senior prom.
Flying middle seat in a 17-pound white faux-Swarovski prom dress? Next to a vomiting baby? Not advisable.
I’m headed back to LA after an astonishing nine days with my family. Holidays are officially over, and I’m rendezvousing with Hot Significant Other at LAX. Five hours of Pricelining, Travelocity-ing, and Kayaking later — I was able to not only schedule our flights to arrive within ten minutes of each other, but craftily convinced a Delta agent (oh, you morons) to waive the Random Last Minute Fee and utilize my I-Hate-Delta-Anyway 42,000 miles to cover my significant other’s overpriced ticket from New York. Saved a cool 190 reticketing + taxes + actual person phonecall with that one.
Silly Delta.
Landed in Miami International, which is essentially an idiot fest of massively overweight families dragging even more massively overweight offspring. Half of these Fat Child Things carried some kind of food item that would inspire even more obesity. I ogled the post-Christmas ridiculousness. Our world has really come to this, hasn’t it? Yes, Ashley, yes it has.
Deboarding, I tugged my delightfully happy (purple) Liz Claiborne carry-on behind me, swishing my hair (I’d actually washed it pre-flight), and pausing to call Dad about a marketing idea. I glared as another Fat Offspring Product rolled his 2-ton bag over my freshly polished boot.
I needed a drink.
Stashing my iPhone away, I began trekking down the D gates, eyes narrowed and searching for anything resemblant of a bar/pub/shitty restaurant-with-full-bar — anything. Au Bon Pain… no… Harry’s Country BBQ… hell no… CocoBay… yyy– no alcohol, damn it… Random Generic-Looking Martini Bar Randomly Next to Gate D37! Perfect.
Increasing my speed (being wary of the slick undersole of my new boots, I’d tripped three times already — contemplated fake lawsuit, deferred), I eyeballed and concentrated on the only available hightop table, situated conveniently at the end of the bar area and away from all of the annoying tourists connecting to their annoying Midwestern connections. Faster, I willed my gray knee-highs, faster faster faster… almost theeeere… BASTARD!
A (literal) monster of a man lumbered over to the Stool of Refuge, somehow rolling his mass over one side of the lone seat and sitting. It was like watching the blob consume a building.
I squealed to a halt, eyes flashing. I could even tell that my ridiculously happy new carry-on was pissed. And it’s freakin’ inanimate.
Two more children — semi-liquid food of some sort smeared barbarically across their faces — skidded by me, screaming.
Need. Liquor.
Looking helplessly around for another seat, even one at the bar, there was absolutely nothing to be had. Similar angry looking traveling regulars (we should really form a clan) stood at the outskirts of the Martini bar, waiting like alcohol deprived lions.
I gave it about eight seconds before turning on my heel, making a (surpassingly graceful) pirouette on the slick terminal floor, and marching back toward gate D40.
“At least I washed my hair this morning,” I grumbled under my breath. There’s nothing worse than being in an airport, needing a drink, and feeling like a heaping pile of unattractive crap on top of it all. I suddenly remembered the sudden blemish on my forehead that had appeared venomously overnight, and felt even more sour. I wanted to shove all the ridiculous sweat-pant-wearing youngsters and steal their Uggs.
Okay, that’s a little angry. But anyway.
“NOW. BOARDIIIING… First Clazz!”
I’d continue ranting about the Morons Within, but they’re calling us to board the next death bird. Till a politically incorrect next time.
– Ashley Avis
AshleyFlies.com – A Blog of Toils, Travel, and Vehement Hate of DELTA.
