why don’t you come to my house?” I offer boldly. If Shalimar wants a pillow fight, let the goose feathers fly.
“You haven’t seen my portfolio, but you want me in your house?” he counters coyly.
“Rewind. This is prequel to a sequel, hopefully. I said
come
to my house, not
be in
my house. And bring your portfolio if you want. We’re having a preinterview strategy meeting,” I explain, then hit him with the time and locale like a professional house leader.
“Okay, your crib, I got you,” Ice Très says, accenting his nod with another wink.
I try to pretend that I’m just scouting talent, which I am—
sort of
.
Meanwhile, Aphro’s trying to suppress a smile, butIce Très’s goofiness is even melting her sugar cane shell, not that she’ll admit it. “That’s a
lot
of winking and blinking, if you ask me,” she says, and hmmphs as we exit the apiary.
“Who’s asking?” I gently nudge Aphro down the stairs and squeal,
“Showgirls!”
Last Saturday night we all watched this
scandalabrious
movie on TV at her place about two competing Las Vegas showgirls prancing around with the most awesome plumage on their heads. Anyhoo, one of them pushes the other down a flight of stairs to secure star status in the show. Sure their ways are wicked. Just like the fashion biz.
“Well, it could lead to a hoodwink, that’s all I’m saying.” Aphro continues. I ignore Aphro because I’m feeling hyped by the fact that Ice Très accepted my prescreening invite. “Purr points. He’s good.” I giggle, marveling at Ice Très’s dead-on imitation of
moi
. “M.O. to the I.”
Aphro and I head to the job board for more cold calls, but after fifteen calls, “chilly” would be a more appropriate word.
“What a buzz-kill. Don’t they know I’m the leader of the House of Pashmina?” I gripe to Aphro while I force myself to keep dialing for dollars.
Finally
, we get an appointment at Loungewear Lulu, a flagship boutique on West Broadway off Grand,which manufactures its own line of leisure and loungewear—or so explains the nasal person on the other end of the phone.
“I’ve never heard of this designer before. Have you?” Aphro asks me, twirling one of the feathered ends of the sequined purple lariat artfully wrapped three times around her long graceful neck, setting off the short, chic, sharp lines of her Cleopatra bob.
“No, I can’t say I’ve seen Lulu riffing about ruffles on the Teen Style Network,” I declare, “but that’s what I dig about the fashion biz—another day, another designer.”
Chenille walks past us, barreling toward the exit. “Hey, Chenille. Was you at the pose-off?” Aphro asks.
“No, but I gotta
pose my way
to a client,” my showoff sister announces proudly.
“Well, sashay to a payday,” I suggest sharply. Chenille takes my hint and saunters on her merry way. Secretly, I feel a twinge of Gucci Envy that my younger sister is snagging ducats before I do, but I say, “I don’t understand how she plans to get into one of the houses if she can’t even represent at the pose-off.”
“I know. It’s
unbeweavable
,” retorts Aphro.
“Bet this. I won’t be calling on Shrek’s secret assistant to be in my house—and she can take that to Banco Popular,” I sassyfrass.
My cell phone does a ringy-ding. “It’s my mothercalling again.” I assure her that I’ll be home by six o’clock to let Mr. Darius in to fix the toilet. But I protest, “You think he coulda came this morning?”
“Never mind that. It’s not like there was anybody home who needed to
use
the toilet,” my mom gripes in the agitated tone she gets when she deals with Mr. Darius.
“Well, it’s a good thing Fabbie didn’t have company,” I joke, but Mom is not in the mood, so I quickly change my iTune. “Don’t you want to know where I’m going now?” I ask teasingly, then blurt it out before she responds. “I have a job interview in SoHo!”
I should have known, however, that my mom
“You haven’t seen my portfolio, but you want me in your house?” he counters coyly.
“Rewind. This is prequel to a sequel, hopefully. I said
come
to my house, not
be in
my house. And bring your portfolio if you want. We’re having a preinterview strategy meeting,” I explain, then hit him with the time and locale like a professional house leader.
“Okay, your crib, I got you,” Ice Très says, accenting his nod with another wink.
I try to pretend that I’m just scouting talent, which I am—
sort of
.
Meanwhile, Aphro’s trying to suppress a smile, butIce Très’s goofiness is even melting her sugar cane shell, not that she’ll admit it. “That’s a
lot
of winking and blinking, if you ask me,” she says, and hmmphs as we exit the apiary.
“Who’s asking?” I gently nudge Aphro down the stairs and squeal,
“Showgirls!”
Last Saturday night we all watched this
scandalabrious
movie on TV at her place about two competing Las Vegas showgirls prancing around with the most awesome plumage on their heads. Anyhoo, one of them pushes the other down a flight of stairs to secure star status in the show. Sure their ways are wicked. Just like the fashion biz.
“Well, it could lead to a hoodwink, that’s all I’m saying.” Aphro continues. I ignore Aphro because I’m feeling hyped by the fact that Ice Très accepted my prescreening invite. “Purr points. He’s good.” I giggle, marveling at Ice Très’s dead-on imitation of
moi
. “M.O. to the I.”
Aphro and I head to the job board for more cold calls, but after fifteen calls, “chilly” would be a more appropriate word.
“What a buzz-kill. Don’t they know I’m the leader of the House of Pashmina?” I gripe to Aphro while I force myself to keep dialing for dollars.
Finally
, we get an appointment at Loungewear Lulu, a flagship boutique on West Broadway off Grand,which manufactures its own line of leisure and loungewear—or so explains the nasal person on the other end of the phone.
“I’ve never heard of this designer before. Have you?” Aphro asks me, twirling one of the feathered ends of the sequined purple lariat artfully wrapped three times around her long graceful neck, setting off the short, chic, sharp lines of her Cleopatra bob.
“No, I can’t say I’ve seen Lulu riffing about ruffles on the Teen Style Network,” I declare, “but that’s what I dig about the fashion biz—another day, another designer.”
Chenille walks past us, barreling toward the exit. “Hey, Chenille. Was you at the pose-off?” Aphro asks.
“No, but I gotta
pose my way
to a client,” my showoff sister announces proudly.
“Well, sashay to a payday,” I suggest sharply. Chenille takes my hint and saunters on her merry way. Secretly, I feel a twinge of Gucci Envy that my younger sister is snagging ducats before I do, but I say, “I don’t understand how she plans to get into one of the houses if she can’t even represent at the pose-off.”
“I know. It’s
unbeweavable
,” retorts Aphro.
“Bet this. I won’t be calling on Shrek’s secret assistant to be in my house—and she can take that to Banco Popular,” I sassyfrass.
My cell phone does a ringy-ding. “It’s my mothercalling again.” I assure her that I’ll be home by six o’clock to let Mr. Darius in to fix the toilet. But I protest, “You think he coulda came this morning?”
“Never mind that. It’s not like there was anybody home who needed to
use
the toilet,” my mom gripes in the agitated tone she gets when she deals with Mr. Darius.
“Well, it’s a good thing Fabbie didn’t have company,” I joke, but Mom is not in the mood, so I quickly change my iTune. “Don’t you want to know where I’m going now?” I ask teasingly, then blurt it out before she responds. “I have a job interview in SoHo!”
I should have known, however, that my mom
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