The Fashion Show

It is the moment that I have been waiting for. Another set of firsts. First time to get involved in a major fashion show in Singapore. First time to step inside The Fullerton Hotel (okay, this is my second time if you will count the 30-minute meeting held a week beforehand). First time to deal with international models. The list goes on. And it is just six in the morning! If it’s any consolation, the early 7am call time is not that alien to me anymore. Having experienced similar shows in my home country in the past has made me rather comfortable with it. But still, my legs won’t allow me to sprint any quicker than necessary. I don’t want to be late for the rehearsal.

I remember how luckily I have survived past night’s Halloween spotlight. Now it’s clear, everything was real. No amount of denying will suffice. I couldn’t really say that I have enjoyed it that much when all my brain prompts me to remember is the last fifteen minutes onstage. Not to mention the good 30 minutes I spent back at our hotel bathroom desperately trying to remove those fake nails under the faucet. I think I have wasted enough running water to fill in the tub that night. I know, that’s too much. I couldn’t even brag about that as my alibi for staying inside the bathroom while the other guys (read: twinks) relieve themselves. Somehow the word “interracial” kept popping in my mind. Erase, erase! Sadly, they were still dressed up as monsters that moment so I couldn’t figure out who’s who. Wait a minute, why am I suddenly spewing out porn terminologies? Don’t worry, nothing NSFW here. Anyway. Remnants of that night haunt me.

It is a bright and beautiful day. Garbed in the generally agreed on monotonous black non-color (Next time I am in charge I swear I’ll remove black from the options), I reached Fullerton just in time. The hotel guy in a vivid red ensemble with a feather-topped hat greeted me as I stepped off the cab. (Honestly, had I known that it was just a stone’s throw away from Raffles MRT, I wouldn’t have taken the cab.) I went straight to the main ballroom to scour for familiar faces and saw… two out of five dressers/student interns and four out of twelve models. Not bad. There’s still time to nap. I wish!

I quickly rummaged through the racks to inspect if the gowns were properly transported. Red chiffon gown, check. Black backless gown, check. Floral cheongsam, check. Wedding gowns, uncheck. They look asphyxiated from being trapped inside garment bags. These beings need a good fluffing. An hour passed and finally the rehearsal is about to start. After several moments of gathering and re-gathering my flock of emaciated sheep, the sleepyheads are complete and ready.

                                                              Somebody lend me a steamer please.

While The Designer and the show director discussed the models’ calculated sashaying, Jill and I tried to practice using the radio. I never was and never will get used to hearing my own voice. It’s just weird. Anyway. After running around arranging stuff and liaising with a few hotel personnel here and there, a strange silence transpired for a second. You know that type of sudden silence that precedes an impending chaos? Cindy just arrived.

The easily misunderstood lady, which I first met here, came in with boxes in tow. Jill huddled up the interns as if to prepare them for a security body search. Cindy, in her usual frantic manner of speaking, commands warns us of the sheer importance of those boxes:

“Okay guys, these are very precious jewelry. Please be careful, okay? Make sure you keep an eye on them. No one else should go near...”

We get the picture. Keep off and no one gets hurt. Kidding.

The rest of the day was spent mainly chatting and guarding. Chatting with the models and guarding the jewels. Over lunch, everybody shares how their Halloween parties were spent. We ate with heavy ceramic plates on our lap, scattered like Miss Universe delegates high school cliques inside the hall. Taking advantage of the situation, I even mustered enough audacity to converse in Spanish with the group of Spanish-speaking models. I’m pretty sure they thought of me just as how I thought of every foreign celeb uttering “Mahal ko kayo” each time: lame but cute. I am just hoping that that’s not the be-all and end-all of why I studied the language for two years.

                                                                                      Final run-through

The seemingly endless run-throughs of lights, sounds and models’ choreography finally reached its end. It’s show time. The main ballroom soon got filled in with affluent couples preparing to get married and humble tai-tais (太太) who have no place else left to stash their money into. Lights, camera… bling!

I am at a good vantage point inside the ballroom. For the first time I am not backstage. As I radio in my colleague Jill to send out the models as choreographed, I couldn’t help but feel emotional with the flashes that the camera bulbs emit and the Swarovski-embellished gowns reflect. This is haute couture at its finest. Each model sashayed with nymph-like mystery and dignified elegance. The emergence of cute little page boys and flower girls towards the end even made it more poignant. Before The Designer made his grand entrance, he asked me from a good five meters away how the show was. I hope my expressive smile and thumbs-up response has reassured him in some way. Glittery confetti showered him as soon as he stepped out and his name flashed on the big screen. That moment was indeed magical. I promised myself that I should have one of those bow-at-the-catwalk-with-bouquet moments.

Missing trolley, staying late post-show, and a missing jewelry aside, everything went well. But as we know in this industry just like any other, it’s not all about glamour. The client feedback, i.e., return of investments, is equally important. Back to reality.

P.S.: The missing jewelry was immediately recovered from a Korean "prima donna" model who forgot to remove the earrings after the show. (Don't worry, this is not the last time she'll surface in this blog.) The missing trolley never resurfaced. And I still stay up late whenever necessary. No. Overtime. Pay.  

Fame Monster

I woke up feeling less guilty than the previous mornings that kept my guts in a shameless tug-o-war. It is the eve of all eves. Halloween as what commercialism dictates. Tonight could be the beginning of a haunting nightmare or the end of this poor girl’s career. Or both. I am holding on to fate that the decision which I have made was wise enough to not let me down. Tonight I am the Devil Bunny.

Yes, these people can be that creative. I remember the first time that I walked into their inconspicuous office at Lavender. The long, narrow and steep flight of stairs allowed me to rethink my options whether to step back or just go with my guts. Inside, the two employees try to make themselves scarce by abusing MSN, pinging here and there like serious business. As soon as the adjacent door opened, I knew it was my turn. A lanky guy escaped the room with neither a telltale sign of excitement nor trauma. A lady soon emerged, waving towards my direction. Inhale, exhale.

“The idea that we have is similar to the movie “13 Ghosts”, she explains. At one point I got conscious for trying to resist the urge to gawk at her mouth, convincing myself that she’s not playing scare tactics on me by wearing corrugated and fanged dentures. “Throughout the night you guys will be moving around, slamming on glass walls and the like, and basically just hanging around to have your pictures taken with the guests…”

Sounds easy for a few hours of being a monster of sorts in exchange for a cool S$100. I am excited! No, scratch that, I am terrified! For how insane could I be for prioritizing this “sideline” over an important errand for our atelier’s fashion show?!

It’s 6:00pm. I am supposed to be staying on to help The Designer to load up the gowns inside the van that will transport all our fashion show paraphernalia to the hotel. But the 10:00pm schedule unexpectedly clashes with my pre-arranged “gig”.  So instead of letting my laptop stay open for another 4 hours, I had to shut it down and leave. My apologies might have sounded like forlorn blah-blahs. My phone, which has been ringing repeatedly, only made it worse. I am running late.

I took a cab and headed to Holiday Inn near the CBD. Inside a hotel room, the “monsters” have already been made up save for myself. An auntie quickly ushered me inside the bathroom and handed me this black, faux leather ensemble that’s tight enough to make me look more famished than I already do. Only the white fur trim at the back reminded me that I am tonight’s resident Devil Bunny. Unfortunately, no amount of squishing and laying-on-your-back-as-you-wear-it tricks could make this hot pants possibly fit me. I mean, clearly, their peg is a size zero as evidenced by the cheerful other “monsters” that scramble inside the room. They are obviously in their mid- to late teens and I am at least a decade older than them. Geez.

The makeup team immediately got a hold of me as soon as I slipped into my own black hot pants (it pays to be prepared). A slather of eyeshadow over here, a tousling of the hair over there. Tease, Aqua Net. Tease, Aqua Net. I actually felt more glamourized compared to the others who were either lathered in white paste or murky green paint. On the downside, the long, red plastic glue-on nails added a hooker-ish feel to my evolving salacious look.

The Organizer, gathering his minions, announced a few reminders before leading us out to the streets. Being an ardent follower, I obliged. As we slowly tread the streets of Somerset, I began to realize how this glamourized makeup only does too little to conceal my true identity. While the other “monsters” go chanting and goofing around in their heavily made-up faces and eccentric costumes, I try to stay in the middle of the pack and hide. Not for the shy-type. Really.

Which is why I heaved a sigh of relief upon reaching Howl At The Moon. An appropriate name for a club during this time, I thought. It is 9:00pm. A comedic skit is still playing onstage. I can hear the boisterous laughter from the inside. Our dimly lit waiting area is comfortable enough to escape the spooky stares from passersby, yet not convenient enough to hide. Guests going in would arbitrarily pose with us and have their pictures taken. Thirty minutes passed and we’re still waiting for our turn. These “kids” must be having the time of their lives. One “monster” is gamely playing with his light saber while the other repeatedly shows-off his spring-activated wings. I eventually found myself chatting with Eve. With her dusky, youthful complexion I wouldn’t have thought that she is actually a pre-school teacher by profession. I wonder what's the background of the others. But one thing's for sure, we've all embraced monsterhood for fun and extra moolah. 

Our casual conversation is interrupted by this petite “monster” wearing a rainbow-colored wig and an equally flamboyant outfit. It is amusing how she enjoys the role of a custodian, advising us on how we would choreograph our moves once we get inside. I have a feeling that the end is near it is our turn.

My phone rings. I could be wanted by The Designer or The Boss. After 5 minutes of struggling how to fish it out, being encumbered by my 2-inch nails, I recognized that it is just my calendar alarm. It is 10:00pm. They must be loading up the stuff now. Guilt starts to creep in. Soon, whatever anxiety I have is quickly replaced by anticipation. The Organizer is already asking us to go in. The drifting cigarette smoke, raucous babble, intoxicating music and creepy, bloody costumes magnify the celebratory mood inside the club. A snapshot here, a snapshot there. I feel like Britney Spears under the influence, inebriated by the euphoria that is making me bored, awkward and oddly thrilled all at the same time. Gore runs aplenty. From the hackneyed blood-drenched duos and the predictable goth fleet to the villain-inspired folks and the Cosplay-adoring set. The kids of Twilight would have taken a backseat. It is starting to get fun until my feet started to send signals of pain and discomfort.

I am surrounded with strangers in this festive cauldron. On hindsight, I wish I did not decline the lady in a witch’s hat who kindly offered to get me a drink. That would have been handy. Or pinched the biceps of a hunky guy dressed as The Terminator. For that would have made me more brazen in carrying out our impromptu 15-minute ordeal of dancing centerstage under the spotlight, pulling out random guests from the crowd and swaying to the beat of fear, gaucherie and mortification. If it were a generation earlier, I would expect crates of tomatoes being thrown out. Luckily they were a gracious bunch who enjoyed reveling in the moment. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Whoever said that we all get our fair share of fifteen minutes of fame probably meant shame.

Now if only there is an easier way to remove these pesky glued-on fingernails.  

The Pot-Pot Connection

It is our last weekend at George’s self-proclaimed Big Brother House in Tampines. Fresh from the past month’s move, my big blue luggage is getting its fill of twice the number of badly ironed clothes and carelessly accumulated toiletries. Even my soiled t-shirt has to be included in the mix. It still has remnants from last night’s ice cream, a souvenir from naughty Angelita’s playful little hands. The spontaneous walk in the neighborhood playground at 8:00pm simply confirmed that nothing cheers up a child more than a cone of dripping ice cream and a turn or two at the swing. She might be the female epitome of Dennis the Menace but it is exactly that quality that makes her unforgettable. Just like the “pot-pot” sound that resonates from the kitchen window.

I always knew that my first encounter with that familiar sound back in Bukit Batok should have an encore. I can’t wait to find out whether there’s proof for my suspicion of it being not just the herald of abundance as a pandesal supplier, but also of it being a distinctive icon of a culturally homogenous Asian lifestyle.  Now is my chance. I temporarily paused my packing and walked straight towards the kitchen. Nanay, who is busy cleaning up after Angelita’s mess, noticed my beleaguered stance. She looked at me nodding with her mouth partially open and that articulate glance that seems to always know when I’m about to ask something.

“Is that a pandesal vendor?” I asked her a bit hesitantly.

“Nooo, that’s not pandesal. That’s the guy who collects old newspapers.”

“Oh, I see. I thought it’s the same as in ‘Pinas…”

“Sounds the same, I know… Anyway, George just asked him to come upstairs.”

Seeing it now with my own eyes, all my previous suspicions are now put to rest. It is not a pandesal vendor after all. No pandesal and no profound cultural link. It is just a matter of two countries utilizing the same tools, a bicycle and a “pot-pot”, but for different reasons. I wonder if this “pot-pot” madness will resurface in Tiong Bahru.

The day eventually came for Marie and I to leave. My luggage now feels heavier than before. For the first time I didn’t care about how I look and simply decided to wear a daster. The matronly green shade of this informal house dress doesn’t give justice to the breezy comfort that this one dollar find renders. I hailed a taxi as the afternoon drizzle began to pour, quickly dumping our luggage inside the trunk and never looking back. Nanay wouldn’t have wanted any semblance of nostalgia anyway. People come and go, change happens and future beckons. Yet, the Filipino sense of family that they shared with me will always be remembered.

I take delight in the possibility of another encounter with the “pot-pot” vendor wherever I go. I shall welcome it dearly just as I would embrace the valuable memories of Big Brother House.  

Glamourama

My alarm clock tells me that I have been snoozing it for far too long already. I could only blame the past night’s YouTube marathon of telenovelas. I reached the atelier much later than Jill, which rarely happens. She usually arrives 15 to 30 minutes later than myself, barging through the glass doors with an expression-less face, traipsing across the atelier in her high heels like time didn’t matter. I guess it can be considered as one of our job’s perks. There are no strict rules on attendance, no cards to punch in or ID’s to scan.

“We have another casting today,” Jill reminds in her naturally soft, husky voice. “Cindy will be joining us later.”

“Cindy?”

“Oh yeah, you haven’t met her yet. She doesn’t come here often. Cindy helps us with the Marketing…”

At that point I started to tidy up the fitting room which includes hiding away the ten pairs of stilettos inside the white Ikea plastic box, and wiping the huge mirror with crumpled newspaper. I remember how our drafter once taught me that technique of cleaning the mirror, explaining how the “oils” from the paper would do wonders. Either she thought I was too naïve, or that she is just eager to practice her English-speaking skills -- which I admire by the way.

I regained my composure after the arm muscle-tightening chore of wiping our two ginormous mirrors up and down, left and right. Sheer vanity justifies how I am deeply bothered by the possibility of my right biceps being more noticeable than my left, but that’s another story. While waiting for the models to trickle in, I headed straight towards the body-form where a client’s wedding gown that I have been working on for days is performing rather well under pressure. There it quietly stands shimmering under the halogens, unperturbed by the oxymoronic orderly chaos that is evident in its surroundings. I couldn’t almost recognize the white receiving table where copies of our monthly subscriptions of Harper’s Bazaar and Her World Magazine are strewn together with several Sophie Hallette lace fabric samples and cups upon cups of crystal beads and sequins. It might not look too appealing but often inspiration sprouts from such disarray.

Comparing this wedding gown to Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia masterpiece is unfair yet inevitable. Because seriously, it looks like it is never going to be finished. Every time I grab the thread, I imagine the sequins jumping out to the needle on its own and sewing itself up onto the lace bodice. If only it is as simple as ⌘+enter.

The models started to arrive like giraffes being drawn to trees, calculated yet keen. I am getting used to the sight of such live mannequins with their flawless skin sans makeup. Casting is so much fun. It’s like playing dress up with life-sized Barbie dolls. With a wide-eyed wonder of a child and a Tyra Banks perspective, I entertain myself by assessing them in my mind. Hmm, she looks sophisticated but walks like one shoe is coming off… This one looks awkward in a cheongsam… That one is Gisele Bundchen in the making, beautiful glide… She is kinda fleshy for this gown, maybe she’d look better with the other cut… That girl’s walk is fluid, but her attitude annoys me…

Final casting, check. A cyclone must have hit our atelier as tranquility has temporarily made its exit. What a mess! The items which the models used for the casting were scattered inside the fitting room. Gowns were randomly slumped over the rack without using the hangers. Stilettos were carelessly thrown wherever convenient. The wooden seats were disarranged, some blocking the entrance. And the models’ comp cards cover the entire table like a deck of playing cards waiting to be shuffled. But just when Jill and I thought that the storm is over, another one comes in. And she is charging with click-clocking heels towards Jill.

“What happened here?”

“Oh, hi Cindy, we had a casting...” Jill explains.

“What?! You had a casting without The Designer?!”

“Uhm, The Designer couldn’t make it on time and he texted me to say that we can proceed…”

“Can I see the models’ comp cards… We have to finalize this already. What about the agency, I told you to call them up, right?  Where are the gowns? Is the lineup complete already? I have to see the gowns so I can get matching jewelries later…”

Meow… This one is fierce. I almost forgot that the assessment game is over and this one is not part of casting anymore. I tried to avert her gaze, mindful of her ire, as she glances over me once every few blinks. It felt as if she’s raring to ask me Who the hell…?

Jill, cleverly noticing this as her way out, exclaimed “…Uhm… ok… By the way this is Pat, our new designer… Pat this is Cindy…”

For a moment there I felt how Jill wanted to press the eject button and vanish into oblivion. If I were in her shoes I might have felt the same. Cindy’s commanding presence complements her high-pitched voice that pierces through the air the way an old typewriter would. Only that hers echoes in a peculiar Singlish manner, rendering it undecipherable by my still unaccustomed ears. Yet her aura tells me that she is not as fierce as I initially thought. It’s just something in her that sends a positive vibe that it is just about work, nothing personal.

Cindy left as soon as we have presented to her the collection. But just like a real storm, this one has left a casualty. Jill looked me in the eye and said, “That. Is. Cindy. She’s quite a bitch, right?” It is one of those questions that I find the hardest to respond to. I just took a heavy sigh and stared at the gown on the mannequin. The fashion show is a few days away, leaving most of us simmering in tension, excitement and much agitation. Alamak! Who says fashion is all about glamour anyway?  

*as usual, names were changed to protect their privacy

Inception

It must be every young girl’s fantasy to tackle something that is pretty, sparkling, fluffy and lace-y. The sweet romance that this fairy tale gown evokes simply makes my nimble hands tremble in delight as I begin to embellish it one 3-centimeter sized sequin at a time. My left forefinger sweats in excitement every time it picks up a sequin or two from the cup, transferring it onto the needle on my right hand that’s eagerly anticipating.

Ella Fitzgerald’s trademark jazz reverberates across the atelier which makes my humming to her lyrics inevitable. It is during such moments at daytime that I get to focus intently on this therapeutic process that is hand-sewing. I can do this all day. For what can be more ideal than participating in your own dreams and fantasies with full consciousness? As the wedding gown that I am working on lies submissively on the table, I am beginning to infer that there is one thing that can make this living-my-dream declaration even more rewarding. Wearing a self-made wedding gown to my own wedding, what else! Preposterous Idea Alert… Preposterous Idea Alert…

Thankfully, I poked my thumb at the right moment. Still in denial that I am unconsciously getting better in my Singlish, I muttered a heartfelt “Aiyohhh!” Suddenly I am awakened from my own dream within a dream state. It is at this point that The Designer noticed me and casually remarked “You’re so skinny… you don’t eat much?” I know it sounds a bit unrealistic to retort how much of a meat-eater and carbs-gobbler I am. And that I find trying to put on weight more difficult than, say, being constrained in a medieval corset all week. But having been asked countless times by different individuals, my honest auto-response answer would always be along that line.

He approached me from behind to check on my progress. He bent down to scrutinize how I have been treating the delicate tulle so far. “Wrong already…” he calmly declared. Somehow I wasn’t surprised and I knew that my amateur skills needed tough love. Caught up in the thrill of sewing on transparent sequins onto the designs, I didn’t realize that the thread is no longer neatly hidden among the embroidered lace flowers. It is one of those things that I would like to be considered as a vital mistake in the sense that experiencing it would and should lead to the furthering of one’s own passion. And an haute couture house wouldn’t be classified as such if not for the careful attention to detail, among other criteria.

It is romantic and ethereal. Yet the wedding gown is far from finished and lots of work still needs to be done. The hundreds of man-hours that are being devoted to this piece of art would culminate in the wedding day where the key ingredients of blood, sweat and blood stains tears will be aptly rewarded. But until that day comes, Rumplestiltskin’s elves shall continue to toil. Nonetheless, the premises of our atelier almost always make me feel that the world is at standstill. That whatever beauty or glamour I am surrounded with shall remain as such. That everything remains calm and orderly, permanently inspiring like that Fitzgerald serenade. But I might again be dreaming within a dream.

My housemate reminded me that our main tenant’s lease is expiring in a few days and we will eventually start looking for a new flat. We are lucky that good friend Angel allowed us to rent her room for a month until we found a more proper place. Marie and I will be waking up to the quaint streets of Tiong Poh once again. A dream-catcher is in order.  

100 Words

Who decides? A patient lies motionless on a long operating table, seemingly sedated by the halogen lights that dot the ceiling. The skin is off-white pale, its texture decidedly delicate. I bent down to examine its entirety, my fingers gently lifting it before quickly putting it back with a fervent gasp. I stepped back with my left hand over my chest and my cupped right hand over my gaping mouth. My prognosis: DOA. Divine On Arrival. Someone else’s fate will soon be changed by this wedding gown. But who decides?

“Once upon a time” starts here. That’s all I know.  

(100 Words is inspired by some of my favorite bloggers’ theme of a blog with just a hundred words.)

You Live, You Learn

One of the amazing pretexts of independence is self-exploration. Sometimes you just have to learn things on your own and discover how good or bad you are at certain things. But it’s only amazing if the spirit is as willing as the flesh.

Going home to an empty dinner table after a day’s work is a common scenario. Cooking for myself is easy. Every ingredient that I toss in just seems right, every procedure perfect. I can cut the vegetables however I prefer, be it julienned, diced or simply halved, no matter if such vegetables are not meant to be cut that way. But cooking for someone else can be far more exhausting than the 9-hour job itself. Just like tonight. Is it the right amount of garlic? Will they like how I marinated the chicken in calamansi (a smaller local version of lemon) and soya sauce? Does it look appetizing enough? This is probably the reason why I pat myself on the back every time my housemates don’t notice anything strange about the food. I’m so glad that my cooking skills now merit a remark succinctly put as edible. Read: human-friendly.

I am reminded of how my former Spanish language instructor taught the phrase Mas o Menos, which literally means “more or less,” referring to something that is just fine or good enough. I like the way she casually enunciates the slithering “s” with that essential gush of air in between the two front teeth. I studied the language for the same reason that I got motivated to learn how to cook: for my resumé self-enrichment.

No, I do not maintain a list of 100 things to do before I die. Aside from the fact that I find that quite self-indulgent, failure to accomplish certain tasks might only lead to unnecessary self-deprecation. But trying to learn things as your viscera dictate, on the other hand, fuels you with a certain energy that is fulfilling in itself. Sometimes I allow myself to be surprised by circumstances all too often that I do not get the desired outcome. I guess that is part of the learning process. Striving to achieve that balance of planning and letting things be is something that I am constantly figuring out.

Nanay rushed to the kitchen to check on my progress. She took an aluminum ladle and tasted the sauce straight from the wok. “Add a little more vinegar,” she said, “Then simmer for about 5 more minutes and then you’re done.” The queen of the kitchen has spoken and her verdict almost made me chuckle out of relief. I am just hoping that when she said that I’m “done” she meant “done with the task” and not “done with my dear life.” Over. Finished. Kaput!

As I was wondering what’s for dessert, our pseudo-cooking lesson 101 was slightly interrupted by Ray who was smoking by the window. “You must watch out later for the pair of teens making out over there,” pointing towards the opposite block’s brightly lit 6^th floor staircase. “They do it past midnight,” Ray revealed as if he’s a regular “moviegoer”. Indeed, anybody can easily be spotted in that column especially amidst the dark surroundings. Two nights later, I chanced upon the suspects seated together on the stairs. Despite the light rain, everything was clear from my vantage point save for their faces. They cuddle and huddle as I fill my glass with cold water from the fridge. But after 5 minutes of inaction on their part and perversion on mine, I decided to go back to sleep. So much for exploration.

It’s been raining in the wee hours of the morning for the past week and I prefer to slumber in indifference under the sheets. It is during these times that I wish someone else would take back my laundry away from the open drying area. The cold air-conditoned room temperature only worsens this laziness to which I easily give in. I am realizing how inspiring it is to start a chore yet very challenging and inconvenient to commit to it. In the mornings I couldn’t anymore just leave my empty mug of milk in the sink no matter how late I am for work. Nor could I ask my clothes to iron themselves out. If only I could only make the frozen meat instantly thaw every time I get back home. Or teach the plates to clean themselves up after every meal. That would be fantastic. The advent of technology doesn’t help much either. And I don’t even want to mention cleaning the bathroom. Ugh!

In bed, I usually end up snoozing my alarm clock more than necessary nowadays. I glance at the time on my cellphone and see 8:00am. I couldn’t accept how every second that I close my eyes thereafter translates to 10 minutes or so. Contrary to when I’m at work where what seems to be minutes of staring blankly at the window is actually just a few seconds of idleness.

I guess there are simply good days and not-so-good days. Pay days are always good days even if they only come once a month. It is a source of sheer joy for a lot of reasons. To pay the bills, the rent, the groceries, and what-nots. It is pathetic to imagine how someone so single as myself whines about the attributes of being independent, when George who supports his wife and their child Angelita, as well as their parents Nanay & Tatay, seem all too cool about everything in life. I am tempted to raise my hand, visualize a bar staff and order, “I am having whatever he’s having!”

Perhaps Ellen’s naughty adage “When life throws you lemons, make a lemonade” applies here. I’ll just have to make the most of every situation that comes my way and learn from them. And I guess knowing how to properly slice a calamansi is not a bad start.  

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Models On The Go

I almost gave in to a lingering temptation to entitle this day’s blog as Models To-Go, but I considered that as just an obvious slip of my Freudian id.  Besides, having your favorite model as a takeaway dessert might not be a source of good nutritional value.

But if the 80’s calendar girl is your idea of a model, then a debate of who’s where in the food pyramid might ensue. Not that I’m into girls. {pukes for a moment then recovers in haste} During our pre-teen years, my cousins and I would always visit our grandparents’ house in summertime. Often I would catch my male cousins huddling in front of our cool grandfather’s latest calendar, usually blushing in hardly contained giggles. The calendar of course shows more than just the days of the month and the dates of the rising tides. I guess those images of voluptuous girls – usually shot amidst the coconut trees -- plastered at the back of the door served as my first glimpse into the world of the models.

Such nostalgia distracts me sometimes like the way a whiff of cigarette smoke causes my nose to twitch in disagreement upon recognition. But somehow the direction of today’s wind keeps going my way as Jill tries to puff her cigarette away from my face. We are standing right outside our building, trying to avoid the sun under the generously extended eaves. I try to pay attention to her equally soft voice as she orients me on the day’s schedule. It is my first day at work, and every mental bullet-point note must be precisely organized. I am so excited that we are having a models’ casting today. In between her huff ‘n puffs my anxiety builds up, not only because of the mere mention of male Pan-Am models but also because we are standing not too far from the No Smoking sign. And in this “city of fines”, ignorance is definitely not an excuse.

On our way back to the atelier at the second floor, I could not forget how my jaw dropped at the sight of what seemed like an epitome of prince charming. He emerged from the glass door, his manly stance forming up a stark silhouette against the intensely illuminated interior. He walks closer. By now every aspect of his angelic, pore-less face and well-toned physique is edible visible. His looks alone is enough to stop us in our tracks. Pheromones must have quickly escaped from his contagious smile that is somewhere between sly and coy. He is here for the casting, and obviously one of the early worms. He asked us for directions on where the nearest restroom is, which Jill gladly pointed him out to. By then his charm has already captivated my senses in complete surrender. It is not too pleasant to see someone ogling at a hot guy, consciously or otherwise. But my seemingly out-of body experience made me see myself standing with side-tilted head, floating right foot and in an awkward spine-less posture, smitten and tongue-tied. His wavy black hair makes me want to stroke it with my hands against his porcelain-white flawless face. And I could not even begin to describe how his eyes are like deep wells that pique your sanity all too effortlessly.

If I am to survive this dilemma of being swamped with gorgeous guys for the entire duration of my job, I may have to try my best to maintain my composure. It’s tough, I know. There’s a fine line between losing control and losing my mind. Perhaps drooling is their symptom. As soon as the guy walked away, Jill leaned over and whispered something like “He’s cute… if I am into guys I think I’ll like him.” I think I know what she was trying to say, but with the numbing euphoria that the guy has caused, my mind failed to register her reaction at that moment.

Five minutes after entering the atelier, models started to trickle in. The casting is for an upcoming fashion show that will highlight wedding and evening gowns. Our task is to select twelve female models and one male model to complete the roster. This sad ratio all the more makes me want to scream “I love my job!” every time a hot male model walks in. Surprisingly, male models came in earlier than the females. The male model that we encountered earlier is first on our list. He walks up to the long white table where Jill and I are seated behind, introduces himself and hands over his portfolio. If only that handshake can be frozen in time…

I am overwhelmed to see the international brands that he has modeled for -- Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, among others. Each and every picture in his portfolio depicts a different side of his beauty much like a true blue chameleon of a model. Simply divine! These models were flown in from all over the fashion world by their respective agencies pretty much like how online-purchased Louboutins are delivered. The part that I like the most is the casual interview where they eagerly respond to questions like “Where are you from?”, “How long have you been modeling?”, and my favorite “Do you have a tattoo?”, after which the model gamely shows its location. Some have one on their biceps, while some near their chiseled abs. It is during such circumstances that I find myself dying more than once, only to be quickly resuscitated by their naughty smirk. Jill then shows me how it’s done as she requests the model to don one of the suits that hangs by the rack. A casting or go-see wouldn’t be complete without the standard snapshot behind a raised paper on which the model’s name is written. And for this task I’m glad that I’m the one behind the lens capturing beautiful faces. The model then walks across the atelier, strutting in his most dapper form.

A few more models arrive, bare-faced and rugged yet not even a tiny bit less beautiful. Equally captivating are the females whose mile-long legs, ET-like waistlines and elongated necks all seem to defy my earlier notions of the human anatomy. Even with my tall figure, I still feel extremely dwarfed by their height especially once they start wearing 4-inch stilettos. Their faces look perfect from every angle. I can almost feel their sharp cheekbones slicing up whatever they come into contact with. Once they converge inside the dressing room, it is like holding a cocktail party for the United Nations. Some of them are Brazilians and Russians, while most are a mixture of two to three different races. The small space that is just enough for two brides in big wedding gowns is now being occupied by not less than five skinny models at any given time. They seem so used to this that they spend this moment in an intriguing tête-à-tête where someone else might easily misconstrue it as a cacophonic prattle.

                                                              Typical scene at our atelier during casting

And as I help one slip into a gown, the others are in various stages of undress leaving nothing but a tiny dental floss of a thong. With each pearl button that I fasten, the conservative Asian in me prompts me to quicken my pace before they all catch a cold. It once again brings to mind the 80’s calendar girls imagery in their naked glory, only this time the body proportions have shrunken considerably.

For them this is just another day. They will be off to another casting after this while the burden of selection will eventually dawn upon us. I imagine how heart-breaking it must be to eliminate someone. I have seen lots of beautiful people and there’s still more to come. After all, this is just day one.

Now, if I can only have the guys who will not make it as my ta-paw*...   

*ta-paw : takeaway (Mandarin)