Shit fashion designers say

Lately I’ve been watching too much Project Runway and now with the tenth season and all, I could spend hours talking about the designers and the clothes they make. But I won’t. Instead I’ll just give you this:

Just so you know, these may not be their exact words,mainly because I didn’t write any of them down at the time and my memory is not what is used to be anymore. Deal with it.

“This is really not my aesthetic AT ALL!” 

“I am a fashion designer, not a tailor!” (dramatic hand gesture)

“It’s chic, fashionable, sophisticated but at the same casual!”

“This is what the client wanted but at the same time, it’s got a lot of me in it, you know?”

“You want sexy, not slutty.” /”That’s too matronly, you gotta sex her up!”

“I like the direction this is going.”

“I don’t do menswear.”

“I don’t do plus size.”

“I don’t do evening.”

“So Tim Gunn didn’t like my outfit…” (eye-roll)

“I don’t think Tim Gunn  really understood my point of view.”

“What does Tim Gunn know anyway?”

“I looked across the room and I did not like what I saw”

“This is who I am as a designer.”

“My outfit is perfect, no matter what the judges say.” 

Of course it is, honey.


The meowtrageous return of slavery



It’s a well known fact that cats were made to be served, but sometimes having a cat seems to turn into a real battle: trying to take care of her without her taking care of you, if you know what I mean.

I’ll admit, mine doesn’t have the easiest life, if you consider my somewhat aggressive love (like that one time I tied aluminium foil to her paws to see what she would look like – and walk – with socks on; I even filmed it, it was hilarious) but even so, if you sit and think for a second, we are her slaves.

Take for instance her no-closed-doors policy. She is really strict about it – usually she would meow in front of the door until you open it and then simply turn away and leave. But the worst is at night.  Like yesterday, when I was really tired and just couldn’t wait to sleep – I closed the door, turned the lights off and climbed into bed. It wasn’t until I’d found the ideal sleeping position that it started. She was standing in front of the door and scratching it, meowing innocently from time to time.

So I got up, got her in bed and I was once again ready to fall asleep. You know, it’s actually great to have a cat in bed with you: they’re warm, fluffy and they purr. Yet the moment you make a move – any move – even if it’s just taking a deeper breath, the fairy tale is over. I didn’t even know what I’d done, but suddenly she  gets up, stares at me offended, turns to leave and, although I was getting ready to abandon the sweet warmth of my bed in order to open the door for the little devil, she curls at my feet and continues staring at me.

“Oh well, I guess she’ll just sleep there” was my last thought before I started to slide into unconsciousness. The monster waited until I fell asleep and then jumped off the bed and started clawing the door and meowing as if someone wanted to kill her. Well thank you and fuck you too, cat. I open my  eyes and I glare at her and she looks right back at me with this expression that says “Do go on, human, I don’t have all day”.

So the whole story ended with me, barely awake, holding the door open while the strolled out elegantly and without the tiniest ammount of haste. Or guilt, for that matter. I’d hate her but she’s cute and most of the time I just like her so much I squeeze her until she meows.

But then again, there’s this look she has every now and then,a look that lasts less than a second but it somehow flashes everything that goes on in her tiny cat head. And it does not look good for me.