A New Career Short-Lived
I was asked by a friend of my husband's if I'd be interested in modeling for some extra cash. Nothing all that glamorous mind you. And no, it's not for a porn site. She works for a new clothing line and they churn out all these catalogues. Their website is constantly changing, and of course their warehouse has to keep up with the speed of their online operations. Her invitation made me choke on my chocolate cake with laughter. "Yeah, sure. I'll model. Let me get back to you as soon as I finish up with my personal trainer and return from my raspberry colonic treatment."
She asked me to send her some snapshots if I didn't have any "body shots in my book." Why would I have "body shots?" And what book? "Oh, yes. Let me go through my portfolio and pull those for you. Hip casual, business casual, or downtown chic?" (I just made that up from those retarded descriptions we get from commercial agents for auditions.) Whatever. My husband whipped out the digital camera and I told him to shoot me from the nose down so I didn't have to wash my hair or put on any makeup. Lazy-ass pot-heads-- I mean-- Intellectual thespians don't go to that much trouble for something so inane.
So then a couple days later, she has me come in for a "fitting." Jean-Pierre the photographer wanted to meet me so he could see how the clothes hung on me. I figured that's something you could figure out by getting my measurements which I already e-mailed with my snapshots as per her request. But if I need to try on the clothes to make sure, then fine. I'll haul my flat ass downtown and try on your overpriced clothes.
There was no mention of photos being taken at the fitting. But suddenly I was expected to stand on my mark in front of a bunch of lighting equipment. So after throwing on a badly composed outfit, I did my best impression of pouty and sour, stuck out my ass and my chest, and posed for the camera with as much feigned confidence as I could muster in my inadequate, non-modelish 5' 6" frame.
She was sitting behind the photographer watching the monitor with one of her co-workers and I saw her LAUGHING at what she saw. "Excuse me. Are you laughing at me?!" I said in between frames. "Yeah. I am," she said without any iota of apology or embarrassment of being caught red-handed. "Well then why don't you come over here and show me how it's done, smart ass?" I snapped, as I continued to vogue for Jean-Pierre. "No way. I'm not a model," she retorted with smug amusement.
Well duh! Neither am I!
I don't get it. Where in one's thick numb skull does "actor" equate with "model"? I mean, of course there are millions of models who want to be actors, and millions of actors who want to be musicians. But not many actors who are also models. They are not one and the same. She asked me if I had a resume. "Uh, you do realize that I'm not a model, right? All I have is an acting resume which I don't think would be useful for your purposes." She says, "Um...okay....well...maybe I should just jot down your sizes then. We just need something for our files to attach to your pictures."
Then I started to get the feeling she had ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE what she was doing. She kept referring to this "fitting" as a "casting" and somewhere in her head she equated casting with acting. I realize she's been expected to fill a role she wasn't hired for, but I don't think it's that complicated of a task to find some skinny bitches and pretty boys to put on some threads and sit in front of a camera for a small production catalogue.
She probably didn't appreciate how lackadaisical I was about the seriousness of the glamorous world of catalogues...though I did do my best heroine addicted coked up pissed off yet aloof model impression...even though it's not at all high fashion and they are geared more towards everyday people. I did get the funny feeling that she enjoyed being in a position of deciding my fate as to whether or not I would get "cast" for a shoot. Or maybe that's just the insane part of my sick brain desperately searching for something else to be sour about.
Well, that bitch better hire me for a damn photo-shoot. I don't want to be sticking my finger down my throat for nothing. But if they don't hire Ken Paves' assistant's assistant for hair and makeup, then forget it.