Thankfully there appears to have been some improvement among Fashion Week lasses in the area of gracefully receiving a compliment. A smile and nod (yes, we're still working on 'thank you') is a vast improvement on last year's state of affairs. In fact my dear friend has bit of a problem in this area and I tried to train her, to no avail, to follow Liz Lemon's lead:
Jamie: And now I'm getting attitude from the sexy librarian.
Liz: What? Sexy? Shut up. You are.
The new, and far less vexing, mode of bullshit-talk identified at this year's Fashion Week was subtly perplexing. Apparently it is now not the done thing to admit how much pain your killer heels are causing your feet. For example:
Me: Awwww, owwwwww my poor tootsies, owwww.
Fashion Lady: Oh really? My heels [Louboutin Pigalles. Seriously, fuck off.] don't hurt at all.
Is it just me or is there a funky odour in here? Isn't it a little ripe? Oh yeah, that's the smell of BULLSHIT.
While we're on shoes, Ellery's lucite heels were quite ubiquitous this week, so hooray for a local designer creating some seriously lusty shoes.
Bet they hurt but.
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