Saffie Monsoon: Major motion pictures are made, huge concerts are put on in stadiums. I mean, five hundred thousand troops were mobilized in the Gulf, and a war fought and won in less time, and without everyone included having a nervous breakdown and being sent flowers! It cannot be that difficult!
Edina Monsoon: Darling, every troop didn’t have to contain Yasmine Le Bon, the generals didn’t require big hugs after every maneuver, and the whole operation did not have to be co-ordinated to rap and Japanese avant-garde pipe music because, you know, Darling, I think if it had, the outcome might have been rather different, don’t you?
For me, New York Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week used to be that magical time of year when I’d remind my more modish friends that invitation was the nominal form of the verb to invite (as in: “I received the invitation,” not: “I got your invite“). Back then, all my grammatically hyper-attuned self knew about those eight days were the cluster-drunk parties that seemed to pervade every square inch of Manhattan — and some of the yachts moored nearby. I watched as waifish editrixes stood with their champagne flutes at half mast, their eyes glazed over with a look that suggested one part dismay, one part blasé, in what I assumed was a contest to see who could strike a more “over it all” pose. How wrong I was. Read more at The Huffington Post.