The Weirdest & Worst Fashion Show Ever

I walk in mid-presentation of what looks like a filthy-rich, newly sexually active, 16-year-old ice-skater's wet dream of a clothing line. Hesitating, I take out my phone and start snapping some photos. I turn to my boyfriend, Steve, and whisper, "they're not all like this." He doesn't know that I'm referring to how strangely set up this party and/or '"fashion show" is. All he sees are some very made-up women in very skimpy clothing, so he's all set. The presentation ends and I sprint to the open bar.

"What are you guys serving?"

"We have rum, vodka, coke, Beauty Water, and sparkling apple cider."

"He'll have a rum and coke... what are people mixing the vodka with?"

"I don't know."

"Has anyone tried mixing it with the 'Beauty Water'?" 

"No."

"I'll have a vodka and 'Beauty Water'."

For the most part, it ends up just tasting like water. We gulp down a few drinks to make the most out of the night and start to explore the space a bit more. My eye quickly catches the free bags of skin care, making a note to myself: grab two on the way out. Steve and I eventually, kind of find the food. The "hors d'oeuvres" served at this particular function consisted of two plastic (like take-out, throw-away-after-one-use kind of plastic) bowls of popcorn and about three small plastic bowls of Jelly Belly jelly beans. A man stands behind the gorgeous array of corn and beans, and guests seem to assume that's a sign not to take too many of the covetable treats? So no one tries to steal the high-end serving bowls? Who knows.

The second designer's presentation begins and, though I claim to be a writer, I am sure I could never put into words the level of awkwardness during said presentation. Not only does the introduction take about ten minutes and make very little sense, but this designer shows only three pieces of clothing. The models walk up and down the non-runway about five times each, showing off the eco-friendly line of Renaissance-fair-meets-Xena-Warrior-Princess dresses. Then the designer, with her three models, dances around for about five minutes, throwing and kicking colorful trash-bags into the air. What also strikes me is how this woman who spoke only of "our mother" (i.e. Earth) and how we must take care of her, how trash is art (biting my tongue), and how we must live eco-friendly during her introduction is presenting this collection in a venue that is entirely littered with plastic cups and bottles. Not to mention, the purses on display throughout the space are made entirely of leather. Nothing is making any sense.

The night goest on and gets weirder. In the corner of the room, a little bald man in a Loony Tunes tie is having party guests fill out forms then wait their turn to lay in a reclining chair before he places futuristic glasses on their faces, enormous headphones over their ears, and covers them in fleece blankets. We decide that we have to partake in whatever the hell this is so Steve and I fill out the form (rating from 1 to 10 our levels of stress, anxiety, depression, discomfort in our neck AT THIS VERY MOMENT) and wait. Soon, it is our turn. We know this is supposed to be some sort of relaxation deal, but really have no clue what we're in for. The old loony tune gets me all set up. A deep-relaxation-type sound turns on then, suddenly, mini multi-colored strobe-lights flash inside of my space-glasses (we had to close our eyes of course) as the old man lifts my right earphone and whispers, "Enjoy your voyage...", and it begins. What "it" is, I'm not entirely sure; but my seat becomes some kind of very complex vibrating machine and the sound of shooting off into space rings throughout my ears as the strobes continue to flash. For the first ten minutes of this "voyage", I focus only on trying not to laugh. Eventually it does become quite relaxing (OK. I didn't find it all that spectacular, but I understood that I was supposed to and I could appreciate it). I do feel completely out of touch with every thing around me and with time, in general. This is because, when the voyage ends - and the little bald scientist once again lifted my earphones and spoke, "Welcome back." - everyone is gone. The party is over. The DJ had packed up and people are sweeping the floors.

Steve and I look at one another and immediately have to look away so as not to show fear, but more predominantly not to laugh in this man's face. Where had we just gone? Had he sucked out a part of our souls? What year was it? I look at my watch; 45 minutes have gone by. We missed the party, completely. Loony Tunes is hyper and tells us to stay put as he shoves comment cards in our faces. "I have to add money to my parking meter! I'll be right back! Don't leave!" He disappears. We fill out our comment cards and try to book it out of there as quickly as possible. Then I realize: there are no more bags of free skin care... no. No, no, no. That's why I came here, for the free skin care! I ask around then find the short Asian woman who had been handing out the goodie bags all night. She is standing by a box filled to the brim with the gift bags' fixings: moisturizer, sunscreen, cleanser, toner, eye cream, and the bags themselves. 

"Oh, would I be able to put a bag together before I leave?" I ask.

"Let me see..." as she crouches down and simply stares into the box, pretending to dig around inside of it. Does she not realize that I can see all the contents of this box, as well? It's just another odd cherry on top of the odd sundae.

"No... there are no more," she lies. "So sorry."

"But, couldn't I just -" I point to the box, desperate.

"No, so sorry, all out." She closes up the box and walks away. Whatever. 

Steve and I turn and leave with the DJ who is still enjoying a drink, in the elevator. "That was weird." I say aloud.

"You should've just taken it," says the DJ, motioning to his large suitcase, "this thing is full of stolen booze. They'll never know." Noted. So, thus we end our oh so fancy night stepping out into the freezing-cold and trying to make sense of everything that just happened. We never make sense of it. Who could? 

Written by: Delaney Yeager 

Being Sarah Mendelsohn

A Funny Girl's Foray Into Fashion

By Delaney Yeager

Though I had been itching to spend more time with my girl, Sarah, and though I had dreamed for years of experiencing New York Fashion Week, let’s be honest… I was in it for the free shit. As a recent graduate, broke and lost, I jumped – leapt, flew, rocketed – at the opportunity to dress up, gallivant through Manhattan, sip wine with the beautifuls, and accept complimentary accessories. And, holy Prada, was I glad that I did. The first event to which Ms. Mendelsohn invited me was Keep.com’s New York Fashion Week Breakfast. Sarah and I entered the private residence on the fifty-seventh floor of the Bloomberg Towers... “Welcome, ladies. You look beautiful. Would you like to wear your necklaces now or later?” That’s right, as we entered, a woman stood with a gold necklace in hand, ready to clasp around any guest’s willing neck. The accessory was not unlike Carrie Bradshaw’s famous tag – don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about – however, this one read, “I’m A Keeper.” I looked at the golden, cursive letters… Cheesy? A little, yes. True? I can’t be so sure. Free? So fucking free. “Yes. I’ll wear mine now, thank you.”

My date and I immediately migrated to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which boasted breathtaking, sweeping views of New York City. Rhapsody in Blue played in my head as I tried not to begrime the pristine windows with my begrimey nose. As we gazed out, my stomach growled audibly enough to make the anorexic guests blush. We looked around for the spread… there was coffee… and juice… and water. Bagels? Maybe a quiche? Please, people. We’re hungry. We’re broke. It’s early. And I’m menstruating. Someone bring some fucking food. I drank as much free coffee as my empty gullet could take when, finally, the fit cater waiters surfaced with several super sexy serving salvers. Aha! Food alert! Twelve o’clock. We made a beeline for the waiter with the great backside (I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help butt stare). So, you know how things look much smaller when they’re far away? This food looked even smaller than that, up close. I picked up a “mini glazed donut” the same way one might struggle to pick up a needle off a smooth surface. The only thing more awkward than eating enormous foods is eating creepily tiny foods. I prayed the charming street photographer didn’t catch me in his lens while I nibbled on the micro-fare.

Though we left the New York Fashion Week Hunger Game with empty stomachs, we each left with a free necklace, a free Cleobella clutch, and a free hairdo. Score. Sarah and I parted ways outside, she to Lincoln Center for a few shows, and I to my apartment, where I would sit in my skivvies, Tweeting too, for, and about comedians. Around four o’clock, I dressed for my second NYFW event of the day. I was feeling frivolous, beautiful, and important, so I sprung for a cab I couldn’t afford. This time, I arrived at a gorgeous location on Central Park West. I approached Sarah who stood outside next to an attractive stranger who ended up being a photographer, though he would cringe if you introduced him as such, for whatever cool-person faux-humility hipster-man reason. He would be the shutterbug for A Hit Of Sarah at this event, which ended up being the Lorry Newhouse show. 

The show was not a runway, but a presentation. Therefore, the models are right there, standing in a room like statues so you may gawk, up close. It’s like going to an exhibit where the mannequins found the light and smiled if you took out your camera. (That sounds much more horrifying than it was.)  If I were high, it would’ve been weird. But in that setting, during that week, it feels perfectly normal. Really, it makes the whole world of fashion seem almost approachable. The collection wasn’t my favorite, but the chardonnay, the company, the Hamish Bowles sighting, and the balcony - across from Chuck Bass’s HOTEL EMPIRE - were all worth the trip and the uncomfortable heels.

A week later, after Sarah and I had gotten drunk and recorded an episode of my stupid podcast, New York Fashion Week was over. But there was one more event for me to attend. Melissa Shoes had invited Sarah to their SoHo flagship, so she may report back on their latest collections and partnership with Lorenzo Martone Bikes. But, having left for her adventure across America, she couldn’t attend, herself. So, yes, Sarah sent an All Things Comedy manager, playwright, and amateur podcaster to moonlight as a fashion blogger for the day.

It was another beautiful day in the city. It had been awhile since I was dressed perfectly for walking through the high-end streets of SoHo. I wove through the talented sidewalk artists and loaded shoppers, recalling my Freshman self, who used to dress her best just to walk in and out of designer stores, pretending she would actually buy something. I approached the boutique of renewed plastic pumps, happy to see that Sarah had sent backup. Andrea Pardo was there, who knew who the fuck she was talking to, and what the fuck she was talking about, which I did not, at all. For thirty minutes I stood by Andrea like a mentally handicapped puppy. Occasionally a beautiful boot or fabulous flat would distract me, now and then I wandered off to snap photos for Sarah, but most of the time I kept my mouth shut, conversation bombed, and photo bombed. The few words I did utter were, “wow”, “oh I love these”, “yes”, and “I’m here representing A Hit of Sarah.” That last one I said a lot. And, fans, you should see the respect I got when I dropped that name. I knew Sarah was a boss, but I had no idea just how bossy her bossness was until proxy had me being treated like a boss.

Before long, the owner of the store said the words you only dream of hearing, knowing nothing like this could or will ever happen to you… “Take a look around and choose a shoe.” Are they saying what I think they’re saying? They were. Overwhelmed by the options, I went for the loudest pair by one of my favorites, Vivienne Westwood. When in doubt and when under pressure, I never ever go for practical. I go for loud. I go for funky. It’s something I need to change about myself, I know. But, when I slipped on my pair of Melissa by Westwood black heels topped with big shiny red lips on the toe, I didn’t care. In fact, I loved the fact that I didn’t go for practical, comfort, or wearability. These were bitchin’ heels. And they were mine. For free. Score number I-had-lost-count.

So, what did I learn by being Sarah Mendelsohn? I learned that I could never do what she does with the level of class that she does it. I share with Sarah an adoration for clothing, art, and aesthetics. I knew early on, though, that being part of the fashion world would leave me feeling slightly empty or unfulfilled. Looking past the glitz, glam, and superficiality that mask the art of the clothing would be difficult for me. I would either quit early or let the fab events and treatment go to my head. Somehow, Sarah does what she does with an astounding maturity, understanding, and humbleness. What that is, I became aware of, is a true, rare love for fashion; one we definitely don’t see everyday. I may be biased, but I compare Sarah to the big wigs: the Ana Wintour’s and Bill Cunningham’s, those silent, demure spectators whose power is unmatchable. There are very few of these in fashion. After my first fashion week with Sarah Mendelsohn, I do not hesitate to say that she will probably be one of them. Keep your eye on her.

Check out Delaney's Podcast, Womenstruation, featuring an interview with Sarah Mendelsohn!