*make it work.

I know, you're jealous. Due to my ever-increasing fame, I fear I must remain anonymous in this photo of me, M, and my acerbic soulmate, T Gunn. I don't want to be photographed in my pajamas at airports or become increasingly inane or be forced to embark on a pseudo-lesbian relationship. However, M looks adorable and I give 10 points to my hair, which proved unusually cooperative.

TG was in town to emcee a Liz Claiborne fashion show, which was sort of cringe-making and long and peopled with an odd assortment of "just like you! models." Verdict? Oxymoron. Also, houndstooth appears to be "in," but the scale of the pattern is such that no one who has recently consumed a meal won't look like a sofa.

Our seats left something to be desired.



I can't bat my eyelashes at a style guru from that distance.

Having endured a solid hour of upbeat, inoffensive tunes (You make me feel like a natural woman! Turn the beat around! Vogue!) and a parade of allegedly sophisticated separates, they turned us loose for the Q&A.

Question: Should there be a category in hell for People Who Ask Questions That Are Not Interrogatory? ("I just love you and watch your show all the time and think you're so great and Project Runway is my favorite thing of all time and I want to become a fashion designer and so my question is shoes and belt.")
Answer: Ohholyjesusyes.

He did dish some dirt—favorite designers per season (Kara Saun, Chloe Dao, Laura Bennett, Jillian Lewis, and "Do I have to pick one?"—yikes) and least favorite (Wendy Pepper, Zulema Griffin, Vincent Libretti, Victorya Hong, and "bless her pointy little head ... KENLEY"), and most dramatic moments (Keith Gets Caught with Pattern Books, Laura Accuses Jeffery of Cheating). I was a little surprised not to see Jack Goes Home with Staph Infection on that last list, honestly.

But that was the highlight of the first part of the event, pockmarked as it was with co-commentary from a horse-haired twit of a marketing lady who more than once referred derisively to height deficiency as though it were a choice. On the subject of heels: "You don't have to be short, ladies!" No, YOU don't have to be short. Asshole.

Then we were set free to make our mandated purchases ($100 worth of Claiborne for the photo op) and started waiting. And waiting. To be fair, they did try to entertain us. We got some pointless swag:



Empty accordion folder meant for starting a "style file." All about how, in order to turn your day ensemble into night duds, you must carry half the contents of your closet in a very large handbag, if the "fashion" show was any indication.



Estée Lauder would make up your face for free so you wouldn't look pallid next to Timmy, but the whole endeavor seemed rather unhygienic. Watching those brushes go from face to face to face ... I don't think so. I'll preserve my pasty whiteness for posterity, thank you very much. And don't think I don't know you're sizing me up. I realize "Can I offer you some lip gloss?" means [SHRIEK OF HORROR AT HIDEOUS GLOSSLESSNESS].

I did attempt to look some combination of inconspicuous and stylish (snort!), but not everyone was so concerned. This was my line mate.



Honestly, that blur is all about guilt. Frankly, she seemed like a very nice woman, quite chatty and up for a bronzer touch-up and some conversation with the EL army. But this was her self-admitted "dressy game-day outfit" and I just ...

Straight to hell with me.

I shored up the best of my witty banter (T: "I'm flying back to New York tonight." K: "Lucky.") and abandoned it all immediately in favor of trying. to. keep. the. blush. down. A fruitless endeavor. I'm worthless around celebs. I'm afraid of being remembered as That Girl Who Tripped on the Velvet Rope, so I tend to stutter and ... trip on the velvet rope. Not that that happened. Ahem.

Post photo? Better swag. A full 365 days of Tim Gunn for my very own self.



2009 is looking up.