The agenda for Saturday night was Anne Hatheway and Meryl Streep trying on Prada, Valentino, De La Renta, yadayadayada, and as Emily and I sat down for a cup of post-midnight coffee (ok, I cheated on my diet and ordered chocolate ice cream at the last moment *sigh*) at a Bandra hotel, we chatted about how Miranda Priestly is adored, worshipped, venerated and deitified by most gay men. SnowWhite's Stepmother may go blue in the face denying that, but I'm the one who sat next to him at the movie, and who heard his oohs and aahs each time Miranda dumped a spankin' new coat on Andy's desk.
;-)
CT: "I'm quite evil to my assistant at work, you know"
Emily, giggling: "Not as bad as I am, honey. I'm vicious with my trainers!"
CT, chortling: "They probably make fun of you in the canteen or something: Faggot! So what have you been doing to them?"
Emily, pouting: "Don't care if they do! Well, there was this time that one of the asses sped home early on a Friday night, even though he was supposed to do a training programme, so I called him up and asked him where he was. He hemmed and hawed and said he's just got on the bus - without missing a beat, I said: D, you promised the trainee a class, so I don't care wherever you are, get back here. And I hung up."
CT, goggling: "So, did he come?"
Emily: "Ew, ew and all that!"
CT grins happily: "You make me sound like a saint! My assistant is so dumb, the other day she comes up to me with a botched-up job, so I look at her dryly and say: A, correct me if I'm wrong, but if someone comes and does 'knock knock' to your head, the echo from within will probably sound all the way up to Nariman Point?"
Emily *cackles* as only Emily can.
CT: "And then, I tell her: Well, at least see the good side - I bet you've never had anyone insult you in such inventive terms before!"
Yes, yes, I know - deep down inside, we're really shallow. O, wait, actually, that's someone else's invention, but I pretty much swear by it (most days). Miranda Priestly as the new fasion icon - god help us all, if she were to be the all-new corporate icon. Imagine a bunch of queens breezing into office clackety-clack, in the soon-to-be-latest designer togs, snapping fingers for latte, steak and the latest Harry Potter manuscript, letting loose a volley of beautifully aimed invectives that would ensure a severe pinking of the cheeks.... *sigh*
Only bitches and gay men would survive the onsalught: straight men, run for cover!
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