“Abbey! She doesn’t look like the Grinch! Okay, maybe a little…but the cartoon version, not the Jim Carrey one!”
Arizona bounded out of the closet (physically) and asked Freja, “Does my outfit look hipstery enough for Coachella?”
Freja did not turn around to check. She merely sat at her desk, looking at her computer screen. Arizona held her pose, and sported a duck lipped face she saw on some hipster blogs she had been looking at earlier in the day.
When Freja’s “Float” didn’t bend to see her ‘Zona, the silence and inaction was telling. “Frej?” Arizona asked with a slight tremble to her voice. All the memories of last year at Coachella rushed back to AZ and she began to worry. What if things had changed in the 364 days that had passed since then? What if things had gotten progressively worse, but no one admitted it, like Frejarizona’s love was Radiohead’s recent albums.
Arizona, in her crop top, jean shorts and rubber boots- her Coachella hipster look- galloped over to Freja.
“We’re not going,” Freja said, unable to look her lesbilove in the eyes.
“Freja, I was only looking at those hipster blogs for inspiration. I’m sorry the auto-play on 666-xoxo-princess’ blog woke you up.”
“No. It’s not that. I just went online to look at the lineups one last time and I saw someone was missing.”
Arizona knew that this moment would arrive, but she thought she could put it off until they were in the parking lot, trying to figure out how they were going to sneak Hanne’s beers past the gates.
“They call this a music festival, but they are missing music’s soul,” Freja said, finally looking Arizona in the eyes.
“Is it…” Arizona asked, then immediately sat on Freja’s lap because she knew that hugs will be needed soon.
“Yes, ‘Zona. It’s awful. Mandy Moore will not be at Coachella.”
Arizona hugged Freja and tried to hum the tune to “Candy” like Freja would to for her when Arizona would find out that she was passed up yet again for a fragrance campaign.
“I mean, what the fuck?” Freja burst out in anger, “They let Mac Miller in. I don’t even know what that is? How many times have you ever heard someone say, ‘Oh, that Mac Miller’s song is very not shit’? Zero times. That’s how many ‘Zona.
Arizona silently agreed that she had no idea what a Mac Miller was.
“This is all Bryan Adam’s fault, again,” Freja raged, “Fucking Canada.”
“I think you mean Ryan Adams?” Arizona corrected her.
“Who is Bryan Adams then? Probably Mac Miller’s brother.”
“I know, babe. Mandy made a great sacrifice by marrying Ryan Adams. Canada does seem horrible, and this is coming from a person who lived in New Mexico,” Arizona said as she stroked Freja’s hair.
“Will you be mad if we don’t go?” Freja asked Arizona.
“I could never be mad at you,” Arizona responded, now confident that in the past year their love only got better. Their love was the anti-Coachella.
Freja nuzzled her nose on Arizona’s terrible crop top and asked another question, “Will you do something else for me?”
“Of course my Denmarkian Queen. Anything.”
“Will you hold my hair back while I pout and listen to Mandy’s “Best Of” album on my ipod touch?”
“Forever.”
***NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION FILLED WITH VERY NOT REAL CONVERSATIONS***
Freja rode in a cab through the busy streets of New York. It was Spring? Or was it Fall? In fashion it’s so hard to keep the seasons straight. That’s one of the reasons Freja stepped away for a bit. She yearned for a Brooklyn ease instead of constantly selling to the fast and impatient UES.
Freja was away from home, one of her homes, but she was creating something new, something meaningful with Arizona. Finally, a smile found itself on Freja’s face. As quickly as it arrived, it fled as Freja looked out the window and saw a soccer mom placing fliers on cars parked on the street.
Freja fumbled with her purse to find some money to pay for the cab, but the light was about to turn green and the cabby would be speeding away in moments. His English worse than Freja’s, he’d never understand what Freja had to do.
“Here,” Freja said, throwing her sunglasses in the cabby’s lap, “Those will cover my fare, they’re worth more than your life,” Freja told him, then fled the cab, able to run, unshackled by those high heels she had spend so much of her life crammed in.
The woman with the fliers was carefully lifting up windshield wipers and placing her signs which read MISSING in large red letters.
“Zona,” Freja said out of breath, “What are you doing?”
“It worked, you’re back! I’m amazing!” Arizona screeched and then wrapped her arms around her sex lion, Freja.
“I was at the dentist,” Freja said, confused, but happy to accept the embrace.
“Everyone’s been so worried,” Arizona said, letting go only to show Freja the flier. Zona’s Denmarkian dream took the glossy paper and Arizona said cheerfully, “I printed them on Vogue quality paper… the benefits of being Ms. Wintour’s bitch.”
“Zona, this is a missing sign, for me, with my Vogue UK cover as the picture.”
“I know, how many people can say that Testino shot their missing poster? We live a blessed life my Frejysicle. Sorry they are so small though. As I was passing the fliers out, I saw someone made a missing poster for Kate Moss and it was much bigger. They had it stuck on all those construction sites.”
“That’s for her Supreme T-shirt. It’s not a missing sign.”
“Oh good, I was confused how Kate could go missing anyway? It’s like if you lost a kitten, someone would scoop that little ball of cute up in a second and be like ‘HI YOU LIVE WITH ME NOW’. “
Slightly perturbed, but agreeable to Arizona’s point, Freja looked at the flier and said, “This is a really nice gesture, but you saw me this morning.”
“Oh, don’t think I forgot, I think I ate my weight in whipped cream. Then, after we got cleaned up, I went to (AGENCY NAME REMOVED) and everyone kept asking ‘Where is Freja?’ and ‘Why has Freja been absent from the Fashion Weeks lately?’ and ‘Did we get that girl who cut your hair banned from Manhattan yet?’ “
“I’m sorry you have to answer for me,” Freja said, depressed that she had burdened her queen with her own personal “stuff”.
“Oh, I didn’t know how to answer. I was just like, ‘Oh no, she’s missing? I just got this Brazilian for, like nothing?’ and that’s when I called Anna. It turns out you being missing was very serious.”
“But you have my cell phone number, why were you wandering the city trying to find me like I’m Waldo?”
“Who’s Waldo? Who’s he signed with? Is that one of Karl’s new boy-toys?” Arizona asked, interested.
“He’s that guy in the red and white striped shirt and the ski hat.”
“Ew. Is Waldo one of those Brooklyn ‘alternative’ models that can only shoot Urban and other poor people brands?”
“Fine, it wasn’t like Waldo, but it’s just weird you were playing where in the world is Carmen Sandiego with me.”
“Carmen Sandiego? Did I walk for them? If so we’ll have to send an apology letter.”
Freja sighed, how did a little Denmarkian know more about American culture than a girl named after a state?
“I’m so glad I found you,” Arizona said, grabbing the tips of Freja’s fingers.
“I’m glad I found you too,” Freja responded.
“‘Zona, have you been trying on my clothes again? My pants are all too big.” Freja asked as she slid on her favorite booger colored jacket. It reminded her of the first time she met Nico, in which he put his dried nasal mucus all over he Isabel Marant jeans.
“Yes! I found this new miracle food,” Arizona replied replies from bed, then reached over to the nightstand and opened a drawer, retrieving a box of Twinkies. “I hear that the only things that would be left after a nuclear blast would be roaches and Twinkies,” Arizona comments, marveling at the indestructible dessert cake.
Freja seemed angered by this so Arizona continued adding things to the list, hoping to making things right, ” Cockroaches… Twinkies and…Stam?”
While Freja was sure that Stam’s plastic would remain, this was not the answer she was looking for. “Our love,” Freja said quietly, pinching at the loose band on her shorts.
“Yes! Totally,” Arizona agreed, “Even without arms, I’ll still want to wrap you in my arms!”
This romantic post-apoctalypic vision made Freja smile and she sauntered over to the bed asking, “How many of those have you eaten, Momma Muse?”
“Um…just a couple,” Arizona said, a little ashamed, “I promise it was no more than the two boxes Wixson ate last time Cfree tricked her into getting high!” (In which Charlotte told the chubby cheeked Witchita native that it was a new way to light scented candles. Wixson was intrigued by fire because her father never let her play with it as a kid. After the Great Cornfires of 2007, matches had been outlawed in Kansas and everyone had to switch to smokeless tabacco).
“I haven’t had a Twinkie in a while because of the bad memories,” Arizona said, sad, as she brushed the crinkley plastic wrapper off the bed.
Freja quickly climbed back into bed and held Arizona’s hand, crumbs filling the slight indention made with Freja’s braceleted arm. “What happened?” she asked delicately.
“Before I met you…” Arizona started explaining. “Before I met you, I was up for a Twinkie modeling job. All the other girls were disqualified because they started grabbing their tummies and sobbing when they saw the plate of Twinkies. In the end, it turned out to be a bust…they chose to go with a different model.”
“Which model?” Freja asked, knowing she won’t recognize the name of a Twinkie girl.
“Some stupid cartoon animal that didn’t even have three demensions. Why does he even need the job? He’s a cartoon. He doesn’t have a baby to feed. Or, like, I don’t know, he could just draw the baby some food if he does. But don’t worry, my Danish lesbian. I won’t get fat like Daphne. Last time I shot with Terry, he taught me a new exercise called Kegels!”
***NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION****
You Don’t Fire Frejarizona, Frejarizona Fires You.
“Today’s the day, my FrejyPop,” Arizona purred into Freja’s ear as they laid in bed, wrapped in each other.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Freja asked, excited and scared in equal measure.
“It’s me, you and a camera. When is that ever a bad idea?” Arizona responded and then eyed the Nikon on the tripod at the end of the bed.
***
Hand in hand, Freja and Arizona walked into the Céline offices.
“Did you see that?” Freja asked as she held the door for Arizona.
“You mean the frumpy lady with the stroller who had the same haircut I do?”Arizona asked.
“No, that man in the car.”
Arizona looked back to see a black BMW with a man whose hands were fiddling with something out of sight.
“I think he’s a paparazzi,” Freja said.
“No. Don’t worry, I think he’s just masturbating at us,” Arizona said and it relieved Freja. It must be nerves, Freja thought to herself. She didn’t want to let down Arizona. This was going to be an important campaign. They walked inside and immediately heard, “Girls, your here!”
A Céline employee enthusiastically lead them back to a rack of the first looks Frejarizona would be wearing.
“Accordion dresses?” Freja said, holding in a dry heave.
“Yes! This is what you’ll be wearing!” the employee said and Arizona tried to smile at her, but she was looking past the lady to see if she could find an exit so they could escape this nightmare.
“Is this a joke?” Freja asked in disbelief.
“No it’s our new budget line Céline by Celine Dion.”
“This is illegal,” Arizona said, incredulous.
“Where is Céline?” Freja asked.
“Are you kidding?” the employee responded.
Arizona grabbed on Freja’s arm and whispered, “Babe, Céline is dead. She was killed by the leader of her fan club.”
“You’re thinking of Selena. The Hispanic singer,” Freja pointed out.
“Oh, then she got shot on her doorstep.”
“That was Versace,” Freja corrected Arizona.
“I wish it was Celine Dion,” Arizona growled.
“Just try the dresses on,” the Céline employee begged. Ever the professionals, Frejarizona complied.
Looking at each other in the accordion moo moos, both women decided, “I need a cigarette.”
Outside, Freja and Arizona puffed and paced.
“How are we going to get out of this? Being the face of Céline by Celine Dion is like being the face of bowel cancer,” Freja ranted.
“I’m going to think of something,” Arizona said to her love. This was the most serious, threatening moment of their entire relationship.
They stamped out their cigarettes and Freja spotted the man from the BMW snapping away pictures. “It’s too late,” Freja said. “It’s never too late,” Arizona responded, then lead her soul mate back inside.
“I have to go,” Arizona told the Céline employee. “You can’t,” the Céline lady declared.
“I have to. I need medical attention. This dress gave me Accordionacitous.”
“You just made that up,” the Céline woman responded.
“I did not. Are you discriminating against my Accordionacitous? I’m going to sue you worse than my agents are going to sue that fake tumblr about Freja and me.”
The Céline employee let Frejarizona go because a lawsuit of that scale would bring Céline by Céline Dion down like it was the Titanic.
“You saved my life,” Freja said warmly to Arizona.
“I’ll love you til the Accordionacitous takes me, my love,” Arizona responded.
***NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. THIS DIDN’T REALLY HAPPEN***
“NEW YEARS IN BED (Doing It)”
“Freja, guess what day it is!” Arizona yelled as she ran through the hallways of the decadent mansion she shared with Freja.
“Oh no,” Freja mumbled. She realized that today must be Anna Wintour’s birthday. Freja never knew what to get Anna and the present Freja gave last year (a Cosco size box of Swiffers so that Anna could dust of her unused vagina) did not go over well. Freja felt it was a practical gift with a personal touch, but maybe Anna’s skin is too sensitive for the extra strength bleach on the pads.
Arizona continued to run through the hallways of her dreamhouse and Freja would yell, “Arizona!” then listen as Arizona’s jank walk clopped down the marble floors. “Hotter” Freja yelled as the clippy clop got louder. “Hotter!” Freja yelled as Arizona walked closer. “Hotter!” Freja yelled again when she heard the loud, uneven steps.
“Hotter,” Freja whispered as Arizona appeared in the door frame. Freja was taken by Arizona’s long legs that peeked out the slit of her flowy skirt. After all these (months? years?) of dating, Freja still wanted to “do” Arizona a bunch.
Hotter.
After their romp on the bed, when the feathers from the pillows started to float down on then her, Arizona said, “Today is New Years Eve.”
“Do we have to buy Anna something for it?” Freja asked worried.
“No. Freja, you must know what New Years Eve is.”
” ‘Zona, I’ve from Denmark. Wait! Is New Years Eve the American version of Roskilde Invasion Eve?” Freja asked excited.
“Um. No. On American New Years, we drink champagne, then talk about how disappointing the night was. That’s New Years Eve. What is… Rosskill Invasion Time, or whatever.”
“Oh, it’s this holiday in Denmark when we celebrate the period of time when the vikings arrived and raped our women and pillaged our ships.”
“Freja! Why the fuck would you celebrate that?”
“All the vikings had really good bone structure,” Freja responded warmly and Arizona thought maybe, for 2012, it was time to celebrate a different holiday- one not about spending money or getting cramped in shitty Times Square with awful Secrest.
It was time for FrejArizona to bring in 2012 celebrating the things that really matter- good cheekbones.
**NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION**
Arizona was getting very into her yoga and even though the lessons were Freja’s idea, some days, when Arizona slid on those skin tight pants, then Freja slid her out of them and then like ten minutes later Arizona slid back into them again, sometimes Freja seemed… well… jealous.
At first Freja would “supervise” all of the yoga lessons, but there are only so many times you can stare at someone’s ass in the downward facing dog before you start to wonder, “Is there more to life than just oversexualizing low impact workouts?
During dessert that night (strawberry shortcake) (they were all out of whip cream because of the night before) Arizona started to ask Freja if there are any hobbies she had ever considered.
“I have my music” Freja said and Arizona quickly asked, “What else?” because she didn’t want to hear Freja sing Mandy Moore again.
“Well, there is this one thing…” Freja said, uncharacteristically shy. Arizona was intrigued.
“Wait here,” Freja said and then scampered away from the table as Arizona watched her go and made a noise that was like, “MMMMMyeahhh”
Ten minutes later, Freja returned with a microphone and a notebook.
“Are you going to read your poems?” Arizona asked.
“No, this mic is hooked up to the stereo and the neighbors asked us to stop saying, ‘savory juices’ loudly,” Freja reminded Arizona.
“Whatcha gonna do, baby?” Arizona asked.
“STANDUP COMEDY,” Freja said into he mic.
“Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” Arizona said in her head.
“Okay so, my first joke is,” Freja started out and Arizona was already like, Maybe it will start raining and this electrical equipment will kill us all. Is that a rain cloud in the sky? Maybe? Please.
“-is,” Freja continued, “Everyone always comes up to me and is like ‘What do your tattoos mean?’ and I’m like, “I don’t know, what does your muffin top mean?’ ” Freja said and then laughs. Arizona tried to laugh, but she still had a little baby weight, even after the yoga. This was a sensitive topic.
“Okay, the second joke,” Freja said with misplace confidence, “is, like, okay I miss Lee more than anyone, but how does that smelly bitch Lady Gaga make Mcqueen look like McDonalds?” Freja laughed at this joke, Arizona tried to giggle.
The jokes continued, sadly, aimlessly- like a Tyra Banks photographed editorial.
About five minutes in, Freja laid down and did an unfunny bit about people who don’t wear all black clothing.
Arizona, grateful that there wasn’t a bit about “mom haircuts”, walked over to Freja and picked her up.
After carrying her sad clown inside, Arizona said, “I have a joke for your act,” and Freja looked at her hopefully, “Tell it to me.”
“Okay,” Arizona said, “The joke is… Saskia de Brauw for Chanel.”
***NOTE THIS IS FICTIONAL***
“Dude, what the fuck is a Saskia de Brauw?” Freja asked staring at her ipod touch.
“A super good coffee maker,” Arizona said as she messaged Freja’s back.
“Karl replaced me with a coffee maker?”
“Wait, I was saying coffee maker- the machine, not coffee maker- the hipster.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, ‘Zona the point is, Karl replaced me.”
“Oh no,” Arizona gasped, “You have a really bad knot on your shoulder,” she said continuing her massage.
“Don’t you get how important this is? I was dumped,” Freja growled, wanting to throw her ipod touch, but she hadn’t downloaded all the naked ‘zona pics off it yet so she handled it with care. “This is like if Jil Sander replaced you,” Freja said, to get Arizona to understand.
“Didn’t they already?” Arizona asked.
“Ugh. I’m googling this coffee maker, Saskia DeBrauw,” Freja said, prancing her delicate fingers across the ipod touch.
The picture slowly came up.
“It’s a fucking dude!” Freja exclaimed.
“Who would trade a cutting edge lesbian for a dude?” Arizona asked, “Other than, like, Anne Heche, but look how that turned out for her.”
“Wait. No. They might have just mislabeled an picture of young Jamie Lee Curtis.”
“Like Terror Train era Jamie Lee Curtis?”
“Seriously, Terror Train is what you associate young Jamie Lee Curtis with? Terror Train?” Freja asked. Outraged.
“Frej, you need to calm down, I’m gonna go make you a cup of-” shit. Arizona stopped. She couldn’t say coffee, Freja was just replaced by a coffee maker that looked like Terror Train Era Jamie Lee Curtis, “-a warm cup of… apple… sauce?” Arizona said, struggling to finish her sentence.
“Aw, you always know how to make me feel better,” Freja said, pulling Arizona’s hand over, then kissing it.
They dined on cups of warm apple sauce and Freja thought, I might not have Chanel, but at least I have my desert queen.
***NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION***
TODAY IS FREJA’S BIRTHDAY.
EVERYONE WISH FREJA A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
I hope she has an amazing day and she’s able to put the
“Balmain Incident” out of her head on this fine, fine day.
~-~FLASHBACK TO: The Balmain Incident~-~
It all started off as a normal Balmain show: sequins, some other shiney shit, and enough studs to cover jackets for at least two gangs of gay bikers.
Freja, as per usual, was casually flirting with the girls, when a scream silenced the room.
“Oh no did someone deflate Crystal Renn with one of those safety pins?” Freja asked, worried that Crystal Renn goo would get on the garments.
“Maybe someone put on footage of Kayne’s collection from PFW!” Kasia said, afraid.
“Save yourselves…get out while you can!” sobbed Karmen Pedaru, entering the room looking severely shaken.
“Karmen, what’s wrong? Did someone remind you that you had cornrows in your last Vogue Paris Ed? Don’t worry, we don’t blame you for that,” Freja said reassuringly.
“No…Freja, it isn’t that…it’s..it’s her… with…”
Freja looked confused. “Nicki Minaj? Oh man I hope they fuck around with Anna again and put them together.”
Karmen points across the room, her face awash in pure dread.
“Freja, darling!” echoed through the backstage area as a tall girl appeared, holding something.
It was Arizona.
Arizona had booked Balmain.
“This is bullshit, why can’t I have just one thing for myself,” Freja growled.
“You do,” Arizona said, “Me!”
Freja smiled, she softened and they kissed and touched each others butts and it was like it never happened. If Arizona can forgive Freja for the time the evil Bruce Jenner puppet made her dial Abbey, Freja can forgive Arizona for booking Balmain.
Well, she could until she saw what Karmen was freaking out about.
This wasn’t about Arizona.
This was about the cake that Arizona began to wheel out towards Freja, while she sang, “Happy Birthday To You!”
The models looked on horrified.
“Arizona, what the fuck is this?” Freja asked, stunned, but still looking for a fork because the cake looked good.
“Happy birthday, Frejycakes!” Arizona squealed.
“Aw. Fer serious, this is cute and all, but my birthday isn’t til October 18th,” Freja said.
“Fucking wikipedia fucking sucks,” Arizona muttered, then tasted a bit of white icing.
**NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION**
“Do you think I have baby-weight?” Arizona asked looking in the mirror.
“No. Babies weigh like 10 pounds. You’re way fatter than that,” Freja responded as she laid in bed and smoked a cigarette.
“Real nice,” Arizona responded.
“What. Sure. It’s a generalization. I don’t know what ALL babies weigh, but I bet a majority of babies weigh around that,” Freja admitted as she blew a cloud of smoke towards Arizona’s baby weight.
***
Freja decided on yoga, for Arizona.
“I’ll pay,” Freja said.
Arizona didn’t want to take her charity and refused.
“I meant I’ll pay you to do yoga,” Freja said, then slapped Arizona on the ass and then sat down on a wicker chair in the “observation area” of Arizona’s workout.
****NOTE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION*****
