To Inject Or Not To Inject

Lately I've been playing mediator to an intense internal debate: to inject or not to inject. Let’s not jump to any conclusions here; I’m not talking about injecting anything myself. Should I decide to become a heavy illicit drug user I would definitely snort my heroin or cocaine, because I imagine drugs aren't nearly as enjoyable after having to stick a needle between your toes and risk a gangrene infection, ultimately starring in your own version of Requiem for a Dream? Obviously I have no intentions of becoming an addict to anything other than watching Glee. I don't really have to think about it much since I'm pretty sure that heroin chic look died out somewhere in the mid-90's, along with Pogs, Tamagotchi, and the "Rachel" haircut. Whenever I fear it is reappearing, I remind myself that hipsters also ride fixed gear bikes and therefore have adopted a healthier lifestyle that their predecessors.

My debate is far vainer than drug use. To Botox or not to Botox? This is the question that plagues my late-20's psyche (yes, I'm admitting my age this one time only). Is 27-years-old too young to be injecting poison into my forehead to reduce the deepness of the two lines forming a prominent number "11" between my eyes? Am I succumbing to some SoCal ideal of beauty? Or is it possible that I just am terrible at maintaining my eyebrows and want to draw as little attention to them as possible?

I've been talking about Botox for years to pretty much any audience that will listen and get mixed reviews. Some people are anti-plastic surgery and will complain about a crooked nose or thin lips, but harp on those who choose to do something about their double chin. A co-worker of mine told me all about how she wanted a minor tummy tuck to fix her abdomen after bearing two children, but said she wouldn’t because she didn’t want to “set that kind of example” for her daughter. The comment from said co-worker prompted my next question: why would you tell your four-year-old that you are getting a tummy tuck? The kid has more interest in chasing a balloon around the room or finger painting than any deep debate on altering your looks. Considering the little girl isn’t far beyond the age of knowing the difference between boys and girls, she may freak out thinking that people would possibly lose their belly buttons if you told her you were getting your tummy tucked.

I’m definitely not the kind of person who cares if others nip and tuck away. If you want bigger boobs, then make them as big as your back can handle them. Fuller lips, straighter nose, or higher cheekbones? Go for it! In fact, I love people who get plastic surgery; especially those who have made it so obvious that I can enjoy staring without them getting offended because they don't even try to hide it, but are intensely proud of it. I avidly follow Coco whatever-her-last-name-is who is married to Ice-T on Twitter because I love her postings of Titty Tuesday and Thong Thursday. Nothing transitions me into a better hump day than Coco’s F-cups jammed into a DD bra or makes my Friday Eve more exciting than looking at her ginormous altered ass. No wonder Ice married her; I could balance objects in some spin-off of Jenga on that badunk all day long.

At this point in my life I am only interested in correcting these two little lines between my eyes. Now I surely will tuck and lift and correct anything that happens to me after getting knocked up and popping out a baby, but that is years away and who knows how my body and gravity will react to carrying around a watermelon for nine months. I like my current physique and a healthy diet combined with exercise and the occasional binge drinking session have held it together quite well. Baby Mya will surely do some damage that crunches and Lean Cuisines can’t fix. I've pretty much put it in my future baby budget: crib, stroller, car seat, reconstructive surgery.

Part of me wonders what others think of the idea of a woman in her 20's getting fillers and freezers injected in her face, but part of me doesn't care at all what people think. I think I care mostly out of curiosity so I know who else is injecting. Together we can change the world to be more accepting of young injectors. Most of my close friends and family are against it, but that doesn't come as a surprise. One friend went as far as to say he "likes" my lines so I shouldn't get rid of them, which is utter bullshit because I doubt he even noticed them before I pointed them out. I told him I liked his back hair and I think he got the point.

This whole idea of Botox quickly became less of a debate and more of an obstacle course to get the smooth forehead of my youth. I had a few barriers to break down before actually making a concrete decision. First, I needed to decide on where to go and who to let near my eyes with a syringe full of botulism. The San Diego Reader is packed full of all of these filler and Botox coupons every week, so I knew that there were more places to get smooth skin than places to get fish tacos. Honestly, I don't believe discounted vanity procedures. That's sort of like getting your hair done at a beauty school; you really don't know what you are getting yourself into. I finally found a place someone recommended who looks fantastic with her minimized wrinkles. It took me a while to find someone who was willing to admit to getting Botox, but her perfect forehead and lack of crow’s feet at age 62 wasn’t fooling me. I swear it took 15 years off her, at least.

Second, I needed to fund this endeavor. I quickly learned that one area of Botox is pretty affordable and that wouldn't be an issue, since I have paid upwards of $50 to have someone do my eyebrows well enough that I don't walk out looking like Quasi Moto. I bet it’s pricier in areas of the country that only have one plastic surgeon who actually only went to dental school, but no one seems to know the difference. I also learned I wouldn’t even need to cut coupons for a good deal since a lot of places give referral discounts or first-time customer rates. Once I’m hooked I won’t even care how much damage it does to my bank account, as evidenced by the small fortune I have spent on highlighting my hair since age 16.

The third and final obstacle I needed to overcome, and still have not conquered, is my sincere laziness. I just don't want to waste my afternoon going to a place to get these injections that take less than ten minutes to complete, including checking in and swiping my credit card. It's not even like I do anything important after work most days besides sleep and play Angry Birds, but the thought of driving 20 minutes to get this done makes me feel like I need a nap. I'll hike for 4 hours on the weekend with no complaints and a blissful smile on my face, but forget a five minute drive to Sephora to replace my mascara. You would think I was avoiding getting my kidneys removed with the amount of effort it takes me to get to the mall for beauty supplies. Maybe I’m subconsciously protesting my own desire to look pretty, because I’m even too lazy to order vanity supplies online regardless of free delivery and gift offer incentives.

Ultimately, I think what will keep me away from erasing these distracting lines will be my lack of true inspiration to get to the doctor, a term I use loosely since I don’t think there are any medical requirements to be allowed to stick needles in peoples’ faces. Maybe by the time I make an appointment and get in my car it will be even cheaper and people will be less judgmental of my need for a smooth face. There's something about inching up and soon to be hitting 30 that makes me feel like my friends will be more open to a few adjustments here and there. I mean, you can get extensions if your hair won't grow, you can dye it if you don't like the color, and you can plaster on some fake nails if yours don't grow strong and long enough. A few little pin pricks later and I'll have a wrinkle free face while other people are still spending hours and money on creams and facials that don't do anything. I'll be back to saying I'm 23 and people may actually believe me.

Senior Prom Weekend

“Mya, I’ve decided we can’t go to the races because I need to get in a long workout and go to the beach to work on my tan. I want to look good for my 20th reunion,” explained Bobby. I rolled my eyes at him, “I don’t see how one day at the gym is going to make a difference, but I won’t argue missing horse races for the beach. You’re going to look like you’re doing well just by showing up with a girlfriend half your age. Maybe we can swing by my 20th kindergarten reunion afterwards. Your old classmates probably all have been through their first divorces by now and have to find babysitters to even go to this thing. I mean, things probably aren’t great for a lot of them. Let me also remind you that you are bald. You can really only look so young without hair.” He was busy ignoring me at this point. “Is Chris going? Can we tell people he got a sex change if he doesn’t go?”

Bobby got a Facebook invite to his 20th high school reunion several months ago and we decided to book our east coast summer visit to include the reunion. I thought it would be a good bit to meet some of the people he grew up with and it was going to be at one of my favorite D.C. venues in Georgetown. I went to college in D.C. and I don’t get to visit very often. The Sequoia on the waterfront brings back many great memories and I figured I may get to see some of my friends for lunch or a drink if we were spending reunion weekend in the District. As our trip approached the venue began to shift closer and closer to Bobby’s hometown and further and further away from the civilization downtown. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say the venue strayed further from sophistication and closer to red neck. It was certainly disappointing that I wouldn’t get to see any of my friends, but I was ecstatic at the opportunity to see where Bobby grew up.

“No, Chris isn’t going. Tell them whatever you want, but they probably see him on Facebook and know that’s not true. Can you please not make a big deal about your age? I don’t want people to think I have a trophy girlfriend,” Bobby responded. I nearly spit out my drink, “Trophy girlfriend?! That would imply that I’m a gold digger, which would imply that you are rich. We all know that’s not the case. They’ll probably think you gave me herpes and now I’m stuck with you. I’m definitely telling people we met because you and my dad were frat brothers.” I know Bobby can take an age joke, but I wondered if his classmates would have the same winning attitude. I realized that they may not appreciate my sense of humor and decided to go with the more believable notion that we met on Craig’s List under the “Strictly Platonic” classifieds. Perhaps I would throw in that we were in the process of consulting with a psychic about our potential to successfully have the child with gills and webbed feet that I have always dreamed about. Hopefully none of them have read Geek Love, because that would completely give me away.

This trip east was also the first time I got to meet Bobby’s younger brother. Chad is five years younger than Bobby chronologically, but he’s light years ahead in the traditional steps of life. He is married, has three small children, and a house in the suburbs. It’s not 100% Bobby’s fault he’s so far behind though. Southern California is like Never, Never Land. Tinker Bell whisks the Peter Pans of the world off to sunny San Diego post-college, before they have a chance to settle down, so they can never grow up and just playyyyyy! In California years, he is on the right schedule and will probably be ready to settle into marriage and a family sometime in the next decade.

I love being around little kids. I like to think of them as really short people who say funny things and brag about how they can use the toilet by themselves. I respect them for their love of things that light up and sparkle. I came prepared with toys that I liked, hoping to win them over and spend as much time as possible asking them complex questions that they would undeniably force them to make up answers. This is considerably more fun than conversing with the majority of adults. Since Bobby arrived the night before me to his brother’s house I already knew that his niece wasn’t very fond of him. Most children are fascinated by his shiny, hairless head, but I think it scared his niece. I’m with her on this one, it scared the shit out of me when I saw it for the first time too. Since I came prepared with a tiny stuffed dog in a tiny pink purse with a tiny bowl and a tiny brush and a teeny tiny dog treat, just perfect for her 3-year-old tiny hands to carry around, I won her immediate affection. When I asked her why if she didn’t like Uncle Bobby she told me because he wasn’t saying hi to her. I didn’t want to call bullshit on a 3-year-old, but I had seen him say hi to her several times. Oh well, we probably wouldn’t see the little girl for another year. Maybe by then she would forget she was scared of him and would find a TV show starring a funny bald man that she could relate to her Uncle Bobby.

We only spent a few hours with the family before passing out for the night. Bobby and I needed to be up early to get to his friends’ boat for reunion day, and I think everyone can now understand how important schedules are to Bobby. Sleeping in was certainly not allowed, regardless of jetlag. There’s nothing like waking up in a twin bed with a child guardrail, surrounded by Hello Kitty and pink rabbits, next to a grown man who is wearing nothing but his underwear, to make you feel like a pervert. It took me a moment to realize this wasn’t a Michael Jackson inspired nightmare and then another moment to figure out how to maneuver past the child guardrail with my cramped legs from not moving all night long. Mr. Schedule was lecturing me on time management and shooing me out the door while I was trying to enjoy my coffee and admire his sumo wrestler-shaped baby nephew.

We spent the day on a boat in the Potomac with four of Bobby’s old classmates. Our crew consisted of the amazing couple who owned the boat, a drinking light-weight Army captain deemed the “Commander” (a title he made sure we wouldn’t forget), and Bobby’s high school sweetheart. After swimming in the smelly Potomac and eating my weight in jelly beans, I wasn’t feeling very glorious. So in the end, it wasn’t the senior citizens that racked out early. Yours truly was hiding in a cave in the boat by 9:30, cursing myself for drinking so many Red Bulls and vodka, instead of sticking to my normal mixer of ice. I was nauseated, jittery, and in no mood to tell extravagant stories to a group of strangers I would never see again. Bobby’s failing memory didn’t help because he couldn’t remember anyone’s name and as they came up to chat with him, awkwardly looking at me like I was some lost puppy following him around, I would kick him in the shin under the table while giving him a look of desperation wanting an introduction. He would just look at me, confused and giggling like a little girl, before I just gave up and went ahead to introduce myself. I gave up after about 45 minutes of this, accepting that I wasted wearing a new dress that would have been better saved for another night.

The actual reunion was a great disappointment to Bobby, who later crawled in bed and asked if we could go back to San Diego…like that moment…to our lives far, far away from these people. I knew it must have been bad if he preferred our disorganized shoebox condo with a poorly house-trained Chihuahua to summing up the past 20 years in a 2 minute speech with the people he attended his senior prom with so many year ago. I was well rested and ready to head to Philly for the next leg of my trip east, but Bobby was kicking himself for trying to drink like he was 20 years younger. The few hours of sleep he got didn’t compensate for the full day and night of drinking. I drove the car back the next morning for fear that Bobby would get a DUI if pulled over for his utter lack of driving aptitude. We parted ways later that day, more importantly we both parted with Bobby’s high school hometown. There’s nothing wrong with the place, but then again I personally can’t find anything right about any small town.

Happy Birthday, Old Man

Another year went by as we celebrated my aging lover's birthday. He's getting to the point that not only does he get mixed up about his age, but his parents can't even remember what year he was born anymore. I guess it doesn't really matter once you hit a million anyway. As much as Bobby thinks he is still 25 (much like I do), sometimes his quickly accumulating years is as prominent as if he used a walker or needed Depends.

 

Birthdays are a time to give gifts to celebrate the people we love, but I hate the deadlines involved with birthday. They stress me out because I like to just buy things for people when I see something and want to give, not when I have a time constraint. Bobby is especially difficult to buy gifts for because he has everything that he wants and needs. He has been single and making plenty of money to afford all of his man toys for a long time now. I try to listen to when he starts talking about some new motorcycle or camera accessory he wants and put that information in my back pocket for later. It's never long before I am back to the drawing board though because he'll just find a way to justify even the most ridiculous items by convincing himself via "Bobby logic" that he needs the item and then he will purchase it on his own. Since I started thinking about birthday ideas two months ago he has accumulated a pile of unused items that would have been great gifts ideas. The pile includes the leather chaps he has yet to wear (regardless of my frequent requests), several never-used camera lenses and filters, and a brand new tent for his birthday camping trip in Catalina. Bear in mind that this is the same man who complained for a week about how I purchased a hand mixer for the kitchen that I use on a regular basis because we don't have room for it, according to him. Yet somehow he feels he can find room for the kayak he keeps threatening to buy.

 

Bobby left me no choice but to wait until the day before his birthday to shop for him so I could avoid having to return the gifts I knew he would end up buying for himself. I got him a new pair of sunglasses, since his favorite ones were stolen when he left them not once, but twice, in dressing rooms on the same shopping trip, all within the same hour. I also got him a wine aerator in the drinking spirit that I enjoy sharing with everyone with whom I have contact. Finally, I got him a gift card for iTunes and some iPod accessories in a further attempt to get him to actually use the iPod I gave him four months ago. He remains greatly intimidated by the iPod, much like my father is intimidated by texting. In addition, we planned a weekend camping trip to Catalina.

 

Bobby is incredibly set in his ways and not very flexible, especially when it comes to his "schedule". The schedule always includes work, the gym, various sports events on TV (e.g., Tour de France, football, Olympics) the gym, and the gym. Sometimes the schedule includes meals, errands, and sleep. The schedule never includes cooking, cleaning, calling people back, or closing cabinets and doors. In fact, I regularly have close calls with an open pantry door smacking into my head or nearly tripping over an open dishwasher door. I figure when this finally does happen (which is inevitable at this point) I will be subjected to a battle wound that is to be expected in the land mine that we call home. I know I could nag about this bad habit, but it would be in vain because any bad habits he has at his age are never going to change. It's like trying to tell a 98-year-old conservative southerner that "colored people" is no longer politically correct or at all socially acceptable. I do frequently debate picking up some bad habits of my own in a passive revenge, but I've decided that it would probably take him months to realize that I am purposely shrinking his clothes or leaving lights on. He would probably end up thinking he looked fantastic in tight mid-drifts and appreciate the convenience of never having to turn on the light switch himself. In the time frame it would take him to notice any annoying thing I intentionally started doing, I would get bored of the game plan and stop doing it anyway.

 

The schedule is a great concept and has worked well for Bobby in the past. Unfortunately, the schedule is based on the lifestyle of a 38-year-old bachelor living alone and straying from the schedule causes him a lot of anxiety. Everything is carefully planned. This transfers into leisure activities as well. The other day I sent him a scandalous text during the work day, to which he responded that sexy time needed to be reserved for Tuesday, Thursday, and the weekend per my new work schedule clashing with his on Mondays and Wednesdays. My bad, I'll tell my libido to take a cold shower.

 

In the spirit of schedules, Bobby was adamant that the Catalina birthday trip could not be postponed when my car lingered on its death bed and an issue came up at work for him that required him to work on that Saturday. He told me that I would have to figure it out when I asked how he thought I would get to work without a car because vacations cannot be rescheduled in Bobby's world. Mind you, this "vacation" required no booking since we were camping and we only put it on the schedule about ten days before it was to occur. To call him completely inflexible is unfair since the world stops for working out. I'm sure if I had told him that I needed to the gym on Saturday it would have been a more acceptable reason to postpone than if I was in a coma. However, not having a car was certainly not a worthy excuse to stray from the schedule.

 

This conundrum caused a series of arguments that made me understand why people kill their lovers. I didn't actually want him dead; I just wanted to lock him in a soundproof trunk without a calendar or clock until I figured out my car situation. The irony of the circumstances was that he was unwilling to help me buy a car that weekend before Catalina because he needed to install blinds, something that was already on the schedule. Whoops! I don't know how I forgot to put the car breaking down on the schedule! Imagine if I forgot to include going into labor on the calendar when I have kids someday. He'll probably tell me I should have thought about when the baby was going to come before he synced his phone to the calendar that said he was supposed to be getting his motorcycle serviced during that time slot. After many unacknowledged tears and several futile attempts to convince him that I'm not unreasonable for asking him to help me in the very first time I was ever going to buy a vehicle, I gave up and put on my iPod, something he can't relate to since he still doesn't know how to use the one I gave him, and went on with cleaning and organizing our place, working out, and cooking dinner for myself (but certainly not for him), all while he installed the excessively expensive blinds when we had lived without blinds for nearly eight months at this point.

 

In the end, Bobby postponed Catalina on his own accord. He then proceeded to become obsessed with looking for a new car for me, another one of his precious personality traits. He gets into research mode and can't stop until he has reached the orgasm of finding the perfect item at the perfect price. This often times drives me crazy because he'll get so compulsively fixated on something that he stays up half the night researching it and whines the next day about how tired he is. This time I was inconceivably appreciative of his OCD and delighted that I could stop complaining and avoiding the overwhelming task. I think this is what my mom meant when she said I should find a partner who compliments my personality.

 

We haven't made it to Catalina yet and won't for at least another month. Normally this would probably cause Bobby so much stress that his hair would fall out (if he had any), but he has so much on the schedule in the next few weeks that we can't possibly fit it in. Unfortunately, helping me look for a new car has opened Pandora's Box of obsession and Bobby has taken up the new hobby of unremittingly trying to convince me that he needs to trade in his truck and get a Dodge Challenger, but that is another story for another day.

What Do I Have To Do To Get a T-Shirt?

I’ll never forget the first time I interviewed for a promotions company. “So you are ok with promoting alcohol even though you treat alcoholics for your full time job?” the interviewer asked me. “Well, I drink even though I treat alcoholics. It’s not like I’m actually in the program. Besides, I need to keep my clientele up.” I guess that was the right answer, because the next weekend I started promoting Heineken Premium Light in bars across Philadelphia for twice the money I was being paid to help people stop drinking. By day I spoke of alcohol as the poison of society and held the hands of its victims; by night I handed out free drinks and bribed consumers to buy beverages with branded t-shirts and novelty key chain bottle openers. I lead a double life. I felt like Republican, except I wasn’t cheating on my spouse.

Promotions have saved my ass financially more than once. I have gone through career changes and layoffs, but it remains constant that someone will pay me to flash a winning smile and swear that their merchandise is the best I have ever come by. For as long as products and services are sold, there will be marketing. For as long as marketing exists, there will be tactics for selling that involve attractive women. For as long as I have a pulse under the age of 40, I plan to be attractive enough to promo whore myself out for every marketing company I come across. Regardless of employment, marital, and parental status I will keep open legs and purse strings to any job that pays an unnecessarily ridiculous amount of money for me to look good, answer inconsequential questions, hand out free things, and refer any inquiries more complicated than, “What do I have to do to get a t-shirt?” to the people who actually work a 9-5 job for the company. This isn’t shallow or an “easy way out” tactic, it’s a survival skill.

Many common judgments exist about brand ambassadors (a.k.a. promo models), most of which are myths, but some of which are very, very true.

Myth: All promo models are just a pretty face. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Many of the promo models I know are hard working women working a second job or networking for their careers or just making an extra buck to get ahead of the game. I have met some of my best friends selling my soul to the marketing devils. These ladies and I have something in common; we are hustlers. We fake it until we make it and clench our teeth to a pearly white smile for those dollar signs. Whether it means nicer vacations, paying for graduate school, putting food on the table in tough times, or just using our positions to meet potential clients for our non-fun jobs, we all have an ulterior motive that doesn’t include getting hit on by strangers.

Truth: Promoting kicks ass. Well, not all of the time, but no job is pure awesomeness. When you get down to what we actually do, promo models have it made. Our job requirements are to show up (more or less on time, but almost any excuse is accepted as long as you make an appearance), smile and be friendly to everyone (even if they are such an asshole that there is no possible way that even their own kin would be nice to them), and remember what we are promoting (a task made easier by the supplied uniforms with the product logo printed right under our noses). The rest isn’t very challenging. There are no expectations to know any valuable or crucial details, since we are contracted by marketing agencies and don’t actually work for whatever company we are promoting. Any tasks of surveys, data collection, or consumer education are made simple enough that Sarah Palin could do it without cue cards.

Myth: Anyone can be a promo model. The truth is that pretty much anyone who breathes is capable of being a promo model, but not anyone can actually be a promo model. There are a few simple requirements that weed out the majority of the population. First, you need to be attractive or at least pull off the façade of attractiveness. As shallow and stupid as it sounds, unattractive people do not get hired. Period. Attractiveness has a specific definition for promo model though. You need to either have an awesome body and load on enough make-up to distract the world from your huge nose or you need to have a relatively average body and a face that screams “I belong in a Maybelline commercial next to Heidi Klum.” Either way, you need a nice smile that includes a full set of teeth that had (or look like they had) braces at some point even if they have shifted a little bit. Bigger the boobs and a tiny waist make up ill-defined cheek bones and a lack of skill with make-up. Perfect bone structure makes up for a flat chest and legs that are shorter than your torso. Just remember that companies only supply uniforms in promo girl versions of extra small, small and medium sizes, which translate to mean extra, extra small, extra small, and small real world sizes.

Second, you need to be perky in the worst situations possible. Picture being the only sober person in a dive bar, dressed in booty shorts and a top that hardly covers your tits while frat boys who actually think it’s acceptable to shotgun beers at the bar hit on you and drunk girls who got in with fake i.d.’s all but yack in your handbag. All the while you plaster on a shit-eating grin and answer questions like, “Who invented the body shot?” or “How can I get a t-shirt?”

Third, you need to be able and willing to take orders from a manager/supervisor with the intelligence of goldfish, motivation of a sloth, and leadership ability of an insecure teenage girl. You need to accept that even though they may be an incredible idiot and on something of a power trip because for once in their uninspiring life they get to be the one in charge. You may, and probably do, know a more efficient and effective way to run the promotion, but your job is to smile and do whatever they say. In the end it will have absolutely no impact on your life or career if the promotion goes well or not. You will never be affected by the success or failure of the event and the only thing you need to worry about is making sure you get another booking. The only way to get more bookings is if your minimally competent manager reports to your agency that you did a good job and the only thing that qualifies doing a good job is listening to them teaching you the vital importance of collecting accurate email addresses. It’s probably easier said than done.

Truth: Promotional models are dumb as rocks. This is a true statement in the sense of what it takes to be a successful promo model. Often times the models are actually smart, ambitious, and incredibly competent, but that doesn’t mean they should show it. This is one of the biggest mistakes I see new promo models make. It doesn’t matter if you have your Ph.D. from Harvard in rocket science or you barely graduated high school; you still have to listen to the event manager, smile, look pretty, and not try to be a leader. In fact, I have found that it is better to only give enough information to the booking agents and managers to show them that you are able to successfully breathe and walk at the same time. If they are questioned or find you intimidating then they feel less powerful and intelligent (which they probably are) and they will find any reason to not have to deal with you in the future.

Beyond the realities of being a promo model, there are a few rules that you need to follow. Some are actually written by the marketing company you work for and some are more like tricks of the trade.

1. Wear the uniform that was given to you or mandated for you to wear. This seems really obvious and simple, but I am never surprised to see girls show up wearing the wrong thing and sent home. My friend Jules got in trouble for wearing too long of a skirt to a Captain Morgan promotion. The uniform required knee-high black boots, a short black skirt and branded t-shirt. When she submitted photos from the event she was called out. When she explained that she didn’t own a short black skirt and thought it was classier to wear a knee length one anyway her manager told her she would need to get a shorter skirt. She thought her hooker days were over; think again, Jules.

2. When the cat’s away the mice will play. A lot of promotions don’t have an actually manager present. One of the models, who’s more responsible in theory, is named the team lead and has to submit photos and a recap of the event to the company. These companies aren’t stupid; they know you don’t follow every rule perfectly. They have all sorts of idle threats about reps showing up, but even when it happens the reps often wonder why you aren’t drinking while working instead of getting mad at you for enjoying one of the drinks you are handing out. The golden rule is to not give yourself away in the pictures. Below is an actual email Jules received from her booking agent.

Thanks for sending over the photos. I greatly appreciate both yours and Julie’s energy during the Brownies event and feel that you were perfect for that venue, but I see a few MAJOR violations that we have to make sure don’t happen in the future. In a college environment, it’s extremely important to have high energy and create a buzz. Unfortunately, I think the team was a bit too high energy for what X would view as a legal problem. Attached you will find a photo of the team on the stage pouring a drink in the mouth of a consumer. This could be viewed as X forcing liquor on an unwilling consumer. The quick and simple answer to this in the future is never pouring any product in the mouth of any consumer. Always hand the product to them to give them the option of consuming or rejecting.

The other photo represents X samples distributed on a Finlandia tray. We have to make sure we’re not utilizing competitive POS during our promotions. This is usually not a top of the mind thing for the laymen consumer, but a major bone of contention for top executives from X.

As the manager for our team in PA, it is important that I address and fix these issues as quickly as possible. I really want to make it clear that you we’re not aware of this situation. Moving forward, I will look to you both as Ambassadors to spread to word among your fellow team members. I will purchase a ton of trays and provide one per Sampler that can be used for future events.

Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions or concerns.

Manager

3. Be nice to bartenders and bouncers, not just managers and owners of the accounts. This serves your best interest in the future. Within six months of promoting booze in the Philadelphia market I was able to go out and never wait in another line, pay another cover, or buy my own drinks ever again. I’m not sure if the bartenders and bouncers feel sorry for us, but they hook up promo models nonetheless.

4. Don’t stay and drink at the place you were promoting at in the same night. You need to leave and go somewhere else. People will continue to ask you for free shit even though you aren’t working anymore. Men will use it as a reason to talk to you and since you need to be nice to everyone you will get stuck talking to some weirdo forever. Also, if you get drunk and make an ass out of yourself you will definitely get fired. I knew one marketing company that hired this chick who got wasted after a promo once. They found out the hard way that she was a former stripper when she took off her shirt and puked on the floor. It didn’t go over well for the company with the bar or their client.

5. Get rid of ALL of the swag you were allotted to hand out. It may seem cool to have some extras in the beginning for your friends or the gym, but eventually your friends won’t want anymore Bud Light hats and you will have enough branded items to open your own promo store.


Stayed tuned for the next few days for some of my favorite experiences promo whoring. A little sample of what is to come: two of my promo friends are banned for life from Mission Grill after someone told the manager that they were prostitutes.

Property of {Insert Bike Gang Name Here}

Saturday morning confirmed what I have suspected for years: I am destined to join a biker gang. For the past several years the majority of men I have dated own motorcycles. This isn’t because I consider two wheels and an engine to be a relationship requirement, but I have coincidentally chosen men who all happen to have bikes. I also coincidentally choose men without hair, regardless for my personal passion for flowing locks; a detail I have never been able to fully explain. I think that maybe I am attracted to the rebel without a cause in guys who own bikes. Since I tend to date men with educations, careers that often involve a desk, and no outward signs of Harley tattoos, it is always a pleasant surprise when a guy tells me that he owns a bike and I can straight away explain my passion for leather chaps and bandanas.

My fascination and fancy for motorcycles began at an early age when I would hear the loud engines roar by our family’s beach house. My mother would roll her eyes and mutter about how obnoxious it was that they took the mufflers out to make their presence known to the world. I didn’t like the noise, but I could respect their blatant cries for attention since, as the second of four children, I could relate to being loud in order to be heard. Although I liked seeing these people on their bikes, I was still intimidated by them. On TV bikers always seemed angry and fond of bar fights. I was too young for bars even though I already had a deep suspicion that drinking establishments would someday be home to me. Our little beach town didn’t really have bars anyway and I had to assume bikers would pick fights on the streets as an alternative, which frightened me. The women seemed particularly scary since they were so few and far between and hardly decipherable from the men anyway. Obviously things weren’t going great for these mamas and I could only guess that they would be angry as a result.

Motorcycles took a seat in the back of my head for some time until I read Hunter S. Thompson’s Hells Angels. HST is my favorite author of all time and a true inspiration to step outside everything we know as comfortable. As a journalist and bingeing enthusiast, he rode with the Hell’s Angels for a year back in the day when they had a particularly bad reputation and then wrote about it in the book. What I gathered was that this group of delinquents rallied in the woods to party for several days at a time with minimal hygiene and maximum toxicity. This doesn’t sound half bad to me. Who needs showers when your body weight is 50% alcohol and your vision is blurred by the eight hits of acid and all of that dust you smoked before breakfast, anyway? Bikers have changed since the 70’s when my hero, HST, got shit kicked by them after a year of studying their habits. One thing hasn’t changed though, the most important thing of all, their style remains completely intact.

Bobby has had bikes since college, which I had some difficulty believing when he told me since he went to college so shortly after the wheel was invented. Last October he bought his newest bike and I love it. Besides the convenience factor of easy parking and legally splitting lanes, I can’t argue with an engine rumbling beneath my peekachoo and how hot I must look when I pull my helmet off and shake my hair out. I have been toying with the idea of getting my motorcycle license for some time and the recent rattling noises of my Taurus are begging me for a secondary mode of transportation. Bobby is also a fan of the idea, except when I ask him to teach me and he realizes that it will require me getting on his motorcycle without him driving and he suddenly is too busy to take me out.

Bobby goes on weekend rides with his homies and I pretend they are cruising around like the old men I used to see in Fourth of July parades during my youth. This isn’t possible since Bobby’s bike is too sporty for cruising and he isn’t a part of an official biker gang, as much as I wish he would join one. On Saturday, I accompanied my lover and several of his friends to my very first bike rally, in honor of a fallen Federal Agent who was killed in the line of duty last year. I was unaware of how many law enforcement officers doubled as scary badass bikers on the weekends, but embraced my new knowledge. I was thrilled, to say the very least, at the opportunity to put together an appropriate outfit for my first bike rally. I managed to get my hands on some knee-high leather boots, which I wore over black leggings. I pulled a billowy leopard print blouse over a skin tight black turtleneck, which peaked out perfectly beneath the amazing denim jacket my old roommate must have held on to for more than a decade. I snapped Bobby’s Jansport fanny pack around my waist to complete the look. Leggings may not be the most practical choice for a long motorcycle ride, but I learned early in life that practicality and style rarely go hand-in-hand when I insisted at the mature age of five that I couldn’t wear a coat over my Halloween costume when I went trick-or-treating, even if it was only 50 degrees out and I was dressed as a flapper.

I went as far as staying in on a Friday night in order to get up at 6am for the bike rally. This, my friends, is true dedication to the cause. Bobby was nervous I wasn’t going to be easy to wake up since it doesn’t usually go over well when he tries to wake me before noon on the weekends and it never goes well when he wakes me before 9am for the gym. He was pleasantly surprised when I popped right up, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and quickly pulled on the outfit I laid out the night before. We were off to meet some of Bobby’s co-workers and friends for breakfast at a shiney diner, reminiscent of the ones off NJ’s highways that brought warm and fuzzy feelings of my heritage. I already had high hopes for this day and the guys’ Evel Knievel inspired outfits only made me more confident.

Pulling up to the rally was like pulling into the gates of heaven on a golden chariot. There were hundreds of motorcycles and their owners in their leather-sporting splendor. It was difficult to contain my excitement and yet I was speechless in the same breath. A surge of questions entered my mind. Why did I not know about these events?! How could I make these people accept me as one of them without owning a motorcycle? Where did they hang out? Was there an unspoken facial hair creativity contest going on? Did these people carefully choose these outfits for today and were so dedicated that they grew in handlebar mustaches for the event? Or did they always rock the goatee and sideburns look? Where could I find a pair of leather chaps? Where have all of these fanny pack owners been my whole life? Most important, how would Bobby take it when I found my soul mate here and left him in the dust driving off into the sunset with a 65-year-old obese man on a Harley? I immediately addressed the latter issue by telling my boyfriend that I would leave him for 90% of the people at this rally, but he didn’t seem very concerned and I have to assume he understood why and would do the same if he was in my shoes.

After registering and a speech by the organizer where he thanked a bunch of people no one knew or cared about…blah blah blah…we set out on our ride through the rolling hills of California. Unfortunately, the rolling hills combined with my early wake-up call resulted in me nearly falling asleep and off the back of the bike several times. The consistent rumble of the engine made me realize why babies fall asleep in cars so easily. I hardly noticed since I often dream of riding in the middle of a herd of motorcycles, making it very difficult for me to decipher if I was asleep or awake anyway. I had a death grip on Bobby’s backpack, but would slowly peel away and jerk awake again. I was scared, but I knew that if I died I would be greeted on the other side by thousands of bikers who would assume that I was one of them and I couldn’t argue with that exit from the world. A quick pit stop to pee and peel off some layers aided me from meeting an early demise, which was for the best because I know my mother wouldn’t be pleased to get a call from Bobby saying I had fallen off the back of his motorcycle and was run over by a sidecar carrying a guy named Buck who was missing several teeth and surely had Hepatitis C from unsanitary needles used for his tattoos.

I got plenty of video footage to keep me in a good mood for the rest of eternity. I had a difficult time coping with the idea that I had to leave my people and go home, but my ass wasn’t in tip-top shape from sitting on the back of Bobby’s bike for four hours. Before heading back, I made sure to have a lengthy conversation about the possibility of Bobby’s friends all buying bikes for their wives and girlfriends so we could ride on the weekends too. I’d be willing to be the only female if necessary though. They had been toying with the idea of forming their own biker gang for a bit and I support this fully. I am even willing to take one for the team and have “Property of ” tattooed on my lower back. It wouldn’t even be much of a sacrifice since I am the one who came up with the idea. Bobby really doesn’t seem like the biker gang type to me because he likes Justin Timberlake too much. I think my best bet is to join a biker gang by myself and tell him that I am going to a book club; I really can’t risk him dampening my image. For now, the search for leather chaps is kicked into high gear and I have begun practicing my saunter. Screw graduate school and a potential “real job”; I belong on Harley with no directions or place to be.

Running Like Crazy

What kind of person would swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and round out a nice little afternoon with a marathon? Or how about just a nice 50 or 100-mile run? It seems like recently I have met more and more people who just aren’t satisfied with finishing triathlons, marathons, or century rides as landmark accomplishments in their lives. They need to bring it to the next level and trump the simple people of the world who can barely carve out the time or enthusiasm to train for a half marathon. Some consider these people to be the epitome of a display of dedication and the definition of true athletes. I just consider them excessive.

Let’s delve a little deeper into this topic. I think my recent overexposure to marathon runners and triathletes is 90% me moving to an area of the world that has such beautiful weather that no one ever stays inside and 10% dating a marathon runner and triathlete. In sunny San Diego, gym memberships are drastically cheaper than in north east American cities because their treadmills are in competition with a sunny, moderately temperate boardwalk. People are more likely to spend Saturdays hiking in the glorious weather than hung over watching the Food Network. This is been a welcome change for me, but I still feel a twinge of guilt when I think about how Rachel Ray would probably consider me a traitor. Bobby told me he didn’t run for more than a few miles at a time before moving to San Diego from Northern Virginia, but it’s hard to justify staying indoors when you can be outside on the bay or beach in 70-degree weather every day. Point taken, but the weather hasn’t caused me to overdose in running, so there must be something else going on here.

I think it’s great that some people can focus on and love running so much that they can do it for several hours straight. Honestly, there aren’t a whole lot of things that I have ever done for 3-4 hours straight, except breathing or sleeping. I have an attention span that can only compete with someone who has lost 100% of their short-term memory, so I would more than likely get distracted once taking off on even a 5-mile run. I picture myself, iPod full of my favorite tunes, newly purchased cute running outfit that probably took longer to pick out that the time needed to run 100 miles, and with all of the intensions to get into a state of spiritual bliss enjoying the scenery and fresh air. Then I picture the inevitable reality of being distracted by a homeless man locking his shopping cart to a telephone pole or a delusional elderly person wandering out of the house without pants on. Without any thought at all I would be stopping mid-stride to stare in awe, looking for a bench to sit on in order to watch without being so obvious, all the while cursing myself for not finding a running outfit that has a place to store a camera. It wouldn’t take long for me to forget why I was even wearing sneakers and an obsolete pink sweatband and matching tube socks in the first place. The confusion of my outfit would probably only last a minute or two before some irrelevant memory of a sale on wheat thins at the grocery store would pop into my head and I would decide that my afternoon would be better spent at the petting zoo or the bar. There are so many bars with great outdoor seating on the beach and they practically call out my name when I walk by them. How did I get here, again? Who cares; I just know it’s time for me to move on to the next thing and find a theme appropriate outfit for whatever I settle on doing.

Generally speaking, my train of thought is as broken as most American marriages, which doesn’t say much for anyone. I need to choose athletic activities that hold my attention and don’t involve any sort of cadence. I was a gymnast in my more formative years, a sport that can hold anyone’s attention. The longest any one routine lasts in just over a minute and each skill lasts only a second, which is much more in line with how I function. Obviously, at 5’8”, my days as a gymnast were numbered the second I hit puberty. I later took up track and field, but I never ran distance. I was a sprinter/hurdler, threw javelin, long and high jumped, and pole vaulted. Luckily I was decent enough at each thing to not have to be subjected to only one area of the sport. I may never have been able to practice any one area enough to go to college on an athletic scholarship, but I didn’t care because I would no doubt be bored with track in another year or two anyway. I always wondered how the cross-country runners were able to able to run a whole three miles without going off the track or trail to make wreaths out of dandelions or take a nap. I figured they must know something that I don’t. Maybe they have tricks to keep themselves occupied, like practicing times tables or naming their imaginary children. I wasn’t sure how they did it, but I certainly never felt an urge to find out for myself. Now that I have discovered that people actually train to run 100 miles, those cross-country runners in high school don’t seem so impressive anymore.

Back to the loose minds of people running ultra-marathons and ironman competitions; even if I had a desire and the attention span to run, swim, and bike for an entire day, I don’t have the time. Moreover, I don’t want to have that much time on my hands. You can’t fit much more in the day besides, eating, sleeping, and working if you are training for such an extreme race. Forget reading, following celebrity gossip, or solving world hunger. I don’t see Brad and Angelina doing Ironman’s, after all. You live, breathe, and shit working out. I have known a few people in my life who use excessive running as a means of purging. The girl I used to see in my hometown running when I drove to work, my lunch break, and home all in the same day wasn’t just working out. She didn’t fool me at all. It was as obvious watching someone down epicat and laxatives, without the associated smells that make them so socially unacceptable. I know not everyone who runs marathons has an eating disorder, so please hold the outrage, but I do find them equally as crazy. One family friend of my parents had six children and was such an avid runner that the doctor had to put this plastic thing in her koslopus during the last month of her sixth pregnancy to keep the baby from falling out because she refused to stop running until she was actually spread eagle in the hospital. Really, lady? You’re more concerned about getting those runs in then a baby dropping out of you onto its head? This kid was destined to have a lot of mommy issues, but if I was the kid I’d probably be trying to drop out early too so I wouldn’t have to jounce around all day as my lunatic mother ran for a few hours.

I have always considered myself to be a well-rounded athlete. There were gymnastics days, then field hockey, and track and field. College introduced me to fitness classes and yoga. I was a certified spin instructor, life guard, and personal trainer. I rarely missed a day at the gym and loved the energy it gave me and how great my triceps looked. I also grew fond of ellipticals and Stairmasters at peak gym hours so I could stare at the asses of the people on the machines in front of me. Fitness and working out was always second nature until I moved to Philly in my early twenties and traded my sneakers and spin shoes for cigarettes and booze. I never had an issue staying thin or looking like I hit them gym when the only thing I was hitting was the bottle. In fact, quite the opposite happened and I got pretty sick during the time frame that I wasn’t in the gym. I got so thin that I had to go to a nutritionist for six months to break into an acceptable weight and was still quite slender. Those were the beginning of my modeling days and everyone around me must have assumed that I was running 50 miles in a weekend. Quite the contrary, I was sleeping, smoking packs of cigarettes, sleeping some more, and calling it a day. The weight gain period didn’t even allow me to work out. I was under strict orders to limit any physical exertion in order to pack on pounds. I would set an alarm and wake up in the middle of the night for junk food and chug milkshakes during the day, washing them down with tubs of lard before going back to sleep. Now I have more than gained back the weight I lost, quit smoking, moved to a beautiful place, remained unemployed long enough to have walked to the moon and back, but I still get exhausted just thinking about getting up at 5am to do anything other than run to the bathroom to pee.

I have to draw a few conclusions about people who run ultra marathons or ironman’s or any other excessive amount of exercise that doesn’t hand out a paycheck like the NFL or the NY Yankees. The most obvious is that these people need a plus one, because if you are getting laid on a regular basis, you really don’t have 3-4 hours a day to run; unless your lover is into these races too, in which case congratulations on finding someone as crazy as you. They also couldn’t really like their knees or shins very much. In some cases, they don’t like their vaginas either. They are less than likely to care if their skin looks like leather by the age of 40 from the excessive sun exposure. They definitely can’t be fearful of skin cancer (I can relate to them in this area, but only because of the vanity of my generation). Finally, they are also probably well-suited for such occupations as “sheep counter” or “jack-in-the-box functionality checker” or some other tedious, awful job that requires you to do the same thing over and over for hours on end.

As a supportive girlfriend, I give Bobby the go-ahead to do all of the marathons and Ironman’s and other athletic endeavors that give him the bragging rights he clearly desires. However, I do have some stipulations. He needs to choose races in places that I want to visit, especially if he plans to be gone for 12 straight hours and then recovering for a day after. I need to be able to entertain myself, plus I don’t want to waste plane tickets on going to somewhere lame. Also, if he is going to spend all of that time training, then he needs to be understanding of me spending all of my time reading, watching Glee, tanning, and sleeping. I also don’t want to hear complaints about how he is tired or sore. No shit you’re tired and sore. I predicted as much and he’s the jackass who signed up for this lunacy. Most important, don’t ever expect me to choose watching any race over a Phish festival. Not saying it will happen, but I’m putting it in writing now just to be safe. Finally, since I watched him in the Boston Marathon this year I don’t have to go again next year if it falls on Coachella weekend again. In fact, I reserve the right to be annoyed should he choose Boston over Coachella. Relationships are about compromise; I will watch you run if you listen to music and drink with me. The truth is that I hope the recent trend in extreme races goes out of vogue as quickly as Hammer pants. I speak my piece now, but will stay quiet and hope that they fade out.

Exploring American Apparel

Another weekend went by and my procrastination, coupled with an eternal love of vodka, overshadowed any hope of being productive, once again. My lover and I always talk big about how we are going to put in a closet system to get our shit off the ground or about how we are going to order a desk so the little Chihuahua that inhabits our condo will no longer be able to pee on the bills and other important papers that we leave laying on the ground. I can’t really fault Mischa for this behavior since I often want to piss on bills too and would probably consider it more seriously if the toilet was twice as high as my head and my other option was to take a shadoobie on the Astroturf next to the sidewalk as hundreds of people milled around me. Instead, there was another weekend where we grit our teeth after discovering more spiteful doggy incontinence and the majority of my clothing remained in its new home in the bed of my boyfriend’s truck. Clearly, organization and moving aren’t my strengths.

What is it that I do, you may wonder, that keeps me from figuring out how to turn on the oven or fold laundry? Well, this weekend my boyfriend and I convinced ourselves that we needed some quality “us” time together just hanging out, since occupying the same bed every night isn’t sufficient. Then there were errands and the gym, of course. Obviously Bobby also needed to go on a motorcycle ride for half of Saturday with his homies, which I support only because he wears a fanny pack on these excursions. To be honest, I would probably support him sleeping with prostitutes if he wore a fanny pack while doing it. Small waist purses are a particular weakness of mine. Clearly I wasn’t going to do anything productive by myself, so I slept half of the day before dragging my ass out of bed. If the dog doesn’t need to go out, no one is making enough noise to wake me up, and Prince isn’t knocking at my door to profess his love for me then I jump at the opportunity to stay snuggled under the covers dreaming of a more productive life.

Saturday afternoon only supplied a limited amount of time before Bobby and I needed to hook up our Belvedere IV’s in preparation to see Chelsea Handler perform stand up. I got the tickets for the event months before and had grown to consider it a more important date than all of the major holidays in the year combined. At a minimum, I considered it more important than Christmas, Flag Day, and Canadian Thanksgiving. There was a brief window of time to make it to the American Apparel flea market sale downtown. Bobby had recently taken a curious interest in becoming a hipster and I just lost my exceptionally lucrative nanny job, so this seemed like a peerless shopping opportunity for us both.

You may wonder why is it that anyone would want to be a hipster. I often wonder the same thing when I contemplate how long it must take to get those tight pants on. In a futile attempt to stay young and hip, Bobby has come to the conclusion that gearless bikes, ridiculous facial hair, unflattering clothes, and immense amounts of irony will qualify him as “rad” or “cool” once again. Luckily he has me around to veto all of his brilliant ideas of what is fresh, therefore keeping him relatively presentable. For someone who claims to have never touched drugs, I ask you, what sober mind decided that handle bar mustaches need to make a comeback? Clearly, someone is spiking his protein shakes with acid. I was quick to remind my delusional mate how stupid he looked with a soul patch in the 90’s, which didn’t help my cause since he is still convinced it was a good look for him. My affinity for fanny packs doesn’t really help my arguments either.

Luckily, my stallion of yester years is in great physical shape, making hipster clothing completely impossible for him to pull off. I immediately told him that his meaty thighs would prevent him from fitting in at an MGMT concert, which was fine with me since I don’t own an outfit that would make me look like an elderly librarian in a Mid-Western town. I backed my position by suggesting he stop working out and adopt anorexia as a method to attain the necessary hipster figure. You can imagine the look of disgust on his face.

The American Apparel sale was the final nail in the coffin, completely crushing Bobby’s dreams of going back in time to relive his life in a way that would put him in a position to be wasting a Vassar education to work as a Barista at a tiny coffee shop in North Park while taking drags off of hand-rolled cigarettes and writing poetry. As he looked around, Bobby quickly discovered the living nightmare that hipsters around the globe are subjected to on a daily basis: there is no way you can know who is a boy or girl without strip searching everyone! Maybe this is a a slight exaggeration, because I suppose if you can see faces then you can tell the gender by the distinctive outdated facial hair or the likelihood that the girls will be wearing a headband with a flower on it. Perhaps the females may also wear something with lace on it, possibly a skirt. However, from the back, all hipsters look completely androgynous based on clothing, haircut, or body type alone. I guess the benefit of this trend in fashion is that even though clothes are completely unflattering, you can always dig through your childhood wardrobe to find the perfect ill-fitting pair of pants. Becoming a hipster is definitely a way to save money in these economic times. You can thank your lucky stars that your mother is a pack rat and held on to those hot mess outfits. And guys, don’t worry if you were into Jenko’s as a youth. Just find your sister’s old duds and you will be all set. It doesn’t really matter if they are girls’ or boys’ clothes anyway, since you will inevitably be pushing your junk to one side and suffocating your balls, lowering the likelihood of you reproducing in the future and saving us from a world of hipster babies (a tip of the hat to you).

Bobby didn’t seethe in disappointment for too long; probably because he was in complete awe and utter fascination by the large room of people all looking through the same clothing racks, regardless of gender. It was like a petting zoo of asymmetrical haircuts, PBR hangovers, and parents’ credit cards used to fund a lack of style. Why do we even bother with cable if there is an American Apparel sale going on down the street? Bobby quickly gave up on finding any clothing that would be of value to his image and took to helping me find the perfect pair of retro terry cloth shorts. What a rockstar boyfriend I have.

I walked out of the store that day with some great finds at next to nothing prices. Beyond the standard plain t-shirts, shorts, and leggings, I hit the jackpot when I found a doggy t-shirt for Mischa that said, “Legalize Gay.” I’m pretty convinced my dog is a lesbian since she regularly sneaks out of our bed under the cloak of nightfall to have a panty party all alone. I wake up to every pair of underwear I own strewn across the floor, crotch licked nearly to disintegration. Bobby is still fast asleep, so I know he didn’t do it; but Mischa is usually hiding under the bed or blankets on some sort of vagina juice high, like a satisfied crack addict. I put the underwear away carefully either up high or in zipped bags, so I honestly don’t know how she gets to it. She must grow opposable thumbs when the sun goes down or maybe she has some sort of psychic powers to move things that are usually out of reach to her. I can’t be certain because she waits until I am asleep to start the panty raid. I can only assume that she likes girls because she never touches Bobby’s underwear and I have tried to set her up with my friends’ male Chihuahua’s, Chancho and Chico, to no avail. When I tell her that Chancho has a crush on her, she just looks at me as though I am suggesting she shack up with manatee. As her mother, I accept her the way she is and was overjoyed to find a shirt for her in support of revoking Prop 8. I am a big advocate of the LGBT organization, regularly donating to the cause. I know that if Mischa could read that she would be proud of her new shirt.

My other fantastic find was a white thong with blue and red writing that reads, “Made in USA” complete with a pair of thigh high tube socks. Although this sounds less than sexy to the average man, my patriotic partner would rather come home to see me laying seductively in camouflage cargos or American flags than lacey lingerie, latex, or leather. I essentially found his birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, and 4th of July gifts in an American Apparel sale bin. Unconventional? Creepy even? Maybe, but considering I find him sexy in a fanny pack I guess this is just another example of how birds of a feather sleep together.