Do You Come with the Car?

The love behind the dream

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 02:19:00 +0000

Edited to add:
This post has since been syndicated by my friends at Jalopnik. You can read it over there and see the lovely responses from race fans. The title they used is not mine; I do not "let" my husband do things or deny permission to do so as I am not his mommy and he is not five years old. Regardless, as always I am extremely grateful to Ray Wert for promoting my work.

This isn't a funny blog post, or a snarky one, or one about auto shows at all. This is a blog post I composed in my head Sunday night, clinging to my husband, grateful he was there with me. Alive.

That's right, husband. There may be some more somewhat identifying information in this post, too, but today I don't care, and anyway, we're close enough that I trust we can keep this between us, right?

I grew up with a father who had a pretty dangerous job. This is the kind of job where you know that something bad could happen, but you just sort of choose to put that nasty little fact out of your head so you can actually function every day. You know, sort of like being a race car driver.

When he was doing this job there was no YouTube. The media didn't play video of action movie-esque deaths over and over and over again. It was pre-9/11 and disaster porn was at a much more tolerable level, if there's any such thing as a tolerable level of disaster porn.

Without having this stuff in our face all the time, it was a lot easier to ignore the fact that every time my dad went to work he might never come home again. I didn't think this affected me too much until I looked back and realized that I never dated a cop, a firefighter or any active member of the Armed Forces in all my years of dating, and everyone knows the young ones tend to be super hot with bangin' bods, so that's particularly shocking, all things considered.

And then one night this race car driver walked into a bar and it was all over. Bam. If there's such thing as love at first sight there it was. We went on our first date the next day and he was it for me from there on out. Seven years later, three married, my heart is completely entwined with his. I don't know where my heart stops and his begins, but I do know that if his heart stops mine will too.

So here I am, living that life again where you do your best to ignore the very real danger the man who's your everything chooses to face to pay the mortgage. But now it's a little different, because horrifying deaths play out on live TV and get replayed over and over and over and analyzed ad nauseum, and when you see it over and over it gets a lot harder to pretend it won't happen to you.

He and I watched the horrific crash that killed Dan Wheldon as it happened. He knew immediately that someone had to be gone even before the dust had settled. When he saw that helicopter running but no one loaded in for another half hour, that confirmed it for him. He didn't need to wait for the announcement to know. I was the one holding out hope. Maybe this means this, maybe, maybe, maybe. We had friends at the track giving us updates, but they didn't know any more than what the media was releasing.

When I saw Danica crying after talking to her husband the doctor, I finally knew. And I curled up around my own husband and cried.

Last night I lay in bed wrapped around him, feeling his breath on my face, memorizing the feel and slope of his shoulders, my heart breaking that Susie Wheldon will never again experience those things with her husband. I waited until I could tell by his breathing pattern that he was asleep before I let the tears come, thinking of how many long nights stretch ahead for Susie when she will desperately try to remember what it felt like to have Dan's arms around her.

And then I woke up this morning and went with him to pick up his new race suit, and pushed that fear down again so this pro driver of mine can live his dream and be happy. Because that's what we do. Because if he wasn't happy, I wouldn't be, either.

Snakes on a car

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 22:03:00 +0000

I have had it with these motherf-ing snakes on my motherf-ing car!

OMG I can't even watch this video without squealing in horror. Jesus. I would do the exact same thing and not pull over. What, were they supposed to give that snake the chance to climb in the car and eat their babies? It must have been in the engine block before they took off. OMG I am freaking out over this.

True story: One day my cousin was driving down the highway when a motherf-ing snake dropped into his lap. It was just a garter snake but Christ that would have been my death right there. I usually excel at accident avoidance but at that moment I would have been freaking out so hard I'd drive into a tree or off a cliff and the snake would slither away and no one would ever know what caused such a horrible accident. "There aren't even any skidmarks," the perplexed police would say.

Did I mention that the snake in this video is a water moccasin? The deadliest snake in North America??? No?

I am a huge animal lover but don't feel the least bit badly that they let the snake fall off the car into oncoming traffic. While I appreciate the fact that we all have a part in the great circle of life and the food chain, they can be part of the food chain in some God forsaken swamp where I will never go. Snakes don't have souls. I decided.

Is this car for the Mexicans?

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 22:50:00 +0000

I'm so naive. Perhaps it's because I'm white and grew up middle class, but I truly had no idea how much prejudice and hate existed in this world until I started doing auto show. I mean, I knew it was out there - everyone hears people they know say ugly things once in a while (and hopefully crosses those people off their list of friends) but I had no idea it was still on such a grand scale.

Thanks for another sucktastic life lesson, auto show.

So over the past x many years I've been doing this I have seen countless examples of racism at work, but here are some that other product specialists have shared with me.

Exhibit A:
Booth bro is standing in front of pretty hot, brightly colored low rider one-off project car. Hillbilly approaches. "Is this car for the Mexicans?" he asks.

"Pardon me?" replies the astounded booth bro.

"Only a Mexican would drive a Jap car like this," three-toothed hillbilly replies. He laughs and looks up at the booth bro, expecting him to laugh, too. He doesn't.

Exhibit B:
Verbatim from an email sent by another booth bro…
"Scenario is one of my black teammates is taking a sales lead for our lead gen program from one of the shop techs from the local dealer. Him and several other guys are at the show 'helping' with customers. He is white. Below find the dialogue string between him and I keeping in mind that the black product specialist that just signed him up and is still standing there.

Him: 'So that’s it? I just go take a test drive and get $50'
Me: 'Yeah man that’s it.'
Him: 'There’s a bunch of other guys from the shop here with me can they all sign up too.'
Me: 'Yeah no problem man. Bring the whole crew over and we’ll sign them up.'
Him (taking a step backward and with a look of disgust) 'Crew? Do I look black to you?' then he walks away and does not come back."

Exhibit C:
Another story shared via email…
Customer approaches product specialist on floor.
Him: 'I heard you can't get the Tuxedo Black right now because the pigment comes from Japan.'
Me: "Yes it is in very short supply until we can get a supplier here to make that pigment for us."
Him: "Why don't you just go down to the White House and get some? They got more black than we need down there."
Booth bro is confused because what he thought was going to be a political bailout joke just went racist in one second. The guest then pulls out his cell phone and flashes a picture of a Downs syndrome child wearing a shirt that reads 'At least I’m not a n!gger.' He laughs and walks away.

Exhibit D (by far the most confusing because of who it involves):
Black product specialist very nicely asks two black children who have been playing in a car for over half an hour to find their dad, because a couple who are serious buyers want to check it out. Black father proceeds to scream at black product specialist saying she only kicked his kids out because they are black and the couple is white. Security was called.

Look guys, if you're a disgusting, miserable excuse for a human being there's little I can do about it, but the least you can do for society is to keep it to yourself. I don't want to hear this sh!t and neither does anyone else. Also, I have news for you: Whites are now the minority among new births in the US, so you'd better get used to being surrounded by the Rainbow Coalition. If you can't deal with that, guess you'd better hole yourself up in your survivalist shelter with your Confederate flag and your burning cross and your white sheets and STFU.

Everything is Obama's fault

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 23:14:00 +0000

In case you've been living under a rock for the last two years, everything wrong with the world is President Obama's fault. Budget crisis? Obama. Teen pregnancies? Obama. All My Children being canceled? Obama. That hangnail you've had for the last week and a half. Totally Obama.

I don't know why people come to the auto show expecting to talk politics with me. First of all, most of these people who want to have these conversations are hillbillies and I can guarantee that discussing our wildly opposing ideologies would only end badly. Possibly with bloodshed. Second of all, I am here to help market a product to you, and taking the risk of complete and utter alienation due to opposing political views is not exactly conducive to that process.

Here is one of my favorite political statements of this auto show season, as spoken by a member of our Greatest Generation:

"I don't believe in all this hybrid mumbo-jumbo. Oil is perfectly fine. This is all just a conspiracy by Obama."

Some days, when I get back to my hotel room, my tongue is literally swollen from having to bite it so hard all day long. Some days I am able to slip in a dig or two before they realize what's happening, then quickly move them along to SUPER HAPPY FUN TIME CAR INFORMATION JOY JOY JOY!

"Well sir, there are hundreds of dead baby dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico who would probably beg to disagree with you on that," I replied.

"…But luckily we have lots of other vehicles that only have good old fashioned gas combustible engines so you can use all the oil your sweet little heart desires!" *Flash megawatt smile, cock head towards gas guzzling monster, sashay him over with an extra skip to my step*

One day when I bite totally through my tongue and can't work and can't pay my bills because I don't have short term disability insurance, it will be Obama's fault.

Gilbert Gottfried's eviler twin

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 06:08:00 +0000

"So, do you girls like jokes?" asked that day's grandpa du jour, wobbling ever-so-slightly from the heady mixture of his Coumadin and Bud Light.

I eyed him warily. In such situations I can't exactly brusquely say no and walk away, so with a heavy inward sigh and a forced smile I chipperly replied, "Sure!"

That was my biggest mistake of the day.

Now gentlemen (and I use that term loosely), you and I both know that opening with a joke is always a risky proposition, no matter what your outdated Toastmasters handbooks might say. Comedy is a tricky business, and canned jokes even more so - they usually aren't funny, and the ones that are most likely to be funny walk a very fine line of being radically offensive, especially if you don't know your audience.

"President Clinton looks up from his desk in the Oval Office to see one of his aides nervously approach him. 'What is it?' exclaims the President.

'It's the Abortion Bill, Mr. President - what do you want to do about it?'

'Just go ahead and pay it.'"

JESUS CHRIST GRANDPA.

Despite how it might appear here, 99.999% of the time I am overly, immensely nice to a$$holes while I'm at work. Kill 'em with kindness, as they say. But come on now.

My chipper smile immediately disappeared and was replaced with my bitchface. "Really? You're opening with an abortion joke? You think that's an appropriate thing to say to a woman you don't even know?"

I spun on my heel and stalked away.

It's a risky proposition to tell political jokes to people you don't know - and this yahoo is upping the ante by tossing around abortion jokes? To someone who could have been his granddaughter? I should have suggested we call his granddaughter so he could tell it to her.

New rule: No jokes from grandpas will be accepted. The next time you ask me if I like jokes I'll just say no and start rattling off torque measurements of every car in the display.

It's only okay if you're famous

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 16:19:00 +0000

The big auto story of last week was about how my nemesis Chrysler had a giant PR nightmare on their hands when an account executive from NMS mixed up his Twitter accounts and posted something (quite funny but corporately inappropriate) on the Chrysler feed that was clearly meant for his own.

In case you have a life and are not glued to the internet the Tweet was:

"I find it ironic that Detroit is known as the #motorcity and yet no one here knows how to f*cking drive."

There's a point to be made that nobody anywhere knows how to drive, but that apparently is neither here nor there. Chrysler lost their sh!t over this. NMS fired the offending Tweeter in a misguided and ultimately useless attempt to save the account - Chrysler dumped them anyway.

In defending their action, which effectively put probably about 40 people out of work, Chrysler said, "That commercial featuring the Chrysler 200, Eminem and the City of Detroit wasn't just an act of salesmanship. This company is committed to promoting Detroit and its hard-working people... we can’t afford to backslide now and jeopardize this progress."

And yet…

Eminem, the main figure in this supposedly pro-Detroit ad campaign, is the same guy who made a career out of songs about slicing his wife's throat, stuffing her in the trunk of his car and dumping her body in a lake while their kid watches.

And it turns out he's not such a big fan of the Dirty D, either.

Here are Eminem's own words about the "beloved" city of Detroit:

"That's why the city is filled with a bunch of f*cking idiots still
That's why the first motherf*cker poppin some sh!t he gets killed
That's why we don't call it Detroit, we call it Amityville
You can get capped after just having a cavity filled
Ahahahaha, that's why we're crowned the murder capital still
This ain't Detroit, this is motherf*cking Hamburger Hill!
We don't do drivebys, we park in front of houses and shoot
and when the police come we f*cking shoot it out with them too!
That's the mentality here that's the reality here
Did I just hear somebody say they wanna challenge me here??
While I'm holding a pistol with this many calibres here??
Got some registration and just made this sh!t valid this year?
Cause once i snap i cant be held accountable for my actions
and that's when accidents happen,
when a thousand bullets come at your house
and collapse the foundation around and they found you
and your family in it"

But, ya know. That thing about the traffic. Way worse.

Born this way

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 05:29:00 +0000

God makes no mistakes, says Lady Gaga.

God might not make mistakes, but this guy did coming to the auto show with his face a mess.

Chicago. Night shift. Almost to closing. I see him coming from the side, from a distance. The peripheral view was "male middle aged suburban sedan driver." I was busy doing something and didn't give him a full look until he was right up on me.

The full view was actually "male middle aged suburban sedan driver who wears BRIGHT BLUE EYESHADOW AND RED LIPSTICK."

Everything except his face was totally regular and non-descript. Pleated khakis, blah green polo shirt. You know. Dude clothes. "Dude who works in a cubicle and wants to cut his wrists because his life is so boring" clothes, but definitely not "Dude who wants to look and feel like a pretty pretty princess" clothes.

What is with these half-assed trannies? Seriously guys, you should be ashamed of yourselves. If you want to dress up like a woman I won't judge you, but f-ing do it right. Here's a hint: Women don't have male patterned baldness. Pretty pretty princesses wouldn't be caught dead in pleated khakis. Try a wig. Some bronzer. A dress, for the love of Ru Paul.

There is no need to be walking around the auto show in your man clothes with your man walk with Tammy Fay Baker face scurrin' all the models. Srsly, it puts the lotion in the basket.

If you're gonna go, go balls out. Or balls tucked, as it were.

The car humper

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 17:23:00 +0000

Why is your child dry humping my car?

No really, why is your THREE YEAR OLD CHILD DRY HUMPING MY CAR????

Somehow the radio still worked. Before the show starts our techs go in and remove a bunch of fuses, some for safety and some for the annoyance factor. I really don't care to be repeatedly sprayed with wiper fluid, for example, so that's removed. Usually the stereo fuse is removed too, but sometimes for various reasons it isn't.

At this show, in this car, it wasn't. And when the stereo fuse is still in and active, the radio gets blared and it is never, ever music that you would want blared at a family event like an auto show. Usually the n-word is involved, or f-bombs, or graphic descriptions of things that would make Charlie Sheen blush and would make my boss go totally apoplectic, and rightly so.

So the parents climb into the car and the two kids and a couple of other adults they were with are hanging outside, and Daddy Dearest cranks up the stereo - I believe it was 50 Cent and Jeremih, Down On Me. All hell broke loose.

Shouts of joy erupt from the car. Highly energetic dancing begins. The children are not excluded from this. Usually I love watching little kids dance, because it's adorable and they're so happy doing it.

But this was just disturbing.

This baby, no more than three and possibly younger, threw her leg up on the bumper and started dry humping it, very slowly and deliberately. That was her dance move. And she was looking around as she was doing it to make sure Mommy and Daddy saw what a good dancer she was.

This was not a cute little "Oh look at baby shake her booty!" nor was it like those kids doing the Singles Ladies dance. This child was going to town on the car video vixen style, with a very deliberate grinding motion. (Great hips on that kid, by the way - they should get her into dance class.)

And instead of being embarrassed or stopping her and explaining how/why the behavior was inappropriate (and I don't care what you say, such obvious sexual acting out is inappropriate for a child that age, even if she doesn't know what she's doing) her parents cheered her on. And she kept humping the bumper.

Children don't just come up with this behavior off the tops of their heads, of course. She has seen Mommy do it, or she has seen it on TV and emulated it and got an encouraging response from her parents, like the one she got at the show, and kept doing it.

Chris Rock says the most important thing a man can do for his daughter is keep her off the pole. Judging from the way this poor child is already behaving, so highly sexually-charged, I think she may already have a pole installed in her nursery.

Does HE come with the car?

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 08:15:00 +0000

I often get asked (obviously by people who never go to auto shows) if any men work there. There are a ton of guys who do the same job I do, the exact same job I do, yet no one debates whether or not they actually know anything about cars or believes that they should accept being subjected to ritual sexual harassment because they happen to be physically attractive, right?

Trust and believe, they are subject to that same sexual harassment. It is on a lesser scale and they may usually find it less threatening and/or icky than we women do, but it is there.

A conversation I overheard at a show last week, between a female customer and a Booth Bro (imagine very flirtatious tone from lady and confused, then 'over it' tone from Booth Bro):

Lady (and I use that term loosely): "Don't you get tired of standing around in the same suit every day?"

Booth Bro: "Uh, this is a $1500 suit, so no, I'm pretty happy about it."

Lady: "So you just get to stand there and look good in your expensive suit?"

Booth Bro: "Yeah lady, that's all I do. Your husband's calling you."

I didn't get a look at her husband, but I wonder if that's because he was off somewhere hitting on a booth babe. Maybe they're swingers and were trying to pick up their entertainment for the evening.

I don't know what school of flirting this woman went to. Remedial classes, obviously. Despite her wildly flirtatious tone of voice, she managed to insult him not just once, but multiple times - first by implying that his job was boring, second by pretty much saying there was nothing else worth commenting about regarding his job other than his outfit, then by saying all he does is stand around and look good, and finally by subconsciously trying to emasculating two men: My coworker with all of these insults, and her husband by flirting with another man.

Thank god he wasn't wearing a skirt - she totally would have tried to stick her camera under it.

May the force be with you

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 16:06:00 +0000

Volkswagon's Super Bowl commercial is already my favorite : )

Miss Information

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 20:42:00 +0000

If we booth babes, who according to commenters on various auto blogs and websites are nothing more than window dressing and don't know crap about cars - if we booth babes know the difference between AWD and 4WD, then why doesn't whatever dealer guy who put the AWD sign on the 4WD truck I've been staring at all day?

Seriously, it's driving me crazy. My left eye is literally twitching right now.

Small details like that are extremely important. It goes straight to your credibility. The average laymen may not be able to accurately describe the difference between the two, but there are plenty of people who can and when they catch a mistake like that they lose trust.

While seeing that sort of misprint might not necessarily dissuade me from purchasing a vehicle I had already researched and made my mind up about, it certainly would make me think twice about working with the seller who made the error. I would consider anything else they told me to be questionable.

But what do I know? I'm just a pretty girl in a cute outfit standing next to a car.

(Actually, a couple of times yesterday the dealer sales guys I was working with brought customers with pretty detailed questions over to me to answer because they said I was the expert. It's nice to be recognized for the in-depth knowledge we have instead of just our butts.)

The auto show gods smile upon me

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 06:24:00 +0000

One of the happiest days of my 2010 occurred when I opened my auto show schedule for the 2011 season. Guess who's NOT going to Detroit, bitches? ME. I could only be more thrilled if I were being sent on a tantric yoga retreat with Mike Rowe.

I freaking HATE the Detroit Auto Show. As in, I would rather dig out my own eyeballs with a rusty spoon and eat them than do the Detroit Auto Show. I don't feel safe for a single second I'm in that city. It's depressing, it's crime-ridden, and frankly the show itself has turned into a joke.

Manufacturers are doing more reveals every year at LA, Chicago and New York because the foreign press hates coming to Detroit - they know they'll get jumped outside of Slow's by some thug with a gun. (True story, happened to some of the show tech guys last year.)

We're running out of hotels to stay at because they aren't safe. One girl fought off a rapist in what was supposed to be a secured hallway in the hotel at the Ren Cen a few years ago. Hotel management refused to up security for us. Last year another girl was drugged in the hotel lounge of our new, supposedly safer hotel and was rescued by her team mates.

I've traveled extensively, and I've been to some damned dangerous places across the world in my lifetime. In only one of those places have I felt my safety was compromised as much as I feel it is in Detroit - and the other was a third world country with one of the highest rates of violent crime in the world.

I hate that half of Cobo Hall literally smells like sh!t because they use manure on the plants in the eco-section. It's a ten day show. You don't have to fertilize the plants. A little water now and then will do just fine.

I hate having to deal with walking through multiple layers of usually smoking union members pissed off at the entirely wrong entity, making my clothes stink and littering the entire show - even the wrong displays - with their propaganda-filled literature. (Newsflash: It isn't the fault of Germany or Japan that Detroit factories are closing down. I suggest Googling "NAFTA" and "corporate greed.")

I hate that it's in the middle of winter on a freaking river across from Canada, which everyone knows is where Eskimos and polar bears live, and that means it's stupid cold.

And I really hate feeling this way, because some of my most favorite people, including many of my coworkers, are from Michigan - but they hate doing this show, too. Really the only bright spot of the whole show is defying death to sneak down to Greektown. And the bomb-sniffing dogs. They're nice.

So I'll be working my sweet little self through a different show instead. Please show the proper respect to my less fortunate Booth Babes who have to be there. Tonight I'll be sending a little prayer of thanks to the auto show gods, i.e. the lady that creates my season schedule and basically controls my life for almost half the year.

Bumper cars

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 20:38:00 +0000

I love it when my auto show brethren share on Facebook the ridiculousness that happens to them in their own displays. This comment, from a particularly inventive visitor, is one of my favorites of all time:

"Are the airbags in this car on the inside or the outside?"

Now, people. Really?

The booth bro who shared is little gem is a much nicer person than I, or at least I assume he didn't immediately fall down, pointing and laughing and gasping for breath while loudly relaying his question to his coworker's as I would have been tempted to do (and no, the visitor was not referring to that Japanese iSave thingy, just regular old airbags).

No, while in the moment and faced with such a delightful piece of material our "Be nice to idiots" training kicks in and we just smile and say, "The inside, sir. Like all cars," with only the slightest hint of patronizing. I tend to deliver such responses with a tighter smile than I probably should, but after hearing this kind of ridiculousness for this many years it's truly miraculous I don't just hand them a dunce cap and walk away silently.

But if I could spend my days messing with people's heads, here is what my own response to that brilliant question would have been:

"This model comes standard with a bubble wrap exterior. Interior airbags are part of our $3000 Bumper Car Special Edition, which includes a helmet and a vengeful, nauseated little sister."

Come to think of it, that's a brilliant idea. Someone get iSave on the phone.

Don't touch my junk

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 20:08:00 +0000

A new insidious danger has entered my world. While traveling as often as I do has always had its annoyances, large and small (thankfully mostly small), it is about to get much, much worse.

Because now I'm going to be sexually assaulted at the airport twice a week, on average.

We are being given a choice: Have naked photos taken or be felt up. I am sorry, but I am a model and even I haven't done full nude shots - which are worth a pretty penny, FYI - so what makes these crazy people think I'd do it for free? For some false sense of national security which is actually a joke and nothing more than a means to put some money in the pockets of the GE board of directors?

And the alternative, of being felt up? There is a very short list of people allowed to touch the flower of my womanhood:
1. My doctor
2. Special Man Friend
3. Mike Rowe

(Not necessarily in that order.)

If any of this actually did anything to make airline travel safer perhaps I might have a slightly different opinion (although I doubt it). But the fact is, it doesn't. Israeli security officials alternately think we're pathetic or just plain stupid. Do you know what the starting salary for a TSA agent is? $17,083. Do you know what kind of person accepts a job that pays so little? Someone who is desperate, with a lack of education, experience and/or hope. Is that the kind of person you want feeling up your daughter, or trust looking at nude photos of her?

See, there's this thing called a cell phone camera. And despite the TSA's assurance that the nudie pics will be immediately destroyed (which I also do not believe because that would be destroying evidence in case of an actual attempted attack) it is beyond simple for some pervy agent to snap cell phone pics of the video screen. I really don't care if he doesn't know my identity - that is still MY body. I have enough trouble trying to stop pervs from taking photos of my lady parts at auto shows, and now I have to deal with it at the airport too?

I started writing this really long diatribe about this issue, but it would probably just attract trolls screaming about 9/11 and false patriotism. Instead, I invite those people to take ten minutes and think critically about the issue, do a little independent research and remove the emotion.

By the way, when I flew earlier this week I nearly had a panic attack when I saw one of the machines set up at security. Nearly everyone was trying to avoid that line, but some people were going through voluntarily. I would've loved to have done mini interviews with them afterwards to ask why, but since airports are now practically Gestapo states that probably wouldn't have gone over well. Anyway, because hardly anyone wanted to go through it they started pulling people out of my line to go through, supposedly in an attempt to speed up the line. I started to freak out, because I knew I would refuse and I knew it would get messy and really, I don't want that. I'm not a criminal, I'm not a terrorist, I truly, deeply love my country and I truly, deeply love my privacy and dignity.

Luckily the woman ahead of me had pins in her knees and they sent her through it, so I got to go through the metal detector while she was in there. I may have to switch up my double vodka tonic airport ritual to before going through security rather than after.

So the moral of this story is that until Mike Rowe takes a dirty job at the TSA, you're not touching my junk.

Free polar bear hugs!

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 07:24:00 +0000

I WANT A POLAR BEAR HUG!!!!! I will buy three Nissan LEAFs if I can have three polar bear hugs. I will buy zero Nissan LEAFs if the "polar bear" is actually a pervy sales guy in a fluffy white suit.

Grodiness Avoidance System

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 03:47:00 +0000

The 2011 model auto show season is nigh and I must prepare myself for the onslaught of germs and filth brought forth by the teeming masses I encounter daily.

I truly have no idea how I have not yet contracted hepatitis, leprosy, flesh eating disease, TB, ebola, Coxsackie virus and diptheria. (Notice I said and, not or, because I am flabbergasted that no one has come down with all of them at once at the New York show - particularly with all the barefoot freaks and whatnot.)

At the height of the season I could be in six airports and two hotels in a week's time. That's a lot of exposure to utter grodiness. That's a lot of unwashed hands, coughs and sneezes into my hair and doorknob touching. Plus a new enemy has been thrown into the mix this year: bed bugs.

While I am still formulating my bedbug plan (I'm taking suggestions, please), for all other things I carry my travel/hotel survival kit.

For the airport:
- Always wear socks to the airport so you don't have to stand at security in bare feet and walk on that gross floor and get foot fungus from the other people who forgot socks. This might be a no brainer for dudes, but ladies have cute shoes that we often don't wear socks with, so I have to make a concerted effort to remember this one.
- My very own travel pillow/blanket. Never, ever, ever use the airline's stuff, even if they sell it to you, especially if it's free. Do you honestly think they ever wash those things? Do you want to know what happens under those blankets in redeyes?
- Cough drops to shovel into the mouths of anyone near me who is coughing their nastiness all over the plane.

For the hotel:
(I want to specify that I am fortunate to be put up in very nice hotels. I do this stuff anyway.)
- Antibacterial wet wipes. The minute I get in my room, before I touch anything I whip these out and wipe down every surface my hands are going to touch. Door knobs, cabinet pulls, curtain rods, light switches, bedside lights, the phone, the remote (what do guys reach for immediately after whacking off?), faucet handles, toilet handle, shower handle, closet door pulls, everything. This also gives me a great opportunity to see if anything is wrong with the room that would make me want to switch before I unpack.

- Slippers. I never walk around on hotel rugs barefoot if I can help it. Do you think they are ever shampooed unless someone is murdered in there in a particularly bloody fashion? They are not. There is all kinds of nastiness going on in those carpets. See airline blankets, remote control.

- Remove the bedspread and leave it in the furthest corner of the room that I won't go anywhere near. Do you ever see bedspreads on the maid's cart when you pass her in the hall? No. You only see sheets. That's because they only change the sheets. God only knows when the last time that bedspread was washed.

- Place the privacy sign on the door and don't remove it for my entire stay. When I need new towels I call down and request them. I leave the garbage pail and room service tray outside the door in the morning. I do not want a stranger in my room going through my stuff. It's not like the hotel cleaning staff is licensed, bonded and insured. I know too many people who have had things mysteriously go missing from their rooms, even in really nice hotels. I also know people who have come back to wet toothbrushes, misplaced panties and strange hair in strange places.

- Emergen-C. I start and end the day with it.

- But I never, ever, ever drink it or anything else from the glasses in the room. I saw Dirty Hotel Secrets Exposed on TV. Not happening. I either hoard the restaurant glasses brought up from room service or stick to the shrink-wrapped plastic coffee cups.

- And don't use the in-room coffee maker, either. Not ever cleaned ever.

- Never, ever, ever take a bath. Ugh. Just the thought makes me shudder. Showers only. I have not yet resorted to shower shoes like in college.

At the show:
- It's all about the hand sanitizer, once an hour or upon being touched by someone particularly smelly, or by someone I just saw come out of the bathroom, blow their nose, cough into their hand instead of doing the vampire cough, etc.

- More Emergen-C.

- Try really, really hard not to shake hands with anyone. There's just too many people. I'd rather a gentle touch on the arm of my suit jacket, please. Gentle. Not lingering. Don't be a creeper.

I am not a germaphobe -- I fully abide by the five second rule under reasonable circumstances. But I do not get paid sick days. If I get sick in the middle of the show, I can either suck it up, go to work and infect all my coworkers and visitors while being nearly incapacitated by illness, or I can lay shivering and miserable in my hotel room - probably being eaten by bedbugs - and miss out on a lot of money. Neither of these is a very appealing option.

What's really funny is that I'm not a clean freak at home. Far from it. I wait until the garbage smells to take it out. I have sour cream in the fridge that expired in August. My jack-o-lantern's face has caved in and I'm waiting for Special Man Friend to take care of it for me. Let's not even get into the laundry situation. But those are MY germs.

Not yours.

No offense dude, but I'll stick to mine.

PS - Is there any way to deal with bedbugs other than setting the bed on fire? While that may be effective, that still leaves me with nothing soft upon which to sleep.

Mike Rowe is such a tease

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 19:28:00 +0000

The closest we will ever get to reenacting the hot candle wax scene from Body of Evidence with my boyfriend Mike Rowe.

Where are my panties?

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 04:28:00 +0000

The auto show lost and found is a fascinating slice of anthropologic wonder. The things people leave behind can tell you a lot about what they truly value -- or, alternately, how much you've managed to blow their minds with your vehicle, to the point where they forget all kinds of stuff.

We find at least one phone a day. We used to find a lot of cameras, but those have started to dwindle as cell phone cameras have become more common. Weed. Lots of hats and sweaters. I hate touching those, especially the hats. You never know who has lice. Or scabies. Union flyers. Anti-union flyers. Anti-anti-union flyers. Used tissues. By the way, stop leaving your used tissues in the cars you plague-ridden lepers.

But none of those things are what was found in a car at a show today.

I don't want to be overly dramatic. It's not like someone found the head of a dead hooker or something. But still, I think we should make a pact.

If you are going to take off your panties at the auto show, please keep them in your purse until you get home.

It is unfortunately necessary to specify this, because someone thought it was appropriate to leave a pair of panties in the door pocket today. Nice ones, too - a black satin thong.

So it begs the question, why did someone leave a pair of black thong panties in a car at the auto show?

I've come up with a few theories:
1. One of the Chrysler girls realized too late that those little dresses reveal major VPL and ditched them in another display on her way to her own
2. The September heat of Texas simply became too much to bear
3. Some d-bag forgot he had his mistress's panties in his pocket and ditched them in the car before his wife could find them
4. There is some sort of panty geocaching event going on of which we were not made aware
5. Mike Rowe sat in the seat beside me and they just fell off, I swear I didn't do it on purpose

Thankfully I am not the one who found these panties -- if I had I'd still be too busy Lysol-ing the entire car to write this. (Or too busy with Mike Rowe. Take your pick.)

The only kid I want to see at the auto show

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 20:21:00 +0000

I am not the only person who has a problem with Unnecessary Trucks. I am also not the youngest, grouchiest, most knowledgeable or most vocal. No, that title must go to the 10-year-old son of a former Booth Bro.

Brendan, who worked as a product specialist for Toyota, Chrysler and Ford, reports the following:

"The other day, my 10-year-old son, who could say 'Duesenberg' and 'Bugatti Veyron' at age 2, was riding with me when some tool cut me off in a big pick-up. From the backseat, the voice of youthful wisdom yelled out, 'Hey, Mr. Unnecessary Truck, pay attention.'

Apparently, he reads your columns, too, or listens to me when I drive! Either way, your work is spreading to yet another generation!"

Here is why this kid is awesome:
A) He obviously has excellent taste in vehicles, judging from his early vocabulary skills.
B) He is already yelling at douchebags on the highway.
C) He reads my blog.

Brendan, your kid is welcome in my display any time. As long as he doesn't lick any door handles.

Fat and unfashionable

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 05:36:00 +0000

As you can tell, I'm an observer of people. I've noticed a recurring theme among the slice of Americans I get to spend time with on the auto show circuit: a desperate need for more episodes of What Not To Wear and a lack of dietary restraint.

People. Put away the acid wash. I know you're not a hipster because we're in places like Kansas and Alabama and Nebraska and those are the kinds of places where hipsters are called fags and sent to those religious brainwashing camps, and even hipsters and the Kardashians look ridiculous in acid wash.

I know 1988 was your heyday. I know you're proud you can still fit into your jeans from high school. Who cares if you can only do it by hoisting your fupa over the waistband? Who cares if they are absolutely yellow with age and hard water stains?

If you must wear it at all, must you wear every piece you own all at the same time? Is it necessary to pair your acid wash jeans with your acid wash jacket and shirt? There are children in third world countries that are in desperate need of clothing to protect them from the elements, and I would rather you burn this sh!t than send it to them -- they should be spared the same indignity to which you are obliviously subjecting yourselves.

I'm not saying I expect you all in Brooks Brothers suits, Dior dresses and Burberry coats. Just go to Target and buy a pair of $30 normal wash jeans, for crying out loud. Welcome to the new millennium.

And for Christ's sake make sure they fit without the fupa hoist. Want to know how to avoid the fupa hoist? Stop eating breakfast at McDonald's, lunch at Taco Bell and dinner at Denny's. In fact, just avoid anything on this website. I don't know how many times I've heard the same people that b!tch about the seats being too small make snide comments about what we booth babes must do to keep fit figures.

These comments are generally made with mouths full of nachos and cups full of Orange Crush. Yes, obviously I must snort buckets of cocaine in order to not blow up like something floating over Manhattan at the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Or maybe it's because I didn't inhale 3 blocks of Ryba's fudge today? (This wouldn't be such an issue for me if these people weren't making nasty comments about us... and if my monthly health insurance premiums weren't the equivalent of a car payment because of other people's diet-induced heart disease and diabetes.)

So. No acid wash jeans. No fupa. Lay off the nachos -- especially while in the cars, please. The last thing I need is to slide into the backseat to talk to the next person and land in a pile of your nasty fake liquid cheese product. You don't want to know how hard it is to find late night, overnight dry cleaning in middle America.

I'll expect you spic and span at the start of auto show season in November.

Stuff your face

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 05:40:00 +0000

Photo copyright sualk61 via Creative Commons License.

I recently received an email from a reader asking me about my relationship to food as a model, or more specifically if I'm a foodie since I get to travel so much. Shamefully I realized over the weekend that I hadn't yet responded to that email (sorry dude) but perked up when it hit me that this deserves an entire blog post of its own.

While I have done fashion modeling work, I am more of a commercial model. The difference for those of you who are uninitiated in the subtle (evil) ways of the biz is that commercial models are used in advertising for anything from eyeglasses to, well, cars, while fashion models are the uber-tall heroin-chic exoticas on the runway and in the pages of Vogue, as well as in ads for high-end clothing lines.

What this really translates to is that commercial models can eat more than a carrot stick once a day.

We still have to stay slim and trim, of course, but we can be a bit more "real" looking than fashion models. This means I can more often partake in one of my favorite activities: eating. Part of me wishes I lived in Mauritania where fat is beautiful so I could eat pasta and fried chicken all day long. Alas, I have to make sure my auto show wardrobe fits throughout the season. Also, I don't want to be a total fat-ass regardless of my profession, but mmmmmm I do like delicious things.

I have some basic food rules: No fast food. No soda. Whole grain bread, brown rice instead of their empty calorie white flour counterparts. As little processed food as possible. I love going out to eat at locally-owned restaurants when I'm traveling, but that can get pricey and fattening very quickly. We often will request hotel rooms with a fridge and microwave and hit the local Whole Foods to stock up on heathy meals. (Usually healthy. One time it gave me food poisoning. That's a great way to drop some LBs fast, except it sucks, especially when you don't get paid sick days and have to spend hours on a spinning platform trying not to puke and/or crap on some knob telling you to smile OMGstabstabstab.)

I think most of the men and women who work the auto show circuit eat in a similar manner, at least most of the ones I've seen eat. However, I did witness a glaring exception to this rule.

Remember our old friends with Fiat/Chrysler/Dodge/Jeep? In the skin tight mini dresses that your taxpayer money paid for? Those dresses were so tight that if those poor girls ate a cherry tomato they'd look seven months pregnant. I was eating lunch in the quiet basement food court at the Javitz Center during the New York show and saw one of these unfortunate ladies and her sad little lunch: a small baggie of baby carrots (I think I counted four sad little carrots in there) and a single container of that yogurt that makes you poop. I can not fathom getting through a shift at the New York Auto Show, of all shows, on so little sustenance. I want to kick someone just thinking about it.

Truly, the greatest point of a show is when one of the girls buys a block of fudge and forces it on the rest of us so she won't eat it all herself. I don't know how anyone could possibly get through the complete derangement of the Chicago Auto Show without Ryba Fudge. It's my Xanax. No nuts please; I deal with enough of those at work.

PS - Can someone please remind me to turn on Safe Search when I Google images? You don't want to know what turned up with the combo of words auto+show+model+eating. Don't even think about model+eating+pie. Jesus.

Oops

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 07:20:00 +0000

Oh boy, wouldyalookatthat. Been a while since my last update. I haven't forgotten about you, my dearies. I've simply been loving my time off. However, I will be back Sunday or Monday with a piece on everybody's favorite subject outside of sex: food! Tune in.

Are you trying to kill your kids?

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 21:56:00 +0000

It's no secret that I want to kill your kids, and by the sheer neglect I see at the auto show it looks like you feel much the same.

However, do me a favor and don't actually try to kill your child with your own stupidity at the auto show.

I scanned the above pic from an official show program. Yes, that is a child in a car trunk. Why yes, someone actually encouraged that kid to get into the trunk of that car. Seriously, because being shoved in trunks of cars is a fun game? Especially when strangers are involved. It's okay - Mommy (who admits you were an accident and has spent every day since your birth drunk) is right here, you won't get hurt.

Jesus f-ing Christ, people. These are kids. Kids aren't exactly known for being the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed.

This is what your kid is thinking:
Oh cool, I get to climb into the trunk of this car!

This is what your kid is thinking a month later when he sees an abandoned car in a lot he's playing in by your house unsupervised because Mommy is drunk again:
Oh cool, I should climb in the trunk of this car! If it was okay a month ago, it must be okay now!

Because kids are dumbasses.

Now, I know you think your kid is already MENSA material, but let me assure you, he is not. I know he is not because I see your little ankle-biters climbing into the trunks of cars at least three times per show with no adult supervision. So your whole "He knows it's only okay if I'm there" argument is bullsh!t.

Plus you and I both know that if something happened to your kid in that trunk you'd try to blame me even though Darwin's law was fully in effect. All of a sudden you think you're going to get your kid's college education paid for by some car company despite the fact that your kid is obviously too f-ing stupid to stay the hell out of a car trunk and therefor obviously not exactly Harvard-bound.

I will sic security on you, I swear to God - and a woman at that, because they're much meaner than the dudes.

Shoot the gap

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 06:28:00 +0000

It's always the ones you least expect.

I've heard the same story so many times from sales guys: Some guy wearing dirty old clothes comes into the dealership and is ignored by one salesperson, and when he comes back the next day in a suit (because he's actually filthy rich but likes to mow his own lawn for sh!ts and giggles) he gives his business to someone else who didn't pre-judge him.

Now, I can pretty much tell who's going to be a total knob to me from the next display over. I can see it in the expression on your face when you're talking to the other brand's booth babes, by the way you carry yourself. And yet, I refrain from judgement (outwardly at least) and talk to you anyway in the same friendly way I do the non-knobs, until you piss me off. And even then I just end the conversation and walk away. I don't even punch you in the junk!

Point is, I don't judge a book by its cover because on rare occasion the pre-spotted knobs have turned out to be cool. And the lady you think will only be interested in vanity mirrors and cup holders may have a nascent need for speed that only you can help develop.

I love it when a woman pushing a stroller asks me to compare torque numbers within our lineup.

I love it when a 7-year-old girl rattles off more technical specs than a Detroit engineer.

I love it when I overhear Grandmas talk about the "real" purpose of rear seat privacy shades (naughty Grandma). It's always far less creepy than when Grandpa does the same.

I love it when I shock the hell out of some know-it-all by, well, knowing it all.

Don't assume, kids. Ass. You. Me. Etc.

Minivan man

noreply@blogger.com (Do You Come with the Car?) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 17:18:00 +0000

Last week on TheTruthAboutCars.com I discussed the various ways in which your vehicle is preventing you from getting laid. Some readers took issue with my inclusion of minivans in the list of vehicular dating no-no's, I'm assuming because they themselves drive one and have not gotten laid by their wives or anyone else since their last perpetually sticky, screaming rugrat was born.

Someone brought up the issue of musicians, saying they drive minivans and have no problem getting laid. I don't know what kind of children's party players this guy is hanging out with, but I know more than my share of professional musicians and not one of them drives a minivan. They are all rolling in pickup trucks with caps or SUVs. Very occasionally do I even see an Econoline-type van anymore.

But if you still think I'm wrong about the minivan thing, I'd like you to meet Jesse Thornhill. He drives a minivan - a 1996 Ford Winstar, to be precise. He was arrested in Tulsa, OK for trying to run over his landlord with said minivan, as a matter of fact.

Interested, ladies? I'm pretty sure he's single.

Photo and info courtesy of The Smoking Gun.