Put your shoes back on, you pig

Today while working the New York International Auto Show I saw no less than three people walk through my display barefoot. BARE. FOOT. No shoes. No socks. Gross feet on gross floor, carrying their shoes. All three were women.

So here's what I assume happened: These dumb b!tches decided to break out their new strappy summer sandals for the first time in this glorious New York spring weather, on a day when they would be walking a good half mile at least just to get from their parking spot to Javitz, then another solid three hours on multiple floors covering the show and then were SHOCKED! SURPRISED! ASTOUNDED! when their feet started bleeding out.

First of all, don't come crying to me for sympathy. I stand in four-inch stilettos for anywhere from 6 to 13 hours a day. Let me play my iPhone app of the world's tiniest violin for you. Don't be stupid. Wear cute flats or riding boots.

Second of all, this isn't your living room. By the end of the show this carpet will have been walked on by 1.2 million people, all of whom have just walked through Manhattan streets. Have you looked at the streets in New York City? Have you seen what's on them? Allow me to enlighten you.

Here are some things I've walked through this week on NYC streets and sidewalks:
- Pee (human and animal)
- Gasoline
- Spit
- Chewed gum
- Tobacco juice
- Rancid milk
- Coal dust
- Dog sh!t
- Baby vomit

And then do you know what happens? I walk on the carpet at the auto show in those very same shoes! And so does everyone else in attendance! And all that grody crap that's on the bottom of our shoes is transferred onto the carpet! And then you walk on the carpet in your bare feet! So you now have pee, gasoline, spit, chewed gum, tobacco juice, rancid milk, coal dust, dog sh!t and baby vomit all over the bottoms of your nasty a$$ feet.

And you wonder why your pedicure lady starts talking smack about you in Korean as soon as you sit in the spa chair?

Too much junk in your trunk

Sometimes I can predict a conversation at the auto show from 20 feet away, long before I ever approach the person. While I learned long ago never to judge a person's station in life by appearance alone (that guy in the dirty work clothes may well drive a Lambo), you can certainly tell a lot about a person by the way they carry themselves and observed behavior.

When I see a large person make a face while climbing in and out of a car, I know this is the first thing they will say to me:

"The seat is too small. You make them smaller every year."

The seat is not too small. The seat is not any smaller than it was last year or five years ago.

The seat is not too small. Your a$$ is too big.

I understand that there are some cars that are, in fact, very small, and have smaller seats, and that sports seating can make a difference. I am not talking about these cars. I am talking about large sedans with some of the biggest, cushiest seats in their class. They are not too small. You are too big. And you keep getting bigger.

If you want to be big, that's your business. I am not here to comment on your struggle with weight loss or why you turn to food to comfort yourself after yet another booth babe shoots down your gross pick up attempt. (Large women rarely make this claim, interestingly. It is always the men.)

But it's time to get honest here. Do not blame my manufacturer for making seats smaller. That is patently ridiculous, and I have the measurements from the past ten years at my fingertips to prove that very point. The seats are not smaller, the dry cleaner did not shrink your pants, you are not "fluffy" or "big boned" and you're not Octomom eating for eight. If the seats in a full sized sedan are too small for you, then A) Please don't sit next to me on a plane and B) You need to stop lying to yourself and placing the blame for your discomfort on everything but the real issue.

Like I said, if you want to be big, go for it. It's your business (until my health insurance premiums go up to compensate for your weight-related illness costs). Don't blame your difficulties functioning in the world on external issues when it is your own body that is holding you back. If you're going to live it, own it.

It's not the seats. It's you.

Blood on the show floor: The New York Auto Show

Ah, New York. This big show wraps the season for most of us, although there are a couple of small regional shows in the next month. Some find NY to be the most challenging show (I personally give that crown to Chicago). Some would do anything to avoid working this show (I give that crown to Detroit). Some request this show year after year to revel in the energy of the city and the opportunity to play here with someone else footing the travel bill (that would be me).

I love love love NYC, but this show certainly does have its challenges. New York crowds are tough. They talk back when you're narrating, they get mouthy, and we always have a lot more vandalism here than in any other city (although this year, Chicago was really bad in this area). And sometimes they get violent, because obviously the auto show is the best place to vent your frustrations about your misspent life and the injustices incurred therein.

One luxury manufacturer was particularly affected by this last year. Another booth babe tells me this unfortunate area had not one but two fist fights in their display at the New York Auto Show, both of which happened in full view of the public and involved bodily fluids.

The first is my favorite: an overzealous security guard took a swing at a dealer associate because the guard felt the sales guy was too close to one of the prototype cars. The sales guy hit back. The cops were called. No charges were filed because there was not an independent witness to verify who took the first swing, but the sales guy was far more believable and the security guard (who was apparently being a jerk to others) was fired. The sales guy had a bloody lip and a shiner, but came back to work the show. That's dedication!

Later in the week at the same display, the booth babe tells me there was another fight involving some teenagers. It was close to closing time and a large group of them came in together (which always makes us nervous - there's a reason why teens can't hang out in malls in groups larger than four in many places). All of a sudden two started screaming at each other and blood was everywhere. One had hit the other in the face and his watch ripped off a chunk of the other kid's forehead, which was now lying on the carpet surrounded by blood splatters, right in front of a beautiful $70,000 car. Awesome.

(This is why you need to stay in school, kids - so you don't have to take a job on the cleaning crew and scrub blood and bits of flesh out of a carpet at an auto show at midnight.)

So far, as far as I know, none of this violence has affected the booth babes but that doesn't mean we're not afraid of it. Easter Sunday used to be Gang Day but Javits and the NYPD had put the kibosh on that in recent years. Regardless, working downstairs in the truck area can be spooky. It's never as busy as upstairs and in the evening can be almost deserted. Definitely not the place to be working a display by yourself, and in fact most now have a rule that there must be at least two (preferably more and at least one male) working downstairs at all times.

I am not going out by being shanked at the auto show, yo.