Everything is Obama's fault

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

"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use that term loosely), you and I both know that opening with a joke is always a risky proposition, no matter what your outdated Toastmasters handbooks might say.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.

Miss Information

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

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

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

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.

Grodiness Avoidance System

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.

Where are my panties?

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.)

Fat and unfashionable

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

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

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.

Shoot the gap

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.

Parenting at its finest

Yes, really.
By the way, America isn't part of Asia. If I catch any of you b!tches doing this at one of my shows I'm getting your a$$ kicked out.

(Thanks for the tip, Ray!)

Booth Babe Media

It's been a fun media week for yours truly here at Do You Come with the Car!

My weekly column at TheTruthAboutCars.com is super fun to write, and this week's post was no exception. I've been seeing some pretty sweet rides around town and wanted to share the beauty - check it out... My column appears every Sunday, so keep your eyes open for it!

I was also interviewed for a story on the current and changing role of product specialists for a piece at Autos.Sympatico.ca. Another fun one, just trying to spread the word that we're more than pretty faces... You can find the story here: Heels and Wheels.

I wanted to print the interview in its entirety... There's some stuff he didn't use (which is totally fine; it didn't really change the context of anything he did use) and I think being able to read the whole thing gives a fuller picture. Many thanks to Michael Banovsky for the awesome story, for thinking of me in the first place and for generally being awesome!

How did you come across this job?
I was doing convention work and was staffed as a local at an auto show - meaning I was there to assist the product specialists with things like lead generation, not to talk about the cars. I liked their job a lot better!

How long have you been working in this capacity?
I have been an automotive product specialist for four years, but have been doing other types of experiential automotive marketing as well as a working fashion, commercial and promotional/convention model for much longer.

What’s the proper term for your work?
The sharp-dressed people like me at the auto show who talk about the vehicles on the mic or one-on-one are called product specialists. I use the term "booth babe" on my blog as a facetious nod to those who use it derisively.
 
On your blog, you talk a lot about a lack of etiquette during the auto show. Do you think it comes with the territory or is there something deeper?
It isn't just a lack of etiquette, although the public at large certainly does seem to have forgotten how to use the key phrases "please," "thank you," and "excuse me." This job has opened my eyes to the still-strong undercurrent of sexism in our society. When I try to discuss this on my blog I receive comments such as, "What do you expect when you're wearing a miniskirt?" A) We don't wear miniskirts, we wear business suits or cocktail attire (except for the Fiat brands, but that's a whole other can of worms) and B) It doesn't matter what myself or anyone else is wearing - everyone deserves respect regardless of their appearance. It quickly became apparent to me that a large segment of men think an attractive woman can't possibly know anything about cars. Frankly, I know more than most of the salespeople and nearly all the attendees. My favorite moments at the show are when a male salesperson sends an incredulous dude my way to get an answer to a technical question.

Have you heard stories of the “old days”? Do you think your work is becoming more progressive? Why/why not?
Margery Krevsky, the President/CEO of Productions Plus (which casts a huge chunk of the talent you see at the auto show) recently wrote a book called "Sirens of Chrome" which details the history of the auto show model and how our role changed throughout the years. We started literally as hood ornaments and now are the go-to experts not just at the auto show, but at marketing events across the country. Margery recognized years and years ago that we could contribute to automotive marketing on a much larger scale than just standing around looking pretty. We are walking, talking product handbooks, and how well we answer questions about the vehicles we represent has a direct impact on whether that attendee will buy our car or one of our competitor's.

What sort of training do you do before a show?
Every year we have an intensive training session lasting several days in which we go over every vehicle on our lineup with a fine tooth comb, learning all the new features and how they compare not only to the previous model year but to competitive vehicles. Our trainers, all of whom have engineering backgrounds, have intimate knowledge of not just our product line but automotive technology in general. We leave with piles and piles of information - literally a suitcase full - that we digest during the ensuing weeks before the auto show season starts. Sometimes some of this info is rather top secret, albeit temporarily - it might have to do with details of a concept the company is working on or a new vehicle release or redesign, the details of which have not yet been released to the press. They want us to have time to learn everything by the time the information does go public. Throughout the year we are constantly kept up-to-date with new information as it becomes available.

How many products are you required to know about?
We are required to know every vehicle on our lineup. Sometimes you'll be drawn to a particular vehicle and take a special interest in the minute details of that one, but we must be able to speak in depth about each and every vehicle we offer. We also need to know at least a little something about the direct competitors to each of our vehicles - people will always ask why ours is better or how it is different.

What’s a typical day of working on the show floor?
We usually work in six hour shifts, unless we're doing a double which can bring the day anywhere between 10-14 hours. (Six hours might not seem like a long time, but you try standing there in 5-inch heels under hot lights answering the same questions over and over while people try to sneak photos of your butt and make snide comments about everything you can imagine. Now think about doing that for 14 hours. Now I'd like to introduce you to my friend, the dirty martini.) Anyway, we get to the show, settle our bags in, change into our torture chamber shoes, grab a coffee immediately before our shifts start. Then we just jump right into the madness: depending on our brand and our job responsibilities, we can be doing anything from presenting a vehicle on a platform with a mic to lead generation to manning the information desk, or even just floating around our display area being available to answer questions.

In recent years, I’ve noticed more men on the show that are closer to spokesperson and stand stander (with colour-coded outfits!) than their usual role of buttoned-down expert or salesman. Are more men becoming “models” or (as Jalopnik calls ‘em) “booth professionals”? Why? Equality or…?
There are lots of male product specialists! I'd say the job is about 2/3 female and 1/3 male overall, but for some manufacturers the mix is more like 50/50, and some 90/10 female. The guys (booth bros?) have the same sort of background that the women do: actors, models, other performers and pro drivers who have a keen interest in cars and don't puke at the thought of speaking in front of a huge crowd. There are more women then men who do this, and I think it will probably stay that way for the foreseeable future. The job was traditionally female, so we already have a larger presence because of that, but a lot of women attend these shows and they just seem to be more comfortable talking to another woman. I think attendees assume any guy in a suit at the display is a salesperson and therefor to be avoided, so sometimes even the men who think a "booth babe" can't possibly know more than they do about cars will come to us instead of the guy. Plus, the guys really moan about wearing the stilettos. ; )

Why do you think women and cars are paired together so often?
People, male or female, are naturally drawn to things that are aesthetically pleasing. A beautiful car and a beautiful woman in front of a beautiful vista is much nicer to look at than a beautiful car with some snaggletoothed, unwashed hillbilly draped across the hood in a ghetto parking lot. I'm sure there's also some sort of subtext along the lines of "Which is faster, the sports car or the babe laying on it?" At the auto show it's all about getting people into your display and keeping them there. Beautiful cars and beautiful product specialists might get people into the display, but our approachability and most importantly our knowledge keep them there.

A narcissist's manifesto

I'm often accused here of being completely self-involved, vain, shallow and full of myself. (I am never accused of this offline, by the way. Not to my face, at least.) I have wondered more than once - pretty much every day, actually - if I would be accused of the same sins were I a male product specialist writing the exact same observations, replacing the male pervs with female.

I don't think I would. In fact, I think the male readers who currently bemoan my attitude would be sending me internet high-fives.

Justine Musk (soon-to-be ex-wife of Tesla head Elon Musk) offered the following observation on her own blog, Moschus:

"The attitude seems to be that personal, confessional blogging ('female' blogging) is narcissistic, and authority blogging ('male' blogging) is not.

Personal blogging takes the blogger's own life and turns it into narrative. Stories.

Authority blogging establishes the blogger as an 'authority' in some particular niche, and relates information that (theoretically) solves a problem the reader might have or teaches something that the reader wants to know. An authority blogger usually has a product or service to sell you."

The designation of 'female' blogging and 'male' blogging is more one of attitude than actual gender.

This blog has always been meant to be both confessional and authoritative. I'm writing my personal experiences from the standpoint of an expert in the field - someone who has never done my job could never write about it, just as I could never pen a blog about nonexistent experiences working in an ER. Is it self-indulgent? I don't see how. I don't get any real-life attention from this since I must remain anonymous. I don't post photos of myself posed enticingly next to vehicles, fishing for compliments.

So I'm not sure where a lot of the vitriol comes from. Is it because I take the occasional shot that bruises the fragile male ego? Is it because a certain type of male can't reconcile the idea of an attractive female who has no sexual interest in him actually being intelligent? Is it because they recognize themselves in the types of creeps I call out here?

Probably a combination, and more. The human psyche is so terribly complicated.

Anyway, I'm not going to apologize for what I write. There are a lot of a$$holes at auto shows. I write about them. The end. If you recognize a piece of yourself in anything I've ever written, my advice to you is that instead of trying to tear me down, you spend that time and energy: A) applying multiple layers of deodorant, B) learning how to talk to a woman respectfully while looking her in the EYES, and C) putting in some quality time on the treadmill.

While you're doing that, I'll be writing. Cheers!

There are no stupid questions...

...just stupid people.

The amount of incredibly stupid things I heard people say at the auto show this year was truly mind-boggling. I don't think people actually got stupider this year; maybe I was just paying more attention because I was looking for blog material.

But really, we got some stupid, stupid questions. Not just me, but all of us at every manufacturer from every country and in every vehicle type. Stupid, stupid questions.

This year, Detroit took the prize for idiocy. In fact, the stupid question of the year award goes to a Detroit show visitor who, while driving a car in the ride and drive in the green car section in the BASEMENT of Cobo Hall, asked:

"Does this car run on solar power?"

Really, people. Come on, now. Do you know your own name? How to get back to your house? Tie your shoes? Not stab yourself in the eye when eating with a fork?

Let's think about this for a minute. Is there sun in the basement? Does the sun have magical rays that pierce through layers of concrete to power the vehicle you are currently driving and obviously must have some source of power? No?

Then no, this car is not solar powered. Jesus.

PS - Check out this week's column over at TheTruthAboutCars.com!

Smile!

“Smile!” you say, leering at me, usually with a camera in hand. “It can’t be that bad!”

No, despite your rank breath it is not that bad - you just happened to catch me at the one millisecond of my day that I thought maybe someone wasn’t staring at me, waiting for me to be less than perfect so they could call me out on it. It is my job to smile, to “spin and grin” as we call it, and I do it gladly. I like my job, as I’ve said before; it isn’t brain surgery, it pays well and I like cars so I’m interested in the material.

What I am not interested in is smiling on cue because you told me to. Despite being a spokesmodel, I am not, in fact, a dancing monkey. No really, look it up - the two are not actually the same thing. I smile because it is my job, true, but just because you happened to catch me taking a whopping five seconds of my day trying to rest my face (fake smiling hurts after a while) does not mean you can be boring. And telling me to smile like that is one of the most boring things I hear all day.

I’d like to see you smile for 10 hours straight while wearing 5-inch heels on a spinning platform while dirty old (and young) men try to snap pictures up your skirt. I dream of smiling while kicking your camera out of your hand. That’s when I smile.

Seriously, give me five seconds to roll my eyes and pick my nose in peace. (Shut up, you know you do it too.)

I do wish some manufacturer would decide that the pissed off punk demographic is where it's at so I could stand on a platform snarling and giving people the finger. Wouldn't that be a fun job? Especially to those jackoffs who change their kids diapers right in front of me.

If booth babes ran NASCAR...

...there would be kittens for everybody!

I've asked a few guys I know who race in various series (not NASCAR) what, if anything, would be their limit on sponsorships... I always found it hilarious that the oldest guy in NASCAR drove the Viagra car. Would a big tough race car driver drive a sparkly pink Barbie car? The Tampax car? The Valtrex car? Do they really give a sh!t what's written on the hood when they're making money hand-over-fist?

Actors deal with this too. A national commercial can pull in $40-$50,000. I'll pretend I have herpes all day long on television for a $50K paycheck and 3 days work. At the auto show I'm fortunate to represent a brand for which I have a great deal of respect and admiration, but that just happened to be the luck of the draw and my brand could change at any time. I still need a paycheck.

Anyway, with the drivers, the general consensus was the same as with actors: a sponsorship is a sponsorship. They are few and far between, and when you get one you're so damn lucky to have it that you don't care if you're driving the KY Liquibeads Hello Kitty Pocket Vibe cup car, because you're driving a cup car.

But I, for one, would love to see the Talladega Tampax 500.

Interrupt this

Do you have one of those jobs involving long, pointless meetings? I used to and I hated it, so I got myself a cool job instead. Anyway, in one of those meetings, let's say you were in the middle of a presentation, really getting into the meat of your big new idea that's going to save the company millions and earn you a big promotion, when all of a sudden - in the middle of a sentence - some jackass busts in and starts shouting questions at you.

Welcome to every day of my life.

Seriously dude. I am in the middle of my presentation. I am on a spinning platform, trying very hard not to fall on my ass on the incredibly slippery surface, telling you everything there is to know about this car. If you could wait thirty seconds and, oh, I don't know, maybe actually listen to the words that are coming out of my mouth then you'd have the answer to your question. If I don't answer your question during my presentation, I will be more than happy to do so afterwards.

I guarantee during my presentation I will cover horsepower, torque, 0-60, new features for this model year, safety features, any big bells and whistles. I will not make competitor comparisons on the mic, at least not by naming names, and I probably will not say the price on the mic - I find that to be distasteful - but am happy to tell you all about every single trim level there is and line item competitive comparisons when I'm done. STOP YELLING AT ME.

If you had any sense of the definition of polite, you would realize how rude it is to start shouting questions at someone who is clearly in the middle of a presentation. You don't think you're out of line for doing this? Try it at your next work meeting and see what happens. Then let me know how long that unemployment line is.

Doody!

I get a lot of flack here on this blog of mine for being too hard on people. Some commenters think I'm snobby, that I'm being judgmental when I suggest people shower and brush their teeth before coming to the auto show. These people are really going to hate me now, because I am about to suggest something totally outlandish: that you crap in the bathroom. And not just in the bathroom, but in a toilet in the bathroom. And then flush. Don't forget to wash your hands.

But whatever you do, for the love of god, DO NOT TAKE A SH!T ON THE SHOW FLOOR.

The bathroom is right there! See the big giant sign? The one that says "Restrooms"? That is where one goes to relieve oneself of the bodily waste created when you shovel three chili cheese dogs into the gut overflowing your stylish Lee jeans.

You do not go in the middle of the display floor.

Unfortunately, not everyone knows this handy rule of thumb.

One morning, I am told, the early shift of booth babes arrived at their post. While walking the floor to prep for the day's crowds, they discovered a large chunk of what was most decidedly not a Baby Ruth, just laying there on the floor.

Where did it come from? How did it get there? Was it some sort of political message or could this person just not walk another 20 feet to the bathroom? The world will never know.

This was discovered minutes before the show opened and the crowds rushed in. The booth babes sure as heck weren't going to touch it, but they did form a sort of human chain around it to block attendees from getting too close while making sure none of them knew what they were being blocked from. Figuring no one would believe them if they tried to call it in, someone was sent to grab the cleaning crew in person.

This is not the only auto show poop story out there. Oh no, my friends, there are more people - many more people - who believe in freedom from such restrictive man-made ideological theories as pooping in bathrooms, that mankind and mankind's poop deserves to be free. That's great. Poop all over your yard like a dog if that's what you want to do. Just keep it out of my display, you disgusting cretin.

PS - Don't forget to check out this week's column over at TheTruthAboutCars.com: The Psychology of Auto Show Marketing.