I could use the excuse that I've been writing on other blogs besides mine... Or that over the last 3 months I've been keeping very close notes on a new job that I'm sure will one day make a fascinating book/TV series... But then again, rule #76 says no excuses, play like a champion.
Onward and upward.
What has brought me back to my beloved blog is an experience that I simply have to share, if only because of how ridiculous/insane/embarrassing/disappointing it turned out to be. But, like anything else that goes a little wonky in my life, I'm reminded that "At least it will make a good story!" So, here I am. Storytime!
As a "slash" professional in LA, I find myself perusing craigslist on an almost constant basis. For those unfamiliar with the "slash" concept, just ask any good looking girl in a city like NYC or LA what she does.
"Well, I'm an actress/nanny/waitress/model/singer/etc/etc/etc."
See those slashes? Slash professional shoutout. Woot woot.
Since I made the promise to myself to never EVER go back to serving (and if you really need to know why, check out http://thebitchywaiter.com/ sometime) I am always on the hunt for side jobs and part-time gigs to help make ends meet. So, one fine Saturday morning, I make my morning avocado toast, sit down, and scroll down the 'talent' gig section. After a few minutes of browsing, I find an ad looking for a last-minute replacement for a body paint model to entertain at a party.
Before you ask, NO, this was not a gogo dancing job, NO, this was not a stripping gig, and NO, this was not for Fantasy Fest or a string of beads.
The ad simply said I and a couple other girls would walk around for 3 hours in paint, to add to the ambiance of the room. Simple as that. $150 cash, get painted, walk around, and leave. Not only that, but it was super close to my apartment, so I could even hop on my bike and be there in a jiff. Perfect, right??
Hah.
So, I send a few pictures, I get a phone call, shower and shave everything, hop on my bike, and go get painted.
Now the first part of this story is great. Pashur, the artist, was wonderful and friendly, did not make me feel at all uncomfortable, and painted an extremely realistic-looking corset on my torso, complete with gluing a feather boa to the top to really give it that extra edge.
Pretty amazing huh? Check out his work at http://www.canvasalive.com/
I did my own face makeup, not too intricately (dim lights at a party, so who cared, right?) put on my faithful knee-high boots, and waited.
That's where the fun really started.
I found out soon after I was all painted up that this party was a book release for a woman who is famous because of being on some reality show for VH1. I won't say what it is, because in the release forms that I signed I'm sure there is some sort of privacy clause, and I don't have enough money to survive a lawsuit, but suffice to say it is a spinoff of a reality franchise that I had never heard of before that day, and I could not have cared less.
The only thing I did care about was that I did not know it was for a reality show before I got there. Oh well, so what if I'm in the backround of a few shots? I've already made a 3 second appearance on Millionaire Matchmaker, so let those chippies fall.
Release form signed.
Before long, the 3 main women of the show came into the room we were in to get ready for the party. Accompanied by the cameras. Ok, a little awkward for those of use not involved in the made-up drama, but whatever. I wait patiently for the other model to finish being painted (at least I got a full corset, poor thing just had a small design painted on her chesticles) and when we're ready, the producer grabs us to take us upstairs and (presumably) mingle with the guests.
The fact that I still thought this would go well is laughable. Oh, naivety.
It turned out that there was a mini red carpet for this 'event'. People coming into the party were photographed in front of that red carpet sponsor screen, and interviewed on their way in.
And it turned out that for some preposterous reason, the producer wanted the other model and me to stand at either side of the screen while everyone was coming in. Not take pictures with the *snortcelebritiessnort*, but just stand there staring. Also known as THE MOST AWKWARD THING I'VE EVER DONE HALF NAKED.
And if you know me, that's really saying something.
So, right outside of the restaurant, on Sunset Boulevard, I stood to the side of a red carpet event in boots, panties, and paint. My hair and makeup were clearly sub-par. And I'm pretty sure in the backround of a few of those on-camera interviews, you can see my face that is not very amused at this whole situation.
Every time someone made eye contact with me, AKA treated me like a person instead of a prop, they would comment on how awkward it was. I would agree. And then go back to concentrating on sucking in my abs as much as humanely possible.
After an eternity or so, we were finally led back into the party. Where it was so crowded that there was no room to mingle, walk, or even really turn around. It was like Friday night at Soho House at the end of your senior year, right before everyone gives up and goes to drunk feast at Dennys.
Don't worry, Miami people will get that reference.
So, after a couple of hours of awkward forced conversation with people standing WAY to close to me, and after the ladies of the show came out to do a burlesque-style striptease for their various rich husbands, it was finally time to end this nightmare. I head back downstairs to get dressed. I look around for my pants.
And look.
And look.
I ask the crew if they've seen my pants. They look.
And look.
And look.
My pants are gone.
Apparently, the couch I left my pants on was near the couches the show ladies left their shit on. At some point after I went upstairs, everything was swept off of the couches because people would be allowed in during the party, and packed up together.
Since I was not told that anyone would be going into that room, I had assumed it was safe to leave them there.
Clearly, I assumed wrong.
Two of the girls had left the set already, and through talking to almost every member of the crew, it was determined that my pants were thrown in with the rest of their clothing and were long, long gone.
Now, besides the fact that these were a great pair of yoga pants that made my ass look fantastic, I would not have thought this was such a big deal. BUT, dear readers, if you remember correctly... I biked there. There was no car to hide in. There was only my bike.
You know where this is heading. One of the crew members took pity and gave me their sweater to wrap around my waist. I put on my shirt with the feather boa still glued to my skin underneath, dragged my bike up the basement stairs, flipped the bird at this shamble of an event, and rode on home with my pantied ass bouncing on the bike seat.
I think at this point, I've earned the right to take a bow.
Don't bow; you have no pants on.
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