Just beyond the realm of normal everyday life, lurks a grisly cult like fanaticism that fogs the minds and opens the wallets of normally clear thinking adults, leaving them utterly helpless over the powerful pull of the Children’s Birthday Party.
Unwittingly I fell down this bizzaro rabbit-hole when I landed a gig as a character for kid’s parties.

I applied for this job hopeful and naïve. I thought: kids parties, that’ll be fun! I should have known there’d be trouble when I was sent through the interview process used by the FBI. Then I had to audition by parading around a carpeted office, channeling my best Snow White while a starched panel humorlessly took notes on my every move and vocal nuance. Having survived that, I was subjected to an extensive background check and a series of vaccinations.

Somehow I made it through the elimination of 50 or so applicants to the final three. I felt like I’d gotten into Harvard or become a green beret or something. My success probably had to do with English being my first language and white being my primary skin color. Not that these employers are racist, but most of the popular princesses are very Caucasian and speak in full sentences.

There I was, spending my weekends as Cinderella, Bella, Jasmine, Clowns, Power Puff Girls and of course, Snow White. I worked the mental health maximum of four parties a weekend, driving my little pick-up truck to the most obscure parts of Southern California, costume changes and piñatas flapping in the wind.
At first I enjoyed the adventure, it was awesome to show up at a stranger’s house in an elaborate costume and make their day super-duper special. Kids worshipped me, moms tipped me, dads winked and asked if I ever wore my costumes off hours. But the sweet tootsie-roll filled days couldn’t last forever and I began to notice signs that I was spinning out of control, fraying at the pantaloons, losing myself in the world of “make-believe this is a good job.”

The magic lifted one day when, in full clown regalia, including white make-up and rainbow wig, I was driving home from a three-year old’s birthday reception and listening to a very moving piece on NPR about the regrets of fighter pilots in Afghanistan. It was so sad, so haunting; I was brought to tears. Then I was brought to sobs, and finally, uncontrollable hysterics. I was crying my blue painted eyes out and did not get the irony until a van of kids started yelling “Don’t cry Miss Clown, don’t cry!”
“Oh no!” I thought in a panic, “I’m a clown and I’m crying!” I stared in horror at my face in the rear view mirror. What had happened to me, what had I become? A crying clown for god’s sake! I had become the biggest cliché to make it into the cliché hall of fame.

I began to dread my days of jumping castles and cake. Always when dressed in a plushy polyester animal suit it will be over 90 degrees out, but when nearly naked as Ariel the mermaid, the temperature will dip suddenly to 20. After months of screeching in a cartoonish falsetto over the din of ruthless whiners I was developing vocal nodes. I sounded more like Marge Simpson’s sisters then a Bambi eyed princess. But I pushed on. The birthday fantasies of the single digit set resting heavily on my shoulders.

Then it got abusive. I was dressed as a Power Puff Girl: blue mini dress, white tights and a giant bobble head with a huge mesh smile to see through. This particular family decided their kid needed an “authentic piñata experience,” so they blindfolded him, spun him around and armed him with a large stick. The birthday boy, drunk on sugar and ambition, hit the air around him harder and harder with each ninja inspired swing. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh and CRACK! He hit something! The piñata? No the Power Puff Girl’s arm! Magically it appeared as though it didn’t hurt her, because no amount of pain could wipe that giant animated smile from that big head. But behind the mesh grin tears streamed down my very real face. By the next day nasty blue and purple bruises covered my arm. Diligently, like a good tin soldier, I showed up for my gig as Snow White. The family gasped in horror as I walked in, a sweet Snow White with an arm like hardened junky.

The job ended the way they usually do for me, very badly. I was exhausted, I felt a flu coming on and I needed a day off. I tried to call in sick but my work ethic was immediately called into question and I was instructed to get a note from my doctor. “My DOCTOR?” I yelled, “How could I possibly go to a doctor? With my imaginary insurance or with the buckets of gold at the end of the rainbow?” No, no doctor and no note. With that I shoved away from the candy coated poison world of children’s entertainment. Left to drift again in a sea of career choices.

Originally published at http://robinreiser.blogspot.com.

“Are you the primary grocery shopper in your household?”

“Are you currently in the market for a new dishwasher?”

“Have you ever lied for a living?”

For me the answer to all of the above would be, “Yes.”

YES, the magic word that will enable you, if you have the know-how and lack of scruples, to rake in the dough as a “Focus Group Participant.”

I started out in this world of swindle and scam after I was unceremoniously fired from my honest job as a front desk receptionist at a gym and was facing destitution. My sympathetic boyfriend gave me a list of numbers to call for extra cash.

“What are they?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Focus group companies, babe. Just call them up and register. Say you’re into everything they ask you about: clothes, politics, smoking, drinking, blackjack, puppies, you name it.”

I nodded, dumfounded that it could be so easy. It barely made a ripple in my conscience that I would be lying outright for money. I mean who doesn’t lie for money? Most people go to work, smile at their awful boss, exaggerate to their clients and lie everyday of their lives. Lying is selling and “selling” in the wise words of Willy Loman, “is life.”

What I couldn’t have foreseen was the rabbit hole of fraud and deceit I was about to fall into. To even scrape by as a professional Focus Group Participant, one has to become a con artist, a grifter, a flimflam man.

If you’ve never participated in a Focus Group here’s a snap shot of how it works.

A Research Marketing Company is hired by a large corporation to find people in a particular target group to come in for an hour or two and share their opinions about a product or marketing scheme.Participants sit in a special conference room equipped with spy worthy hidden cameras and microphones as corporate marketing experts sit behind a glamorous one-way mirror and take notes on every answer, micro-movement and vocal crack. As a participant you are usually paid between $50-$300 for your time, tax-free and totally off the grid. It’s a sweet deal, especially if you are out of work and you can swing a few of these a week.

To totally fleece these companies, I learned to con my way into focus groups I had no business being in. To do that, I had to get through the initial phone call. A perky guy named Steve would call and say, “Hey Robin! We have a Focus Group coming up on the topic of sport sandals, are you interested?” The answer must not reflect desperation, but must be in the affirmative. “Sure Steve, I have sport sandals.”And the heist has begun.

There is no way to know what exactly they are looking for, so hedge your answers. The caller wants you to qualify, he wants to meet his quota as fast as possible so he can get to TGI Fridays and pack away the jalapeno poppers. So he will hint at, or even give the answers he wants.

Steve: Do you tend to enjoy your sport sandals, a- daily; b- once a month; or c- only on special occasions?

Me: Um, well not everyday, but definitely more than once a month…

Steve: It sounds like you’re not a daily sport sandal wearer, so lets put you down for b.

See how Steve just helped?

Next, there’s a follow up call to catch you in case you’re lying. First rule of a good liar: remember your lie. These focus group people are crafty and they keep asking the same questions over and over to bust a fraudulent participant.

Finally, once in the conference room begins the swindle. The rule for a good swindle is to have a story, and once you start telling it, feel it, believe it and tell it to the world (or just the people behind the mirror).

Over the years I’ve does hundreds of these. I’ve said that I was in the market for a boob-job and then answered questions about my hopes and fears for the developments in implant materials. I have tasted cheeseburgers, tried cigarettes, chewed gum and chimed in about bank policies. I’ve even said I was a registered republican!

I was almost busted once when I said I was a cat enthusiast and was the odd girl out among a bunch of women sincerely wearing bedazzled sweatshirts with kitten appliqués. We told each other fun stories of our sweet kitty cats and all their antics. I thought I had this one licked until the moderator brought out plate after plate of cat food. Wet cat food. I almost vomited. I was the only one who didn’t oh and aw at the prospect of cat food cans coming with a shaker of freeze dried liver yum-yums to sprinkle on top. All eyes were on me, the weirdo without a lifetime subscription to Cat Fancy. The moderator got a beep on her intercom from the people behind the mirror. I was panicked, unless I thought fast, I was done for! I quickly covered by saying I’d had a bad childhood experience involving organ meats. The moderator relaxed and one tenderhearted cat lady took my hand to console me. I was home free.

I’ve never really stopped the focus hustle, just slowed down. Every time I think it’s over and I’m out, they call me back in, “Hi Robin, it’s Steve, we have a group coming up about rose gardening, are you interested?” And before I can stop myself I say, “Yes Steve, I have a rose garden!” And the con is back on.

Originally published at http://robinreiser.blogspot.com.

Admit it, you’ve seen the billboards; you’ve been curious, maybe you’ve even jotted down the website. Maybe you’ve even bought tickets and attended that Mecca of all things salacious and taboo, the sexiest convention of all conventions: Adultcon. For those of you who don’t know, this is the place where porn stars, filmmakers and amateurs alike meet their public, sell their wares (and underwear), pose for pictures and promote their latest award-winning performance in “Butt Blanket Bingo vol. 7”

Like more conventional conventions, Adultcon is un-erotically furnished with rows of folding tables in florescent-lit conference rooms. Except here the tables are colorfully decorated with dildos, DVDs, and a scantily clad girl cheerfully inviting the throngs of visitors over to meet her. And then there was me. Sitting on a table, in jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by information packets, working for a man who’s big light bulb moment came when he realized what the porn industry needed most: health insurance.

That’s right, health insurance and a payroll paper trail that made the sex-cash business look like a boring day job — just in case said sex worker was future oriented and wanted to apply for a mortgage or car loan. Brilliance!

I met this man; let’s call him Roy, through my stripper friend Mandy (not her real name, or her stripper name). Mandy had bonded with Roy over a fun evening of lap dances for him and his wife. After he tried to sell her insurance, he asked if she’d like to come work the adult convention circuit. She said, not really, but she knew someone who would.

Me. Friendly, open-minded, always on the hunt for more work, me.

Roy called and made an offer: Twenty dollars and hour, per-diem and dinner. My mission: go to conventions, smile, chat up the adult actresses, strippers, and escorts; give them a brochure and plant the seed. Easy-sleazy, right? I didn’t have to sell them anything. Or sign them up. Or take off my clothes.

Not so easy. The first time I walked into the bright, noisy convention center and saw my prospective clients, I was dumb-struck. I mean these girls knew things; amazing and special things like how to make the most painful positions look enjoyable and squelch all gag reflexes. Not to mention they were very glossy, nearly naked under fluorescents (can you say “brave”) and posing for swarms of drooling fans. I felt like a little bowl of peas next to a procession of elaborate hot fudge sundaes. But my job was not to gawk or act shy and pea-like, my job was to get way up in there, make connections and offer these girls a service like no other.

After I set up my tri-fold brochures (a very boring presentation compared with the “revolutionary sex-toy” display I was parked next to), I moved in on my first target. She looked approachable enough with Marilyn hair and a knitted pink teddy. I tried a professional tact, “Good morning, I was wondering if you had ever considered health insurance…” She wrinkled her nose and put her hand up to stop me. “I’m good, I’ve had all my shots.” It took me a few seconds to realize she thought I was with the Health Department and was reassuring me that she was clear of all VDs. Whoops.

On the next few girls I tried a bubbly cheerleader approach, “Hiya chica!!! Do you want health insurance or an awesome W-2 at the end of the year? Check this out!” This too did not work. While some of the girls are super ditzy and bubbly as part of their persona, they certainly didn’t respect it coming from me.

I finally decided on a chummy-funny sidekick role. If I had researched the industry more and knew each girl’s body of work, I could have opened with something like, “Oh, I just loved your acting in Whorey Potter, now tell me, how did you do all that with out knee pads?” But instead I was left with normal attire complements like; “I like that French maid/naughty school girl thong-skirt, did you have it made especially for you?” Then we’d get in a conversation about the trials and tribulations of finding lingerie that actually fits a 31 DDD cup with a 22-inch waist and how if you wanted it done right, you learned to use a sewing machine and alter your own “outfits.”Once we were best buds, I’d swallow my urge to ask if she actually did enjoy anal beads and instead say something like, “You can have all the benefits of a typical 9–5 without the cubicle and bad shoes!” Then we laugh, I’d give her the brochure, and she wouldn’t regret talking to me instead of peddling her personal hand held vagina replica (known as a fleshlight- yes they are real).

There was a lot of fun to be had at Adultcon. While not necessarily a porn fan per-se, I certainly got a thrill being surrounded by the sex biz. People are in good spirits, out to have a great time, no one judges anyone. Fetish is fun! Debauchery a delicacy! I learned a lot about the world during the hours I spent in those convention halls.

The money was good, the work interesting, but it couldn’t last forever. Roy kindly took me out for dinner after each convention, often joined by his friends/business partners. They were big fans of all things pornographic and had a great time backslapping and recalling their exploits and funny encounters. Roy’s stories revolved around his bi-sexual wife and their swinger lifestyle. I took it all in stride, of course, I’m no square, until he started telling me how much his wife would like me, really like me. At first I laughed it off, but when he started pushing the “meet-n-greet” as he called it, I stopped returning phone calls. I never said anything cool like, “Chill on the inappropriate boss talk- let’s remember those sexual harassment trainings!” I just faded away from that world, no big finish, no money shot, just a whimper and a sigh.

Originally published at http://robinreiser.blogspot.com.

Listen up kitty, you’re getting old, and let’s face it- you’re kinda gross.
Here’s a list of activities you need to start phasing out of your lifestyle, since they really should be saved for the kittens among us.

10. Pouncing and Frolicking

Decidedly youthful activities that, when done by a kitten are adorable, but are just unseemly when carried out by the aged. We young felines need role models that don’t make fools out of themselves over a dangling string, no matter how fun it is.

9. Going into Heat

Can I just hack up a slimy hairball right now? EWWWW! You DO NOT get to go into heat. First of all, why aren’t you fixed, you stinky old cougar! And second, procreation at your age is probably damaging to the species! Stop being selfish and make way for the pretty young calico next door. I would rather live for a week in my litter box than have to listen to your gross yowls of horniness.

8. Licking Yourself in Public

Self grooming is one of the staples of feline life, but there’s no shame in doing it in private if you’re over a certain age! Displaying your limbs and flaunting your scratchy tongue are fine when you are soft and fresh- unlike your matted dried out old pelt.

7. Parading Around with Your Tail Up

Yes, your little butthole may have been cute when you were younger, but now no one wants to see that geriatric poop noose. Keep your tail down and have some respect for yourself. Everyone will thank you for it.

6. Stalking Mice…

Or lizards or birds or anything else that is faster than your creaky old bones can even dream of moving. You look like a half-wit hound! Just pack it in and take a nap. Leave the hunting to those of us with spring left in our paws.

5. Basking in a Pool of Sunlight

Ahhh… the feel of the hot sun baking on your freshly quaffed fur, glory glory… what YOU don’t realized is the bright rays are just showcasing every broken whisker, every patch of sparse fur, in a word U-G-L-Y. Blech.
You know what makes you look pretty and young? Hiding in the dark closet. Try it.

4. Partying with Catnip

You knew it was over when you started wheezing every time you huffed the stuff, then came the embarrassing weeping sessions, and finally the dreaded nip noggin. The hard truth is that a kitty stumbling around with nip in her whiskers is funny when she’s young, but just tragic after 30.

3. Kneading Your Paws on ANYTHING!

The sensual action of kneading your soft paws on cushions or stomachs is supposed to remind everyone of the beautiful moments you spent nursing from your mama- when you were a tiny kitten. For you that was way way back before Garfield was born. When you do it now it just screams of desperation and pathetic longing for your youth. Get over it.

2. Stretching

Why has no one told you that your jangley stomach hangs and flops all over the place when you stretch out like that? Get a little self-conscious and feel some shame about your aging body for Sphynx sake.

1. Purring

I would hope by this stage in life you have a little more self control when it comes to the superfluous expressions of purring. Reign it in, you tired old flea resort — you sound like an idiot. Purring is for kitties with hope in their hearts and a bright future ahead of them… uh, not you.

I know this all may seem a bit harsh- so go put on the soundtrack to CATS and sing the song “Memories” over and over until you feel like throwing the last of your nine lives in front of a speeding SUV. Dying tragically is the most fashionable thing you can do at this point in your life.
Sorry, not sorry.

Originally published at http://robinreiser.blogspot.com.