The first 15 minutes of dinner last night were wonderful. It was just Jeff and me on our first dinner date in over ten months. Sitting at a little, square table tucked into the far corner of the restaurant’s deck overlooking San Francisco Bay, the setting was beautiful, the fresh air and ambiance ripe for romance.Then, she arrived.
A couple took their seats directly behind me and not ten seconds later, a young woman began talking so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think. This alone wouldn’t have been a problem; with two kids I have plenty of practice at drowning out irritating noise pollution. It was her topic of conversation that got me. Would it bother you? You decide (Imagine a Valley Girl accent with “like” interjected after every other word. Her one-sided conversation is summarized/paraphrased below):
• So I’ve been working on this calendar. I pay the models $10 - $12 an hour. I’m not giving them anything else. It’s my calendar.
• I don’t have a distributor yet. This thing cost me $30,000 to make. I need to sell them. So I sent several boxes (for free) to Fort Bragg and I got some of the girls to dress up and hand them out after the police academy graduation.
• I learned everything from my dad. He’s an excellent photographer. He took me under his wing and taught me everything I know. He told me I should print more calendars, but I thought he’d help me figure out distribution. We fought a couple weeks ago and I haven’t talked to him since then.
o Yeah, he invested several thousand dollars in my project.
o He helped take some pictures for me (for free) but they were flat. I want the girls more “out there.”
• My mom doesn’t really approve of my work. We don’t get along and I can’t stand her. She happened to see the cover of the calendar and knew I needed cash, so she gave me a thousand.
• My mom asked about the models’ safety. I really don’t care…Yeah, we’ve got to be careful. I was worried the police might arrest us.
• I really want to establish my brand. Expensive accessories. I needed these designer boots that cost several thousand, but I found knock offs for $160. So the girl wore them for the shoot on the Harley and then I returned them. My marketing strategy is to put beautiful (naked) girls in expensive jewelry and shoes. I just hope the people who buy the calendars won’t know the stuff is fake. (Commentary: what man staring at naked women will know/care about her accessories?)
This is wrong on so many levels, not the least of which is that she doesn’t have the faintest clue about marketing. All kidding aside, I’m irritated that whatever “almost illegal” photography she was conducting would not in the least bit benefit the models taking their clothes off so she could make money off of their skin. Maybe the girls were desperate (then again, they could get a job in fast food/retail and make close to the peanuts she was paying them). Maybe they think this will launch modeling careers. Maybe they don’t care who sees them naked. Maybe they like it.
When I was younger, I felt any models participating in nudie pictorials were immoral, self-disrespecting bimbos. As I got older, I came to believe that it’s a matter of choice. If the models want to participate, then who cares? At least they’re willing participants and, if they make it to Playboy--if that's what matters to them, they’ll make millions and become household names (at least, in select male-only households). But what irritated me about my oblivious dinner non-companion was her cold, callous take on the situation. She readily admitted that she was in it for the money and that the “girls” wouldn’t get anything else from her entrepreneurial business profit. What makes her better than a pimp?
I could go on endlessly about why this bothers me. Then again, instead of complaining, I could've confronted her. But why? Apparently, everything was consentual and, quite frankly, it's none of my business. I'm just being an uptight, judgmental soccer mom.
What bothers me most is that I let this selfish, immoral woman cloud my time alone with Jeff. So, ultimately, who’s the stupid one? Don’t reply; I know the answer.
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