Beauty Dish: Underground Adventures of an (EX!) Avon Lady

Off the streets of Metuchen...

Rick caught this moment and sent it along. Captions, please!

Derek Jeter almost got me arrested for Postal Terrorism!

Some weeks ago I carefully encased a boxed bottle of Derek Jeter's new Avon fragrance for men, Driven, in three inches of bubble wrap. I twisted two good turns of black duct tape around the plastic and stuck it in a United States Postal Service priority mail box - one of the official ones with the self-stick tabs. I enclosed a hand-written letter and a small canvas covered in splashes of oil paint. An original Birdie piece of art, something I created when I read a story my friend Rick wrote about 9-11, something my fingers made me press into the stiff canvas. A self portrait. A shock of messed hair, a wink of bloodshot eye outside a window, a spray of primary colors that signalled dissent, forgiveness, something not-quite-of-this-planet.

I waited in line at the Post Office in the weeks before Christmas. A woman with a heavy red knit sweater stood in front of me. She wore jingle bell earrings. I could hear them, barely see them under her thick Latina locks. She turned to me, looked at my one small box.

Run, Frankie, Run!!

I first sent this story as a special secret preview to everyone who sent in a Beauty Dish paypal donation in early October. Some time in January or February I am doing something else special for these same folks and for everyone who has ever contributed to Beauty Dish - they will receive a bound copy of six stories never published anywhere else! I am so grateful to everyone who has been a friend and who has supported me in all the ways that have made a difference in my life -whether it's been through a financial contribution, or through love and fellowship. Thanks, everyone.

Run, Frankie, Run!

I follow the same simple ritual each time I cruise my neighborhood for new Avon customers. Backpack. Check. Brochures. Check. Extra skin care samples for bed-ridden Mrs. Gallegos. Check. Turn off the lights, fill my water bottle, one last pee. Check. Check. Check. The last item is the most simple, the one thing I never forget, the one thing my boys never forget, at least never until this morning. Lock the door.

My two boys ran ahead, left me carting fifty Avon brochures, a hundred samples, and three bottles of tap water. I must have been watching the boys chase half-frozen grasshoppers, the sway of my proud catalpa tree in the morning wind, the weaving swagger of the old cowhand with torn Levi's and a carefully brushed ten gallon hat. I didn't notice the unlocked door, the way it must have latched just shy of secure. I hoisted my pack against my sweatshirt-covered back, let it flap, flap in time to my uneven gait. The boys hustled ahead, grasshoppers in their grip. They didn't try to avoid the sidewalk cracks, didn't stop to admire Mrs. Lopez's gentle tabby, didn't skip, didn't slide and arc in the girlish ways my sisters and I echoed at their age. They raised closed fists over head, let captive insects greet the sun. Tobacco wings spread and flew, and for a moment it was summer, it was splintered sunlight through translucent wings, through the swung arms of young boys, it was the four-winged army of summer tossed overhead, tossed into a wind strong enough to blow it back to the past, to September, August. I stopped, zipped the warm navy cloth around me.

The boys stopped, too. They bent low, faces at their knees, eyes on some invisible fortune. I heard the slam of canine against brush as a flock of feral dogs flew behind me, cornered a sturdy hedge of holly and headed down an alley. I turned, but only caught the fading glimpse of four mangy tails on the run. Stray dogs love my town. They own the alleys, the dumpster sites behind Wal-Mart and Sonic. Animal Control doesn't bother to round them up. They'd fill a hundred kennels with one fell swoop. Better to save those cages for abandoned puppies, for pitbulls with an appetite for human flesh. My own neighborhood feeds ten strays, leaves scraps of roast beef and carne adovada in open used plastic sour cream containers after dark. I do this too, leave what little we have left over for the dogs who run like shadows.

My older son, 11, waited for me at the corner. He rested against a chain link fence, his eyes on a man kneeling by a motorcycle. My younger son, 9, leaned against his brother, his eyes closed to the wind. A scuttle of rolling leaves rolled past us, rolled brown and crisp and sure into the street.

"Mom. Gimme a brochure."

11 didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed my arm and twirled me like a rotating display rack, unzipped my pack and grabbed the top book. He knew where to find the samples, and fingered two from the side pouch.

"Hi! Hi! I like your bike! Can I give you an Avon brochure?"

Bike Man saw 11 approach him, a reflection in his shiny motor metal.

"Huh. Avon? What are you, an Avon Boy?"

The man's smooth voice richocheted off the bike. A limp gray ponytail hung beneath his gunpowder helmet. He didn't turn to meet us eye to eye. His hands pressed against the back wheel as if he were feeling for a heartbeat. The bike looked old, looked vintage, looked loved, small, impossibly shiny, perfect. 11 tried to hand the book to the man but he still didn't turn. His eyes shone from the bike's midsection - alive, vivid green. I looked tiny behind his mirrored face, an Avon Lady with stick legs and an oversized hoodie.

"You can just put that on the ground next to my girl." Bike Man nodded his head and 11 dropped the goods. "I'll bring it to work, I think one of the girls in the office might like that. No offense, you understand. I just don't use any Avon. I'm not that kind of man."

Bike Man said 'that kind of man' as if men like 'that' were no men at all. 11 stared at the biker and I saw a flash of anger travel from one eye to the other, land in his mouth.

"Avon is for everyone. Even men like you. Don't you use soap? And shampoo?"

9 stuck little hands on hip and added his two cents.

"Yeah. Don't you use soap? My mom's not a sissy. She has a past."

Bike Man and I both flinched with surprise! A past? What the hell was he talking about? 11 giggled but 9 kept red nylon-jacketed arms akimbo, dropped one more vocal bomb.

"No offense, you understand. But I can smell you from here."

"Apologize this instant!" I moved to man-handle 9 and 11 as far away as possible from the Bike Man with ancient attitudes, but he dropped his hand from the wheel and stood to face me. His nose rose one length above mine, and I noticed from its curve and span it must have been broken once or twice in the past.

"Really, I should be the one to apologize. I didn't mean it to come out that way. Besides, I like a woman with a past." He raised a thin gray eyebrow and it briefly disappeared under his helmet. I shook his hand, then shook my head.

"No problem, sir. But if I might offer a small suggestion? You sure have dry hands and I have some Avon that can help."

I started to shake off my backpack when they rounded the corner once more, the wild pack of stray canine fury. They shot across the street, from one alley to the next. My backpack fell to the ground with a thud. I didn't look at the running dogs. Bike Man's mouth fell open, and in the shine of his bike's flank I saw it. Saw him. Frankie! My pot-bellied pig! Running with the wild dogs!

11 and 9 saw him at the same time.

"Frankie! Frankie! Mom! That's Frankie"

11 tore down the alley, hot on the heels of seven dogs and one pig. 9 look at me, at Bike Man, at the bike.

"Well don't just stand there! Help my mom! Get on the bike and help catch Frankie!"

Bike Man grinned, clipped the loose helmet clasp under his chin as 9 and I ran after 11 running after the beasts. We heard him rev his engine, and as we hit the curb on the other side of the street he shot past us, into the alley, a blur of dirt and exhaust behind him.

The dogs and pig kept ahead of us. They shifted down one alley, then the next, past the free range chickens studding the side of Baca Road, into the square holes in an old adobe wall, across one yard, then two, three, four, five, twenty yards, twenty minutes, a flash of black and white and brown brindled fur, a patch of pink and black hide. Frankie ran with the dogs as if he were one of them, and them with him as if he belonged in that pack of fire and flea-bitten joy.

Bike Man passed us several times as I ran with 9 to catch Frankie. I lost sight of 11, then lost visual hold of the animals all together. I could hear them in the distance, a rumble of feet against brick walkway, a coarse yip and howl mixed with one lone porcine grunt. I stopped to catch my breath and realized my backpack felt lighter. Sure enough, all the Avon brochures and samples spilled through the alleys behind us, a trail of beauty crumbs no sane person would follow. I left them to wait, looked at 9, and started to run in the direction of noise.

The grunts and yowls grew closer, stronger, and behind them I heard the Bike Man's engine. A new sound added to the mix, a structured sound of wood against snare - the High School marching band practicing on the football field. 9 and I ran past the bleachers as the drums rolled a special cadence. I saw the students lift horn to mouth just as my elusive charges roared past, roared under the bleachers, on to the field! The band began to play "Louie, Louie" in formation. The dogs tore past the musicians, ran under the bleachers on the other side of the field. I ran to the field edge, and saw 11 approach the field from the other side. Bike Man zoomed behind us, I heard the idle of his engine as he sat and watched. The dogs disappeared, hell bent for Santa Fe, I figured. I could feel a tear breach my eye as I worried we'd never see Frankie again. But 9 pulled on the hem of my sweatshirt, pointed a trembling finger at the field and croaked one word.

"Look!"

The band continued to march. The front row split into two, then the second row, as if Moses himself were parting a musical sea. The next row followed, then another. The first row came back together as the students Louie Louie'd down the field. Something was in their way! Something lumpy and pink and black and white... Frankie!

Frankie sat in the center of the field, his snout turned toward the musicians in rapture. He let them march around him, didn't move until the music ended.

"Frankie! Fraaaaaaaaankie!"

Our pig trotted toward me, and 9 grabbed his collar. 11 ran across the field and held Frankie's studded collar, too. Bike Man waved and roared toward Macho Man heaven in a blaze of parking lot dust. We meandered home, picking up torn and dirty brochures. We didn't say much, all of us out of breath and exhausted, including our crazy pet. I did ask one question, though, as we stuffed another three broken books into my backpack.

"So what did you mean that I have a past?"

9 shrugged his shoulders, a true man of the world.

"C'mon Mom. You know as well as I do. In these situations you have to speak the language of the other person."

Frankie grunted as if to bark Hell Yeah.

Elf Yourself!

Click here for a special Beauty Dish Holiday message!

Of Pinkies and Priests

I chaperoned the 4th grade on a physical education field trip to Santa Fe yesterday. This poor swollen broken pinky is my reward. Makes it hard to type, oh yeah. I didn't break it cavorting in the Chavez Center's pools, didn't crack it during my multiple corkscrew slips down the monster water slide, didn't smash it when I held the hand of wobble-ankled skaters as we carefully glided across the ice rink. I showed off, too, skated backward and demonstrated my patented double twirl with a leap "Birdie Lutz." Nope. I jammed it carrying equipment off the bus at the end of the day.

Last night one of the local Catholic priests called. He's been ordering bottles of Extraordinary and Crystal Aura Avon fragrances to present as Sunday afternoon Bingo gifts. I finally asked him why he didn't order from a member of his congregation. Surely some good church goer sells Avon? He gently laughed.

"Birdie, I hope you don't take this the wrong way. If I ordered from one of the women who sells Avon in the parish, I would have a riot on my hands! I have to order from you because I think you're the only Avon Lady in town who doesn't attend Mass."

Ah, the economic blessings of the heathen...

The Frankie Liberation Movement has taken over this blog!!!

Frankie has been rescued and is hiding in a safe house outside of greater Las Vegas, New Mexico. We've given him a crate of Avon Lift and Tuck, six tubes of SuperShape, and a couple of the Retexturizing Pads to change his appearance. We plan on smuggling him out of town with a herd of cattle.

Do you support Frankie's desire to keep his "manhood" intact? Leave him a message! We're going to drop your notes over the Great Plains tomorrow!

(and if you don't know what the heck we're talkin' about, read the comments under the Happy Thanksgiving post!)

The Real Deal TomKat Wedding at Trementina!

REAL ceremony held at Secret Scientology Compound in New Mexico!

Everyone is following the TomKat nuptuals today in Italy, but what most people don't know is that the legal ceremony occurred last weekend at the Secret Scientology Compound near Trementina, New Mexico.

Our reporter on the spot, Avon Lady Birdie Jaworski, in an exclusive story, gives us the A to Z of the real star-studded wedding.

A is for arroyo, the site of the compound's landing strip where local celebrities were flown in to avoid the 100 mile long drive from Santa Fe to Trementina. The small airstrip is hidden in the center of a mesa owned by the Scientologists and adjacent to their compound.

B is for burritos, lusciously smothered in red and green chili, which were catered by Charlie's Spic and Span out of Las Vegas, and no, not THAT Las Vegas. Wedding guests also enjoyed carne asada, sopapillas, and piñon coffee (Tom's not much of a drinker) during the reception.

C is for celebrities attending the secret REAL wedding. Locals overheard New Mexican Shirley Maclaine expressing excitement at the possibility of channeling L Ron Hubbard in front of such an appreciative audience. Other regional guests included ranch owner Val Kilmer and Taos resident Julia Roberts. Santa Fe property owner, Oprah, wasn't invited to this ceremony, either, but she snuck in on the arm of neighbor Lyle Lovett, who was alleged to sing his hit "Stand By Your Man" during Tom's raucous bachelor party.

D is for Donald Rumsfeld, who owns a ranch north of Santa Fe. Now that he's out of work, he provided security for the operation. Don, a closet Scientologist, was seen sporting night-vision goggles, peering over the mesa rim. Sources say he apprehended a stray burro.

E is for e-meter, one of the party favors given to attending guests, whether they wanted it or not.

F is favors. In addition to the e-meter, guests gratefully received copies of Dianetics, and two samples of Avon Lift and Tuck (at an unheard of cost of $5.61 for the whole lot), Tom's favorite Avon product since he started sporting man-boobs ("moobs").

G is for Governor Richardson, who flew in on his state-provided jet, ignoring local flack about using his jet for private purposes. The potential presidential candidate used the opportunity to talk about New Mexico's Spaceport, which didn't excite the Scientologists who already have one of their own. More on that later.

H is for Hubbard, L Ron, whose cryogenically frozen head was the bridal party's reception table centerpiece.

I is for "I'm Your Man," sung by Enrique Iglesias, during the wedding ceremony. Some laughter was said to have broken out at the choice of song.

J is for John Travolta, who reenacted Tom's famous Risky Business underwear scene on the highly polished floor of the 400-foot-long vault housing all the writings of L. Ron Hubbard, during the bachelor party.

K is for Katie, who thought Tom must be kidding when he actually handed her a Siamese, a dutch oven, and a comb during the vows.

L is for landing pad. Carved into the upper mesa are two large circles inscribed with Scientology symbols. The ceremony was held here, outside, with the hope that Xenu would return at the liturgy climax. (Don was forewarned to avoid "friendly fire" at all costs.)

M is for mañana. Xenu didn't show.

N is for nuts. 'Nough said.

O is for Oprah, whose wedding gift was an engineered couch made with titanium springs, and a helmet and other protective gear for users.

P is for Tom, Posing at the Plaza Hotel with Pistols for local Paparazzi.

Q is for quiet. Everyone's heard about the Scientologist's requirement for silent birth, but most don't know that's also a requirement during "consummation." (Better make it quick.)

R is for rodeo. Guests were treated to a pre-wedding rodeo where Tom "rode" a "bull" until they both "dropped." "Ropes" were "involved" in the "performance." All the riders wore "leather."

S is for Mayor Sanchez, who drove out from Las Vegas, San Miguel county seat, to make sure it was all legal. Sanchez, who is known to have a sense of humor, said to twice-before-wed Tom, "If you decide to, uh, to get married here again, we'd sure appreciate it. It's good for the local economy."

T is for Trementina and Trujillo, the two villages closest to the compound. Trementina Post Master Jose Romero produced special postcards to mark the event. The postcards showed a large mesa dotted with cows, and the inscription "Scientology Mountain."

U is for underwear. Unlike the Italian "just for show" event where Tom and Katie are sporting expensive designer skivvies, the REAL wedding bridal party wore handmade local llama wool undergarments.

V is for Vatican. When told about the REAL TomKat wedding in New Mexico, Pope Benny was overheard to say, "I'm not opposed to Gay marriage, as long as they aren't Catholic."

W is for Wow. What an event!

X is for Xenu. L Ron Hubbard was unavailable for channeling, so Shirley Maclaine tuned in Xenu loud and clear. The message? "Suri will 'hair-ald' in a new wave of baby hairstyles for eons to come."

Y is for Yucca. All the guests were subjected to a vigorous rubdown with the state plant, yucca, done by certified Scientology therapists.

Z is for Zoloft, something this reporter needed after covering this Zany event!

And the bronzer saga continues

So far I have tried wacking the Mark Wordly Glow with a knife. No effect. I have tried twisting the top open using a screwdriver as leverage. No go.

I have tried soaking it in hot, hot water:

I have tried freezing it for an hour:

I have tried Rick's suggestion and opened my heart, mind, and Wordly Glow to the universe:

Ramses wanted nothing to do with it! C'mon, bird, you have a sharp beak!

Mr. 9 gave it his all after these valiant attempts:

Now what?

Still can't open the dang thing

I still can't open my little tub of Mark Worldly Glow face bronzing powder. I have handed the container to every burly rancher in my neighborhood. They avoid me, ashamed their calloused hands can't make the grade...

I am determined to open it today. What shall I try? Stick it to the train tracks with chewing gum? Crunch it in a metal shop vice? Sledgehammer? Post your suggestions!! I'll take the best suggestion and photograph the attempt!

Yes, we have no bananas...

I took down those blasted Google ads. Yeah, I made a few bucks, but there's not enough penny clicks in the world to balance that wary, scary feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I want to keep Beauty Dish outside-advertiser free. I really do. I feel good when I can tell you a story about my life, about my Avon, about my boys, my pot-bellied pig, without seeing strange people I don't know, don't wanna know peek through my sidebar.

So click on that Paypal when you think I've entertained you, told you something of use.

No More Ads! Yay!

In other news, I am delivering a nice big bag of potential Prize-Winnin' Avon to my customer with the show terrier. The dog show is three weeks from Saturday! I am going as the "Assistant Groomer" and will take lots of pics!

More (Non) Prank Calls to the Avon Hotline

I thought calling the Avon Hotline to discuss the various sexual uses of Bust Sculpt would be my most embarrassing Rep Hotline moment. I was wrong.

I wore my trusty duct tape-enhanced backpack filled with Avon brochures as I walked my boys to school this morning. My boys ran ahead, shuffled their feet fast through the new piles of fall leaves. I left five stamped brochures at Gabriel's Filling Station, shoved another two through the Curves womens' workout joint mailslot. I waved goodbye as the boys rounded the school yard, then flipped open my cell phone and hit speed dial #5. The Avon Rep Hotline telephone tree didn't stump me, I knew the click responses by heart, entered my account number, said I had an important product question.

"Hi! Well, I have a question about the Astonishing Lengths mascara. Or any of the mascaras, really. Can they be used on a show terrier?"

Silence. I waited two beats. More silence.

"Uh, hello? Did I get disconnected?"

A young boy scooted past me toward the school. His sneakers had tiny wheels embedded underneath a higher than average heel, and he half-walked, half-slided across the uneven brick sidewalk.

"No, ma'am. I'm here. I didn't understand your question. Can you repeat it?"

She spoke with the broad accent of Indiana or Ohio, sounded like she still needed a strong cup of coffee to face the day.

"No problem. Can any of the Avon mascaras be used on a show terrier?"

Silence.

"Ma'am? Did you say snow barrier?"

I laughed.

"No! Show terrier! A show terrier."

I stretched out the words "show" and "terrier" as if they had nineteen syllables each.

"Snow carrier? Is this a joke?"

I could hear her start to move her hands toward the I've-Got-A-Nut-On-The-Line off switch.

"Show terrier! A show dog! A terrier, you know, those whisker faced lap dogs that yap all day? Terrier! Terrier! I need to know if I can slap some mascara on a terrier! For a big show!"

Click. I stared at my cell phone, at the blinking "disconnected" icon, wondered if she would notate my Permanent Record with "likes to make prank calls."

I think I'm going to try again, but I'm scared!

Weekends are for Random Thoughts

Today's Saturday goodness: Spiders, Avon reviews, and random musings...

Name that spider! I found him waiting in a corner of my back patio. I love him! He's a Globe Spider, considered incredibly good luck by the Navajo. Don't let his size fool you - he's even bigger than you think!

---

I handed my stuck tub of Avon's Mark Worldly Glow to my burly cowboy neighbor this morning. He looked at me through eyelids puffed, red heavy from a tequila-laced evening at the local saloon.

"Geeze, Birdie, what the hell do they lock this with? Krazy Glue?" Markus handed the tub back to me and rubbed his hands on his jeans. "I bet my rotweiller couldn't bust that with his jaws. Want me to give it to him?"

I laughed, shook my head. Markus sat on his cement stoop with a guttural groan, picked up his scratched silver travel mug, sipped strong coffee. Steam rose from his mug and formed a ghostly figure in the morning sun.

Maybe I'll leave this tub on the railroad tracks, see if the train can bust it open.

---

I woke up thinking about my customer and her problems with the avon.com site. The responses to that post show me that it's not an isolated problem. Let's brainstorm, come up with a list of suggestions for Avon. I know, I know, they have a marketing team to handle that sort of thing. Well, in my opinion, that team is doing them no good. I'll make a grand itemized list of our problems and potential solutions, post it here at Beauty Dish, and send it along to Avon. Will they listen?

---

Now, a few mini-reviews:

Review of the new Avon Anew Clinical Advanced Retexturizing Peel

This product takes the place of the old Anew Clinical 2-Step Peel. It consists of one large white plastic canister filled with the same textured pads of the original peel, but this product contains a stronger exfoliator PLUS the soothing botanicals in one pad.

Bottom line: I love it. I love it as much - and even more - than the original formula. It still slightly stings my sensitive skin, but leaves it smooth, clear, and refreshed. The instructions tell you to go ahead and plop on your moisturizer immediately after applicator, but I do wash my face first with a gentle cleanser.

Review of the new(ish) Avon Anew Alternative Photo-Radiance Treatment SPF 15

I've spoken about this product in the past. It supposedly reverses sun-damage and erases age spots. It's expensive, too! 25 sorry bucks! I will give you my honest bottom line: Don't buy it. You will get better results with the Clinical Advanced Retexturizing Peel and your usual sunscreen. This product barely faded one of my tiny age spots, but at great cost. I was covered with horrible zits the entire time I used it. My customers have had the same pimply response! Don't purchase! Evil product! Evil!

Review of the Hanes Footless Tights

Avon sells all kinds of underthings these days. I have sold quite a few bras and panties from the Hanes and Bali lines. You can find these products in your regular Avon brochure each campaign. It's nice to be able to offer my customers a way to purchase high quality underwear in the comfort of their own home.

Now. Having said that...

The Hanes Footless Tights are called "Fall's Hottest Look" in the new Avon book. Yeah, I've seen Lindsay Lohan and her ilk sporting tights with tunics and short dresses. It's a look that looks best on those with trim (some might say quite thin) figures. But in the interest of fashion, I gave these a whirl. I ordered the tights - they come two to a package - in black.

The brochure calls these tights "opaque." Now, in my world "opaque" means you can't see through them. Yeah, right. I tried getting away with an upper-thigh skimming tunic and these tights - as demonstrated and promoted in the literature. A model lounges on a park bench wearing a short (!!) tunic and these same tights.

My son, 11, took one look at me.

"Uh, mom? You forgot your pants."

Yup. Don't try this at home.

You're On Notice!

I called Steven Colbert and told him some of my Avon business beefs!!

Do you have a beef or two or ten? Make your own On Notice board!

Birdie's Favorite Avon Adventures!

These are just a small sample of the wild and wonderful people I meet in my Avon life... read through my entire blog archive to hear about many, many more!

If you enjoy these, please peruse the True Avon Stories category at this site for more, and my OurStory site of Avon Adventures, too!

Don't forget to read my Favorite Personal Stories.

Love Potion Number 9
where my 9 year old son brings the Ab Cream for show and tell

Top 10 Reasons Dave Letterman Needs an Avon Lady!
C'mon Dave, call me!

Balls to the Wall
I sell Avon to a group of men at a bowling alley!

The monkey lady
a crazy woman customer and her pet monkey

Avon Cinderella
A man who likes feet...a bit TOO much!

Corn on the cam
Cooking under the engine on the way to the city of sin!

Live Long and Prosper
Latino bachelor boys beg me to strip!

The Saddest Song in the World
I meet a woman with many cats and an illness
Read Part One
Read Part Two
Read Part Three

The Table
Oscar Wilde, a surfer dude, and a gaggle of celebrities!

I Animal Tested an Avon Product!
California tree rats and their poofy, poofy hair...

I'm sleeping... and right in the middle of a good dream
A customer with an unusual shrine

Grand Slam High Noon at Denny's
An Avon Lady Show Down!!
Read Part One
Read Part Two
Read Part Three

Pig on a Mission
Frankie visits my customers and gets free snacks!
Read Part One
Read Part Two

Tango, tangle, or the simple story of a man named Manuel
I take Latin Dance lessons and meet a man with a past
Read Part One
Read Part Two

Bust Sculpt Surprise
A customer uses Avon Bust Sculpt in an.... intimate.... way

It's a Bust
The Avon Hotline tells me what to do!

Below The Belt Belongs To Turkey
I wax my Turkish friend's back

You may ask yourself... am I right? Am I wrong?
Double Dating with Metallica Mulletheaded Boys

XXX
where I go to the strip club to sell Avon:
links:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Lady Godiva
the customer who was wearing no pants

You Don't Know Jack
Lady with "organic" Jack Russell Terriers, in three parts:
links:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I Walk the Line
I attempt to sell Avon to the Scientologists

Marlon Brando, Pocahontas, and Me
I DO sell Avon to the Scientologists!

5 K Fiasco
Learning to Run... the Avon way!

Don't Shoot, I'm the Avon Lady
where I am arrested - almost! - for dealing drugs in the great train story, in four parts
links:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

The Flying Turk
where my friend Ulak chases the mysterious train lady, in four parts
links:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Something like Maria
the Hungarian aloe swimmer lady

Ulak's Folly
where my Turkish friend loses me and my boys in the woods and a police officer has to save the day

Lucky Palms
where I visit a casino in my pajamas toting Avon books
links:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

Fat Ass Evidence
A granola lovin' customer wants proof that the anti-cellulite cream works

The ongoing saga of the man who likes kilts...
I first meet Kilt Man
I scale the fence to leave a brochure
The crazy yard sale and the stigmata
I meet Kilt Man's "whatever"

Smart Aleck Belly Button
adventures wearing the pedometer

Baby's Got a Bad Bad Zit
Birdie meets a famous celebrity with a big fat zit

The Customer is Always Right
A customer with an unusual use for a product