I was just reading about how the actress Lana Turner was discovered while drinking a Coke at a soda fountain, and how Marilyn Monroe was discovered while working in a munitions factory.
Well, this might come as a surprise to many, but I was “discovered” while walking from a soda fountain in downtown Manchester, NH, where I’d just had a grilled-cheese sandwich and a Coke for lunch, and was returning to my job at a nearby department store.
I was 21 at the time, during the era of the mini-skirt, platform shoes and long, shaggy hair…all of which I had. And let’s just say I didn’t exactly have a body for mini-skirts, especially since my “thunder thighs” rubbed together when I walked. In fact, I lived with the constant fear the friction from all of that rubbing eventually would generate a spark that would cause my pantyhose to burst into flames.
Anyway, just as I reached the store where I worked, a man approached me. He looked about 45, was short in stature and wearing a business suit.
“Have you ever thought about becoming a model?” he asked me.
I laughed. “Yeah, right!” Then I reached for the door handle.
“No, I’m serious,” he persisted. He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “I run an advertising agency and I’m always looking for new faces for my ads. Give me a call.”
And with that, he was gone.
I was back upstairs in my office before I even glanced at the card. It looked legitimate, but I was smart enough to know anyone could get business cards printed. I figured the guy probably had ordered a thousand of them so he could dole them out to impressionable young women and then lure them into his dungeon in his basement...or worse. I rolled my eyes and tossed the card onto my desk.
A few minutes later, my boss came over to talk to me about some paperwork he wanted. As I retrieved it for him, he spotted the business card and picked it up.
“How do you know Rick?” he asked me.
“Rick?” I repeated.
He pointed at the name on the card. “He’s done some advertising work for us. Nice guy.”
My eyes widened. “You mean he’s for real?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Of course he is. I mean, he owns the advertising agency. In fact, he’s already working on a Christmas campaign for us. Never too soon to start.”
He then grabbed the folder he needed and walked off.
My thoughts ran wild at that moment. Was I really model material? And what would I model? Certainly not swimsuits. Maybe something like muumuus? Hospital gowns? Arctic parkas? And why had I never seen this Rick guy before if he had been doing advertising work for the store? Maybe he’d always come in on my day off or after my shift ended?
My curiosity finally got the better of me. I picked up the business card and called him.
Rick sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. And, he said, he already had an assignment in mind for me…a shoot for a sewing-machine advertisement.
Sewing machine? My first thought was how on earth was I supposed to model that? My second thought was the poor guy couldn’t have picked a worse candidate to promote anything to do with sewing. I’d flunked sewing class in school because I couldn’t sew a straight line even after a gazillion attempts. I finally gave up, and my motto then became, “If I can’t glue it, I won’t do it!”
But I wasn’t about to pass up an actual modeling shoot. It not only sounded exciting, it also paid real money.
Rick and I shared some lengthy phone calls, where he explained more about himself, the firm, the pay scale and more. Then he told me the sewing-machine shoot would be held that Saturday morning. When he gave me the location’s address, in a small town called Goffstown, and then added, “Oh, and bring a nice nightgown,” I was confused…and just a bit apprehensive. But I agreed. Then I made sure to tell a bunch of people the time and place where I would be on Saturday…just in case I went missing.
When my mother asked me why I had to bring a nightgown for a sewing-machine ad, I honestly couldn’t give her an answer.
“Maybe I’m supposed to be someone whose wardrobe was stolen and all she has left is her nightgown, so she now has to sew some new clothes?” was the best I could come up with.
My mother laughed. “Do you really think it’s something that far-fetched?”
To be honest, I had no idea what to think at that point.
The Saturday morning of the shoot, I spent a long time getting every hair “just right,” and then spent even longer on my makeup. I didn’t know if there would be someone there to do my hair and makeup more professionally, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I then packed a white cotton nightgown with tiny pink flowers on. It had short, puffy sleeves and a gathered neckline.
When I entered the small studio, I froze. All I saw in the room was a bed surrounded by floodlights and some camera equipment on tripods. My first thought was it looked like a set-up to film an X-rated movie.
Rick, smiling, walked over to greet me. He then introduced me to a tall, dark-haired man about his age and said, “This is Bob, the photographer.”
Bob eyed me as if I were a side of beef at a meat auction. His expression told me he probably was accustomed to photographing Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, not someone who would be the “before” picture in an ad for cellulite removal.
“Well, let’s get started,” Rick said. “Time is money.”
I hesitated, still staring at the bed. Finally, I just had to ask what it had to do with a sewing machine, which, by the way, was nowhere in sight. I honestly feared that at any second, some muscular guy wearing only a towel was going to enter the room and stretch out on the bed.
“Oh!” Rick said, in response to my question. “The advertisement is for a company called White Sewing Machines. So I thought it would be clever to show you dreaming about a ‘White’ Christmas! After the photo is taken, we’ll insert a dream bubble over your head with a photo of the sewing machine in it.”
My sigh of relief was obvious. It finally all made sense to me.
“Now go into the bathroom over there and put on your nightgown,” he said.
When I emerged from the bathroom, both Rick and Bob stared at me in a way that told me they weren’t exactly thinking, “Wow! She looks great!”
“Did you borrow that nightgown from your grandmother?” Rick asked.
I wondered what he’d expected…a sexy negligee with cleavage? After all, I was supposed to look like a woman who was dreaming about sewing machines, not dreaming about becoming the next centerfold in a men’s magazine.
Bob walked up to me and promptly messed up my hair.
“That looks better,” he said. “It looked too neat for someone who’s supposed to be asleep and dreaming.”
I wished he’d have told me that before I’d spent an hour styling it that morning. Heck, I could have just crawled out of bed and not even touched my hair if he wanted a genuine “bed-head” look.
The shoot went smoothly, especially since I had to do nothing but close my eyes and lie in bed for 20 minutes. And I got paid for it! Talk about easy money.
And here is a photo of the actual newspaper ad, which is old, stained, yellowed and faded, but it at least will give you an idea of what it looked like. I wasn’t pleased with my messy hair, which made me look as if I had a long beard, but I did think the whole concept was pretty clever.
I ended up working part-time for Rick for over a year. He even hired me to help him with writing jingles that were aired on local radio stations. I wasn’t very good at it, however. The store I still clearly recall attempting to write my first jingle for was Tren Furniture.
Their previous jingle, sung to a slow, jazzy tune, was “The trend is to Tren, at 177 Wilson Street,” repeated over and over again. However, Tren moved their store's location to Mammoth Road, so they asked Rick to come up with a fresh new jingle for them.
Rick turned the project over to me. “Write this jingle,” he said. “And I need it by 8 AM tomorrow morning.”
Nothing like being rushed.
I was up all night working on that jingle, and finally came up with this gem:
(Sung to the tune of West Side Story’s “I Like to Be in America” song).
I like to be at Tren Furniture,
So much to see at Tren Furniture,
On Mammoth Road is Tren Furniture,
Every abode needs Tren Furniture.
Gee, I can’t understand why the store turned it down.
# # #
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
