I wish I were the type of person who would make trillions of dollars on something that had been soggy and hanging in my bathroom my entire life. Oh, it's so cold let me just slip this robe on backwards...BOOM. Cover of Forbes Magazine at 20.
My first Snuggie experience was a beautiful time in my life. While some first experience Snuggie with apprehension, discomfort, and, depending on the person, blood, I welcomed Snuggie with open arms, a deep burning desire in my loins, and serendipitously a little buzzed on Day-Quil, dressed as Cinderella in a Duane-Reade in New York City.
And so the genesis of my Zebra-print Snuggie begins....
Last October I went to visit one of my very best friends, Erin Douglass, at NYU for Halloween. I worked two jobs to pay for the trip all the while going to school at UC Berkeley, and living the "oh so glamorous" life that is Christine Deakers. One job was a PR assistant for a lovely bunch of Irish folk who had a great website company, and the other as a Security Monitor for the dorms. Yes, a Security Monitor. The latter job made me put oh so glamorous in quotes. (For the record, no uniform or sash of any sort was worn in the making of this cash money.)
Obviously, I was like any character in a J.Lo movie, a working woman, getting educated, and reaching for the stars to finally get to the Big Apple (cue montage reel as proof of my hard work, yet fiery personality).
I took a red-eye flight to NYC, got to Erin's dorm at the hairy arm-pit of dawn, and to my dismay, realized she didn't have a couch, but a pillow, 2-ply sheet of cotton, and a luxurious hardwood floor to sleep on.
But I was down. Nothing was going to change this trip for me. I had been looking forward to reuniting with my friends and gallavanting in NYC for sometime now. As the type of person whose New Year's Resolution is "be more spontaneous", I wasn't going to let this trip stop me from having the fun I planned, in my iCal, which I had printed out and made into an itneriery.
I was Mary-Tyler Moore throwing my hat in the air!
Now, cut to me waking up that first morning after our celebratory night of margaritas and Mexican food, pulling an Emily Rose right next to the mini-fridge. No this was not your run of the mill too much of a good time. This was your down home stomach flu, or what I thought to be my final moments on Earth. Alone.
Eventually, I flipped between dry heaving and spewing out what was surprisingly sweet bile over a communal sink. (I apologize for the location...I swear to god I cleaned up after myself, but as we universally have experienced, desperate times calls for whatever is closest!)
In between intimate sessions with any vessel to hold my own slop, I heard the pitter-patter of a beautiful Asian angel. This was it, the angel taking me away. She said her name was Boram, and I bowed to the ethereal creature, convenient with my crouching tiger hidden dragon position over the sink.
Later, I realized that Boram was none other than Erin's suitemate, who I so charmingly met.
The first two days consisted of Erin going to class, and me, Christine Rose inches from death, and mid-exorcism. I had planned on using those first two days to run in Central Park, go to the MOMA, and visit a former professor who now teaches at Columbia, but alas, I had barfing to do, people!
By the second day, of what I considered to be either a. a Guiness World Record, b. something to call the authorities on and 3. a budding past time, I thought, "Hey let's change it up, hm? Instead of expelling every liquid through the orifice that is my mouth, let's take something in, shall we?"
Operation Ginger Ale commenced. Here's a secret agent body scan:
Blonde maid's bun askew, (whipped up by what could be Wesson or my own lack of personal hygiene?)
Thick-rimmed glasses, of course, who are we kidding, at a time like this!
Berkeley crew-neck sweatshirt (I bring dishonor to the UC system...), navy blue, with yellow script, and UIS (unidentifiable splotches...)
Black American Apparel leggings, high waisted and to the ankles... not a good look.
To top it all off, I didn't have the strength to put on my own shoes. So I slipped on Erin's gold strappy Gladiator sandals, with my dingy socks, of course. At one time, probably circa 2006, they didn't look like Cujo had at 'em.
With a dollar twenty-fire in hand, I proceeded to the elevator. I was so close to my gingery goodness. Thankfully alone, I step in the car, hit the button to the cellar, and immediately regretted my decision to come to New York.
It was just within seconds of riding in the elevator from the 9th floor to the cellar that I cursed not only the God I believe in, but also technology, and the island of Manhattan. In the swirling mess that is my reality, I brought my unknowingly crunchy sleeve up my mouth as a preemptive protection of my humanity.
I got motion sickness between floors seven and six, and I was white-knuckling it.
The hell-damned elevator dropped me at the cellar, and as the doors opened I saw the illuminant contraption that cradled the elixir of fizzy life. Ponce de Leon could not find a better fountain of youth; mine lived in green rectangular beast with a neon aura.
But the ginger ale must wait, I thought. Now, on my knees, at the threshold, I crawled to my new place of refuge...the ladies room.
But oh my friends, I definitely did not feel like a lady, on my knees in a public bathroom (who would ever feel as though?). I was trapped with whom I considered to be my only companion, which, surprise, was my bile.
To say the least I was a weepy bag of slop, shamefully slipping my nickels and dimes into the coin slots and hitting some permutation of letter and number to get my bottle of Canada Dry. Did I even have the strength to twist off the cap to what could be my salvation, the grail I've been searching for?
When the elevator came back to pick me up from my utter demise, I didn't feel the need to explain myself to the non-descript, yet semi-attractive college boy returning from class. I was the poster girl of the Swine Flu. You could see it even in the corner of my mouth, the mist of ginger ale and saliva on my brim on my lip. Homeland Security was developing the "See Something, Say Something" photos for the subway stations across the nation. My face spread across every mid town bus. I could see it now.
"Woa," said the boy, whose face is rubbed out in my memory, "what did you do last night?"
I sighed, held onto the handicap railing, and braced myself for my trip up the ten floors. Although, it wasn't an easy trip up, I think the sheer fact that I didn't have anything left in my organs to shoot up my esophagus, left me thanking the Gingy Gods.
I left the blurry boy behind, just like the many Brawny paper towels I had used that week.
I made it back to the dorm, and lay comatose, until Erin came home from a day of classes.
Because I have incredible friends that do not shame me in my foreaken bodily functions, but who bring me soup, and fruit punch gatorade, and saltine crackers, Erin let me sleep in her bed for the spill of it all. Side note, never if under these circumstances eat Saltine crackers with any Gatorade product. No, you are wrong, it does not taste better the second time.
+
= NO.
A couple days after my Battle of Waterloo, my other best friend, Chelsea, arrived. I needed to start getting comfortable with the idea of sleeping on a hardwood floor again.
Chelsea was the priest to my exorcism, and brought a brightened attitude to the whole Christine Rose is no longer capable to survive on her own. The first full day she was there I was feeling like the flying Mary Tyler Moore hat. I was high. On Day-Quil that is.
But nothing a brisk walk in Central Park couldn't cure, a Magnolia's Red Velvet Cupcake, or a Kandinsky exhibit at the Guggenheim. Soon the three of us began our preparations for our Halloween extravaganza.
In the throws of it all, Erin dressed as a Nurse (a day or two late, and ironic to say the least), Chelsea as a Firefighter, and I as Cinderella. We sipped on our cocktails. Erin and Chelsea with their vodka and sodas, I, with none other than fists of Day-Quils and other cold remedies.
Other guests filed into the dorm room, one being a particularly good friend of mine my named Graham. He was dressed as Beyonce, from the Single Ladies video, and knew the entire dance to the T. How, you ask? He's been practicing it since June 2009.
Do I even have to mention he's a musical theater student?
A mocha colored foundation glazed his entire body, and a black leotard hugged and hid all the right places, if you know what I mean. When I saw Graham in that leotard with those stilettos on, I cursed the House of Dereon, for not giving me his legs, and an exact replica of the metallic claw Beyonce wears in the video. All made by his mother, biggest fan, Elaine, back home in California.
Whether it was the drag, the zombies that walked in, or my Day-Quil zingers, I needed to get out for some air. Chelsea so chivalrously accompanied me in her Firefighter costume to Duane Reade to pick up some cough drops, snacks, and anything we could find to make our Hallow's Eve slumber a little less spooky.
In the Halogen lights we meandered the aisles, searching for the aisle with "Inflatable Beds" headlining. We were down and out, just in the pits, looking for hope.
And there it was, in the bargain bin for $12.99. Dream in fleece and assorted colors. The Snuggie.
The embodiment of jealousy- yes.
As if it were match.com and Duane Reade knew in it's consumerism omniscience, Chelsea found a traditional, conservative, yet perfect pink, and I an alternative, yet down-to-earth zebra. Who knew that this trip would not literally be the time I come back to life, but find something I could spend the rest of my life with?
Chelsea and I didn't know what love really was until we swiped our credit cards with the Pirate's Booty.
Like we be in da club, I saw that Snug across the room, and then and there knew I was taking it home that night.
And yes, of course, right there we took those Snugs out of the box and wore them in the crisp October night. We figured it was Halloween in NYC-- we didn't look that crazy.
And so you have heard the tale of the great Snuggie. It still, to this day, travels by my side. From New York, to Berkeley, to now Los Angeles, the mythicism is ever potent.
Two semesters ago while studying John Keats and Palestinian education systems, I draped myself in my Snuggie as usual in my frigid apartment in Berkeley. As I took a break from the uplifting lessons that those former topics gave me, I decided to explore the world of Lady Gaga, and watch the Bad Romance video, for the seventy-third time that day.
When I saw how that Polar Bear dragged behind Gaga as she lit her lover on fire, I realized I had my own erotic, pyrotechnic costume. I flipped the Snuggie around like a coat, and walked the small length of my apartment like a queen. I insisted my roommate watch the genius I just unveiled. And then I asked her to watch again, with the music.
Once again the Snuggie has changed, once again, it molds to my needs!
But design always evolves. While I have the first generation Snuggie, times are changing, and with this ever burgeoning technology these days, the Snuggie geniuses have added to the fleece.
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