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tell me to give him three dates, the rule in her house growing up. Except that the rabbi’s son had to get at least five dates. “A shanda ,” my grandfather would say, “to deny yourself the opportunity to be with the rabbi’s son. What an honor.” Thank goodness I didn’t belong to a temple.
    Pickelz walked me to the subway after our date. He looked up at me, rose to his toes ( hey, that’s my move ), and kissed me on the cheek. “I had fun,” he said.
    “As did I. Thank you for the drinks,” I replied, feeling very post-date scripted. And had we been on set, I would’ve yelled, “Can someone please get this man an apple box?”
    Note to self: next blind date, don’t go in with such tall expectations.

CHAPTER FOUR

    Intentional Misuse by Deliberately Inhaling the Contents Can Be Fatal
    A fter only two months, I was into the swing of the job—not to mention the makeup freebies—and was settling into my new routine: wake up, get dressed, hear the day’s news and Pat Kiernan’s “In the Papers” on NY1, pick up a DavidsTea (salted-caramel flavor of late), put on my makeup at the studio, and start the workday. After that, it was unpredictable.
    “Alicat,” Sally called over to me from behind her desk—a rare day when she was in her office. Come to think of it, I managed her schedule but generally had no idea where she actually was when she wasn’t at corporate or the studio. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee. Please make me one.”
    “Sure, Sally,” I replied. “How do you take it?” I had never actually made her a cup of coffee before.
    “Big and black and hot,” I heard one of the girls say quietly before erupting into giggles in the next room. From the sound of things, the studio was empty of clients.
    “Two packets of Splenda and cream,” Sally said. “And put it in my Sally Steele mug. I only drink out of that one.”
    “How light?” I shouted from the next room while turning on the Keurig.
    “Beyoncé light. Thanks.”
    As the coffee dispensed, I ran to my computer and Googled Beyoncé. So, like a light mocha?
    “Copy that,” I said to my page of Google images.
    Beyoncé coffee? Was Sally a racist?
    “Copy that—how cute,” Sally said, overhearing my self-talk.
    “Copy that, Alicat, copy that,” she repeated when I served her. Both shade and mug were approved.
    I cringed, knowing that I just modeled Sally’s coffee after a very famous and supremely gorgeous light-skinned black woman.
    My next two days were spent getting Sally ready for a big set of QVC television shows, which would have her in West Chester, Pennsylvania, all weekend. The schedule was intense, since all shows were broadcast live, but the money she could make would trump all exhaustion.
    “QVC is a huge part of our business, Alison,” Sally had said in our initial interview. “Between you and me, it’s essentially what will be paying your salary.”
    “Can you tell me a little bit more about QVC from the standpoint of a seller, since I’ve done my research as a consumer?” I’d asked, the Northwestern overachiever in me coming out.
    “Yes, of course. It’s a big consignment shop, actually. A huge portal for sales and a great way to appeal to mass audiences. We partner with the QVC team to develop individual products that will sell well and packages that give good values and build a client base. It’s exciting and fun to be there, and extremely exhausting. Sometimes I wish Giuseppe could go on air for me, but what can I do? The name on the brand is Sally Steele.” She’d seemed tired at the thought, but it sounded like she had an enviable arrangement.
    “And what exactly is it like for you on air each time?” I’d asked.
    “Well, it’s live, and for a set number of minutes. And with the host of the moment, we pitch each product like it’s The Hunger Games , all while appearing natural, casual, calm, and chatty.”
    Sounds like the fun kind of performing: extemporaneous.
    Since each show had a