I’ve seen a lot of ads and articles lately for tips on getting in shape prior to one’s wedding day. And I guess I just think that’s a really awful idea.  When you stand up there and make your vows, you’re vowing to accept and love the other person as they are.  So the last thing you want to do is lose weight or get plastic surgery or something. Rather, you want to look the way that you’re likely be during the marriage itself, because that’s only fair.

If I were to get married, I would get all method actor about it. I’d gain fifty pounds, lose my job, and drag my James Bond DVD collection around with me in a backpack.  I’d greet my fiancee at the altar: “Hey babe, this is gonna be fun!  And after we’re done with this vow thing, do you think you can loan me a hundred bucks? I need to finish paying the caterer.”

As I sit in a sports bar in a Dallas airport, I am reflecting that if I were to start a sports bar--which would not be my first pick for a themed bar, as I find sports extremely boring--I would not make the waitresses dress like referees. There is something off putting about the idea of a referee.  They make people stop, and slow down, and skip the rest of the game. They are foreboding. Is this the right image that one wishes to give ones waitresses?  This is a sports bar; what is wrong with a cheerleader or two?

Plus, if I look to the side and kind of squint, they don’t look like referees at all but vaguely like women dressed in prison outfits--although, come to think of it, that would be my first pick for a themed bar.

Update!: Jesus God, I was just carded.  What is wrong with you people?  I am staring down the barrel of my forties; do you not see Death perched on my shoulder, not unlike the Hitchhiking Ghosts at the end of the popular Disneyland attraction The Haunted Mansion?  How am I now expected to drink this mojito with dignity?

I’m a pretty big whore,* from the standpoint that I’m willing to do just about anything if I’m compensated. And my price point isn’t even all that high.  I read other blogs and they’re all “Someone sent me something to review, but I’m not going to review it because I am artist, doing my artist thing.” Right.  A Portrait of the Artist as a Blogger--whatever. The only reason I have never reviewed anything on this site is because no one has ever sent me anything for free.

But this week someone finally did, and now I have a free Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer, and I’m going to review it for you.  Here’s what it looks like:

There are two primary reasons I use a razor such as this. Let’s see how it stacks up in each category.

1. Shaving cats.
I have always been a big proponent of shaving cats.  I do this because otherwise cats will lick themselves and create gigantic hairballs.  If you shave them, this doesn’t happen.  Cats will thank you for the service--eventually.

So how did the Schick Quattro Titatanium Trimmer do in the cat shaving category? Unfortunately, I was unable to catch any of my neighbor’s cats in order to find out. Apparently they’ve learned to run when they see me.

2. Alternating between electric razor and a normal one.
This is probably more what I was supposed to write when asked to review the product. The fact is, I’m far too lazy to use a regular razor every day; I almost always use an electric one. But sometimes you want an especially close shave, and then I’ll use a razor like the one I was given or use it after shaving with an electric razor.  This gives me a close shave that I can do to snuggle with those that I love, such as my neighbor’s wife.  Unfortunately, again, I was unable to catch my neighbor’s wife in order to evaluate the product.

Still, I did shave with it and, frankly, it’s a pretty ordinary shave.  Not bad, just ordinary. However, the big gimmick is that it has a trimmer on the end of the handle, battery powered, that works very well.  I do like this feature. Sometimes the electric razor gives me a bit more flexibility, which is why I often alternate between electric and manual, but if the manual has a trimmer at the end, I could see using only the manual razor.  That is, on those rare occasions when I’m feeling inspired to use a non-electric razor.

The trimmer is advertised as being “titanium,” which I guess is good.  I mean, if it was a “plutonium” trimmer than I probably would not have opened the box.  The blades worked well.  I lost about a pint of blood using the product, but that would be true regardless of what razor I used; there’s a reason I tend to stick with electric.

In sum: cool idea to have the trimmer on the end of the razor, so I like it.  And that’s my review.  Now who is going to send me more free stuff?

*However, I’m not so much of a whore that I’m going to mention that you can register to win a free trimmer at www.trimflixx.com by making a movie--especially since I tried it and made one where I’m having a pillowfight with some co-eds.  Frankly, it was kind of creepy. I didn’t like seeing myself in a movie that completely violates the half-plus-seven rule. Maybe a little subtlety in regards to this particular viral marketing gem, guys?**

**But you should still send me more free stuff.

Bringing along two women to help shop for clothes can be extremely healthy.  This way, you won’t necessarily buy what you would ordinarily buy, but learn what other people think you should buy, which frankly is more important.  If I actually bought only what I wanted to wear, I’d have nothing but a closet full of white T-shirts and maybe a red cape or two.  Fernando was right: it’s better to look good than to feel good.

So I invited my friends to come with me during one of my infrequent clothes pilgrimages, and it worked better than I had dared hoped.  Interesting and unusual clothes were yanked off racks and pushed into my hands with ruthless efficiency. If I mumbled out loud about needing a size larger, someone zipped off and immediately got it for me.

The store clerks looked strangely at our whirlwind of activity. I said, “I’m Mormon and these are my two wives.”

It’s also good because the clerks themselves are far less annoying. Usually they try to weigh in with “You would look good in this” and “Try that,” but you can never trust store clerks; they’re driven by commission, and I also think they like to play practical jokes on customers, the way bored cooks spit in your soup.  But they were powerless in the face of my two friends, twin sentinels who monitored by every move and insisted on seeing the results of everything I tried.

To my surprise, I vetoed practically nothing.  There was one red striped shirt in particular that I simply couldn’t handle, although I might go back and buy it if I decide to be Raggedy Ann or Andy for Halloween.

And there were definitely a few times when I was pushed outside of my comfort zone.  A gray sweater that looked as though I should be offering to carry someone’s schoolbooks? A polo shirt with three wide stripes, as though I was flipping burgers for the grandkids while swimming in and out of dementia?  I would have gone past these items without a second thought if I had been on my own, but armed with my own personal shopping versions of Ebert & Roeper, I was forced to take two female thumbs up into consideration. And, once placed on my personage, these odd clothes did actually seem to work.  The gray sweater in particular snapped into place and I saw the fashion-laded possibilities.

GQ will not be inviting me to be on their cover anytime soon. In fact, they frequently write me letters and ask me not to even buy the magazine because it hurts their brand.  Nonetheless, I am content with the results.

It’s interesting, though, how shopping breaks down barriers and causes people to become more candid than they were before. By the end of the day, opinions were offered as to what the new clothes would displace.

“That green, shimmery shirt you wear? Yeah. That’s got to go.” (pause) “You know, I’ve known you for years, but I’ve never spoken up about that.”

Dribbling a basketball outside the car window and occasionally passing it to other drivers.

Talking on my cell phone while holding it in my teeth.

Not holding the wheel at all while I pick my nose with both hands.

Holding a stuffed animal to my ear and pretending to have a conversation until police pull me over, at which point I thrust the animal at them and say “Ha, joke’s on you-it’s not a cell phone at all but rather my old pal Flopsy.”

Talking to friends and colleagues without using a cell phone--such as with CB radio, walkie talkies, and bullhorns.

Driving around my neighborhood with the stereo blaring and the windows rolled down, singing loudly along with Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive.”

Calling the police every five minutes to report another driver talking on his cell phone: “He just turned down Lexington Avenue. If you guys hurry, you can totally catch him.”

Pricing out bluetooth headsets. This is technically an act of cultural obedience and not rebellion, but whatever, who asked you.