Electronics company HTC’s press event at Townhouse Spa yesterday was a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows that left me cold and anxious, but ultimately very well manicured. It started off pleasantly enough; various fashion blogger types munched on fruit and mini-sandwiches and sipped champagne while female representatives from HTC talked about their newfangled Internet-phone thingy in terms us girls could understand. They quoted one lady-blogger as saying the phone’s matte black plastic casing was “like chocolate” (women love chocolate!). I think they said some other stuff about how it’s important to have an intuitively designed smart phone that will fit in your small, feminine hands, but I was too busy pawing at the thing like a cat with an iPad to write it all down.

The PR rep next attempted to explain why they were having the event at a spa. “There are a lot of nudes and blacks in fashion right now, and everyone is getting back to basics,” she chirped. Therefore, we were to partake in the basic necessities of neon pedicures and shoulder rubs at a time of day when most people were toiling in offices. Worked for me!

As we had our excess foot skin sloughed off and played with our phones, a fellow went around snapping photos for the company. “Look at your phone and give as genuine a laugh as possible,” he instructed one young lady. She obliged.

The second most embarrassing part of the event for me came when my pedicurist began doing something to my toes that made me giggle like a baby undergoing tickle torture. (I am not used to getting pedicures.) I’m sorry, harried beauty technician.

The first most embarrassing part came when I went to put my tights and boots back on, and said tights were gone. This got me more upset than it should have, because they were my favorite tights (stockings?), with just the right amount of sheerness and the perfect number of holes in all the right places. Heart heavy, I put my boots on my bare feet and headed for the door.*

I couldn’t leave without getting some makeup done on me, and to my pleasant surprise, the makeup artist was none other than Erin Red Grayson, whose militant veganism and work with Suicidegirls had caused us to cross paths multiple times in the past. She did a nice smoky eye/nude lip thing on me that complimented my vaguely nineties-ish floral dress/bomber jacket/pigtail braids combo. Because I am conditioned to react positively to my own gussied up reflection, this soothed me.

In conclusion, you should all go out and buy the Droid Incredible 2, because they paid for me to get a mani-pedi-eyebrow-plucking-massage when I was supposed to be at work, and because it’s not Droid’s fault my tights went missing. Also, champagne.

*All was not lost! The tights have since been recovered.