I check people magazine online almost every day. Well, every day that I work. In fact, I’ve added it to my Google Homepage. I like to look at pictures, okay? Stop judging me.
Lately, we see a lot of Britney Spears looking the way most of us might look on a Saturday afternoon– makeup-less, hairbrush-less, hoodied and driving a terribly expensive car, with or without pants. (only one of those does not apply to me on a weekend afternoon, and here’s a hint: I drive an Accord.)
Poor girl, that Britney. Nobody leaving her alone, even for a second. Her worst days are just as public as her best. And I feel for her, I do.
But lately, I see tons of photos of Brit-brit walking out of convenience stores with a pack of Marlboro Lights in her hand and I have to wonder what kind of sad, sad life she must be leading without even ONE good girlfriend who will slink down to the corner market and pick her up some smokes. Or paid staff person, even.
Life too public to buy cigarettes at a gas station when you’re not exactly wearing pants? STAY IN THE CAR AND GET SOMEBODY ELSE FROM THAT GIANT ENTOURAGE TO DO IT.
Too Much Holiday Information
Today I had to return several boxes of discount work-related Christmas cards to Michael’s, which is always a madhouse mix of rockabilly girls with betty page bangs and old ladies with 30 coupons trying to get that garland price down from $1.99 to twenty cents. There were about nine hundred people in line in front of me and nine hundred behind me, and I had just eaten a Christmas cookie back at the office that tasted like a stick of butter with some white chocolate chips in it. Which made me very, very sick to my stomach upon arriving at Michael’s.
I waited a very, very long time in line. Through price-checks and tax-exempt codes and, I swear to you, beads being rung up individually. I tried to chat with the person behind me, but she would have none of my holiday cheer. When I finally got up to the register to handle my return, there was all of the commotion and confusion you might expect, with the wrong codes, manager overrides, re-voiding, extra scanning, store credit, starting over, again.
And during the whole process, my stomach was churning, my vision was blurring with impending gastrointestinal doom, the midsection of my body making high-pitched, audible noises. I looked behind me and saw the nine hundred grannies and gothies. I considered telling Deena at the cash register that I reeeeeeeally had to use the bathroom and could we just hold it right here for a minute? But then I pictured an angry mob chasing me to the end of the frame aisle and into the restroom. I pictured not actually making it to the restroom. I heard my stomach. My face got hot, and then cold. Deena kept re-voiding and re-coding. I had purchased 7 boxes and was returning only 6… the kind of math that can make you work very slowly and start over a lot.
And finally! It was done! And could you just sign this slip right here? Yes! Yes I can! I scribble and start to make a beeline toward the back of the store and… wait… what is this? No more rock in the stomach? Able to stand up straight? The emergency had passed! Cookie digested/ absorbed, whatever! I walked out of Michael’s and into the sunny parking lot, free of digestive distress when only seconds before I was thinking of ways to deal with possibly shitting my pants at Michael’s.