I just got back from the grocery store (after walking 4 miles in the hot sun, then hitting the nursery for some plants - I am an old woman) so I'm not looking my best. Normally, I don't give a shit. It's freaking errands, right? So I'm loading up the conveyor belt with my MASSIVE load o'groceries (my kids eat 200 bucks worth of food a WEEK. I am not joking) and there is a woman behind me in her mid-driff, hot-pink bedazzled workout (??) tank, tight yoga pants, and $250 Donna Karan yoga shoes. She has a case of bottled water, soy chips, and a STACK of mags, like Star, US Weekly, InTouch, etc. She is giving me serious attitude because I pull out my coupons (dude, without coupons, that bill becomes $273 a week) I see she's giving me the once over. I'm smelly, I have my Ralph Wiggam T-shirt on (That's Unpossible!), my hair is crazed and frizzy, and I have hairy legs.
I look more closely at her and see she has injected so much collagen in her lips, it looks like she has a mustache. She has a painted-on tan, and you can tell she is MUCH older than her plastic surgery (HUGE boobs, of course) lets on by the baggy skin on her elbows, and under her arm pits. You know what I'm talking about. And she's ENGROSSED in Star. Not laughing, or smirking like most people do. Like it's her fucking Oxford Literary Reference, or something. "Oh, my god! Will Nick and Jessica break up?" *single, perfect tear, if her face wasn't botoxed to hell*
She's being pushy about loading her stuff on the converyor belt, (I'm trying not to crack my head on her cart as I grab my four gallons of milk) so naturally I take my time. Fuck you. I'm gearing up for a cat fight in my head: "how sad that you aren't enough of a woman to grow your own boobs." "How fulfilling your life of soy chips and tabloids must be. Bet you wish all of the stupid, fat suburban moms would be rid of so you could reach enlightenment in your yoga class you must be pissed off to be late for."
She leaves not too long after me and I see her get into her black Mercedes convertible. She has a smug look on her face, like she knows I'm seeing the "unattainable." I made sure she saw me laugh and mouth "nice sugar daddy." Bitch, I drive an Acura and OWN my things. Didn't get a man to do it for me, either. Put HIM through school. I'm petty. I know it. And I really don't care if someone wants plastic surgery, or to have a sugar daddy, or whatever. It was the smug attitude like I was a piece of shit on her ridiculously priced shoes that set me off.
I feel REALLY good about me. That I don't have to pay money to make doctors fix me into some weird fucking dude's vision of a "perfect woman." That I don't paint a goddamn orange/brown paste on me to "look" healthy. That I don't have toxic bags of goo in my chest so people will notice me. (Man, hers were so disproportionate to her body - she had to duck walk to keep from falling forward.) That I can read something better than USWeekly to get my "news." (Now, I love gossip, you know that, but you know what I'm talking about.) I think it's very sad to have nothing in your life but to focus on keeping yourself looking frozen in time to validate your existence.
BLEH!! I am a strong, natural woman. Hee hee!! Let's just say that if Stoney gets some attitude up in her grill... Uh uh. It's ON. Hee!! I'm pretending I'm tough!
On a completely different note, sunny, 82, got my veggies into the garden, got my rose cuttings hormoned and greenhoused, washed everything dirty in my house. I need no fake tits! I need an agenda and a checklist to be fulfilled! (...today) Now if I can get those kids to bed early, I'm pornin' up in here! Whee!