I had rather a bizarre moment during an outing last weekend. I was at an art festival with Deb in Suttons Bay. Arguably the most gorgeous place in Michigan, it sits on the northwestern shore of the lower peninsula. It’s one of those slightly yuppy, extremely white, semi-seasonal towns where the population triples in the summertime. Despite the WASP infestation, I love the place. It’s worth going there simply because the drive is so beautiful. Tracy and I have decided that someday, when we’re 40-something, we, and anyone else who’s game for the hippie-commune life, will invest all our savings in a large, bay-side estate there and start a goat farm. We’ll get by selling organic cheese, Tracy’s paintings, and my delicious jams and jellies. Maybe I’ll start a small printing company and sell my books if I can’t find anyone else to publish them. We’ll buy a sailboat and name it ‘The Sea Pickle’ in honor of our friend Stephanie...... What? Oh! Sorry, I was daydreaming there. Back to the point.
Bizarre moment: Well, I was in line for the bathroom at this festival, and there was this little girl in front of me; she’s maybe 10 or 11 or... something. How the hell should I know? She was a human of the childish persuasion. Anyway, she makes some comment about how hot it is, and I concede that, yes, indeedy, it sure was hot out. She then says that if I’m interested, her brother will be by shortly selling bottled water for charity. "Okay, thanks.", say I.. Then, she turns to me and says, "I just want to let you know that God loves you." This completely dumbfounds me, and I can only manage a weak, "Why, thank you." That’s all I could think of. But then I felt like an asshole, because she looked slightly crestfallen that I wasn’t falling all over myself in gratitude for her concern for my immortal soul. Well, at least I resisted my first impulse to put on my best French Resistance accent and mutter "God is the biggest bitch of them all." So that’s got to count for something, right?
Now, my question is: does the fact that I found this whole exchange profoundly creepy make me a horrible person? I mean, it all seemed quite innocent at first, but the more I thought about it, I realized that someone had so heavily indoctrinated this child that she’s out working a used-car-salesman routine for Jesus. You know, she starts in with the small, seemingly benign chitchat, and just when your guard is down, she swoops in with the full-on dog-and-pony show. Or, maybe she’s just a sincere little kid who wants to spread the warm, fuzzy euphoria of blind, unquestioning faith and my rampant paranoia is reaching pharmaceutically-treatable proportions. It’s six in one hand and half a dozen in the other, as my mom would say.
This weekend I’ll be making the four hour drive to Detroit for my best friends bachelorette party. I have certain misgivings about the whole ritual, but she’s pretty awesome, so I can’t imagine it’ll be anything too cheesy. I hope. At least there’ll be free liquor.
Well, an event like this begets certain preparations, so I thought I would share my newly-acquired wisdom in case any of you find yourselves in the same situation.
Lisa’s Simple, 5-Step Shopping Guide for your Best Friends Bachelorette Party
1. Receive phone call from mutual friend/organizer of said party to confirm that you will be attending. After a firm ‘aye’, she informs you that everyone is to wear a black shirt and bring an unusual pair of women’s underwear for the game portion of the evening. Slightly disconcerted, you resolve that the second anyone brings out a goat and/or wooden paddle, you’re splitsville. Well, provided this occurs after the bar-hopping boozathon leg of this shindig.
2. Take third sudafed of the day as part of your losing battle against the allergies that have been kicking your ass all week. Nose running, eyes streaming, and brain feeling as if it’s made of cotton balls, you make the hour drive to the mall to procure some wacky underpants.
3. After dragging your histamine-ravaged carcass into the department store, you decide you might as well see if you can find a snazzy new black shirt to wear on Saturday, in the hopes of quelling your irrational, insecure certainty that you will be the least attractive girl there.
4. Not finding anything on the sale rack that coincides with your apparently archaic idea of ‘sale’, you decide that you’ll French it up and get the most seductive, screen siren-red lip color you can find to wear with the simple black button-down in your closet. You aimlessly wander around the cosmetic counters for a while, mostly to indulge your sick delight in driving sales women crazy, until you see a few likely candidates. The Lancome lady helps you find one to try, and bam!, you’re Grace Kelly. Well, not quite, but it looks pretty good and it’s a long-lasting formula that should soldier on through the obscene number of martinis you intend to drink this weekend. You make your purchase, shelling out 25 bucks, and ignore the strange sensation that your colon has just been violated..
5.Self-esteem newly reinforced, you mosey on into the lingerie department. Every so often you stop mid-browse to sneak a surreptitious glance at your new lipstick in a mirror. It’s growing on you, and you decide that maybe you’ll do a whole Gwen Stefani, 40's glamour-puss with punk-rock flavor look for this party. While toying with the idea of bleaching your hair platinum, you zero in on an absurd pair of yellow mesh underwear with florescent orange lace trim and hot pink, green, and orange polka dots. These look like something a transvestite clown would wear. Perfect. You gratefully snatch them up and then realize that you get to carry said ‘perfect’ underwear across the entire store to the checkout counter. You start to ball them up in your fist, scurrying through the gauntlet of middle-aged yuppies that have inexplicably populated the store while you weren’t paying attention. But then, suddenly, you realize, "Hey! You have kick-ass red lipstick on! You are invincible! Fuck them all and their bourgeois decadence!" You walk on with head held high, schizophrenic knickers swinging from your arm. You while away 20 minutes in the checkout line, then speed home in time to throw a roast in the oven and take a nap.
Obviously, this particular method works best for those, like me, who have a long list of weird, yet endearing neuroses. I'll let you know how the rest of the weekend pans out. ( I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats.)
Bizarre moment: Well, I was in line for the bathroom at this festival, and there was this little girl in front of me; she’s maybe 10 or 11 or... something. How the hell should I know? She was a human of the childish persuasion. Anyway, she makes some comment about how hot it is, and I concede that, yes, indeedy, it sure was hot out. She then says that if I’m interested, her brother will be by shortly selling bottled water for charity. "Okay, thanks.", say I.. Then, she turns to me and says, "I just want to let you know that God loves you." This completely dumbfounds me, and I can only manage a weak, "Why, thank you." That’s all I could think of. But then I felt like an asshole, because she looked slightly crestfallen that I wasn’t falling all over myself in gratitude for her concern for my immortal soul. Well, at least I resisted my first impulse to put on my best French Resistance accent and mutter "God is the biggest bitch of them all." So that’s got to count for something, right?
Now, my question is: does the fact that I found this whole exchange profoundly creepy make me a horrible person? I mean, it all seemed quite innocent at first, but the more I thought about it, I realized that someone had so heavily indoctrinated this child that she’s out working a used-car-salesman routine for Jesus. You know, she starts in with the small, seemingly benign chitchat, and just when your guard is down, she swoops in with the full-on dog-and-pony show. Or, maybe she’s just a sincere little kid who wants to spread the warm, fuzzy euphoria of blind, unquestioning faith and my rampant paranoia is reaching pharmaceutically-treatable proportions. It’s six in one hand and half a dozen in the other, as my mom would say.
This weekend I’ll be making the four hour drive to Detroit for my best friends bachelorette party. I have certain misgivings about the whole ritual, but she’s pretty awesome, so I can’t imagine it’ll be anything too cheesy. I hope. At least there’ll be free liquor.
Well, an event like this begets certain preparations, so I thought I would share my newly-acquired wisdom in case any of you find yourselves in the same situation.
Lisa’s Simple, 5-Step Shopping Guide for your Best Friends Bachelorette Party
1. Receive phone call from mutual friend/organizer of said party to confirm that you will be attending. After a firm ‘aye’, she informs you that everyone is to wear a black shirt and bring an unusual pair of women’s underwear for the game portion of the evening. Slightly disconcerted, you resolve that the second anyone brings out a goat and/or wooden paddle, you’re splitsville. Well, provided this occurs after the bar-hopping boozathon leg of this shindig.
2. Take third sudafed of the day as part of your losing battle against the allergies that have been kicking your ass all week. Nose running, eyes streaming, and brain feeling as if it’s made of cotton balls, you make the hour drive to the mall to procure some wacky underpants.
3. After dragging your histamine-ravaged carcass into the department store, you decide you might as well see if you can find a snazzy new black shirt to wear on Saturday, in the hopes of quelling your irrational, insecure certainty that you will be the least attractive girl there.
4. Not finding anything on the sale rack that coincides with your apparently archaic idea of ‘sale’, you decide that you’ll French it up and get the most seductive, screen siren-red lip color you can find to wear with the simple black button-down in your closet. You aimlessly wander around the cosmetic counters for a while, mostly to indulge your sick delight in driving sales women crazy, until you see a few likely candidates. The Lancome lady helps you find one to try, and bam!, you’re Grace Kelly. Well, not quite, but it looks pretty good and it’s a long-lasting formula that should soldier on through the obscene number of martinis you intend to drink this weekend. You make your purchase, shelling out 25 bucks, and ignore the strange sensation that your colon has just been violated..
5.Self-esteem newly reinforced, you mosey on into the lingerie department. Every so often you stop mid-browse to sneak a surreptitious glance at your new lipstick in a mirror. It’s growing on you, and you decide that maybe you’ll do a whole Gwen Stefani, 40's glamour-puss with punk-rock flavor look for this party. While toying with the idea of bleaching your hair platinum, you zero in on an absurd pair of yellow mesh underwear with florescent orange lace trim and hot pink, green, and orange polka dots. These look like something a transvestite clown would wear. Perfect. You gratefully snatch them up and then realize that you get to carry said ‘perfect’ underwear across the entire store to the checkout counter. You start to ball them up in your fist, scurrying through the gauntlet of middle-aged yuppies that have inexplicably populated the store while you weren’t paying attention. But then, suddenly, you realize, "Hey! You have kick-ass red lipstick on! You are invincible! Fuck them all and their bourgeois decadence!" You walk on with head held high, schizophrenic knickers swinging from your arm. You while away 20 minutes in the checkout line, then speed home in time to throw a roast in the oven and take a nap.
Obviously, this particular method works best for those, like me, who have a long list of weird, yet endearing neuroses. I'll let you know how the rest of the weekend pans out. ( I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats.)
posted by lisal8 at 12:29 PM
4 comments
