Pulling the plug on Terri Schiavo all over again

My Morning at The Department Store

As I was standing, arms crossed, staring at the suburbanite with The Hair who Heather was helping choose an eye shadow...

ME (in my head): God woman...your hair...it's awful...you obviously took time with it...it's huge...and holy shit that color and those roots...and my god how much hairspray do you have in it...of course your son is at a hockey tournament...you are about to drop $150 on make-up and it won't make a shit of a difference because your hair...you talk too damn much woman...and you say shit a lot...damn woman...you need a cut....bad...what the fuck time did you wake up to start that hair...damn your hair...huge...awful...

HEATHER: The taupe will really warm you up and looks great with blue eyes.
THE HAIR (looks directly at me): WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?!?! YOU LOOK HORRIFIED!
ME (uncrossing my arms in a panic and shaking my head): WHAT?!?! Oh. It's not YOU! It's my neutral face.
THE HAIR: That wasn't a neutral face.
ME (trying really hard to be overly apologetic): It is for me! It's just my face. I'm SORRY! Everyone thinks I'm upset when really I'm just staring off into space!
THE HAIR: Are you just having a really bad day? Seriously...that look!
HEATHER (meekly): It's just her look.
ME: No, I'm actually having a really GOOD day.
THE HAIR: Well I'd hate to see you on a really bad day.
ME (giggling nervously and hyperactively): Hahaha. Yeah.

The Hair caught my Terri Schiavo face. But I wasn't JUST Schiavo-ing it like I am wont to do at The Department Store. The Schiavo was mixed with hardcore hairspace judgement. Lethal Combination. Most of the time, you can really read what I'm thinking by looking at my face. I cannot tell a lie. I wish I could because I don't really want complete strangers to think ill of me. And customer usually like me! I've even been called pleasant and kind and fun! Please don't blame me. I am a vegetable who shats into a bag. I can't really control myself.

Two minutes later, I left, clocked out and drove away into the sunlight, blaring Mark Mallman as I peeled out of The Department Store parking lot.

Heather called me five minutes later.

HEATHER: Oh my god that woman was a fucking psycho.
ME: Yeah she wouldn't shut the fuck up about my face. It's MY face and it's ME!
HEATHER: Yeah, after you left she was all like "OH MY GOD IS SHE A NICE PERSON??!?!?!" and I was like "YEAH!" and she was like "THAT LOOK! GOD!!!" and I was like "It's just her expression. She's nice."
ME: IT'S MY FACE! Like c'mon woman. I mean, her hair was awful, but IT'S MY FACE! GOD DAMMIT I'M A NICE PERSON!
HEATHER: Her hair was awful.

Ahhhhh...The Department Store...you really feed my soul...through a long long tube that I can never escape from until one of us pulls the plug.

To add insult to facial injury, I just watched, for the first time, the DVD of my October stint into the world of Burlesque dancing. Oh god. Oh dear sweet merciful god. Maddie (whose pastie fell off in the middle of her Flashdance performance) and I sat on the couch, in the dark, huddled together, clutching each other as we roared with laughter and screamed in agony and felt our heart beats through our chest. Seriously I cannot BELIEVE that it is forever recorded in digital format. I, as a (not in real life) drunken Burlesque lassie named Tipsy St. Swingsteen, really made a huge booty asshole out of myself. I was all parts horrified, shocked, in awe and impressed that I was ever able to do those moves and take my top off in public. It was odd because, as I watched it, I sorta forgot it was me. And then remembered THIS IS ME, and watched, as what little shred of dignity I have had washed away in a sea of sticky liquor made from apple juice and a hairspace that only the gods could create. Or The Hair could create. CHECK OUT THIS FACE, LADY!



I would do it again in a heartbeat. I HEART TIPSY!