I have already confessed my coupon habit here, but I need to make another confession now. OK, here it goes: I broke a fucking self-checkout register last week.
Who does that? Only homeless people and me. Awesome.
Let's rewind to last Tuesday when my boss and I left the office early. You see, I don't really like my job, but I do have a great boss because 1) She loves to shop with coupons too, and 2) She can be easily persuaded to leave the office for anything coupon-related.
Bless her heart.
Anyway, we both had rather long lists of items we wanted to scope out at the store to see if they were priced low enough for us to utilize our personal coupon treasuries. As fortune would have it, pretty much everything was on sale that day. It was kind of a great day for any coupon mavens out there.
Except for me.
Now, we have a very particular strategy when we are ready to checkout and purchase our groceries. Rather than going to an actual cashier's lane, we prefer to head to the big self-checkout lanes where there isn't an item limit, nor is there any person (like a cashier or a bagger) to judge us about the weird shit we are buying.
When one of us has finished scanning all of our items and begins scanning the coupons, the other person will start bagging the groceries and putting them back in the cart. It's total teamwork. Because she is my boss, I always let her scan her items first because that is what underlings do, right? On that particular day, it wasn't like I had 4 things of ice cream (ON SALE!) melting in my cart or anything - except I did. But whatever, it's the price I pay for having a cool enough boss to let me coupon to my heart's content.
As I started scanning my items through the little red-light-laser-thingy, I noticed the machine was a little sluggish, but no big deal. I would just give it a moment or two in between scans, and everything seemed to be going well until I got to the eggs.
The motherfucking eggs.
Not only would the eggs not scan, but the entire screen froze. It was completely and utterly frozen at $164.80. I hadn't even scanned my coupons yet! My stomach dropped because there was already another coupon-crazy woman waiting in my lane, and my groceries were already bagged and inside my cart.
At this point, I started to sweat profusely, and as I waved down the self-checkout lane cashier lady assistant person, I felt my non-waterproof mascara pooling under my eyes.
"Yes, ma'am, how can I help you?"
"The machine seems to be frozen. I'm not sure what happened."
"Oh, you can pay the total at my computer right back there."
"OK, great, but, um, I have some coupons I'd like to use."
"That shouldn't be a problem. How many do you have?"
"Um, a lot."
"Like how many?"
"Like this entire gallon-size Ziploc bag."
"...oh."
Quite a few people were looking in my direction by now. I was definitely panicking a little bit because my boss clearly wanted to leave since all her groceries were scanned, discounted, and paid for, and there were now distinct murmurs of my idiocy floating around the store.
I'm just not the person who random strangers hate on in public, you know? I always keep my voice down when I'm talking on my cell phone. I don't have screaming children hanging off of me in the dressing room. I don't cut people in line (Except that one time at a McDonald's drive-thru window, but he was a punk.) Why did that all have to change for me? Why did I have to become the cheap ass crazy lady who broke the machine at the grocery store?!
"Well, ma'am, we can wait for the machine to re-boot, and then re-scan all of your items."
"Um, and how long will that take?"
"About 30 minutes."
"30 MINUTES?!? What are my other options?"
"You can go to a cashier's lane, and she'll adjust the total."
Even though I really didn't want to do that, I went to a cashier's lane because holy crap, I just spent 3 hours shopping for all this shit, there was no way I was coming home without it. This new cashier was not happy to see me in the slightest, and when I showed her the coupons that I would like to use, I'm pretty sure she fainted and died on the inside.
With all that said and done, I saved $96.50 on my groceries, but I don't think I'm going back to that store any time soon. I will also never use a self-checkout lane again.
Ever.
I would rather face the humiliation of having my cashier witness my purchase of 14 boxes of tampons than break another one of those pieces of crap registers.
Needless to say, the first thing I did when I got home was insert my face into my melted carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream because that is how adults handle this sort of shit.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
I Live Here, But You Aren't Invited, Except on the Internet...Part One
Now, don't get me wrong, we don't live in a super swanky place by any means. I hear the garbage truck every morning, and I'm pretty sure there is some kind of stray cat fighting ring going on in the night.
But, this is our first home together, even though we have been married for over a year. I know, that's weird, right? We know. Even still, I really wanted to make our temporary apartment a nice place to be inside of because that is what wives do.
Just call me June Cleaver.
Now, I know we won't live here forever (less than a year, ha) but I don't think that means we should live amongst boxes of stuff and rooms full of unpacked crap for the entire time. I need shiny, pretty things to look at.
 |
| Master Bedroom...the bed is usually NEVERrrRR made. |
 | ||
| The TV cabinet to the left was a BITCH to carry up the stairs (according to my husband). And yes, I left some random shit under those pictures. Woops. |
 |
| Yes, that is a little penguin pillow pet in our bed. He is my BFF. |
I know it might seem like I totally did not let my husband pick anything out, and that's because I totally did not let him pick anything out. He doesn't have bad taste or anything; I just have better taste, so everything is now our taste now. It wasn't even a compromise; just an acceptance of fact.
 |
| This is my side of the room. That sweet little vanity? A gift from my husband because he knows I have a Sephora habit. |
1) Figure out what to hang over the bed - a headboard? a painting? arrangement of interesting art?
2) Find a better way/place for us to drop our work clothes - a storage ottoman? a mini dresser? a chair?
3) Hide the TV/cable/lamp cords. I HATE seeing cords.
Next time, I'll show you the living room where most of these posts are written from because I still have yet to find a desk that I like! Yeah, I have some very particular criteria about desks, so that search may never end.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Hi, My Name is Shasta, and I'm a Coupon Cutter
You know those women at the grocery store with the two carts full of toothpaste, deodorant, and canned soups? They usually have eyes like hawks as they hunt for special sale items and coupon packets hidden within the aisles. They also frighten other shoppers with the speed at which they grab items off the shelves.
They are sort of kooky, but man, they can stretch that dollar like skin on a lampshade.
I don't know why I wrote that. Gross.
I used to think these women were batshit crazy, and I always figured that they were actually wasting their money. OK, they slashed their grocery bill by 95% but all they have to eat is canned tuna and BBQ sauce for the next 3 years? Yum.
Secretly, though, I've been wondering how they do it. I've watched a few episodes of TLC's Extreme Couponing, and all the people featured on that show definitely confirmed my suspicion that they are abso-freaking-lutely nutzo, but holy shit, they just got all those groceries for free!
FO' FREE!
In the last few months, I've slowly and quietly created my own coupon collection. It has been a very clandestine operation because I don't want people to know that I'm thisclose to becoming an extreme couponer.
It's seriously an addiction.
I now totally understand why you would want to buy 10 tubes of toothpaste at once for 10 cents each. It's not because you want to avoid paying the full price when you will actually need the toothpaste.
It's not because you want to save yourself from a mouthful of cavities and dental bills.
It's because you want to look at the woman behind you in the checkout lane and say without saying, "You paying full price for this shit? Rookie." She will look at you like the dumbfounded shopping novice that she is and realize you are 1) Totally out of your mind, and 2) Still more awesome than her.
IN THE FACE.
They are sort of kooky, but man, they can stretch that dollar like skin on a lampshade.
I don't know why I wrote that. Gross.
I used to think these women were batshit crazy, and I always figured that they were actually wasting their money. OK, they slashed their grocery bill by 95% but all they have to eat is canned tuna and BBQ sauce for the next 3 years? Yum.
Secretly, though, I've been wondering how they do it. I've watched a few episodes of TLC's Extreme Couponing, and all the people featured on that show definitely confirmed my suspicion that they are abso-freaking-lutely nutzo, but holy shit, they just got all those groceries for free!
FO' FREE!
In the last few months, I've slowly and quietly created my own coupon collection. It has been a very clandestine operation because I don't want people to know that I'm thisclose to becoming an extreme couponer.
It's seriously an addiction.
I now totally understand why you would want to buy 10 tubes of toothpaste at once for 10 cents each. It's not because you want to avoid paying the full price when you will actually need the toothpaste.
It's not because you want to save yourself from a mouthful of cavities and dental bills.
It's because you want to look at the woman behind you in the checkout lane and say without saying, "You paying full price for this shit? Rookie." She will look at you like the dumbfounded shopping novice that she is and realize you are 1) Totally out of your mind, and 2) Still more awesome than her.
IN THE FACE.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Slightly Agoraphobic? I Think Possibly.
When you are the passenger of a moving vehicle, you maintain a death grip on your door handle and dig your nails into the thick, durable plastic that the insides (of not luxury) cars are made of in order to prevent yourself from careening off the road into a flaming, destructive situation of DOOM, right?
You do this, too? No? It's really only the crazies who behave this way?
Huh, you don't say.
I'm not sure when I started freaking the freak out like that in cars, but it's pretty bad. When my husband and I do argue, it's more often than not because of my insane, banshee-yelping while we're on the road.
And people, we have driven up and down this coast together two different times, and we are about to embark on another cross-country road trip next month. Slightly masochistic? No. Free, unmediated marriage counseling? Yes!
It's just that, in my head, everyone around me becomes the The Most Dangerous Driver Ever, and I am consequently convinced that people are targeting me specifically. Like, vehicular homicide was on their to-do list that morning, and oh! There is someone I can hit my car with now! The little person with the dark hair and vampire-like skin (in paleness not sparkle-ness), GET 'EM!
I don't even know.
My overactive imagination is usually a blessing. I think of great dinner combinations on the fly. I can make believe the shit out of some unicorns. I can always find a way to fix anything with tape.
But put me in a car and expect me to behave like a normal person? Forget it. We might not be friends on the other side of wherever we're going because I will claw your face off in order to get you to press harder on that brake pedal.
If I had to blame anyone (Because obviously this is not my fault and it's totally out of my control. Obviously.) I would blame my driving instructor from way back when (*cough*2003*cough*how did I get this old?).
I don't remember his name. I don't even remember what kind of stupid trainer car we drove around in, but I do remember that he had the creepiest laugh ever, and he had a Franciscan monk bald spot like no other person in the History of Real Life. I spent 20 hours in a vehicle with him holding onto the passenger side door for dear life. That is just not a good influence.
He would always rattle off statistics about how female drivers and Asian drivers are, statistically, the worst drivers ever. Racism and sexism, anyone? Normally, that sort of shit talk pisses me off like no other, and I have been known to fly off the handle after hearing such comments (or when things aren't at right angles). I would have said something were it not for the fact that I was trying so hard not to die.
He also looked at me sideways, and it wasn't because he was sitting next to me.
It was because he was crazy.
Shortly after getting my license, I ran into him in the ladies apparel section of a department store, and while he didn't see me, I saw his bald spot and drove like a bat out of hell to get the eff away from that mall convinced that he would start coming after me if I didn't maintain my vigilance.
So, I'm watching for you, Creepy Driving Instructor Guy. I know what you're up to, and I know you've since trained hundreds, possibly thousands of other people to come after me on the road.
Who's crazy now, bitch?!
You do this, too? No? It's really only the crazies who behave this way?
Huh, you don't say.
I'm not sure when I started freaking the freak out like that in cars, but it's pretty bad. When my husband and I do argue, it's more often than not because of my insane, banshee-yelping while we're on the road.
And people, we have driven up and down this coast together two different times, and we are about to embark on another cross-country road trip next month. Slightly masochistic? No. Free, unmediated marriage counseling? Yes!
It's just that, in my head, everyone around me becomes the The Most Dangerous Driver Ever, and I am consequently convinced that people are targeting me specifically. Like, vehicular homicide was on their to-do list that morning, and oh! There is someone I can hit my car with now! The little person with the dark hair and vampire-like skin (in paleness not sparkle-ness), GET 'EM!
I don't even know.
My overactive imagination is usually a blessing. I think of great dinner combinations on the fly. I can make believe the shit out of some unicorns. I can always find a way to fix anything with tape.
But put me in a car and expect me to behave like a normal person? Forget it. We might not be friends on the other side of wherever we're going because I will claw your face off in order to get you to press harder on that brake pedal.
If I had to blame anyone (Because obviously this is not my fault and it's totally out of my control. Obviously.) I would blame my driving instructor from way back when (*cough*2003*cough*how did I get this old?).
I don't remember his name. I don't even remember what kind of stupid trainer car we drove around in, but I do remember that he had the creepiest laugh ever, and he had a Franciscan monk bald spot like no other person in the History of Real Life. I spent 20 hours in a vehicle with him holding onto the passenger side door for dear life. That is just not a good influence.
He would always rattle off statistics about how female drivers and Asian drivers are, statistically, the worst drivers ever. Racism and sexism, anyone? Normally, that sort of shit talk pisses me off like no other, and I have been known to fly off the handle after hearing such comments (or when things aren't at right angles). I would have said something were it not for the fact that I was trying so hard not to die.
He also looked at me sideways, and it wasn't because he was sitting next to me.
It was because he was crazy.
Shortly after getting my license, I ran into him in the ladies apparel section of a department store, and while he didn't see me, I saw his bald spot and drove like a bat out of hell to get the eff away from that mall convinced that he would start coming after me if I didn't maintain my vigilance.
So, I'm watching for you, Creepy Driving Instructor Guy. I know what you're up to, and I know you've since trained hundreds, possibly thousands of other people to come after me on the road.
Who's crazy now, bitch?!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
I'm Not Very Good at Exercise
I admire people who can wake up every morning and throw themselves into their workout routines with energy and discipline.
I do not do that.
At all.
I love snoozing all morning long until I'm almost too late to get out the door in time, and I resent morning workouts because they interrupt my blissful sleep. Rude.
Me: I'm going to run 5 miles straight, non-stop on this treadmill!
My Legs: Hell yeah! Let's do this!
My Mind: Excuse me, but WHY?
Me: I need to be workin' on my fitness...you're my witness. Now get your act together and get in THE ZONE already. Let's Steve Prefontaine this shiznit!
My Mind: You know he's dead, right?
Me: Yeah, I know, but he was an amazing athlete, and I read his book and here I am trying to take a page out of it. Let's enjoy this and be inspired!
My Legs: Um, OK sure, but are we going to run at this pace the whole time?
Me: Yes. I'm going to bump it up later on, so this is just a warm-up!
My Legs: OMG, why are you so mean?! Are you crazy?! Slow is steady and fast is...sucky, or whatever.
Me: C'mon, you can't be tired already! We've barely gone a mile!
My Mind: We actually haven't gone anywhere since we're on a treadmill. We're still here. In front of a mirror. In the same spot. Every step you take brings you nowhere.
Me: You are NOT helping.
My Legs: I feel....floppy...I might buckle at any moment. This is becoming a hazard.
Me: Well, if you'd just PICK IT UP a bit, then maybe we wouldn't sound like a damn stampede of dying buffalo.
My Mind: We are rather loud...do you think everyone can hear us? God, I bet they can at least hear you breathing over here.
Me: ....No.....they cannot.
My Mind: Are you feeling thirsty? You're actually not looking so good. Let's stop and get a drink of water.
My Legs: Yeah! Water! Water!
Me: I am running 5 miles SOHELPMEGOD.
My Mind: OK, fine...just know those girls are staring at you.
Me: Only because they are jealous of my discipline and cheetah-like speed.
My Legs: Or because you're bright red and sweaty...at least I am.
My Mind: And they can hear you grunting and it's slightly disturbing.
Me: I am NOT grunting...heeehhhh...heeehhhh
My Mind: That's the sound of you grunting.
My Legs: You know, a walk sounds nice right about now. I think we'd all feel better if we just went on a walk together, you know? It'd really mellow things out.
Me: I am NOT walking...this really isn't so bad. I feel...good...ish. I mean, I know I'll feel good later!
My Mind: There's a 30-minute limit on all cardio machines, and do you really think you'll be done with 5 miles in that time frame? I think not.
Me: That's only when there is a WAIT. No one is waiting on a treadmill!
My Mind: That's because no one wants to be running near you with your airborne sweat and animal noises.
My Legs: Are we there yet?!
My Mind: There! Over there! He's waiting on a treadmill! I just know it!
Me: You think?
My Mind: Yeah! And...um, he looks like he's waiting on this one.
My Legs: Let's not be rude to the poor guy....he just wants to run too...
Me: But we still have over 3 miles to go...? I'm going to feel so unaccomplished.
My Mind: There's an elliptical open....
Me: .......
My Legs: C'moonnnnn, you know you want to....
Me: I feel like an awkward adolescent gazelle on the elliptical...
My Mind: But you look like an ungraceful bag of potatoes on the treadmill....
Me: That was unnecessary.
....
....
Me: OK, let's go on the elliptical...
My Legs: Allriiiiight, a break!
My Mind: Why can't we just go on a walk....
Me: Oh, fuck it, let's go eat some cookies.
I do not do that.
At all.
I love snoozing all morning long until I'm almost too late to get out the door in time, and I resent morning workouts because they interrupt my blissful sleep. Rude.
Me: I'm going to run 5 miles straight, non-stop on this treadmill!
My Legs: Hell yeah! Let's do this!
My Mind: Excuse me, but WHY?
Me: I need to be workin' on my fitness...you're my witness. Now get your act together and get in THE ZONE already. Let's Steve Prefontaine this shiznit!
My Mind: You know he's dead, right?
Me: Yeah, I know, but he was an amazing athlete, and I read his book and here I am trying to take a page out of it. Let's enjoy this and be inspired!
My Legs: Um, OK sure, but are we going to run at this pace the whole time?
Me: Yes. I'm going to bump it up later on, so this is just a warm-up!
My Legs: OMG, why are you so mean?! Are you crazy?! Slow is steady and fast is...sucky, or whatever.
Me: C'mon, you can't be tired already! We've barely gone a mile!
My Mind: We actually haven't gone anywhere since we're on a treadmill. We're still here. In front of a mirror. In the same spot. Every step you take brings you nowhere.
Me: You are NOT helping.
My Legs: I feel....floppy...I might buckle at any moment. This is becoming a hazard.
Me: Well, if you'd just PICK IT UP a bit, then maybe we wouldn't sound like a damn stampede of dying buffalo.
My Mind: We are rather loud...do you think everyone can hear us? God, I bet they can at least hear you breathing over here.
Me: ....No.....they cannot.
My Mind: Are you feeling thirsty? You're actually not looking so good. Let's stop and get a drink of water.
My Legs: Yeah! Water! Water!
Me: I am running 5 miles SOHELPMEGOD.
My Mind: OK, fine...just know those girls are staring at you.
Me: Only because they are jealous of my discipline and cheetah-like speed.
My Legs: Or because you're bright red and sweaty...at least I am.
My Mind: And they can hear you grunting and it's slightly disturbing.
Me: I am NOT grunting...heeehhhh...heeehhhh
My Mind: That's the sound of you grunting.
My Legs: You know, a walk sounds nice right about now. I think we'd all feel better if we just went on a walk together, you know? It'd really mellow things out.
Me: I am NOT walking...this really isn't so bad. I feel...good...ish. I mean, I know I'll feel good later!
My Mind: There's a 30-minute limit on all cardio machines, and do you really think you'll be done with 5 miles in that time frame? I think not.
Me: That's only when there is a WAIT. No one is waiting on a treadmill!
My Mind: That's because no one wants to be running near you with your airborne sweat and animal noises.
My Legs: Are we there yet?!
My Mind: There! Over there! He's waiting on a treadmill! I just know it!
Me: You think?
My Mind: Yeah! And...um, he looks like he's waiting on this one.
My Legs: Let's not be rude to the poor guy....he just wants to run too...
Me: But we still have over 3 miles to go...? I'm going to feel so unaccomplished.
My Mind: There's an elliptical open....
Me: .......
My Legs: C'moonnnnn, you know you want to....
Me: I feel like an awkward adolescent gazelle on the elliptical...
My Mind: But you look like an ungraceful bag of potatoes on the treadmill....
Me: That was unnecessary.
....
....
Me: OK, let's go on the elliptical...
My Legs: Allriiiiight, a break!
My Mind: Why can't we just go on a walk....
Me: Oh, fuck it, let's go eat some cookies.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Disco Panties: Not What You Think
Last month, Victoria's Secret had their Semi-Annual Sale, and I'm a sucker for both sales and extra pairs of underwear, so I managed to make it to my local mall on the sale's last day to sift through the panties and bra bins alongside prepubescent girls and overweight grandmas.
Just so we're clear: I am not a representative of either of those demographic groups. Those just happen to be the kinds of women who shop at my local mall. Must. Drive. Farther. Away.
And what in the hell are thirteen year old girls doing in the mall on a Monday afternoon? Isn't there a school they could be going to or drugs they could be experimenting with in somebody's garage? Get out of my way.
I digress.
We all know that bras, robes, and pajamas can be tried on in the dressing rooms, but panties, thongs, and other lower extremity undergarments? Not so much. And if you do try that stuff on, you are gross, and I never want to go shopping with you.
Don't even start with me about how you try underwear on over the underwear you are already wearing. That is still gross because we all know that nether region aromas can seep through ANYTHING. Fact.
So, what do you do in order to determine how a pair of underwear is supposed to fit you without actually trying it on? You hold it up, stretch it around in front of your face without looking stupid, and decide one of two things:
1) Your butt will fit these. Buy them.
2) Your butt will not fit these. Ever.
I know that I simplified the process, but there is some serious, PhD-level mathematics going on there. You have to concentrate on your butt and be honest with yourself about how big it really is. Some extreme math equations start running through your mind: the size of your jeans plus the size of your fat jeans minus the water weight you're carrying from lunch divided by the elasticity of your favorite pair of sweat pants.
Very complicated stuff. Do not expect the men in your lives to understand this.
I am very good at solving these math problems because I am not in denial about the size of my ass (Looking at you, JLo), and because of this amazing skill, all of my underwear fits very comfortably, and I never have panty lines...I bet you were dying to know that about me.
However, during this last shopping trip, I did not consider something very important: the amount the underwear will stretch to fit over my butt and how the design of the underwear will be altered.
Because of my error in judgment, I now own a pair of what my husband calls "Disco Panties." I thought they were going to be light gray. They were very stretchy when I pulled them around and calculated my sums, so I assumed they would stay this nice light gray color once I put them on.
I was very wrong. They are stretchy because they are, like, completely made out of polyester shiny shit, so when I put them on, my entire backside turns into a disco ball.
Normally, I would get rid of such an embarrassing pair of underwear, but I am married, and he's seen me in them.
The jig is up.
Just so we're clear: I am not a representative of either of those demographic groups. Those just happen to be the kinds of women who shop at my local mall. Must. Drive. Farther. Away.
And what in the hell are thirteen year old girls doing in the mall on a Monday afternoon? Isn't there a school they could be going to or drugs they could be experimenting with in somebody's garage? Get out of my way.
I digress.
We all know that bras, robes, and pajamas can be tried on in the dressing rooms, but panties, thongs, and other lower extremity undergarments? Not so much. And if you do try that stuff on, you are gross, and I never want to go shopping with you.
Don't even start with me about how you try underwear on over the underwear you are already wearing. That is still gross because we all know that nether region aromas can seep through ANYTHING. Fact.
So, what do you do in order to determine how a pair of underwear is supposed to fit you without actually trying it on? You hold it up, stretch it around in front of your face without looking stupid, and decide one of two things:
1) Your butt will fit these. Buy them.
2) Your butt will not fit these. Ever.
I know that I simplified the process, but there is some serious, PhD-level mathematics going on there. You have to concentrate on your butt and be honest with yourself about how big it really is. Some extreme math equations start running through your mind: the size of your jeans plus the size of your fat jeans minus the water weight you're carrying from lunch divided by the elasticity of your favorite pair of sweat pants.
Very complicated stuff. Do not expect the men in your lives to understand this.
I am very good at solving these math problems because I am not in denial about the size of my ass (Looking at you, JLo), and because of this amazing skill, all of my underwear fits very comfortably, and I never have panty lines...I bet you were dying to know that about me.
However, during this last shopping trip, I did not consider something very important: the amount the underwear will stretch to fit over my butt and how the design of the underwear will be altered.
Because of my error in judgment, I now own a pair of what my husband calls "Disco Panties." I thought they were going to be light gray. They were very stretchy when I pulled them around and calculated my sums, so I assumed they would stay this nice light gray color once I put them on.
I was very wrong. They are stretchy because they are, like, completely made out of polyester shiny shit, so when I put them on, my entire backside turns into a disco ball.
Normally, I would get rid of such an embarrassing pair of underwear, but I am married, and he's seen me in them.
The jig is up.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The Rise, Fall, and Rise Part 2 of Britney Spears
Ah, Britney Spears, one of my favorite topics of conversation. I realize that her music doesn't exactly inspire late night power ballad sessions in karaoke bars across the country (leave that to Whitney Houston), but she is an amazing stripper entertainer.
When she came onto the scene in 1999, she had catchy songs, great music videos, abs of steel, and really, really nice hair. She became an MTV and red carpet staple, and she was the guilty pleasure we all sung along to on our car radios.
At 29, she has definitely cut back on her super awesome dance moves, and her weave is not as coifed as it could be, but I have always been rooting for Britney and her musical endeavors.
But remember when she married that guy in Vegas for 55 hours and started running around town without any underwear? Yeah, that was kind of weird.
From then on we all started watching in horrified fascination as she continued to go down this deep, dark spiral of nicotine and Cheetos. The incredibly energetic and unusually tan girl I remembered from the 2000 VMA's started to seem like a figment of my imagination.
In my opinion, and really that is the only opinion that matters in cases such as these, BritBrit's downward spiral started after Justin Timberlake broke up with her.
However, in JT's defense, I can't blame him because she was most likely the biggest bagful of crazy after spending so many years dancing in her underwear before she could legally drink.
He was probably like, “Could you please bring sexy back and take a shower for once?” and she got all defensive and said something like, “Y’ALL DON’T KNOW I’M NOT A GIRL, NOT YET A WOMAN!” The nerve.
Even when she was married to that gross Kevin Federline with his stupid facial hair and trucker hats, I was still a Britney fan.
Even when she started going to public bathrooms without any shoes and driving her car with her baby in her lap and dropping her other baby on sidewalks and basically stumbling around like a Hot Southern Mess of Baby Daddy Problems, I was still a Britney fan.
Those were some tough years (circa 2004-2008) for me, but I always maintained faith in our girl, and I had high hopes for a comeback.
From what I knew, and I knew everything in explicit detail because I read every US Weekly and Perez Hilton post out there, Britney just needed a little helping hand. And after Mental Breakdown #341, she was finally hospitalized, and they took away sharp objects and bags of Cheetos from her.
Now, this is where things get fuzzy for me in terms of the "Is-This-the-Right-Thing-to-do-for-Her?"-Line because on one hand, it's really sad to be a twenty-something-year-old adult and have your daddy and some manager-type people put you on lockdown and take control of your life.
On the other hand, when you are batshit crazy and shaving your head and throwing umbrellas at cars, you need a timeout in a big way no matter how old you are.
And look at the results! Her 2008 album, Circus? Totally AWESOME! I even tried to get a children's hospital event themed after Circus that is how much I loved it!
(For the record, that theme did not go over well with some parenty-types. Pfft. Britney is child-friendly. She is a mother, people.)
Her hair was growing back slowly but surely, and she even re-gained custody of her kids. Forget the Industrial Revolution, that is what progress is all about.
Little did I know that another album would drop this very year, and behold, Femme Fatale! While it is very In the Zone, it is a great effort on the part of Ms. Spears. If you don't sing along to the "oh oh oh oh oh" part in "Til' the World Ends", then you are positively un-American.
This is the Britney that I remember from times of yore, and this is the Britney I had been waiting for ever since K-Fed got the boot from Dancing with the Stars.
If two successful albums, world tours, and millions upon millions of dollars (all after a very public mental breakdown, mind you) doesn't equal "WINNING", then I don't know what else we can consider for the definition, minus whatever the hell Charlie Sheen has been talking about.
Britney is here to stay.
When she came onto the scene in 1999, she had catchy songs, great music videos, abs of steel, and really, really nice hair. She became an MTV and red carpet staple, and she was the guilty pleasure we all sung along to on our car radios.
At 29, she has definitely cut back on her super awesome dance moves, and her weave is not as coifed as it could be, but I have always been rooting for Britney and her musical endeavors.
But remember when she married that guy in Vegas for 55 hours and started running around town without any underwear? Yeah, that was kind of weird.
From then on we all started watching in horrified fascination as she continued to go down this deep, dark spiral of nicotine and Cheetos. The incredibly energetic and unusually tan girl I remembered from the 2000 VMA's started to seem like a figment of my imagination.
 |
| The Infamous 2000 VMA's |
However, in JT's defense, I can't blame him because she was most likely the biggest bagful of crazy after spending so many years dancing in her underwear before she could legally drink.
He was probably like, “Could you please bring sexy back and take a shower for once?” and she got all defensive and said something like, “Y’ALL DON’T KNOW I’M NOT A GIRL, NOT YET A WOMAN!” The nerve.
Even when she was married to that gross Kevin Federline with his stupid facial hair and trucker hats, I was still a Britney fan.
Even when she started going to public bathrooms without any shoes and driving her car with her baby in her lap and dropping her other baby on sidewalks and basically stumbling around like a Hot Southern Mess of Baby Daddy Problems, I was still a Britney fan.
Those were some tough years (circa 2004-2008) for me, but I always maintained faith in our girl, and I had high hopes for a comeback.
From what I knew, and I knew everything in explicit detail because I read every US Weekly and Perez Hilton post out there, Britney just needed a little helping hand. And after Mental Breakdown #341, she was finally hospitalized, and they took away sharp objects and bags of Cheetos from her.
Now, this is where things get fuzzy for me in terms of the "Is-This-the-Right-Thing-to-do-for-Her?"-Line because on one hand, it's really sad to be a twenty-something-year-old adult and have your daddy and some manager-type people put you on lockdown and take control of your life.
On the other hand, when you are batshit crazy and shaving your head and throwing umbrellas at cars, you need a timeout in a big way no matter how old you are.
And look at the results! Her 2008 album, Circus? Totally AWESOME! I even tried to get a children's hospital event themed after Circus that is how much I loved it!
(For the record, that theme did not go over well with some parenty-types. Pfft. Britney is child-friendly. She is a mother, people.)
Her hair was growing back slowly but surely, and she even re-gained custody of her kids. Forget the Industrial Revolution, that is what progress is all about.
Little did I know that another album would drop this very year, and behold, Femme Fatale! While it is very In the Zone, it is a great effort on the part of Ms. Spears. If you don't sing along to the "oh oh oh oh oh" part in "Til' the World Ends", then you are positively un-American.
This is the Britney that I remember from times of yore, and this is the Britney I had been waiting for ever since K-Fed got the boot from Dancing with the Stars.
If two successful albums, world tours, and millions upon millions of dollars (all after a very public mental breakdown, mind you) doesn't equal "WINNING", then I don't know what else we can consider for the definition, minus whatever the hell Charlie Sheen has been talking about.
Britney is here to stay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)