I Am Paula
01-10-2013, 10:40 PM
So much space has been devoted to where to go out in the real world. When is also a factor, and I use the supermarket as an example.
2 p.m. at the supermarket.
You pull into a lot full of B.M.W. and mercedes SUV's. Inside, perfectly groomed and dressed soccer moms have exercised their horses, showered, and now smell vaguely of Vichy body wash and Obsession. They are picking out a perfect prime rib roast to impress their husbands' boss and his wife, who have just bought a condo on Grand Cayman. A string quartet is playing 'the four seasons', Vivaldi, not frankie Valli, as the smell of fresh baked croissants wafts across the store.
This is the IDEAL time to show off your perfectly smooth legs, sassy pumps, and new Chanel hand bag.
11 p.m. same supermarket
The lot is scattered with rusty Ford f150's, noisily idling on seven cylinders. You enter the store to the sound of Nine Inch Nails playing on a distorted store sound system, and the lights are bright, very bright, painfully bright. Young men sporting Nascar hats, with Ozzy tattoos on their knuckles, are desperately searching for what their six year old joint-custody actually eats. A group of fifty year old home permed women with bar stool induced flat asses are fighting over stale dated chicken parts. In one aisle, single moms, decked out in belly shirts and dirty Nikes, load their carts with Count Chocula and Red Bull, no doubt breakfast for little Felcher and his sister Clamidia, in the next aisle opening all the packages of freezer pops. Men in track pants are everywhere. A group of pink haired teenage girls are texting, chewing gum, and stocking up on Justin Beiber endorsed bulk pregnancy tests, as ancient ladies hold up all the check out lines, searching thru' three inch stacks of coupons for the one that hasn't expired.
This is NOT a good time to be a guy in a dress.
Just some observations from the RW.-Celeste
2 p.m. at the supermarket.
You pull into a lot full of B.M.W. and mercedes SUV's. Inside, perfectly groomed and dressed soccer moms have exercised their horses, showered, and now smell vaguely of Vichy body wash and Obsession. They are picking out a perfect prime rib roast to impress their husbands' boss and his wife, who have just bought a condo on Grand Cayman. A string quartet is playing 'the four seasons', Vivaldi, not frankie Valli, as the smell of fresh baked croissants wafts across the store.
This is the IDEAL time to show off your perfectly smooth legs, sassy pumps, and new Chanel hand bag.
11 p.m. same supermarket
The lot is scattered with rusty Ford f150's, noisily idling on seven cylinders. You enter the store to the sound of Nine Inch Nails playing on a distorted store sound system, and the lights are bright, very bright, painfully bright. Young men sporting Nascar hats, with Ozzy tattoos on their knuckles, are desperately searching for what their six year old joint-custody actually eats. A group of fifty year old home permed women with bar stool induced flat asses are fighting over stale dated chicken parts. In one aisle, single moms, decked out in belly shirts and dirty Nikes, load their carts with Count Chocula and Red Bull, no doubt breakfast for little Felcher and his sister Clamidia, in the next aisle opening all the packages of freezer pops. Men in track pants are everywhere. A group of pink haired teenage girls are texting, chewing gum, and stocking up on Justin Beiber endorsed bulk pregnancy tests, as ancient ladies hold up all the check out lines, searching thru' three inch stacks of coupons for the one that hasn't expired.
This is NOT a good time to be a guy in a dress.
Just some observations from the RW.-Celeste