|
Thursday February 14, 2002 - 8:54 p.m. Happy effing Olympics. My deep thought yesterday, on one of my (well earned) trips to the porta-loos: If I was homeless, I'd sleep in a porta john. There was a fistfight in the Superstore over those damned Roots berets. You know, the ones the American athletes were wearing in the Parade of Nations. People pushing each other. Screaming. Bloodshed. It's a damned beret, people, not spiritual salvation. And trust me, you don't even look very good in it. It's a beret. I think that's French for, "You don't look very good in it." Cause most people don't. It's nothing personal. I don't work the shop floor. I'm the assistant buyer, so I work in the office, you know, doing buying things. Part of my job is making sure the POS system does its little job. Sometimes I have to go out on shop floor to get stock to do this. I have not once gone out on shop floor and not been stopped and asked about those DAMNED BERETS. One guy stopped me and asked me if I thought it was okay for him to wear one. "Is it a girl thing?" "What?" I said, trying to inch away from him. "The beret. Is it a girl thing? Is it okay for men to wear it? Do you think I can wear it?" I wanted to belt him. The good news is that I don't have to wear the garden gnome costume. I just hide in the office. And, on a final note, this has been stuck in my head now for nine days: "This is Libby calling Vince, come in Vince." Don't ask. Still loving, still hot and happening, and definitely not fallen off the face of the earth (if I had, at least maybe I'd get some sleep wherever I landed),
-Mlle R
|