So yesterday I got to see Confessions of a Shopaholic.
Yes, I went alone.
No, it doesn’t bother me anymore. At first I’d slink in the theater and feel like a total loser. I felt like the entire theater was staring at me and wondering what was wrong with me.
But now I've realized that no one really gives a crap. Really. So long as you don’t have big hair and block their view, the other theater patrons could care less.
I bought a small popcorn and a medium diet coke and armed with my goodies, I made my way to the theater. When I walked in, no one else was even in there. And the movie started in five minutes. I felt a little weird walking up the stairs and sliding into the middle section.
There was a picture of both Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston on the screen and it was imploring me to text with a number on who looked better.
Angelina had on a dark slinky number with her hair pulled back neatly. I wish my hair would work like that. As it is, I’ve been blessed (cursed?) with ultra thick hair that never wants to cooperate. Unless you fork over $100 for special hair creams which I refuse to do.
Jennifer had on a silver gown with her hair cascading down her back. It must be wonderful to have hair that cascades neatly down your back. Mine puffs out and usually winds up in other people’s mouths. Tom has pulled out a good number of strands that somehow has landed on his tongue.
I decided that Jennifer Aniston looked the best but it could be because I like her better. Maybe I feel a little sorry for, too. I mean, dammit, all she wants is love. Maybe John Mayer will give her that. I don’t know. He sort of creeps me out how he speaks candidly with the paparazzi. It’s like he stops short of talking about what goes on in the bedroom.
“Yes, Jennifer and I fornicated last night. It was awesome,” I can imagine him telling the photogs. Then John will flash a thumbs up sign before disappearing into the hotel where Jennifer will be waiting.
The previews started after that and one for that Hannah Montana movie came on. I am grateful that Tommy doesn’t like her. Plus, I think the show is insulting to children. I think kids would know the difference between Hannah Montana and Miley. All she does is toss on a blonde wig. A blonde wig is not a disguise. Plus, the plot is so predictable. Hannah (Miley? Whoever the crap she is?) gets tossed on a farm and of course she hates it at first. But then, gasp, who knew? She learns to LOVE it.
Again. I’m grateful that I don’t have to shell out eight bucks and sit through it.
Thank you, Tommy, for being a boy.
There was another preview for The Rock’s new movie. You know, the wrestler? Apparently he’s helping two aliens save the planet.
Again, I’ll pass.
I do want to see the new Sandra Bullock movie. I like Sandra Bullock. Unlike a lot of celebrities, she actually eats and seems down to earth and friendly. Probably because she eats. I know I’m horribly cranky when my stomach is growling. I better get some food and stat. Otherwise I start to say words that I normally wouldn’t even use (I once called Tom a fuc*ing twat when I hadn’t eaten in over five hours and I swear, I don’t even know where that came from!)
In the middle of a preview where Matthew Perry turns into Zac Efron (I’m not kidding) a few other people wandered into the room.
Phew. I felt odd being the only one in there. But okay, for a brief second I pretended that I was rich and that I was sitting in my own personal theater room. Hello, I’m Amber and I’m rich. Please join me in my theater with the giant screen.
But then I got paranoid and was wondering if there was a murderer crouched behind a seat in the back and that he was going to attack me when the movie started. Then I’d never find out if the movie was as good as the book. Oh noes! I debated pulling out my keys and holding it like a weapon like various talk shows tell you to do. (“Ladies, protect yourselves!” Oprah once bellowed at the cameras.)
Thankfully, that was when other people came in. There were two old ladies with curly gray hair who took a seat in the row in front of me. Then there was a mother and daughter duo who took seats in the very back. And then, right when the movie started, a man walked in and took a seat by himself near the front.
I was amused by this. I mean, I suppose it must be difficult for men who actually like chick flicks. It’s not manly after all. Maybe he has a secret addiction to chick flicks? I wonder if he was married and if his wife thinks that he’s cheating on her? But no, really he’s just sitting in a darkened theater wanting to know what it’s like to be a shopaholic.
The movie was entertaining. It was different from the book but it was still enjoyable. I could relate to the main character. I admit, I like to shop. But mostly for my children. I can’t help that they make adorable miniature clothes for them, can I? I start to imagine how Tommy would look in that seersucker blazer or if Natalie’s blue eyes would pop out if she wore that sapphire colored patchwork dress.
Obviously I learned nothing from the movie. Because when it was over I went to JC Penney and bought a swimsuit. But I had a reason, I promise! I’ll need it for the summer. My suits from last year are growing shabby. Plus, the size small swimsuits are always swiped up before I get a chance to shop. Then I’m stuck with a size medium, which can still sort of work, but then it makes my butt look extra baggy and fine, I admit it, I have tiny breasts so I have all sorts of extra fabric up top, too. So it really doesn’t work.
Usually, the suits that are left are the size extra smalls (ha, not in a million years! My left butt cheek couldn’t squeeze into an extra small) or an extra large (again, no way, I’d be lost in the suit and Tom would be all, “Amber? Where did you go?”)
So, you see? I HAD to buy the suit. I managed to find a size small bottom (with a skirt because hello, my thighs are nearly as big as a small country) and a size small top (again, not because I’m skinny but because my ta-tas are basically non-existent) and I happily took my suit up to the front to pay.
The cashier was a young-ish looking guy with a shock of blond hair on the top of his head. I could picture him in a strip club stuffing bills into the panties of a stripper. I have no idea why that image came into my head. Sometimes I think there is something seriously wrong with me.
The cashier didn’t seem to notice that I set my swimsuit down on the counter. He was just peering at me with a strange expression on his face. I wondered if I had melted chocolate on my jeans. I wouldn’t be surprised. There is usually some form of food on my clothes by the end of the day.
“Uh…XYZ,” the cashier finally said.
I was baffled. What? Was this some new word that the young kids are using these days? I admit, I’m sort of out of the loop. For the longest time I thought the word emo was the name of a brand new Muppet. I’m still confused when teenagers shout, “Wow, that’s SICK!” when they think something is cool. I mean, I would not think of the word “sick” as being synonymous with finding something to be cool. Sorry. Maybe I’m getting old. But ew, when I think of sick I think of sweat and barf. And in some cases, the squirts. Not cool.
“Um…” I finally responded, not knowing what else to say. “ABC?” It was the first thing that popped in my mind to say. Maybe the guy was high?
The cashier chuckled and looked at me as though I were a complete moron. But hello, he was the one who just spouted letters at me when all I wanted to do was purchase my spiffy new suit. “No,” he said. “I’m trying to say that your fly is down.” Then he gestured and dear gracious, he was RIGHT. My fly was wide open and my red underwear was exposed.
I suppose I should be grateful that I wasn’t going commando. How embarrassing would THAT have been?
And I suppose I should be grateful that I was wearing my new red underwear that I found for 75% off at Target and not the underwear with holes that Tom absolutely hates.
(“Amber,” he told me seriously. “I’m sorry, but these are not sexy,” he said, lifting my swiss cheese looking undergarments up from the laundry basket. But sometimes a lady just wants comfort, you know? And sometimes comfort means having holes in it. Sorry.)
“Oh! Oh, my gosh, I…oh,” I said, all flustered. I turned around and quickly zipped my fly back up and cursed the jeans. Those particular jeans love pushing my fly down if I sit for too long. I have no idea why. It could be because they are a size 3 and really, I ought to be wearing a size 5 but I’m too stubborn to admit it. I don’t know.
I know my face was as red as a beet as I turned around to pay for my swimsuit. I practically hurled my debit card at the cashier, who was smirking. I imagine he would be telling all his bar buddies that some chick in his store had walked around with her fly down.
“Was she wearing cute panties?” one of his friends might ask.
“Not Victoria Secret, I can tell you that,” the cashier will respond knowingly. Because he looked like he got around. If you know what I mean.
“Thanks,” I muttered to the cashier as he handed me my card and receipt. My face was blazing hot at that point and I just wanted to GET OUT OF THERE. I grabbed my bag and stuffed my card into my purse—at least I thought I did but I missed the opening entirely because it clattered to the floor. So I had to bend over and pick it up and I realized that now my butt was poking up beside the check out counter and that the guy was probably getting another chuckle out of me.
Oh, the utter mortification. I ended up just grabbing my debit card and then practically running out of the store.
When I relayed the story to Tom, he burst out laughing.
"Who uses the phrase 'XYZ' these days anyway?" I huffed. I mean, really. "It doesn't even make sense. It stands for examine your zipper and examine starts with an E."
"Well, the X sort of--" Tom began, but when he saw my expression he shut his mouth.
Which was wise of him. I had been through enough.