He Do Voodoo

It's a shame my internship at the magazine is coming to an end; I am really gonna miss the spooky people I get to meet on a daily basis. For example:

Today, my editor invited me to her meeting with a fellow pedaling his magical oil wares. Son of a Voodoo priestess who "inherited the spiritual gifts" of his family, this guy has created a line of oils and sprays that correspond to the needs of your aura. I mean, finally!

In the beginning, I kept my hand over my mouth and my eyes down to stop laughing while he chanted and told me his soul didn't need a glass of water when I offered one. In the middle, when he was diagnosing my health problems ("You know what asthma really is, right? The symptom of an oppressed childhood" and "Your jaw's aura is sending out dangerous sparks") I wasn't smiling no more. And by the end, when he was watching my every move ("Oh oh see! You wanted to take a breath right there, but the affluvia wasn't letting you - so you cleared your throat instead") I wanted him dead.

Fortunately, he had a happy little mohawked, European sidekick who gave me a cute, overly priced tshirt "celebrating my skin color" ("peachy" apparently) to make amends. And free stuff, like a rock to scissors, trumps spooky any day.

FedEX

She's free, people, she's free! Not from parking lot hypodermic needles in her bare foot or an addiction to fake cheese products or scrunchies and banana clips or a sister that's a wee bit cuter than she or two very tiny babies looking to her for normal booster seat usage, but from Kevin Federline, the world's most vom-inducing gold digger.

People often question my undying support for Brit, and some of it really can't be explained; it's just this unique chemistry we share. I can't articulate the reasons behind our love, in the same way I can't articulate my love for Ryan Seacrest, Jerry Orbach, or Donny Osmond.

And so her emancipation from The Fed has made today somewhat of a holiday for me. I urge you to grab a Frappucino and feel the love, too.

Your Waffle, Madame

There's something about room service meals that taste 10 to 15 times better than any food made by me (well, clearly) or even food from a get-there-yourself restaurant. It feels almost dirty to sit there in your bathrobe, surrounded by copious amounts of pillows, panning the menu, when you know you could be using this time to put on clothes and procure food like a normal human being, hunting or fishing or gathering or Carl's Jr-ing. But I just can't do it. If the menu's there, it's gonna get used.

My shame deepens when the room service dude arrives, The View
blaring in the background, and me tripping over my bathrobe strings to kick my stuff out of the way so he can place my tray down, theatrically removing the silver cover to reveal a waffle, a huge bowl of whipped cream, and orange juice in a delicate little glass. "Your waffle and orange juice, ma'am." Um. Please don't announce my food choices. I'd rather we just pretend this didn't happen. I'd rather not be reminded that I just spent $28 on a waffle and will soon leave my underwear on the ground for others to pick up while I drive away and read Nickle and Dimed during my lunch break. But wait - shhh - Rosie's making fun of Elisabeth and my whipped cream is losing those little peaks. Gotta jet.