For Esme – With Love and Plastic Tchotkes
There are some things that I go to for the actual factual information. There are other things that I go to for what they represent. Then, there is that third category…the things that I go to just because I have to assure myself that this is what I AM NOT.
Perhaps it’s like going to a NASCAR event just to watch a car crash.
No, I’m not a cud chewing red-neck but I love me some blood and guts and roasted human flesh.
You know, just plain old family entertainment.
And that is what will undoubtedly bring me to the DECC this Saturday, for the annual Women’s Expo. This is the annual exhibition that will tell you at every turn that you are too fat but yet you don’t cook well enough. Your family will love you even more if you can split yourself into four more pieces yet you really need to take better care of yourself. Your ass is fat but try our chocolate! You work three jobs to support your fatherless children but if you don’t want to wear this flaming red butt floss of a thong, you are obviously NOT A REAL WOMAN.
It is a living, breathing women’s magazine. It is the epicenter of everything that any real woman would be interested in: cooking, weight loss, clothing, and kinky undies.
And if these topics of conversation aren’t on the top of your life list, you may well lurk in the shadows as hoards of middle aged white women descend like locusts for freebie after freebie of plastic shit made by eight year old Chinese girls who will spend their lives devalued by their culture and seen as mere means to an economic end by the predominant capitalistic white culture of which they serve.
Wow. I guess that won’t be in the brochure.
There are times that I want to go up to the ever-so-fake make up reps and the women selling a soup mix in a bag for $8 and let their speal wash over me until they have talked their way into submission and I stand mute and blinking in the radiant light of their marketing technique. I will then let my doe eyes well up with tears and I will choke out one single whispered question:
“But will it make me happy?”