I had an ultra American experience yesterday around noon.
I had been chaperoning a group of underage Japanese tourists that I decided to abandon at this bowling alley, and I had schlepped next door, to Boomers, a hell equipped with a mini-golf course and espresso bar.
After having dealt with foreigners all morning, I was ready to sip an Americano.
In line at Boomers food counter, waiting behind a litter of overactive children dying to deep throat hot dogs, I overheard a sickeningly familiar voice yelling. The voice was demanding, “WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR LUNCH?! LOOK AT THE MENU! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT FOR LUNCH!” I, and millions of others, are unaccustomed to hearing this voice yell so maternally. We’re used to hearing this voice breathe, “Am I high maintenance? OF COURSE I AM: look at me,” and, “I thank God every day for my life, and you would, too,” and, “God is my savior, my husband is my king, and my body? It’s sinful.”
I turned to see if my orangest dreams were about to come true.
Standing behind me was Alexis Bellino, aka Jesus Jugs, aka Jesus Barbie, of Real Housewives of Orange County fame.
I whipped out my phone and started taking pictures of her as if she was a wallaby on display at the zoo. (There were these metal bars set up to help us form a line and these added to the caged animalness.)
Then, I realized: Instead of treating this Housewife like a zoo animal, I could ask her if I could take her picture.
Facing down RHOC’s resident angel, I asked, “Can I please have a picture with you?”
JJ looked annoyed as pho and then proceeded to slowly pull her rubberband from her hair, release her ponytail, and shake out her mane like she was auditioning for her an orgasm-inducing shampoo commercial. Ignoring her and Jim the Chin’s children, she kept shaking her hair and shaking her hair and scrunching it and shaking her hair and then pursing her lips and then shaking her Smurfette hair.
I whipped my phone out of my purse and lifted its screen to our faces, JJ was making her duck face right next to me cheek, and I grinned and realized that she did not smell like a stripper. I snapped our photo, said, “Thank you,” and proceeded to plaster my RH selfie all over social media. Perhaps JJ saw that I was hash-tagging our selfie JESUS and BREASTS because I heard her say, “C’mon, kids. We’re gonna go somewhere else for lunch.”