irony at the ulta

ew migaad, burrots! wha-eet?

after two days of dredging up content for a three page newsletter, i straighten my kinked spine and went to chipotle to celebrate. without any sunlight to generate vitamin d, i swear i've contracted rickets, people.

i sat at the little bar there and read eve ensler's the good body, chowing on my black bean soft tacos. good little book, but i have to say, it gave me speed as slathered on the guac' with a little plastic knife.

to cap off my victorious evening, stopped in ulta to buy some barrettes. [i have long hair now! never say never!] and lazily browsed through the aisles, sniffing and sampling. i'm particularly lazy today as i suffered a bout of insomnia last night. restrained from tossing and turning by my sleepleaded cats, this effing spina bifida or whatever just started to twist and ache. after an hour of sightless blinking at the ceiling, i wrapped myself in a robe and tried sleeping on the couch. one thing i learned as a insomniatic kid: when you can't sleep, don't read; just change locations. i figured that out after devouring every volume of my peanuts encyclopedia over and over. what else have i retained? that studies show lucy would be less crabby if she drank some orange juice every day.

so back to ulta... i go to purchase my barrettes, and this large man clad in a black pleather apron behind the counter chirpily lisps, "hand made in america!" with a cigarette-crusted voice. he says it so smugly, sarcastically, like he's made a funny.

the zaftig, gothish cashieress asks, "wha-it?" and mr. funny flicks his languid fingers at the hair accessories with disdain, "oh, just these... barrettes." the cashierix smirks and harrumphs. she literally harrumphed!

i didn't get it. whaa?