I Feel Pretty

I feel pretty! I do, I do, as long as I don't look in the mirror I am Natalie Wood, goddess of dark hair and liquid eyes.

I feel witty, I make you laugh, oh yes, you may not want to, but look at you smiling, you cannot help but laugh. Look at me spill coffee on my white-shirted self, hear me make spitfire humour, with spit, even. Oh so witty!

And gay, no, not so much, but happy, yes, especially with my gay friends. All happy are we! All gay, almost, like mauve bonnets at an orange juice convention. Anita, is that youuuuuu? Honey, you've aged!

I adore I Feel Pretty, could listen to it all day, like today, when I did, in fact, and finally posted Natalie Wood as my chat icon because we look so much alike. When she was alive, I mean. And when I was young, like 12. Like that. Who's that pretty girl in that mirror there? Who can that attractive girl be? Is it me? Is it Natalie? Is it Memorex?

Such a pretty face, such a pretty smile, such a pretty I forget, such a pretty MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I feel charming, also.

It's actually alarming how charming I feel. (And so pretty... did I mention pretty? Cause I feel pretty and witty and GAY! Anita! You again? Piss off.)

Work is so quiet. So boring. I hear Dave over in his office snoring. Lynda is saying, "What? What?" because she thinks Dave is saying something to her. Karen is stretching and yawning, one of those loud yawns that scare the shit out of me. Jesus, Karen, how many pairs of clean underwear do I need to bring in for a day?

The music in my ear swells - oh wait, it's ear wax - and I feel pretty, OH SO PRETTY, and there's Jason, grabbing Lisa's wedding tiara and plunking it on his own gell-haired head and he's SINGING in a tremulous falsetto, swirling around the production floor in his peach jumper, and suddenly Leah jumps up and tries to grab the tiara because she's an actress and needs to be in the spotlight. "I WANNA BE MARIA," she squeals, but Jason dips and evades her, all in time with the music. The rest of us are overcome with the need to dance so Karen and Lynda pull on their leg warmers and try to be Jennifer Beal (s?) but then Terri smacks them and says, "WRONG MOVIE, MORONS." And she says, "Jennifer Lopez is a fake," only because it pisses me off. But I Feel Pretty, so who gives a shit? Then Cathy B. staggers to her feet and we think she's doing the Funky Chicken but it's only her bad back. Angie, Gail and Marg join in, swanking things up like the background girls in the bridal shop, singing "Miss America, speak! Speak!" while Marianne shrieks, "GILLIGAN!" and we sweep around the room while the music swells and we all develop Puerto Rican-Canadian accents. (Think of Spanish Rice slathered in maple syrup.) The ad reps come in, their mouths like trout, and they sing, "See those pretty girls in the production room!" and Sarah comes and takes our photos and puts them on the front page of the newspaper and they sell more papers than ever, in the history of newspapers, and it's all because I feel pretty.

Hey, I said I FELT pretty. Didn't say I was... way to rain on the parade, buster. Who let this guy in, anyway? HEY! Gimme back that tiara! HEY! DON'T I KNOW YOU????