Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey Page B

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    â€œI don’t care if she’s a midwestern princess, a Jewish-American princess, an Asian princess, or an African-American princess ... every culture has them. And the United States, this country is a magnet for princesses. Hell, in England they’ve got one or two, maybe a handful in Liechtenstein. Liechtenstein, I love to say that. Sounds like you’re soliciting a prostitute in Bavaria. Lick-ten-stein? Ya, ya! Good!”
    Of course, he would go for the sex joke. So predictable.
    â€œBut every culture has its princesses. Hell, I think every guy has at least one princess in his life, that unattainable, smoking sister who wavers between spoiled bitch and sultry vixen. And she always thinks you’re coming on to her. You do something innocent, like help her on with her coat and she says, ‘X! X? Now we’ll have none of that!’ like a little old librarian. She’ll say, ‘Ain’t never gonna happen.’ Or, ‘The kitchen is closed.’ Or, ‘My coco has left the building.’ ”
    I bolted up in my chair. The bastard! He was using our conversation as part of his routine.
    â€œSometimes you think, is it me? Am I doing something wrong? But the thing is, the princess doesn’t date anyone, and that’s because her standards are so high. Only the perfect man for the princess.”
    All around me people were laughing, and I didn’t get it. Why was that so funny? Why shouldn’t a girl find herself a perfect man? Didn’t these people read Glamour and Cosmo and Vogue ?
    These people were weird.
    â€œNow you might wonder how to recognize a princess? Well, the manicured nails are a dead giveaway. We’re not talking about a little polish. They’re encrusted with gems, with little flowers and hearts painted on, and tiny tattoos.
    â€œThese nails are sacred. Ain’t no boogy flickin’ going on with these little gems. No doors get opened, no typin’ on a keyboard. No peeling, scrubbing, slicing, or dicing. The princess gives these nails the royal treatment.
    â€œI’m waiting for these chicks to start embedding microchips in their nails. Know what I mean? Microchips. So they wouldn’t even have to hold a cell phone anymore. Just flip one finger up and talk to the hand.”
    He flipped up his index finger and recited in a high voice, “Speed dial Tiffany’s!”
    The audience started to roar as he then stuck his finger in his ear and squeaked on. “Hello? Quick question: can I get a solitaire diamond ring with three diamonds? Only one? But my friend Muffy has three!
    â€œMicrochips. Yeah! I’m gonna patent that idea—don’t you steal it! I’d like to patent it, but I do see one potential problem. See, if a brother’s really lucky, his princess knows how to use her hands. Know what I mean? That’s right. The princess whose daddy spent all that money on music lessons. The princess who plays the flute. Every guy wants to go out with a princess who knows her way around a mouth pipe. That’s right.”
    He pointed to a man in the audience. “You’d rather have tulips on your organ than flowers on your piano, right? Right?”
    I snatched my bag from the table, ready to spring. I didn’t have to take this abuse.
    â€œThe princess and the flute. Problem is, if she’s got a cell phone in her fingers, you don’t know what kind of calls she’ll be making during sex. I mean, she’d be moving her hand along down there, at a nice, steady rhythm, and suddenly she’s speed-dialed her hair stylist. And you’re there screaming, ‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ And someone from the salon is on the other end shouting back, ‘Not today! Not today! We’re totally booked!’ ”
    Enough! I stood up so abruptly my chair fell back, but I didn’t care. My movements were muffled by the applause and laughter of the audience. No one cared.