Photo: Richard Drury/Getty Images I was in Miami doing a story and I was pretty sure I was about to lose the job I’d had and loved for the past year and a half not because there was anything wrong with me but because of forces beyond my control. It was a business trip, but it wasn’t a business trip where you trash hotel rooms and buy people bottles of Champagne at strip clubs — I was staying with a guy named Greg who was a friend of a friend.
Many objects are disappointing once they are in your grasp. I only have five things that I love so much that every time I put them on I feel a pleasured sob rising in my chest: an old Mulberry bag, a pair of pearl and diamond earrings I got from my mother that my grandfather bought in Japan for my grandmother , my Spanx leggings, an army green trench coat I bought at Zara in Manchester, England, because it was raining, and my Trillbillies T-shirt.
I drove to my bank. My friend Karen was working. She held up a print-out of an article. “I read your Karen article,” she said, referencing a piece I’d written about, in part, what her name means to women of my generation. “Were you mad?” I asked. “Of course not,” she said. I said some Karens were mad. She said, ha. And added, “I’m an alpha Karen,” with great pride.
Is this satire?
Someone got paid to write this
I love this. And I love that it was in Grass Valley. Xx
What!
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