Well, I don't know what to say. I am as shocked as any of you at the apparent dissolution of Britney's marriage to Kevin Federline. I can't say I didn't expect it…but I thought they would last at least until Christmas.
I was relieved when Brit called to tell me she had it all under control:
“Look, ya'll, it's nothing, really. I just told Kevin that if he wanted to go out and party all night, every night, instead of staying home with me and Sean Preston and watching DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES, he could do it on his own dime. After all, we ain't been married no ten years yet, and you know what that means in the state of California. Just ask Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. So Kev's going to sleep out in that cardboard box on the median for a while and see how that works for him. I'm sure when I let him come back home, he'll have had an attitude adjustment.”
I'm so glad to know that there's one rich girl, at least, who knows how to control her man.
I should probably mention that, along those lines, Paris H. called to check-in. I hadn't heard from her, of course, since her split from Greek Paris, so I was quick to ask what I'm sure you've all been dying to know: “Paris, what's up with all the Greek billionaires?”
“Who am I SUPPOSED to go out with?” Paris wanted to know. “Some greasy, unemployed dancer who'd just impregnated and left his longterm girlfriend for me? I mean, look, a girl in my position has to be careful—I need to know a guy isn't just dating me for my money. So my only option is to date guys who have as much or more than I do. And the truth is, there just aren't that many guys around who are as rich as me. Who are also hot. Except for Mary Kate's ex.”
Paris does have a point. Being richer than your boyfriend can have it's drawbacks. I'm lucky that when I met He Who Shall Not Be Named In This Blog I was totally broke—and actually, as he is fond of pointing out, I had amassed an amount of debt (thanks to Parade of Shoes) that rivaled that of many small African nations. I KNOW my husband doesn't love me for my money alone, because I never HAD any money until fairly recently, and when that happened, it was a BIG surprise to us both.
But you could see how this would be a problem for girls like Britney and Paris. I often wonder, in fact, if HWSNBNITB dies before I do, how I will ever find someone else who will love me for me, and not my money. Not that I have so much, but you know what I mean: I don't want no scrubs.
In case you don't know, a scrub is guy who thinks he's fly, also known as a buster. He's always talkin' about what he wants, then just sits on his broke ass. So, no, I don't want his number, and, no, I don't want to give him mine. And, no, I don't want to meet him nowhere, and, no, I don't want none of his time.
No, I don't want no scrub—especially of the Kevin Federline variety, who, from what I understand, doesn't have his own car, so he's walking–Oh yes, Kev, I'm talking to you—and who lives at home with his momma–Oh yes, Kev, I'm talking to you—and who has shorties to whom he don't show love—Oh, yes, Kev, I'm talking to you.
See, unlike Britney, when there's a scrub checkin' me–but his game is kinda weak–I know that he cannot approach me, because I'm lookin' like class and he's lookin' like trash.
And, frankly, I can't get with no deadbeat ass.
So, no–a scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me.
That is why I've decided that, in the event HWSNBNITB dies before I do, I will just have to marry someone richer than me. It will be the only way I can be SURE the guy isn't a scrub, and really wants me for me, and not my cash.
I already have the guy picked out, too. He and I have SO much in common. First off, we both feel that having children is way too much responsibility for us at this time. Second, we both love animals. Third, we both like to take on ambitious projects. Fourth, we both love Italy.
Actually, you might you might have heard of him. His name is George Clooney. Or, as I like to call him, the Future Mr. Meg Cabot.
I won't tell any of you guys, either, when I start dating him. It will be a total surprise to you. Like, I figured one Thanksgiving, I'll just show up at my mom's house with George in tow, and be like, “Hi, Mom. Meet my new boyfriend. His name is George.”
And maybe you guys will see me with him, at a premiere or something, and you'll be all, “Was that MEG CABOT with George Clooney?”
But I will just say that I don't publicly comment on my private life. Because I won't want to pull a J Lo, you know, blabbing all about my guy all over the place, only to have him leave me for Jennifer Garner. Or, in my case, Judy Blume (even though I already told Judy that George is mine and to keep her hands off him).
Of course, if I die before HWSNBNITB, that's a whole other story. I don't care who he marries next, because I'll be dead.
It might be nice, though, if he married Paris. Because I think she could really use a few well-cooked meals. She's looking kind of thin lately.
Well, that's it for now. Tune in next week, for the conclusion of CATEGORY SEVEN.
(No Scrub lyrics courtesy of TLC, a band with whom, sadly, way too many girls in Hollywood seem unfamiliar.)