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Paris/Lindsay/Nicole/Britney, Hire a Driver!
Aug 29 2007 by Courtney Messenbaugh
8/29/2007
While You're at it, Get Me One, Too
It seems like every tabloid or glossy magazine cover I see these days has a picture of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton or Nicole Richie, accompanied by a headline about some driving mishap and the ensuing charges or jail time. "Will Nicole Have Her Baby in Jail?" "Lindsay Takes Hostages and Tries to Mow Down Friend's Mom," "Paris Miserable With ADD in Jail," are among the headlines I've read.
Driving in Los Angeles must be like being on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with all these starlets behind the wheel. For the sake of us all, I offer the following advice, free of charge, to these ladies and all who come after them: Hire yourselves a driver! Seriously, you're all businesswomen of a certain sort, with myriad people on your payroll. I cannot believe no one has yet suggested this to you. With a driver, you could engage in all that shameless debauchery you seem to enjoy so much without running such a high risk of harming yourself or others on the road — not to mention the fact that it would seriously diminish your chances of having to do jail time while pregnant.
As I've been thinking about these ladies' need for a driver, it's started me lusting after a driver of my own. How great would life be if I had my own personal driver? On any given day, me getting into the car looks something like this: I'm jostling my son in his car seat, lugging the diaper bag, folding up the stroller, trying to shove my purse onto my shoulder, carrying my laptop and shoving any other necessary belongings into the car. With a driver, I would simply take my son and place him in the backseat with me while the driver calmly loaded everything else into the trunk for us.
Once settled, I could read my trashy tabloids and catch up on the latest Paris/Lindsay/Nicole/Britney "news." I would sip my coffee or champagne — depending on whether it was day or night — and make sure my son had a nice warm bottle of milk. I would spend the drive lounging in the backseat, returning all those phone calls I've been delinquent on for the past year. Most importantly, when my son started to fuss I would be right there, ready to comfort him — or at least attempt to — and wouldn't have to feel bad about letting him scream solo in the back until we got home. Bliss, indeed.
As long as I'm daydreaming, I'm thinking that in exchange for my sage advice to Paris and the others, perhaps they could pay for my driver, too. They certainly seem to pay the people around them for much worse advice, so maybe I have a shot!
Sounds good to me!