I chalk it up to genetics, this fascination I have with celebrity culture.

(Can you actually call it "culture?" Probably not. Celebrity "propaganda" is more like it. Still, you know of what I speak.)

Oh sure, the tabloidization of mainstream media (wretched term it is) has made it so everyone knows about Linsday Lohan's drug-and-shopping binges, Paris Hilton's snatch and Jesus Lord Britney Spears, she of the tight purse strings for the poor. It's all rather inescapable, I used to work at a big daily newspaper, I know. Even we once led with a story on Brangelina, as misguided as a move though it were.

But no. I come by all of this quite naturally. My mother, may she rest in peace, was obsessed with All-Things-Celebrity. I don't want to say she was obnoxious, because she wasn't. She wasn't one of those adults who would stalk celebrities at appearances in grocery stores, though I'm pretty certain Cathy once showed up for an autograph session with the actors who played "Cliff" and "Nina" on All My Children. But she paid attention and discussed with my sister and me every minutiae on her favorite stars. I still have to remind myself when I come across her visage that my mother really didn't know Victoria Principal, though to hear her talk you would have thought Vicki would be showing up that week at The Colonial, the restaurant she and my father frequented almost every Friday night with their friends.

I'd also wager a guess that my mother was never more thrilled with my dating choices than when I was dating a sportscaster in the late '90s. I'm sure she was up in heaven celebrating the fact that her daughter was a serious item with someone who showed up on TV every day.

So it's not a surprise that I've been a subscriber to Us Weekly. I used to be embarrassed by it, but I've since embraced my addiction much in the same way we embrace many things of which we were once concerned with what other people thought. I am old enough not to give a rat's behind anymore. And up until lately, I've looked forward to coming home on a Friday and hunkering down with my weekly book o' crap. I mean, it is crap.

Why should I be surprised that Sascha Baron Cohen buys the "good" toilet paper? The dude is rich. I know when I started having more expendable income the first thing I did was buy this stuff, and I buy it in bulk on the off-chance that ... I don't know. I just know I never want to use single-ply sheets of anything in a place that means so much to me.

Even all that said, Us Weekly has been lacking. And I know why. As a 31-year-old woman, I'm creeping slowly into a demographic that they could care less about. I'm not going to buy those fucked up diet pills, or tanktops that read "Mrs. Efron," or consciously use the word "bling" in any normal conversation wherein I am not poking fun at others who do. Because of this, the articles are mainly about celebrities I have no interest in. It's not as though I'm looking for the latest on Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward or anything, but I do not care who Lauren Conrad is, or about her latest dating strategies, and so knowing my subscription was drawing nigh, I made a decision:

I was breaking up with Us Weekly.

I announced it to Scott on several occasions, because I knew he'd never believe I'd do it, and declared myself totally over the whole thing and ready to get a subscription to ... I don't know. Something else that would enrich my life. But just a week before the subscription was set to run out, do you know what happened?

Those jerks charged me $70 for another year.

So I called and complained and gave my very best impression of an adult, because I really did have it in my head that people who look like Perez Hilton and the cast of High School Musical are the ones manning the phones down there, and was told quickly that I'd be refunded. End of story.

I called back today after receiving only a $1.35 credit to my account, as opposed to one for $70. The nice guy on the other end, however, noticed something before he could assess the situation: I had another Us Weekly account in the system from a subscription that was placed six years ago. This nice person assured me that I'd be receiving my $70 back, and that the $1.35 was a refund for the one issue that I "would have received last week" (which I totally did, suckers!) but that the old account showed that I had two years, paid in full, left.

That's right. TWO YEARS.

I'd like to say that this shocks me but it doesn't. My twenties were a blur of incredibly bad decisions across the board, so to learn that I'd set down a wad of cash on a gossip magazine subscription, and then never bothered to change my mailing address with them, just totally blew it off, is not a surprise.

The day that comes that someone says to me, "You took care of this matter back in 2002," will be the day you can color me amazed. That era was just bad news bears, people.

You know what this means, right? I am the proud owner of an Us Weekly subscription until March 2009. Do you know how much in my life will potentially change in two years? Everything! But not my status as a subscriber to Us Weekly! No siree!

I'd like to think that this is a sign of something of a legacy that I will leave my children, too.

Posted by Erin at 07:49 AM | filed under: Random Stupidity , Supastah