Today, my mom's cleaning lady folded the dirty panties I had left on the floor of my bedroom and set them nicely on the bed. I felt really bad about this. She was in no way required or asked to fold my dirty panties, plus I heard my mom tell her she could skip my room today, but she did it anyway. Folded all the dirty clothes I left on the floor, panties included.
I feel badly about this.
Now I am at the local coffeehouse, the one that is about the same walking distance from my mom's house as T-bird is to mine. T-bird is cool and P-kin is decidedly not cool, but it is convenient and they sell sparkling apple juice. I am sitting across from a table of septuagenarian men. Everyone here is either a high school student or someone's parent or a senior citizen. This is because there is no class diversity in my mom's 'hood. Everyone's rich, beyotch.
I must have been giving a dirty look to this blonde woman with a very obvious boob job who was ordering skinny mocha lattes for her pre-teen daughters ahead of me in line. It is a rare event when I am literally face-to-face with fake tits, but the dirty look was more about what I perceived as oblivious entitlement at the expense of my writing time. I make immediate enemies with women whose main endeavors in life are to look good so as to maintain their marriages to doubtlessly wealthy men and raise their daughters to do the same. I hold grudges because these people can afford to buy books but rarely pick up anything but blockbusters. The other barista practically leaped over to me from across the counter to ask me what I wanted.
I suppose there is an art to this appearance thing but it all seems to be a game played in the man's favor. Eat nothing, exercise furiously, paint your face, undergo the scalpel for a pair of freshly-baked muffin boobs, all so you can stay married to a man who might dump you if you were to eat a brownie, watch soaps, go without makeup, and have a flat chest? What kind of marriage is that?
I have it all figured out, of course.
THE PLAN:
1) Don't live in California.
2) Get rid of those fucking hot pink fake nails.
3) Stomach chub is the key to liberation. If your husband is looking askance at your muffin top (esp. if you've given birth to his babies), he doesn't love you for your sparkling wit and intelligence.
4) No plastic surgery. Proof: I rock the honker nose and Bob married me anyway. Without any physical flaws, you'll never know if your relationship is for real.
5) If your wealthy husband is cheating (not if, when), demand to know if she's the babysitter or his secretary. If he's bonking a woman who is "beneath him," then you know he's a steamy turd and you're better off without him.
6) Don't bother with a divorce. Just withdraw all the money from the joint account and hit the road.
7) Improv classes will save you from evil forces. Sign up immediately.
Maybe women are happy doing this? I don't know. I was too busy being impatient to actually ask her if she was happy.
my man loves my far-from-flat stomach and actually is always encouraging me to join him in eating all the bad-for-you foods he so loves (ice cream, candy, etc). that is true love.
Posted by: margaret at July 17, 2008 09:48 PM