looking hot when you're as frazzled as the bacon in a greasy spoon breakfast

The other night I was invited to the home of one of the other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten who was having an other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten evening. And here's the thing about my neighbourhood: the men are ugly but rich enough to sponsor a trophy wife.

Most women in my neighbourhood are faltzani frechot trophy wives which loosely translated means nouveau-riche tart trophy wives. I am not a trophy wife. For starters, I am too tall and lollop in comparison to all the little tight-ass skinny bitches that strut around here. Also, I am proportionally larger. OK, I'm FAT. Too fat for the skin-tight low-cut midriff baring clothes that are sold around here. I'm a fake blond but I don't make it straw-shade or fan it every other day. Besides, my husband says my hair looks like a bush. My fingernails do not pass the ends of my fingers. And I have a job. No self-respecting trophy wife would work! Even worse, I work full-time and have a permanently ragged look about me. I wear one uniform outfit all the time. (And it's black!). For the trophy wife, it's all about pedicures, manicures, hairdressers, massages, facials, gyms, and lying in bed when your kids get home while your full time babysitter tends to their needs. And yet I have a complex that I am looked at as if I should be a trophy wife. I am what my husband brought back from overseas! Imported product! I should be better than the rest of the trophy wives because I am the foreign trophy wife. But my trophy wife career was nixed on my first trip to Israel. I am not an agile dancer. Mr. Zebra-to-be's friend's girlfriend noticed this to the soundtrack of It's Raining Men on my second night and told her gagging-for-it friend that he was fair game. Gagging-for-it made a point of sitting between us at the 5am coffee shop stop. Friend's girlfriend has not stopped paying since.

But, I digress.

So I went to the evening with the following attendees:
A.M. Normal.
A.S. Along the path to the fiery pits of faltzanidom hell. Has one of those minature white is-it-a-dog-is-it-a-rug? dogs. But sweet, funny, and chatty. Has a nicely decorated apartment and puts on a good spread.
M. Wears big sunglasses. Indoors. At 9pm.
I. Thin. Wears leather trousers. Summer holidays on a yacht off Croatia.
Absent was R. who is so far away from the pits of nouveau riche hell that she is off the charts. Her kid gets HAND ME DOWN CLOTHING for godsakes and even I turn my nose up at that. The evening was her idea and I probably wouldn't have gone except for occasionally I discipline myself that jedi mothers also need to socialize and that going to bed at 9pm does make me a bit of a Norman no-mates hermit.

And so, I knew ahead of time that it wouldn't be the most riveting evening of my life. But I like A.M. and A.S., and think that M. is quite humorous. I. was very reasonable at her son's birthday party when a total bitch trophy wife told me I should look after my daughter as she was trashing I.'s house. I. said not to worry, the most important thing was to enjoy the party.

Despite that when I arrived I saw Celine Dion in concert in the living room, the evening went well. We made a pact to sign our kids to the same gan next year. (Do my children know I am divining the course of their lives by choosing their friends behind their backs?? Who cares!). We bitched about the teacher and how stupid she is. What with classic lines such as…"I'm glad your kid got hurt on my day off! I wouldn't have known what to do with him what with all that blood gushing everywhere"…we had a lot to go on.

Everyone shared something. It was about bread rolls, Dudu being on his second marriage, bitching about the country club owners (you see, nouveau-riche. Not only are you a member of a country club, you are posh enough to bitch about the owner!) and I. locking her kids in the yacht every evening on holiday and going out drinking in Croatia.

You know, bitch-troll-skinny-bitch-nouveau-riche-tart-trophy-wives are ok when you break them down for an evening. They lose their evilness and move down the scale and become ok. It helps that sitting down there is no strutting. I will never be a trophy wife. I'm lucky if I get to the hairdresser once a year. I'm not allowed to give up my job. Nop, I am not a trophy wife. But then I will never lock my kids on a yacht for a Croatian martini either.