Stamped: April 13th, 2006 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: body parts, children, complaint dept..

So I’ve recently made a decision to pursue a less than lucrative career. After being on the fence for oh, about 25 years, I finally decided to say fuck it, and do something that makes me happy. Yes, I know, hoo-fucking-rah for me. Whatever. The point is, as you all know, being happy means being poor. Oh, don’t give me that bullshit, it’s true. Not all poor people are happy but most happy people are poor. No, this is not an LSAT question.

I digress.

So, it seems everyone around me is really fucking anxious to tell me how I can fund my newfound creative passion. I’ve heard it in jest, but I can tell by the look in their beady little eyes, that they secretly think I’ll do it. Thinking I’ll take the “easy” way out. Thinking I’ll sit on my ass and reap the benefits of my hot bod and winning personality. Thinking I’ll…yes. Marry rich.

Well I’m here to tell you, it ain’t easy. Marrying rich is very hard work, not for the faint of heart and certainly not for the general populace.

Amidst a severe personal crisis on Monday night I stumbled upon the perfect back up to my theory. I found myself with the choice between downing a bottle of xanax or watching mind numbing, brain cell depleting, horridly wonderful reality TV. This is when I had the good fortune to stumble upon my new favorite show, The Real Housewives of Orange County.

What I learned that fateful night serves to debunk and definitively expose the horrible myth that marrying rich, is in fact ideal.

People. It’s HARD, okay. It’s HARD. Let me illustrate to you exactly how hard it is.

First of all, you have to maintain, nay, recreate yourself as a fine physical specimen. This means hours upon hours at the gym, crash diets, chemical peels and stripping your hair of all natural oils in order to achieve that perfect shade of peroxide induced blonde. The BEST though is when you hit 40. Then you get to indulge in fun botox treatments in the comfort of your own kitchen. The little foreign lady with the needles comes over, you invite your friends, and get injected with botulism around the really sensitive parts of your eyes. Doesn’t that sound like fun!

After the initial endorphin rush of modern day immortality subsides you get to look like a cross between the crypt keeper and Donatella Versace. Oh wait, they’re the same. I’m confusing myself.

Let’s not even go there with the breast implants. But, we will. According to Kimberly of the RHOTOC, “85% of women in the O.C. have breast implants”. It is vital to keep your husband’s sexual fantasies honed in on you instead of his 25 year old personal assistant. Vital, I tell you. Otherwise, you could end up like Lauri, divorced and having to RENT a three bedroom apartment, and get a JOB. Terrifying. Really fucking terrifying.

Next, you have to give up any career ambition you ever had, EVER. Simple. Done. Finito. It is an absolute PRE-REQUISITE to being a proper housewife. After all he married you not only because you’re a fine piece of ass but because he wants to come home to a clean house (someone has to make sure the maid doesn’t steal shit) and a home cooked meal (he doesn’t have time to call for take out), and most importantly he needs to know that you are completely and utterly dependant upon him for every monetary transaction of the day. It might feel stifling that he has to write you that check every week, it might hurt, but your friend is right. When you tell her you want to accomplish something on your own, you LISTEN to her when she tells you,

“Honey, you accomplished getting Slade. And you did that all on your own.” Amen girl-without-a-husband. Amen.

-Side note. You have to marry men named Slade. Slade Smiley. No. This is not an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful. This is your life.

Last but not least. Let’s not forget the children. Ah, the children. The children are our future, we are the world and all that bullshit. No. Your children are nightmares. Your children are vapid and entitled and painfully dumb. Sometimes you wonder how it’s possible for them to walk down the street being that brain dead. I mean won’t they get hit by cars?

Instead, they refuse to work. Even though they are 20. They will wander around the neighborhood looking for their car that has been repossessed because they didn’t realize that they to actually needed to pay the thing that is, shocking, called a down payment. The worst part about it is…and ain’t it a bitch…they are the monsters of your own creation. Years of inculcating values such as materialism, status grubbing and image worshipping have actually sunk in. Doesn’t that suck. Huh.

So, in short, if you wanna be one of the “wives”, know what you’re getting yourself into. It ain’t all beaches and poetry and manicures on Sunday. It’s hard fucking work, and a good dose of humiliation and physical pain mixed in. If you can do it you’re a good deal stronger than me. I know I couldn’t handle Slade patting me condescendingly on the head and cooing, “You’ll have to excuse her, she’s a little slow. She’s from Peru.”

Fucking Slade. That guy kills me. I kinda wanna sleep with him and then buy out his company. Rarrr.

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