“I can’t help it,” he said. “Kim did it.”
I was looking at the screen in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. He’d pulled up a page full of wigs. A confirmation page at that – you know – the receipt of a transaction, online. Yep. He liked that trashy country-singer-wannabe look. For me.
He’s a new man in my life. He’s hot. He’s considerate. But these wigs? Huh? Do I really have to deal with this on the first cup of coffee before I have to go fight with some PTA babe over a class for my kid and I don’t even KNOW the PTA babe and it’s thunder storming (the verb) and the dog is going to pee on the floor and I’m running late and now I have to smile over a gleaming, white-blonde trashy wig that hopefully will get lost by UPS somewhere on Peachtree Street in a brawl or some other mishap?
Oh sweetie, I love it! Thank you! I say. OMG. What you have to do to be polite.
You know – the other night – I actually dreamed I was wearing one of those wigs. And let me say – with my boobs and HER hair, maybe I could be a recording artist! Yes! Forget the writing! Forget the job search! Hell – forget the Kept Woman Plan (though when you follow Reality TV “stars” it seems to be working well once the wig or the blonde dye is in place)… OKAY okay, I’ll stop. I slept badly. I need more coffee. My kid left for college yesterday. Life is a rough-and-tumble-roller-coaster (not a verb).
I’m sure Kim and all the other Real Housewives are actually lovely people in person. Really, one thing I learned years ago – don’t judge a book by its cover. Where are Jon and Kate Gosselin when I need them? They don’t wear wigs, do they? Maybe Kate would like this one. I’d be happy to send it along.
Damn those Atlanta Housewives. Terrrrrrible influence. Dreaming. Nightmares. Dreaming…
Great shoes though.
© D A Wolf