Hob-nobbing with the rich and bored.

The girls are napping, thank god. I feel like absolute ass today. My head is hurting, my back is hurting and I need a nap too, so this will be brief.

Attended DH's company Xmas party last nite. It was held at a very fuschionistic bar/restaurant. Lawyers are absolutely the most obnoxious bunch. But the food was good at least, and it was an excuse to buy a new outfit, and get a mani/pedi.

(sidebar: Has anyone besides me noticed that once you become a SAHM, your wardrobe disintigrates into sweats, yoga pants, jeans and Tshirts? Its a disgrace, I tell you)

So DH leaves me alone at the table while he gets us more drinks, and this little muffin is trying to make polite conversation with me. She tells me about her fabulous life, her fabulous apartment (on 38th and Park), and then she props her chin on her hands and says, "And what do you do?".

This is the moment I've been dreading for 7 months.

I swallowed hard, smiled and said "I'm a stay at home mom to my twin daughters".
Her face fell.
And she said "Well, that's nice."
"Yes, it is", I replied, and gulped down the last of my raspberry martini.

I excused myself and went to the ladies' room. I'm in there, doing my thing, and there are 2 women outside the door, talking. One says to the other "Oh my Gawd, I love your dress!", the other replies, "Thanks, I got it in the Hamptons"...in that sing-songy muffiny voice -- you know, that "I'll have a venti soy no whip latte" kind of voice? Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

I looked in the mirror, and thought to myself "Me and my Lane Bryant clothes and my QVC jewelry have got to get the fuck out of here."

We were home by 11pm. MIL had the girls in bed by 9pm.
Speaking of, it just wouldn't be a day without a MIL story, so here's today's:

Knowing that MIL was coming to babysit, DH sent me out on Monday for "special" food for MIL. Diet soda, crackers, blah blah...and she wanted some flounder filet (or "flander" as she pronounces it, illiterate that she is). So I purchase all required items.

On Tuesday, when DH brings her to the house, I come into the kitchen to find a Boston Market meal on the table. I ask DH sweetly, "who's chicken is that?" (though I already know the answer). MIL says "OH, that's mine. I decided to save the flander for Sunday"

(sidebar: true to form, DH has invited MIL and auntie over on Sunday for lunch, and neglected to tell me.)

So, she proceeds to ask me to freeze the fish I bought, and be sure to defrost it on Saturday and marinade it for her. I never froze the fish. I actually considered feeding her the rotten fish on Sunday, hoping she'd succumb to some horrible strain of food poisoning. But alas, I'll buy more flander when I go food shopping tomorrow. Fucking clot.