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Monday, May 30, 2011

The REAL Real Housewives

So I've been spending a lot of useful time uselessly watching the various "Real Housewives of...." series'.  It's my drug of choice when it's too early in the day to indulge in vodka or wine.

Love me some "reality" TV - albeit a little unrealistic reality for most of us


After much viewing, I've made a few astute observations :

Firstly and foremostly : What exactly about these women warrants the use of the words REAL and HOUSEWIFE in the same sentence?

Granted, they are semi-real (75% real 25% plastic - of the surgery variety).

They are indeed semi-housewives (they are wives, they live in house-castles).

But, that's about where it ends - on a general scale of generalisations.

I consider myself to be a REAL HOUSEWIFE.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but there are some definite differences between the Hollywood version of a Real Housewife and my version of a REAL Real Housewife....


Please note : I did not say a REAL GOOD HOUSEWIFE.

I don't have a chauffeur, I do all of my own dodgy and distracted road-rageish driving.  In a second-hand station wagon.  With multiple child-induced food stains on the interior, and a number of 'near miss' scrapes on the exterior.  It's not a shiny, flashy, impressive parental pimpmobile.  It's never been washed more than a few times (and only when #1 Hubby gets sprung washing his work car, and I therefore demand he also spray the hose over the car in which his beloved children are ferried around).

I don't have a walk-in-robe the size of a small island nation.  In fact, I don't even have a house-castle.  To compare the walk-in-robes of the alleged Real Housewives to my own abode : my kids' bedrooms aren't even as big as their closets.  And I have 2 kids sharing one of those rooms (gasp...shock horror...etc etc).

I don't call on an army of professionals every time I'm going to step foot out the door.  There is no hairdresser, make up artist, or personal stylist - none of that.  For those of you who know me, I realise this will come as a mega shock, as I always appear so polished and stylised - what with my semi-afro frizzball hair and standard issue uniform of ill-fitting jeans and white  stained to grey  Tshirts.

I am 100% real.  Of zero plastic content.  No, really - this largish nose is my own.  These Mummy boobs you see  if you direct your attention downwards  are all mine.  But I am one trillion percent open to the plastic if anyone wants to offer it up philanthropic style.

I don't have a cleaner.  Another glaringly obvious point if you'd ever been to my place.

My kids don't spend their days with a Nanny.  Unless you count the plastic Ronald McDonald in the Macca's playground.  He does most of the grunt work on the parenting front when I'm in residence at Macca's, as I'm busy hogging the free newspapers and Wifi while mainlining the cheap caffeine.  It is not unusual to find my kids sitting next to him having deep and touching heart-to-heart type discussions  that they probably should be having with me.


My kids don't drink from crystal glassware.  Actually, neither do I.  For the same reason I wouldn't allow my 2yr olds to.  Although, to be fair, they are already showing signs of co-ordination far superior to my own.

Also - and I apologise sincerely to my family for this one - I do all the cooking in my household.  There is no chef, no expensive order-in service, no regular trips to fancy shmancy restaurants.  And I'm not apologising to my family because I'm a poor cook.  I'm actually quite good at it, really.  Only, not since the invention of the interverse have I been able to maintain concentration on cooking a meal for long enough to have it find its way to the table;

a) properly cooked and not singed/burnt/cremated as I wander off to check my Twitter or Facebook while the food simmers  boils out of control.

b) with all components on the plate and not forgotten in a pot or the oven

c) hot.  All dishes.  At the same time.  It's generally a 'pick one item and hope for the best' situation, since the death of our beloved microwave (RIP) and my idiotic stance on trying to live without one of the world's greatest ever inventions.

And most importantly, I am almost always seen in possession of one, two, or all three of my children.  For real.  And when I say in possession - I do not mean walking 10 paces ahead, with a Nanny in tow lugging my kids or pushing the pram.

I admit, I may sound a tad bitter.  But I'm really not.  I'm actually just a Real Envious Housewife.

Amen sister!

2 comments:

  1. I bet your kids are happier than theirs :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. True.  They've just spent an entire long weekend being entertained by a $5 tube containing playdoh and shape cutters.

    ReplyDelete

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