One of our guest writers, Outlaw, posted a blog entitled “Fairfield County Wives – What Recession???” that apparently touched nerve with a particular group of women folk. Can you guess which group? Anyhoo… A very angry Stepford wife, who must have finished up her household chores ahead of schedule, took the time to write a doozy of a rebuttal that I felt was well worth pulling off the comments and posting in on it’s own. Enjoy the venom. -Dopey
Dear Outlaw,
On behalf of the greater Greenwich Ladies Married to Wall Street Assholes committee, I would like to begin by saying thank you. Your piece was certainly heartfelt and I am sure in your small brain it made decent sense. But allow me to propose a rebuttle to your argument. You are no super catch and are easily replaceable. While you lament to your friends about how much it sucks that your nagging wife does nothing while you slave away at work to pay for stuff you don’t want perhaps you should consider another viewpoint. Working for you at home is no treasure. Imagine doing laundry for a fat manbaby who is near constantly eating heavy fare, consuming excessive amounts of booze, enduring stress, and crying the whole time. Let’s just say it doesn’t make for very tidy whitey tighteys. And no your clothes don’t wash themselves. And while you think you could be the next George Clooney, let’s face it if you didn’t make money you would be married to a three toothed bowser somewhere in central Florida in a trailer collecting cans for a living.
Next is your physical appearance. Claim whatever you like but a stressful job is by no means license to turn into a bowling pin. Honestly when we attend events with your coworkers and other peers it is often hard to distinguish you guys. A legion of miserable khaki and checkered schlubs who have only one or two identifiable differentiating factors inside or out, primarily your outsized guts. My friends and I often giggle when the girth of our respective husband’s stomachs is the only way to pick them out in a crowd from a distance. Alternatively we can also use your receeding hairlines or bald spots to identify you. Tragic right? But honestly there aren’t many differences. Clothes don’t work, looking at you in packs on the weekends is like living in an Average Joe meets Vineyard Vines sample sale world. And weekdays are no better, then it is like the Brooks Brothers vomited preppy a la Jackson Pollack. Not sure about my ladies in kind but a chubby hubby dressed like my grandfather was never my teenage dream.
By the way Jackson Pollack is an artist and not the type who put the tattoo on your favorite West Side stripper. Speaking of strippers, we love when you have business with clients and we find you at 2am face down in a pile of pastrami on the kitchen floor floundering and jabbering covered in glitter. Then you try to make up some absurd story about how it happened. This is actually delightful, hearing a drunken hungry porpoise with dirty undies and mustard on his face try to explain his circumstance. Fortunately for you, you frequently can’t utter syllables in a clear enough way to make sense. One of these times we might just let you put the metal in the microwave and incinerate yourself. And don’t worry, when your son sees his dad face down we make up a cover story (daddy must be having a reaction to his new medicine) lest our son meet the real you.
We have long since given up hope and actually enjoy these kitchen nights as we can watch our favorite celebrity male parade around on TV (not looking like a giant pear). And while you complain of us not being sexy anymore, imagine laying under yourself. Really romantic. We try our best to stay thin for you but it isn’t enough. Which is frustrating because then you complain about paying for our classes. Which leads to a whole other topic, money.
We know you complain we pay for classes and clothes and things, but we do this to look good for you and to have a nice lifestyle. Isn’t that why you went to Wall Street anyway? I doubt any of you signed up to be losers. And when is the last time you bought a Hyundai or a pair of dockers? You guys all follow the Gucci code. Nice shoes by the way, really original. So anyway, why should we have to lowball the lawn furniture or the interior decor? Why don’t you buy used golf clubs? Or order fish or eat a salad instead of a porterhouse with bacon and crabcakes. Or more importantly stop spending our son’s tuition on some hussy who calls herself Destiny but is really named Consuela and just smeared rancid VD all over your pantleg which we will have to wash.
And so what we want a nice home, you want milk crates and a futon? You might say yes but please you are so high maintenance you have no idea. Go ahead, divorce us and have fun working at Sonic and living in a trailer, bet that works out for you longer term. And try taking care of a minature version of yourself. Frankly if our son doesn’t wind up shooting from a belltower or joining al qaeda, with allyour wonderful influence, it will be a miracle. As for shopping, you knew we were high maintenance when you married us. Did you really think a 2.5+ct ring and a honeymoon in Tahiti would be the pinnacle of our desires. even you guys aren’t that dumb. Finally, we aren’t sleeping with the Pilates instructor (he is gay) or the lawnman (he is dirty) we are sleeping with your unemployed trader friend Bill. Keep talking about your key parties to your buddies while we get it done on the weekdays (and without dropping 7 grand in some sleazy mob establishment).
So get back to work, stop droning on about your problems, make some money, and for god’s sake join a gym.
–The ladies of Fairfield County
