She's my brother-in-law's wife.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
3 comments:
I call it ghetto toes. When the polish has rubbed off a bit at the tips and you don't have the time or desire to redo ALL 10 toes.
I totally want a wife like your sister in law. I don't aspire to her heights, I only wish to snag one for my very own.
I call these females Vanilla Women. They are plainly perfection and in my opinion, they are destroying society as much as MTV. They are always too full to eat, their sofas never have half chewed dog treats between the cushions and a small cup (never a cone) of vanilla ice cream at Baskin-Robbins will do fine.
Let's beat her up.
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