All Hail the Princess Mom!

The Princess's Carriage

My niece recently wrote a post on Douchebag Dads. It’s a nice skewering of those fuckers who are paid lots of money and act like a bunch of privileged pricks.  I deal with a lot of DDs. How do they play golf on Tuesdays? They’re salesmen. Those motherfuckers get paid oodles of cash for taking clients out to "dinner" which usually involves at least one girl named Montage and one named Cherry.

But I digress.

A Daily Dose of Nastiness 

However, it got me thinking about their female partners: The Princess Mom.

The Princess mom drives a gigantic, expensive SUV, usually a Land Rover or a Suburban while texting her “gurlz” about their upcoming Wine Night with one hand and sipping her Venti decaf soy five-pump raspberry no-whip extra horseshit mocha from Starbucks with the other. She doesn’t pay attention to the kids in the backseat, she just pops in a DVD of whatever cultural ratshit the kids are into these days because she can’t be bothered to interact with them. That is if she doesn’t have a nanny. Besides, mommy has to talk to her gurlz (not her silicone funbags) about their upcoming trip to Cancun and where they can score some weed so they can party like they did at ASU.

Her skin is always a golden hue as if she just returned from Acapulco and her lips are plumped up like a kosher hot dog. She gets “push presents” for popping out the kids and is probably munching the rug of the next door neighbor’s wife or blowing the hot looking guy that cleans her pool.  She wears WAY too much jewelry and spends her time at the tennis club/gym/pilates studio/yoga farm/gyrotronics chamber trying to stay in shape for a husband who is always “at the office.” She goes to Whole Foods to make it look as if she knows how to cook. Goodness knows she doesn’t eat. She needs to stay in shape for her fuckstick husband and to keep her monthly “upkeep allowance” for Botox and Juvederm. Besides she just bought a pair of $500 bedazzled True Religion jeans at Nieman’s to show off her waxed and vajazzled lady cave. Anyway, her trainer is ripped and HOT and any time spent away from the kids is a good time. She wishes her husband looked like Ramon at the gym rather than a balding khaki–clad Jim Belushi.

Fantasy vs Reality

The Princess Mom annoys the shit out of me by using the word gift as a verb and saying a-MAH-zing while they discuss how smart their brain damaged, smack-addled progeny are, or how much it costs each year for said offspring to attend private school, at which both will have their first gay experience. She hasn’t worked a real job since she got out of college, knows all the best plastic surgeons and debates endlessly about shoes, bolt-on breasts, her tennis coach, her frenemies and cupcakes/macarons/whatever food fad is going at that day. She keeps Xanax in a PEZ dispenser, and likes to wash them down with swigs of box-aged  Chardonnay she buys at Costsco by the pallet. She keeps it in her eco-friendly aluminum water bottle she bought at REI.

She know as some point her looks will fade and her husband will dump her for another woman, but by then, the kids will be grow. But that’s okay. She’ll take him for half of everything, be sad for about a year, and then hook up with Ramon.