A few months ago, I was sitting around the house with some of my friends trying to figure out what we should do with our imaginary PhD’s in Psychiatry from Harvard Med.
“I know!” yelled Kelcey. “Let’s write a textbook detailing the many, many forms of criminal insanity displayed on the show Bret Michaels: Rock of Love!”
“Nah,” said Marinka, slamming down her shot glass and wiping her mouth with her fist.”That won’t work because the only people who’d buy that stupid book are sitting in this room. Besides, then we’d all have nightmares about being ice-picked by a stripper named SinDee.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” muttered Jessica. “I know! Let’s work for Oprah! She would so totally hire us to be experts on her show as long as we agreed to agree with everything she said! Plus, I once sat next to Nate Berkus at Bennigan’s.”
“But, but…if we went to work for Oprah and made millions of dollars and became internationally famous, then how would we ever get all of our housework done?” moaned Heather. “You know how all of us love cleaning and cooking more than anything else in life!”
“True that,” said Kelcey.
“Uh-huh, I do loves me some Swiffer,” added Marinka.
“Well, then,” puzzled Jessica, “just how can we combine our counseling expertise…”
“With our badass domestic skills?” finished Heather.
“Hey, guys! I got it! I got it!” yelled a very youthful and really, quite stunning, me, from my recumbent position on the chaise lounge chair nearest the wet bar. “Now listen–all we have to do is just raise a few mil in venture capital, rent some hip, yet well-lit downtown office space, hire a few hundred obsequious employees, start a huge marketing campaign that makes no sense whatsoever but stars Ashton Kutcher and a colobus monkey, buy ten or more neon billboards on Sunset Boulevard, start massively infighting days before our big launch, but then right in the midst of the hair pulling, we weepily hug it out in the ladies room and…”
“Or,” sighed the rest of the women as they took away my wine glass and mercilessly tried to strangle me with my own Snuggie, “we could just start another blog, you dumbass.”
Oh. Yeah. That we could.
Just click on The Mouthy Housewives, see what we have to say, then leave a comment and maybe even submit a question or two. Trust me, you’ll be helping us all out because, between you and me, I really don’t think that Oprah gig’s gonna pan out.