I was completely shocked this morning when I showed up to my 5:30 a.m. boot camp only to see my neighborhood nemesis holding her exercise mat and stretching out her hamstrings.
“Oh, crap,” I muttered. “Like doing squats at dawn isn’t bad enough, now I have to deal with her?”
My disdain for this particular woman began last year when she sat next to me at a crowded PTA meeting. Trying to be friendly, I turned and said “hi,” and she quickly launched into an impassioned rant about how hard it is to pick the right color leather seats for your Range Rover. “I know it’s a tough decision,” I remember saying, “but maybe you should get tan seats so they won’t show all of the Dom Perignon and blood diamonds you spill when you’re toasting your incredible awesomeness.” (Okay, so maybe I just thought that.)
At any rate, it was then I decided to make her my Brand New Enemy. And mind you, this is not a title I take lightly. After all, one doesn’t earn that distinction by simply telling me that they saw someone on The Biggest Loser wearing the same skirtini as me or by forcing me to work double shifts at the little league snack stand. No, my nemesis has to be someone who I feel is an opponent worthy of my substantial skills.
Ever since junior high, I’ve fantasized about having a sparring partner—the Alexis to my Krystle, if you will. And over the years, I’ve searched long and hard for someone with whom I can trade witty, pointed barbs. For someone who’ll make my blood boil until I smash my scotch glass against the wall of my luxurious alpine chateau. For someone who’ll spend countless hours plotting my downfall only to ultimately realize that my life force is just too strong and therefore her only option is to sell her mink stoles on Craigslist and move to a double-wide in Skokie, Illinois where her dead body will later be found by an unsuspecting Census taker with a sensitive sense of smell.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Unfortunately, the closest I’ve ever come to this type of relationship was with the nemesis I had in college. (Let’s call her “Queen Latifah,” although I sincerely doubt she has any trace of royal blood in those cold, icy veins.) The Queen and I started off as friends until one night she told the bouncer at our favorite bar that my pink Arizona driver’s license that said I was a 32-year-old woman named “Consuelo” was fake. Then it was showtime.
For weeks we made snarky comments behind each others’ backs. We rolled our eyes when the other was talking to a professor. We even strongly considered sabotaging each others cars until we realized how much effort and technical knowledge that takes. Plus we didn’t want to get our Wham! tshirts greasy.
Finally, I realized that she wasn’t quite the nemesis I’d hoped for when we exchanged the following bon mots at a really wild keg party:
Me: So…fancy meeting you here, Queen Latifah.
QL: I live here, dumbass.
Me: Oh, yeah! Can I have a refill, please? But no foam—it makes me gassy. By the way, I love your futon!
Which brings us back to Miss Range Rover.
Ever since our first encounter, I’ve kept my eye on her. I tsk-tsked whenever she left her SUV idling in the school pick-up lane for an hour. I gleefully watched as she explained to the pissed-off soccer team why she forgot their snacks again. I told everyone I know that her claim that her boobs doubled in size due to “Pilates and healthy eating” was a crock of shit. And in my heart of hearts (or in, um, my imagination), I knew that the whole time I was watching her, she’d been busy watching every move I made, too.
So that’s why, when I saw her in the dark parking lot this morning, I was ready to rumble. I knew our verbal barbs might turn ugly. Nasty. R-rated, even. (But I was hoping our 5-pound dumbells wouldn’t get involved since she has much better upper body strength than I do.) Still, I hoisted my duffle bag on my shoulder and sauntered over to her mat with a cold gleam in my eye. “Why, hello there,” I said in a smooth, non-committal voice that I hoped sounded like Greta Garbo if she suffered from post-nasal drip. “Fancy meeting YOU here.”
As I held my breath waiting for her fierce, untethered response, she stood up, looked me right in the eye like she was having trouble remembering who I was, exactly, and then with a big, toothy smile she chirped, “Oh, hi, Mandy! How’s your accounting practice going? Have you been having a great summer with your twins?”
Yes, people. She’s that good.
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Brilliant.
I await footage of your gimlet and silk fueled tussle in the shallow fountain outside your manse.
Or showdown at Costco.
Please tell me that this story later involves you wearing a lovely chiffon frock with Dynasty shoulder pads?
I was hoping for a little bitch-slapping in the palace pool, but okay, I’ll settle for a little verbal mano y mano (and a whole lotta giggling from my little corner).
Sorry, all I could imagine was the two of you in Olivia Newton John type leotards and headbands, having a Jazzercise off.
It’s not your fault she got the upper hand. It was 5:30 in the morning. You could always suggest to the Boot Camp Drill Seargant that you all try javelin throwing next time. Then maybe she’ll accidentally on purpose get pricked in the “fun bags”. No amount of Pilates and healthy eating will help her then.
Oh… she is good. I have had my share of nemesises (nemisi?) as well. I always have at least one and they usually don’t know they are my nemesis. My current nemesis and I haven’t seen each other lately. I’ll have to get in touch.
Oh, the worst kind! The “kill ’em with syrupy kindness that fools everyone but you” kind.
I hate ’em. And my town is full of ’em.
Once again, I wished you lived across the street. *snif*
…”the Alexis to my Krystal…” – pure genious
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It’s hard to believe your opening line hasn’t changed after all these years. Ya gotta a get a new opener if you hope to win the battle of the barbs.
I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows another guy, who can help you out. You shall have your revenge.
Mandy – you are completely hilarious.
Oh she is good. You have to be carful with that one. She was obviously there to gather information, follow you daily routine and get inside your head so she can plot your down full. Before she can defeat you she must become you. It will be like the movie Face-Off. Don’t let it happen.
AAAaaaaaaargh! I could have killed her on the spot. With my well-tuned eyebrow raise.
Can you run by me again the mysterious reasons for 5:30am boot camp? I didn’t get it.
Neighbors. Hate neighbors. And mold. And spiders. But mostly neighbors.
Oh Mandy. You came and gave without taking. But she sent you away.
Oh Mandy. We’re laughing; can’t stop us from shaking.
And we need you!…
Maybe she knew what a Barry fan you are?!
and double shift at the Little League stand? that’s just down right mean! *Shudder*
I’m so sad that you’re not linking up to Word Up, Yo! even though you’ve used the Word of the Week, snarky.
See? Now I can be your nemesis. Your passive agressive, barb trading nemesis. Although let’s face it, that alpine chateau WILL be mine.
Don’t call her a prostitution whore unless you also call her a coke whore, cuz they go together. Good Luck!
A worthy opponent, wouldn’t that be heavenly? Enjoy…
Can’t wait to hear how encounter in neighborhood goes…you hang in there Mandy!!
I would suggest at the next 5:30am Boot Camp, your hello go a little something like this:
“Great to see you again! And hey – thanks for the recommendation of your surgeon. You are right, he’s pricey, but so worth it for a little nip and tuck to enhance “the girls”. Your before and after pics that he uses to show prospective patients reveal his amazing surgical craftmanship – he can truly work miracles with a scapel! He did mention you’d get $100 off your next procedure for referring me. He says he’s ready with your next shot of Botox or that “lady bits” tightening procedure you’ve been asking about. Thanks again.”
What Becky says!!
By god she’s an evil genius! She could tussle with James Bond (tussle in this case means give Daniel Craig a BJ). Also, I must agree with Marathon Mom, should you decide to go mano-y-mano with her you must call her both prostitution whore and coke whore; otherwise…copyright infringement and, well, you don’t need that added kerfluffel.
A worthy opponent, to be sure.
And as for the retort … “maybe you should get tan seats so they won’t show all of the Dom Perignon and blood diamonds you spill when you’re toasting your incredible awesomeness” … why can’t I think up something one tenth as good as this?
I’m still trying to get over the fact that you get up and go to boot camp.I sense this is only the beginning and look forward to future scenes that grow progressively more violent… range rovers, dumbbells, boot camp – the possibilities are limitless 🙂
This is so funny! Love it.
Oh, she is good. You better watch your back or you might end up like GI Jane.
She is just trying to get you off guard with the friendly chit chat. Before you know it, she’ll throw in a spiked barb so nasty you won’t know what hit you. I would have a repertoire of good zingers at my finger tips. I too am at boot camp that early so I know how tough it is to workout and be at your personal snarky best.
Oooohhh… She is goooood. Evil even. I hope you take her down. And what is with this boot camp still? You are way to dedicated to a tight ass to wake up at 5 am. Hope you are at least flaunting it in your bikini this summer! 🙂
Oooohhh… She is good. Evil even. I hope you take her down. And what is with this boot camp still? You are way to dedicated to a tight ass to wake up at 5 am. Hope you are at least flaunting it in your bikini this summer! 🙂
Never attribute to intelligence that which is adequately explained by stupidity.
I love a woman with enemies. It makes life so much more interesting, doesn’t it? And that paragraph starting with “Ever since junior high…?” That’s ready to be published. Right now. By itself. Leather, embossed jacket.
I’ve never had a true nemesis because of my pathetic and desperate need to be liked by everyone. The closest I came was my childhood nemesis – April Woolley. She made me do bad things, and I secretly hated her. Okay, that’s not really a nemesis, is it. I’m thinking I was more her…lackey. Well that’s just sad. Maybe I should try again. There’s this mom at school who always makes me listen to her stories about her families wine empire and her husbands prowess in bed. I could start a gossip campaign against her, and take her down…but no. Because then she might think I’m mean.
I’d be full of rage if my nemisis called me MANDY. [gasp] Oh, the horror.