Ballerina or Fireman

My friend Mauryia and I were discussing what we were going to be when we finally grew up. I suggested fireman, but she said ballerina. After shoving a smaller child in my ballet class, I was banned, so that was out. Turning to income-free ideas, we also had to narrow it down and consider if we should be whores, or nuns. She says 'Having sex with god is so not cool'. And I tend to agree. Plus, marrying god when you're an athiest - may not fly. I'll have to call the Pope and ask, but I'm thinking he's not in the mood.

But God...
Not now, Sara, I have a headache.

So I decided. I'm going to be a trophy wife.

I've got the Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker stuff down pat. What I need to work on is the trophy part. The part where I'm super-georgeous and don't know it. Also my celebrity knowledge (I'm going to subscribe to Star - that should do it) and designer labels. If I can't tell a Versace from a Chanel - then how can I scoff at those wearing last year's design? Gold chains are so last season. I'm so embarassed for you.

I hear I also need to buy a tiny dog. And a tiny dog carrier.

Most importantly, I need to get lots of Botox so my face can't move and lose 10 years in age. I think 32 is FAR too old for a trophy wife. The Malibu-enforced cap is 22.

I also should work on my party-face. You know, the one where you look genuinely interested in what the men are saying, and yet won't retain anything afterward when the DA calls to investigate insider trading?

Oh - and the best part? I'm getting the frontal lobotomy tomorrow. Watch out world! Here I....wait, what was I saying?