“Three of these kids belong together, three of these kids are kind of the same. But one of these kids is doing her own thing, now it’s time to play our game” Sesame Street
It was Easter Sunday, and we had made reservations at a very swanky Easter brunch at the Trump golf course in Palos Verdes. It’s unlike us to spend silly money on stuff like that and even though we knew D wouldn’t eat a thing, (which he did not) we decided to splurge and have a fun outing as a family. There would be other kids, and an Easter egg hunt and bunny and all that and we knew he would enjoy it. So we decided to go for it.
We arrived and were seated at our lovely table, and in typical Rhonica fashion, I was ravenous upon entering the building, so I went to get some food for me and attempt to find something Declan would eat (complete fail on that front). Tom was perfectly happy to get started on the bottomless mimosas (I had already agreed to be the driver) so he stayed with D while I hit the buffet. About three seconds into walking into the dining room, I remembered that I had forgotten my heels in the car and was still wearing the flip flops I wore to drive there. And it’s not exactly the kind of place where most of the women wear flip flops, let alone a dress from Target, which I was wearing because it was loose and flowy and somewhat managed to hide the fertility drug bloat I was sporting (more on that later.) Anyway, I’m self consciously browsing the buffet in my flip flops and Target’s finest when I hear, “Rhonica? Is that you?” She was the wife of an ex-boyfriend’s good friend, whom I had known for years while I was dating my ex. She’s a perfectly lovely person and has always been nothing but nice to me, but I’ve always felt somewhat uncomfortable around her. We’re just very different. She’s always all Chanel on Hermes on Prada and I’m… Target on Old Navy flip flops. And not to mention that she owns a fitness studio, so she’s always in amazing shape, and I suddenly became very aware of my chubby Clomid face that was only accentuated by the fact that I had recently gotten the grand idea to chop 6″ off my hair. Not my finest moment, appearance-wise. Continue reading One of These Things is Not Like the Others