Last night I went out with British Lizzie, one of my new yummy mummy girlfriends. I met her through a step aerobics class when baby was just a bump in my belly. The class teacher kept going on about how there was someone she really wanted me to meet, another English mother who lived locally, and that we were sure to become good friends. I muttered under my breath “Just because she’s English, doesn’t mean we’re going to get on”. For goodness sake! There are stacks of people in the UK that I absolutely despise. Toffs and Tories for a start.
I wasn’t keen on being thrown together with some random Brit, but I forced out a smile and agreed to go out one afternoon for tea. And I’m pleased to report it wasn’t so bad after all. Turns out being a Brit in America is quite the bonding experience. Being a new mummy Brit, doubly so. We have stacks in common, like the Beeb for a start.
Lizzie looks exactly like the sort of woman I’m not. She’s tall, long blond hair, stunningly beautiful, immaculately turned out, super fit, super skinny, and also minted. She has fantastic teeth, which I must say isn’t very English of her. She must have had her teeth done over here.
Lizzie turned up to dinner last night looking like a super model, and I turned up looking like the cleaner. I try hard, I really do, but I can’t seem to control my hair, I don’t have time to do my make-up and I’m still wearing my maternity clothes. Nothing else fits, and I can’t bring myself to go out and buy clothes that are two sizes too large. I’d rather go and get liposuction.
Lizzie likes her booze, which I must say is very English of her. She no sooner slugged down half a glass of wine, when the waitress came over and asked if she’d like another glass, to which Lizzie quipped: “Just because I’m English, doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic”. Yeah, right, Lizzie. Pull the other leg, it’s got bells on.
She studied the menu, and I studied her, and asked casually “what are you going to have?” She responded: ”I don’t know yet, I’m looking for the dish that has the lowest calorific value”. I noticed that she had one slice of bread to my four, and then ordered a tiny side salad and an itsy-bitsy starter of tuna carpaccio, which is the thinnest bit of tuna I’ve ever seen. More like a piece of tuna tracing paper. She didn’t eat all her food, and she picked at it like a bird.
I took notes and watched carefully, because I want to look like Lizzie, in the same way that I want to look like Angelina Jolie. But there’s no way I can eat like those birds and still nurse my baby. Mothers who look that good have got to be bottle feeding formula to their baby. Since I’m running the milk factory around here, I have to make sure I keep pumping the high quality, fatty, nutrient-rich milk for baby bun-buns, or he would suffer, or more likely I would suffer, as baby takes what he needs from my body.
I need my teeth and organs intact, thank you very much, and so with great gusto I ordered a large sea-bass with extra potatoes and vegetables, a large dinner salad, a mojito (I’m English after all) and then stocked up on bread. Which is why Lizzie stays so slim, and I stay porky.
