For decades, these vixens of venture capital investors have roamed the Alphabet streets, maintaining their persona of perfection. Oh you pretty little gold diggers, with your double and (sometimes even triple!) wide $4000 strollers and your Gucci diaper bags all for your ugly baby. Juicy Baby can’t hide that face. When not cougaring around for your next play toy you are jogging around Bridgeport in your coordinating Lucy activewear after morning yoga/erotic dance classes. Immediately after this, you grace Peets Coffee where you will hold up the line with your half-caff, non fat, sugar-free half vanilla and half hazelnut latte order while you shuffle through you Louis Vuitton looking for coordinating wallet.
You park your Maserati next to me at Albertson’s then glare at me while I get into my moderately priced SUV as you load your organic veggies and strawberry Go-gurt into what was once considered a fine piece of Italian engineering and has now been caged and turned into your grocery getter. Country Club Road is clogged with your Escalades and Hummers in pearl white and I-try-to-hard yellow (respectively). You consistently travel at least 5-10 miles under the speed limit. All of this just to say ‘Look at me! I’m so rich I am a better person than you’.
Manzana happy hour you say? Sounds great! Plans are instantly foiled because you all have been there since 2pm. Why? Because you don’t work. Why would you? Your father, I mean hubby is OLD and has money and therefore a job is simply out of the question. You have more important things to do. Like Manis and martinis with your token favorite gay friend from SE!