I swear, half the times I sit down to read a columnist who has written a slice-of-life-to-prove-a-bigger-point piece I end up crying BULL-EFFIN'-S#*&! within five minutes.
The latest crock comes courtesy of the UK Telegraph (hat tip Vox) in an article called From Trophy Wife To Toxic Wife.
The supposed new trend is the trophy wife who turns into a lazy, selfish, shrewish super-bitch who will not do a shred of work around the house. There's basically no way to prove that this is an actual societal trend or just something the author dreamed up in a brainstorming session at Starbucks, so anecdotal evidence is presented to prove the case.
And in this case, the anecdotal evidence is clearly made up. It actually reads like a discarded script from Desperate Housewives:
The other day I nervously accepted an invitation for lunch with an old school friend. I felt daunted because, several years ago, she married a rich banker and I'd been dumped from her circle....
She led me into her kitchen, three times the size of my flat, and slid open a drawer. "How shoddy is that?" She was holding up a fork.
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, peering at it politely.
"Just look! It has a disgusting piece of encrusted mashed potato on it. I mean, it's so shoddy! She can't even unload a dishwasher. I'm really going to have to sack her. And guess what else I discovered this morning? When I opened the towel cupboard after my bath, I noticed that she'd stacked the pink towels amongst the white ones. Can you believe it?"
What made this conversation so scary was the fact that the terrified Filipina was in the room with us, hunched over a table slicing up bits of duck and foie gras for our lunch. "Juanita!" snapped Olivia. "This is your last chance. Do you understand me? You'll be back in Manila within the week? I couldn't possibly recommend you to anyone. Understand?"
"Yes Madam," she sniffed with a tremulous sob.
"And stop dripping your revolting bodily fluids over our lunch. Throw that away and start again. "
Horrified by her manner and the distressing scene, I asked her for a tour of her home. She had just moved into one of those massive houses in Chelsea Square. Rich folk tolerate people like me (ie, broke ones) only because we make them feel better about themselves.
"Would love to, darling," she drawled, "but first how about a drinkie-poo? Juanita! Open the champagne chilling in the wine fridge and bring it upstairs to the south drawing-room."
"Yes Madam," replied the poor slave.
Is there anyone on earth who thinks the above conversations actually took place? That they weren't invented to perfectly fit with the made-up trend?
Amazing.
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