Last night I was watching “The Real Housewives of Miami”. Yes, I clearly have no life. This is my form of entertainment. As the nauseating parade of expensive cars, homes, and jewels flashes on the television screen, I’m thinking, “Who’s reality is this?”
Of course, if they filmed my reality (or any other single mother’s reality), it would be a stark contrast to what’s portrayed as “real” on TV. First of all, it wouldn’t be called the “Real Housewives”. It would be titled, “The Real Single Mom’s Rental Townhouse and Nine to Five Job in Middle America”. Not exactly glamorous and sexy.
Next, the cameras would pan past my eight year-old sedan and me striking a pose in my new Kohl’s outfit. With my daughter holding one hand and groceries dangling from the other, the voice over would say, “Pulled in many directions during the day, but savoring the buy 1 get one free meal at night.”
The episode would unfold with me rushing to get my kid ready for school, cursing at the mustard I squirted on my five year-old shirt while preparing my lunch. Fast forward to work. I’m eating said sandwich while discussing the office politics and going over my co-workers latest sad batch of match.com “potentials”.
On the drive home, instead of heading to the spa or country club, I stop by the local Aldi to purchase groceries and redeem my coupon at the gas station for a free soda and chips. If this isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what is.
So, to those of you “fancy-pants” executives who think that your obnoxious shows are reality, you can kiss my non-liposuctioned, struggling middle-class ass.
Confused Woman! 
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