Can't Put a Price on Great Friends!
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Oh, For the Love of Money

Can't Put a Price on Great Friends!

Can’t Put a Price on Great Friends!

This past weekend one of my besties got married at the Renaissance Vinoy Resort in beautiful downtown St. Petersburg, FL.

I knew it was going to be a high class affair, and I also knew I’d be spending some time with my just married, child-free friends who still have money… and abs.

I prepared in every way possible. I bought a new dress (albeit a $24.99 dress from Forever 21), purchased new accessories, got my hair cut and a professional spray tan. Todd and I wanted to arrive a few hours before the wedding, so we could spend some quality time drinking adult beverages with our friends by the pool.

We pulled up to the Valet Parking at the hotel. This was the moment I’d been dreading.

We got out of our 2001 Toyota Camry  – carseat in the back, grape juice stains on the upholstry. Please ignore our growing collection of happy meal toys on the floorboard, I thought.

The Valet was compassionately pretending not to notice how lame we were. He politely took the keys and smiled.

I patted the hood. “Be good to her,” I said and winked at him.

At that moment I felt exactly like Cousin Eddie on Christmas Vacation when he told Clark Griswold he’d like to get him somethin’ real nice for Christmas.

I swallowed my pride and continued inside the grand entrance. Ahhh. A fresh start.

The pool was wonderful, our friends were wonderful, the Bloody Marys were wonderful and the wedding… was perfect.

The next morning we returned to the Valet to retreive our car. The same guy was working. Just my luck.

We turned in our ticket and waited. And waited. And waited. They must have parked that car at the Rays Stadium two miles away.

Suddenly amidst the Range Rovers and Bentleys, appeared the most beautiful car I’d ever seen. (No, not our 11-year-old Camry) but a red Lamborghini with tan leather interior. The engine purred.

The driver exited the vehicle. While he donned fancy Italian leather slippers, Seersucker shorts and a freshly pressed collard shirt, he was a chubby man (approx. 4-foot-11) with small patches of pubic-like hair on his head and chest.

His passenger, on the other hand, was breathtaking. Tall, blonde, tan, thin. She wore a red sundress with tan Manolos and a Birkin (was she intentionally matching the car?) She wasn’t a day over 25.

I imagine this man had a wife at one time. Probably a small Albanian woman who gave him four beautiful children. She’s overweight and tired.

I looked at the model passenger and turned to Todd, “Do you think she loves him?” I asked.

“No. But she loves that purse.”

Now, I’m not saying I wouldn’t do a few questionable things for a Classic Black Chanel Flap Bag, but screwing a small Albanian man isn’t one of them.

I realized that while I might be wearing a Lily Pulitzer dress from a consignment store, carrying a mom-sack from TJ Maxx, wearing Target sandals and driving an antique car, I have a great life. And a pretty hot husband.

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