Cinderella Has Cellulite

by Donna Arp Weitzman

  “Not to worry, my precious Lover,” He may whisper. “You can change the house however you want. I want it to be yours!”

  These are the famous last words to a Last Wife’s ears. Take some advice from those who have been there. Tread as lightly as an army sergeant traversing the weeds in Cambodia. There is a buried explosive device ready to detonate if you so much as move his jock strap!

  If you settle in his man cave, expect complications.

  Which family portraits get the bigger spotlight, the best places in the house? Do images of the Ex stay? Will their bygone Disney vacation pics enjoy a permanent place in the hall? Where do the newest snapshots of you two squeeze in?

  Don’t attempt to replace any pictures without his expressed approval, even if they are of his 1968 prom sweetheart’s bouffant or his frat brother smoking a reefer in holey underwear. Pictures are sacred—but only the ones taken before you, Last Wife. If morning after morning you sit down to a peaceful breakfast and stare at the same photo frame housing his former goateed brother-in-law and his Last Wife’s nephew, say a daily prayer: “I will learn to love these strangers. I will, I will . . . ”

  If Lover Boy insists on living at your place, the rules are simple. Question his loyalty first, his asset base second. Don’t be fooled when He readily gives up the apartment He shared with the last Honey so He can easily settle in with you. Yours is a man of questionable loyalty.

  This sucker is not bagged yet. In fact, you must be aware that you might be the next Last Girlfriend.

  You may wonder if your highly mobile Inamorato will surge from your coop with a curious look in his eye whenever a new wave of comely chickens flies over. Does the least flutter ruffle his feathers? Your Man may be suffocating in the trees you call home. Some men need to soar like an eagle (if only to swoop down on the next unsuspecting victim).

  Watch for the telltale signs of commitment during the coupling stage. When you suggest you should leave some things at his house, and He temporarily stops breathing, you can bet there is another Chickadee sleeping in the nest or circling the tree above. If He’s going to see “old friends” in Palm Springs, or heading to another Big Twelve weekend, keep your roving eyes roving. You have competition! This sucker is not bagged yet. In fact, you must be aware that you might be the next Last Girlfriend.

  Question his loyalty first, his asset base second.

  Just when you think your relationship is getting hotter and He pours you another glass of wine, He may slyly add, “I think we both need some space.” This means your Wily Coyote is searching for new prey, or worse yet, He already has another female deer in his sights. If you are smart and not too blind to his insidious plan, you will agree that He does need his space. And, Honey, you will need yours, too. Make room in your nest for the next one. You can bet the sky is full of them—you just need to grab your binoculars and get in the path of the next Eagle’s eye!

  Whatever you decide to do, please don’t change the name on the gas bill. It could get mighty cold in your domicile, and I predict the current Cad won’t be there long!

  In Star Wars, Princess Leah, dressed in flowing white caftans, won the heart of Luke Skywalker. Her journey to love wasn’t easy, laden with battles and narrow escapes on many occasions. Somehow, the Princess kept her air of grace and strength (and cinnamon bun curls) intact, knowing Darth Vader and the Evil Empire lurked just beyond her Kingdom.

  But that was the movies. When it comes to modern romance, the Evil Empire is formed by a crafty potpourri of characters—members of The Women That Didn’t Get Him Club! This seething coterie began to gel as each one turned to her favorite casserole recipe in her loose-leaf binder. Each one dreamed of walking in your ruby red slippers one day. As they boldly asked their friends to set them up, they felt certain they could take it from there.

  Waiting patiently as He finalized his last divorce, each one pondered the exact best timing to pounce like a frenzied tigress. They fret that He may soon be out there frolicking with some nameless harlot while they are home stoking the fire just to keep their flame from extinction. Day after day, they pull off another calendar page . . . has it been long enough?

  Soon, they sense a shadowy figure is swirling around their intended kill. It’s you, the soon-to-be Last Wife! “Darn! She’s already got a lock on him,” they hiss. “Foiled again!”

  At their informal encounters during various social gatherings, they circle like vultures looking for weakened prey.

  Although their unseemly intentions are hidden from the rest of the world, they form a devious union, The Women Who Didn’t Get Him Club. The members endure their disappointment in silence until one utterance spews forth at your wedding reception, “She sure moved in fast!” They all nod in agreement and ceremoniously rip a cuticle hoping to extract a small drop of blood and seal the deal as blood sisters. Their one goal? To uncover and flaunt the weaknesses of the One Who Got Him to the world. The cause is bigger than just your circle of influence; the entire universe must know.

  At their informal encounters during various social gatherings, they circle like vultures looking for weakened prey. They smile as they wish you well. “How’s it going?” they ask. All the while, they are wishing for a tsunami to swallow you up. If by chance you are taken out, they may yet have another turn at the trough.

  Their one goal? To uncover and flaunt the weaknesses of the One Who Got Him to the world.

  “Can it really be so? I lost out again?” they cry, trying not to think about how they missed another one. The furrows in their foreheads deepen as they spend their nights worrying over their fate.

  “Let me be next!” they pray. “I must not, I will not let another get away.”

  Whose kids are these, anyway? Your steps, his steps, adopted steps? Doesn’t matter. Just beware: repeated stomping on your toes produces giant blisters. Whoever coined the term, “stepchildren” must have been bleeding profusely from the wounds inflicted by the little Darlings. The first thing to determine as you are eye-balling your Prince, dreaming of the Princess crown, is what strategy his kids are scheming in regards to you. Detour? Delay? Denial? Or the most noble game of all . . . Derail?

  Now, if you have been warned about their bloodline, don’t be a blind fool. Is there a plan to knock you off because you’re bold enough to risk getting near the golden cushion? Are they the nieces and nephews of Godzilla, or are they truly the cherubs of a goddess? You need to be careful, even if they sing your praises to the heavens and fly on gilded wings. Jeweled scabbards can hold switchblades, and diamond-crusted bullets still sting.

  No Last Wife, regardless of her celebrated attributes, can come close to their Sainted Mother. Don’t even try. Think of yourself as the Mother of the Groom at every family event. Regardless of the nature of the feast, you are expected to sit a lot, smile a lot, and shake your head up and down a lot.

  Recalling your past losers, they want to know what this joker’s like.

  Remember, beige is the color wheel as far as your wardrobe is concerned. If you have any Victoria’s Secret stash left over from the romantic phase between you and their father, better that it stays in a locked closet with the lavender-scented shelf liner. Wear armor around the house. I suggest baggy clothes, showing no hint of cleavage unless yours happen to flop. Shaking and flopping are both good and desirable stepmother assets. Above all, never let a clever or engaging moment surface. Those slips can be mighty damaging. And brains? No brains. Brains are not a good thing.

  Ah, you think, but ours could be a later-in-life fairy tale. “There will be no problems,” you’ve already assured each other. “Our children are grown.” However, grown children (though possessing scattered gray hairs and facial wrinkles) do not ensure familial bliss. In fact, the mind games played at this level can be more honed and devious.

  Above all, never let a clever or engaging moment surface.

  Your own children may worry their mom is making a big mistake, but they think, “We can’t tell her a single thing.�
� Recalling your past losers, they want to know what this joker’s like. Your Angel daughter may roll her eyes as she tells her friends, “I have to meet Mom’s new boyfriend on Sunday.” She still doesn’t understand “why Mom had to leave Dad” and she feels sorry for him. “Well, I will be nice,” she vows, “but nobody is as good as Daddy. Sometimes I hate my mother!”

  If your sons are meeting their PNF (Potential New Father), they are more likely to be a little easier on him. Can He shoot a few baskets, and does He watch football? That’s all they need to know. It’s a real plus if He has a great media room where they can crash and watch ESPN. Besides, if their dad is the kind that is always out chasing women their age, having a father around the house (doesn’t matter whose house) might not be so bad.

  The ultimate insult cuts deep: “And never will she get one of the family recipes!”

  Prepare to be inspected like a mixed breed at the Westminster Dog Show by all of his kids. They may opine something like, “I don’t see what He sees in Her. Mom is so much classier.” Or it may come straight out as, “She just wants his money” (understand this is the case even if He is a flat broke womanizer with a bad toupee).

  It’s a real plus if He has a great media room where they can crash and watch ESPN.

  “I will have to say hello when she’s around,” one may confess. “But never, ever am I going to go out of my way to talk to her.” “I will just stay in another room at family gatherings,” vows another. The ultimate insult cuts deep: “And never will she get one of the family recipes!”

  His grown sons may whistle something to the tune of, “Hey, did you see Dad’s new girlfriend? Scary!” Or if you’re reasonably pretty, “Hey, did you see Dad’s new girlfriend? Wow, what does she see in him?”

  Welcome to the family!

  While ascending to the position of the Last Wife, you just know there are sooooo many happy times ahead! One of the pleasantries you most look forward to is introducing your own genetic perfection into the mix.

  “My children . . . ” Doesn’t the sound of saying it bring warm thoughts to mind? My little ones. The girls. My boys. The family. You know you’ve already produced the perfect family. (Their father, your ex-husband, that’s a different story . . . but, like Scarlett, you will think about that another day.)

  There is no doubt in your mind that everyone on his side (don’t be fooled, this is a wrestling match with everyone jockeying for the best position) will instantly adore your little Shirley Temple. When they welcome your fair-haired Opie into their arms, you will feel as if you are finally in Mayberry. Aunt Bea will come through the door any minute with a fresh-baked cobbler and ask, “Who’s hungry?” Or was that a scream from your Betrothed’s mother, “She has kids?”

  On the appointed day, you attempt to introduce his family (which you affectionately know as the Little Hellions) to your Angels. His brood looks treacherous. How dare they stare at your Goldilocks as if she is Honey Boo Boo? And your Little Prince is treated like Edward Scissorhands! Deep down in your gut, you feel a twinge that is not due to acid reflux. You suspect a battle is brewing. Still, you think that if you masquerade your voice into a Mary Poppins singsong, surely everyone will eventually be genuinely delighted with the new set-up.

  Meanwhile, you are wondering exactly where your Pillar went.

  It’s beginning to dawn on you how that nasty last, Last Wife has set you up. “Just because Daddy is remarrying, you do not have to like those Little Aliens,” she must have preached to her children. “No matter how nice they are to you, it is fake. Do you want to have no Daddy?”

  The brainwashing continues, “Daddy’s New Wife is just trying to replace you, and Daddy is letting it happen. Maybe with my help, you and Mommy can make them go away.” “You are so strong,” she tells them, “just like your Mommy. Now go out there and fight! Don’t look at them. And surely don’t talk to them.”

  How dare they stare at your Goldilocks as if she is Honey Boo Boo?

  Meanwhile, you are wondering exactly where your Pillar went. Your Rock turns into putty even as his kids declare WWIII. He can only defend his children in a whiny voice, “They take a while to warm up. Honey, they will be okay.” What about your Darlings? What did they do to have to defend their country? They aren’t even old enough for the draft.

  Your private Heaven has now become more like Dante’s Inferno. You tell yourself things will be better if only you can get your Beloved away from the misfits. “They must be just like their mother . . . hateful and spiteful. Clearly, they could not have anything but the tiniest of sperm from the Man I Love.” Gurgle, gurgle. Once again, your acid reflux is bubbling up.

  By law, you may have a new sister, a new family. It could be his sister, Her sister-in-law or sisters-in-law of the precious stepsons and stepdaughters. Or it could be a sister-in-law of a sister-in-law. Should I go on? Regardless of the configuration, there are many types of in-laws and some have had several faces. There are three basic kinds:

  Organic. She is merely a split chromosome and has the same soul of your Soulmate. Therefore, she must protect her genes at all cost. If possible, she works to be a she-he clone of him. She often brags at the spring tea, “My brother and I are sooooo close.” Translation: there is no air left for you to breathe, Cinderella!

  Expect a dagger hidden somewhere in her Louis Vuitton. She has used it before and will use it again if anyone tries to suck blood from her Precious One. The ire and pain she can inflict is often compared to that inflicted by General Patton: it hurts long and hard. As the Germans learned at considerable expense, the General will roll over anyone. Eva Braun, the longtime companion of Hitler, and Cinderella are the same easy target—they can both be wiped out with a single blow.

  She wears a saintly smile because she knows, but ceases to warn the new kid on the throne, that this is gonna get ugly!

  The Competitive One. This relative is the most interesting. Often Chanel clad, impeccably attired, and scheming for her place in the family tree, she thrives on the memories of her home life as a child with your Adored. Unfortunately, she harbors hate and resentment because her brother treated her badly and picked on her just because the bully could.

  What’s more, she is still mad at her neglectful mother who always loved him more. No one understands her pain. You, the newest entry into her tortured world, can be of use. She sees you as an ally, one who can suffer alongside her. You must be warned about his past. Perhaps together you can mount a campaign to reveal his warts to the world, since God knows He has fooled everyone up to now. You need her like you need the dagger from the Organic’s precious leather tote.

  The situation is akin to the Art of War strategy. When you are ahead, dominate. When behind, retreat. Believe me, if you fall behind, your status will be at the back of the bus with the toilet. If that happens, go there, lock the door, and chant Buddhist musings about peace and love while you gather your thoughts!

  You, the newest entry into her tortured world, can be of use.

  The Invisible One. There are those rare times that the new sister-in-law becomes a quiet supporter. She remembers how it was for the first Last Wife and possibly the second Last Wife. She wears a saintly smile because she knows, but ceases to warn the new kid on the throne, that this is gonna get ugly!

  “Let’s all get along,” says Mother Teresa as she sets out the Monopoly board on the center of the dining room table.

  She is truly a Godsend! This is not an overstatement. If the Invisible One always has your back, don’t blow it! Stay at her side when the Organic says, “You are sooooo lucky to have my brother. Every woman in town was after him!” Grab her hand for support when the Competitive One slithers over to you in her newest Armani and says, “I think I wear a smaller size than you. You need my latest diet.”

  Cinderella may be whacked time and again, but the Invisible One will simply smile at you as she imparts her wisdom, “Honey, I know you can take it.”

  If your Prince is a highly endowed trust fund
baby, remember what Jackie Onassis professed when questioned on her marriage to a distasteful little Greek man. She informed inquiring minds that Ari resembled Paul Newman when perched on his stacks of greenbacks! If the banks refer to your Beloved as the heir or the spare, you can bet that a bespectacled, hunchbacked CPA and several bloated trust attorneys are working overtime to burst your dreams of a Maserati. “Don’t worry,” declare their secret emails, “a five-year-old C Class Mercedes will be the best she can hope for!”

  If the nest is to be feathered with his stash, expect a list of approved expenditures. The trust fund does not trust you, and you may find it untrustworthy as well. Excessive purchases upset the equilibrium of the beast, forcing it to tap you on the shoulder. Whether through a tersely worded note or your credit card being declined at Trader Joe’s, enough is enough. When pushed to the limit, the money always wins; and never forget, Holly Golightly, Tiffany’s can’t be yours when it is his!

  If, however, you are the fortunate one and the millions are yours because your hardworking immigrant father scratched someone’s eyes out for it, you will need to be clear to the money-grubbing Opportunist. It is only fair to warn him that she who has the money makes the rules. I feel pretty . . . oh, so pretty!