Oh Posh.

When I heard that your next baby is going to be a girl, I rolled my eyes. Not because I am unhappy that you are finally adding some of that good old double X into the family, but because I thought, great, now I’m going to have to sit there and compare what my daughter is wearing against what your daughter is wearing.

And really, since you have about a gazillion more dollars than I do, I’m thinking your daughter is going to wind up in the winner’s column more often than not. Today I was just happy that she had an outfit that matched and was clean so that we could go to the park without me looking like I haven’t done the laundry in four days. Uhhh, that would be allegedly.

But I’ve always had a little something against you, and I’m certainly always ready to make fun of you and your naked public displays and your penchant for wearing high heels in what seem to be inappropriate situations.  I actually haven’t even scratched the surface with those posts, actually, but I’ve only got so much time in the day, you know?

To be honest, I’d sort of forgotten about you a little bit.  The news about your baby girl has put you back in the spotlight, to be sure. But how could I forget the face that portrays some of the most dour expressions I’ve ever seen?  Who could not love that face, even just a little bit?

You claim to really be a million laughs and just a regular gal, despite your cars worth a hundred grand or so with your husband’s jersey number monogrammed on the headrests and all of your designer duds and bling.

Listen, the only way you could convince me you are just a run of the mill soccer mom is if I were to open up the door of your family-toting vehicle and find that just like me, there are old water bottles, cheap prizes won at the local fair, and socks with no matches floating around on the floor.  Just like mine.

Until then, a woman like you, with a man like this, ain’t no regular gal.

*If you think Posh is just the bee’s knees, then consider this a royal “we.”