Application to Be on Real Housewives of Melbourne

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Warning: this is a humorous post. Not suitable for the faints of heart.

Dearest Foxtel,

I would like to submit my application to be the new cast-member of Real Housewives of Melbourne (RHOM), for when one of the current troupe invariables gets chewed up and spat out. Your turnover rate seems to be pretty high, so I don’t think I’ll have to wait long.

#casualfridays

First, I think I should clear the air. Although I am a wife, I did not marry for money and have regretted it ever since. This rings especially true when I have to get out of bed at 6am, 5am or even 4am to attend to my job that does not even afford me a single Lexus (nor a second-hand Audi!!). Also, although I live in a house, ownership has thus far eluded me, because…. #millennial #avocadotoast etc. etc.

Despite the above-mentioned shortcomings, I think that you’ll find the RHOM qualities that I do possess make me a producer’s wet dream. I am snarky, egotistical and antagonistic with a penchant for making inflammatory comments and refusing to back off when I am obviously in the wrong. My friends often say I am self-involved, but they’re just bitter because I can’t be bothered to remember their names.

The only reason that I don’t tend to throw my drinks in people’s faces is because I am too busy imbibing them. Of course, that gives me all the more fuel to express my opinion with the greatest disregard for trivial things like truth or logic. Subtlety is not something I subscribe to, and generally, I think the best way to win an argument is to be louder than everyone else.

Seriously, my level of petty has to be experienced to be believed. If anyone dares beeps me for pulling out in front of them in traffic (indicators are for plebs), I will slow down to a crawl to inconvenience them, even if I have an important brunch I’m running late for. When one of my friends looks like they’re getting skinnier than me, I’m not above having the maid switch out the skim milk in their latte for full fat. If an attendee at one of my casual soirées happens to be in the same evening gown as me, I am not above having them removed by security. One perceived slight and I will be forced onto social media to air my grievances. I truly make pettiness into an art form. It’s kind of beautiful.

On top of my winning personality, I am partial to sequins, glitter eyeshadow, industrial levels of highlighter and applying my fake tan with a paint roller. I don’t currently own much in the way of gaudy jewelry, but am willing to step up to the sartorial plate. The same goes for skin-tight, rib-crushing, boob-popping dresses and towering heels.

Currently, my face is still in its original phase (i.e. I can still move it to express my emotions), but I’m confident that with some heavy duty botox (and maybe some cheeky lip filler) I can be brought into line with the rest of the girls. Speaking of the other ladies, I might not be psychic but I know we’d get along like a house on fire (well, not a house, more like a three-story mansion with six bedrooms and two kitchens and an infinity pool). I also like money, shiny objects, talking about myself in the third person and dressing up my dogs.

I don’t yet have the Instagram followers to match my ego, but I have no doubt I have the stones to hold my own against Gina and co. It’s obvious that I’m a star, all you have to do is put me on your show and let me shine (shine, shine).

Highest regards,

Emma Betty

(I should add that such is my commitment to being a cast-member that I am happy to change my name to something a bit less country and a bit more Toorak appropriate)