(Continued)

The Boca Babe must be in possession of a McMansion – the six-bedroom, five-bath faux-Mediterranean palazzo situated in one of the euphemistically named “gated communities” (translation: walled fortresses). And does this household take care of itself? Of course not. You need a gardener, a housekeeper, a pool service person – minimum. Those are your regulars. Then there’s the other help you call in for special occasions, such as hosting your son’s bar mitzvah or your parents’ golden anniversary. This requires a party planner, a caterer, a wardrobe consultant. Well, you get the picture.

Now, let’s face it, most women cannot acquire all of this themselves. But there’s one surefire way to achieve this fairy tale, and that’s to marry a rich American prince.

My prince was named Bruce. I’d met him when I was attending one of those prissy women’s colleges up in New England. My mom had sent me there, not to get any useful education, mind you, just to become the right kind of woman to snare the right kind of man. And Bruce was it. He was a law student at Yale. He was hot, smart, charming, connected, and soon to be rich. A budding Boca Babe’s dream. Sure, there were the usual warning signs of incipient abuse – the moodiness, the possessiveness, the volatility. But just like most women, I didn’t put two and two together, or maybe I repressed whatever doubts I may have had, because I just had to have him. After all, you can’t be a Boca Babe if you’re man-less.

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