Flouncing out of her limo, Paula waltzed on by the long line of dirty peasants waiting to enter the club and went straight up to the bouncer. “Don’t worry, they’re with me,” she buzzed referring to her posse of cameramen and producers for The Real Housewives of the Jersey Shore. She winked at the bouncer and flipped her long black hair as she crossed the velvet ropes. As she chasse into the club, bass of the latest Lady Gaga song vibrated through the floor. The mirrored walls shone shades of pink and red from the neon dance floor. The bar area was packed with young twenty-something’s showing off their lean legs and youthful, but very drunk, faces. She suddenly felt insecure; she entered the room alone. This was the first time she prowled on the town since she separated from her husband, the millionaire tanning company owner. Just the thought of that cheating liar made her fist clench and her brows lower. Then she remembered she was forty years young and still rocking four-inch silver stilettos and a cheetah print mini-dress. Her prime was yet to be passed. She surveyed the scene, scoping out any sizzling-hot, young men this cougar could prey on. There seemed to be none yet, so she strutted over to the bar. “Get me a Cosmo, babe,” she purred to the bartender. Suddenly, the club doors opened. She recognized that bleach blonde hair and orange skin from a mile away. It was Vanessa, her arch nemesis on the show. She growled at the producer who just shrugged his shoulders. He definitely planned this encounter. Vanessa shimmied over to where Paula was sitting at the bar. “Poor Paula, here all alone, with no husband to come home to, so sad,” Vanessa cackled with her nasally voice. Steam exploded from Paula’s ears. She grabbed her Cosmo and threw it all over Vanessa’s Gucci dress. She then simply walked out of the club; it was practically dead anyway. Paula had enough for the night, and it would all be seen on TV.