They'd both be lazy housewives; one an annoyingly sound trophy, the other a stoned suburbanite exhaling shades of country-twinge. Motherhood would be an equally confusing endeavor. The experienced one would liberally allow free-roam, which would most likely only stifle creativity, while her sun-tanned counterpart insisted that every piece of birthday cake be laced with condescension. Some people were simply put on this earth to be popular or at least fake it to the proper degree where medicated numbness is a normal and daily practice.
Adult social events would be full of transparent glares, which stand as a pure reflection of bedside manner. The glossed spectacle could only be molded into a faux-artist and conversationally-void shell for so long, before the familiar and inevitable pull of the strobe light beckoned her back to a scattered realm where it's only appropriate to lie about one's age. This would then soon shift to key parties and delicately executed games of wife-swapping around her mid-thirties.
The liberal environmentalist would most likely exchange foreign recipes with other multicolored examples, before losing all faith in the human race and finding melancholy soothing enough for a time. She would then start a lopsided career in poetry; the weekly reading circles soon shifting to wine-tasting contests meant to stifle the unbearable sound of such prose.
Sex would most likely feel the same from both sides, although one can hope to be surprised on occasion.
And then there's the inevitable question of inspiration. Will either one affect the art that they will regularly be exposed to or will the one who thinks too much still master his craft by remembering all the ones that casually got away?