For the love of fur

Do people not have anything more important to do than being angry? Daddy always used to tell me that anger and hatred originates in jealousy. It's usually true.
When girls excluded me in grammer school, it was because I had perfect hair and prettier dresses. When boys called me a bitch in high school, it was because I wouldn't lower m standards and make out with any of them.
I believe the PETA-people are jealous too. They look like they live in a dumpster and wish they were me.
You can't afford a fur? Then you might as well hate on those who can!

I love furs, always have. Not that I ever got to use them in Aussie! I think I prefer seasons over summer all year. I love the minis and espadrillos in summer, and love the furs and boots in winter. Wrapping myself in dead animals keeps me warm inside and out. Last year, hubby bought me a polar bear fur to put next to my bed, so it's the first thing I step on each morning. Lovely.

Yesterday I ran into a couple of PETA lunatics.
"Animal killer!" one screamed at me on.
I kept ignoring them and talking on my cell. After a few blocks of stalking me while chanting "murderer" and "you're a walking cemetery", I'd had enough.
"Look, if you want a dollar to start a fund for your own fur coats, all you gotta do is ask", I said and stuffed a fiver in their hands.
Before they knew it I'd hailed a cab and hopped in. As we took off, they kicked the back of the car. Poor cabbie looked shocked, but I said "don't worry about it, here you go" and handed him two fifties.
Enough good deeds for this week.

Skin and bones

Enough with the skinny-arse trend already! Actresses and socialites alike, all skin and bones. I don't know a trophy wife that doesn't have an eating disorder - and it just feels so 90's! But we have so much to live up to, we're supposed to have the life everyone else is dying to have. People look up to us, want to be us - what pressure! When you're rich, you can eat quality healthy food and have personal trainers, dietists and stylists surrounding you at all times. If you're a rich and fat woman - you're a disgrace to the (rich) mankind. Your husband can, and likely will, find someone better (read: thinner).

Fat people disgust me too, naturally. I'm just as obsessed in my mind to personify perfection. But I also want to be able to distinguish physical differences between a woman and a teenage boy on heroin. I like the T & A!
I'm not naturally thin. I have to pass up a lot of yummy things to look this hot. I'm lazy with my personal trainers, whom I switch more often than most change underwear anyway, so I never get into a routine.

Two years ago, I got on a strict diet after I'd seen old pictures of me when I lived in Australia. Ok, we played around on the beach all day there. Volleyboll and sun does wonders! But in the U.S., where the national dish is 'anything deep fried', I had to really be careful. The strict diet made wonders, but hubby (then boyfriend) forced me off it.
"I won't marry a skeleton", he said completely serious. "Stop this insanity!"
I did. Hubby took me out to steak dinners and kept track of how much I ate. Knowing hubby cared for my health AND dug my curves, I could begin eating without guilt-issues.

Key to my door, key to my heart

I adore my doorman. I always say "my doorMAN" even though they're actually two, but they take turns to play the part. My doorman is my real partner in crime. Both of them; Ian, the rugged Irish rugby player (why do all Eires have freckles and measure only 2 ft above the ground without shoes?), and JB, the huge Baha man.
Their christmas bonus is not a joke, but they do deserve every penny. If there are any two people that I owe my life to, it's my hob and my bombaclot angels guarding my fort.
They've seen me in all of life's stages, not just as the narcissistic bitch most take me for. Numerous are the times I've cried out on the couch in their back room (JB doesn't even mind tears and snot on his cape!).

I have few girlfriends, since there are suprisingly few fellow young trophy wives that can identify with me. The girlfriends I do have, all we share are ideas and experiences covering the areas: shopping, exotic resorts and socialite gossip.
So who can I turn to for advice, or just venting? Doorman. They're right nearby - 24/7, they're paid to stand in the door and be kind to the residents, although I might take advantage of that fact differently. They're never rude, always supportive with handkerchiefs ready. Even when I make racist jokes (oh come on, I'm European - we rank dark humour higher than politically correctness).

I used to have a West-indian nanny when I was little. I loved her more than my family and she sung me to sleep with lullabies in her soothing husky, 'yameicahn' accent. It was only natural for me to ask JB to sing for me.
"Seriously, ANY Bob Marley song will do", I begged with my head on his shoulder.
He refused, saying he's never sung in his life. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, leaving streaks in my perfect make-up.
"Ok, lady", he said while looking around him to make sure noone else could hear. "Just this once".
It was once again proven; men can't stand crying women and do anything to make them stop. I loved him for his effort, but noone would blame me for not asking him to sing again. This year I will throw in a couple of classes with a vocal coach along with his christmas bonus.

Talking: stalking

Having one, or more, stalkers is usually entertainment. Flattering, really. But this time I'd had enough.
Several of my ex's have had a hard time letting me go in the past, and can become borderline psycho stalkers. But even then, I've dealt with it myself. I'm European, I was taught to deal with things mysef - in the streets, not in court. When I want to I can be quite intimidating with my threats (which they never know, are empty).

This time hasn't been the least bit funny. It started with 'love letters', in the cut-and-paste kidnapper style. I had no clue who the sender was, but instead of the "how exciting"-feeling I was creeped out. Someone was watching me! He knew my daily routines (that I wasn't even aware of myself!), my favorite drinks (in the right order!), which wineyards I order from and even my preferences in bed! These are all things hubby doesn't know, and not even my doorman (whom I always drunken open up to when I come stumbling in at night).

I begun to feel paranoid, looking around my shoulder wherever I went. When I was walking Otto in Central Park I wanted to swirl around screaming "what are you waiting for, huh?" like in one of those crap college movies I saw once. "Confront me, you wuss"!

It went on to anonymous phone calls to my cell, followed by flowers being delivered (with the actual flower cut off!) and climaxed with a really freakish polaroid picture (polaroid is so 80's it's scary in itself). The picture was of a naked lower body with a full hard-on and my name written in what looked like ketchup on the lower stomach.

I'd had it - for real. Plus, I recognized the penis (which is quite amazing considering I normally can't even tell the difference between a circumsized or non-circumsized one).
It was an ex's. Rick from Brussels. I felt relieved - he's harmless.
Hadn't seen him for 3 years, and this pic was not the nicest way to rekindle. The photo had been postmarked NY, so he was obviously in town. The next time I got an anonymous call I picked up straight away and yelled.
"Rick, I know it's you and that you're in the city, what the hell are you doing?!"
Silence.
"Uh.. how did you know it was me?"

I told him to meet me at Starbucks. He came in with a huge boquet of red roses, the color matching his face, and whispered "sorry". He told me how he'd just moved to Nyc, couldn't forget about me and managed to track me down, but then had no idea how to approach me (uh, psycho?)
Pathetic. A hot, succesful EU-lawyer that stalks old girlfriends.
"Sweetie, forget about me and move on. Sign up on match.com and date around, the girls in this city are such sluts you'll have no problem".
His patheticness went on.
"I just feel kinda lonely here and need a friend...."
Ugh. I have my hands full as it is.
"Listen, if you want someone to talk to about your problems, you have to pay".
I handed him my shrink's number. I felt like a true heroine.
"One problem solved! And oh, before you start dating, you should really do something about your left ball".

The U-turn

I'll try to keep it short, but a lot has happened lately.

I couldn't cope so I cancelled the AA shrink. Hubby got upset and cancelled my credit cards, the only way to show me how serious he is about my 'drinking problem'.
As revenge I put our marriage on hold. I went to London to visit my long-lost trophy wife mentor Trinnie and have time to think things over by myself. A week of complete relaxation; spa, shopping and partying led me to realize hubby is overreacting. He's always treated me like a baby, which has caused me to act like one.
I had left NY without telling him. Just a note in the kitchen. He kept calling my cell every 5 hours, first leaving voicemail saying "please come back baby, we can work this out" and after a few days the mood had changed to "get your ass back here - or I'll send you the divorce papers".
That did the trick - I left lovely London. I needed not only double drinks on the plane, but also a manicure at arrival since I'd bitten down my nails completely.
We scheduled a marriage counsellor. Those sessions consisted of tears, nasty verbal attacks, tears, mean words, tears, then finally reconciliation. But even though we managed to agree that our marriage is strong enough to survive this - and anything else, this time the awesome make-up sex just wasn't happening.
Hubby grew more distant than ever, buried himself in work even more and fell asleep on the couch the few times he was in town. When I was on a desperate house hunt for pills to calm my nerves I found a prescriptions for anti-depressants in hubby's briefcase. That alarmed my every sense. Hubby is a mentally and physically strong, ambitious, respected man - but obviously with secrets. If he can't share them with his wife, then who can he talk to?
I kept bottling up and needed someone to talk to and take advice from, but since dad passed away there's noone I can trust serious problems with. I was on the verge of popping valium, doing a line and drinking excessively - but I needed my every brain cell to work with me on this letter.
I didn't know how to adress him on this matter, as he never had time to even speak on the phone anymore. I finally sat down and wrote a letter. It took two days and two sleepless nights.
I was a nervous wreck as I sent the letter off to his office. I locked myself up in my bedroom whilst waiting for a sign, any sign, that he had received it.
How deep is ones' problems when the only way you can communicate your inner feelings and thoughts to your husband is by a letter?
A dreadful 24 hours later hubby finally came home, broke down my bedroom barricade and stood in the doorway wide-eyed without saying a word. Without any expression tears began rolling down his cheeks.
"I have not been the husband I wanted to be", he finally whispered and bowed his head as filled with shame. "Can you forgive me?"
We sat up until dawn and talked, completely openly - for the first time during our entire time as a couple. I'd never realized hubby had so many dreams, visions, hopes and fears.. neither had he.
It's scary, but we've taken a new turn. A much-needed u-turn. Out with the old, in with the new.
When hubby had finally fallen asleep I tiptoed to my three secret liquer and pill stashes and threw it all out, then went back to bed. Happy, curled up against the love of my life.

Battling the AA

Hubby has started a new project in Philly and spent most his summer in AC'd boarding rooms, while I partied away on the French riviera. He did manage to come out for a 4-day weekend in July and it would've been perfect - if he'd only left work and stress at home! Disappointingly, he clinged to his laptop and cell phone far more than to his dearly missed wife.
On his last night, when we went out with another couple to a fancy party in Nice, he also made remarks concerning my alcohol consumption!!
Excuse me???
"Darling, all I'm saying is that you now drink far more than you eat, which is alarming. Maybe you should come back to the city a bit earlier and cleanse your body?"
I had never heard such silliness!
"Babe, you're just not used to the Euro way of drinking! It's a social thing, noone's an alcoholic here!"
He looked around the fancy, but drunk, crowd; clearly not pursuaded.

I shrugged it off. I was having the time of my life and wasn't gonna let hubby ruin it. But what he'd said kept coming up days afterwards, as I've learnt that when hubby says something - it's usually true. I reasoned; I can hold my liquer, since I've been drinking socially since I was 14, and I'm only drinking a lot now because it's summer, holiday and fun times, not beacuse I need it!!

I had only been back in NYC five days, when hubby sat down next to me in the living room one afternoon and told me he'd talked to an addictive disorders therapist.
"Oh yeah?" I said uninterestingly and kept flicking the pages of my Vogue.
"It's for you".. he said quietly.
"WHAT? Why? I don't have any issues!" I threw the magazine to the side, knocking out my martini.
We both stared in silence at my drink on the floor, being sucked up by the persian carpet, without either making an attempt to stop it.

So now, after several failed attempts to cry my way out of this and making promises, I've agreed with my worried and caring hubby to do counselling thrice a week. Hubby's only working in the city this week and obviously can't control what I drink or don't drink, but just seeing his worried eyes makes me feel guilty enough to admit.
I don't mind seeing a shrink, but to chat about my so called 'alcohol problem' three times a week with some AA sect leader is not my thing! This is a guy that likes repeating his mantra "the first step is admitting you have a problem".
Well, it won't happen, so we might as well talk about Stella McCartney's latest launch. (Him: "Stella who"? Nevermind.)

Ok Ok, I'm not blind to the truth, I know I enjoy a drink every now and then, but I don't drink more than the average person!? And even if I drank morning, noon, night all summer, I can obviously control it since I've cut down remarkably. Nowadays I only have one drink before dinner and then wine for dinner.
"What do you mean 'how many glasses'? A decent amount! No, I don't drink bottles". Sigh.

"It's also worrying that you know every ingredient for every drink on the planet, without ever having worked behind a bar", the annoying AA guy said on our first session today.
" Well, isn't it better I know what I'm drinking? I'm not some alley alcie downing nail polish remover!"

And then he moves on to drugs. Sigh. Might as well be honest.
"I did ecstacy when I was a kid, just a few times, but I'm not all techno, so it wasn't for me. Coke occasions I can count on one hand, I just hallucinate, when I'd rather just have a buzz, and I didn't lose weight either! How's that for false marketing? And in my teens I realized pot makes you ugly, so that's out of the question".

"How about prescribed drugs?" he said and tilted his head á la shrink.
Damn, how could I not have seen that one coming? Turns out hubby had found my stash of valium, prozac, xanex etc. and told on me.
"I object, that doesn't count! If they're prescribed I obviously need them, so it's not drugs per say!"

Ugh. This was only session One. God, I need a drink, and after this ordeal I deserve it.

L'été du champagne

Ta-daaaa, I'm baack!
Tanned and lovely, straight from the French Riviera. I've spent six whole weeks in and around Nice, Cannes and Monaco. My best friend from the Swizz boarding school has a gorgeous summer residence and yacht in Monaco. It felt like re-living the old days, when I was 18, single, with dad's credit cards and had the world at my feet.

One night at the casino of Monaco I accidentally knocked the ash of my cigaratte on - Prince Albert. I was slightly tipsy and immideately went to clean it off, like any mother, by licking on a serviette and rubbing it against his white linen pants. This was one of my dumber moves, as his body guards grabbed each of my arms and dragged me off. They walked off before I could explain myself. Humiliated I began to walk off when the local lady Isadora, married to a tennis champion, stopped me. She'd seen the whole thing and thought it was the funniest thing ever and invited me over to join her party of ten. At the table she re-told the story and the group applauded.
"That was purrrfect, we can't stand that man", one of the fancy men said and kissed my hand. "This must be celebrated, what does the lady wish to toast in?"
I spotted a bottle of my favorite champagne, 1988 La Grande Dame Rosé, in the bar. The same kind I had imported and served at my wedding. I felt cheeky, the price tag was half my car, but the man nodded and didn't seem to take notice of such things.

Hours later I was stumbling out of the casino, with Jean-Marie trying to steady my steps. I wasn't drunk enough to ignore the fact that with this walking style I'd ruin my new Manolos, so I let JM carry them. He smiled.
"What? I'd much rather ruin the soles of my feet!"
He pointed to the harbour and a yacht that was unlike all the others.
"As you can tell I'm also a fan of good champagne", he said and refered to the champagne colored ship and its' name 'Bollinger'.
With one hand on the lower of my back (which makes me all tingly!!) he began leading me towards the yacht. Alarms went off in my head.
"Uh-oh", I became aware that I'd said that out loud and I turned to the man on my side; "Jean-Marie, I'm a married woman"...
"I don't think anyone could've missed that", he said a bit annoyed and pointed to the rock on my hand. "Look, this is simple, he's not here with you, there must be a reason. And I won't do anything you don't want to".
His 'soothing' words made sense to me (at the time). Onboard I closely inspected every inch and was in awe of his taste in art and design. It's a well-known fact that champagne makes me a little randy, and when JM approached me with oysters and a bottle of Bollinger I began toying with the thought of letting myself go, just this once!?
I've been married over a year, without even having kissed another man, but I'd never felt as attracted to anyone as I suddenly did to JM. It was a combination of the language, the smell of the Mediterranean, his olive-colored skin and the champagne, that finally made me succumb.
We kissed passionately under the full moon, but the romantic scene was ruined. He smelled of sweat and seafood, and all I could taste was cigarettes. For a second I wondered if I was in fact licking an ashtray. When he whispered what he wished to do with me in french, all I could think about was hubby and how his french dialect was nicer. It took me two seconds to go from full-on to turned-off, but I didn't even have time to excuse myself before I ran off to the stern and threw up.
"Must be the champagne", I said - knowing it wasn't.
Jean-Marie arranged a car to take me home and motioned 'call me' as I sped off. I found his business card in my purse and threw it out the window. Ha, I should've known, his last name was Bollinger!

Multi-tasking behind the wheel

Hubby once warned me that I really shouldn't be on the cell while driving, an advice I have completely ignored. Dumb, very dumb.
I don't think cops like me. I mean, cops as straight men are crazy about me, but not cops as poor men whose only satisfaction in life is by showing off their lack of a penis by busting rich already-taken women for insignificant nonsense. I constantly get pulled of for stupid reasons.
Today a cop pulled me over. Normally in this situation the cop plays tough at first, I say I don't mind him "pulling me... over", we flirt some and then he lets me off with a warning. So I was preparing by putting on lipgloss so I could pout my way out of getting a ticket for speeding. Well, apparently this one was in no mood to flirt.
"It's illegal to be on the phone while driving", the stern copper said.
After all my flirting attempts had failed I just sighed and asked him for the ticket.
"Ha, ticket? Young lady, you have a date with the court"!
I began protesting loudly. No way I couldn't talk or flirt my way out of this!
"If you curse again I will arrest you right now for assaulting an officer", he threathened.
"I object! You can't do that!" I gasped while wondering if he could.
"Or for indecent exposure", he said and pointed to my mini-mini and wifebeater.
"Oh come on, I'm European, we don't wear bras! Don't act like you mind seeing some nipple!"
He picked up the hand cuffs and his walkie to call for back-up.
I was still in shock and realized I really was about to get in some serious trouble. Neither of my two main manipulative moves; cheeky flirting and "but I'm European", had worked. I realized I only had one more scheme to try.
I cried.
I hate crying to get my way, partly because I have some dignity, but also a simpler reason: my make-up is not water-resistant.
But I had no other way out. And luckily, it worked. I don't even want to know what would happen if Hubby would've had to bail me out from jail again.

Espadrillos Problemas

Summer in New York is amazing. I drive with the top down while playing Kate Ryan loud (French house), show off my personally trained body in minis and I am sporting my dear old friends that are back in fashion; espadrillos. I haven't worn them since I broke my foot in Marbella, Spain three years ago. That's not the only fashion/bardancing accident I've ever had, but by far the worst one. Imagine spending the rest of the summer holiday with your foot in a cast! I was miserable, although men took better care of me than ever before, so it's not all bad.
I have now carefully weighed the risks versus the rewards for putting my espadrillos back on and I have decided it's worth it. But I must abide by one rule; I can't wear them when under the influence!
As I was getting ready to go out to our house in the Hamptons I realized my espadrillos pretty much take up one bag each and my trunk is too small!
For a brief second I considered getting one of those Porsche SUV's with lots of trunk space. But no matter how much as I love my shoes - I love my z4 more.

Another thing. When in the Hamptons I miss one thing above all; being single. As a wife I have limits, rules and have to behave. People know I'm Hubby's and watch my every move as they can't wait to see me ruin this perfect marriage by drunken swirling around poles in espadrillos - like back in the day. Anytime I seem to have fun in clubs with my girlfriends someone will always remind me ever-so-politely that I am a married woman and should act like one.
I'm quietly wondering if their idea of married women is sitting at home knitting. Seriously, married women should be allowed to party too! Since when does partying mean cheating?!

The planet is once again in orbit

I haven't seen hubby since our Aussie trip... which was an eternity ago! He's off on business again and I miss him. Sometimes I question whether actually I miss him or just miss having companion. Whichever the reason, the result is a strong craving for male attention. If I walk down a street and a man neglects to check me out, it can ruin my whole day! Fear of rejection is my biggest pet peeve and being neglected is, if possible, even worse.

My neighbour, a single business exec in his 30's, never once shot me a glance other than the casual nod to substitute a hello in the lift. Regardless of how I pouted, bent forward to pick up something revealing my fit legs and behind, licked and bit my red luscious lips and even rubbed my erected nipples against him (all this by 'mistake' of course). His persistent resistance drove me insane and even though every other man on the planet dropped dead at my feet all I wanted was just a tiny bit of attention from this mission impossible. I spent hours awake at night wondering what was wrong with me.. until I realized.
The next day I ran into him (naturally by 'accident') in the hallway.
"Sir, excuse my bluntness, but I'm European, plus I really need to know... are you gay?"
He nodded, this time with a smile.
I had kept wondering what was wrong with me, when the right question all along had been what was wrong with HIM! I slept so well that night, reassured that I was still every (straight) man's dream!

Wax on - Wax off

(Beware, the writer is on valium while writing this...)

Ok. Aaaow. Seriously. The things we do for men! Beautiful women suffer severly, as it is inevitable; no pain - no game.
Twist our feet in stilettos, botox injections, shave excessively, go through hours of hair and make-up every morning, work hard on appearing naturally beach blonde and fighting cellulites.... and the men don't notice a thing - until the one time you forget to shave your legs! You'd be glad if he doesn't divorce you straight away.

Ok, so this hair removal obsession is getting out of hand. I just came back from my butch russian waxers. Today I had scheduled an session for the whole shebang - all at once. No, seriously, I had one lady vaxing my legs meanwhile another one did my armpits, then they moved on to crotch and eye-brows. I thought if I had pain in various parts of my body simultaneously they might strike each other out. Let's just say my plan backfired.
I am now numb and drugged up. If you can't get rid of the pain - strike up some pleasure to compete with it at least... so now there's only one thing to do - bring out my dear friend 'the rabbit' and enjoy the rest of the day.

Time flies... but it's not all fun..

Oh my, I have been gone forever! Not sure anyone missed my posts, but it doesn't matter, it's my therapheutical diary. My reason for disappearing for a month is pretty legit though, my daddy passed. It's as sad as it sounds and I left for Australia the minute I got the news he was very ill.
I cried all through the flight, first because there was just carbs in all the food they served, plus 1st class was crammed and I had to sit next to a fat man. Fat people sweat a lot and their fatty sweat reeks and when you're already upset this was all I needed to explode. Luckily I had smuggled with me some valium.
Hubby was naturally away on business and I called him from JFK to let him know. He said he'd try to reschedule and join me en route. It wasn't possible until a week later, but just the fact that he'd chose supporting me over work was comforting enough. We stayed on dad's farm to gather some strength and also dealt with the lawyers to make sure the mansion, horses and furniture was sold properly. It's so sad, there I had my own horse named after me, whom daddy said "just like you, she has a marvellous genealogical table". Hubby had to leave after a week so dad's widow brought me up to their villa on the Goldcoast, where I used to live and it brought back sweet memories. Sun, sand, surfers and in daddy's honour I drank the finest whiskey every night.
When someone you've known all your life goes on there is automatically an empty space. I've always been my daddy's girl and there is a void. Hubby is now, more than ever, the one that has to keep my credit cards in balance, tell me how wonderful I am and listen to me whine about how fat people shouldn't be allowed on flights.
A month in Australia and too much sun and whiskey took its' toll on me. I overheard my own door man say I'd turned hippie! Daddy is dearly missed, but he'd want me to go on my socialite ways just the same - with or without him, and that's what I intend to do!

Flashback

Finally I have time to tell you about my one year anniversary!
Hubby was back in town saturday and we went out to my favorite restaurant for oysters and champagne to celebrate. He was all smiles, relaxed and didn't bring up work even once. As a gift I received not jewelery (!!) but tickets to go to St Barths in April instead. The whole evening was very romantic and I was reminded all over again why I fell for him in the first place.
I love looking back at how we met... I was a senior in college and went to a cocktail party with my (then) boyfriend (I wasn't in love with him, it was more for show than anything else). The hostess of the party was madly in love with my bf and as she drank more and more it became more and more obvious. The climax was when she threw her drink in my face. I fled to the ladies room to save what I could of my favourite cashmere sweater. I stood by the sink sobbing as I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned around and that was the first time I laid eyes on Hubby.
"Dry your eyes, Princess", he said - in French! "Tears don't suit a dollface like yours".
Despite the cheesy line he seemed sincere. Plus, I'm a sucker for French (I later learnt he had just moved back from France and wanted to see if 'the language of love' could help him woo women)
"Here, take my jacket and let me take you shopping for a new sweater tomorrow".
My boyfriend was chatting away in the living room and I left without telling him. A week later I learnt he was dating my attacker. But I couldn't have cared less. Hubby was mine. No matter how 'independent woman' you are, you still secretly want to be "looked after". Hubby made me feel cared for, safe and adored.
"I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you", he said after just one month of dating. And I knew I'd let him.

Divine Diversity

Well, to be honest Trinnie, I know I'm only 24 and living a very mature life.. but I can't say I feel like I've missed out on anything. My wildest years were between ages 16-19, when my motto was "try everything once - at least". I've calmed down a lot since then!
My father was relocated a lot, so I went to high school in Switzerland, Italy and Australia. That means you get to see and experience a lot, but never grow any real friends. New York feels like home though. Everyone always says they love NYC because of the diversity, as do I. I can't say I'm fond of the majority of people, but imagine everyone was like me! There would be so much competition if everyone looked gorgeous and had the same exquisite fashion sense! The diversity is an ego boost, I know I look/smell/dress better than 90% of the Manhattanites. My car is the hottest, my dog is the cutest and my apartment is the nicest. And this wouldn't be the case if everyone had the same possibilites.
Thank god for diversity.

I got the fever!

Ooooh, my loins tremble!
I wasn't very happy with my last gym (my personal trainer was an SS-officer reincarnated), so today I joined a new gym. Seeing as bikini season is only a few months away, I naturally booked a new personal trainer. I had asked for a guy, since I work better under male pressure. So Cyrus is mine 4 times a week now. Turns out he's ripped, tall and thrice the man Fabio is. Not picture perfect, but oozing animalistic sex. Cyrus is obviously black, survived the Chicago ghetto and has scars to prove the tough years (I'm a sucker for scars - manly!). When he leaned over me for an excercise today I found myself checking out his gems.
"I saw that", he said with a grin and I felt my face turning red.
I thought I had gotten rid of my jungle fever, but apparently not! The dark lusty forces sure made a strong come-back. During my years in Europe and Australia I had quite a few black lovers. Even when I've gone on vacation in Cuba and elsewhere, I can't resist the temptation of a well-built native. How am I now gonna be able to work up a sweat without getting any action from a man that has me trembling by his mere presence?

Legal Limitations

Oh Trinnie, I don't think I could ever commit to a silent agreement like yours. I think I am too jealous. I desperately want to believe hubby just works on his business trips.
Also, I can't risk violating our prenup. We were both skeptical to a prenup, but it seems mandatory for couples these days. So we did what we always do; compromised. I'm entitled to half his fortune after five years, assumed I haven't cheated. Better deal than most women get.
And I get to keep all gifts, that's why I haven't pointed out to him that I can buy anything I want myself, but let him give me gifts. I'm not stupid, you know! If anything happens (god forbid), I'll at least have a car, a boat and jewelery. If I'd sell my darlings I'd still be able to maintain my expensive lifestyle for many years to come.
In case of an emergency, I have the numbers of Manhattans finest lawyers on speed dial on my cell. I trust them with my life, as I've seen them work wonders before. Thanks to them, I got away with two DUI's last summer (neither was my fault; I couldn't get a cab in the Hamptons and I had accidentally mixed valium, xanax and champagne).

Hobophobic

I might have a severe PMS attack or something, I am so annoyed today. Especially at the homeless. New York got rid of the rats, but then the homeless are taking over their place as worst plague. God knows what kind of diseases they carry!
Seriously, they even camp out up here on the Upper East Side, probably because the garbage is better quality. Either way, they're smelly and rude and dressed worse than orphan HIV-stricken African children. I don't get it, even skanky thrift shops sell the occasional Prada skirt and there are fake Gucci bags for a mere tenner! Why do they obsessively live in their old molding rags? Anyone can dress for success almost for free, with all these H&M's infecting the city. This obviously means they do it entirely for earning pity points.
And they don't kindly say "Madame, could you spare a dollar?" but they more or less spit out "show me the money, bitch".
I always keep on walking. It's not my fault you're poor.
Plus, I only carry credit cards anyway.

Diamonds are supposed to be a girl's best friend

We can dish out all our secrets, without having our men divorcing us. Thank god for the internet!
Hubby called today from LA to tell me he has to work next weekend, when we were supposed to go to St Barths to celebrate our 1 year anniversary... I got really upset since I haven't been to Barth in forever. Strangely enough I was actually looking forward seeing hubby too! He promised to make it up to me, but that usually means he gets me jewelery. Boo.
I actually don't understand the idea of him giving me presents at all.. he's gotten me all the top credit cards, so there's nothing I can't buy myself. Although I like when he's feeling guilty, I usually act more upset than I am, just to get him to treat me like a princess. And when he thinks he's been neglecting me, he's usually a lot more understanding. That means I can get away with basically anything. Like in December when I had bought another car and a dog the same day, not needing either. Hubby just said "I understand that you feel lonely, so you can keep both". He then threw some jewelery broshures my way. "Now, what do you want for christmas?"

Tribute to Trinnie

Oh my dear Trinnie Tro, this will be so much fun. I was thinking about posting a picture to prove my hotness, but what if, yes what if, hubby somehow finds this site? Hmm..
Oh Trinnie, I am so happy to have you as a friend. Or should I say mentor? Even though you live oceans away you're the only one I can really talk to - about everything. You have the experience and expertis on all the matters my life evolve around. All the fellow trophys I've met over here either have the IQ of a goldfish or are 40 years old.
Me and hubby have our 1 year anniversary coming up soon. Insane. Time goes fast when you're having fun. Although, to wrap up this one year as married, he's been away on business 285 days and I've felt quite lonely at times. Until I, for a change, was allowed to go with him on a business trip to London - and met you! I don't think you have any idea how close I was to actually start working, or even volunteering! I mean, hubby whisked me away right after college graduation and said he didn't want me to ever work. But when I discovered how uneventful that life was I wanted to use my degree, and figured hubby would never notice anyway.
Ha, I am so glad you sorted me out, Trinnie! And if I ever talk about getting a job ever again - feel free to smack me.

Inaugural speech

Welcome to Trophy Wives Anonymous.
Firstly, I would like to get the formalities out of the way. I am Ophelia, aka Ophy, a 24 year old trophy wife in Manhattan. I am worldly, smart, classy and gorgeous. I am aware of my worth and makes sure my hubby is too.
I am a trophy wife (and proud). Not many of us can accept it, but I have come to terms with it completely. The term isn't degrading in my eyes, it's a good description. My hubby surely thinks of me as a trophy, the utmost prize only one man can posess.
It's also important to clarify that trophy wife does NOT mean housewife. There's a distinct difference. I don't have anything to do with the household, I naturally have a maid.
Due to my current life situation I have a lot of time on my hands and I thought of this blog as a way for me to keep my sanity, to clear my head, anonymously but publicly.
Let the journey begin.