tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-114034932024-03-07T21:35:00.588-05:00Trophy Wives AnonymousMarried. Gorgeous. Rich. But all that glitters isn't gold..Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger28125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-11911156090492277552008-11-21T04:16:00.016-05:002008-11-21T10:12:57.952-05:00Saved by Agent Provacateur<div><div>Hubby's steady decrease in physical activities with me had me on the verge of falling back into drug use. We used to have a decent horizontal life, it puzzled me how he had he completely lost any interest in it? All my attempts, that would drive any other man insane, hubby turned down without hesitation. You might remember my blog post of the failed attempt to barge into hubby's office for a lunch 'snack', wearing only a fur. The whipped cream trick had zero effect either.<br /></div><div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Be carefu</span>l", he said without taking his eyes of the tv, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">you might stain the persian rug with that stuff</span>". </div><div>The only one licking any cream off me that night was Otto. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I spent a weekend alone in Paris. My plan was to focus all my energy on shopping instead of thinking. But I laid sleepless a whole night (despite half a valium) just contemplating on how he didn't want me. At dawn, it dawned on me - it wasn't my fault. Despite this revelation, I had to give this marriage one last shot. </div><div><br /></div><div>My last, and priciest, attempt to win hubby back was through my dear friend Agent Provocateur. In the 2,5 hours I spent trying on and picking out the right 'outfits' to lure my hubby back, I befriended the assistant Francois. At the time I was in a catatonic state of no self awareness, miserably stuck on how I could get hubby's interest. Francois adored me, not only because I was his best customer all year, but also reminded him of princess Grace and I possessed a princess-like grace. He convinced me to have drinks with him one night at Hotel Costes, a place for the rich and attractive. As soon as the male guests had seen Francois' feminine hand movements and realized he was gay, they gathered around me. Francois leaned back in his chair, smiling over at me through the cigarette smoke.</div><div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">There's nothing wrong with you, dear. All men in Paris can't be wrong", </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">Francois kindly pointed out</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">, "but one American asshole is</span>". </div><div><br /></div><div>I left Paris with withdrawls - and a suitcase full of useless underwear. I was worried that upon my return I'd forget my newly learnt lessons and fall back into old patterns, but I managed to step up. So I had my lawyer talk to hubby's lawyer to add something new to our prenup, or else.. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sex. At least every fortknight. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got the documents in return - signed. Phew. Apparently he had no problem performing when bound legally. That was enough for me to realize Francois was right, the problem was not me.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-74328137900492109802008-11-19T07:49:00.005-05:002008-11-19T08:07:55.748-05:00I'm back, and I'm bringing sexyHello - the first in 2008.<br /><br />Old blog, new life. This is the re-launch. <br /><br />It's been a long time.. It's impossible to summon up over a year in one blog post, so I'll deliver it piece by piece. I've been reinventing myself, or attempting to. I'm not sure I've matured, but I've at least gained some experiences along the way that I'm sure you'll find intriguing.<br /><br />One thing is for certain, I'll keep it juicy. Now that I've made everyone around me believe I'm computer illiterate (when in reality I've become quite the tech whizz), noone will know it's me. Teehee.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-6360210998751275922007-04-18T04:23:00.002-04:002008-11-19T08:09:18.354-05:00Mile high clubOk fine, I admit, I am a member of the much-hyped club. But it's not as crazy as it sounds, I just happened to date a pilot when I was 20 and we were alone up there with the auto-pilot on. Moving on.<br /><br />I've never been scared of flying. I normally sleep during take-off, the soothing noice of a jet engine rocks me right to sleep in my comfy first class seat. Dad used to joke and say I was raised in first class, which isn't too far off, since my parents were jet-setters and I travelled at least once every other week. When I went to school in Switzerland, I knew the staff at the airport lounge by first name. I knew the wine lists offered in many airlines' first class. But the last few years I've made New York my home and after dad died, I have no reason to travel on a weekly basis. I pity the people to fly coach though, it's worse than riding a filthy bus. First class is sophisticated, no sloppy clothing, no screaming children and fine wines - as all of life should be.<br /><br />However, I hate not having my own first class service on ground. When I left Luxemburg last week after having visited a friend, I was treated like an ordinary worthless citizen. It is humiliating to have to remove items of clothing such as belt, jacket, even boots in front of 'the vermin'. I walked through the arch, a sweaty woman (with a vibe very German shot-put) told me to stretch my arms out and she then padded me down. Not kindly, but brutally, as if to punish me. (I now know what Jesus must've felt before bearing the cross.) She felt me up like I was her bitch, and I could not believe it when she put her filthy fingers inside the linen of my very low pants. I had no panties on, as it's more comfortably flying without, and she touched <strong>my sacred parts</strong>!!<br /><br />In panic, I yelled '<em>security'</em> only to realize I was already surrounded by them. A manager of some sort tried to calm me down and assure me the pervert had done nothing wrong, as it was supposedly all part of the process and <em>'for my own safety'</em>. As if being violated makes me feel secure! I immideately went to file a complaint. I won't fly again until they can assure me no filthy Jerry Springer groupie can legally put her hands down my vagina ever again!<br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://ssl." : "http://www.");<br />document.write(unescape("%3Cscript src='" + gaJsHost + "google-analytics.com/ga.js' type='text/javascript'%3E%3C/script%3E"));<br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker("UA-6358619-1");<br />pageTracker._initData();<br />pageTracker._trackPageview();<br /></script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1167914041080512722007-01-04T06:34:00.001-05:002008-11-19T08:10:39.913-05:00Militia menMen in uniform.<br />I've never really understood why women obsess about them.<br />I dread the military, think they fill no purpose and how sad are the people that willingly and eagerly sign up to get killed for a country that doesn't give a rat's butt about them. The guy can be hot, but when in any form of uniform I can't help but thinking <strong><em>"sorry fuck, he sold his soul to the devil and all he got was a lousy hair cut</em>". </strong><br /><br />Anyyyyway, I got a call yesterday from a guy I dated back when I went to school in Switzerland. He was in the Austrian army then, now he trains their navy seals. I prefered him incognito, no uniform, nothing to reveal his sad choice of path in life. But I liked him because he had muscles in places I had no idea they could grow. I made him break up with me, beacuse I was lazy.. I called him '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">an extended SS-officer in a German colony</span>' and the Austrian government '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Hitler's long lost string puppets</span>', which I knew would make him stop loving me. But this was way back, and he'd gotten over it. Last time he'd called was on xmas 2 years ago - from a brothel. He'd given his top soldiers gift certificates there and was waiting in the bar with a cranberry juice.<br /><em>"Hmm.. I just realized I kinda miss you".</em><br />If it was the juice or the environment that made him reminisce, I wouldn't know.<br /><br />Either way, he was in the city and we made plans to meet up for a drink. As I ran out to my cab I realized I should txt hubby I wouldn't make it to our planned dinner. Said and done.<br />Me and my Austrian mate laughed away at old memories for hours and many drinks, and I didn't even look at my cell. Back outside, when the bar closed, I said a heartfelt goodbye to my friend by squeezing his buttocks and I heard my cell ring.<br />"<em>Where the hell are you"?</em> it was a voice full of despair. "<em>I've called 415 times! I was so worried you'd relapsed!"</em><br />Hubby had been driving around, going from my fave bar to the other. I gave him the address I was at and less than 1 minute later his car came to a halt beside me.<br />I was too emberessed to make eye-contact and looked at my MJ-clad feet.<br />"<em>Here honey",</em> he said and suddenly there was a big boquet of red roses in my hands. "<em>I'm sorry I yelled at you.. it's just.. today was our anniversary, of when we first met, and I'd planned a whole night to surprise you</em>".<br />I cried tears of joy while mumbling 'sorry' over and over again into his suit. Tomorrow I will make all this up to him by ordering him a new boat to be delivered in spring. Yes, that's the least I can do for my love. Maybe I should also get him a sailor's uniform, complete with the tilted mini hat - the only uniform that makes me swoon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1167255702182975382006-12-26T16:16:00.001-05:002008-11-19T08:12:04.340-05:00Holiday horrorMerry xmas. Merry? Never.<br /><br />My christmas this year hits an alltime high, or at least I did. The holiday is the most difficult time of the year for me to stay clean. Believe it or not, since my last post (I know, like years ago), I haven't touched any narcotics (I use that word for it as it includes my medications) or had any alcohol (except wine, but seeing I'm euro it's what runs through my veins).... UNTIL the holidays. I hate christmas, I hate everything about it. I've pretended to be jewish for many years just to avoid christmas. Noone's ever asked since I'm wealthy and a New Yorker, so everyone takes for granted I'm jewish. As long as they don't ask, I won't tell. (I know all the lingo so I infiltrate them rather well, like when wearing my kenzo schmata to the spa).<br />My mom left one christmas when I was 5 or 6 years old, and ever since, dad and I always travelled someplace exotic with a non-christian state religion to avoid any jingling bells or santas. Now dad's gone and I hate the holidays more than ever, which I never knew was possible.<br /><br />This is the time of year I'm forced to <strong>1) </strong>leave Manhattan, <strong>2)</strong> visit my in-laws and <strong>3)</strong> hear all their worries in person (it's better when hubby passes them on, since I can just put on my ipod and shut it out). "<em>Aren't you terribly skinny?",</em> "<em>When are you gonna have a baby?"</em> and the all too loud whispering when I leave for the loo "<em>is she doing drugs in there?".</em><br />I still don't count valium as a drug per se, I see it as a must to survive the holidays. Hubby caught me packing them before our trip, and after a short fight he agreed it can come in handy, but as a compromise I could only bring half my stack. Only ten minutes into dinner my heart was racing, my head was pounding and I felt that salty liquid attempting to leave my eye balls to create tears. I wouldn't have any of it and hit the valium. I'm much more accepting of the in-laws and relaxed in a catatonic state, so I made sure to stay that way for the three days.<br /><br />As we were going to bed on christmas eve, hubby brought up the baby talk. I was shocked, as this is normally always up to anyone else in our surroundings!<br /><em>"Do you think you'll ever want to have a baby?"</em> he started while striking my valium-stricken forehead.<br /><em>"Umm.. eh.. well.."</em>I stuttered.<br /><em>"I don't mean now, but they might have a point deep down in all that nagging.."</em><br />And then he pulled the trumph card:<br /><em>"..and it might fill that void inside of you that you long to fill".</em><br />He went on to talk about family values, the span of life and what he'd get our future baby for christmas, not noticing my heart beat went up a hundred notches or so.<br />First, I was terribly upset. He made it seem like I needed a baby, when he was obviously just wanting to satisfy his family's and the society's demands of us. But that night, even in my valium-induced REM sleep, I dreamt of a little girl with blonde braids playing beside me in the sand, both of us wearing the same type of designer bikinis...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1157560287834718272006-09-05T12:12:00.000-04:002006-09-06T12:31:28.256-04:00Not in the mood?<p><strong>Problem of the month:</strong> my sex life. Or actually, the lack of one.<br />Hubby is a sort of a prude and doesn’t really have that strong of a sex drive. That’s fine, we’ve been more into the love-making, which I assume is expected from a husband and wife. Naturally, we had more sex in the first year or so, but now it's a rarity. Problem is, I’m used to the passionate foreigners that wants it <em>'right here, right now'</em> (actual place and time is irrelevant to them). Also, as a European woman, I’m very sexually open, forward and won’t deny my cravings. Fine, as a married woman, I can’t expect my husband to want to have dirty sex in the bushes of the country club or a quickie whilst stuck in a traffic jam, but I kind of miss the passion. When your man needs you, can’t wait to get in the door, can’t take either his eyes or hands off you. Is it not reasonable to wish for just a little of that from your husband, too? Lust doesn't die once you've tied the knot, does it?<br /><br />Before I learnt, one month after our wedding, I put on a fur coat and heels and went to surprise him in the office. I closed the door behind me, dropped the fur and approached him. <br />“<em>Keep the blinds open</em>”, I told him.<br />He put on his glasses, straightened his tie and said with a stern face “<em>honey, I don’t have time for this right now</em>”. My heart sank.<br />“<em>If you really want it that bad, maybe you could buy a vibrator</em>”.<br />As if I didn’t have two already (but I’d never say that aloud)! Need I say I hopped on the party train that night? I didn’t come home until I knew he had left for the office the next morning. I had never before had a man dismiss me when I come charging in wearing only red lipstick, heels and his favorite perfume.<br /><br />He has called me a ‘<em>nympho’</em> on more than one occasion when I’ve been the sole initiator of sexual activities.<br />“<em>Sometimes canoodling is just as nice”,</em> he said. “<em>You don’t always have to have S-E-X</em>”.<br />No, really, he did spell it out!<br /><em>“I agree, not always”,</em> I pouted, “<em>but OCCASIONALLY wouldn’t hurt either”!</em><br /><br />We didn’t talk, nor were we intimate, for over a week after that conversation. I learnt it’s better to keep my mouth shut and play the role of the obediant satisfied wife. I’ve never complained again about either the quality or quantity of sex in our marriage. Many, many times I’ve contemplated picking up on the offers of casual encounters with potential lovers, but I kept hoping the problem would solve itself eventually (without me having to turn to another penis). I begun spending even more time on keeping in shape, looking pretty and being all he’d ever want. And? Nothing’s changed.<br /><br />The worries are now constantly present. Why isn’t he attracted to me? If he chose me as his wife, how come he doesn’t want to make love to me? Our weekly sex seems like a mandatory must for him, a chore on the to-do list. While he dozes off right after, I’ve cried myself to sleep.<br />I can only see that I was the one to blame. He’s still young and healthy, shouldn’t he be peaking sexually right about now? It has to be my fault. Is he sleeping with someone else? After seeing ‘<em>Brokeback Mountain’</em> my fears mounted; is hubby secretly gay? Do I smell bad, moan too much/little, am too fat or too skinny? Do I need any sort of surgery?<br />Sex isn’t really the issue either, it’s the affirmation. No matter if he says ‘<em>love you’</em> every day on the phone, you also need to feel that your husband loves you. And currently, I don’t.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1147794677907008752006-05-16T14:45:00.001-04:002008-11-19T08:13:47.974-05:00Letter from the desertHello friends (or whatever you people are),<br /><br />First off, if anyone cares, I apologize for my abscence. I was MIA. After Otto died, things got nuts (things being me). Hubby saw no other solution than force me to what he called a <em>'countryside retreat, almost a spa, honey'</em> in the desert in fucking fly-over country. Fine, I was semi-aware that I needed a minor make-over in the addiction area, but a whole f*ing eight weeks? I'm sorry I curse so much, it's against everything I ever believed in and I picked it up at boot camp (operation rehab), but it will wear off soon once I'm back. Using the f-word was sadly the only way I got anyone to listen to me. There was only one person there that I could bond with, a British model who makes a pretty decent living by looking doped up (she still didn't see a point in quitting, it'd just cost her gigs). The only thing we had in common was that we were hot, rich and considered euro trash by the rest of them.. oh, and that we'd dated the same polo player. I've never been much for comparing odd, sexual activities w other girls though, so the friendship quickly came to a halt.<br /><br />Hubby came to visit once. He looked miserable, but as did I (there was noone to do my hair around). He said the supervisor said I'd made small, tiny baby steps in the right direction and I could tell he was pleased.<br /><em>"This bodes well, hopefully we get a new fresh start".</em><br />He'd brought Casablanca, my favorite movie, and anytime I felt depressed I had the soothing voice of Ingrid Bergman close by. That worked, until during a therapy session, it came up she has the same accent my mom had, and that I must subconsciously miss her. I despise any freudian mom/dad bullshit and gave away my dvd player to a midwestern housewife with pot issues down the hall (see how pathetic? Rehab has lost all the glamour, and I'm<strong> not</strong> going back).<br /><br />Anyway, I'm assumingly 'cured' from addiction, and am at the airport on my way back to Manhattan now. The flight is delayed and as I've read every magazine in the store, I turned to the net and realized I need to get back on here if I want to get back to my old life too. This will be the only thing in my old life my shrink said worth continuing (<em>'it's therapeutic')</em>, so I'll please her at the same time. How convinient.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1134143684038933162006-01-04T14:03:00.001-05:002008-11-19T08:14:57.836-05:00R.I.P. OttoOh no, I failed. Failed hubby, failed shrink, failed myself.<br />I did coke last night. I was beyond myself, so upset. I am still crying - nonstop 24 hours.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Otto died!</span></span><br />The love of my life is gone.. and I had to witness it! A serial killer dog (aka pitbull) attacked Otto yesterday in the park.<br />We were enjoying the snow and the crispy clear air in the morning. I wore my chinchilla fur boots and Otto had on a Burberry vest. Otto loves my boots and was trying to mate with them. So happy, frolicing and dragging his ears in the snow, getting all wet but loving every minute of it.<br />Then, out of nowhere, Otto was laying on the ground with satan's dog biting his neck.<br /><br />Otto has brought me so much joy and anyone that's ever had a dog know what I'm talking about. On the days I couldn't manage to get out of bed, he peed on the floor and I had to bring in carpet cleaners. (Or I managed to bribe my 10 year old neighbour into walking him). He was my reality wake-up call every day. Either way, even when I wasn't there for Otto - he was there for me. Loving me unconditionally.<br />So where did the coke come from? You know I don't like coke. But the state I was in, I didn't care, I would've done anything self-destructive I'd got my hands on.<br /><br />Hubby knows Otto was the love of my life, and a substitute for hubby since he's always gone. So he was very understanding when I came stumbling in this morning after a wild night out. I'm not even sure which doorman dragged me from the car to upstairs. Hubby was home (for once!) and took me in his arms. He held my hair back when I puked, and ordered in gatorade and advil, since he was too worried to leave me alone.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I failed you"</span>, I wept into his robe. Through my tears I told him I was beyond myself with grief and couldn't resist temptation. I had been offered and accepted coke. Hubby didn't flinch.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"First things first. We'll sue the devil dog's owner"</span>, he said but it didn't bring me any comfort. <span style="font-style: italic;">"And we'll have a proper burial under Otto's favorite tree in the Hamptons, ok?"</span><br />With those words I could finally fall asleep. Dreaming of Otto.<br />Today, all I can do is nervously wait for hubby to come home from work to discuss the <span style="font-style: italic;">small</span> matter of the drug abuse...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1133717447078050212005-12-09T02:45:00.001-05:002008-11-19T08:15:31.303-05:00For the love of furDo 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.<br />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.<br />I believe the PETA-people are jealous too. They look like they live in a dumpster and wish they were me.<br />You can't afford a fur? Then you might as well hate on those who can!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Yesterday I ran into a couple of PETA lunatics.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Animal killer!</span>" one screamed at me on.<br />I kept ignoring them and talking on my cell. After a few blocks of stalking me while chanting "<span style="font-style: italic;">murderer</span>" and "<span style="font-style: italic;">you're a walking cemetery</span>", I'd had enough.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Look, if you want a dollar to start a fund for your own fur coats, all you gotta do is ask</span>", I said and stuffed a fiver in their hands.<br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">don't worry about it, here you go</span>" and handed him two fifties.<br />Enough good deeds for this week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1133449846628964472005-12-01T13:43:00.000-05:002005-12-02T11:36:27.376-05:00Skin and bonesEnough 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).<br /><br />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!<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I won't marry a skeleton</span>", he said completely serious. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Stop this insanity!</span>"<br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1130605822182524212005-11-06T12:34:00.000-05:002005-12-01T10:29:53.976-05:00Key to my door, key to my heartI 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.<br />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.<br />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!).<br /><br />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.<br />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).<br /><br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously, ANY Bob Marley song will do</span>", I begged with my head on his shoulder.<br />He refused, saying he's never sung in his life. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, leaving streaks in my perfect make-up.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Ok, lady</span>", he said while looking around him to make sure noone else could hear. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Just this once</span>".<br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1128718588807389122005-10-10T15:19:00.000-04:002005-10-12T16:45:55.483-04:00Talking: stalkingHaving one, or more, stalkers is usually entertainment. Flattering, really. But this time I'd had enough.<br />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).<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">what are you waiting for, huh?</span>" like in one of those crap college movies I saw once. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Confront me, you wuss</span>"!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br />It was an ex's. Rick from Brussels. I felt relieved - he's harmless.<br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Rick, I know it's you and that you're in the city, what the hell are you doing?!</span>"<br />Silence.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Uh.. how did you know it was me?</span>"<br /><br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">sorry</span>". 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?)<br />Pathetic. A hot, succesful EU-lawyer that stalks old girlfriends.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">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</span>".<br />His patheticness went on.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I just feel kinda lonely here and need a friend....</span>"<br />Ugh. I have my hands full as it is.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Listen, if you want someone to talk to about your problems, you have to pay".<br /></span>I handed him my shrink's number. I felt like a true heroine.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"One problem solved! And oh, before you start dating, you should really do something about your left ball</span>".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1126962511241543382005-09-17T08:29:00.000-04:002005-09-17T09:08:31.266-04:00The U-turnI'll try to keep it short, but a lot has happened lately.<br /><br />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'.<br />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.<br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">please come back baby, we can work this out</span>" and after a few days the mood had changed to "<span style="font-style: italic;">get your ass back here - or I'll send you the divorce papers".</span><br />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.<br />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.<br />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?<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />How deep is ones' problems when the only way you can communicate your inner feelings and thoughts to your husband is by a letter?<br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I have not been the husband I wanted to be</span>", he finally whispered and bowed his head as filled with shame. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Can you forgive me?"</span><br />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.<br />It's scary, but we've taken a new turn. A much-needed u-turn. Out with the old, in with the new.<br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1124968792837267962005-08-26T02:24:00.000-04:002005-08-25T07:19:52.846-04:00Battling the AAHubby 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.<br />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!!<br />Excuse me???<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">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</span>?"<br />I had never heard such silliness!<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Babe, you're just not used to the Euro way of drinking! It's a social thing, noone's an alcoholic here</span>!"<br />He looked around the fancy, but drunk, crowd; clearly not pursuaded.<br /><br />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!!<br /><br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh yeah</span>?" I said uninterestingly and kept flicking the pages of my Vogue.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">It's for you</span>".. he said quietly.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">WHAT? Why? I don't have any issues!</span>" I threw the magazine to the side, knocking out my martini.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">the first step is admitting you have a problem</span>".<br />Well, it won't happen, so we might as well talk about Stella McCartney's latest launch. (Him: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Stella who</span>"? Nevermind.)<br /><br />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.<br />"What do you mean '<span style="font-style: italic;">how many glasses</span>'? A decent amount! No, I don't drink <span style="font-style: italic;">bottles</span>". Sigh.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">It's also worrying that you know every ingredient for every drink on the planet, without ever having worked behind a bar</span>", the annoying AA guy said on our first session today.<br />" <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, isn't it better I know what I'm drinking? I'm not some alley alcie downing nail polish remover</span>!"<br /><br />And then he moves on to drugs. Sigh. Might as well be honest.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">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</span>".<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">How about prescribed drugs</span>?" he said and tilted his head á la shrink.<br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I object, that doesn't count! If they're prescribed I obviously need them, so it's not drugs per say</span>!"<br /><br />Ugh. This was only session One. God, I need a drink, and after this ordeal I deserve it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1124964820725647732005-08-23T17:03:00.000-04:002005-08-25T06:20:02.890-04:00L'été du champagneTa-daaaa, I'm baack!<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">That was purrrfect, we can't stand that man</span>", one of the fancy men said and kissed my hand. "<span style="font-style: italic;">This must be celebrated, what does the lady wish to toast in</span>?"<br />I spotted a bottle of my favorite champagne, <span class="arttext"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1988 La Grande Dame Rosé</span>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">What? I'd much rather ruin the soles of my feet</span>!"<br />He pointed to the harbour and a yacht that was unlike all the others.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">As you can tell I'm also a fan of good champagne</span>", he said and refered to the champagne colored ship and its' name '<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bollinger</span>'.<br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Uh-oh</span>", I became aware that I'd said that out loud and I turned to the man on my side; "<span style="font-style: italic;">Jean-Marie, I'm a married woman</span>"...<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I don't think anyone could've missed that</span>", he said a bit annoyed and pointed to the rock on my hand. "<span style="font-style: italic;">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</span>".<br />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!?<br />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.<br />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.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Must be the champagne</span>", I said - knowing it wasn't.<br />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!<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1118318149254524602005-06-09T13:28:00.000-04:002005-06-09T08:00:05.466-04:00Multi-tasking behind the wheelHubby once warned me that I really shouldn't be on the cell while driving, an advice I have completely ignored. Dumb, very dumb.<br />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.<br />Today a cop pulled me over. Normally in this situation the cop plays tough at first, I say I don't mind him "<span style="font-style: italic;">pulling me... over</span>", 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.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It's illegal to be on the phone while driving</span>", the stern copper said.<br />After all my flirting attempts had failed I just sighed and asked him for the ticket.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Ha, ticket? Young lady, you have a date with the court</span>"!<br />I began protesting loudly. No way I couldn't talk or flirt my way out of this!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"If you curse again I will arrest you right now for assaulting an officer"</span>, he threathened.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I object! You can't do that!"</span> I gasped while wondering if he could.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Or for indecent exposure"</span>, he said and pointed to my mini-mini and wifebeater.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh come on, I'm European, we don't wear bras! Don't act like you mind seeing some nipple!</span>"<br />He picked up the hand cuffs and his walkie to call for back-up.<br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">but I'm European</span>", had worked. I realized I only had one more scheme to try.<br />I cried.<br />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.<br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1118316280109716732005-06-07T23:56:00.000-04:002005-06-09T07:59:29.306-04:00Espadrillos ProblemasSummer 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; <span style="font-style: italic;">espadrillos</span>. 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.<br />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!<br />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!<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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?!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1112128972442997792005-05-25T14:10:00.000-04:002005-05-25T09:38:05.613-04:00The planet is once again in orbitI 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br />The next day I ran into him (naturally by 'accident') in the hallway.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sir, excuse my bluntness, but I'm European, plus I really need to know... are you gay?"</span><br />He nodded, this time with a smile.<br />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!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1112814379538247802005-05-20T13:53:00.000-04:002005-05-25T08:41:23.206-04:00Wax on - Wax off(Beware, the writer is on valium while writing this...)<br /><br />Ok. Aaaow. Seriously. The things we do for men! Beautiful women suffer severly, as it is inevitable; no pain - no game.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1116010963625859222005-05-11T14:35:00.000-04:002005-05-13T15:02:43.630-04:00Time 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.<br />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.<br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">just like you, she has a marvellous genealogical table</span>". 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.<br />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.<br />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 <span class="style1">socialite</span> ways just the same - with or without him, and that's what I intend to do!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1111443538498331682005-03-22T12:02:00.000-05:002005-03-22T08:23:27.870-05:00FlashbackFinally I have time to tell you about my one year anniversary!<br />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.<br />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.<br />"Dry your eyes, Princess", he said - in <span style="font-style: italic;">French</span>! "Tears don't suit a dollface like yours".<br />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)<br />"Here, take my jacket and let me take you shopping for a new sweater tomorrow".<br />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.<br />"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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1111237642322916382005-03-21T02:10:00.000-05:002005-03-21T08:41:29.560-05:00Divine DiversityWell, 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!<br />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.<br />Thank god for diversity.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1111002948656685992005-03-17T16:24:00.000-05:002005-03-17T13:34:07.950-05:00I got the fever!Ooooh, my loins tremble!<br />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.<br />"I saw that", he said with a grin and I felt my face turning red.<br />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?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1110974327613985462005-03-16T15:36:00.000-05:002005-03-16T12:48:47.120-05:00Legal LimitationsOh 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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11403493.post-1110909250452909072005-03-15T16:12:00.000-05:002005-03-15T12:55:06.080-05:00HobophobicI 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!<br />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.<br />And they don't kindly say "Madame, could you spare a dollar?" but they more or less spit out "show me the money, bitch".<br />I always keep on walking. It's not my fault you're poor.<br />Plus, I only carry credit cards anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2