I Should Be Dead

From childhood through my early adult years, I was infamous for my Twinkie consumption. The crinkle of a Twinkie wrapper would cause my childhood cat to wake from her vegetative state to chomp on the other end. The cat lost all of her teeth by age four. After swimming my worst time at a high school meet, my male swim coach stormed into the girls' locker room after receiving a not-so anonymous tip. Five boxes of Twinkies fell out of my locker on his head. I was threatened with getting kicked off the team and banned from the Hostess factory across the street. Shabby Chic, who was the president of our college's Hillel, had misgivings about keeping an unopened box of Twinkies in our shared room after debating whether they were kosher for Passover. Instead of flowers or chocolates, I was much happier to receive a box of Twinkies for Valentine's Day that was inscribed, "To the sweetest cake I know."

Of course, when the Alpha Male and I started seriously dating, eating Twinkies as if they were a major food group was a potential deal breaker. Although he gave me a White Trash Cookbook earlier, our discussion eventually became analogous to a relationship conversation between a smoker and non-smoker.

"I can't really see myself spending the rest of my life inhaling Twinkies," said Alpha Male.

Obviously, I chose the Alpha Male, which was a wise choice for many reasons. In Tara Parker Pope's New York Times article with Steve Ettlinger, author of the book “Twinkie, Deconstructed,” here's direct evidence that Twinkies are probably more hazardous to human health than any nuclear meltdown or living in North Korea:

Question: What ingredients used in Twinkies most surprised you?
Answer: Vitamins. I didn’t have a clue where they came from, but I suspect that, like me, many people think that they are squeezed from seeds or extracted from bark or something like that. I found they were, by and large, made from petroleum and fermented in enormous industrial plants mostly in China. To find out that a lot of my vitamins, and in particular the B vitamins in enriched flour that are in a Twinkie, were made from Chinese petroleum just blew my mind.

Vitamins extracted from Chinese petroleum? How am I still alive? Somehow, the Alpha Male saves me again.

Stay Tuned...

2011 ended with insanity and 2012 is starting with some more. Will be catching up shortly with some of the following:

* Naomi's Wolf's Beauty Myth Really Should Have Been About Ken, Not Barbie.
* White Girls Shouldn't Zumba
* Mother Theresa's Car Heist
* Trophy Wife Goes to Iceland

And much more! Thanks for reading!

Day of Reckoning

I come from a long line of people who have made pharmaceutical companies rich due to their polite negligence of useful medical advice. I admit that I have followed somewhat in suit.

After seeing me for five years, my doctor has become accustomed to setting aside 10 of the 15 allotted minutes of my appointment for my chief complaints. Ten minutes of whining is significant when you consider what a good job my doctor does cutting me off at the pass:

Me: I think I'm going through early menopause.

Doctor: Seriously? You're not even 40.

Me: I've been getting more headaches and some migraines during my period. I'm also getting moodier.

Doctor: What else is new? (She types a prescription for migraines into the computer.)

Aside from the usual whining this year about why I gained an extra five pounds and shrunk another half inch, I expected my annual doctor visit to be unremarkable. As I reported earlier, I'm eating healthier by consuming more vegetables from the cooperative farm. A recent bone density scan showed that the osteopenia in my right hip has resolved, as a probable result of my daily vitamin D supplementation. My blood test results were all within normal limits. My cookie consumption has also decreased by 70% (since I need to account for the extra ice cream).

With such strides, I thought I'd get out of the appointment in ten minutes since it took me half the time to complain. Until my doctor announced:

"You're on the verge of becoming diabetic."

Now imagine a middle-aged white, freckle-faced Jewish mom with a fro sitting wrapped in a napkin gown doing her best Different Strokes' Gary Coleman impression.


Whatcha talking about Willis?




Apparently, my fasting blood sugar numbers have been increasing 20 points per year over the past three years. My blood sugar was also fifteen points away from being considered borderline diabetic. Oh and did I mention that my cholesterol is at 140?

Damn cookies.

After receiving a harangue about how I need to space out my feedings and cut down on the sugar, it's obvious the Trophy Wife Resolution really needs to be taken seriously. My quality of life depends on it.

$9 Call Girl

After maintaining a sleep diary for two months and trying to battle insomnia with her daily dose of 3 mg of melatonin, the Jewish Mutha felt it was time for me to make good on my end of the bargain. With school out, the kids, the Harvard Valedictorian, and I trekked to New Jersey.

During our time there, the Alpha Male and I were able to sneak out for dinner at a restaurant we used to frequent when we lived in Edgewater, New Jersey. Heaven back then was having a place to eat within a 3 minute walking distance that offered good food and ambience, allowing us to comfortably escape our newborn parenting responsibilities for an hour.

Since I have a reputation for being perpetually late, the Alpha Male reminded me that I should make every effort to be on time. To do so, I did not have time to put on any make-up. I threw on the only outfit that wasn't drenched in animal hair.

Although the Alpha Male was traveling from several states away, he developed amnesia about what it was like to travel in summer rush hour traffic into New York's Port Authority on a Friday. Needless to say, when I arrived 10 minutes early, he called to let me know he'd be at least an hour late.

At that point, my only option was to be the first person to sit at the bar drinking a white russian and to blankly watch the Ryan O'Neil and Farrah Fawcett story without sound. About 15 minutes later, a 60-something well-dressed man sat a seat away from me. A few minutes more went by and he asked, "How much?"

I looked at my drink and said, "I assume that it's about $9."

"That's it?," he asked, raising the white caterpillars above his eyes.

"That appears to be the going rate this days," I replied.

"OK. Let's go," he said getting up from his chair.

It dawned on me: He thought I was a prostitute.

I raised my ringed finger (when I probably should have given him my middle one in retrospect), and said, "I'm not going anywhere."

Embarrassed, he slid two seats over, ordered a hamburger and tried to eat as fast as possible.

The female bartender, who witnessed the entire exchange, slid me another white russian. She said, "Sweetheart, this one is on the house."

Another guy out of MTV's Jersey Shore -- about my middle age -- wound up sitting next to me. He didn't start talking to me until this trio from "Jersey's hood" started a game of quizzing what New Jersey songs we should request from the piano player.

About an hour and a half later, the Alpha Male walks in to see me drinking and conversing with the Jersey hood. He walked over to the bar, gently grabbed my arm to steer me away and asked, "Getting re-acquainted with the locals, I see?"

I told him it was his lucky night. He scored the $9 call girl.

When the Nurse Needs a Nurse

I ran a 5K "Fun Run" with the Alpha Male, Hermione Granger and the 4th Stooge. After the first mile, the Alpha Male took my backpack of nurse supplies. I didn't even put up a fight. So much for me being the volunteer nurse at the race. The help needed help.

After 1.5 miles, he hoisted the 4th Stooge on his shoulders and ran the rest of the race like that.

At the second mile mark, the Alpha Male -- who was able to talk like a normal peson while I was heaving agonal gasps -- said, "I don't understand why you sign up for these races. You never train for them and then wonder why you aren't fast."

I was too breathless to respond.

Yet, Hermione Granger, Alpha Male and I ran the whole way. And we finished in second to last place.

We celebrated our meek victory by turning into carnivores and splurging at Outback.

All was well and good until I woke up the next morning. I might as well as have developed rheumatoid arthritis in my sleep as I could barely move. The Harvard Valedictorian is going to have start walking me if I'm going to ready for the 5 mile race in July.

My Six Degrees of Separation with Fame

If you've read through my Cast of Characters, you know I don't hang out with high society. Yet, like any Trophy Wife in training, my brushes with celebrities could make for their own sitcom:

The Alpha Male and his siblings went to high school with Jon Gosselin. His family continues to lives doors down from Gosselin's relatives.

Before he became somewhat infamous and had to change his name, I was mentored by the best-selling author of JFK Jr.'s "portrait."

One of my childhood best friends appeared on Ellen DeGeneres. After announcing how Ellen had helped her come "out" a lesbian, she became a man several years later.

I worked on the hospital maternity ward that delivered a famous Hollywood family's baby. Later, my high school best friend married into that Hollywood family.

One of my college best friends beat American Idol's Ryan Seacrest in a senior class president election. I expect to see my friend running for political office soon.

Mick Jagger's hair stylist officiated my Mensa Sister's marriage.

I sat next to Emmanuel Lewis on an airline as he explained his "short" career revival strategy.

Yet, my latest encounter happened accidentally, as it often does, while I was watching my latest guilty pleasure, Pregnant in Heels. The show profiles wealthy women who have too much disposable income and ask Rosie Pope -- British maternity concierge extraordinaire who delivers much needed humbling advice with just the right amount of condescension to get narcisstic people to listen to her lisp -- for help with everything from branding their baby's name to taking nude photos of pregnant women in Central Park.

Not surprisingly, I knew Rosie Pope's charity case in Episode 5. The rocker mom and I go way back...



"You should be so grateful you wound up with me. Your life could have been a lot of different," the Alpha Male snarked.

I am grateful. And he's right.

I was almost a member of the rocker mom's family.

However, I'm still grateful to the rocker mom for going with me to a Tori Amos concert when no one else would. I am also genuinely happy for her and her family. I knew her when she was beginning her singing career and I'm glad she finally received some TV exposure, even if she had to handle Rosie Pope's patronizing comments.

In upcoming news: I run a 5K tomorrow! I haven't trained. To make matters more interesting, I'm the volunteer nurse. Stay tuned!

"You Clean Up Nice"

After returning from a great Memorial Day Weekend trip in Ogunquit, Maine (thanks to a suggestion from my Life Partner), I was left with an undone mountain of laundry.

I picked up the only clean wearable item in my draw. It was a fading red $14 one-piece Old Navy dress that I bought about 10 years ago. I added a necklace with red stones that could have been found in a backyard and black sandals. I didn't even bother wearing a bra to hold in my newly diagnosed Cs http://trophywiferesolution.blogspot.com/2011/02/psyched-to-score-c.html.

Not exactly haute couture.

As the 4th Stooge and I were shopping at the pretentious Whole Foods, an acquaintance who forgot my name (but I knew hers), said, "My, you're all dressed up. You must be going to a party."

"No. It was just the only clean thing I could find that wasn't on my floor today," I replied. "But, thanks for the compliment."

She consciously ignored me as we walked past her in the other aisles and the 4th Stooge proceeded to walk around the store with his shirt on backwards.

The 4th Stooge's preschool teacher also asked if I was going to a party today. When I laughed and told him he was the second person to ask that question, he replied that he hardly ever makes such comments.

Obviously, I don't get out much. And I probably need to start dressing better.

Good news to report: By a stroke of good luck, we got a slot in the new CSA -- a local cooperative farm that where we'll be able to pick up fresh vegetables weekly. It should save me from the weekly Whole Foods runway fashion fiascoes.