Wednesday, October 8, 2014

ODD JOBS: Trophy Wife

I think my life described in one word is simply…blessed.

Money has been super tight. And honestly I get sooo tired of being broke sometimes.

Trying to help, my practical aunt offered this bit of financial advice, “Why not become a trophy wife or girlfriend? You’re thin, pretty, why the hell not,” she said, only half joking. Because that’s a real job in the OC. And these ladies are compensated well.

Any smart, reasonable and confident woman would dismiss the idea as preposterous!

Unless this woman is also tired, broke and desperate, then she might reason: 
Hold up.  You not even gonna THINK about it?
Ain't you trying to be more “open” to new possibilities?
Least weigh the pros and cons, girl.

On the surface it sounds great! The job requirements are simply 1. Look pretty 2. Keep some rich dude company 3. Manage house affairs 4. Keep busy while rich dude works 5. Keep rich dude “happy”. In return, you get to live in a mansion with chef-cooked meals, RENT FREE, drive a nice car, have your bills paid AND receive a nice healthy allowance to spend as you see fit! Seriously, what’s not to like?!

I could spend my days writing, with an ocean view, AND NEVER WORRY ABOUT BILLS OR RENT AGAIN. Seems like a sweet deal. Sign. Me. Up. For. That. Please.

But after giving it serious thought, I realize I would make a terrible trophy wife.

Here are five reasons why a trophy wife would be a poor career choice for me:

1. Grooming is a real chore.

Everyday somebody thinks I’m Beyonce.

Looking pretty is a lot of damn work! 

You have to make regular hair appointments, get manis and pedis, slap globs of makeup on your face and then there’s all the waxing. Dear God, the waxing. When I broke up with my boyfriend, my very first thought was: “no more bikini waxes, YES!! THANK YOU JESUS.” I haven’t seen a waxer in two years. It’s like a dark, tangled jungle down there. And I couldn’t be happier. I may never date again.

This is my current “grooming” routine: Brush teeth, put hair in ponytail, dab on under eye concealer and lipstick (so I don’t frighten villagers or children), throw on jeans and non smelly tee, slip on flats. This process takes approximately ten minutes. And there isn’t a single morning I am not pissed it requires this much time.

I couldn’t keep up the demanding grooming requirements of a trophy wife for long.

I’d rather be a hairy troll, in sweats, who never leaves the house. That’s my dream life.
2. I’m genuinely lazy. And I like to eat. A lot.

Food and liquor. I gotta have them both.

Even if I could motivate myself to “look pretty” and spend the time/money/effort required on this shallow pursuit, there are other aspects of this job that require work.

For starters, I would have to manage a mansion and supervise staff. Yeah, um, that sounds like a job. And I didn’t really come here to work. I am a trophy wife! My job is to look pretty. And that’s enough damn work (see #1). How about we hire a personal assistant to do the heavy lifting.

I would also have to organize regular events, such as fundraisers, and plan weekly dinner parties. Ooh, yeah,again, not trying to work over here. Plus, I don’t have any free time with all this looking pretty nonsense. Let’s add this to the assistant duties.

Finally, I really like to eat. And with a chef at my disposal, Ima GO HAM with my meals, like a world eating champion training for his next national competition.
This means I would have to work out vigorously to maintain a trim figure. Its part of my contract. No rich mogul wants a flabby, bloated trophy wife. Not exactly a prize.

The only other option is to quit eating….

I'll just show myself out.  
Is this the way, past the elevator, in the foyer?

One sec, while I put the rest of these lobster nachos in a baggie for later.
Thanks again, sorry things didn't work out.
You have a lovely home. 
Take care now, BYE.
3. I’m not what you would call, sociable

I like dead people ‘cause they don’t talk.

I would have to spend a lot of time with this rich dude, obviously. Its part of my trophy wife duties and responsibilities. 

But how much time are we talking about here? Seriously! What the hell would we even talk about? I mean, conversations, UGH! They. Are. So. Draining. I can only pretend to be interested for so long. I’m gonna need wine. Lots of wine. In fact, let’s go ahead and crack open a few of those dusty bottles in the cellar. Wine is mandatory.

And the dinner parties. The charity events. Entertaining guests! 


You know what, here are some chips. Beer and salsa are in the fridge. Knock yourselves out. Anyone wants me, I’ll be upstairs in bed, recovering from another tortuous waxing session where a lady I just met got all up in my crotch, APPLYING SCALDING HOT WAX BEFORE VIOLENTLY RIPPING OUT EVERY LAST STRAND OF PUBIC HAIR, ONE THIN STRIP AT A TIME, SO ITS "NICE" AND "PRETTY" and "LESS OFFENSIVE" DOWN THERE TO THE DELICATE MALE SPECIES.
Oh, and while we’re talking here…about my poor abused lady parts...
4. Enough with the sexy times! No, really.

Bloody Hell. I’m gonna have to put out tonight.

Nothing in life is free. If this rich dude is taking care of my bills and setting me up in a life of stress free luxury, he’s going to want things in return. Looking pretty won’t be enough. Real talk: He’s going to want sex. Crazy sex. Lots and lots of it. All the time.

Dude, I’m tired. All this sex is gonna cut into my sleeping time. I need my naps. 

Maybe we can work something out here. I’m not your typical trophy wife. According to my online dating profile: I am smart, possess a child like exuberance and at my worst am “entertaining” and “too funny”. You would never be bored, man, that's for sure.

We could have meaningful conversations about life and stuff. (when time permits) And watch TV!  We can rent movies too! And drink wine, and gorge on fried food delicacies and baked treats. Doesn't that sound fun?! Imagine I am locked away in the west wing of our beachfront home, writing feverishly in my serene office, with the panoramic view. While you entertain downstairs, boasting to your rich snooty friends, “My wife? Oh, she's upstairs, writing. She's a writer! What does YOUR wife do...besides stand there...looking pretty? Admit it. That's a nice perk.   

And for your unwavering support and generosity--giving me the time, space (and money) I need to write tales that inspire hope and laughter—I’d graciously acknowledge you, my dear husband, in my heartfelt Oscar acceptance speech with a silent teary nod set to the tune of walking off orchestra music. When the camera pans to you, as an emotional Julia Roberts leans in to whisper, “you’re a lucky man,” there won’t be a dry eye in America.
In short, we could have a happy, rich life that doesn’t require crazy amounts of sex.

Think about it. Sex with a pretty face. Or face time at the Oscars. With Julia Roberts.

There are some things money can't buy.

5. There just ain’t enough money

At the end of the day, you couldn't pay me to be some dude's “trophy wife”. 

Money simply isn’t enough motivation. Lord knows whenever I have tried to convince myself otherwise, choosing money over my own personal joy in moments of weak desperation, it has always ended in misery. Every. Damn. Time.

So unless I am truly, madly and deeply in love with this rich dude, all bets are off.

Because spending my days, with someone whose chief selling point is his bank account, doing stuff that's neither fun or enjoyable, isn't my idea of the good life.


Wednesday, August 29, 2012


I am just about at the end of my rope with you.

Dear Special Lady,

Hi. How are you? How're things? Things good? So happy to hear that.

I don't know if you remember me. But I was at this coffee shop two days ago. And we sat beside each other over at the banquette tables along the front window. Remember that? No? It’s cool. You were obviously preoccupied. Being the WORLD’S MOST ANNOYING HUMAN BEING surely requires intense focus and concentration.

But I wanted to tell you, I really admire your dedication. Like the inimitable Merryl Streep, you are a master at your craft. In fact, I was so thoroughly impressed with your talent to annoy, I stopped pretending to write in order to catch your curious street act.

And, I gotta say, you did not disappoint. It was a riveting, pitch-perfect performance!
From the moment you took the stage, shuffling past in those unironically worn mom jeans and floppy straw hat, I knew we were in for a treat. And the way you went limp and dropped your exhausted, carb-laden body into the long banquette seat, landing with the ferocity of a falling timber. Dear God, I jumped right outta my seat! Literally.    

What. An. Entrance.

I’ll admit, I had a hard time following much of the dialogue of your one-woman show--Oh Yeah, This Is Really Happening Right Now--where you spoke into a smart phone in loud, random bursts. At first, I thought you were recording daily reminders. But no one with the possible exception of the Lord, or perhaps Mr. Seacrest, is so insanely busy. So I assumed you were capturing brilliant nuggets for a future literary masterpiece that would no doubt rival E.L. James' prolific works, earning raves for its added dose of Southern sass.

To be honest, I missed a good portion of this act, because I became fixated on a faulty pair of ear buds that I discovered were ineffective in blocking out disturbing outside noise. But after tossing the piece-of-crap buds aside, I gave you my undivided attention, as I wondered: what in holy hell, fifty shades of utter nonsense sounds like. 

This is it. I’ve found it. I’m in hell.

And that's when I saw the true brilliance of your patented brand of annoying. 

Because who could've guessed that you were having a conversation? A "text" conversation no less! That's right. You. Were. Texting. WITH. YOUR. VOICE. 

I didn't even know that was possible. I had to google it to convince myself it was a real thing and that you weren’t, you know, f**ing with me, with some brilliantly improvised monologue on the decay of our modern tech-obsessed society. 

Nope. It was not an act.   

Apart from the short staccato bursts, I have to say I was really impressed with the subtle way you worked modern movement into your performance by making several hasty, unwarranted exits. By my count, there were nine. In one hour. I kept a tally. 

Without warning, you’d sprint from your squeaky vinyl seat with the urgency of a cat who suddenly decides, Shit, I really need to be over there. And after text-shouting at various spots throughout the cafe--working the room like a true showman to ensure everyone enjoyed the strangely unsettling performance--you’d plop right back down in your indented spot with the same oomph that heralded your arrival. It kept things lively, that's for sure, and made it impossible for anyone to ignore you. 

Take note amateurs: This is how you keep an audience captive.

But if I had to pick my favorite part of the afternoon's entertainment, I would have to say it was the humming. Sweet Jesus, the humming. How to describe it: These whimsical little unmelodious ditties, penned by Saint Lucifer, that assaulted the brain like a hard open slap, triggering a rush of murderous thoughts. Personally, I wanted to choke a whistling Dixie Bitch every time a new tune found its way to my ears. An hour into the show, I found myself staring down at balled hands, clenching and unclenching them in an effort so stay calm. 

One finger won’t make an impact, but you ball all those fingers
into a fist, and you can strike a mighty blow.

It's a testament to your talent the way you were able to illicit such strong emotion. I almost cried. TWICE!! Unable to resist the strange allure of your God-given gift, I gave up the futile fight, closed my laptop and bowed my head in silent surrender.  

Bravo, wicked nymph. BRA-VO

Sadly, I missed the second act, as I became obsessed with replacing those defective buds and had to bolt early in order to beat traffic and make it to the electronics store before closing. But I am back for today's matinee. And this time, I came prepared, armed with my brand new, oversized professional DJ head phones that the salesman assured me would TUNE OUT EVERY LAST ANNOYING BITCH IN THE ROOM. 

That eager young man was not lying. I don't hear a damn thing right now. 

Not the steaming, gurgling sounds of the espresso machine. Not the screaming toddler across the room. Not the unemployed actor one table over, sharing yet another profound insight he'll later post on Facebook for his less enlightened "friends". Nada. All I hear is the tranquil sound of ocean waves crashing against a rocky shoreline, which is currently blasting in both ears in glorious, high definition stereo. I am in a far better place, looking forward to today's muted performance as I get back to work googling more random shit.  

Wait. What's this now? Oh, I see you've added toe tapping to your already impressive repertoire. And hold on, are you dancing right now?! In your seat?! 

Damn it. You. Are. Good. Way to keep it fresh girl! 

This is going to be a really good show. These folks have no idea. Knock 'em dead!

Your biggest fan,
Mad Shady

1. STEEL MAGNOLIAS (1989) Writer: Robert Harling
2. SOUL FOOD (1997) Writer: George Tillman Jr. 

Sunday, August 26, 2012


It’s Sunday. And I woke up with a craving for some Dominican style eggs, like my grandmother used to make back when she was alive and chasing my demon child ass around her house with a thick, rubber soled slipper firmly clenched in her hand. 

The smell of those eggs in the morning would always stop me in my tracks. As I vowed, with fingers crossed, to stop engaging in fun-to-do-hoodrat-stuff behavior. My fave cousin and I would sit at the table like two slovenly little angels savoring that plate of mouth watering deliciousness. Until breakfast was over, and we'd regroup, hatching our next brilliant scheme to torment the old lady. 

We were bored. And poor. Our options for entertainment were very limited.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a “cook”. (this is where my tiny Rican mom rolls her eyes). But I can follow a recipe easy enough. And it so happens that I am also a gluttenous pig who REALLY, TRULY, DEEPLY LOVES TO EAT. The desire to stuff my face with something sinfully decadent will motivate me on occasion to pick up a seldom used pan. Also, I am poor. With limited options. I need to start cooking. Or starve. 

So, here's what went down this morning in the Mad Shady kitchen:  

Recipe courtesy of

These are actually two separate recipes: one for the eggs and one for the mangu. Because my gluttenous Dominican half decided that I needed authentic Dominican mashed plantains to go with my Dominican style eggs. Also, I had mine with toasty corn MEXICAN tortillas. It just felt right. Plus they were in my cabinet.


I made a few modifications...

I cut the recipe in half, because I live alone, and I am not trying to feed the neighborhood. Also, I took one tbsp of olive oil and sauted some garlic in it. Then I added that with the remaining plain olive oil to the plantain mixture (I used two tbsps total of oil. Because half of 1/4c=2 tbsps. I googled it).

I cut the recipe in half. 

Also, I only used 1/4 red onion, even less of red pepper, just said no to green pepper, just a sprinkling of cilantro, no salt or pepper (prefer to let my imaginary friends add their own to suit their tastes) and said no thank you to parmesan cheese. I also minced the onion and peppers to an inch of their lives. Because I'm lazy. And I don't like to chew. I used less water, even less than the 1 cup I would've used by cutting recipe in half. And I added two tsps of cider vinegar. My grandmother's secret ingredient! (Oh yeah, Abuela, I paid attention). You can certainly add more water after it simmers, just have to play around with it. I don't like it too watery. So I'd rather add it at the end. You'll know you've nailed it, when the taste makes you stomp your foot, yell out DAY-UM to the heavens and then erupt into a joyous song

You can also scramble the eggs. After the sauce is done, pour into a separate bowl. Then scramble the eggs. When the eggs are cooked, pour in sauce and saute.

Tell me that don't look good! One con: No dipping with this version. Keep that in mind.


--DO break the yolk, mix it with the sauce and try a mouthful with the plantains
--DO try the sauce with just the plantain. Do it! You. Will. Not. Be. Sorry. 
--Maybe try the eggs folded up in the tortilla? Why the hell not?
--Have you tried adding a slice of avocado? You are a TRUE Dominican, now. 

Friday, August 17, 2012


Reasons why Teddy is NOT an a**hole and why his actions are totally justified:

1. Maybe that bottle was really annoying him. And it needed to be GONE.

2. Maybe he just didn’t like the way that stupid vitamin bottle was looking at him with that smug “hey, look at me, I’m so thin and healthy” look of superiority. Stupid vitamins. *smack*

3. Maybe the bottle was telling a painfully boring personal anecdote that went on a little too long. And Teddy wanted it to end. He’s got a lot of shit to do.

4. Maybe the bottle was trying to tell him how he really needs to get out of that sad, messy house, go outside and EMBRACE LIFE! And Teddy thought, who are YOU to tell ME how to live my life. That bottle needs to mind its own damn business.

5. Maybe Teddy had a sudden feng shui attack and felt compelled to remove some clutter.

6. Maybe the bottle was perpetuating some Beiber-like, fake swagger and needed to be set straight: Stop it. Embrace your whiteness. *smack* That bottle is lucky to have a genuine friend like him who keeps it real.

7. Maybe Teddy experienced a rare rebellious impulse and remembering his former friend’s advice to embrace life  opted to go with the flow and surrender to this new, exciting feeling. He felt empowered! Then he was emotionally drained and needed a "cat nap". 

8. Maybe the bottle was standing too close. Give a bitch some damn personal space!

9. Maybe Teddy had a really hard day, sitting there, contemplating all the shit he needs to get done. And he felt a tiny bit overwhelmed, because he knows that as soon as he completes even one task there will still be twenty more things left to do. Because there is always something else that needs to get done. And you know what? He's freakin' tired! Because it just feels like life is this never ending to-do list of SHIT THAT NEEDS TO GET DONE. One vicious cycle. With no end in sight.  And what the hell is the damn point?! So yeah, he hit the bottle out of frustration. He's not proud. But he was having a moment. And needed to vent. 

Haven't you ever had a DAMN MOMENT where you felt like just lashing out?!! 

Think about THAT before you go judging a bitch and calling them an a**hole.

P.S.  Or maybe he was just hungry. And it made him irritable. I get like that.

P.P.S. Did I seriously just write an entire post about a cat?! I am really bored.

P.P.P.S. I don't even like cats.

Friday, August 10, 2012


There's one thing I want you to do for me. Win. Win!

If wasting time were an Olympic sporting event, I’d be the reigning world champion.

And my strongest event would be stupid internet searches. This is where my innate gift for doing nothing even remotely productive while somehow managing to always look busy really shines through. I spend hours, days honing my skills in this one particular area googling all sorts of random, totally useless crap. Why? Because I want to be the best, damn it! Also, I'll do just about anything to avoid actually writing. And this is the most entertaining way I've found to pass the time. (I don't have cable)
Not wanting to break a week-long winning streak, I googled WORST HAIRCUT OF ALL TIME today in a sad attempt to make myself feel better after my hairdresser decided to go all Edward Scissorhands on my curly mane. I wanted to see where I ranked on the list and size up my competition. And not write my script.

These are the top contenders vying for the coveted title:


No amount of smoky eye makeup can hide the sadness behind those eyes. I feel your pain, girl. I was pretty once too. Don't worry, it'll grow back eventually. That's what I tell myself to get through. Wear some big hoop earrings in the meantime. It helps.


You've got a lot of spunk, kid. I admire that. Don't ever change.


Not many would have the courage to sport such an intricate geometric design on their head or the ingenuity to blend it with impeccably drawn, matching eyebrows. But to top off this masterpiece with the long abandoned SIDE PONY?! Pure. Genius. 

The world isn't ready for such a bold visionary. Give 'em time, boo. 


I tip my hat to you, sir. No one can touch you.You soar with the eagles.


W.T.F. Did you lose a bet? Pass out drunk at a frat party? Piss off your girlfriend who wants to send a clear message that SHE IS NOT THE ONE TO BE CHEATED ON?! 

There's a story here. This is just craziness.


I have no idea why you came up on this search. You really have no business being on this or any other "worst list".  You get a lifetime free pass for your SHEER AWESOMENESS. Be gone, bitch. Bzzzzzzzz


I rocked the wet curls back in high school, during my Michael Jackson phase. Can't. Even. Front. I'm not proud. But this hardly qualifies as the worst haircut of all time.


Wait. A. Second. Here. Long, loose layers..of varying disproportionate lengths...that FALL IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES? OH, HELL NO... 
Am I sporting A DAMN, FRIENDS CUT?!!
Why, God. No seriously...WHY?!  
I can't believe I didn’t see it before. But that’s my haircut right there. If you just added a few more inches to the back, because I asked my scissor-happy stylist to keep it long this time. And then cut some really short, fringy bangs. For added awfulness. You will have achieved my new, furthest-thing-from-cute jacked up Summer hair look.

So I must congratulate my hairdresser on this crowning achievement. After five long years and numerous failed attempts, you’ve reached a career milestone, blowing away the competition by giving me THE WORST HAIRCUT OF ALL TIME.

Way to go, girl. I’ll see you at the victory stand. Seems we're both winners here today. 

Note to stylists: The "Rachel" doesn't work on brown girls. Neither does short bangs.

Note to my five readers: This is what comes up when you google jacked up hair. In case, you were wondering.

1. ROCKY II (1979) Writer: Sylvester Stallone