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! 

WHEN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GET ANY WRITING DONE?!

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.

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MOVIE STILLS & QUOTABLES: 
1. THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS 
2. THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ATLANTA