What Mrs. Trump Would Have Said


After months and months of waiting for the punchline of this bad joke, the bad joke has gradually, painfully, come true: Donald Trump, Mr. Bombastic, reality star, full grown Oompa Loompa,  is the Republican nominee.

And it is likely he will be facing the first female nominee of a major party. This is bound to stir up a lot of gender discussions, and before everybody gets sick of the conversation, here’s my contribution.

One of Don’s most defining qualities is his offensive speech, arrogance and crassness that wouldn’t be tolerated from a woman.

Here are some of Trump’s most churlish statements, and how a woman would have been expected to deliver the same sentiment.


Mr. Trump: “I think the only difference between me and the other candidates is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful.”

Mrs. Trump: I have the utmost respect for my fellow candidates. Truly. I just wonder if it’s possible they’ve been a little less than completely truthful on occasion. Although I will say this: their spouses have terrific personalities, just terrific.

Mr. Trump: “Ariana Huffington is unattractive, both inside and out. I fully understand why her former husband left her for a man – he made a good decision.”

Mrs. Trump: I love Arianna to death. That swoopy thing she does with her hair is such a brave choice. And her ex-husband’s shirts are always so nicely pressed!

Mr. Trump: “All of the women on The Apprentice flirted with me – consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected.”

Mrs. Trump: No way were they flirting with me! You’re crazy. I feel like they were just being nice because I had gum, and everybody likes a person who has gum.… Wait, do you really think they were?

Mr. Trump: “You’re disgusting.”

Mrs. Trump: Listen, I don’t want to keep you. You are so busy! Go on, I’ll catch up with you later. Great seeing you though!

Mr. Trump: “I have never seen a thin person drinking Diet Coke.”

Mrs. Trump: I’m no expert, but sometimes I wonder if Diet Coke is even worth it, you know? Like, based on what I see. Never mind. I’m sorry I said that. That was mean.

Mr. Trump: “My fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body.”

Mrs. Trump: I hate every single part of my body.

Mr. Trump: “My IQ is one of the highest—and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure; it’s not your fault.”

Mrs. Trump: I may not be the brightest bulb in the drawer, not like Dr. Harvard over there. Come on now, Dr. Harvard. Don’t blush. You know it’s true! But I still have an idea I’d like to share, if you all don’t mind. Unless you wanted to go first, Doctor? Please, after you. I insist!

Mr. Trump: “The point is, you can never be too greedy.”

Mrs. Trump: No, no. I really shouldn’t have that second slice. But thanks so much for offering.

Mr. Trump: “The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.”

Mrs. Trump: I’ve been fortunate enough to find myself in a comfortable situation. Sorry, was that rude?

Are Doctors Just Sweet Talking Us?


Some women have terrible taste in men. I know– I used to be one of those women. Then I married a perfectly lovely man, and that must have thrown the universe off-balance. It’s since righted itself; I now have equally terrible taste in doctors.

You can read about my first bad experience here. But it wasn’t the last.

My new OBGYN seemed wondrous at first. Now I know– a little too wondrous.

Walking into his office was like walking into a best friend’s living room. Cozy and nurturing. It smelled like sunset on an orchard in autumn, and the lighting was warm and inviting– battery operated candles flickered on a coffee table amid a spray of women’s magazines and a zen rock garden. I had the impulse to pour a glass of wine and tell the receptionist my most embarrassing moment. I had the urge to giggle.

I settled into an overstuffed couch, inhaled the sweet home-baked smell of the place, and watched a few minutes of Ellen before I was called into an exam room. I reluctantly left the womb of the waiting room.

The exam room was outfitted with its own flat screen television. I sank into another overstuffed chair and the nurse handed me a cloth (CLOTH!!) gown. The fabric was so much more comforting than the thin crinkly paper to which I’ve been accustomed. Oh the luxury of cotton open at the front!

The doctor was a small balding man with a spunky personality. Kind of like Artie Bucco from The Sopranos before Tony burnt his restaurant down and he lost his god-damned mind. He asked questions about my career, my husband, and my hobbies. His wide-eyed response to all my answers made me feel downright fascinating. A writer? Wow! You play volleyball? Wow! Your husband is a math professor? Wow!

I liked this guy.

He finished the exam by speaking into a handheld recording device. “Alena here is a writer. How cool is that? I can’t wait to buy a copy of her book,” he said into the recorder. That sentence, the best sentence uttered in the history of sentences, was now a soundbite, saved for posterity.

I almost asked this man over for Thanksgiving dinner. I wanted him to meet my parents.

But like the bad-boys of my youth, this behavior was nothing but seduction with an ulterior motive. He was just courting me, wooing me with scented candles and claiming to also enjoy my favorite talk show host. He was flattering me with false interest (I should have known– nobody responds to “math professor” with “Wow!”)…. all so he could get into my pants.

And he did. On the first visit. At the time I didn’t feel shame. It was my annual exam–a warranted put-out. But then the reasons cheapened, while our relationship grew more expensive.

“Oh, I don’t give year-long prescriptions. You need to come in twice a year for medication,” he said.

“Really? My last OBGYN just saw me annually.”

“Too much can change in six months. All of my patients come every six months.”

I’m sick of hearing about your other patients. Stop comparing me to them! “But my insurance only covers annually.”

“It’s for your own good.”

Is it? Is it?

The fact that he held my prescriptions hostage, compelling me to visit every six months, was annoying, but I accepted him for him– flaws and all. (His waiting room is REALLY pleasant.) But now he’s taken it a step further.

I went in for my “six month” appointment yesterday. It was just a breast exam, an interaction that, if anything, he should have paid me $30 for.

After I tied my gown closed, feeling a little used, he said this: “You’re due for a sonogram, and our technician isn’t here, so we’ll need to make another appointment in three months.”

My instinct was to answer, “A sonogram? But I’m not pregnant.” But this seemed so obvious, I had to ask myself, “Wait… am I?”

Apparently he wants to ensure–every three to six months– that my uterus is in good health so that if I ever decide to get pregnant, there won’t be any problems. Kind of like viewing an apartment before you sign the lease and move in.

But since my lady parts AREN’T a five floor walk-up with leaky faucets and a crumbling facade (my facade may be soft–but I’m only 28 and, my god, not yet crumbling), this seemed excessive.

An appointment every three months? There are relatives I don’t see that often.

It was our break-up point. This man isn’t after my best interests. He’s just taking advantage of my insurance. To him, I’m just a friend with benefits. (Yeah, that happened.)

Well guess what, Doctor Wow! I’m not taking a day off work and paying another $30 copay so you can afford your house in the Hamptons and your granny smith Glade plugins and your fancy shmansy cloth gowns. Use paper like everyone else!

I’m giving my insurance to a doctor who deserves it.


I Thought We Agreed to Pee in the Ocean

Now, with a brand new cover!