By Nancy Ford
Hey, girlfriend. I just wanted to drop you a note to tell you’ ve been on my mind lately. Like, ever since 2015 when you descended that golden elevator in Trump Tower, when your husband said he was going to run for president. What a ride it’ s been ever since, right?
I know you’ ve heard this all day, every day of your life, but you really are beautiful. Those eyes, those cheek bones. Your racy internet girl-on-girl photo shoots. Your long, lithe limbs. Your perfectly coiffed, straight hair. Your pouty lips.
Something tells me you are much more than all of that. And if anyone has a reason to pout, it is you. We all know that when you chose to marry The Donald, you never dreamed his ego would inflate to the point that he would actually become the leader of the free world, much less drag you along on this nightmare scenario.
Before we go an further, let me just say, welcome to America. You are the quintessential definition of A Dreamer. You realized at an early age that America offered you much more opportunity than your home of Slovenia, reportedly a land of little more than headscarves and potato fields. Conversely, to you and your immigrant contemporaries, America is the promised land where champagne flows like water and the toilets are made of gold.
Ironically, you did happen to find one of the few Americans who actually does have a golden commode in his house. But you and I both know that, whether it’ s a blue plastic Porta-Potty on a Washington D.C. construction site or an opulent gold-plated poo-throneover looking downtown Manhattan, it all smells the same.
Speaking of a load of crap, we see how your husband treats you. We see how he pushed ahead of you to disembark Air Force One to get to his drooling hoards of Trombies at his victory lap rallies. We see how he ignored you at his Inaugural, when it was left to the Obamas to escort you into the festivities. We see how he made you walk around the limo, rather than scooting over in his presidential limousine to make room for you beside him. No class.
We see you, Melania. You deserve better. True, never in the history of our country has a sitting First Lady divorced her husband while he was the President of the United States. But please remember, even though he may the Commander in Chief, he is not the Commander of You. America really is a free country.
We know he thinks he has eminent domain over all the pussies in all the land. Likely, he thinks he owns yours, too. Two words: He doesn’t.
If his abuse escalates beyond his pitiful lack of respect for you, like it did when he was married to Ivana, whom he reported physically abused and raped, please, please tell someone. Keep Michelle Obama and Elizabeth Warren’ s phone numbers on speed dial. Or message Hillary; we all know her email cyberghost is still lingering around somewhere on a hidden White House server.
Just curious: Have you ever seen that old movie, TheFirst Wives Club? No? Quick, Netflix it. You’ ll love it. In fact, schedule a Big Girl play date with Ivana and Marla, stir up a pitcher of margaritas and enjoy. And when Bette Midler, Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn start singing “ You Don’ t Own Me” near the end of the movie, I want you and your wifely predecessors to jump up on the couch, hold each others’ hands in a triumphant ex-Trumpian triad, and sing it loud!
Don’t tell me what to do!
And don’t tell me what to say!
Please, when I go out with you
Don’t put me on display!
About Barron. I admire you for your fierce protection of him. We’ re all praying that your son doesn’t turn out like his older half-brothers, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. Whether he is on the autism spectrum, or is simply the product of unimaginable privilege and disconnection from the reality of standard 21st century human existence, your motherhood is to be commended. If you can, hook him up with a supervised play date with some of the fourth-generation Kennedy heirs. Get yourself one of those WWJD bracelets—“ What Would Jackie Do?”
Finally, the LGBT thing. When you came to America to pursue your modeling career, you must have noticed you were surrounded by LGBT designers, stylists and models. If you can without putting yourself in danger, remind The Donald of all the gay men and lesbians who supported you during your runway years. Don’ t bother trying to appeal to his human decency—just remind him that all the queers who help make The Orange One at least a little more aesthetically appealing all deserve to get married as often as he has. Or at least, once.
In closing, take care, Melania. The women of America support you and sympathize with you. When he goes low, you go high.
And good luck with your next chapter in life, wherever it may lead you. We’ re all hoping it’ s far, far away from Trump Tower.