A woman walking in front of a building with flowers.

Where’s Melania?  


By Nancy Ford

While temperatures consistently top out at 100+ degrees throughout our region, this scorching, unrelenting, drought-inducing weather takes a back seat to the hottest question Americans have been asking all summer: Where’s Melania? 

As much as Donald Trump loves the spotlight, his current wife has recently eschewed publicity with equal fervor. This aversion to publicity is a direct contradiction of Melania’s professional history as a super(ish) model and star(ish) of soft-core lesbian porn.  

There was a time that I had pity, perhaps even a modicum of respect for Melania. After all, she worked hard to hatch a plan to immigrate to America (on an Einstein visa, no less!), marry an old rich guy, produce an heir, chain-immigrate her parents, divorce or bury said old rich guy, and live happily ever after. Truly, she is a Dreamer. Her dream did not include becoming First Lady and subsequently adopting a wardrobe of pastels and muted colors. 

These days, my pity for her has been replaced by concern. When was the last time we saw Melania and Donald together, strolling not hand–in–hand? Or Mother Melania with her son, Barron? Or Mel alone, a la carte, leisurely reclining in a private jet, wearing sunglasses and a gold duct tape bikini and holding a sleek automatic pistol in one hand and a briefcase full of jewels in the other, as one does?  

It can’t be argued that Melania is physically beautiful. Those eyes. Those cheekbones. Her long, lithe limbs and perfectly coiffed, straight hair. Her perpetually pouty lips. Her ability to say “Pay me!†in four languages. 

Melania is more than a pretty, pouty face, and if anyone has a reason to pout, it is she. Surely, when she chose to marry The Donald, she never dreamed his dirigible-like ego would inflate to the point of becoming the laughable leader of the free world and drag her along on this nightmare scenario. Rumor has it that she received an (alleged) signing bonus for staying married to him throughout his first (and please God, only) presidential term. Whatever that bonus was, it wasn’t enough. 

Whether we like her methods or not, Melania is the quintessential definition of A Dreamer. She realized at an early age that America offered her much more opportunity than her native home of Slovenia, reportedly a land of little more than headscarves and potato fields. To her, America is a Promised Land where champagne flows like water and the toilets are made of gold. Kudos to her for actually landing one of the few Americans who actually does have a golden toilet. 

Speaking of a load of crap, we saw how Melania’s husband treated her during his presidency. We saw how he frequently pushed ahead of her to disembark Air Force One to embrace his drooling hoards of Trump zombies (Trombies?) at his cult rallies. We saw how he ignored her at his inauguration, leaving it to the Obamas to escort her. 

Yes, Melania is quite beautiful, but her complicity in her husband’s birtherism, racism, fascism, narcissism, nepotism and all the other -isms he’s guilty of is not. But maybe Melania deserves at least a modicum of appreciation for the amazing restraint she displayed during her four-year stint at the White House.  

Let’s remember this: Not one time has Melania stabbed the Orange Roughy with the steak knife he uses to saw his carbonized New York strip. She never wrenched from his tiny hands the hair dryer he uses every day on his golden locks and pushed him and it into a full bathtub. She never beat him with one of his many golf clubs. She never even extended her foot to trip him as he descended Air Force One, sending him tumbling empty-noggin first onto the tarmac. That’s restraint. Melania simply sucked it up, slammed her nostrils shut, and plowed through her curious destiny as the 45th First Lady of the United States.  

Do you know how Melania could say thank you to the country that has given her everything? Divorce him. She’d have millions of material witnesses to her case, even if finding character witnesses may be more challenging. Plead mental cruelty and assault by ketchup. She’d wreck his campaign and have the eternal thanks of a grateful nation.  

We see you, Melania, wherever you’re hanging out these days. You deserve better than to be stuck in a loveless, abusive, McDonald’s sweat-smelling marriage. He ain’t the Commander in Chief of You.  

Slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan. Run like hell, Mel. America is a free country. Set yourself free.  

Meanwhile, avoid balconies and open windows. You never know what kind of kooky ideas your husband picks up from his friends. 

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