Excerpts from ‘Women Who Work for Ivanka’
The Essential Companion Piece for Ivanka’s Domestic Help
It always seems impossible until it’s done.
Stealthily swap all Women Who Work dust jackets with those from The Handmaid’s Tale in every Beltway bookstore by noon. If you can accomplish this sales-boosting feat while eight months pregnant and waddling from store to store with Ivanka’s children in tow, congratulations! But don’t expect paid maternity leave. Ever.
You can do it all!
Scrub the his and hers toilets in the master suite with a toothbrush that Ivanka loves to point out is eco-friendly. Bitterly consider how her book, with its carbon footprint of 5.974 lbs CO2-eq per unit, totally cancels out any smidgen of environmental good done by this shitty little biodegradable scrubbing tool. After you’ve finished cursing corporate greenwashing, draft the syllabus for Quantum Chemistry for Heiresses, which you’ll be teaching to Ivanka so that she doesn’t feel inadequate around Angela.
A little rebellion now and then is a good thing.
When adding periwinkle-dusted drivel to Ivanka’s Massive Database of Grossly Misapplied and Sometimes Misattributed Platitudes, throw in a few one-liners from Phyllis Schlafly, Richard Spencer, Justin Bieber, Amazon’s Alexa, and Hillary Clinton for good measure. She’ll never notice.
Not everybody poops.
All of the property’s 6.5 bathrooms are strictly off limits to the help. That said, petty neighbor Dianne Bruce often keeps her carriage house unlocked for those in need of a ladies’ room. She’s not about to let a Johnny on the Spot sully Kalorama’s rarefied air. Her bathroom is well stocked with quilted toilet paper and fancy hand soap, which are the job’s only perks.
Know your place.
Never accidentally photobomb one of Ivanka’s Instagram shots. A single ugly shoe in one of her art-directed frames, even if it’s the result of diving to catch a falling baby, will get you fired on the spot. If it’s an orthopedic clog, you’ll be fired without severance pay.
Enjoy the little things in life.
Dehairing Ivanka’s extensive collection of boar-bristled brushes will earn you four extra minutes of supervised break time.
A secret at home is like rocks (or limbs) under tide.
Per Ivanka’s instructions, don’t let Jared EVER see her life-size cardboard cutout of Justin Trudeau or its companion body pillow. If Jared catches sight of either piece of hunkaphernalia, well, let’s just hope a tugboat captain spots your bloated corpse floating in the frigid Potomac before it washes out to sea. We never found Liza.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
Do not bring pastries, rosaries, Lunchables, non-Ivanka-branded handbags, knitted headpieces, wallet photos of your family enjoying the local YMCA, or real books into the Trump/Kushner household. These items are triggering and/or confusing to Ivanka.
Are you a slave to your time or the master of it?
No fucking comment.
Freedom, like everything else, is relative.
While sitting through Arabella’s umpteenth ballet recital, sneak a peek at some grainy, muted FaceTime footage of your own daughter blowing out the candles on her Cinderella-themed birthday cake.
The biggest mistake people make in life is not trying to make a living at doing what they most enjoy.
To preserve your sanity, keep in mind that this is only true if your upbringing revolved around cotillion, dressage lessons, French elocution courses, and private summer classes in Grand Era floral arranging with golden lilies.
Some days, the most resourceful individual will taste defeat.
Pound out the sequel to Women Who Work — Women Who Work a Far-Right Angle — using nothing but a piece of construction paper, a crayon from the third-floor playroom, and a half-full handle of discontinued Trump Vodka. Stash the bottle in your SoHo Solutions Work Tote — a mandatory “foundational accessory” — and sell it on eBay. Since you still haven’t paid off the cost of your uniform and healthcare has gone to hell in a handmaid’s basket, you need all the supplemental income you can get!
Cultivate the habit of being grateful.
You burp, bathe, diaper, dress, feed, chauffeur, teach, and parent three tots whose footwear costs more than your yearly rent. “Life is a verb, not a noun,” Ivanka cheerfully dictates to her assistant’s transcriptionist from her sunny perch on a pretzel pool float as you slip on the deck while wiping spit-up off your cover-up and reassuring the eldest child, again, that Glampy isn’t Gru with a Minion on his head. Your stooped back and aching feet agree: Life is a verb. Every verb except lounge.
Despite overwhelming evidence that you are the real-life working mom and Ivanka is the Instagram #mom, you receive only a passing mention on page 216. A meatier acknowledgment would have been appreciated, but at least you’re not cleaning up toxic waste! Not yet, at least.
Lauren Morgan Whitticom is a writer and editor based in North Carolina. When amply provided with wild game bird pâté and a personal water fountain, her cat thinks she’s funny.
