May 31st, 2006
Well call me Thelma and call me Lousie, I lept off the cliff. I sure done it. "Lump in the bed," my ass. Where does Shorty get off insulting me? I wasn't the one avoiding the cameras for days during the Florida non-recounts because I had a boil on my face.
"Mark of the Beast," Mama joked.
Then when Jimmy Baker told him he had to go out before the camera, he wore that dopey bandaid that made him look like a four-year-old who fell off his tricycle.
Like Jenna said, "I've been covering hickeys wince I was 12, all he had to do was ask for my help." Never occured to him. Thinks he can do it all. Mr. Go It Alone. Well let's see how he fares going it alone night after night in our bed.
June 1st, 2006
Still banked out here. It's so much better than "Casa de Blanca." For instance, I can smoke my Pall Malls without someone's pretend "coughs."
Must have been why he brought a bong along on our honeymoon.
If I ever remember who it was that told me I had connections, I swear I'll phone in an anonymous tip to Alberto that they're hiding Osama. Or, better yet, tell Karl Rove that they're hiding taped conversations between him and Matt Cooper. That'll get a nice little SWAT team breaking down the front door.
Sally Quinn dropped by a visit and a hoped for heart-to-heart.
She was there as a "friend." As if.
Everyone knows the only one who can keep a secret at that paper is Woody.
She wanted to know if my "stand" had anything to do with Shorty's affair with Condi.
What the hell was she smoking?
Shorty with Condi?
It would be a blessing.
Get him out of the house.
I swear since Dick made it clear in 2001 that he was running things, Shorty's never far from my side. There is such a thing as too much togetherness.
I tried to interest him in reading. That didn't take.
He whined, "Laura, the people talk too fast in these books."
I must have stared at him for three minutes before I realized he wasn't joking.
We have nothing in common.
June 2nd, 2006
All of Shorty's talk about his "legacy" has been making me think. Not like him.
He says "legacy" but means polls. He seems to think history is some sort of a congeniality contest.
I told him, "Well do something. Do something to make your mark in history."
He said he'd have to check with Dick first.
He tried to call him but Dick was in his undisclosed location.
I wish I had an undisclosed location.
I'd avoid Shorty too.
Barbara came by last night. Not the pretty one, my daughter. The ugly one, my mother-in-law.
I had a good buzz on, after a few shots of vodka and a beer chaser. Then I opened the door and saw her face.
Sobered me up right away.
I bet when snakes get drunk, they see her face.
She couldn't shut up about Shorty. How lost he was without me there to remind him it was Thursday so he needed to change his underwear. How he choked twice because no one remembered to tell him to swallow his food. How he spent the time after Blue's Clues walking around Casa de Blanca trying to find me.
"Where's Laura?" he'd ask outside a closed door with a goofy grin.
Then he'd open the door and look inside. He'd be crestfallen, she said, not to find me.
"Well Big Babs," I said stubbing out my cigarette on a saucer, "he never found the much promised WMDs either and he lived."
That was her cue to leave but she can be as dense as he is.
Plus, she said she needed to go to bathroom.
Needed to swipe the towels, that cheap ass cow.
I'll never forget her screaming at Jenna a few years back.
"You left two sips of cola in this can!" she screamed while little Jenna cowered.
I threw thirty-five cents at her and told her to knock it off.
You'd think she'd be embarrassed but instead she just dived to the carpet to scoop up the coins.
Cheap ass cow.
"I was a First Lady too," she told me trying to create some bond.
Yeah, but people don't mistake me for my husband's mother.
Screw her. I got big plans today.
Like I said, I'm wondering about my own legacy. I'm afraid I'll be seen as some sort of madwoman, like that character Bertha in Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.
Hell, even Osama releases videos. Me, I just hang out in the First Bedroom all day, reading trashy paperbacks and smoking my cigs. If you had my marriage, you would too.
But I've decided to "Hillary up."
Female version of the "cowboy up" Dick and Shorty are always high fiving over.
You read that right, "high fiving."
Is there a more ridiculous sight than Dick trying to act "hip" by asking Shorty to "give me five, slap me some skin"? I'm surrounded by social losers.
Which is good because it should allow me to stand out.
Gotta' run, first phase of Hillary up starts now.
June 3rd, 2006
Yesterday went pretty good. I gave a little speech at the United Nations. You read that right. And unlike Shorty, no one booed me. I twisted the knife a little by reminding everyone of Shorty's AIDS promise, the one he still hasn't fulfilled. I didn't point that out. I left it unsaid. But I know everyone was thinking about it.
The only distrubing thing was that I was seated next to Janet Reno and I swear she kept hitting on me.
Finally, I said, "Janet, I'm really not interested. Thank you all the same."
That's when I realized I'd been sitting next to John Bolton.
He looked hurt.
He probably gets the Janet Reno comparison a lot.
I felt bad because suddenly the clubs he'd been pushing didn't seem so bad but he was pissed and acting like I'd just farted.
Oh well, I looked good. Unlike Shorty, my clothes actually fit me. For a guy who can't take the cowboy boots off, even in bed, he sure has a Peter Pan complex.