Saturday, December 24, 2016

December 24, 2016

Dear Diary,

It's Christmas Eve today. I remember as a little girl how much I looked forward to Christmas and all of the joys that came with it. Pity we have to grow up to find that a simple toy, a pretty dress or becoming the leader of the free world are really just illusions of happiness.  Dr. Morell says that true happiness comes from within, and appreciating what we DO have, not what we don't have.  I'm still working on the second part of that, but given enough time and Lithium, I'm sure I'll eventually get there.

Diary, sometimes I like to pretend I have my own Christmas Story about my own baby Jesus.  Although I've yearned to tell someone, someplace, about the Story of Chelsea, now seems the time and you, dear diary, seem to be the appropriate place.

In every sense of the word, Chel was a miracle baby.  To begin with, both Bill and I felt that a true American royal political family cannot be a mere couple. Nobody, including Charles and Diana (before that tunnel thing), can succeed with a public life without having rug rats around them so that the peasants people can relate to them.  So even though Bill and I had our "understanding," I agreed to take one for the team on the conditions that (A) I didn't have to look at him while we did it and (B) I only had to do it one time (or until I was sure I was with child).  To tell the truth, after all the bimbos he'd visited with that thing, I really didn't want to risk it, if you get my virally-transmitted drift.

Imagine my surprise when I found out Bill's dirty little secret:  The man shoots blanks and apparently, always had.  That, as Oprah says, was my "Aha" moment.  I recall thinking, "So that's why there aren't thousands of tiny Clinton bastards littering the backwaters of Arkansas!"  When I confronted him about it, he sheepishly confessed, but blamed it on his fertility specialist, who he claimed hadn't been properly qualified, seeing as how she'd just finished paying her way through medical school as a pole dancer.

Well, diary, that left us in a real pickle.  Aside from all those disgusting sessions where I had to listen to Bubba grunt like a rutting pig, there was the very real question of how we were going to have a child.  Adoption was out of the question, as we're from Arkansas, and well, let's just say there's a fair amount of genetic confusion in those parts.  And this is where my little Christmas baby miracle happened!

One night at the Rose Law firm, Bill and I invited my former employer (who, I might add, never paid me what I was worth, because I'm a woman and that whole 72¢ deal), over for drinks and dinner.  Webb was a lawyer, which meant he was smart, fairly rich and bound by attorney-client privilege so that, you know, "what goes on in Vegas, stays in Vegas."  True, he looked more like a well-fed fresh water bass than a human, but at least he was fertile and could keep a criminal's client's secrets.  After the first bottle of Jack Daniel's, Bill put the offer on the table, and about halfway through the second, Webb's pants dropped below sea level and he started doing some hog-calling he'd learned as a boy.  Bill just looked at me, rolled his eyes with that, "Hey, whatever floats his boat" look.  Next thing I knew, I was tails up over the back of that sofa we'd bought on lay-away and Webb was hard at work.  For a fat man, he didn't sweat nearly as much as you'd expect, for which I was thankful, because stains are a bitch to get out of that sofa.

In any case, diary, that seemed to do the trick.  Within a month, I was ecstatic to know little Chel was on her way and grateful that Bill could go back to trolling strippers with his crew of state patrolmen, leaving me to feather the nest back at home.  Nine months later, Chel was born.  I had my own baby Jesus -- my miracle baby, swaddled in her blanky, lovingly gazing up at me, he trout-like lips wrapped around her bottle and sucking like a fiend.

I have to say, diary, that my life hasn't always been filled with miracles.  Or successes.  Like that time they made me give the Russians that stupid RESET button.  (Even I look back on that and cringe. SO glad I fired that assistant because it wasn't my idea. She was pert and cute, though, so I thought I'd give a break.  My bad.).  But every so often, I've been lucky and raising a girl like Chel has been my little Christmas miracle.   Over the years, she's brought me joy and pride, and grown into a woman who thinks like her mother and looks like her dad.  I'm very proud of her.

I just wish she'd lose some weight.  And had the surgeon take more off her nose.

And didn't marry a Jew.

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