I am devastated. I spent the better part of the day trying to get Dr. Morell on the phone but didn't hear anything back until late afternoon, when he finally agreed to rush an extra 30 Valium to the house. When I tell you about it, you just won't believe what happened:
I was actually making progress, thinking about going to the mall to buy Chel's little half-jew a pair of bunny slippers (they're on sale after Christmas), when my idiot husband put down his morning martini to tell me he'd accepted the invitation and that we'd both be attending Carrot Head's
I have to admit I went a little postal on Bill, yelling about his lack of consideration. Then he put down his vodka tonic and gently explained himself. He said that all the living ex-Presidents (except for Old Bush and his pop-eyed wife) were going to be there and that it would look even worse if we were conspicuously absent. Then he said he bought me a little something to make me feel better, and brought out a gift wrapped box, which I tore open immediately. Inside, there was a Participation Trophy with my name inscribed on it. I have to admit I was deeply touched. Bill watched my eyes well up as he sucked another olive off his toothpick. Then I watched his eyes well up when I beat him across the face with that stupid trophy. He might heal up in time, depending on when the stitches come out.
Still, I don't know how I'm going to make it through that ceremony. I can barely make it to Wal-Mart without wearing a camouflage pants suit and a pair of those big Jackie O-type sunglasses. Dr. Morell always says that I should push myself to explore new boundaries, and that with enough Prozac, I can probably get through anything. I guess now we'll find out.
From what I've heard, the junior Bushes are going, but the older Bushes aren't, which is just fine with me. Nobody has any idea where Jeb is these days since he went into that Cuban clinic for testosterone shots. Apparently, they're going to wheel in Jimmy Carter's cadaver, too, though I can't imagine why. The man is breathing corpse. On the brighter side, lots of old folks catch pneumonia in the cold, so there's that.
I'm already feeling a bit less anxious having written to you, dear diary. You care. You listen. From you, I get unconditional love and attention. But if you ever give me a Participation Trophy, I swear I'll shred your ass and toss you in the fireplace, too. E-mails aren't the only things that disappear, you know.