Sunday, July 30, 2017

July 30, 2017

Dear Diary,

Well, now I've heard everything. There's a story going around about how Carrot Head's new golden boy Scaramucci is splitting up from his wife. They say she was nine months pregnant when she filed for divorce from that guido greaseball him, and that he didn't even show up for the delivery of his son. I honestly don't know how non-women can behave like that. Merely sending a congratulatory text just isn't the same as being right there in the labor room, watching a woman's bloody disembowelment during a C-section.

It's just not as romantic.

I know this from experience, because when I was giving birth to Chel, Webb Hubell Bill was nowhere to be found, either. I really had nobody to feed me ice chips or give me moral support. Bill was running for governor, I think, and we didn't even have texting back then. I was a little woozy from the epidural, but I do recall him sending a cassette player with a voice that played, "You're doing great, honey, push push. Breathe, breathe!" It worked just fine until one of the nurses flipped the cassette and it played the extended dance party mix version of "Disco Inferno." The shock caused me to suddenly squeeze my legs together, which the doctors say is why Chel's head is permanently malformed.  It slopes to the left, but you can't really tell if she's wearing a hat.

Non-women don't realize how taxing it is to be pregnant. Your body goes through all kinds of hormone imbalances. You can be kind and loving one minute and really angry the next. I remember having dinner with Bill one night, when for no apparent reason at all, I threw a steak knife at him while yelling a Japanese Ninja war chant. I don't even know Japanese, so I have to assume it was the same hormone imbalances that caused me to stab our labrador retriever to death those crying fits by the fireplace. Bill started crying, but it barely nicked his earlobe. I told him to shut up and finish eating his peas.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with a woman's ability to be Commander in Chief of the most powerful nation on the planet. A lot of misogynist non-women will tell you that this kind of emotional, hormone-induced instability is why they wouldn't let a woman within ten miles of "pushing the button," but I think we've disproved that sexist kind of thinking.  If I had won the you-know-what, I would never consider pushing the button, although when I was First Lady, I do recall one night when I probably over-reacted to the chef over-cooking the chicken slices in my qinoa salad.

Now that I think about it, I was getting pretty good with those steak knives.

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