February 16, 1999 (#25), (and before ...)

My conniving constituents,

At last it's over. I have been holding my breath all winter, hibernating in astonishment as I have seen reason and intelligence (two very different children) trapped, trapped, trapped like a baby seal pre-Brigitte Bardot. It is a wonder the brothers Ringling didn't sue the government for unfair competition.

But, my homogenous house managers, I perjure myself.

It isn't over. Far from over. Democrats still decrying what they say the president did and entering this and that hand slap into the record despite having voted against it (can a juror perjure itself?). Republicans still ranting that he will strike again. And one of my personal favorites from Mr. Lott -- the Democrats will now hold up legislation and blame the fact that nothing gets done on the Republicans.

If memory serves me correctly, the cherubic (in form and substance) Sister Josephina would look at her worldly group of seven year olds (of which I was one) and issue sage commentary along these lines, "Children, shall we not play the blame game."

Children. Indeed.

I can't even begin to take issue with the moral pronouncements, or rather denouncements that the American people wallow gleefully in a cozy sewer. Well, certainly my loving liberals! How tedious to have to be all the time jumping out and cleaning off to say how much it stinks before you jump right back in again. Have I missed something? I seem to be a bit dense with all the speeches of late.

As my great Aunt Tilde said, and here I paraphrase in the vernacular "Goodness gracious, Trudy, people fuck. You'd think we'd all be over that by now."

Well auntie, we will see.

Myself, as you may or may not have heard, I am in a bit of a state. Forced from my pleasant yet alarmingly banal existence by well-meaning but terribly vulgar elements.

At first I only noticed the increasing number of large van like vehicles in the neighborhood.

Let me tell you my sartorial senators, that I live(d) in an area resplendent with asphalt and macadam. Yet it would seem suddenly necessary to the inhabitants to have the ability to power and rotate all four wheels of one's vehicle independent of the others.

Then I noticed the owners of these magnificents. Suddenly the sun became a bit less bright. Clouds seemed to linger on Sunday afternoons. Children's voices became shrill and demanding, if only to compete with those of their parents.

Many of you democratic demagogues know where I am proceeding. So, I thought, "Fly away little bird. Your Lancelot has gone and you are relatively free to rejoin hundreds, thousands, millions of people squeezed into a few square miles on the eastern seaboard."

So I picked up my hat box and boarded the bus to New York City.

(Figuratively darlings, really...I haven't boarded a bus since I had to suddenly leave the rapidly escalating scene of a certain affair I was involved in to preserve my virtue and good nature. And given the current state of my virtue, that would be considered by many rude enough to consider such things, as quite some time ago. I retain my nature quite well, thank you so much.)

My titanic tories, I currently reside à l'hotel. Which roughly translates directly to English. Scandalously dear, but oh how lovely to have clean sheets every single day.

However.

The next time you happen to be in a certain hotel and the sign says "Please do not let your children run up and down the hallways" - note that "please" in this case is not a request. So do not be alarmed when you see a small child with a stiletto heel mark in its head and a rather demented but terribly sincere mannish looking woman limping in the opposite direction. Perhaps you'll pay more attention next time. And I do apologize to the child, after all I was aiming at the parents.

Are any of you realtors? Oh, I do hope not. I'm afraid I can't possibly manage you anymore. Sweet desperate ones, wood floors do not include ravaged plywood even though the images of various religious figures may be vaguely represented thereon, terraces have never meant fire escapes. When I say 6 rooms, believe me I count. And I don't include bathrooms, closet or kitchens and neither should you.

Exhausting. Parching.

But my wondering whigs, survivability is key. I hope that I can manage to share that bit of history with President Clinton. (And by the by, let's say we start calling him that instead of Mister which is a bit too civilian, goodness after 6 years and an impeachment, it's the least we could do.)

My loving laborers, I could just go on for much too long regarinding rhetorical fallout. We've been suffering from all sides but in the spirit of Mr Rodney King (last seen working on a dear friend's garden in Manhattan Beach), "Can't we all just get along?"

It's the simple tasks that confound us.

Mwah.
Trudy