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⚑ October 19, 2017

Feeding a Cold 🍳

The blanket stitch applied unironically.

The blanket stitch applied unironically.

I don’t get very many colds, and the one I have right now will be gone, soon. I have lined up all the right weapons, and they are being deployed. I have tissues; I have Tussin. I have a heating pad for the chills and a fantastic plaid blanket for the general comfort a vintage plaid blanket can give. It’s partially mended, just like me.

On the mend. This is the sort of cold that anyone with a job would still have to drag themselves to work with; pockets full of wadded tissues and sniffling and sneezing just a bit in fits, with that slight headache that always threatens to get worse if I think about the unfairness of Trump too much. He’s always on my mind because I can’t believe a person could be so creepy so much of the time. I am ever so grateful that Bill has declined any opportunity to work with him on any level, even though my husband is the very best ghost-writing partner currently working today.

The amount of misery that spreads out from Trump’s phone calls and contract renegotiations is legendary. My mother would always say that anyone who falls for a con – no matter how small or big – deserves their punishment because greed is always the motivating trickster who blinds you to the real nature of the con. You think somehow, if just for the briefest of moments, that Yes! I, too! Can Become Rich! if I just close my eyes and jump. It never works.

β€œThe Rich Guy” has always haunted and stalked our business life. We have bought expensive tickets to a Barbra Streisand concert or a Hollywood Bowl fancy concert so that we could sit with a Rich Guy and his family. The hope always is that rubbing elbows with the wealthy will result in catching some of their luck, but it never works that way. It’s safer to catch a cold – at least you can get rid of it without emptying your bank account.

Just like yesterday’s Me Too piece, I’m leaving out all the really juicy details because I’m still feeling my way back into the daily routine of writing. I have to pace myself, you know. Still, the Weinstein/Trump stories have dug up the buried memories of the various bad things that happened, each one sad and pathetic, some involving famous people and witnesses … but I have warned others along the way, privately, and Bill knows everything I can remember, so I believe I can just bury all the stuff again and no one will be the wiser.

I remember friends telling me, after going to a party in the ’90s that Trump was hosting, that he was a really sexy guy. All that money! The lump over his wallet must have been bigger than the lump over his manhood, but ewwwww. Enough. Headache will arise if I think too much more about this, and then I’ll be all wrinkled for tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow will be the day he resigns. πŸ”