Sometimes I wish I could sit down with Melania Trump over a box of KFC’s new pickle-fried chicken tenders (because they are awesome) and have a real just-us-girls conversation.
Right away we’d have to talk about The Jacket. It’s been weeks since the First Lady wore the “I Really Don’t Care, Do U?” emblazoned coat on her way to visiting caged immigrant children in Texas.
Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.
I wouldn’t let Melania have another tender until she told me what inspired that wackadoodle choice.
Melania reminds me of a friend’s description of her new sister-in-law. “What’s she like?” I asked.
“I can’t really tell. Mostly she just sits around being beautiful and aloof.”
Which is OK if your husband owns an auto parts store in a two-stoplight town but if you’re married to the president of the United States, we expect a little more.
Melania doesn’t strike me as much of a gal pal type so I’d probably have to crack open a couple of those new Trader Joe canned wines to loosen her up a bit.
And then we’d talk about her hair and why Bachelorette Becky is always getting her heart broke and how much we hate wearing a bra and what a colossal jerk her husband is. It might take awhile but we’d get to that last. There is truth in canned wine and perfectly brined chicken, I swear.
I’d have to ask Melania about what “Be Best” means and why she can’t hire better handlers who can keep her from sounding out of touch and (see jacket) being weird, not best.
Being beautiful and aloof will only get you so far. After a while, people want to shake that empty Valentino suit and see what’s up. Whither Melania? For example, why did she look so happy—a first—smiling radiantly while chatting with Obama at Barbara Bush’s funeral? In contrast, when she stands beside her husband, she looks like someone who really has to pee but has just been told the next restroom is 90 minutes up the interstate.
I would ask her about kidneygate, too, because by this time we’ll both be kinda bloated and a little loopy and she might even laugh an elegant “tralalala!” little laugh when I ask why she wasn’t seen in public for weeks after a minor procedure.
Look, I’d say. I know it’s not a competition but I had a hysterectomy the same day as your kidney thing, and, crap on a cracker, I was mowing grass the next week. What up?
And she would laugh again and say she didn’t believe me and I’d say I don’t believe her husband every single time he opens his mouth and then she might look hurt and I’d say “Sorry” and “Are you gonna eat that?” because there’s one tender left.
And then we’d lick the pickle juice off our fingers and say we’d have to do this again. But next time, she better spill.