Melania's Quarantine Diary

Sure, she picked him, but still, you’ve almost got to feel sorry for Melania Trump in her current situation. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the First Lady is being forced to stay inside and spend more time with her husband President Donald Trump. And if you think you’ve got it rough getting overexposed to your loved ones and all the annoying things they tend to do, imagine having to quarantine with someone as needy, whiney, cruel, self-absorbed, sinful, and insufferable as our president.

         

Well, we don’t need to imagine that anymore, because Mrs. Trump has offered her diary to the public. Apparently, she needs to vent, which can be healthy and cathartic. So, let’s show some regard for Melania during this monumental challenge and put ourselves in her Christian Louboutin Chiara high heels so that we can better understand her struggle.

           

From 3/27/20, this is Melania’s Quarantine Diary.

8:05 a.m.

          Again I wake up to tiny, groping hands. Drooling orange man sad with flab standing before me in boxers is first sight of day. He is wearing PPE mask. A wretched vision. I tell him stop and roll out of bed. I hear him moan “Boobie woobies” and nearly throw up.

          After morning routine in bathroom I say, “My husband is petty cretin, cold as Siberian permafrost. Yet he is rich and powerful. For him I have much contempt. Yet I refuse to live as a Have-Not.” These words I tell myself in mirror each morning.

10:12 a.m.

          At breakfast table Donald stuff face with three Egg McMuffins. Then he notice Barron about to bite into second McMuffin. Donald frown. He nudge our son. “You know, Barron, I don’t like to say this, but for a 14-year-old, you look a little pudgy.”

          The boy’s face go pale and he slump in chair. He slide plate aside. Donald let out excited snort. He snatch McMuffin and shove it into greedy mouth. While he chew fourth McMuffin, I wish he choke. Donald fail to grant me my wish.

11:40 a.m.

          Weeks ago he appoint Pence the “point person” on this plague. Next Donald find disused storage closet and rename it “Prayer Room.”

          “This is gonna be your new HQ, Mike,” he tell man with weak chin and eyes full of fear. “We’ll clear out the junk and you can bring in your crosses and Bibles and uh, Jesus chips or whatever. And then I need you to pray all day long for an end to this virus. We need you stop this thing, Mike. So you better pray your ass off.”

          After breakfast Donald is told by scientist that USA now has most confirmed cases of coronavirus in world. Furious Donald rush to Prayer Room and barge in. He scream, “DAMMIT MIKE, PRAY HARDER!”

          I hear feeble murmur from man no woman can tempt.

          “I don’t know what Revelations means, Mike,” Donald say. “And I told you to read the Bible, not some other book. Now stop praying like a loser. You’re making me look bad.”

          He slam door shut on more feeble murmurs. Despite myself I am impressed at his display of power. Then he ruin moment with fart and talk of golf. 

12:53 p.m.

          When Secret Service woman tell him he cannot go golfing because of quarantine, Donald cross arms, stomp feet, and pout. Is same trick he has used since he was child. To no avail this time.

          Instead his son Eric take him to arcade game we have in White House called Golden Tee. He bring his father Diet Coke and plate of Chicken McNuggets and show him how game is played. Does this make Donald Happy as Meal he steal from Barron yesterday? Does not.

          Donald struggle with game. Fingers coated in McNugget grease cause poor guidance of white ball to aim golf shot. Eric suggest he use napkin and Donald quickly suggest he is terrible son. In dismay I walk to bathroom for reprieve from cretin, but I hear his voice carry down hallway.

          “So which button kicks the ball onto the green before my next shot?” 

2:20 p.m.

          He tell Barron and I to play board game with him. At 14, Barron says he is too old for such a game, but his father pouts and complains. We give in and play Candyland. And Donald cheat at Candyland. He claim Lord Licorice cannot keep him stuck in place because he is president. Then in Peppermint Forest we see him clearly draw single purple card, but he insist it was double purple, giving him Gumdrop Pass shortcut in Gumdrop Mountains. Then Donald fumble hands, mix single-purple card in rest with deck, act like this is accident.

          “Oops. But really, it was a double purple. Believe me.”

          Barron and I resign ourselves to this nonsense as Donald win. Call himself “Absolutely the best ever at Candyland.” We cringe more when Donald say, “Let’s play again!”  

3:43 p.m.

          To subdue obnoxious man into quiet state, we try starting puzzle of White House. This too is failure.

           He stare at scattered puzzle pieces on table with that look of someone sucking a lemon. He grab a piece slowly and frown at it as though puzzle is strange thing from another planet. Then the instant he can see two pieces do not match, he pounds pieces with fist in feeble effort to fit them together. I see him remove his shoe in effort to whack puzzle pieces into shape and wonder yet again, “Is this new low?”

          It is not. Minutes later Donald is spitting at puzzle pieces, muttering about a "deep-state conspiracy." Then he swipe angry hand across table and pieces fall to floor.

          “Puzzles are made by Democratic scientists, OK? And it's a pretty bad conspiracy,” he tell us.

           He fumble for phone and tweet about this foolishness. Quickly becomes bitchy tweet storm of 17 tweets in 10 minutes. Still nowhere close to record of 18 in 12.

5:00 p.m.  

          We watch “heartwarming” movie intern recommend. Called Forest Gump. At first Donald love it. He point at boy in leg braces and laugh hysterically. He go around living room mocking this boy’s jerky way of walking. During scene when boy flee from bullies and girl shout “Run, Forest, Run!”, Donald stop his mockery. He watch in disappointment as boy break shackles of leg braces and become fast runner who escapes bullies. He grab remote and press Stop.

          “Dammit,” he say.

          I never see Donald so depressed. 

7:08 p.m.

          At dinner table I am thankful for fog of Xanax and champagne. I check phone. Donald has tweeted about puzzles being made by Democratic scientists 13 more times. I see he is also spitting his hate at man called Jimmy Kimmel. 

          I watch the glutton consume Big Mac, large fries, Buttermilk Crispy Chicken Sandwich, McDouble, four-piece McNuggets, two Baked Apple Pies, and large Diet Coke. In haze as I doze eye of my mind see him take shape of bloated traffic cone stuffing hole on top.

          He screech fork across plate to startle me awake. Is his way of saying I must suffer more. 

9:55 p.m.

          We are gathered around fireplace and Donald ask if he has told story of time he fire Gene Simmons on Apprentice. Is 10^th time I have heard him tell this story today. At once everyone in room answer “Yes!”

          “Well, Gene was a pretty solid contestant on The Apprentice. The Celebrity Apprentice, actually. And you know, Gene’s a very independent man, but I told him if he brought back Omarosa, that would be very bad for him. But he didn’t listen to me...”

          Drone of man in love with own voice become total gibberish to all in room. We have all endured this “Gene Simmons, you’re fired” tale countless times. Even Donald Jr. the infinite bootlicker cannot summon energy to look like he care. Donald is not aware of this. Still puffs out chest out and babbles until we all secretly wish for silence of death.

11:02 p.m.

          When Donald with his lips puckered approaches me in nightgown, I fake sneeze. Same trick I use since start of COVID. In highlight of day I watch Donald stop in tracks, see grow of worry on face, enjoy sweet feeling as cretin backs away from me. Step after step.

          “Ooh, I don’t like that. Not one bit,” he say. “Maybe uh... maybe we better sleep in different rooms again.”

          I nod and look sad as my heart races with joy. In private bedroom of obscene luxury I message old friends, cuddle kitten, and listen to symphonies with no Donald to be seen, heard, or smelled. The bliss. I wish to never leave this bedroom. Before sleep comes I think of who and what awaits me in morning. The weight of sorrow and dread goes on and on.