Melania in Quarantine

Sure, she picked him, but even so, 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 Donald Trump. And if you think you've got it rough being overexposed to your loved ones and all the annoying things they tend to do, imagine having to quarantine with someone as needy, whiny, 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’s upset with Donald and needs to vent. Whether that’s because he was unfaithful or because he used her favorite scarf as a sneeze-rag or both, the upshot is, Melania is pissed.

She found a loophole in their prenup. In the non-disclosure agreement they signed, a box at the bottom of the page read “Do not write in this box.” Donald wrote in black pen: “You’re not the boss of me, box.” The NDA was therefore negated.

I hope Melania knows the consequences of airing these sordid details: No one will like or trust Donald any more or less and their marriage will go on as if nothing happened. 

It’s time we show some regard for Melania during this monumental challenge and put ourselves in her Christian Louboutin Chiara high heels so that we can better relate to her struggle. 

From 3/27/20, this is her diary.

8:05 a.m.

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

He tell blowhard speech about God knows what with McMuffin bits spitting from mouth. Finally, he leave table to meet with VP. Then I go to cabinets by stove, begin making pancakes for my boy. 

11:40 a.m. 

Weeks ago, Donald appointed Pence the “point person” on this plague. Next he found disused storage closet. He told maintenance to put up chintzy gold sign. Sign says this is “Prayer Room.” 

“This is gonna be your new HQ, Mike,” he told man with weak chin and eyes sad with defeated soul. “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 18 hours a day to end to this virus. We need you to stop this thing, Mike. It’s been very bad for me. So you better pray your ass off.” 

***

Today after breakfast, a scientist tell Donald that USA now has most confirmed cases of coronavirus in world. Furious Donald rush to Prayer Room, 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, or else you’ll be stuck in here 19 hours a day.” 

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 use as trustfund toddler. 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, show him how to operate game. Does this make Donald Happy as Meal he steal from Barron yesterday? No. Does not.

Donald struggle with game. Fingers coated in McNugget grease cause poor guidance of white ball used to aim golf shot. Eric say maybe he should wipe with napkin. Donald reply maybe Eric is terrible son. Smug smile of jack-o-lantern who believes every day is Halloween. In dismay I walk to bathroom for reprieve from cretin. But I hear his voice carry down hallway. 

“Which button kicks the ball before my next shot?” 

2:20 p.m. 

He tell Barron and I to play board game with him. At 14, Barron say he is too old for such a game. His father pouts and whines. We give in and play Candyland. 

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. This gives him Gumdrop Pass shortcut in Gumdrop Mountains. Then Donald fumble hands, mix single-purple card in with rest of deck. Act like this is accident. 

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

Barron and I resign ourselves to this nonsense. Donald win. Calls himself “Best President of Candyland Ever.” We cringe more, somehow, when Donald say, “Let’s play again!”  

3:43 p.m.

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

He stare at scattered pieces on table with look of lemon-sucking fool. He grab a piece slowly, frown at it. As though puzzle is strange thing to him, like a woman’s dignity. The instant he see two pieces do not match, he begin to complain. I see Donald spit at puzzle pieces, wonder, “Is this new low?”  

Is not. Donald searches puzzle box for answers. He find what year White House puzzle was made. 

“2010? Oh no, Obama! No wonder it’s a lousy puzzle.” 

This finding becomes tweet. First of many. He unleash storm of bitching again. As is habit, he announces words while typing. 

“Barack Obama--who never starred in Home Alone 2 or Wrestlemania 23 and also never had the birthright to be president--left for me not only a nightmare of governing but also a nightmare of a very difficult and unfair puzzle of the White House. #BADTREASONGUY!!!”

A minute passes. 

“Let me tell you about a time that was a lot greater than the Obama years, back when I put together a 12-piece puzzle of the Reagan-era White House at age 38.”

Five minutes pass. 

“Oh God, I bet he touched the puzzle pieces! Gross. I gotta go wash my hands. #NOTRACIST.”

“Side note: Can’t wait to see the loyal Herman Cain not wearing a mask at the Trump Rally in Tulsa on June 20th!” 

His hand start to cramp. He fight through pain. He compose two tweets. He complain bitterly about limit of characters per tweet. 

“Easy puzzles are fine. They’re for good Americans that support me. But hard puzzles are made by Democratic scientists. And it's a pretty bad conspiracy, I can tell you…

“I’m not saying the Democratic scientist puzzle-makers should be intimidated and beaten, but something’s gotta be done. #INTIMIDATE&BEATTHEM.” 

Finally I use bait and switch tactic with old Hustler magazine to get phone away from him, for one hour. 

5:10 p.m.  

We watch “heartwarming” movie intern recommend. Called Forrest Gump. At first Donald love it. He point at boy in leg braces and laugh in hysterics. 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 mocking. He watch in disappointment as boy break shackles of leg braces and become fast runner who escapes bullies. He grab remote and press Stop. The film is over for us. 

“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 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 gather around fireplace. Donald ask if he has told story of time he fire Gene Simmons on Apprentice. Is third 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 did he listen to me? No. And part of that, I think, is because Gene’s a very independent man...” 

Drone of man in love with own voice become gibberish to all in room. We have 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. Still puffs out chest out and babbles until we all secretly wish for silence of death.

11:02 p.m. 

When Donald puckers lips and approaches me in my nightgown, I fake very sick coughing. Same trick I use since start of COVID. In highlight of day I watch Donald stop in tracks, see grow of worry on Jack-o-lantern 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, look sad as my heart races with joy. In private bedroom of obscene luxury I message old friends, cuddle kitten, listen to symphonies on stereo. 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. I feel heaviness of dread that reaches on and on.