Dear President Trump,
Back in 2008, I ran for your office. “I think a mom of four boys could clean up this mess.” That’s what I told my readers, and I laid out my platform and made my case.
When Mr. Schrock heard about my intended run, he grimaced and said, “Well, the White House was white when we got there…” Here, his voice trailed away, and I knew what he meant. “Before all the PBJs got smeared on that famous desk and before the hot chocolate was drizzled into the carpets,” the People’s House was white.
When seven votes came straggling in (four of those in Crayola scribbles that looked vaguely familiar), I sighed and went back to folding laundry.
Now, just over 10 years later, I’m ready to take another crack at it, only this time, I’m applying for a different position. I’d like to be your Chief of Staff. Here’s why.
I’ve just spent the Christmas holiday season with all four of my sons and their dad. That’s a whole lotta burping, thumping, and manly-chuckling testosterone under one roof right there, and I’m proud to say I’ve still got it. Still got all my skills, that is.
“I can read you like a cheap dime-store novel.” That’s what I’ve told my sons for years. “Too bad Dad didn’t marry someone slow and dull.” I’ve told them that, too. To their frustration, my built-in lie detector is still working like a chubby manager catching shoplifters. We just don’t miss.
For one son, it’s his mouth. When he’s pulling a fast one, he scrunches his brow. He glowers with his eyes. He is Sober, Serious and Earnest. Except that his mouth always gives him away, and then he flops his curls.
“If I were being interrogated after 9/11,” he shouted in frustration just the other day, “she would say, ‘He smiled. We think we got him. And he flopped his curls.’”
You can see how this skill would come in handy for your Chief of Staff. I can sniff out BS in a New York minute, and I know what to do with those hauling it.
For all the parsimonious people, from prickly press personnel to Ms. Pelosi to President Putin, one word—pizza. Oh, and this—parfait (so, well, two). When they all set to ranting and raving, shouting alarming phrases like “red button” and “impeachment,” let me feed ‘em. It’s not possible to pout over homemade pizza pie and peanut buster parfait.
Actually, I think that’s why the original “Silent Night” was written. Someone somewhere was eatin’ his mom’s pizza followed up by that dessert, and there weren’t no words. Only chewing and swallowing and passing of plates for second portions. So send me Jim Acosta and his pals, and we will bring some peace on earth.
Mr. President, I’m a crackerjack scheduler. If I can type hundreds of medical reports while planning the dinner menu, tracking who has to go where after school and which course the cross-country team is running on, I can manage your calendar. With one hand tied behind my back. While doing some laundry and polishing up your tweets.
Oh, yes. I can do that, too. I’m great at getting folks to play nice and get along. After coaching three adolescents through the rapids of middle school and starting the white-knuckle ride with the fourth, I figure D.C. isn’t that much different. Way I see it, the West Wing could use a guidance counselor, and a mom like me could really rock it.
One other thing: I’m one of those prayin’ moms. Oh, I know, I know. The elites are always yammering about “keeping God out of this and that, and prayer out of politics.” Well, I’ve never been good at that. Sure haven’t, and my kids all know what I mean when I level ’em a look and say, “Don’t make me pray about that,” in what they call my Mom Voice. It’s like when your dad said, “Don’t make me pull this car over,” and you knew he meant it and shaped up.
Put me in the office just off of yours and see what kind of “hope and change” comes down.
In conclusion, I’d like to be considered for this position on your staff. I’m great at character assessment, lie detecting, and color coordinating. I can multitask, write speeches, and manage social platforms.
I’m a wise counselor, a story teller, and a comedienne with a side of Florence Nightingale. You may not always like my medicine, but you’ll have a great time, and you’ll have some peace in your office.
Oh, and great coffee. Which, with the Democrats these days, isn’t nothing.
I’m one, small, caffeinated American mom, and I’m ready to serve.