Whitehouse.org is the officious web site for the White House and President George W. Bush, the 43rd President of the United States.



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PREFACE: A Note From the First Secretary
"When Mrs. Bush first asked her staff to transcribe the dictation tapes containing her daily musings, we immediately knew that this was something the voters would savor. How novel to have a First Lady with nothing to hide, allowing everyone in America to peek over her gingham shoulder and read her daily thoughts. When Catherine Fenton suggested to Mrs. Bush that we make her diary available on-line to the visitors to the official White House website, Mrs. Bush's entire face began to glow. Without saying a single word, we knew how touched she was by her staff's suggestion and how dearly she wanted to share her private, unabashed thoughts with those who matter - registered voters affluent enough to enjoy Internet access."

       -- Noelia Rodriguez, Personal Secretary to Mrs. George W. Bush ("Laura")

August 5, 2001: OK, I am finally starting my diary if only to stop Bar from nagging on me. She was on the phone again first thing this morning going on about how much money the previous occupants of this Fright House have made on their book deals. Even though I'm sort of reluctant to take advice from someone who passes her own writing off as being written by a dog, she did make some good points in that bossy way of hers. I mean to say, it is getting harder and harder to wake up early enough to talk to her before her third bloody mary kicks in. I've noticed that that is when she turns from pointed to just flat-out mean. That was the only thing I liked about Europe last month - always being at least 5 hours ahead of the old thing. Anyway, she was right in saying I am going to need money down the road - if only for Jenna's bail. And it's not like Bushie has ever given me any spending money that couldn't be traced right back to Poppy's pocket somehow. But I don't want to be seen as if I'm following in the footsteps of the unnamed former First so-called Lady. Which is why I don't talk at meetings or try any of that lesbian stuff. I guess I'll just have to pay close attention to what she wears on the cover of her book and then make something in a contrasting color. She never ever wears cabbage or celery so I am probably pretty safe since washed-out greens are sort of my signature. When I told Catherine that I wanted someone to transcribe these tapes (it is no fun holding a pen and a ciggy at the same time), she suggested that I make the transcript of my diary available on line. I gave her a look that let her know just what I thought about that idea!

August 6, 2001: I am finding that the best way to handle the help in the Fright House is the same as dealing with Bushie. At the dinner for Trent last night, I nervously watched as Bushie moved his hand closer to Tricia's Chablis glass. Like I've told him a thousand and one times, that "Shucks, I thought that was my water!" excuse is only good for the first gulp - after that, folks get downright suspicious. One "not here" look usually only does the trick for about 20 minutes, but a "don't you dare" glare can work for up to 45 minutes if followed by a series of well placed coughs. By the end of the evening, everyone thought I had tuberculosis. I was furious.

August 7, 2001: It's so nice to be back in Crawford. It seems like a million meals since I've peeled back the lid of an economy-size tub of Cool Whip and just dug in without worrying about the New York Liberal Times food critic making a big deal about it. I mean to tell you, just to have normal food again is such a joy after being forced to choose off menus with more adjectives than those dull, incomprehensible Russian books I tell everyone I read. Last month, I asked Chef what was in the weird sauce at the state dinner for the ambassador to some tiny little nothing country in Europe (or maybe it was India) and he told me "sun dried grapes." After I thought about what he said, while pretending to listen to Sally Quinn as I burrowed my undercooked entrée into a pile of runny mashed potatoes, I took Chef aside and told him, "Back in Texas, we call them things raisins - and they go in little red boxes - not half-cooked tuna!"

August 8, 2001: It is nice to not have to be so careful what I say. I find, being surrounded by people who repeat everything to unfriendly ears, that I am having to rely on an unspoken language more and more in the Fright House. I am perfecting my "just wait until I get you alone" smile, which some of the staff in the upstairs took all wrong at first and then acted all surprised when I blessed them out when we were away from prying ears. But I am getting better at it. I shot the servant girl Suzanne a meaningful smile that flew right passed Katie Couric. But Suzanne knew I was very angry about the Sweet 'N' Low being decanted from their little pretty pink packets. I like to snap open a fresh pack knowing no one else's spoon has contaminated my coffee - or that some Cher groupie has substituted Equal. I had barely curled my lips when Suzanne started shaking her tray like she had palsy - which only got her one of my extra-hard double-smiles, which Katie thought was very gracious, but Suzanne knew meant real trouble. I was told that she had quit before the "Today" taping was over. Coward.

August 9, 2001: I am just about at the end of my Christian rope with Jenna and her sister. Every week, Noelia brings me my Enquirer (honestly, I don't know why we need Karl when we should just talk to Nicole Kidman about hoodwinking the press) and there is always a couple pages "missing." I have to assume they are about Jenna or my other daughter. I guess the stories are not pleasant and so I appreciate Noelia for not ruining my morning. Nothing spoils a nice cup of Brandy and Maxwell House like reading about young people throwing up their dinners in public after one-too-many beverages. Sometimes, I do wonder what Jenna and her sister must have done to get in the Enquirer, but after so many years with Bushie I have learned the painful price of asking personal questions about family. Ignorance may not be bliss, but with some Xanax you can get pretty close. It just makes me angry that the press is still covering Jenna and the other one after I have been very specific in my request that they be left alone. You know, I am not asking the media to do anything unusual - or difficult. I am only asking them, when it comes to my daughters, to just do as I have always done --- ignore them.

August 10, 2001: The only problem with being back in Texas is that we are within the jurisdiction of the traffic court if Jenna gets caught again. She asked me to show up to court with her the last time (that I know about) and I wanted to. I really did. I think it is important for a parent to show support for their children. (I have to remember to say that to a camera soon.) But my Keds were crying out for a cleaning that morning (liquid dishwashing detergent works like a charm on scuffed rubber soles if you don't dilute it too much) so, obviously, I couldn't go. Some nosy people seemed to raise an eyebrow when Jenna showed up to court in black tank top. To be honest, I was just relieved to hear that her arms weren't covered with tattoos. But it's not like I could tell her what to do. Never could. It's like when her sister showed up at Buckingham Palace in that denim jacket (which is not technically "jeans" as Karl was quick to tutor me before going on TV - bless him, as he was also the one who taught me to draw a distinction between an "arrest" and a "citation" when anyone asked about what Jenna has been up to). Now, I know that the Queen of England is a very stylish dresser (what I would give to have that kind of selection of tiny handbags and dyed-to-match shoes!), but Catherine Fenton had the nerve to suggest that I should have left Jenna's sister in the hotel room instead of taking her to see the Queen looking like that. Can you imagine? Jenna's sister all alone in a London hotel room for four hours! Our honor-bar bill would have ended up in the Guinness Book of Records!

August 11, 2001: Last night, Bushie was in one of his "I don't want to talk" moods, so I poured Clorox into travel size bottles I bought at the Container Store. I think I'm going to give them out as gifts this Christmas. A red velvet bow will really dress them up and Sandra Day will only thank me when she finds herself in a hotel room with a yellowed bra staring at her from the bottom of the sink. While I measured exactly 4 ounces into each bottle, Bushie spent the entire night reading the John Adams biography. He is already on the eighth page, but thinks it is boring (reading, not Adams).

August 12, 2001: I've been spending most of our vacation cleaning. At least in Crawford, I know there are only our stains that I have to worry about touching. Would you believe that I had to shake 87 boxes of Arm and Hammer baking soda on the Orientals in and around the former, unnamed First so-called Lady's quarters of The Fright House. Liberals are worse than coddled pets when it comes to leaving stains and odors in carpeting. Maybe it is all the sex they have standing up. And the former, unnamed First so-called Lady ruined the runners in the hall. I hadn't given it much thought beforehand, but a mannish walk in stumpy heels can just destroy the life expectancy of even a quality carpet. Of course, that is nothing compared to what I found when I did a black-light inspection of the Oval office - it looked like someone had done a rain dance holding a leaky pastry bags. Only the Chippendale chair in the corner was spared. Saved, no doubt, by delicate legs that would have given way under that plump Jewish girl's weight. It's like what I always say when cleaning up Bushie's sick, thank the Lord for Playtex gloves! I almost never took them off for the first month in The House. Had them in all five colors. I have asked Bushie if we can get rid of all of the ratty Persian carpets in the White House and replace them with a clean, new wall-to-wall, preferably treated with Herculon. He thought that would be a fine idea as long as it wasn't white. As much throwing up we've had in our house, we have learned that lesson the hard way. I know it seems superficial but I would like to leave the White House knowing that I left a lasting impression. After all, Jacqueline Kennedy ended up under that vulgar Greek, but all anyone remembers about her was that she recovered some chairs down stairs. The least I can do is recarpet everything. And since a lot of the rooms are already named after colors anyway, it should make ordering from Home Depot a snap!

August 14, 2001: I got an angry call from Betty last night. She wanted to know why Bushie was wasting his vacation time building "tacky shacks" for lazy Democrats with Habitat for Humanity, the liberal brainchild of Jimmy Carter. She was angry that we had chosen to build a house for a single mother, saying if they were honest, they would call it "Habitat for Harlots." I reminded her that he only hammered a couple of pre-set nails and Bushie couldn't even make a bologna sandwich, much less a shotgun house. We got so much good press off that that Karl wants Bushie to rescue a Down Syndrome baby from the mouth of a shark when we go to Florida next month, but he is having trouble locating a Republican mother who is loyal enough to cooperate.

August 23, 2001: Bushie made some off-color remark about wanting to play "bury the bone" last night. I pretended not to hear. But just as I was turning in he made another crude comment. So I reminded him that it was my vacation, too. If I ever meet the man who invented Viagra, I am going to strangle him with my own bare hands. But I could kiss the man who invented the dead-bolt on my bedroom door. I tell you, that was the nicest thing about having twins - two children, but only one knock on the door.

August 30, 2001: Tomorrow I have to give some controversial speech Ari wrote about it being important to teach our children stuff. He had me take out the reference to it being a parent's job to teach their young ones the alphabet, but that the effects of eight Kamikaze shooters was something they had to find out for themselves. Made me wonder if that was what those Enquirer stories were about. Oh well, you know what I always say: "Curiosity killed the cat!" (To which Bushie responded in that smarty aleck way of his - in front of his mother - I was so angry -- "Of course driving drunk through a stop sign is a pretty efficient way of killing, too!") Anyway, Ari's speech about the importance of reading skills is mercifully short as I don't like to read. I added some things about how I always wanted to teach - you know, about it being a lifelong passion or something like that. I'll just talk once again, while I put my hand on whatever little colored ragamuffin they have picked out, about how I used to teach my dolls as a child. People used to say my dolls had the best education on the block! I just can't say it enough that teaching children is the most important thing in life - other than marrying a rich man so that you can instantly quit teaching children, stay home and get you away from all those brats. Well, that is, until you have your own.

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