Nice Job If You Can Leave it
Dear diary, have a new job with the exciting new White House. I think I can help be an agent of change. They haven't quite told me my details yet, but they said I would work very closely with the president himself.
January 29, 2009
OK ok, I could see this as not as important a job as I had hoped. But it goes like this: Some are the eyes and the ears of the president. I am his tongue.
January 30, 2009
This is a piece of cake. Sometimes several. Job does come with full privileges at the White House gym. They won't let me in while Barack or Michelle are working out--and she's in there a lot. You've seen the sleeveless dresses. I can go in when Emanuel's there, but all the cursing on the weight machines makes me nervous.
March 22, 2009
Sorry I haven't written in awhile, dear diary. But my days are like this: Ate. Didn't die. I cannot deny there's a thrill to it. But it seems to defeat elaboration.
June 6, 2009
We are in Paris. It's hard not to feel like an affront to the chef, and I hate to be a bad American, but my very existence suggests a failing now, doesn't it. Obama is in for some terrific cassoulet tonight. Sadly, they don't let me have more of it even though there's an entire Staub pot left. I think it's the place's way to teach me a lesson. As lessons go, it's better than them poisoning me.
June 10, 2009
Back in the US of A. I taste the White House chef's food and suggest a bit more herbes de Provence. I am told my job is only to live or die, not criticize. I suggest that if I died that would be criticism. Chef hits me with a souffle.