After thinking her diary lost forever, Bettie rediscovers her journal of woes in the strangest of places…
You have to be frickin’ kidding me, diary! Here I was thinking you’d been lost for all eternity or just spontaneously combusted with the heat of all the hot gossip sandwiched between your pristine pages. But, nah, nothing so dramatic. Instead, you were buried under a pile of briefs and thongs in the bedroom closet of former First Lady, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. Yep, that’s right. For the last four and a half months, I’ve been sharing this crumbling ruin, marriage and family business with my stepmother, the USS Invincible, who now no longer believes she’s been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica. No, now she thinks she’s Mrs. F.D.R. And that you are her – wait for it – FBI file.
“J. Edgar is never getting his hands on this anytime soon!” she shrieked, as I wrestled it from her white-gloved grip.
“You’re damn right about that,” I said.
“Show some respect! I’m ranked in Gallup’s List of the Most Widely Admired People of the 20th Century!”
“Only after you’re dead,” I replied.
And though it pains me to say, this is the least of my problems.
Add to this that our Isle of Man-based virtual casino continues to guzzle a fortune in cash, my husband’s been arrested by the Feds, and our home is still plagued with more tailless felines than you can shake a stick at – and you can see how I might have benefited from some cathartic scribbling over the past however-many weeks.
Actually, it’s rather timely we’ve been reunited, as in the next few hours I’m setting off for New York to attend Big Frank’s final judgment. The charge? It turns out that 39-4-Ever, the world’s largest online casino for women with more wrinkles than Ben Franklins, has transgressed several ridiculous gambling commandments concerning something called the Wire Act, though all this makes me think of is some clown tightrope-walking across Niagara.
But, re-reading these pages, it does make me realize I’ve gotta keep more of a lid on my revelations as there’s some pretty damning evidence here. My Greek tryst with Mr. E Blond for starters. I mean, I have to think of Big Frank’s weak heart – and his three-hundred-bucks-an-hour attorney. Actually, on this island, it wouldn’t surprise me if adultery was settled with a beheading.
So, it can’t be stressed enough, diary, these are desperate times and they called for desperate measures… of gin. Still, I haven’t gone through this many husbands without knowing all about comebacks, and in my hours alone, I’ve devised a way outta this mess that’s a sure-fire winner.
My evil master plan? I’m getting a Success Coach…
