Volume CCXXXIII, Number 32 April, 2003 Page 4

As part of our continuing coverage of the Commonwealth's hour of crisis, as senior state officials scurry around to plug a $2 billion deficit, we are honored and humbled to bring you exclusively the private diary of one Golden Dome denizen who's got plenty of time on her hands . . . Lt. Governor Kerry Healey [Confirm name – Copy Ed.][Why bother? – Ed.]
March 15 Dear Diary, There's only one word to describe what being Lieutenant Governor is like: B-O-R-I-N-G. I sit in this big office with a nice sunny southern exposure, ready, willing and able to put my years of experience and expertise to use, but nobody calls. Well, maybe not nobody. Last week a very nice man from RCN cable offered to wire my office and give me a second phone line and high-speed internet access for only $157 a month, but when I gave him my address, he hung up. Talk about rude! After all those months of standing around staring with mute admiration at the back of Mitt Romney's head, you'd think he might call once in a while. But n-o-o-o-o-o! He's much too busy with those goony guys he likes to play with. Dear Diary, I'll tell you and no one else what I was staring at during those endless campaign appearances in those dreary towns: Mitt's roots. Not that there's anything to be ashamed of. We all have to do a little touching up now and then, even those among us who are "legally blonde."
Not that Mitt ever lets me do anything. When I first moved into these offices, they were like a disaster. Horrid blue carpeting dotted with green stains, where Jane Swift's rugrats vomited up the pizza crusts that their mother left behind. It's a good thing the doors are five feet wide: Jane can just squeak through. M-e-e-e-o-w-w-w! If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything, my mom used to say. Or as Sean would say: if you can't say something nice about someone, f**** 'em! That's what I love about Sean: his sense of humor! That and the twenty million of AMG stock! Just kidding!!! (Not!!!) At any rate, I made my first "executive decision" the day I was sworn in. Job 1: redecorate. I called Serena, who did such a lovely job for us at home and she came right down. She had so many wonderful ideas! New sofas and club chairs upholstered in a flower-print chintz, with drapes to match. Some carefully-chosen side pieces, nothing too fancy. And some handsome halogen sconces. The right lighting creates a room, Serena said. So she ordered a few odds and ends and asked me where she should send the $50,000 bill. I told her to send it up to Mitt's office and he shot it back with a note saying: "You must be joking."
March 18 Dear Diary, Yesterday was one of the most horrible days of my life, at least since that horrible JV football player threw up all over my bed after the Dartmouth game. Talk about breaking a mood! But that's another story. One of Mitt's secretaries (he's got zillions of them, they make him feel important) told me I had to go to some place in South Boston on Sunday for St. Patrick's Day and to read the piece of paper in the envelope. It turned out to be some American Legion hall or something packed with these fat, sweaty Irish people, corned beef and beer dribbling down their chins. Talk about dizz-gust-ing! I had to wear this stupid button with my name on it. And I swear some of them tried to touch me! I really thought I was going to toss my cookies. The stench was terrible. Don't these people bathe?
And the jokes were not even funny or anything. And a lot of them were dirty, I think. (I really couldn't make out most of what they were saying, since they were either screaming or singing the whole time.) Eventually they made me get up and read the piece of paper that Mitt's people gave me. It was a lot of nonsense, but I read it anyway. It turned out they were supposed to be jokes, but nobody bothered to tell me! Nobody laughed, because the jokes weren't funny. Sean tells much better jokes that he gets from the traders, like the one about what Monica Lewinsky said when Bill stained her dress, but I can't repeat that one, not even to you, diary. And of course Mitt barely acknowledged that I was even there. He gave me the same stupid smile and wave he gave to some State Rep. from Dorchester who thinks Harvard is a stop on the Red Line. Hey, that's a good one! I'll have to remember that.
Eventually my head started to spin from all of the smell and sweat and I excused myself to get some fresh air. No one even bothered to say good-bye. They were too busy talking about their gardens (On the way out, I heard one talk about some bush and another one said that even a pine cone wouldn't stand up for that). They probably buy their plants at Home Depot! I needed my glass of white wine after that, you can be sure. Well, Dear Diary, the phone is ringing. I wonder if it's that nice cable man again. Bye.