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callista speaks

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CALLISTA COMES CLEAN

Honestly, I had misgivings when Newt suggested that we enter an open marriage. I mean, from the beginning, 1993, we already sort of had one, because of his conjugal obligations to his wife. But then he explained to me that men, and to a much, much, much lesser extent women, (given that females don’t desire raw sex so much as emotional bonding because in pre-history we women were too busy nursing infants to defend ourselves, so we needed men to fight off wild animals and share meat, two things men simply will not do without a strong emotional bond, which for some reason made our genes less interested in sex; I forget why)… Where was…?

Oh: Men, he said, are genetically designed to need a variety of partners in order to keep performing. (It’s called the Coolidge Effect. He made me Google it.) So, therefore, it would be in my interest both as his wife and as a champion of stable marriages to let him rack up a bunch of performance-enhancing encounters without my making too much of a fuss. If I’d agree, both to the open marriage and to endless hours of looking very sleek and First Ladyish, standing stock still beside him while he seeks Highest Office, he’d leave his fussy wife, marry me, and protect me from tigers.

I’ll be frank with you: if he had asked me to be a sister wife to Marianne, I’d have flat-out refused. M. didn’t have the looks or the drive to be a president’s helpmeet, and after he requested her permission to go on seeing me, she got too kind-of angry to be a campaign asset. She’s the sort of woman who hates any woman better looking, better put-together and eight years younger than she is. (A lot of women are like that, which is why I think only men should be priests.)

Luckily, though, Newt didn’t want to be any sort of bigamist Mormon. He just wanted to be able to offer me marital satisfaction, and since he’s twenty three years my senior, I figured that a bit of performance-enhancing couldn’t hurt. So: what I told him was, I’d accept his offer of an open marriage on condition that he convert to Catholicism.

Deal! When he went for indoctrination, the priest explained that our adultery condemns us to Hell, which is like a full-body bikini wax that lasts for all eternity. Once Newt is president, I’ll push him to make the Supreme Court appointment that overturns Roe v. Wade, thus saving hundreds of thousands of unwanted babies every year that good Christians can adopt, then raise and train to wage holy war against Islam. Maybe then God will let us into Heaven. I can’t help it: I have a strategic mind.

But you don’t decide to marry with your head; you decide with your heart. And you know what moved me to become Mrs. Gingrich? Newt’s lifelong fascination with dinosaurs! First of all, how adorable is that? Dinosaurs! And second, you know, sometimes I get insecure in bed and think I look a little, well, reptilian, but knowing that my husband can love that side of me sets me free. I think it might even give me the confidence I’d need to experience pleasure with someone as handsome as Mitt Romney.

So I guess it’s my destiny to be a little more sophisticated about marriage than I’d like, but nobody ever said that serving your country would be a church picnic. And if you want to know the truth…

Well, none of us do; not really, do we.

©Lynn Phillips 2012


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