My Dinner with Donald

When I started my website almost four years ago, I made a silent vow that there were three areas about which I would never write:  family (husband being the exception), religion, and politics. And 86 essays later, I’ve managed to stay faithful to my promise.   That is, until now.

Unfortunately, there are some temptations that are just too difficult to resist.  Which is why I never keep Graeter’s ice cream or bags of chips in the house.  But now I find myself in the embarrassing position of having succumbed, not to a calorie-laden, albeit, delicious food, but to the wicked and senseless need to write about Donald Trump.

For when something looms larger than life, much like the inflated giant  balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, the allure simply cannot be ignored.

I do not personally know Donald Trump, and probably will never have the opportunity (if one could call it that) to meet him.   Nevertheless, his performance on his newest TV show, “Look Who’s Running for President,” has made it impossible even for the Trump disenfranchised like myself, not to be curious about the derivation of his boundless hubris, as well as  the secret identity of his hair stylist.

Even after two Republican debates, and even more insufferable media interviews, the essence of The Donald remains elusive to me.  I have some important questions of my own that have not been addressed on national TV, questions of a more personal nature that might only be answered in a one-on-one interview.

The fact that this interview will never occur in real life has not stopped me from fantasizing about he and I chatting across a dinner table.

At his suggestion, the meal takes place at Maison Trump, atop the Trump Tower.  He  escorts me through the Trump Lobby, past the Trump newsstand, and onto the Trump elevator.   We arrive on the 42nd floor, and are shown to our table by the maitre d’ wearing a Trump tie.

The room is glass-enclosed and Donald makes sure I have the seat with the best view of the city.  It is a beautiful, clear evening, and I can  see stars in the sky.  Am I hallucinating, or have they actually lined up to spell “Trump?”

Needless to say, the table is elegantly set, with large T’s engraved on the service plates, and the Trump monogram strategically sewn on the linen napkin so that his name could not help but meet your lips as you dabbed the cloth to your mouth.

As for the rest of the decor, the walls which were not made of glass, are decorated with, you guessed it, Trump-l’oeil.

We order, and as we wait for our appetizers, I begin my interview.

First of all, Mr. Trump, I would like to have more information about the mirror you look into when you shave each morning.  I am asking because I too would like to own one.   It must be so comforting  to have an image reflected back at you that eliminates all imperfections.   The pouches under one’s eyes, the jowls, the wattle under one’s chins, and the slightly orange tinge of one’s skin simply disappear.  It is no wonder then, that when all one sees is one’s own beauty, one has a perfect right to criticize the appearance of others, particularly others of the opposite sex.  So, please, where did you purchase that mirror?  Never mind.  I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.

And speaking of appearances, Mr. Trump,  I think you were unfairly characterized by Bill Maher as resembling an orange-haired orangutan.  I don’t think you look like an orangutan at all, but rather like some rare albino lizard.  Except when you pout and purse your lips, guppy-fashion.   Please don’t be upset.  You’re in good company.  Our Senate Majority Leader has been likened to a turtle.  So tell me, Mr.  Trump, any chance that you and Mitch McConnell might have been separated at birth?

My third question, Mr. Trump, is why do put your name, in very large letters, on everything you own? I used to do that for my children when they went to camp, so that nobody would take their things.  Is that it , Mr. Trump? Are you afraid someone will steal your socks, or your buildings? Or perhaps it’s more serious than that.  Perhaps you are a secret dyslexic and fear you will one day forget how to spell your surname.  Or worse, that you have the beginnings of a memory disorder, and slapping your name on everything serves to orient you, like giant Post-It notes.  You are not alone, Mr. Trump.  And there is help out there.  One more thing, as long as we’re on the subject.  If you do get elected, and build the Great Wall of Mexico, can we look forward to seeing your name on top of that structure, as well?

I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time, Mr. Trump.  But I do have a final question.  How did you react to the Pope’s visit to the United States? I know you don’t agree with some of his positions, like global warming, and immigration, but these are relatively minor matters.  I’m referring to a much bigger issue here, a matter of ego, if you will.  For an entire week, it was an elderly Spanish-speaking foreigner in a long white robe, riding in a small black car, and filling Madison Square Garden, and not you, who was capturing the headlines.

And so ends my Dinner with Donald.   He thanks me for my interest and concern, and leads me back to the Trump elevator, at which point he turns to me, and in his characteristic fashion,  tells me that I’m fired.

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