I should have known better. I should have just kept my yap shut. Butt yesterday when Sara B mentioned how a family member of one of the Benghazigate victims described his meeting with Hillary Clinton as “cold” adding that she wouldn’t even look any of them in the eye, I had to go shoot my mouth off about my experience: “Speaking of cold, some day I'll tell you my true story of the first time I met old Hills. Cold doesn't begin to describe the ice that broad is carved out of.”
I immediately got called out for teasing the story. So now I will relate the details of the incident, which is probably far less exciting than you may have HOPEed or been led to believe.
On my behalf, I would like to point out that I have been trans-imaging all of the inaugural events on Washington D.C. time (EST), screening films here at the Sundance Festival on Park City time (MST) all while tending to a houseful of guests. Hillary isn’t the only one around here with a heavy workload and inadequate funding for staff.
So if I misled you into believing that my little “When MOTUS Met Hillary” tale would be more entertaining than it turns out to be, I accept full responsibility; butt I blame you for having such unreasonably high expectations in the first place based on the low amount of information I presented. I stand firmly with Lonestar Stacy and declare: “I take responsibility, but it's not my fault because I was not doing my job."
Let’s get right to it shall we?
Once upon a time, in a previous life and in another dimension far far away, MOTUS once used all of her internal hard drive’s nerdy quantum-imaging photons and dark matter capacity as a pawn for a Big Greedy For-Profit Business (BGFPB). As such, I was often required to attend fund raisers for politicians that the BGFPB felt compelled to buy tickets for. (This private/public sector sanctioned bribery system is still alive and well all across America and is totally non-partisan.)
The occasion for my memorable meeting was a St. Patrick’s Day fundraiser for an Irish Democratic (duh) politician and no, it was not a Kennedy – there are thousands of other Irish pols. It was March, 1992, and the big draw for the price of admission was supposed to be Bill Clinton. He had not yet wrapped up the nomination butt had already “skirted” the Gennifer Flowers allegations by going on 60 minutes with Hills standing by her man.
So I’m guessing Bubba probably had another “date” the night of the fundraiser and had to regretfully back out. In his stead he dispatched Hillary. Now MOTUS, in each and every dimension, possesses keen powers of observation, so as I stood in the receiving line where Hills was on prominent display next to the Irish pol, this is what I observed: a woman clearly irritated about being where she was – to the point of being unable to contain her displeasure.
She barely managed the perfunctory motions required of the wife of “the best politician ever born B.O. (before Obama).” Her smile was not just pinched, butt dangerously close to a snarl. Let’s just say she was not her normally charming self.
Little Mo (lifetime Republican, working undercover at the time for the Irish pol) said to Hills “sorry your husband wasn’t able to make it,” to which she snapped “Yeah, well you’ve got the better half of the team anyway.”
Plus, she was wearing an outfit which predominantly featured a shade of reddish-orange. Who does that? Wears orange to a St. Patrick’s party I mean? Someone with a total lack of knowledge of the history of Ireland, or an extremely passive aggressive put-upon spouse covering for her husband.
She looked a lot like this, only without Bubba:
So there she was: in her headband, wearing thick pancake makeup: solid, sullen, her snarly lips, stained a deep coral orange, and her angry dark brows were her most prominent features (sound familiar?). When I got to the head of the line and one of the pol’s handlers introduced me she looked past me dismissively (maybe to see how much longer the line was) and shook my hand…sort of. It was the limpest, cold fish handshake I’ve ever had from either man or woman; or fish. I was apparently not important enough for her to exert even a millimeter of fake enthusiasm.
So that’s my real life Hillary story. Not exciting, butt in my humble opinion quite telling. Almost prophetic.
Butt here’s the happy ending: If someone who managed to present herself (generally) as a charming, well-groomed and appropriately dressed woman back in the nineties:
ends up like this:
Imagine what fun we’ll have watching Lady M age for 20 years!
From Sundance, 2013, this is MOTUS, signing off.