The Great Thomas Friedman Cracks Another One

Like a ripped pillow, stuff and stuffing seep out ofmy husband Thomas Friedman's head. It ain't alwayspretty.

Thomas Friedman hates it when I say "ain't." While he finds it amusing to use it from time to time for"street cred," he really hates it when I use it.

Just the other day, I was dusting the end tables and singing softly to myself. "If you need me
. . . call me . . . ain't no mountain high enough to keep me from you."

"Betinna!" Thomas Friedman hollered, his voice climbing ever higher on each syllable.

He's been drinking a lot of Mountain Dew since his book tour so, assuming he was blocked again and needed his prune juice, I headed for the kitchen. He started right after me insisting that I not use "that word."

What word?

"Wouldn't it be better to sing 'Isn't no mountain high enough?' I think it would be. I think the best way of conveying a message is to use proper grammar."

"Thomas Friedman," I said, slamming down the bag of prunes, "the song is titled 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough.' If it was good enough for Diana Ross, it is good enough for me."

"But it does not sound pretty, Betinna," Thomas Friedman said gingerly lifting and examining the bag of prunes.

"Well it's accurate," I insisted, "Now go change from your shorty robe into a pair of pants. Gail Collins is coming over and you may think the world is flat but neither your belly or ass are and she doesn'tneed to be exposed to them."

Thomas Friedman stood glaring at me for a moment, but then quickly jogged out of the kitchen, still holding the bag of bruised prunes, his shorty robe flying up in the back as usual.

So I've just gotten the platters of soda crackers ready and am topping them off with canned cheese when Thomas Friedman came rushing in, arm extended to offer me the prunes. As I squeezed them to make a glass of prune juice for him, I looked Thomas Friedman up and down.

Thomas Friedman was wearing a blue t-shirt with "Just Dew It!" on the front and a pair of pajama bottoms. While he wasn't looking, I slipped one of my vitamins into his glass. Since he has gone on his Mountain Dew kick, I have worried that he might not be getting enough nutrients or vitamins. I think I was right to worry because, although he still has his pouty episodes, he is now much more easy going. It is amazing how cranky a loss of vitamin C can make a person.

With a giggle, he grabbed his glass of and downed its contents. Noting how happy Thomas Friedman seemed to be, I thought I could suggest that he might want to dress up since Ms. Collins is his boss.

Thomas Friedman spewed his prune juice out of mouth and nose as he began sputtering, "Gail Collins is not my boss! I am Thomas Friedman. I work for no one. Certainly not for Gail Collins! In fact, is that the can of cheese I see on the counter? I hope you are not planning to waste the soda crackers and canned cheese on her because she does not have the good taste
to appreciate the finer things in life."

Patting him on the back, I told him to just drink his prune juice. Within moments, his nasty mood had subsided and he had grabbed the can to make pornographic figures on the soda crackers. I did question their appropriateness but figured he was enjoying himself so much that I'd just keep my opinion to myself.

Then Ms. Collins arrived, not wearing pajamas. She seemed surprised to see me face to face, mumbling something about my looking nothing like my pictures. I didn't realize Thomas Friedman kept photos of me at work. I was so touched, I made a mental note to put a little energy into the next round of Iraqi Invasion.

Ms. Collins was there to explain that Thomas Friedman's book was number one for the second week in a row. You'd think Thomas Friedman would be happy and, at first, he was. However, he wanted a book review in the Sunday section to note that his book had been number one for five weeks. Ms. Collins, who seemed not at all surprised by Thomas Friedman's outfit, explained that couldn't happen because the editor of the book review would not agree to go along with that. The actress, as Thomas Friedman refers to her, had held the number one spot for three of the last five weeks with her book.

Thomas Friedman began to whine and moan about how it would hurt his book sales. Thinking quickly, Ms. Collins replied, "The best P.R. is straight talk."

That was the title of Thomas Friedman's column today.

I could have told her, don't poke the bear.

"How dare you quote Thomas Friedman to Thomas Friedman!" Thomas Friedman yelled.

Then he stormed out of the room, stopping at the doorway to holler, "No 'is!' I used a ":!"
You can't even get that right you regressive cheese eater."

With that he was gone.

Ms. Collins apologized profusely for eating the soda cracker with cheese. I explained to her that Thomas Friedman was not referring to that, he was calling her a "rat."

"A rat?"

"Cheese eater," I explained, nibbling on a soda cracker.

Nodding, Ms. Collins reached for another cracker and commented, "What a curious cheese design?"

Before I was forced to think of something clever, Thomas Friedman flounced back in wearing his shorty robe.

After making a raspberry, he proceeded to turn around, bend over and unnecessarily hike his shorty robe to moon Ms. Collins.

"Oh my goodness," gasped Ms. Collins.

"Read it and weep, baby, read it and weep! The great Thomas Friedman cracked another one!"

Roaring at his "wit," Thomas Friedman skipped out of the room.

Ms. Collins looked at me, I looked at her.

What do you say after something like that?

8 Days on the road to hell and heartland

For the last eight days, I've been in every flea ridden, cheap motel room you can imagine. The kind of rooms where the glasses, plastic, in the bathroom have spots on them even before you take them out of the plastic. My husband Thomas Friedman's latest book isn't doing as well as it should be doing or as well as he expected it to be doing. So we've gone from one city to another, with him doing multiple signings in each city. The crowds have been rather sparse. In fact, only my husband Thomas Friedman refers to them as "crowds."

I refer them to as "couples" and the occasional "threesome." Or rather I did until I noticed how the latter got Thomas Friedman's bushy eyebrows wagging. As if his libido needs any more excitement right now. Most night's it's like he's snorting or mainlining Viagra. I don't mind all that much, the five to six minutes give me a period to reflect and organize my plans for the next day. Right about the time that he's crying out, "Gut check time!" I've finished my personal inventory.

But the "neighbors" are far less than tolerant than I am. It was the rare night that management didn't ring up the room to ask us to hold it down. Thomas Friedman would get off the phone and lecture me about the noise level. I have no idea why, I'm not even bothering to fake moans of late. And I'm certainly not the one repeating, "Mommy! Mommy! Oh Mommy!" a half dozen times before finishing with the hollered cry of "Gut check time!"

But I'm grasping that Thomas Friedman, besides being hugely jealous of the actress who is outselling him, is also not one to grab the blame. One might even suggest that he's one to push the blame off on others.

I don't know what's up with me lately. I ran out of vitamins on the second day. I attempted to get the bottle refilled at a local pharmacy but Thomas Friedman freaked. I guess the world can not know that Thomas Friedman's wife has a vitamin deficiency? So I attempted to up my vitamin C intake via gallons of orange juice and fresh lemons but for whatever reason, they did not induce the calm, pleasing feeling I've grown so used to.

I've been "a nasty little insurgent" during this time period according to Thomas Friedman. For instance, at a book signing at one store, I was flipping through this amazing book entitled Stop The Next War Now and that alone ticked off Thomas Friedman because I was seated right next to him at the table. Probably also ticked him off because when he was inscribing one book, the woman who was purchasing it told him he was the finest author and that his books were the best. I asked her, "Have you read this book by CodePink?"

Oh, did that make him mad.

Then Sunday he said to me, "Betinna, how about we do like the locals in this backwater town and go to the movies." I think we were in San Francisco and I believe it's a coastal city but whatever. Thomas Friedman was ranting and raving as he looked at the movie posters about how the quality films were no more and how he'd give anything for "one more good Steven Segal flick" when I saw there was a movie having a sneak preview. I went to buy the tickets to it because Thomas Friedman is convinced that he'd be recognized and mobbed if was in line for tickets. He may have been right because there was this one guy in the parking lot who kept pestering him with, "Aren't you?" but unless he's changed his name to John Bolton, I don't believe my husband Thomas Friedman was recognized.

So we go into the theater and Thomas Friedman says he's sure whatever we'll see will be mildly amusing in a sophomoric manner and offering his opinion of low brow comedies when the man from the parking lot yells out, "Hey, John Bolton! Pipe down! I'm trying to watch the trailers!"
Thomas Friedman's face went bright red and he assured me how lucky for that man it was that I was present because otherwise it would be "fist 'a cuffs."

"John Bolton, I ain't kidding! I'll kick your loud ass if you don't shut it!" yelled out the man as Thomas Friedman relaxed, to the point of shrinking, in his chair.

The credits came up and I don't think Thomas Friedman was paying attention to the movie until Jane Fonda, I'm sorry, "the actress." Thomas Friedman has forbidden me from ever mentioning her name. The actress walks on to the screen. Thomas Friedman starts hissing and booing and whispering things like, "Go write another workout book!" I'm missing most of the dialogue and trying to figure out what was said because everyone in the theater is laughing like crazy. I look over to Thomas Friedman and see that the man from the parking lot has him dangling in the air, holding him by the back of his shirt collar and advising him, "I've had enough of your crap, John Bolton! Either you shut it or we take it outside!"

The rest of the movie, Thomas Friedman didn't say another word. And Monster-in-Law was so funny that I laughed along with everyone else and didn't even really mind the smell of pee emenating from my husband Thomas Friedman. Maybe I've grown accustomed to it from the times when I have to wear the Peggy Noonan mask and he plays William Safire as I diaper him?
I am not sure. But it was a great movie. And I kept pointing that out as we left the theater.

Thomas Friedman pouted all night. Even when I offered to play Bill Keller and kiss his ass, he didn't really get into it.

That was basically life on the road. We ate at one McDonalds after another. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. I found out that the culinary efforts of Ronald McDonald make my husband Thomas Friedman rather gassy. Between bowel explosions, he explained that "is often a by product of fine cuisine."

Thing got nasty in Seattle where one young male at a bookstore called him "a decaying waste of flesh and mind." Thomas Friedman said the young man was a rabble rouser. I don't know about that but the ten-year-old did look rather sharp in his Boy Scouts uniform and certainly had a great vocabulary for his age.

I told him that he should work that into a column, about how smart the youth of today was. Thomas Friedman did not like that idea at all and if you saw his Friday column in print, you know that he attacked the youth of today as behind every other nation in the world. Thomas Friedman can really hold a grudge.

As we pulled out of the last town yesterday and headed towards home in "Pixie" (the name Thomas Friedman has given to the vintange automobile he bought for our road trip) (did I mention it was a Pinto hatchback?), Thomas Friedman reflected, "I have spent eight days on the road to hell and heartland!"

If he hadn't kept sobbing, I might have reminded him that "we" had spent eight day. But when he finally did stop crying, it was only to pull over and make me drive for the next twelve hours straight.

It was not a pleasant journey. We got home about, finally, about an hour ago. Thomas Friedman told me to "climb the walls" until the sun comes out and then he will go get me more prescribed vitamins. He also made a joke I did not understand. Something about it was too bad we were not in Florida because then he could have just borrowed from Rush. Who is this Rush?

Thomas Friedman is a one-man Sylvian Learning Institute

My husband Thomas Friedman is so mad at me. He was all happy today because Nicky K. and John Tierney called to praise "his" latest column "Reaping What It Sowed." When not watching NBC's Passions, my husband Thomas Friedman spent the whole day on the phone with either Nicky K. or John Tierney, his "loyal subjects" as he calls them. (He is no longer blaming Tierney or Kristof for Gail Collins switching the op-ed schedules. He does still blame Collins and entertains thoughts of an "extreme makeover" wherein he plucks Collin's "bushy brows" forceably.)

During a commercial break in Saved by the Bell, Thomas Friedman came into the kitchen to ask of his prune juice. "Where the hell is it!" he said in his typical Friedman manner, "You're slower than Sunkist!"

As I continued squeezing the prunes, he entertained me with tall tales of a florist downtown that had told him today that he was "the most incredible columnist in the world." Then he told of a baker who informed him that he was "the most incredible columnist in the world." As he was telling me of a cabbie, I interrupted to say, "Let me guess, he said you were the most incredible columnist in the world!"

Thomas Friedman looked so mad and so hurt.

But he has worn that shortie robe all morning. Even after his grape jelly slid off his piece of toast while he watched his DVD of That Darn Cat! and I begged him to change it so I could clean the stain before it set.

As I handed him his glass of prune juice, he looked sheepish and then offered, "You did a fine job, Bettina. Obviously, I have tutored you well. I am a one-man Sylvian Learning Institute.
To think of how stupid you were only weeks ago . . ."

His voice trailed off as Thomas Friedman apparently ran out of sweet things to say.

Slamming back the glass of prune juice, Thomas Friedman then handed me the cup and asked for more and to "hurry because I think Slater's going to get some and I haven't seen this episode of Saved by the Bell before!"

I told my big-assed couch potato that it was quite easy to write the column.

"All I had to do," I said as I squeezed more prunes, "was to forget everything about human decency and the rights to self-rule, to think like a fat assed imperialist stooge and then the words just came to me."

Thomas Friedman was sputtering and stammering and then he started screaming.

"Bettina, you stupid, backward child!" Thomas Friedman hissed. "Iraq left to its own devices is nothing! We must remake the world over in our image! They are stupid children, like you, and so we must make all the decisions! We are enforcing democracy! You are just too backwards to see that! If you continue to speak like this, there will be no Iraqi invasion for you tonight!"

Another empty threat from Thomas Friedman. He is snoring loudly now that we have finished playing Iraqi invasion. Myself, I am tired of playing Chalabi and think he looks ridiculous in the Judith Miller wig. Bangs are not a good look for Thomas Friedman.

Back from my days and nights of wine and roses

Forgive me electronic diary, I have been in some sort of a black out. I still do not know all that happened in my "Days of Wine and Roses" as the great Thomas Friedman calls them. Sometimes Thomas Friedman will tell me one thing and sometimes Nicky K will tell me something else.

I am not sure whom to trust? Or as an island song of my childhood would ask, "Who's Zooming Who?" I am spotty on nearly everything that happened in the last few days. I do remember at some point working on a column on John Bolton and getting some ideas from a brilliant web site.
I remember Thomas Friedman screaming at me, "How could you?"

I do not know what I did. I think then I was at the computer pulling up a month old piece on Bill Gates and schools from a fantastic web site. Nicky K was telling Thomas Friedman, "It is not her fault!" Thomas Friedman was screaming, "No one upstages me!"

I did not even know that Thomas Friedman was in a play. I would ask him if it was a community theater but he seems very happy about the blanks in my memory.

But he was mad that someone was doing his job only better. I wonder what role he was playing and who was Thomas Friedman's understudy? I could see him as Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire. Or possibly Toval in A Doll's House. Those titles just pop into my head but I can see the plays when they do. I think the island I grew up on, though backwater as Thomas Friedman says it was, must have had a very lively art scene.

Thomas Friedman showed me the column he says he did all by himself. It is on Bill Gates. I had started a thing on Bill Gates after searching on that groovy web site. So I do wonder if he has raided some of my work.

But when I tried to ask Thomas Friedman that, Nicky K. got very nasty with me. He was screaming "Darfur! Darfur!" And Thomas Friedman said, "Nicky, you do not think you discovered Darfur, do you?" Nicky K. looked like he was going to cry. He cries quite often so I know the look.

But it was weird because it was like Thomas Friedman was taking up for me to Nicky K. Usually Thomas Friedman is much more stern. One might even say bossy. Thomas Friedman says it is because left to my own devices, as a woman, I am not smart enough to write. Nicky K. agrees with that and added something about "lousy feminists!"

But today Thomas Friedman was defending me. And I felt like I was being played, is that the word in your language? "Played" is the word in my village's language.

They have teamed-tagged on me and tried to get me to write what they wanted. But here was Thomas Friedman telling Nicky K. that he didn't discover Darfur and that his screeching about it was "unbecoming" and made him sound like a "whiney little bitch."

Usually, it is me that Thomas Friedman calls a bitch. But he told Nicky K. he was sick of hearing "Darfur Darfur always Darfur!" Thomas Friedman said there are other things going on in the world. Then Thomas Friedman told me I could relax and write the column later.

He handed me a bottle of pills. They are new vitamins. I have not taken blue capsule vitamins before. I forgot to ask Thomas Friedman what the vitamins were.

"What Me Worry?" is what Thomas Friedman's column was called. The one he says he wrote. Thomas Friedman may have written the title because I would never use a title so stupid.

But it looks familiar. And when I said that, Nicky K. said, "She will mention Jane! She remembers!" Who is Jane? I do not know. She is someone else who upstaged the great Thomas Friedman. I also think she has somehow managed to outsell his new book because Nicky K. said something like, "No one wants your books anymore!"

It was getting very ugly but I just took my vitamins and watched. It was like I was floating and not in the room. Thomas Friedman walked over to Nicky K. and struck him. Nicky K. cried and squealed, "How dare you!" Thomas Friedman said, "You keep whining like a little bitch and I will treat you like one."

Nicky K. whimpered and groveled and Thomas Friedman forgave him. By that time, I had taken half the bottle of pills.

I have to get to work on Thomas Friedman's column. Thomas Friedman tells me I must have done in less than an hour because it must make tomorrow's paper.

Hearing that, I swallowed the rest of the pills in the bottle and said, "All gone-gone."

For some reason that was so funny to me. I laughed and laughed.

Then I licked my finger and used it to swipe any residue of vitamins left in the bottle.

Nicky K. hissed "Junkie!" But I do not think I look junkie. I am wearing the same fitted sheet I always wear around the house. For nights out, Thomas Friedman lets me wear a flat sheet.

I do not know what I am going to write. I wish I had more vitamins.

The Beef Sizzles on the Grill

The Beef Sizzles on the Grill. That was what I titled Thomas Friedman's column that the paper ran today. I wish they had gone with my title. Thursday, Thomas Friedman was jazzercising and backed into the gas heater. Burned his big old heinie.

I was writing the column at the time and after I got done spraying his rump with Bactine, I thought, "The Beef Sizzles on the Grill," that is the title.

So Thomas Friedman greets me Thursday morning waving three bottles of vitamins in front of me. "Do you want these, Bettina?" Of course I did. I could have one bottle before the column, one bottle while I wrote the column and one bottle after.

I wish my body did not crave the vitamin C so much. But it does. Who would have thought that something you have gone your whole life without could become so important once you were introduced to it? I said that Thomas Friedman and he said, "The global econmy! Just as the people living in huts do not know of Old Navy, when it comes to their area, they must have it because the world is flat and . . ."

"Who is writing this column, Thomas Friedman?"

He stopped dicatating and asked me what I needed. I asked for a manual. Finally, he showed up with the New York Times ethics guidelines. So I read that and found out that op-ed writers for the Times could not endorse a candidate. Knowing how wiley Thomas Friedman is, I thought, "There it is! He will endorse Tony Blair and even though his column will be carried overseas, he will not get in trouble because he is the great Thomas Friedman. It is as though he is grabbing the hem of his shorty robe and mooning the world."

I figured Thomas Friedman could identify with Tony Blair for a number of reason, chief among them the fact that both are goofy looking men with strange teeth whose wives are far more interesting than they could ever be.

I actually said that to Thomas Friedman and he laughed, "Oh my little, saucy, tropical Tina Brown, everyone knows who is the Sir Harold Evans in this marriage."

I don't know about that but I do know if they made a moving picture of our lives, I know who would be played by Halle Berry and who would be played by Rick Moranis.

I also figured Thomas Friedman would identify with Tony Blair because they both lack frineds. So when I wrote that the left didn't like Blair and the right didn't either, I was really talking about Thomas Friedman.

When I wrote, "Tony Blair, by contrast, dines alone," I'm really talking about Thomas Friedman, there too. And how did I think up the "dined alone?" Easy, while I was writing, Thomas Friedman was jazzercising to Cher and kept bleating, "Sooner or later, we all sleep alone."

Thomas Friedman strongly identifies with Cher. He feels they are both "dark beauties" who've had a lot to overcome. I don't know about that comparison. For one thing, when Cher wears one of those jaw dropping outfits, she's trying to shock you. Thomas Friedman, on the other hand, truly thinks those polyester suits from Sears, circa the late-seventies, are the height of fashion.

There's also the fact that Cher overcame Sonny and Sonny didn't overcome Cher so I'm having a hard time seeing Thomas Friedman as Cher. Was that confusing? I fear I have written like him so long that I am unable to write clearly anymore?

Thomas Friedman is a on a jazzercise kick because his publicist told him he looked "unusually jowly." After Thomas Friedman took that phone call, he was so depressed. Within an hour, he was telling me and anyone who called that his publicist had called him to congratulate him on being "unusally cheeky." I can't wait to hear how he turns the publicist's "fat ass" comment around.

So Thomas Friedman has been jazzercising but he does not like that word. Thomas Friedman says he is calorie burning at an accelrated rate. To Cher blasting from the stereo with Thomas Friedman singing along. I said, "Thomas Friedman, that is jazzercising." Thomas Friedman did not stop from throwing his hands in the air as he did a dance step and told me I did not know what I was talking about.

Actually, Thomas Friedman said, "What do you know from McFries and Carl Junior burgers?"

Then it was time for his can-can kicks as he told me, "This is a high energy, calorie burning, manly excercise."

But what I do know?

I know that I am sneaking water when Thomas Friedman is not paying attention. I am exceeding the daily water allotment he has set for me. It must be the water that makes talk so quickly and mix metaphors, but on paper, Thomas Friedman pronounced it perfection.

Or as he put it, "My Eliza Dolittle just went shopping on Rodeo Drive and none of the snooty salesgirl scoffed!"

I also made a point to work myself into the column because I think I am pretty important to his life even if he usually does not mention it. So when I had him talking about how Tony Blair's wife didn't agree with him about the war, I added "I know that feeling!"

I just wanted a little attention for myself, Bettina Friedman. I am the woman behind the man. Literally when we are playing Iraqi invasion or when he is playing himself and I am playing Bill Keller.

I got a shock yesterday when a call came in yesterday. The woman asked if I was the maid and I said, "Uh no, I am the wife." She immediately apologized and gave me her name: Gail Collins.
Gail Collins. All that time I though Thomas Friedman was speaking of a Gale named Collins. A natural disaster. When I told Thomas Friedman that later, he replied, "Well have you seen her?"

Thomas Friedman thought that was very funny but I did not get it. He stopped laughing when I told him Gail Collins had called the column "perfection" and Thomas Friedman's best Friedman-ism.

Thomas Friedman made a point to tell me that he had spoken to five cab drivers of various nationalities, several people at a deli and half the U.N. and they all felt the column missed something and wasn't quite up to standard. I got so mad that he made that Eliza Dolittle comment.

I do not know why he calls me do-little. I do plenty. He is the one who is sitting on his special pillow watching TV.

If it weren't for the three bottles of vitamins he is giving me each day, I do not know how I would find the time to was the hard wood floors in his office and in our bedroom, scrub the kitchen floors and bathroom tile, squeeze his prune juice every hour on the hour when he screams, "Prune me! Daddy's feeling blocked!" or do any of the other things I do.

But the last two days, I am just raring to go. I think the vitamin C may finally be kicking in. I just wish my mouth wasn't so dry all the time.

I helped out the great Tommy Tum-Tum

Everything is so funny today. Everything!

Thomas Friedman was complaining that the omlette I made for him this morning wasn't a perfect shape but had some "run offs as though you patterened it after the Mighty Mississippi."
I just laughed, "Tommy Tum-Tum, then don't eat it." And while his mouth gaped open, I grabbed it and threw it and the paper plate at the wall.

Oh, that was so funny, it still makes me laugh.

Did I mention that my husband Thomas Friedman the Tommy Tum-Tum got me new vitamins this week? I love them. I do not know if they are Bs or Cs or Ds or maybe they are minerals like Zinc? Who cares because they make me feel so good.

And Thomas Friedman looks especially handsome with the little bursts of light flashing from his head. Strange that I never noticed them before. Thomas Friedman calls them tracers. Tracers is such a funny word, no?

I had to stop and then come back because I was laughing so hard that I think I scared the other person in the room. Thomas Friedman was in here earlier and said there was no one else in the room but that man has been in the corner all evening.

I said, "Tommy Tum-Tum, maybe you do not see him because he is not you?"

His brow got all wrinkled and I could see him attempting to figure out what I meant by that but my husband Thomas Friedman is not the only one who can do riddles.

Nor is he the only one who can write. And I proved that yesterday.

I was cleaning and taking my new vitamins and just realized how great life was. I was laughing as I scrubbed the kitchen floor. Carrying the pail with me, I went into Thomas Friedman's office and said, "Thomas Friedman, life is so wonderful."

Thomas Friedman got very mad and screamed at me, "Bettina, you are sloshing bleach all over my good tie and shirt!"

"Oh, Tommy Tom-Tom, that tie has crusted food on it and has for weeks. Here, let me clean it."

I grabbed him by the tie and then started kissing him.

"Bettina!" he hollered, "I have a column to complete!"

I reassured Tommy Tom-Tom that I could get a rise from the little Friedman and that he did not need to have one of his anxiety attacks as I pulled his shirt loose from his pants. Lifting his shirt I began kissing that fleshy, soft, gray tummy and saying, "I love Tommy Tum-Tum."

Oh was Thomas Friedman mad. He knocked me to the floor and stormed out.

I found that so funny. I even called out, "Don't forget me to tell me when you get back that the taxi driver said Thomas Friedman is a great man and a smart man and all the rest!"

Oh, life is so funny.

After I stood up, I saw that Thomas Friedman was really working on his column and not attempting to track down online nude photos of Estelle Getty as he so often does when he is at the computer.

So I read the three lines he wrote and thought, if Thomas Friedman can do it, so can Bettina!

And guess what? I did!

I wrote the whole column and then some. I just tossed out the sort of things Thomas Friedman says and used words like "Lord knows" and others.

Those columns really do write themselves.

Thomas Friedman got back several hours later and he was sulking as he sipped on his smoothee.
He did not know that I had already sent the column over.

"Bettina," Thomas Friedman began, "I am a great man and I am an important man. I am a fair man and I am a generous man. I am --"

The phone rang and I laughed, "Thank God!"

Oh it still cracks me up to picture the angry look Thomas Friedman shot me as he marched over to the phone.

"Friedman, Thomas Friedman," Thomas Friedman said.

It was Bill Keller and he was going crazy over Thomas Friedman's latest column. Thomas Friedman was confused and put Bill Keller on speaker phone.

"It is the finest piece of writing that the paper has ever run!" Bill Keller squealed like a little girl seeing a kitten.

"I see," Thomas Friedman said slowly while I sat down on his desk and pretended to type so he would get the idea that I had written it and sent it in.

"You really think it is good?" Thomas Friedman asked as he nodded to me.

"Oh, it is vintage Friedman! It is so you and so true and I have dotted your hearts with little hearts!"

"Put it back in your BVDS, Keller," Thomas Friedman barked, "we ain't going out like that."

Thomas Friedman chortled so hard. He loves it when he thinks he talks "street." Watching Thomas Friedman throw back his head and chortle, I was reminded of those plastic birds that bend and go up, bend and go up, over a drink. I laughed and laughed.

When I stopped laughing, I heard Keller saying something about how he liked Thomas Friedman's joke but that they did have to cut it.

"I'm sure it was true about you, but we don't want to upset our great leader, do we?"

"No," Thomas Friedman said firmly. "I am glad you enjoyed my joke."

With that Thomas Friedman hung up the phone and asked me if I realized what this meant?
I laughed and laughed thinking it meant that all you needed was a bottle of pills and a few catch phrases to be an op-ed writer for the paper.

Thomas Friedman said no, that wasn't it. It means he can get started on another book right now if I can write his column for him. He went on and on with all these ideas until I told him, "Thomas Friedman, you are bringing me down."

Thomas Friedman did not like that. He did not like that at all. He grabbed his smoothie and stormed out of the room.

I hear him snoring from the bedroom. I guess there is no Iraqi Invasion games tonight.

I will share the little poem that I closed Thomas Friedman's column with because it still tickles me and I wish the paper had printed it today.

Here it is. I called it "Ode to My Penis and the Bully Boy."

Red faced with anger over lack of girth
I still like the little guy
He brings me much mirth.

I do not know why they cut it. If I do another column, I will try to work it back it in. Now I must go look for more vitamins. I cannot believe how quickly I go through those bottles.

It must be the scurvy talking

"Darn you, Thomas Friedman, quit being such a gloomy Gus."

That is what I said to my husband Thomas Friedman this evening.

I know all of the great things Thomas Friedman has done. The great things I have not memorized word for word, I have on the laminated bookmark Thomas Friedman made for me for quick reference: 50 Reasons Why Thomas Friedman Is the Greatests of the Greats.

But this evening, Thomas Friedman just got on my last nerve.

Thomas Friedman can say, "Oh Bettina, my moon worshiping third world child, you are feeling that way because of your monthly visitor."

Thomas Friedman can say that over and over if he wants. Thomas Friedman must have said that twenty times this evening and to be honest, it creeps me out. I have a period, not a monthly visitor.

I said, "Thomas Friedman, why must you speak in riddles? You make it sound like CPS is come to check on me. My monthly visitor? It is a period. Say what it is."

This just prompted Thomas Friedman to say I had PMS from my monthly visitor and that I got like this everytime it was time for my monthly visitor. I am not even on my period. I had my period when Thomas Friedman spent two days lying on the "vinatage linoleum" in the kitchen, curled up in a fetal position, sucking on his thumb and soiling himself. A period of time he now refers to as "primal scream therapy." There was nothing therapuetic about cleaning his mess off the kitchen floor, "vintage lineleum" or not.

But when Thomas Friedman gets an idea in his his head, he is right and everything just proves he is right even when, to anyone else, it proves he is wrong.

From the moment the paper was delivered this morning until he finally went to sleep tonight, Thomas Friedman has been moping around all day.

Nothing I say helps and is just one more reason why the world is against Thomas Friedman.

Finally, at six this evening, after he has not moved from that chair of his all day, I say, "Thomas Friedman, you are getting on my nerves."

Thomas Friedman's column schedule has been moved around. Now Thomas Friedman's column appears on Wednesdays and Fridays, I think. I should know because this is the only thing Thomas Friedman talks about but I really had to tune him out most of the day because I was not feeling very generous to him when every other minute he was griping about this.

"Paul Krugman! And two blowhards waxing on about taxes! No one wants to read that boring, old Europe shit in our post-9-11 world."

"Well," I say back to him, "that just means that people will read Thomas Friedman today because the other stuff is so boring. They will look at the page and be so happy that Thomas Friedman is on it saving them from the boring stuff."

No, Thomas Friedman, says they won't look at him at all.

Today, his column runs on the far right of the page and it is the fault of that "damn Gale Collins."
I am guessing he is so busy moping that he thinks this mighty wind blew his column over there.
Thomas Friedman is becoming so focused on this Gale Collins that he can think of nothing else.
At times, I start wishing this great gale would develop into something. Not a tsunami or a hurricane or anything that will hurt people, but something that would justify Thomas Friedman's constant obsession with it.

But his column is on the far right and "stupid Bettina even you should know" that readers eyes drift automatically to the left "not unlike this country unless we use the metaphorical ruler to rap them on their metaphorical wrists." So since readers eyes go to the left automatically, they will not notice Thomas Friedman at all.

He has been a gloomy Gus all day. And I made the mistake of saying, "Thomas Friedman, maybe you are just a little under the weather. Here, take some of my vitamins and see if that helps you."

Thomas Friedman has taken the entire bottle.

And my body must now crave the vitamin C it has so long been deprived of because all day long I have been feeling my skin is itching or crawling. Thomas Friedman suggested that I might have scurvy. And instead of thinking, "Oh Thomas Friedman must be right because he is always right," I ended up thinking, "For all the money he makes, why he insists on wearing those awful lime-green suits that look like he bought them off the rack at Sears, I will never know."

Or, "That mustache is not charming or cute and if he is going to try to pull it off, he should at least learn the importance of trimming it."

Or how about this? "Thomas Friedman uses a lot of words but in the end he really does not say anything and if his column is on the far right today, maybe that is because he belongs on the far right."

It must be the scurvy talking because everything he has done today irritates me.

At one point today when I again doubted the importance of where his column is placed, Thomas Friedman said to me, "Bettina, you are the only one who feels that way. Why, this morning, when I went to a Korean supermarket, the odd little creature behind the counter said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' And when I hailed a cab this afternoon outside Manny's, the Pakistani cab driver said to me, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' Later, when I was standing in Central Park, a Guatamalan woman came up to me and said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' So that, as they say, takes care of that."

I was just not in the mood for it.

I said, "Who is they! The they that say! And what is this nonsense about people talking to you! All the people you quote say exactly what you want to hear and speak exactly like you! And Thomas Friedman, you have not left that chair all day so do not tell me you have run into them because, other than a few dust bunnies under the chair, you could not have spoken to anyone today!"

Thomas Friedman's eye bulged as he whispered "Holy shit," put my bottle of vitamins up to his lips and took the last of them.

I was so mad because he had bogarted that bottle all day that I added, "And another thing! I do not think that I wore 300 count sheets in my village and if I did, I certainly did not wear ones like this with stains all over them. I think you are too cheap to let me spend money on dresses and so instead you continue to push these used, dirty sheets, purchased at Goodwill, off on me as my native dress!"

At least that shut Thomas Friedman up. He did not say another word to me all evening until he went to bed and he would look at me funny everytime I entered the room.

I am so tired from scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees and from squeezing his prunes for his fresh squeed prunes all day, and from doing his laundry in the kitchen sink because washing machines are "a sign of lazy character." I am tired from opening soy sauce packets and pouring them into a bottle.

I am tired of hearing, "Bettina, soda crackers now!" and having to stop whatever chore I am completing to run to the living room with a plate of his soda crackers and canned cheese which he says "does not taste right" and must have gone bad inside the can.

That does not stop him from eating it, oh no. Or asking for more.

And my scurvy must have given me a high fever because I keep having fantasies of living in a small apartment with an actual dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner and never having had to push one of those sweepers across the carpet. I am having fantasies of having my nails done and owning a Toyota. Surely we did not have cars in my mud hut village?

It must be the scurvy talking. Thomas Friedman's only words to me before going to bed tonight were, "First thing tomorrow, you are going by the pharmacy to pick up more pills."

I know I should be thinking, "The great Thomas Friedman is so concerned about my well being that it is the last thought on his brain before turning in. Not that Gale Collins that he is obsessed over, but me." Instead I just think, "I have scurvy and his lazy ass is sending me out on one more errand."

It must be the scurvy talking.