How about Cally, then? Or Cally-cally-bo-bally-banana-fana-fo-fally? You have no idea what we're saying, do you?
Tell you what. Let's lose that spectacularly unappealing dude by the onomonopoetically correct name of "Newt" and slink off to a flatteringly-lit cocktail lounge. We can split an Oxy and order a pitcher of Bellinis! Doesn't that sound hi-LAR-ious?? We KNOW!!
So. Callista. Callista-Callista-Callista. We're going to say this the nicest way we know how. Ready?
You look like the unholy spawn of Cindy McCain and the Joker from Batman. Now, don't get upset. You are upset, aren't you? We can't really tell. You can't even blink, poor thing.
You've a helluva cross to bear, being the one-time mistress and future ex-wife of that malodorous tub of paste. And were we ever to sober up to discover we've been matrimonially shackled to a universally loathed sack of cat barf whose paunch is outsized only by his double chin, who's to say we wouldn't also botox ourselves into a stupor and have our face lifted into a permanent malivolent trophy wife smile? How else could we mask the clinically depressed pill zombie we'd become? No, we're not accusing you of anything. Just a stab in the dark.
But here's the thing Supercallistafragalistaexpialedoshia, need we mention the name Kitty Dukakis?
That poor woman barely made it through a campaign and she was chugging rubbing alcohol and antifreeze. You hardly seem more stable than Miss Kitty.
And should you be named Miss FLOTUS number 45, we shudder to imagine the White House Easter Egg hunt. It would be a blood bath. Crying children, disemboweled bunnies. Are we wrong?
But see, as you know from experience, should you come down with cancer or gout or even a nasty case of hay fever, Newtie-kins is likely to heave you overboard for his mistress du jour. And then he'll prolly pay off the Cathy-lick cardinals to stop schtupping altar boys long enough to annul your marriage so he can keep gnawing on Jesus' body every time communion rolls around. He's done it before.
So we think you're wise to throw a monkey wrench into hubby's lost-cause campaign. Dragging him to Greece, insisting on extra hair-do time.
Kudos, by the way, on your aerodynamically unstable Mary-Tyler-Moore-season-six-helmet-head-dipped-in-peroxide-and-sprayed-to-oblivion 'do. While every morning's expenditure of Aqua-net likely opens up another gaping hole in our o-zone, the end result is a hairdo that can withstand hurricanes, tsunamis and flourescent lighting.
Because if we're being honest with ourselves, the odds of you and hubby Newt moving into the White House are roughly the same as Lady Ga-Ga winning the Nobel for physics.
So even though hubby Newt has loaded you up with half a million in Tiffany's bling, would you not be happier squatting in a menstrual hut with a macrame hobbyist from Vermont? Yes.
Our advice? Take a yoga class, become a vegan, download Silvia Plath to your Kindle, dash off to Cabo, take a ceramics class and have a lesbian affair with a ferret owner named Fran.
We see no other way out of your personal, private heck.
Callista sez: "Newt's Tiffany's account never got me a subscription to this blog's feed."