The Many Faces of Hillary Clinton
Suzette: Parade Lovin’ Hill
I like the way the New York Post characterizes HRC as “Crisis Hill”. It’s the method Mattell uses to designate the same basic doll in different ways: i.e., Malibu Barbie, Pet Lovin’ Barbie or Pretty Perfume Barbie. When the public tires of one, come up with another one.
Hill’s been laying low this week, and when we see her again, she’s going to be Wicked Witch Hill – she’s always so much bitchier (and dangerous) when she’s on top. As Obama sinks in the polls, she’ll stay in the background and as soon as she senses that the pastor flap is about to fade from 3 inch headlines, she’ll be back - wearing a red dress.
Mark my words – all these dreary browns and greys she’s been wearing since SuperTuesday are going back into the closet and she’ll be trotting out that quilted salmon colored jacket again. The dark jackets are her Victim/Underdog wardrobe. Obama’s sinking in the polls and as soon as she detects her comfort margin, we’ll be hearing her on all the news outlets non-stop, all wide-eyed innocence as she lets loose with the cutting remarks about BO.
There were so many photos this week of Hill parading for St Patrick’sDay in her bright green shamrock scarves, bedecked with a green carnations and waving merrily to the crowds along the parade route. But I couldn’t enjoy it – I saw only Sad Hillary. If you doubt that Hill is sending messages via her wardrobe choices, take one look at this and tell me that it doesn’t break you heart:
It hurts me to look at this. There she is, wearing sensible shoes and dressed in a solid black man coat to convey her president-like dignity and self-confidence. She’s smiling and waving, surrounded by hangers-on and paid security people, but the object of her affection – the crowds – are held away from her. Do you see the inner Hillary there? The romantic, the desperate female longing to be seen as a woman worthy of real love?
Oh, the poor thing. Unloved by her harsh father and her careless husband, she sucked it up and cloaked her womanliness to gain admittance to the boy’s club. All the Wilma Flintstone necklaces in Washington can’t mask her beat-em-at-their-own-game strategy. Who among us could have guessed that inside – as mirrored by the riotous lining of her plain black coat – she’s a romantic. And not a sublte one, either. She’s a big cabbage rose screaming out with fuschia intensity: LOVE ME! I OFFER YOU THE FLOWER OF MY INNER SOUL. HELP ME TO BLOOM. LOVE ME!
Sadder still is a peek at the real Hillary – her face, not her clothes. They say you get the face you earn and here is hers. No stage make-up, no flattering lighting, no hairdresser and an unguarded expression. Oh Hillary! The brave jaw, so defiantly jutted forward, but sunken and shriveled nonetheless – unkissed, unwanted. Her forehead beginning to a furrow above those severe eyebrows which can be plucked, but cannot be tamed. And the expression – heaven have mercy. Her expression is one of expectation, but not a hopeful expectation. It anticipates disappointment. It waits for rebuff. There’s a small small glimmer of hope that she will at last see what she is looking for: out loud, genuine and unconditional love. Maybe this time?
But she knows. She knows it won’t be coming, at least not for her. All that looks back at her is a paunchy old billy goat and an unattractive clone that stares back at her with her own face. And now the voting public, her most constant and faithful companion, prefers another.
The crowds who used to chant her name and thrill when she walked into a room have been calling for Obama. They’ve been flowing away from her, like blood that trickles drop by drop from the prick of a thorn. The real Hillary lets the mask slip for one brief moment and it all shows in her face. So carry on, brave girl – wave and put one foot in front of the other. Flash your blossoms and wrap yourself in roses. We’ve seen your inner flower and you have our pity.
I could just cry.
It will be a relief to see Frontrunner Hill return this week to pile onto the wounded Barack Obama and kick him while he’s down. That’s her best move. She’s got the red dress ready for the funeral and we all get to watch.
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by Suzette
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Source: Parade Lovin’ Hill
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