The Birthday Party(s)

Hello again. Haven't seen you for awhile. Not surprising since I've been in hibernation for almost two of your Earth's years. I see that it's 5:15 a.m., Thursday, July 4th, 2019. Your leader's big 5-0 birthday! You've got an exciting three-day holiday weekend ahead. Since you're up so early anyway, let's go see what's happening in the Blue House by way of party preparations ...

The slightly short-sighted, deep-blue eyes of the President of the Federated States of America open slowly and blink twice. At first her eyes sleepily focus on an elaborately embroidered triangular silk pillow with forty-two bright-white stars against a dark-blue background. With some effort, just in view over the tip of the pillow top, she can blurrily make out the right profile of a beautiful woman lying very quietly, her body covered up to her neck with their shared deep-blue silk bedsheet.

The room is chilly, almost cold, in the always overly air-conditioned master bedroom of the Blue House living quarters. Recollections of last night's tenderly erotic jousting are mingled lovingly and maturely with the simple joy of seeing her lying there so artfully, so calmly, so comfortably.

Almost reflexively the president's hand reaches across the pillow to stroke the woman's honey-beige, porcelain smooth forehead. Her fingertips register the to-be-expected slightly chilly temperature of the woman's face and the flickering twitch of her right eyelid. Slowly the president's hand glides under the sheet and registers the warming softness of a small, firm breast, the nipple reflexively erecting. As the hand moves down to the firm belly, the woman's eyes open and she says, "Happy birthday, Meryl." I've got your present right here", while sliding her sheet-covered left hand over to gently grasp and guide Meryl's right hand down onto her short, sparse, tangled pubic hairs.

"Should I unwrap it now, Krissy?"

"Of course! You've got to be up at six for some reason, and it's probably full speed ahead the rest of the FSA day."

Half an hour later President Meryl Machiavelli Montessori is taking a quick shower with her very personal physician, Dr. Kristin Koo.

"So now that you're fifty and have opened your present, what's next on your agenda?"

"Tom'll be in my office in ten minutes and then we're going down to the Bunker for a hopefully brief DoDD briefing, followed by a gathering of the Blue Battalion at 10:00. I hope Rachael and Peter made it back from Chicago last night. I need their first-hand report on Operation Rind and you're probably more than ready to hand back Chickee and the twins."

"Kaleb and Kefira are only thirteen months old, nowhere near the terrible twos. And besides, it's nice having more than one patient, even if my pediatrics isn't as good as my geriatrics."

"Thanks, Krissy. You're the cruelest birthday present I ever opened."

After drying each other off, Meryl and Krissy go to their respective armoires located on opposite sides of the tall, elegant sixteenth-century Villefranche pendulum clock occupying the only wall in the bedroom not covered with books and bookshelves. Meryl opts for an austere, almost authoritarian,blacksuit/blousecombowhileKrissydonsherusualplayfully professional skirt and sweater ensemble. The only jewelry they put on is matching filigreed gold bands which slip easily onto their respective ring fingers. Neither of them bothers with makeup, neither of them needing any adornment to make them more strikingly gorgeous. Their one concession to vanity is high-heeled shoes to elevate them above their identical five-foot three-inches.

A knock on the side door in Meryl's bedroom that leads to her private office signals that Meryl's genuine genius of a national security advisor, Tom Yager, has arrived for their pre-DoDD briefing preparations. Taking inventory of her purse, Meryl shouts in the general direction of the door.

"Be there in a minute, Tom. What's top of the agenda on my birthday?"

"The Sino-Russian Front is spilling over into Uzbekistan and the Tyrant of Tashkent is burning up my phone demanding we do something. We've got a problem along the California section of our border with the United Kingdom of Western America. It's that damn ambiguous Piedra Blanca land grant near San Luis Obispo. The descendents of Mariano Pacheco and Jose de Jesus Pico are at it again. You'd think after a hundred and forty-three years they could work things out. Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks, Tom. I've already opened my present from Krissy. You should have kept yours under wraps."

"I've saved the best for last. It's a Blue Battalion special, so I won't broadcast it to you. I've postponed the Joint Chiefs' meeting. Tell you why when you get in here."

Giving Krissy a parting hug, President Montessori heads for her office while her doctor takes the main-door exit down the wide hallway lined with silk Japanese boxwood topiaries, passing the semi-somnolent Secret Service agent-of-the-month sitting on his surveillance post, an early 19th-century Regency mahogany elbow-chair, located discreetly a few yards from the bedroom and just before the open door to Meryl's reception room. Krissy can never walk by that antique chair without a flicker of recollection of the time almost two years ago she'd raced by it on her way to deal with what turned out to be a real nightmare in Meryl's bedroom.

Sandy Vogelhäuschen, Meryl's more alert watchdog/personal assistant, looks up from behind her antique oak desk, sees Krissy passing by, and motions for her to come in.

"Good morning, Mrs. President, got a minute?"

"I wish you'd stop that. It's very confusing."

"Sorry, Krissy. I still get a kick out of you and Meryl getting hitched. Now we've got two `Mrs. Presidents'."

"I understand but don't forgive. What can I do for you, Sandy...or should I say `Miss Birdhouse' instead?"

"Nothing major. I just wanted to let you know that Peter and Rachael may be a little late. Seems...