And how was your day, Mr. President?

So my friend from San Francisco might not move back for a variety of excellent reasons, one of which being the pile of money she was offered for the move is made out of dollars. We were talking about its plunging value, which is encouraging me to fly home via New York in October to buy a new, much lighter laptop for about half of what it would cost here or in Canada, even though it means some charm-deficient aeroport slavey will put their hands on my private areas because I look cranky and Mediterranean.

This segued into talking about this and that and the other and how fucked up everything is, including the Eliot Spitzer whoremongering. What I don't know about Eliot Spitzer could fill several volumes but I'm always fascinated with the idea of people who have so much credibility and status to lose nailing expensive prostitutes or putting cigars in interns' twats or snorting meth with their rent-boy. There's this element of perviness and exhibitionism about it that must be very exciting - knowing how much trouble you'd be in if you got caught - how much this one sexual act could completely transform your life. Sort of like losing your virginity over and over and over.

That was my perspective anyway. San Francisca thought that it was just a case of men not being able to help themselves sometimes. I can see where she's coming from, but firstly, several million men are able to help themselves so it's no excuse, and also none of the above-listed scandals were the spontaneous equivalent of having a few drinks too many and nailing someone you shouldn't because you can. Involving yourself in an established whoremongering ring, getting nasty with a cigar, finding meth and then hovering it up with your long-term boy . . . all of these have that pervy little air of thinking about the act being almost as important as the act itself. Which I, as a perv, congratulate and laugh at.

But the main reason I'd been at all intrigued by the john was that I'd just read a Washington Post article about his wife (I've been finding it hard to apply myself at work this week) which was just fucking glowing, and it made me wonder if there was already some sort of spin machine in operation about to launch her into her own national political career after she dumped her husband. San Francisca thought the political machine was possible but that the dumping wasn't; as a divorcée would never have a chance at making it far in national politics. Really? I asked, and really, she said. Really? Did divorcing really hurt Giuliani? I asked. Really, she said.

And if Hillary Clinton had dumped her husband for all his cheating, she really couldn't be where she is today? Really, she said.* This gave me something absolutely new to chew over, because I honestly don't think it's the case elsewhere in the western world that having had an unsuccessful marriage is going to fuck your political image beyond repair.

And then San Francisca shocked me further by saying she herself wouldn't support someone who had been divorced, because if they couldn't get their own lives together they couldn't be trusted to run a country. That totally blew my mind. A marriage, a presidency; it's a whole different skillset, surely. I mean, you have the qualities of honesty and communication that you'd want in both cases, so I guess I see where she's coming from. But when I get home from work I don't want the president to have a hot meal ready, to ask about my day and maybe fuck me if we're both in the mood. And I don't want my husband to have his finger on the nuclear button - I'm not Carla Bruni.

God, it's all so weird.

*Echoes of Ferraro. Her statement is more to be condemned for its utter pointlessness than its racism. None of us would be where we are if we weren't who we were. How has that not been pointed out by either campaign yet? Stupid Democrats.