ME AND THE DONALD

Along with a few million other people, I received an invitation in the mail from Donald J. Trump, asking me to go to a seminar he is sponsoring, which will teach me just how the Trump family became wealthy to the tune of several billion, and showing me how I can do the same.

As someone said, "A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you are talking about real money!" Truer words were never spoken, as George Bush should know, as he squandered billions in tax money and borrows billions from China to keep from sending America crashing into bottomless desperation.

Donald Trump is not appearing at the seminar he is sponsoring. Some other gentleman will host the party. But the information he relays to those who attend will come straight from Donald, from the horse's mouth, one might say. We will be taught the art of making a deal. We will be taught how to avoid unpleasant things like capital gains and bankruptcy and leins, while stashing millions in our pockets every day.

Oh, yes, another vista will be opened to our wondrous eyes. The upcoming foreclosure "opportunity" of 2007 will be explained to us. Now, I am not exactly sure what this means. Are we supposed to buy up the houses that families are leaving, bereft and sad because they cannot meet their mortgage payments? Or are we going to loan them money to keep their houses? Surely The Donald, that busy gent we see on television so often, would not want to make money on the backs of poverty-stricken householders....people who have lost their jobs and just can't make ends meet!

If this is the case, perhaps we should all start cheering Rosie O'Donnell. The "art of the deal" should have a little compassion, one would think. Perhaps there is no "heart in the deal" and the only purpose is to make money. If so, no wonder The Donald has had such trouble finding a happy homelife.

I have never been a fan of his hit television show, The Apprentice. I would last about one day as his employee. I would never work for a man who gathered his underlings into a room and snapped out, "You're fired!"...while his hair bunches upward like an overwatered tropical bloom, sprouting off his head in a hothouse frenzy. If one has to lose a job, the firing should take place in privacy, allowing one a little dignity, at least, along with a fat severance paycheck.

Donald called Rosie a "fat slob," and perhaps, in his view, that is what she appears to be. Certainly his wives have been personable, to say the least. First, there was Ivana, who retained a certain grace when he dumped her for Marla Maples, who declared Donald was the best lover she had ever had...with or without Viagra. His marriage to Marla was shortlived, however, and now he is married to another model type, whose name escapes me. She is said to be a charming person, however, and perhaps she can calm down this bumptious billionaire and keep him in line.

Now, Donald has decided to enter the world of wrestling, a fact which fills me with determination to avoid this presentation at all costs. He already hosts a beauty pageant, one of those contests where young lovelies prance about the stage in various stages of dress and undress, as everyone in the audience tries to guess the winner. These gals remind me of sleek, groomed racehorses, so fit and healthy they seem to be! Their muscles ripple under their svelte skin, their smiles are so perfect as to have been painted on by an Old Master. It is wonderful to think some people look like that. But they sure don't seem to patronize Walmart.

Most of the women I know look more like Rosie than beauty contestants. And the only deal available is a bargain ad that saves you a dollar to spend on the Value Meal at Burger King. I don't know how Donald will react to the raw material of my financial matters. But he has made the mistake of thinking that everyone wants extreme wealth.

Not me! I don't want a yacht because I can't even repair a hole in a rowboat. A private jet doesn't appeal to me, because I'd have to hire a mechanic I trusted, and the only mechanic I know right now works at a dealership and overcharges so frequently that he is more apt to become a billionaire than I am. Owning a home in France and the Greek Isles, an apartment in New York, and a villa in Hawaii doesn't sound bad, until I think of the upkeep. Donald must have nerves of steel.

I am afraid I may have to pass up this seminar, even though I may be giving up a world of gold faucets and private planes. You see, The Donald, my dream is not to take on more material possessions, but to rid myself of the collection of junk surrounding me, invading my life, suffocating my soul. I want the freedom of not owning much of anything. This is something Donald may not understand, but it seems perfectly clear to me.

I want an armchair, a good book, a reading lamp, and a bowl of popcorn on the table beside me. I want a long stroll through the woods on a summer day, with the tree branches forming a cathedral-like arch above me. I want Jedi at my side, her tail wagging in happiness as we explore each bush and weed, that great unknown, home of wiggling worms and darting little animals and rich, lush soil. I want to remember my father, felt hat on his head, walking behind a plow in the cornfield. I want to remember the sun on my back as I rode in the wagon toward the fields of alfalfa.

Riches, Donald? I have them. Billions and billions of memories, enough to keep me warm in the winter and as cool as a summer breeze when that hot July sun beats down. You can't live on memories, but they sure help out in the bad times, the sad times, and the times when you need a moment just to stare out a window and review your world. They are as precious as money.

I wonder if the Trump family knows this.