Look, Mrs. Bush, I have nothing against Texas or Crawford. It's just the Crawford, Texas in August part.
It's hot — very hot. What is it, like 105 degrees... in the shade? And you're there, again, for a month, with your husband, again.
I know he loves it there. He cuts brush there, dirt bikes there, does manly-man things there.
Let's just say I'm worried for you, Mrs. Bush. What do you get out of it? Why do you put up with it?
You're the most powerful woman on Earth married to the most powerful man on Earth.
I'm thinking, I don't know: vary it up.
I know Martha's Vineyard is "so Clinton."
But I'm thinking water. Your father-in-law has a nice pad in Maine... borrow that place.
You're close to the Berlusconis... try Italy. It's beautiful this time of year. Or Tony Blair's (search) country estate. The media can't get within 20 miles of that place.
I have to level with you, Mrs. Bush: You're in danger of getting into a rut. But you're in bigger danger of melting.
I know you're husband's a creature of habit and a fine creature of habit he is. But you're a fine wife, and I might point out, your poll numbers are finer too. Tell George to spice things up.
Crawford this week? Fine. The Grand Canyon next week. The wine country with your pal Arnold Schwarzenegger (search) the week after that.
Can't make the wine country? Have Arnold send the wine to you in Crawford.
You'll need it.
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