I've been worried about what happens if/when Newt Gingrich has to pack it in, admit defeat and head back to his life as a lobbyist/intellectual/moon entrepreneur/devoted Tiffany customer.
The truth is, I'm actually worried about Callista Gingrich, oh she of the waxen blond bob and perpetually pleasant demeanor. Why am I worried about a woman whose very name means "beautiful"?
That's easy. Because of all the men to come home, pouty and prematurely retired from what they love to do, can you imagine one who would be a bigger drag around the house than the whirling dervish that is Newton Gingrich?
Yes, the eye of Newt (oh, Lord, how I've been saving that one for just the right time) would fall upon the slightly dirty gas burner on the Gingrich kitchen stove and he would castigate all responsible for this "failure to maintain an efficient and cost-effective mechanism for boiling, broiling and the like." And, he would add, "I ask you, and you, and you (toaster, blender, fridge) how is this going to help the state of Israel?"
Newt would be the absolute worst retiree and that is why I say Callista will need to escape to a full-time job. If she stays home, she'll no doubt have to endure numerous high-handed lectures on the state of the bathroom grout interspersed with windy pronouncements about how mildew is much like the "invented people" of Palestine encroaching where they shouldn't. Yes, the fair Callista, or Door No. 3, as I like to call her, will join millions of women who discover that it's not easy having a freshly retired husband around the house nitpicking about everything from the brand of your vacuum to the day you go grocery shopping.
"You know, Cal," I can imagine Newt saying in those reassuring "I know best because I know it all" tones that we have grown to, uh, hear, "It's always better to go to the grocery store in the early morning on a full stomach. Studies have proven definitively ... blah, blah, blah, Israeli sovereignty, colonizing the moon, my 56th book, Romney can eat my shorts ..."
Mornings, he'll work the Cryptoquote until he tires of the sheer lack of intellectual challenge. ("Sure, you have to arrange the letters from the circles to form the final answer but, really, why can't they put these things in the Latin that I so love?")
He might try golf, but it will only be at Callista's urging so she can have one afternoon to herself. He won't enjoy it. No one on the stupid golf course even cares about how America is going to be dominated by radical Islamists or secular atheists, he's not quite sure which.
Bottom line: Callista won't get any work out of him. If she wants someone to replace the rusty hinge on the pool house door, she'll have to hire someone which, in its own weird way, will make them, yes, job creators.
