Like the Hilton sisters…but without the class.
If you believe that the actions of children says a lot about their parents…well, you really need to read this:
An aide opens the door, and Mrs. Bush slides her legs carefully out and steps onto the tarmac. By this point, she knows her part well: Pause to smile, wave and let the photographers dutifully record the image. The small press corps knows its part, too, and watches the routine preflight maneuver with no expectations. Suddenly, one leg in worn corduroy, then the other, swings off the smooth leather limo seat. Jenna Bush stands up to follow her mother into the plane for this spring fling, and the reporters go on alert. It’s the rowdy twin, the one who has been busted twice in four weeks for underage drinking, who has run her Secret Service detail ragged, who was captured in the National Enquirer falling down, a cigarette in her hand.
The corduroy jeans are ratty at their too-long hems, where Jenna has ground them into the pavement too many times. She is wearing a short black T-shirt, and her exposed tummy pooches out over the low-riding waistband. Flip-flops are on her feet. Her blond hair has been pinned carelessly up with a plastic clip. Sunglasses cover her eyes. Hoisting a backpack, she clomps up the plane stairs and disappears.
She hardly looks appropriately presidential daughterly, but then again, she has time to get herself together before the entourage lands in Paris, where French and American officials will greet Mrs. Bush and hand her flowers. The girl is hardly flying coach: Her mother has a hairdresser and a makeup artist on board the military plane, and there’s a lovely wide bed and full shower.
But upon arrival 71/2 hours later, while her ladylike mother smiles and embraces the waiting welcomers, Jenna appears at the plane door looking exactly the same. The flip-flops still on the feet, the belly still exposed, the hair still not brushed. Suddenly, she darts back inside. The twin has spied the telephoto lenses of several French photographers far away, behind a fence. For a few moments, nothing happens, and then the limousine trunk floats open by electronic remote. A White House valet retrieves one of Mrs. Bush’s Neiman Marcus garment bags, carefully laid out in the trunk, and he carries it back up the plane’s steps. The reporters watch in wonder. While he holds it aloft, Jenna slips behind it, and he walks back down the stairs, shielding the first daughter from the prying eyes of all media, foreign and domestic. Only the top of her blond head, bobbing up and down, and those flip-flops are visible.
Jenna is hiding, literally, behind her mother’s skirts.
(Thanks to Anna for the link)