So, today’s the day L’il Duce is elected President of the United States of America.
I’m going to have to keep writing out versions of that line again and again because every fiber of my being wants to believe it’s not true. Here, let me try it again:
Donald J. Trump will be elected President of the United States of America.
By the “Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and Representatives to which the State[s] may be entitled in the Congress” as delineated in Article Two, clause 2 of the Constitution of the United States of America.
In this, the second to last week of the year 2016, I can now report that this soon-to-be past annum brought me two spectacularly, fantastically, superbly, nearly orgasmically great happenings and two disgusting, hork-from-the-bottom-of-my-gut, rotten, perilous to life and limb happenings. I mean, how often does a year throw that much roller coaster at a human being?
This one did. To wit:
- I began chemoradiation treatment for squamous cell carcinoma producing numerous malignant nodes in my neck
- I got through the above and am now in remission
- My beloved Chicago Cubs won their first World Series title in my lifetime and, for that matter, in 108 years
- Donald J. Trump was elected President of the United States of America
If there is a god — what a freak.
The Loved One and I went to a party last night, a bon voyage thing for a woman who’s embarking on an around-the-world trip that’ll last about a year. She’s shipping out in early January. And she’s doing it alone — something, quite frankly, I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do.
She’s part of a gang of local females who are — to a woman — strong, ambitious, successful, focused, and disciplined. There are a half dozen or so of them, more if we include those who come and go. The party was held at the house of one of them, a big shot prof at IU. The rest of the gang is involved in a wide variety of rackets here in Bloomington, ranging from law to medicine, from education to manufacturing, and more. Again, to a woman, they work hard — and they play hard.
It struck me that women were the center of the party, which is rare indeed. Most parties are dominated by males. Guys tell the jokes; guys pick the music; guys’ voices drown out women’s; and if a debate breaks out, guys are at the lead on both sides.
This party though was decidedly and refreshingly female. Funny thing is, had everybody’s gender been somehow masked, you wouldn’t have been able to tell if it were women or men at the forefront of the proceedings. It wasn’t as though the party was all chit-chat about the latest hot sales at Forever 21 or Aeropostale, about how dreamy Benedict Cumberbatch is, the hottest colors in Deborah Lippman’s gel lab pro line, or even that super easy new mashed potato twist recipe.
The genders were pretty much evenly represented. Going by sheer numbers, the men could have dominated, as they so normally and yawningly do. But these women were alive, babies. They spoke whenever they felt like it. They drank booze and laughed and offered their opinions, they danced and pranked, they they picked the music — hell, they ran the show.
So, no matter how bummed I am about
Donald J. Trump, President of the United States of America
his ascension to power, it is to be hoped, is a temporal thing, a passing quirk in our history, an embarrassing slip of flatulence at a sit-down dinner. Women, though, have now reached heights only dreamed of back when my older sisters were young moms and my mother was was still signing her Christmas cards Mrs. Joseph J. Glab. That, to be sure, is forever.
It is to be hoped.
You Don’t Own Me