The Presidential Candidates As Co-Workers

It was a typical Monday, my boss expecting yet another half-assed project to be completed by the time she arrived at the office. Dwelling in the cubicle world, comfortable in the same chair I'd parked my butt in for fifteen years, I still needed some uninterrupted time to stare at my computer screen and figure out how to add extra lines to an Excel spreadsheet that some unnamed company drone had created; how to bullshit my way through the latest morass without letting on that I had absolutely no worldly clue what I was doing or why anyone'd even hired me in the first place.

The last thing I needed at this particular moment was a co-worker resting his arm on the overhang of my pseudo-office door because he was bored and wanted someone to brighten up his day.

But, alas, there was Ted.

"You KNOW," said Ted, "the SANDWICHES in the VENDING machine are WHOLLY unacceptable."

I'd grown used to Ted's hyperbole after all these years,, but his emphasis on EVERY other WORD still jangled my nerves.

"Hey, Ted, how're you doin'?" I ask, ruffling through the pages of copy I'd spit out of the printer; squinting to decipher actual numbers out of the teeny-tiny typeface.

"I have a TEN POINT plan to FIX the SANDWICHES in the vending machine," Ted punctured the stale Monday, air-condition-deprived oxygen with his jabbed finger. 

"I don't really ever buy any --" I start to say.

"You can read about it on my personal WEBSITE. Some people have tried to DISTORT what I've said about vending machine SANDWICHES, but if you go to my WEBSITE, I lay it out very SUCCINCTLY. I am, and have ALWAYS been, opposed to pre-form SANDWICHES."

"Good for you, Ted!" I say, trying to muster enough fake enthusiasm to make him go away. I decide if I just stop responding to him, he'll grow bored and go bother Tanya on the other side of the wall. It works. Absent an enraptured audience, Ted toddles off, still mumbling and SHOUTING random words, down the narrow corridor.

"You know..."

Great.

Donald is here.

"Is it seven o'clock already, Donald?" I smile, hoping my expression looks friendly and not panic-stricken.

"I've been thinking about the sandwiches in the vending machine," Donald says, waving his hand like he's swatting away a gypsy moth . "They look foreign to me. I think we have to nuke 'em."

"You mean, 'nuke them', like in the microwave?" I ask.

"No, I mean BAN them. They're a danger to us. I have the polls to prove it. They're not only low-energy, but they're missing the stamina."

"Stamina? In a sandwich?" I hate myself for asking, as the hands on the clock sweep precipitously toward the witching hour, when my boss will flip on her office light and expect me to perch in her doorway with the latest statistics on something I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to be analyzing.

Luckily, or unluckily, Jeb (!) appears.

"Donald, you've been fooling people with your pronouncements on sandwich-making for far too long," Jeb says, flicking Donald's elbow off my cubicle perch. "I've been spreading mustard on the sandwiches of the people of Florida for years. An amateur like you doesn't know how to spread the mustard right. People want their mustard smeared by a professional."

"I don't think it takes a mastermind to smear --", I start to say, but the two of them ignore me and begin jostling each other, and I peer around my high wall, hoping somebody will show up for work soon, because I'm just a girl and I am NOT getting in between two old guys who want to beat each other up over French's.

"Guys...guys!"

Oh good, John's here.

"Is this any way to settle an argument?" John pleads. "Think about the people around you. They don't want to hear some silly squabble about vending machine sandwiches! I asked my daughters and they were appalled! My oldest said to me, 'Dad, this is what I don't like about sandwiches. There's no consensus. Why can't we just do bologna? That's what the people want! This is just silly!'"

"I hate to break in," I summon the nerve to blurt, "but I really need to get this report --"

 "Did someone say 'sandwiches'?" a timid voice breaks the impasse. "I've been studying sandwiches with my advisers, and they agree that Obamacare has sullied personal choice...a ham on rye here, a pastrami and muenster there. I say we need to establish SSA's, "Sandwich Savings Accounts", so everyday Americans can CHOOSE which vending machine confection they think is best for their family."

"Shut up, Ben!" Donald yells. "You're at fourteen! Nobody cares anymore what you say. My sandwiches are HUUU-GE!".

"You know," a soft voice wafts in from across the aisle, "When I started out as a secretary, there was no such thing as sandwiches in vending machines. There were candy bars. There was gum."

"There was a point?" Donald asks, waving Carly off.

"I just wanted to get it on the record," Carly says. "And, by the way, I am not afraid of Vladimir Putin."

"Good for you." Donald rolls his eyes, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to shrug my shoulders in a sign of solidarity to Donald or stand up and pat Carly on the shoulder. I frankly just wish they'd all go away before I miss my deadline and get a stern talking-to.

"Sandwiches. In vending machines?"

Oh yay, Paranoia Rand has shown up. I can't wait to hear his latest conspiracy theory about how the government has planted listening devices inside lettuce leafs.

"How much do we want our elected officials to spike our mayonnaise?" Rand prattles, for the thirteen-thousandth time.

Fine.

I've frankly had it.

"Rand, why don't you pack a lunch bag with a Lean Cuisine, like I do, and if it makes you feel safer, run it under one of those TSA detectors before you haul it into the office?"

Freakin' nutbag.

I catch a glimpse of my boss. She just tromped through the aisle on the way to her office. I can tell she's not happy with the gang of eleven clustered around my cube, and sure enough, I'll get the blame. As if I have any sway over these hangers-on, these power-obsessed lunatics. What exactly, you guys, do you think all this bravado and Velveeta chest-thumping is going to get you? You're still going to be a peon, just like me, and unfortunately, it's my ass on the line, because you all have nothing much to do, but I really need to keep my job, what with my 401-K tanking and the Black Lives Matter people tromping around outside my house, just waiting to catch me in a sarcastic eye-roll, and then pasting me up on YouTube, which for sure will cost me my job in the current World Of Diversity.

A sudden breeze curls the hem of my blouse. Chris is here and he's loaded for bear. He acts like he doesn't even notice all these lunatics hanging on my cubicle wall, except I see the slight shake of his head as he tromps past on his way to his own cube to fire up his PC. Chris, I will tell you, doesn't possess a ton of patience. I sort of like that. Cut to the chase. In the business world, when one is hanging on for dear life, one appreciates a co-worker who narrows it down to the question at hand. On the flipside, I never disturb Chris unless it's vital, because he'll just as soon slice my head off than tolerate a bunch of small-talk. The thing is, if anybody knows anything about sandwiches, it's Chris. He's no doubt sampled them all. Not that I actually care about sandwiches, but all these goofballs have suddenly made me hungry.

Oh, good. Hill has finally shown up. My gaggle of shouters wander off, down the row toward her cubicle to heckle her. None of them like her, I've noticed. In fact, they all seem to delight in ragging on her. I wish my boss would take a cue from them and leave me the hell alone.

Finally. I have some peace. My head is throbbing and the clock is ticking. My boss wants numbers and I'm tempted to simply create some and splash them across the spreadsheet, hoping a completed file will mask my utter befuddlement and dazzle her with my stick-to-tive-ness.

I take a deep breath and a swig of coffee, lean back in my chair and revel in completing yet one more meaningless task, assured that my Friday paycheck will still be forthcoming. I await the coming lunch break, when I can settle my bones and exhale. I packed a Lean Cuisine this morning, and an apple -- my regularly scheduled fake lunch; but suddenly a grinning Marco alights on my cubicle wall, clutching a fast-food bag.

"I stopped at Subway and picked up a ham and cheese with pickles and jalapenos. Thought you might like something new and fresh. Those vending machine sandwiches will kill you," he says.

I smile, despite myself. It's been an exhausting morning. The hangers-on have depleted what little energy I'd willed myself to muster when I'd flashed my card against the electric eye at six a.m.

Someone who gives a damn about me? I don't know if he's running for anything -- maybe for Claims Representative -- but regardless, Marco has my vote.

2016: My Year of Caring

Liberals are always telling me how I need to care more.

I confess, I haven't always been the nurturing earth mother my progressive friends wished me to be. I was distracted by stupid stuff like trying to hold onto my job, endeavoring to find a way to pay my monthly bills without descending into bankruptcy hell, dealing with cardiac issues and remembering to remind my husband to plug in his holter monitor at night. I've been a lout.

In 2016, I'm going to turn over a new leaf.

I've seen the error of my ways, oh yes. It's my own fault for glossing over he pain that engulfs my fellow humans. I've already started by saying five Our Fathers and, to be fair to the feminists, exactly five Hail Mary's. I even threw in a few Glory Be's, because as a lapsed Catholic, the Glory Be's, regardless of their place at the end of the rosary, matter, too.

And, guilt-glutted Catholic that I am, I am sorry for the following sins and all the sins of my past life:

Pooh-poohing the Black Lives Matter movement.

I used to think that everybody's life mattered. I was so wrong. Only black lives matter! That lesson was brought home to me when the BLM folks shuttered off a major thoroughfare in downtown Minneapolis because they were pissed, dammit! So there was an ambulance trying to weave its way through the throng, endeavoring to save a stricken man's life. So what! In the larger scheme of things, who the hell was this guy anyway? Probably some retired rogue cop who'd spent his career hassling innocent poor folk. Or, I guess, he could have been a lowly working man who'd sweated inside a hothouse factory for fifty-odd years, trying to squeeze a couple of dollars out of his weekly paycheck so he could send his son to college, but whatever! You know the white dudes are always keeping the black man down.

Not being sensitive to the LGBLT (I may have the acronym wrong - again, sorry!) community.

Guys who are just "not feeling right" sometimes undergo gender reassignment surgery. Take Bruce Jenner. He's sixty-five; he's fathered a passel of kids. He's been a staple of the reality TV lexicon for a decade. But all these shows were never about him. They didn't focus on the man/woman he was. God-dammit, Bruce deserves his thirteen episodes in the sun! A "regular" person doesn't understand the lure of TV cameras following one's every twitch. A regular person can't afford the heroin that is TV notoriety. I have been inexcusably ignorant and obtuse.

Not understanding that college students are besieged.

Life truly sucks. Especially if you are one of those kids whose dad has mortgaged the family home to send you to an A-list university. You have to contend with all those trigger warnings and micro-aggressions, when you're just trying to (one day) graduate with your liberal arts degree and secure a job with the local franchise of Office Plus.  Guys are raping all over the place, and some dude is calling himself a "master", which, in itself, is devastatingly offensive. And scary! Not that you're Black or Native American or anything, but the connotation in itself is enough to drive you to take a couple weeks off and slither on down to Cabo and drench your sorrows in a couple of highballs of sluice lime and tequila. But spare us, please, the sombreros, unless you want a taste of what my puny-assed fist could potentially ball up into and give you the what-for.

The earth is dying, for God's (if I believed in a god) sake!

This is serious, people! If we don't stop this climate change now -- I mean right now, the island of Monuriki will be engulfed! What will happen to the poor inhabitants of Monuriki? What? Nobody lives there? Still. Never mind that. The polar bears...well, you know...they will....

Like college students, women are under attack!

It's high time to understand that women rule! Where once females were considered the "mothers" of the world (a hideous, provincial notion), women are, in fact, just like men! We might not have actual penises, per se, but for all intents and purposes, we are a glom of testosterone; and if you don't believe us, we'll wave our soon-to-be aborted ultrasounds smack in your face, you neanderthal nineteenth century slave masters!

Just ask our champion-in-chief, Hillary (with a thick arrow pointing straight at the spot where, theoretically, a human heart might rest).


I know I've left out some. 2016 will hence be a learning experience for me. I expect nothing but.  Thus commences my year of caring.

A year of sensitivity.

A year of viewing the world through new, albeit squiggly eyes. 

Meanwhile, don't worry about me. I'll keep suffering stress-induced chest pains, endeavoring to satisfy a boss who I didn't even know was my boss; but as it turns out, he exerts some influence over my paycheck and whether I actually receive one. Praying to be able to retire before an MI kicks me to the curb.

Because, after all, it's all about you.

And I'm sorry.

Let's Get This Straight

I watch Special Report every night -- every single night. I love Charles Krauthammer; I love Steve Hayes; I cringe when Juan starts babbling. I especially enjoy Jonah Goldberg. But none of these guys knows my life. 

I'm about as an established Republican as one can be; yet I get it. I get the fascination with someone like Donald Trump. I get how people can fall in love with him. These guys on the panel don't. They're gentrified. They're living everything life can offer. They forget what it's like to be a peon; a loser; a striver who never grabs the gold. They don't relate to somebody eyeing their checking account balance every week, knowing the piper will soon need to be paid; pushing it out of her mind, trying to fall asleep at night with a heavy weight bearing down on her chest. Praying that God will get her out of this mess.

 

I'm sixty and time and opportunity have abandoned me. I'm somehow supposed to care about college kids who have the means to actually attend college, yet bitch about life's unfairness; about BLM marchers who apparently don't have to get up at 4:15 every morning to get ready for work. About the ozone layer, when my fear is icy roads and smashing into the back end of an SUV in the dark.

The real world is a pain in the ass. In case Bret's panelists need reminding. I'm damn sick of being expected to care about everybody except me and my family. My world view is teeny-tiny. I don't have the luxury of contemplating the universe that exists somewhere far outside my living room window. I wish I did. Life, then, would be so much simpler; nuanced. 

I've been clear that my candidate is Marco Rubio, but I'm not a dolt. I know that Marco is probably the only person running on the GOP side who has an earwhig's worth of chance of defeating that lying, opportunistic semblance of a person named HRC, but his timing is all wrong. 

 

Welcome to my world of bad timing.

 

So Trump says a bunch of outrageous things. So he's not a deep thinker.

 

So what?

 

What do any of us have to lose at this point? At least Trump isn't afraid to air the grievances of people who simply want to chalk up one measly win before they die. 

 

Everyday existence is a column of batter and abuse. 

 

Welcome to the real world.

 

 

 

 

All Hail The Queen

Somebody Has To Say It

(The "Mao Tse Tung")

It hardly ever gets mentioned. Perhaps male broadcasters are afraid of offending women, but let me tell you something about women -- we're hyper-critical. Judgmental. There's a reason for that that men don't understand. We're constantly, pathologically, comparing ourselves to other women. And it doesn't matter if we're "old enough to know better". That insecurity never goes away. 

"I may be fat, but look at her!" 

"I know better than to wear horizontal stripes, for God's sake!" 

"A tent dress doesn't actually make you look thinner, dear."

The really cute girls, the ones who are in tune with the latest fashions -- the thin, young ones -- well, they're just snooty bitches, and we have decided we don't like them. 

I've sometimes fantasized about having enough money to buy a really nice wardrobe. I'm self-conscious about re-wearing the same five outfits to work every week. Are people talking? Snickering at me? (Yes, probably.) But thanks to Hillary, I've learned that all the foreign-donated money in the world can't buy class. Even, let's say, if one is so busy re-running for president that they don't have time to shop, couldn't a super-rich woman hire a personal shopper? Apparently not. 

And have you noticed that Hillary (like me, except rich) re-wears the same outfits, over and over? 

Why?

Here are some of the old standby's. 

(Can't decide between a coat and a "tunic"? Let someone with taste be your guide.)

(What's with all the extra saggy material? What are you hiding? A question that applies to several Clinton circumstances.)

(This necklace. I noticed she likes it so much, she ordered one in every jewel tone available. I particularly like the emerald green one.)

(The "Captain Kangaroo")

One must ask, why? Or -- what? I'm sorry, but this is the worst-dressed rich woman in the history of these United States. That alone should disqualify her from being president. What does that say about her judgment?

This obsession with being viewed as a man is rather psychotic. You know, we know she's actually a female. It comes across as politically calculated and bizarre. She's saying (to me) that a woman isn't good enough to be president unless she presents herself as a man. Contrast it with this:

(Oh, my God! A woman!?!)

Hillary has lots of, well, not friends, but "supporters", who have taste. Hollywood women thrive on their taste. She also has lots of lackeys, by the looks of her email communications. Her lackeys all tell her she looks "fab". The Hollywood types, who'd eviscerate a conservative woman for a fashion faux pas, are silent. Too bad for her, I guess. You can take the woman out of the Ozarks, but you can't take the Ozark out of the woman.

And while we're discussing hard bad choices,  a word about her campaign logo:  It looks like a sign for a hospital emergency room entrance.

Is this really the image Her Royal Clintoness wants to convey?

It seems this woman has no one in her orbit who will say no. No, you look like a ragged hobo wearing that outfit. No, this logo your....kid? bro-in-law? attorney? designed doesn't communicate anything except that if we elect you, we're all going to heave our guts out.

I am loathe to give the "other side" advice. But sometimes things are so awful, one can't bite their tongue any longer. I would actually donate a buck just to not have to see footage of this duck on my TV ever again.

And lord help us if we end up having to endure her, and her gender-bending outfits, for four excruciating years.

 

The "Dumb" Working Class

Donald Trump is not my candidate. I actually liked him on The Apprentice. He seemed serious, sensible, and savvy (the three "S's). Then he decided to run for president and opened his yap. It's not so much his bluster that offends me; it's that I've never been able to discern his "plan", if he has one, which I suspect he doesn't. But trust him, his plan will be huge, and it'll Make America Great Again. I don't have a lot of faith in candidates who bathe themselves in opaqueness. I'm not a Democrat.

But if Donald Trump turns out to be our nominee, I will vote for him. I'm not going to whine and throw a tantrum -- "I'll just stay home then!" Like some conservatives did with Mitt Romney, and in the midst of their sulk, handed the election to The Big O.

Even though I'm not a Trump-ite (I sort of like Trump-et -- I think I will coin that. C'mon, don't steal that from me and make tons of money or I will hunt you down and bitch-slap you, because I am poor and I could really use the bucks! Note to self: Copyright "Trump-et"); even though he's not my guy, (and I fully understand there is a woman running for president on the GOP side. "My guy" is just an idiom. Don't get all micro-aggressive on me!), I defend anybody's right to support him, even if they're just dumb working class people. People I know and like support Trump.

I was reading a letter to the editor in the Wall Street Journal the other day (yes, I actually know how to read) and the guy's remarks dripped with condescension regarding the "dumb" working class people who support Trump. We educated people, I'll have you, don't ascribe to the notion that Donald Trump would encapsulate an ideal candidate for high office. It's simply the dregs of society, the non-educated masses, who continue to prop up this dreadful campaign. Shouldn't there be a financial qualifier for actually being allowed to vote? In the name of Dow Jones, our Creator? Now, Jeeves, go fetch me a dry martini!

Here's the thing: I've had an assortment of jobs in my life. I've been a receptionist, I've been a motel maid, I've been a catalog store clerk, a hospital ward secretary, a medical claims examiner, a manager overseeing one hundred and fifty employees, an educator.  The secret is this: There are assholes in every profession. Some may be highly educated assholes, but nevertheless. "Asshole" is universal.

Don't even begin to tell me how much smarter you are than me. When I was promoted to manager in 1991 against my wishes, because the new project I was assigned to oversee looked to be a total morass and was beneath my abilities; when all the other supervisory staff clucked their tongues in pity at my awful luck, then when I garnered a corner office, tramped past with their noses in the air, envy seeping through their pores; even then I was no smarter than I was when I was punching buttons on a switchboard and sorting mail into little baskets. Nor when I was swishing my hand through a dirty toilet bowl.  In fact, I might have been dumber, because my brain was swelling with spreadsheets and performance reviews and strategic planning.

In 1974, when I was married, if I wanted a home that belonged to me, guess what choice was available. A mobile home! You know -- trailer trash. Funny, I didn't think of myself as "trash"; I just thought I was "poor". I didn't go to college because I had no aspirations to become anything in particular, except a mother. I graduated from high school in 1973. Then, every girl's goal was to get married and start a family. Crazy; quaint in its obsequiousness. Unfortunately, even though I became a mom, those pesky bills still had to be paid, so I settled into an array of part-time jobs. I took what there was. And, strangely, I was proud of every one of them. I wouldn't give any of them back. Every single one of those jobs shaped me in one way or another.

So, I resent the moneyed-class highballs whining that I'm too stupid to be allowed to vote. You know, Ronald Reagan didn't pander to working class people in order to get his name punched on a card. Reagan would be completely comfortable sitting at a mobile home kitchen table, sharing a beer with a guy who'd just torn off his stained deli clerk apron. Reagan wouldn't even notice, much less sneer at, the fake wood paneling that covered the walls. Ronald Reagan wasn't an asshole.

If the working class has elevated Donald Trump as their champion, I'm good. Good to go.  How dumb are they, really? They know how to spot terrorism at least; unlike someone who shall remain nameless, who is supposedly the smartest man in the history of the world.

I'm not abandoning "my guy", but I almost want to become a Trump-et © just to piss off the supercilious blowhards who forget we are the ones who fuel the world.

We're here. Can't silence us. Or kill us.

Alternate Reality

Neither of us could make sense of it.

My husband and I lay in bed and watched the Fox News coverage of whatever the hell it was happening in San Bernardino, California. The reports were sketchy. Somebody said somebody got mad at a Christmas party and left, only to return with AK-47's...and a partner. Dressed in black -- tactical gear.

I've worked with some deranged individuals. I've fretted, worried the other shoe would drop and that I would be the number one target, but this seemed so...thought out. That's not how popped-off employees operate. No, it's all a heightened emotions -- "you son-of-a-bitch, now you'll pay" -- sort of response. It's not, okay, I'll go home, don my bullet-proof vest, gather up my pipe bombs, ring up Jake on the phone and tell him it's "go-time".

My husband said, well, it's a government office; it's probably some militia types. Unfortunately. And we'll get the blame. (We, regardless of the circumstances, always get the blame.)

I kept thinking, what if it's terrorism? But the guy knew these people. Don't terrorists enjoy random killings? Anywhere a large group is gathered? More bang for their buck?

It wasn't until good old Bill O'Reilly had a guest on who blurted out a name, unapproved and unvetted, that I thought, this could be real. What the FBI had warned about, what the Prez flatly denied could happen, because, you know, terrorism isn't "real", and stop demonizing people because of their...blah blah blah...climate change.

I texted my friend at work (because one must always be mindful that someone is tasked with reading company emails) that I hoped we didn't have any "happy" Muslims working there. Because, by all accounts, this guy was happy and pliant. No worries here! Just a go along to get along kinda guy!

Here's the reality:

• Do I go anyplace where terrorists could get more bang for their buck? Well, I live in Minnesota, which, thanks to its liberal mindset, has allowed...nay, welcomed...a nest of Somalian refugees to settle, many of whom are on the terrorist watch-list. Thus, the Mall of America would be a great, ripe target. Luckily I hate shopping malls.

• Could someone break into my workplace and start shooting the place up? Luckily, thanks to Obamacare (yes, I work in...gasp, health insurance!), we've installed locks on all doors leading to our work space. Unfortunately, the only person in the line of fire is the poor receptionist. 

• Where else mightn't I be safe? Hard to say. It's best if I just stay home, because one of those "happy" people might view a gathering of three-to-four people as a juicy target.

This is what real, normal people worry about. Not whether somebody, maybe our next-door neighbor, has a conceal-carry license. In fact, we hope they do!

Our president is a wash-out. I thought, today, whether someone elected president might ever say, "You know, I just can't handle this job. I think I'll resign." But no, nobody ever says that because they are too prideful, and they wouldn't want to look like a jackass. But honestly, Mister President, you don't have that much time left. Maybe you should just go home.

I'm not a Trump-ite, or even, really a George W. Bush-ite, but I'll take anybody who can ease my fears and keep me safe.

Barring that, I would take somebody who actually cares.