My Zen Moment ~ Thanks, Donald!

I have nothing more to say. It's done. Accept the things I cannot change, I say.

This song serves to lull me into a barely conscious state, which is where I need to be.

(And thanks, my home state of North Dakota -- you traitor -- for putting The Donald over the top. Like I'm ever going to live that down.)

I had fully intended to write Marco Rubio's name on my ballot, but then Marco went and gave his blessing to DT, so now I don't know what to do. Stay home? That would feel like cheating. Sit back and enjoy the show? Well, "enjoy" doesn't exactly describe my reaction when I see our nominee on television.

I guess I hope he wins. The alternative is dreadful. I just don't know if I can contribute to that win. I wasn't this torn, not even in 1992. I think I voted for GHW Bush, but I honestly can't remember. I have a sinking feeling that I didn't. I may have inadvertently set us down the path of Clintons. I want to consider myself pure -- I do know that I voted for Gerald Ford in 1976 (a losing battle I knew, even at the time) and I most definitely voted for Ronald Reagan both times. I'm certain I voted for Bush, Senior the first time. Bush, Junior got my vote twice. Hell, I voted for both McCain and Romney. But that one time...

So, in essence, it's all my fault. If Hillary wins, it's because of my maverick toe-dip into the murky swamp of Clintonism. 

Maybe I should vote for Trump, if only to cleanse myself of sin.

I guess I need to pray on that.

The Most Pressing Issue Of Our Time

A recent CBS exit poll revealed the top concerns of 2016 voters. They are:

1:        Jobs
2:        The Economy
3:        Government Spending
4:        Income Inequality (Democrats)
5:        Terrorism
6,789: Gender-Neutral Restrooms

President Obama has 250 days left in office. His goal is to come up with something new every day. Thus, this.

I can't help but think that the president is messing with us. When did gender-neutral bathrooms become a thing?

I didn't expect to be writing about bathroom habits, but here I am. I didn't start this.

I'm no philosopher; no great thinker. What I am, though, is practical. So let's talk about bathrooms. There's an old adage that men are messier than women. False! At my workplace, one of the most common topics of discourse among my cohorts is the sad, foul state of the women's restroom. And the general consensus is that (some) women are pigs. I'm not going to repeat our complaints here, but use your imagination.

On the other hand, I've had occasion to visit a men's restroom. Okay, long story short...I was helping a co-worker get made up for his surprise appearance as President Clinton. (I used to actually work in a fun office.)  The room was pristine! I half expected an attendant to be standing at the door handing out hot towels. I gazed around the tiled space in awe. Does anybody use this room?

So, you gals who now think it's going to be a fun romp to patronize the ladies room, well, welcome to my life.

And here's another thing about women: we scare easily. I imagine that men, when they hear a strange noise at five a.m. while walking their dog through the pitch-black neighborhood mentally tie on their scientist hat and reason out the cause of the eerie creaking sound. Women? We stop, listen for the clip of footsteps somewhere behind us, just far enough behind so we won't see them; we turn around, pull up on the leash as if our tiny French ragamuffin will somehow morph into a pit bull and give her life savagely defending ours. Our eyes strain the darkness for the nearest safe haven. The bus stop? No, that's just where he wants us to go! There we'll be trapped inside a plexiglass fingerprint-smudged sarcophagus! Can we make a run for our front door? No, Sweetie Pie has to stop to sniff a blade of grass! Eventually we tell ourselves to be reasonable. We force our breath to slow. Then we notice the lump of crackled leaves butting against one another, stirred by the early morning breeze, on the corner. Nevertheless, we're still on guard! The leaves could be a subterfuge.

When I take my morning walk during my Federally-mandated work break, which may or may not happen because laws are, after all, malleable, when I reach the walking trail, if I sense someone behind me, I'm not going down that trail. I will stop, pretend to do something like tie my shoe, wait for the guy to pass by - waaay by, so I can keep my eye on him, and then, if he looks semi-okay, I'll continue down the path...behind him. Women are cautious, and frankly, we need to be. Maybe a bit paranoid at times, but it's better to be safe...

What I'm getting at is, if I exit the bathroom stall and encounter a transgender male primping at the sink (and trust me, we know) it'll scare me. Sorry. But it will. I'm not going to scream (that only actually happens in horror flicks), but my fight-or-flight instinct will tense my muscles and probably cause me to (nonchalantly) hug the wall on my way toward the exit door. It's nothing personal and nothing that can be controlled.

And then I will march down to HR. See, I think I still have rights, too. And I've heard that if one uses the phrase, "I don't feel safe", that trumps your right to go potty in my space.

Trust me, fellas/gals, you really will prefer the men's room. Really. I've seen it; I know. And then life can be pretty dandy for both of us. And you, unlike me, won't have horror tales of unspeakable bathroom atrocities to email your coworkers about.

We're Doomed

(Donald Trump indicating the size of his hands)

 

I used to think presidents were smarter than me. That's kind of what you want in a president -- to not be a dunce. Pretty much every man who's run for president up 'til now has seemed intelligent (well, maybe not Dukakis), and win or lose, they could still beat me in a civics quiz (although I'm no slouch; just sayin'.).

 

My husband said that Donald Trump is the loud guy in the bar, after you've had about six or seven beers, who suddenly makes total sense. You're mesmerized by the guy, 'til you wake up the next morning with your head clanging, and you hope to God you didn't embarrass yourself the night before swooning over the "nuclear scientist" who turned out to be a skid row bum. 

 

Now we're all supposed to "get behind" our presumptive nominee. Why? And who said so? If it was Sean Hannity who said that, well, I knew Hannity was a buffoon long before Trump tossed his hair hat into the ring.

 

I'm keeping score -- fair warning -- of those conservatives who've flushed their principles down the toilet. Conservatives like free markets? Okie doke. I'm no longer, thence, buying what you've got for sale -- your books, your sponsors' wares, your click-bait websites. Enjoy the fruits of your celebrity pandering! 

 

And speaking of Fox (oh, was I?), in our home, the cord is unraveling. We've begun cutting the fat. It's a delicate process. Shoot, we gotta hold on to Bob Massi The Property Man (ha, just kidding! How cheap-ass is Fox to run that snoozefest on the weekends, just so they can pinch a few more nickels?) But seriously, we've given up on The Five (thanks, Eric Bolling!); The Factor was always hit or miss, but now that O'Reilly has announced that nothing like this has ever happened in his lifetime!, bye bye Bill. So, we're down to Bret Baier. It's rather freeing. (Oh, and Fox, we're not in the market for gold or My Pillows. I hope William Devane understands. The pillows we might have considered, but with the, you know, betrayal of your conservative viewers and all...) Fox took us for granted. We were marooned; a teeny island of sanity in a world turned haywire, and Fox docked its boat on the shoal. Now we've discovered we'd rather munch on palm fronds than devour what Fox is ladling.

My home and hearth now is National Review, The Weekly Standard, and Twitter. The first two say things in a way that is smart like a presidential candidate should be smart. Twitter is where I can bathe in the warm light of those like me who are not insane. 

As a postscript to those who insist that a no-vote for Trump is a vote for Hillary, it's time to stagger home. One thing the Obama administration hasn't decreed quite yet is who one can vote for, or whether one votes at all. The orange-haired dude in the bar probably told you otherwise, but, trust me, I can vote for whoever I damn well please. Know that extra spot on the ballot where one can write in somebody's name? Oh, that's right -- I guess you've never voted before -- but it's there. I can write in the name of a true conservative and otherwise vote down-ballot for likewise true conservatives. 

I'm not breaking my record. 

Some things are not negotiable.