It’s not often that I feel disillusioned the way I do tonight.
And I’m sure it’s no coincidence that I switched the TV from coverage of Donald Trump’s cancelled Chicago rally to this:
Then I opened up my computer, where I found a petition:
Sign on to TELL DONALD TRUMP NOT TO PREACH HATE!
Yup. That’ll work. That petition — that’ll stop The Donald.
Donald Trump, the Aryan Candidate. The man who is inciting mob violence. The man who knows exactly what he is doing when he talks about protesters. He is intentionally inciting violence.
And the Republican Party is going to nominate him for President.
Comedy and life works in threes. Today was no exception.
Or maybe it’s just a weird day.
You see, every morning I check reports on the status of the DC area’s Metro system. I don’t take Metro — it doesn’t go anywhere near where I live. But for some reason, I get notice of Metro problems hours before everyone else. So I pass them on to my friends and colleagues so they know whether or not to drink that coffee.
So I know from my personal observational study that the DC Metro is a mess. My friends are frequently stranded, late to work because of one delay after another. Forced to Uber to the office when the system lets them down.
Next, I learned that President Obama is considering a surprise guy to replace Antonin Scalia on the US Supreme Court — GOP Nevada Governor and gun-control opponent, Brian Sandoval, a “centrist” former federal judge. I am hoping that this was a ploy to force the Senate Obstructionists to stamp their feet and make it clear (OK, more clear) that the GOP is holding their breath until they turn blue.
That background should be red, don’t cha think? Google Image. Or perhaps Smirf
A pouty Smurf. I couldn’t decide which one was more GOP-like. Although I seriously doubt the GOP wears the white hat… Google Image. Because how much time do you think I have for these posts?
I drove home through a nasty storm — and wanted nothing more than to watch last night’s Stephen Colbert show.
Where a fun band played. But I was confused.
First of all, the group’s name is the “Violent Femmes” — and the band members were three men. I was confused — and it wasn’t just that my French sucks. Because “Femmes” means women. Really. It’s one of the three french words that I’m certain of.
But the weirdest part was that they had rather unusual percussion.
You probably wouldn’t believe it, but I used to worry. A lot.
It’s true.
My husband traveled frequently, and from the time he left the house until he was back again, I was positive that his plane would crash, his train derail, or he would be hit by a mode of transportation I couldn’t even name in a foreign country I might or might not be able to locate on a map.
News junkie that I am, I didn’t listen or read or google while he was away. Nope. I was not going to hear the inevitable on CNN.
And then, seemingly out of the blue, my sister Judy died. I hadn’t been worried about her at all. Not a bit (although I should have — she had a heart condition for goodness sake!)
A lightbulb went off in my head: The person I worried about was fine, the one I wasn’t worrying about, well, wasn’t.
I decided that worrying didn’t help. Not one little bit.
So I stopped. I took Alfred E Newman’s motto for my own.
Strangely, Alfred and I look alike. My hair is longer and curlier, though. Google image. Duh!
Let me tell you, being a non-worry-er is great.
You have room in your life for, ummmm, a life. You get to go about your business and assume that bad news will find you if it needs to. You get to sleep when your husband is traveling. Or when your adolescent-teen-young adult son is out. Or when the weather is bad and any one of the 3,427 people you know might just have gotten into their car. And started moving … and might just …
Sadly, though, I have gone full circle. I am not happy to say that I am once again a Worrywart. I have evolved. Or devolved. Or regressed. Or been bitch-slapped out of M.A.D. Magazine.
You see, my son Jacob had a car accident.
Most importantly, he was unhurt. He should, however, do a Subaru ad, because his Sub saved his life. It was crunched, front and back. Totaled. But Jacob only got a scratch when he reached in through the back window to retrieve stuff.
So now I worry. But I won’t for long, thank God. Or thank J.K. Rowling and Potterheads.
Because I just learned that somebody has finally invented a Weasley clock. You know, that special clock at the Burrow in the Harry Potter books. The clock that Molly Weasley looks at to find out how her family members are doin’.
The clock that lets her know whether a family member is in mortal peril.
Yup. Someone has invented a real-life Weasley clock that can let parents know when family members are at “Home,” at “Work,” “On the Way,” or in “Mortal Peril.”
After the inventor’s family, I’d like to be first in line to get one of these clocks. Because I know that if I get one of these I will be able to sleep again when Jacob is out. And that is worth whatever I have to pay to get one of these. I’ll even pay for shipping.
FiftyFourandAHalf 