Our kids need to get out more.
Tomorrow will be a day of mourning for many of us, as we head into who knows what is to come.
It is time for the peaceful opposition to start in earnest.
There will be protests and marches to join, petitions to sign, letters to write and calls to make. We must keep it up.
But here is one of my favorite tactics —
It’s not enough to not watch the inauguration.
You must actively turn on your TV to something else.*
Me, I plan to turn mine on to Comedy Central, home of oh so many left wing folks.
[You can also set your DVR to another channel, but the way ratings work, you must watch the recording the same day or the ratings are shown for the day you watch, rather than the day you record. ]
Of course, this is not all I plan to do as one member of the Loyal Opposition. It isn’t all I will suggest/bug/pester you into doing over the years, either.
But it is going to be hard to do anything else on January 20, 2017 through the tears we’ll all be shedding.
For those of you planning to attend the Women’s March in Washington, DC on Saturday, January 21, here is some important information for you:
For those of you who want some ideas of how to help, or need to get some comfort from the fact that there ARE and WILL BE things to do, here’s some ideas.
We’re all gonna be busy.
* Thanks to Karen for the idea.
Sometimes a metaphor actually plops into your lap. Or your hands. Or into someplace you hope you don’t drop your cell phone.
That happened to me today, when I read an article in the Huffington Post about one of the, ahem, priorities, of the folks setting up Friday’s Inauguration of Donald J. Trump. And really, it is a metaphor for what is to come.
You see, whenever there is a big event here in the DC area, there’s a lot of shit going on. Literally. Lots of people = lots of pee and poop! So port-a-potties line the Mall, surround the Monuments; and ring the Capitol itself. And in the DC area, one company has the scoop on poop.
But, according to the Huffington Post,
When I saw that headline, my first thought was, “Of course they are. They’re covering up all kinds of shit.” But this time they’re not covering up the shit, but the name.
Photo Credit: Michael Showalter for the NY Post
Of course folks are covering up Don’s shit. But it’s up to us to pull off the tape and show the world Don’s Johns. That will be our job for the duration of Trump’s presidency — whether that is for 2 weeks or 4 years. To pull off the tape on Don’s Johns. To expose every breach of law, each unethical behavior, all threats to the rule of law.
THAT is how we will survive Trump. Because you can’t paper over the truth for long.
If you were a news junkie during the George W. Bush era, you’re already experiencing deja vu. That sinking feeling already makes your eyes roll automatically when Putin’s President appears. It settled into the back of your neck from the whiplash as you shake your head and shout “no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” over the latest outrage or tweet. And it’s there in the pit of your stomach, when you try not to vomit whenever you see the color orange.
Yup, it’s started. The Deluge. The Flood. The Trump shit storm.
During the Bush years, I would just be ready to pounce on one issue, when another hit the fan and took the wind out of my sails. Resistance is hard if there is just so much to resist.
How, I worried in the days since November 8, will I survive Trump. I feared a heart attack. A stroke. Getting so scared I’d shit in my pants. Of course I worry about the last one sometimes during a scary movie.
Anyway, I’ve come up with a strategy for a hybrid Resister/Surviving Human. I’m going to become a political centaur!
I’m going to take my mother’s marital and parental advice and apply it to my activism. She said:
Me, I’m going to try to focus on issues I know about and/or that are closest to my heart. The ones I write about here on FiftyFourAndAHalf.
But that won’t be all I do. I will look for and follow the lead of others who are knowledgeable about other issues, and I will try to help to the extent I can. It’s not hard, really, to make calls to Congress and the White House. Really, it just takes a minute. You or I can even just cut and paste and hit “send.”
But I will try my very best to keep my blood pressure — and my outrage to livable levels.
George W. Bush kept us all off balance because there were so many things to be outraged about, that we couldn’t keep it up. Different bad presidents need different tactics.
And Trump will make the Dubya years look like a walk in the park. And that park is in Baghdad.
You probably wouldn’t believe it, but I used to worry. A lot.
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.
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.
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