ALTERNATIVE FACTS: MY MULTITASKING SKILLS ARE SECOND TO NONE

Dear Trumpeters, Trumpallegiance, Trumpalettes, NOT TOTAL LOSERS: 

It has been 1 million years (give or take) since my last confession. I’d say mea culpa, but as my most loyal followers, you should know by now I don’t apologize for anything, not even leaving up my gilded toilet seat in the oval office. 

Where have I been? Well, let me tell you, I’ve been pretty busy between the trips to Mar-a-Lago, Legoland and Russia. Then there’s staying updated with Breitbart and Twitter. Finally, there’s that UNBELIEVABLE Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Guilty pleasure! (I get lost in my reflection and just can’t tear myself away.)

The good news is, The Donald is back, and no matter how bad he spells or what he says, it seems to stick to Crooked Hillary or Wiretapping Obama or No Comment Comey. I could go on here, but I’m not one for distraction or pointing fingers. 

God Bless [Making] America [Great Again], eh?! I’m doing so well, aren’t I? I mean, this has been the BEST start to a presidency in history. I don’t think there’s ever been a president elected who in this short period of time has done what we’ve done. All thanks to the BIGGEST Electoral College win since Ronald Reagan. 

And the crowds at my rallies! Massively HUGE! And my poll numbers! Rasmussen has me through the roof! 

Fellow supporters, our future looks FANTASTIC. Meals on Wheels, overrated. EPA, conspiracy by Chinese. Obamacare, almost replaced by Trumpcare (has better ring to it). PBS, pretty sure Elmo is gay anyway. Border wall, 30-feet high, difficult to climb, not easy to cut through, will look good from north side. Melania and Baron, only $136,000 a day to stay safe and sound in Trump Tower (TOTAL STEAL). 

I could go on, but I’m not one for boasting or prattling. 

Suffice it to say, despite inheriting such an EXTRAORDINARY MESS and having an ABSOLUTE TON on my plate, the ship is running like my well-oiled Lamborghini Diablo.  

# 

I don’t have a problem saying I’m sorry. In fact, I’m a woman, so I probably utter the phrase too often. Before you groan, shake an angry fist in the air or quietly judge me for making such a blatant gender stereotype, let me say it again, I’m sorry. 

The reason I’m apologizing? For the massively HUGE amount of time it’s been since I’ve posted. Don’t you dare quote me fake media, but I believe this is only “Alternative Fact #5.” Shameful. I should have easily reached 10 by now. I’m not sure you or I could stomach many more Donald riffs past 10. Perhaps a baker’s dozen? We shall have to see. After all, the shit almost writes itself.  

While I’d love to devote some legit time to the pressing subject of “What Exactly in The Sam Fuck Hell is Going on With No. 45?,” I’ll stick with the topic of multitasking. Specifically, my failure at it as of late. 

It seems I’m distracted by everything, and these distractions lead me to panic, and the panic leads me to accomplishing little of what I truly value, and the lack of accomplishments leads me to beer, pizza and the Real Housewives of Somewhere Plastic Yet Chic. Something along those lines anyway. 

I swear I eat a wholesome, balanced breakfast every day (only Lucky Charms three times per week), I exercise regularly (yes, I am one of those slow, middle-aged runners who refuses to give up spandex), I sleep well (except when I can’t get Steely Dan out of my head), I meditate (this is a bald-faced lie, but my stress level is generally in check), etc., etc., so what gives?  

I’m not sure I have an answer other than to say my mind’s buzzing more than usual these days:

• President Trump, encompassing his Tweets, his constant lies and moral bankruptcy, his terrible policies, and his corrupt gang of stinkin' cronies 
• My 5-year-old’s two teeth that might have to be pulled (not with string, a doorknob and an unexpected slammed door, but by the Big Bad Dentist) 
• The $1,100 we owe the IRS, plus my quarterly tax payment 
• Losing and moving on from a client after a 20-year relationship  
• The pros of mufuletta spread 
• Affording and possibly owning a pop-up camper 
• Spring Break childcare: looking forward to my exotic vacation working at home! 
• Entering an audio (writing) contest, why it isn’t as simple to figure out the damn recording app as I assumed it would be, and accepting the sound of my own voice
• What I should make for dinner
• Running three half marathons in May: dream or nightmare? 
• My husband’s renewed commitment to healthy eating and why I should probably cut back on the nachos, too
• How a good live music show makes me feel for days  
• The cons of roller skating as an adult
• Laundry
• Balancing paid freelance work with fiction writing with housework with parenting with reading with March Madness with core-strength exercises I should probably do while watching March Madness 
• Introducing my child to some form of organized religion 
• Scheduling playdates 
• Email subject lines reading “I’m begging” 
• My dog’s urinary incontinence: real or imagined?

Pardon the sad-sack cliche, but this is merely the tip of the iceberg. The good new is, it’s a list! And there’s something about lists: a.) I love making them, b.) I love checking things off and c.) what does this say about me? 

Getting back to gender stereotyping (remember, NOT the topic of this post), is this kind of ruminating a female thing? To be fair, I don’t think I’d classify myself as ADD or ADHD or ACDC, and I can focus and do accomplish a lot of stuff most days, but something seems to be amok or askew or maybe plain absent from my life. 

And maybe what’s missing is the satisfaction I get from writing these silly posts, even if nobody but me cares to ever read them. 

Happy days are here again, folks. The laundry can pile up. The dinner can burn. The client work will still get done (and done well I might add). 

I’m baaaack. 

ALTERNATIVE FACTS: I LOATHE SENTIMENTALITY

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY from the GREATEST POTUS to ever grace what I can only hope will go down in history as the whitest of all White Houses! As I always say, there is absolutely nothing wrong with raising your hand, no matter how big or small, in salute of your ethnicity. Just remember, please do so with a closed fist. 

Extending right arm from the neck into the air with straightened hand: bad. 

Extending right or left arm from the neck into the air with fist, or lifting both arms bent at elbows, pumping hands with palms open to the sky (aka “raising the roof”) to your favorite Kanye tune: good. 

To help you avoid celebrating this HUGEST of SAPPIEST of UNFAIREST of BEST of holidays the WRONG way, I’m thrilled to share some of the things I love, so that you may love them, too. Otherwise, you’ll be deported. Because I love deporting, and you must hate America if you don’t love what I love, and most of all, that’s me. 

Goddamn do I love me some me. 

Some other things (besides me) I love:

Walls made from concrete, barbed wire or taco shells. 

A reliable, natural-looking bronzer. 

Ordering a side of extra-crispy hash browns with every Executive Order. 

Tom Brady (not in a gay way). 

P-Dog (aka Vladimir Putin), with or without shirt, but never on horseback. 

Pussy grabbing as a new contact sport, not an act of misogyny.

Red baseball caps, bills forward, low and curved. 

Steve Bannon, especially when he suggests banning something or someone. 

Rallies with HUGE crowds of millions of adoring fans waving billions of signs with pictures of me on them. 

Bald-faced lying. 

“Make America Great Again (as slogan and lifestyle)!”

Tweeting after midnight after a glass of warm milk. 

Not releasing my taxes. 

Bald eagles (as an appetizer). 

The expression “In Like Flynn.”

Trying (and failing) to correctly spell the word misogyny. 

My daughter’s floral-print shift dresses. (Buy now! Your sweetheart will love you forever!) 

Chanting the word CHYNA (helps me sleep like a baby). 

Full, pouting lips. 

My Cabinet picks (so filthy rich)! 

My kitchen cabinets (made of solid gold)! 

#

Shit, I can’t seem to get through Donnie's introduction fast enough. It’s Valentine’s Day, there is nothing romantic about my desk or my office or my current state of mind, and I have to leave in 20 minutes to pick up my daughter. 

Before I must go, let me start there. Ava is, after all, a great place to start spreading the love. 

• I love my daughter more than all the heart-shaped mylar balloons in the universe, even when I have to drag her kicking and screaming out of Target because I won’t buy her another plastic toy made in China. 

• I love pizza and cookies. I’m convinced the smell still lingering in our house should be a fragrance, maybe something like Chanel Eau De Pizza ‘n Cookie Dough. I can picture the TV spot now ... hot dude running down a dark corridor, chasing hot woman wearing dress made of pizza. When he catches her, he discovers their mutual love of baking. (May need a little work, but I’d totally buy it and I haven’t bought perfume since around Y2K, because on the precipice of Armageddon, you should probably try your darndest to smell pretty.) 

• I love love in all forms. 

• I love Will Arnett (and no, I haven’t seen the Lego Batman movie yet). Dude always makes me laugh, and laughing is unequivocally loveable. 

• I love running outside (sort of offsets my passion for cookies and pizza). I never thought I’d utter those words, but running outside has become akin to meditation for me. With that said, I’ve never meditated. I’ve just gotten comfortable with panting, limping and stumbling along in tights in public, so I don’t think I’ll be striking sukhasanas out of doors anytime soon. 

• I love sunsets, long walks on the beach, breathing, butterfly kisses and sarcasm. 

• I love Jason Isbell. His music, not him. (Come on, I’m married. He’s married. I don’t even know him. Anyway, I’m sure he’s perfectly nice.) 

• I love surrendering myself to sentimentality. It’s okay to embrace your sappy every now and then. Go ahead, cry during that Michael Bolton concert or insurance commercial (as long as it isn’t the one with the guy in khakis).   

• I love trying (and failing) to write the perfect sentence; gin; college sports; the way my 55-pound dog struggles to curl up on my lap; Lake Michigan; my husband’s mad problem-solving skills, his sense of humor, and yes, even his inability to close anything he’s opened (e.g., drawers, cupboards, ketchup containers); short-story collections; new friends, old friends and friends I’ve yet to meet; eating cheeseburgers at the bar of Boone’s Prime Time Pub in Suttons Bay; my awkwardness in social situations; coffee; hiking; working out of my house; inspirational quotes, especially with pictures of puppies or kittens; sweatpants (aka what the kid’s call yoga pants); salads (pairs well with pizza); good IPAs; blogging; living in close proximity to most of my family; the color green, in just about any shade; and each day I’m blessed with having (despite not always expressing my gratitude). 

• I love John Hughes movies. I can’t recite a single sonnet, but I used to be able to recount Breakfast Club, almost word for word, from beginning to end. 

• I love long hair on men. (I am, however, much less enthusiastic about man buns. Men's buns are okay.) 

• I love parenthetical statements. (If you haven’t figured this out by now, you must be asleep at the wheel. Like stop eyeballing your phone or filing your toenails or dry walling. Whatever. I’m out.) 

All my love to you and yours,

Amie

ALTERNATIVE FACTS: I’M NOT A FAN OF DAYTIME TV

If I must confess, I’m the one who stole Brady’s jersey, but can you blame me? I mean, he is THE SINGLE GREATEST QUARTERBACK of all time. He’s also so good looking. Like on a scale of 1 to 10, he’s a solid 6.25. 

Oh, he won’t mind anyhow, not after he sees BEAUTIFUL NUMBER 12 framed and hung at my world-class Mar-a-Lago, right next to the portrait of yours truly fist-bumping THE WORLD’S SECOND GREATEST LEADER: my bro, Vlad. (I like to call him P-Dog, but that stays between us.)

For the record, and I’m talking to you PuffPost, I refuse to apologize for bailing at halftime. Despite widespread voter fraud, and that nasty woman’s lifelong experience and persistent love of spouting truth, I grabbed my way to sweet victory, and I knew THE SINGLE GREATEST FOOTBALL FRANCHISE in history would also rise to the occasion. 

Can you honestly criticize me after that DREADFUL half-time show? First off, Lady Gaggag doesn’t even sing our national anthem!?! TOTAL DISGRACE! And what was with the weird, high-waisted getups, and all that male gyrating? Like raising children, hip-shaking should be left to the ladies. 

Plus, we were almost out of chicken wings and Bud Light. Oh, excuse me, hold on a sec. I’m getting a text here from my main man, Spicer. (I like to call him Press Spice, but that stays between us.) Oh, for Christ sake, Busch, PLAYING POLITICS TO MAKE A BUCK! Promoting your German heritage. SHAMEFUL! This is the UNITED STATES OF AMERICANS, and if you speak Spanish, auf wiedersehen. Go back to DEUTSCHLAND! Your beer is SCHEISSE and your cars are TOTAL CRAP, too! 

So ... wait, let me revise and start fresh. After all, I was given alternative facts. 

... I went on a wing and Leine run. Folks, I’ve gotta tell you, both are delicious with lemon. No joke. Don’t be afraid to try a little fruit wedge in the suds. I promise it won’t turn you liberal or gay. 

In conclusion: Boycott Budweiser (beer made by immigrants sucks). 

And while you’re at it, boycott Lady Gaga (definitely a man dressed as a woman and music sucks), Starbucks (anti-Christian coffee sucks), Macy’s (cheap linens made in CHYNA suck), Mexico (avocados healthy and suck), Oreos (cookies are black and white and suck), and trickle-down economics (gotcha)! 

Just in case you forget who to and not to boycott, here is a handy cheat sheet:

Budweiser: [NEIN]

Lady Gaga: [LIKE NOOOO FRIGGIN’ WAY]

Starbucks: [SATAN SAYS YES]

Macy’s: [ONLY LOSERS SHOP IN DEPARTMENT STORES]

Mexico: [NUNCA]

Oreos: [PREFERRED SNACK OF TERRORISTS]

Trickle-Down Economics: [YES! IT’S RAINING GREENBACKS!]

Make America Great Again (as slogan and lifestyle): [#WINNING!]

#

My sincerest apologies for that rather HUGE introduction. I must have been inspired by that historic Super Bowl performance, and what I mean by historic performance is Lady Gaga’s half-time show. Pitch goddamn perfect, if you ask me. (I heard there was some decent football played around it, too.) 

Or perhaps it was the anticipation of a brand new week of sneaking in a little Daytime TV?

Not that I would know how many times Jack Abbott has been married or Victor Newman has died. Soap operas are totally lame, right? Like the worst thing in the world to ever own tuning into, save for maybe Joanie Loves Chachi. (Might, however, explain what the Sam Fuck happened to Scott Baio.)

It’s quite possible my IQ has suffered from the decades I’ve watched The Young & The Restless, but I only harbor a dash of shame and a sprinkle of regret. Laying myself bare here, I’ve even shed actual tears watching this shitshow, and by shitshow, I mean highbrow, highly controversial, fake-ass drama. 

And yes, I admitted decades. 

Writing this, I realize I’ve watched Y & R on and off since late middle/early high school. Forty-four minus 14 equals 30-ish, give or take. Forgive me again, for I was never all that astute at math. (Probably because I know how many times Jack Abbott has been married and Victor Newman has died.) 

I started watching soaps with my brother after school, kept on eye on them throughout my college years with friends I’m blessed to keep in touch with to this day, and continued to tune in whenever I could following joining the post-graduate workforce. When I began working out of my house as freelancer, my regular viewing began in earnest. That said, I only sometimes do so in sweatpants and never whilst ironing my husband’s shirts. 

Now don’t let me mislead you. I promise my obsession is somewhat under control. I do not DVR Y & R. Life does (and probably should) sometimes block the screen. Episodes will sail by without my loyal viewership, and that, my friends, is the pure magic of it. You can skip days, weeks or months of the show, circle back, and easily grasp the gist of the what’s what and who’s who. The plot lines move at the speed of tortoise mollusks, and the actors ply themselves with so much Botox and collagen, they never age.  

Speaking of the actors, I can’t help but admire them. If I wasn’t a writer, terrified of public displays of any kind and a connoisseur of eating and drinking basically everything, that would be my goal job. The shit you get to say, wear and do, well, all of that is pretty fantastic, and I’m betting the pay isn’t half bad either. (Some of the actors aren’t half bad at acting either. Yeah, I said it.)

Why am I a fan of Y & R anyway? 

It would be a copout to say it’s just mind candy or my guilty pleasure, because I think it goes beyond that. Over the years I’ve become downright nostalgic about the show. When I watch Victor spar with Jack or Sharon steal somebody else’s baby or Ashley confess her love to her daughter’s fiancee or Adam resurrected from the dead as a different dude named Gabriel (but he had reconstructive surgery and he’s really the real Adam), I’m that much closer to my brother, my college roommates, and perhaps most of all, my grandmother who left this earth going on 9 years ago. 

At least once I week I used to bring my grandma lunch, and we’d watch and dish on the show together. I miss her strength, her sharp tongue, her legendary potato salad, and yes, I miss that indulgent and frivolous ritual she and I shared. 

In my heart I feel she’s still watching with me. 

ALTERNATIVE FACTS: I CAN’T WAIT TO HAVE ANOTHER CHILD!

Despite my estimates of 1 million or 250,000 (give or take a few), I see only 4 of you are currently following me, and I’m pretty certain all 4 of you followed me from a while back, like sometime during the Watergate Hearings. (I maintain I knew nothing, btw. TOTAL NONSENSE. All of it just locker-room talk.)

Four followers?!!

How SAD! How PATHETIC! Save for The Good Book, does anybody read anything anymore anyway? Second to maybe writing, reading has got to be the ABSOLUTE HUGEST WASTE OF TIME. 

Then there are The Writers. TOTAL LOSERS. They wear hipster glasses! They do hot yoga! They read BuzzFeed! They spend what little money they make—and folks, let me tell you it’s peanuts—on terrible liberal coffee drinks from Starbucks! They talk about semi-colon abuse and experimental expressivism (whatever that means)! 

Yet 4 of you are still here. Remind me to repay you for your loyalty. I promise to put you up in one of my hotel janitor closets very, very soon. Complimentary tap water sourced all the way from Flint, Michigan. All-you-can-eat, day-old taco salad bowls. Really, please enjoy as many taco bowls as you can grab. Nobody’s judging here. 

You’re welcome. 

#

Last night I watched my daughter gallop-skip-run with glee across the indoor soccer field alongside the only other girl in her class. If only my daughter could superglue herself to the hip of this other little girl. 

While shy at first, Ava often unfurls into a social butterfly. I admire her enthusiasm for socializing, as it takes me much longer to warm to people. 

The young woman standing next to me is the mother of Ava’s newfound bestie. It’s the fourth or fifth session of this particular soccer class and we’ve finally gotten around to chatting in earnest. As it turns out, her daughter and Ava have met before (a happy circumstance of living in a small town) at my niece’s high-school graduation party a couple of years back.  

This woman tells me she had her daughter at 18, so it’s more than possible this woman could be my own daughter. Our age gap is that significant, and we both have 5-year-olds. Like my daughter, she seems at ease with making a new friend, or at least making an acquaintance of another soccer mom in waiting. I envy her for her ease with people, too. 

Have I mentioned this woman is pretty? I know that sounds vague and superficial, and what she looks like shouldn’t matter, so I’ll skip all the Harlequin-izing of her smile, her skin and her hair, but I admit it: her appearance helped me open up with much less stress and effort. 

In the course of our conversation she told me she could be very impatient; she loved and played soccer in high school and hoped her daughter would one day do the same; she recently opened a salon; her partner wasn’t her daughter’s father, but had basically raised her; she’d been adopted herself; she had three sisters and one brother; and she didn't think she ever wanted another child. 

Ever, I thought, resisting the urge to blurt, “But you’re only 23 (maybe 24 at most)! You might change your mind.” 

And she might. Or she might not, and for that, I liked her even more. 

Twenty-four is 20 (light) years from 44, and yet, we two mothers of 5-year-olds had something in common. I do not ever wish to have another child, from my uterus (mostly cloudy) or via adoption (mostly sunny, as the need is perpetually great). 

One thing I’ve learned about motherhood: sometimes you have to slam the door on what other people think, family, friends and strangers alike. A mom will be judged whether she has one child or octuplets, whether she’s Kate Plus Eight or One and Done. 

So who gives a— [about the Oxford Comma, which I’ll never need to describe my brood, because I only have one kid anyway]?

Would you want another after this one?

Although I already knew it, my lovely confidant from last night reaffirmed my decision was perfectly fine. In fact, it’s perfectly great. No more diapers. No more mind-numbing sleep deprivation. No more pureed food facials. No more feeding schedules. No more mysterious shirt stains dubbed postmodern broaches. No more backseat surprises of old sippy cups turned award-winning science projects. 

No more worries. (Just kidding.)

Look, babies are amazing, and to all you moms and dads out there who have or aspire to have more than one, you’re also amazing. (And if you’re somebody who chooses to forgo having kids at all, I’m totally cool with you, too. You, my friends, are amazing. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.) 

At 39, I was blessed with the single most amazing kid I believe I was meant to ever have. From the bottom of my heart, I want for nothing more. 

ALTERNATIVE FACTS: I AM AN AVID SKIER

(This family looks nice here.)

If I don’t get to at least 10 of these with at least 1 million followers, I am going to go absolute apeshit, then get a tasteful spray tan, then shake my fists and scream obscenities at the Mainstream Media or my dog who I’ve nominated as my press secretary (with her net worth, checkered past and various conflicts of interest, she is a total shoo-in). If widely protested, a sizable wall of stacked ham could also be in your future. 

To put in plain: keep reading and following if you know what’s good for you. 

Consider this #1 of my alternative facts. The idea of chewing on falsehoods from my own life came to me during a short bout of insomnia I had about a week ago, in the wee hours of dark and desperate isolation, and despite my best and worst efforts to put fingers to keys, I’m finally turning the idea into a post. Now that 999,998-ish of you are fast asleep, I’ll forge ahead. 

#

A 44-year-old woman shuffles into a cafeteria-style ski lodge called Ivan’s. She’d like to say the crick in her back stems from several wicked runs down the grownup hill (they’re hills in Michigan, folks), but it’s only the result of carrying her laptop bag in an awkward position. She may or may not have circled the parking lot like a borderline rabid seagull in search of a decent nesting place to write and grab a beer. 

(Yes, I know seagulls can’t go rabid. Or can they? Learn more in alternative fact #7.) 

The woman is on a trip celebrating her 19th anniversary with her husband, the real skier. In fact, he’s schussed many slopes since his childhood. Although she sometimes wishes otherwise, the woman has only shushed the slopes. Because goddamn it, something that snow-dappled and picturesque should be tranquil. 

And wow, there he goes again. 

The woman halts her typing, and through the salt-coated window, spots his blue coat descending toward her with grace and precision. Boy, does he look like he’s having an amazing time schussing. 

What is the opposite of carpe diem? Pooh-pooh? Whatever the phrase, there are some things you simply decide to avoid at a certain age. There’s a 99 percent chance skiing is one of those things for this 44-year-old woman. 

First there’s the falling and severing your ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) or your BHCL (butthole closing larynx). Trust me, a BHCL tear is a bonafide medical risk after you turn 40. 

That said, the woman said she’d never run out of doors. Yet somehow she’s managed to shuffle and hobble her way through eight half-marathons and counting. So perhaps there’s hope left for her, and perhaps a severed BHCL isn’t so horrible after all.

(These look neat here.)

Skiing is an admirable and enviable activity, one that can spread joy across a family and a lifetime. Plus, it’s postcard pretty in winter, whether you’re atop Schuss Mountain in Northern Michigan or the Swiss Alps in, wait for it ... Switzerland. 

For all ye avid skiers (and snowboarders) out there, the woman salutes you with a cup of spiked hot cocoa in hand. She also bids you the fairest of fare-thee-wells. 

Seriously, so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night. Gotta run.  

Really, goodbye. She insists you take leave. A band called Risqué is on the verge of sound check at the lodge, and well, this woman also known as me is ready to stare down salacious (as long as it doesn’t involve schussing or gratuitous nudity). 

Be-Smirked in 2017

You’re looking at a photo of my profile. My chin rests on not my own hands, but the hands of a friend. In the background, another friend looks on, laughing. 

I’m a true-blue introvert, but there are times when I can’t resist hamming it up. I’ve never been at ease with the idea or practice of selfies either, so if you’re going to visit this blog, you’d better get used to things like snapshots of my head glued to a paint stick, or nestled within the hairy arms of a stranger or friend. (Not that I’m suggesting Dan’s arms are too hairy. They are supple. Like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, which you shouldn't eat under any circumstance.)

And while you're at it, prepare for loads of bad clipart, too. (For good clipart, visit your local craft store. Just not Hobby Lobby. Because, well, they’re a bunch of sanctimonious, macrame-ing pricks.) 

The point is, I try not to take things too seriously, or maybe even when I am taking things too seriously, I make every attempt to pause. Then mock myself. Then laugh. I find laughter has a way of soothing, even if the giggles are fleeting or sometimes wildly inappropriate. 

Given the state of our nation, and in three painfully short days, the imminent doom of the planet, it’s becoming more difficult to locate the funny bone or pinpoint the silver lining. Despite our present and (insert sobbing) future reality, I’ve decided I’ve no choice but to keep panicking and snarking on. 

"Be more positive!" 

Somebody I know said optimism was their New Year’s Resolution for 2017. I’m sad to say I can’t remember who. If you’re the awesome “who,” and you happen to be reading this, don’t be shy. Speak up. Shout it from the rooftop or your cubicle near-ish the rooftop. Because if nothing else, your goal impacted and motivated me, a gal who typically resolves to avoid resolutions. 

If Obama can embody hope, so can I. Or I can at least believe I can. For around four-thousand three-hundred and twenty minutes ... or two-hundred fifty-nine thousand two-hundred seconds. (Thanks, Google. And oh, Thank You, Obama. No joke.) 

Laughter probably isn’t more curative than penicillin, but I’m going to do my best to deliver frequent doses of it here anyway. If I fail, I figure I fail striking my best pose: be-smirked. 

And be-smirked is so much better than besmirched. (Really. Look it up.) 

Here you go. You're welcome. 

When All Else Fails, Weep During Trolls and Mainline Oreos

This fall has been challenging, and what I mean by challenging is middle-class, middle-aged, white-woman challenging. While I’m cognizant of my daily advantages and blessings, I lost a client I’ve served for the last two decades, had a painful wrench heaved into my form of meditation: running, “nursed” my dog through urinary incontinence, suffered through countless cups of tepid brown water from a coffeemaker beyond the fritz, and worst of all, witnessed the election of ... The Donald. 

Wait, what?! 

President Trump. 

President Trump. 

President Trump. 

President Trump. 

President Trump. 

President Trump. 

President Trump.

President Tru...  

This has to be some kind of detention punishment. No matter how many times I type, think or dare utter the words, President Trump doesn’t seem real. I mean, for reals, America? If it hasn’t already happened, #WTF? has got to make it into the Oxford Dictionary this year. I mean, for reals. 

I did not see THAT coming. I wrote satire about it. I joked. I sneered. No chance in hell the United States would elect a bigot, a bully, a misogynist, a xenophobic, somebody with no practical experience, somebody with serious conflicts of interest, somebody with multiple pending lawsuits against him, somebody who uses more bronzer than an oompa loompa. I suggested the name “Making Bowling Great Again” for my every-other-Sunday bowling team, because, well, that’s hilarious, right?

I’m not laughing so much this morning, although I’ll say I’m in a brighter place than I was at 12:01 a.m. on November 9, 2016. When I posted on Facebook I spent much of that day crying in sweats, I wasn’t kidding. I shed many genuine tears wrapped within the comfort and safety of my finest pair of draw-string pants. 

Oh, let me assure you, I’m still worried. Still stunned. Still angry. Still sad. Still very much grappling my way toward being one shitty iota gracious about the results of this, our latest and not-so-GREATest presidential election. 

If nothing else, the President-elect, um, President Trump will “Make America Drink Heavily Again.” I predict Zima’s going to make a HUGE comeback. 

Inhale.

Get out of bed.  

Give the yowling inside your head your full attention. 

Beer. 

Brush teeth. 

Hold fetal position for thirty seconds to one hour (approx.).

Chocolate!!

Pray, chant and/or cross fingers.

Hug your child. 

Stretch in stretchiest of stretch pants. 

Consider reading (or rereading) the classics you may have once insisted were a total waste of time.

Ponder the pros and cons of running a marathon. 

Pizza!!

Pet your dog (because she might prefer your petting over your vigorous clinging). 

Exhale.

Revisit your blog, post something pithy about election, use exclamation points with reckless abandon. 

Doritos!!

Remind husband how much you adore him. 

Scream aloud, sprinkle in colorful obscenities (only when child is at school). 

Gin.  

Go back to bed. 

Repeat. 

See, my will and sense of humor are returning, albeit slowly. Many of us, myself included, are damn lucky because we can at least make out the faint resemblance of a blurry silver lining in the nether regions. The sun will continue to rise. Because we are white. Because we are educated. Because we are middle-class. Because we can chuckle.  

Because we voted for a qualified and smart woman, and she won the popular vote. #WTF?

How much my life will change remains to be seen. My life ... ahem, our lives are in the hands of Trump and the GOP now. (Insert audible gulping.) Thus, I grant myself permission to surrender to the five stages of grief:

1. Denial: Michelle and Barack still have sixty-five days, fourteen hours, fifty-one minutes and sixteen seconds left (approx.). 

2. Anger: Where the fuck did I put my Doc Martens and Rage Against The Machine CDs?!

3. Bargaining: Dear God: Please, please, please for The Love of You, help us return to our regularly scheduled programming. I promise I won’t watch anymore reality TV.

4. Depression: That part in Trolls, when Justin Timberlake and Anna Kendrick sing “True Colors,” is soooooooooooo sad. (Insert audible sobbing.) (Insert five-year-old consoling you.) 

5. Acceptance: Six kids in my daughter’s class voted chocolate chip. Oreos, America’s supposed favorite cookie, won in a landslide. Despite my preference for chocolate chip, it’s obvious there’s hope for the future.