I like Lily Allen anyway, but this just endeared her to me. Short, sweet, and right to the succinct point.
The second stupidest thing I heard was the one about the political Brexit Bus:
Followed by this admission:
AFTER Leave leaders, including Nigel Farage of the U.K. Independence Party, and Boris Johnson and Iain Duncan Smith of the Conservative Party, maintained that they had never promised that £350 million a week would be given to the N.H.S. Mr. Duncan Smith called the figure “an extrapolation.” Mr. Farage said that the £350 million claim was “one of the mistakes that, I think, the Leave campaign has made” and that anyone who voted to leave because of the promise “made a mistake doing that.” (The New York Times: What Leaders Said Before 'Brexit," And What They Say Now)
Gee, pols that lie through their teeth and paint it on the side of a big red bus? Now, there's a new concept. Somehow, the Brexit debacle, no matter what side one is on, made our Cavalcade of Clowns look good. And that's really saying something. Which is a little bit scary, if you ask me.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I was asked if I would be interested in doing another election thing for the New York Times. Of course, I said I was interested, and gave them the info and the permissions they requested. The only thing I've heard since is that they've delayed the selection process. Whatever that means. But I wondered about what I could offer to this convocation of opinionated humans. I am so tired of being outraged by what I hear with my own ears. I am tired of being stunned by what I read. I'm tired of the lies and the innuendo and the news spun so finely that it's more cotton candy than news. I find I watch the local stuff, pay scant attention to network news (I'm an NBC watcher for that) and then immediately turn to PBS when Lester Holt stops talking. I like Gwen Ifill and Judy Woodruff. I like Margaret Warner and Hari Sreenivasan. And I really like when the legal lady, Marcia Coyle, explains SCOTUS. I like the lack of spin, the no-nonsense, hyperbole-free reporting. "It's the truth, it's actual, everything is satisfactual." (Apologies to Uncle Remus.) And that's about all the news I can take these days.
Instead, I am finally turning my attention to my own changes. Change of status (now widow AND orphan.) Change of venue (now living in my townhouse and dealing with the aftermath of a move.) Change of relationship with the rest of the world. I am tired of drama. I wrote drama for 30+ years as a playwright, I have no desire to live it.
I married right out of grad school. We had kids. Our year of empty nest was a screaming good time, then FIL moved in. Care-taking roared back into my life. And then, Ziggy had the poor form to shuffle off this mortal coil. For seven more years, I was caretaker for FIL, and then my own folks.
I DO NOT REGRET ONE MOMENT OF WHAT I DID.
Is that clear enough? I did what had to be done, and I am glad of it. I got to know FIL in ways his son never did and I got to coax him into having relationships with his grandsons he never dreamed he would have. He took his leave, and seven months later, I was a daughter again! Fraught, difficult, challenging, sometimes even painful, but worth every version of emotion. I'd not lived near my folks for some 40 years, but this last year, I was on site when they needed me...and if the truth be told, I needed them. I had my mom as I went through breast cancer. I told them the truth from day one, and she was my staunch support as I went through it all. Having them here was a blessing.
And now, they are all gone.
For the first time in my life, I am the boss of me. My decisions are my own. My choices are my own. And even the act of picking out a couch is my own. This is scary. Really. But it's also invigorating. And fun. Sorta. It's an adventure. I feel more 22 than on the edge of 64. (Yes, I'm pushing 64 and no one is gonna sing that song to me.)
So what is it I really want?
I want normal. The kiddies came over for Shabbos dinner on Friday night. While I cooked they took Little Miss to our little community pool for a swim. When they were ready to eat, they came back; dinner was ready. We ate, we sat. When Little Miss ran out of day, they went home. It was nice. It was lovely. It was nothing special. It was normal.
Normal is different for everyone. Normal is a barometer for life. Normal isn't always good, but it's not always bad. Sometimes, normal is that place in between the two where stuff just goes on without fanfare. At other times, normal is crazy and hectic and frenetic. But for me, right now, in this moment, the normal I'm embracing is quiet, peaceful, and gentle. For me, right now, it's calm and welcoming. Of course, there's every possibility I will be bored outta my mind in a couple of months, and I'll go in search of crazy.
The last thing anyone should want is a 7/24 news cycle from Nutty Land. I am working really hard to conquer my inner rage at the bigot Trump. He makes me want to vomit. He disturbs my chi...or qi if you're Chinese. He's a narcissist, a braggart, a racist, a misogynist, and a general all 'round asshole. And he thinks once he's POTUS, he can executive order his cockamamie policies into law. The man is delusional. He wants to be god. This is not normal.
People who think they are god do a lot of weird stuff. Just take a listen to his rebuttal against Elizabeth Warren today.
This is not a grown up. This is not someone I want standing behind the podium at the UN. This is not a person I want making decisions about war and peace. We, the People deserve a reasonably normal human being in the White House. Or, at the very least, one who doesn't paint himself orange like Garfield the Cat.
The Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week
There's no place like home.
|The search for normal...sitting on the deck.|