I actually meant to get the underwear in the washer a lot earlier than this, but Sarah (my kid) came over and we had to sit and talk since I was trying to go to sleep when she turned up last night. Oh, well - if I decide to go to bed before I get it in the dryer, I've got some old raggy stuff to wear anyway - I just hope I don't A. get hit by a bus or B. get lucky. I guess I could always undress in the bathroom and burst upon whomever in my full glory. I cannot imagine how getting lucky would happen, exactly, you understand - waiting for the bus? Buying kneehighs at Duane Reade (I didn't get around to it today)? Certainly not at my current office - lawyers are most definitely not my flavor of choice. Anyway, these days they're all twenty years my junior, and I refuse to date anybody who doesn't remember JFK. (No, NOT the airport.)
No weird clothing sightings today, darn it. I guess I'll have to wait until the weather gets warmer, presuming it ever does. I am now so sick of winter that I have to take deep breaths when I put on my down coat, because the thought of having to wear it for another day makes me gag. I WANT SPRING! NOW!
Speaking of JFK, isn't this election a blast? All these years I've been voting against, rather than for - you know, the old lesser of two evils bit. Now, all of a sudden, there's this great, big, gorgeous hunk of guy with actual ideas...I'm so thrilled.
I do really wish I could back Hillary, for the honor of my sex if nothing else, but frankly, I can't stand the woman. She strikes me as the most insincere thing I've ever seen in my entire life - sort of a political version of a Stepford Wife. I just don't LIKE her. I do realize that in the greater scheme of things my liking or not liking a candidate is somewhat low on a list of things one needs in a President, but the fact remains that if I had to sit next to this woman at a social function, I would run like hell in the opposite direction. And I can talk to ANYBODY. Obama, on the other hand, feels like somebody I'd like to have over to dinner some night or just hang out and have a couple of beers with. Yes, yes, I know that this is a hell of a thing to base a vote on, but he's bringing something to the political table we haven't seen in years - genuine excitement and, by God, youth involvement. And boy, do we need it.
I listen to and talk with Sarah's pals (well, they're mine too), and I get such a sense that this generation is dying to do something, but they've really had no banner to fight under, the way we did back in the dear dead '60s - no common cause, no leader. If Obama can harness these bright, concerned, well-read kids - wow. Wow, wow, wow.
Speaking of the '60s, I thought of a story. (Sarah, you can quit reading now because you're really bored with this story.) This is the best illustration I can give of what it was like to be alive and goofing around in those great days.
My friend Annie and I went to our neighborhood bar one Sunday afternoon and met our friends Ron and Herb. We were all hungry, so we decided to get a pizza from the corner. Well, by the time we had gone through the usual pizza debate (sausage? pepperoni? peppers? anchovies? mushrooms?), we discovered that somehow we'd managed to drink all the pizza money. But Annie and I had a pot roast in the icebox just waiting to be cooked. So we went back to our place, and us girls got the roast in the oven.
Well, of course, a pot roast takes three hours to cook. So Ron and I took the bedroom, and Annie and Herb took the living room(with Herb's dog, who had been made very happy with some hot dogs we had in the icebox), and we managed to occupy ourselves until the pot roast was done. At which point Annie and I put a nice tablecloth on the table, and opened the wine and got out the cloth napkins, and we all sat down to our lovely Midwestern Sunday evening meal - pot roast with carrots and onions and potatoes, and salad, and wine. The only thing that was the least little bit different from a thousand other Chicago families that day was that we hadn't actually bothered to get dressed before dinner...
Boy, do I miss the '60s.