Me Me Me

There’s nothing I can say about last night that’s not cliched or glib, to borrow Tom Cruise’s favorite term. I am thrilled and exhausted, having cast my vote (along with half the people in my apartment building) at 6:15AM, worked all day, celebrated until 1AM, then went back to work for a full day, including TWO plays. No wonder I’m about to pass out! 

The main thing I feel, besides relief, is a lot more safe. The Supreme Court is safe for at least four years. The environment is safe. The right to choose is safe(ish). No jokes about “bomb bomb Iran.” A commitment to getting out of Iraq. A pledge to rejoin the international community. A Vice President with knowledge of the world. And do you know who the hero of the past few weeks has been? Colin Powell. His endorsement of Obama was so beautifully expressed, so calm and rational. Obama’s a Christian, but so what if he WAS a Muslim? Yes, Colin Powell! Tell the truth!

And furthermore, you go, Chris Buckley! I can’t bring myself to offer David Brooks an imaginary hug, but in my current “We Are the World” frame of mind, maybe I should ask David and Peggy Noonan to join the scintillating Maureen Dowd and me in a campfire circle for a chorus of “Kum Ba Yah.” (Sorry, William Kristol, you don’t get to sing with us.) See, I’m hallucinating! But it feels so good. 

As I enter election withdrawal, I may need to ask my darling husband to read me a bedtime story, maybe a CNN version of Good Night Moon, which has already spawned the hilarious parody Good Night Bush. “Good night moon. Good night room. Good night Anderson Cooper jumping over the moon.” zzzzzzzz

I have avoided writing about the election because I am too nervous about the outcome. In the past week, I’ve talked to dozens of people who describe in detail how they’re feeding their addiction to political news. Some prefer MSNBC, many swear by Jon Stewart, some check out liberal blogs, some even sneak a peek at Fox to hear what the enemy is saying. My darling husband relaxes nightly with dreamboat Anderson Cooper on CNN (I must admit I’ve developed an attachment to one of his sidekicks, earthy Ms. Candy Crowley).

But when I opened the New York Times today and saw that practically the entire front section was about the election, including an article pondering whether having a Democratic President AND a Democratic Congress would somehow threaten the republic? (We should only be so lucky!) I slammed the paper shut without reading a word. I’ve become one of those speak/hear/see-no-evil monkeys! I’m almost afraid to breathe until November 5. 

I also know lots of committed folks who are heading to Pennsylvania to knock on doors, or making calls from Obama phone banks. Can’t do that either. At this point, I don’t trust myself to talk about politics without flying off the handle. I feel so pessimistic when I see the faces of people yelling nonsense at McCain and Palin rallies. How can they have lived through the last eight years and not realize that they’ll be voting for more of the same, or worse? How did the language of politics get so screwed up?

I was in a hotel room in March 2003 on a college visit with my 17-year-old daughter the night the Iraq war started. I listened to the reporters excitedly discussing how the “shock and awe” bombs were lighting up the night, and I said out loud, “This is an ungodly mistake.” That baby girl is now a college graduate, the war is still going on, and Barack Obama was one of the few politicians brave enough to have said, from the beginning, that it was absolutely wrong. He is so smart (a minus, apparently, these days), so steady, and so committed to the values I believe in. He will be a transformational President in every way. Please, America, surprise me!!

I maintained my love for Bill Clinton about a decade longer than I should have, in spite of the fact that his silly dalliance probably cost Gore the presidency. Oh man, I was spinning through the ceiling with excitement in the summer of 1992 when he picked Gore as his running mate and they climbed on that bus with Hillary and Tipper. Two charismatic (yes, Gore can be charismatic), super-smart Democratic sons of the South? It was almost too wonderful to process. With a little help from Ross Perot, Poppy and Barb got sent back to Kennebunkport. That seems like a lifetime ago now.

Okay, fast forward as Bill and Hillary behave abominably during the primaries. They’re a competitive twosome — we know that — and she expected to get the nomination handed to her (NOT). Faced with defeat, they managed to get through the convention without lobbing any grenades, but since then? The Obama people must be as nervous as an Auburn fan in the fourth quarter of the Alabama game.

Bill shows up this morning on the Today show to tout his global initiative, or whatever. Closet Republican Matt Lauer asks him if he thinks the first presidential debate should be cancelled. This is an eeeaasy question. What does Bill say? Gee, he doesn’t have an opinion, but helpfully adds that McCain had originally asked for MORE debates, so he’s obviously not reluctant to face Obama.

WRONG! Here’s the answer: “It would send a terrible message to the American people to cancel the first presidential debate. If Senator McCain feels he’s too busy getting briefed on what mortgage-backed securities are, just MOVE the debate to Washington rather than flying down to Ole Miss.” Bill couldn’t muster a statesman-like response that also happens to be true AND helpful to Obama. No wonder I find myself avoiding the media entirely! I feel like I’m living in an alternate universe.

My birthday is coming up, so I’ve been thinking about my mother, who died nine years ago. Our relationship would fuel about a dozen years of weekly visits with a shrink, but I’ve never had the time to get shrunk. (Or, as I prefer to think of it: Just put all the craziness in a trunk, close the lid, and sit on it for the rest of your life.) I was born in the 1950s when she was 42, at a time when women that age did not routinely turn out their first and only child. There are many upshots from that, most notably that I cannot ride a bicycle (”It’s fine! You might get hurt!”), which is a drag since my darling husband is an avid bicyclist. Another big upshot: She was my fifth grade teacher. Hello, shrink!

Anyway, tales of the amazing Mary could fill an entire blog, but I do wish Mama was around to be the only old lady in my ultra-conservative Alabama hometown to vote for Obama — and to revel in the success of her beloved grandchildren, both of whom ended up going to college in the south. I often think that if I had my mother’s chutzpah (to use a decidedly non-Baptist word), I would now be in command of a magazine with a million readers, twirling the Tony Award medallion on my desk for the play I’d managed to produce in my spare time. Oooh, she was a powerhouse! I can only hope I set the same example of hard work and can-do spirit for my adorable children that the amazing Mary did for me.