Oh, 2016, you bastard. What can I say? It was like a year-long battle with acid reflux disease. It was a year that ignited a national anxiety disorder and its symptomatic addiction to cable news. The left went left and the right fell down a rabbit hole. As the nation sat riveted, Donald Trump faced a woman on a debate stage and said, "Look at that face. Would anyone vote for that?" It was vintage 2016. A new normal is born.
What's a weak-kneed liberal to do? Why, suck down a fistful of antacids, of course, and tend to the dog. One thing you can count on: the dog will need to go out. Never mind that the craniums on cable news explode every hour like Yellowstone geysers. Never mind that riding on planet Earth in 2016 has seemed like passage on the Titanic. But we can take heart: there's always the here and now, a drifted driveway to clear, and a dog scratching at the door.
Not just any dog. Omar, the dog. We have temporary custody of Omar while his owner, our Elizabeth, is situating herself in drought-stricken California. We love him. Sure, we might have to change the vacuum bags a bit more often, but our bird feeders are safe from marauding squirrels. He ate one not long ago. A squirrel, I mean. The whole thing, from nostril hole to the tip of its tail. It was during one of those televised Trump rallies. And it was sickening. The rally, I mean. The whole thing.
Elizabeth lives in Hollywood, just two blocks from the Walk of Fame. She tells of an odd thing that happened this past summer: A small and singular cloud appeared overhead and drifted on the breeze. Out on the sidewalk, everyone froze and gazed upwards at the strange and wandering thing. One parched pedestrian squinted up and said, "Is that where rain comes from?" Elizabeth is teaching part-time at El Camino College and piecing together other teaching and tutoring jobs. Meanwhile, she's appeared in the audiences of several TV shows where she gets paid for sitting there as her enthusiastic and well-dressed self.
Brendan and his wife, Jodi, continue to enjoy Grand Rapids where he is an investment advisor for a bank and she a research grants supervisor for a hospital. Last month, they hosted a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat. The Lions won. The dogs behaved. And get this, even Sue behaved. And for several glorious hours, there was nary a whisper of that orange dude. The cornbread stuffing and pumpkin pie had hints of that hideous hue, but that's as far as it went.
This whole election thing has been hard on Sue. Our local prosecutor, who lost her election, refused to press charges against Sue for toilet papering a nearby yard. Our Trumpish neighbors had failed to remove their yard sign after their victory, and well, a certain someone in her own way tried to persuade them that maybe they should. After the election, she went upstairs to her non-stop quilting with MSNBC blaring at full volume. She has been camped up there ever since. Life might be getting back to "normal", although random and shrill cuss words still resound from above.
I still attend a writers group which prompts me to pump stories onto my blog. It turns out that my most popular blog essay is the one about Pierre and Fatso, two dangling skin tags rooted in my left armpit. From the standpoint of author reputation, this is not a good sign. So I started producing podcasts from my bedroom closet, but I sound like a gagged bureaucrat reading an IRS manual. I'm starting to rethink this whole writing thing. I still stand at the helm of the wonderful infant adoption program at Catholic Human Services. I shall guide the ship until December 31, 2017.
Oh, 2016. I wake up now to your winter mornings and peer through eavesdropping icicles outside my bedroom window. I wonder in my grogginess if I've just run like a fugitive through a recurring nightmare. But while the coffee is brewing, I turn on MSNBC and the blazing orange of our new reality is confirmed. But never mind. I turn off the TV. I need to gas up the snow blower. Besides, there's a scratching at the door.
