The Two Americas

Brother against brother, sister against sister, we’re a nation divided, no doubt about it. An amazing feat, considering how centrist and moderate most party politics had become in the last decade, but true nonetheless.

And as they say, 49/51 does not a mandate make. Seemed like everyone I talked to after the election was flabbergasted, dejected, incredulous — how could He Who Must Not Be Named be elected? Or even “re-elected,” if you’re playing loose with the truth.

Then the little colored maps came out, and showed us how: Red-state vs. blue-state. Then the more telling county-by-county maps. And, finally, the Big Purple America map.

Faced with such overwhelming conservativism, and with more fervor than in 2000, the talk of Canada began again, sometimes in earnest.

Now discussion leans toward old ideas that are new again: Secession and state’s rights, two ways the liberal half of this country can create a nation that is at least a somewhat-palatable place to live, giving us some modicum of hope.

From Salon.com:

“For now, of course, secession remains an escapist fantasy. But its resonance with liberals points to some modest potential for constructive political action. After all, as the South knows well, there are interim measures between splitting the nation and submitting to a culture pushed by a hostile federal government. Having lost any say in how the nation is run, liberals may be about to discover states’ rights — for better or worse.”

Statewide measures protecting abortion, gay marriage, affordable health care and other hot-button issues could protect the things 49 percent of us — the blue-staters, as we’re becoming called — value dearly, while leaving the other 51 percent in that vast expanse of red to do things their own way.

Quite appealing. But another problem is raised, and succinctly, by the Seattle alt-weekly The Stranger: It could be said that the divide between the Two Americas is Red vs. Blue. But more accurately, the line comes down between city and country, urban and suburban. The country is not made up of red states and blue states, but rather is a sea of red dotted by an “urban archipelago.” To leave decisions up to states independently means abandoning the liberal residents of cities within conservative states.

So what’s the answer? Do we, the “blue minority” of today’s America, sit back and wait for four more years of this bullshit to end? Do we emigrate to the Great White North? Do we hunker down with our muskets and prepare for a civil war? Flee to the cities to be with the rest of our kind?

I know how hard it is to be Blue when you’re living in a sea of Red, and fleeing is not always an easy option. I was a midwestern college girl, after all, stuck amid the cows and corn with only my pierced nose and combat boots to protect me. I did eventually seek shelter in the Blue [a Northeastern city, natch], but my bleeding heart still goes out to those I left behind who are trying to keep their hopes up in Ohio.

I don’t know what the answer is, and I don’t know how to make America bland, moderate and whole again, like it was under the comparatively-glorious reign of Clinton. My only consolation is that if Beaner makes it to his 18th birthday we’ll have one more Blue vote to get us out of this mess.

Not like I’m counting or anything

One of those days when I just want to curl up on the couch and gorge myself on cable television. I wish you could order it like pay-per-view, just visit a website and order 12 hours of cable to be delivered directly to your television.

Give me impossibly thin, beautiful people, commercials for things nobody needs, weak plot lines and endless reruns.

On second thought … never mind.

Fuck you, Jiminy: I HATE CRICKETS. Especially the giant alien-looking things y’all have out here. And yet they seem to love me, because every time it rains they come looking for a party.

It’s the middle of the night, and I have to pee yet again, and I turn around and there’s another fucking cricket. So I scream. And I wake Iain up. And he comes out and scoops them into an old spaghetti jar like a big brave man. But [like I need any help with insomnia these days] I can’t get back to sleep, because I’m thinking there might be one in the bed. That’s because when we were camping in Wyoming there was a cricket in my sleeping bag and it scared me so badly I screamed. And woke Iain up. And he rolled over and scooped out the cricket and pitched it outside the tent. And he laughed at me a little bit. Which I kind of understand, because at the time the grizzly bears were a bit more of a threat than a cricket in a sleeping bag, but I chose the crickets to freak out about.

Iain doesn’t laugh at my cricket paranoia anymore. I think it’s because he understands that these alien monster crickets are more terrifying than grizzlies. I’m afraid one might try to chomp my foot off.

I’ve figured it out. Pregnancy is like 40 weeks of PMS, replete with hormonal craziness, bloating, mood swings and chocolate cravings. Then, at the end, you get all nine months’ worth of cramps, bleed like a stuck pig, and wake up with a baby.

Nature is so bizarre.

Can I get room service, too?

Awesome, man. It’s going to be like delivering at the Hilton. Cable TV, big beds, recessed lighting, mahogany cabinetry — I’m not scared at all. I may even ask to move in.

Of course, the best part of the tour was visiting the nursery at the end. There were just five babies there, but they were just chillin’ and illin’ in their little knit caps, completely at peace. I’m only a little ashamed to say that three wee tears slipped out, because they were so damn cute and little.

I’m going to be an absolute wreck when it’s my own baby I’m cooing over, I tell you what. Fortunately, Iain will be there to crack jokes and make fun of the nurses, and hopefully keep me laughing throughout. And, with any luck, he’ll be able to find the concierge and order us some pay-per-view movies, maybe locate the minibar.

And then we get to go home with a baby! Does it get any better than that?

Off to see the Wizard

And by ‘wizard’ I mean the OB wing at the hospital — tonight is the night we tour the facilities, as they say. It’ll either be calming and reassuring [“Ah, yes, I can imagine bringing a baby into the world here”] or it will be scary and anxiety-inducing [“Ohmigod, I’m actually going to have to push this baby out of my body the hard way, and this is where my torture will occur.”]

Let’s hope for the former, shall we?

From dusk til dawn

Man, my dreams were weird enough before I got pregnant. Now they’re so bizarre I feel like I should be writing them down and making casting calls.

For example, the other night’s performance featured me, as played by a very young Shirley Temple, and Iain, played by Robert Redford circa “The Sting.” The setting: The Old West. More specifically, a leather-tanning operation. Dead cows and cow skin all over the place, a giant, hay-filled barn, broiling sun, dust, cowboys and varmints.

The plot was as follows: We were in the middle of a bank heist or somesuch scheme when we are accosted by a rambling gang of Dirty Bad Guys, with horrible teeth, greasy hair, rolling eyes, and filthy clothes. Oh yes, and giant muskets. Redford dodges to the left, and I duck into the rickety old barn, scrambling through hay and avoiding a giant pile of rotting cow skins. I clamber up a ladder to the hayloft when suddenly a “Big Sam“-esque black man with a straw hat is aiming his gun at me. I escape the barn and dash out into the yard, where large oaks provide some cover. There is a swingset there. But I don’t go near it, because there is a poisonous ear of white corn that will turn anyone who touches it into a rabid, foaming shell of a human.

Just then, a disgusting, malnourished-looking white man, rather resembling Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel, turns his weapon on me and advances. I am cornered, with my back to a tree and nowhere to hide. But his attention is diverted by the poisonous ear of white corn, which he proceeds to nibble on. He promptly turns rabid and then disintegrates into a pile of steaming yellow goo right underneath the swings.

Redford is nowhere in sight, presumably dead or imprisoned, and the smell of all those dead cows is unbearable. Fortunately, this is about the point where I wake up and Beaner kicks me in the bladder, eager to play Bother The Mommy, and I never do find out what happens, which is OK by me, because a leather-tanning operation is not where I prefer to spend my time, even while unconscious.

Other recent dream-material: High-speed train chases; an otherworldly Baltimore-Washington International Airport as conceived by mass-retail planners on crack; being abducted by a mild-mannered — though heavily armed — guy in a white 1991 Geo Metro; ex-boyfriends who sneak into other people’s apartments to shower; renovating a house that is several cubic acres big and composed almost entirely of cement blocks; and being unable to retrieve my clean laundry from the laundromat because the manager won’t let me in.

And my most persistent dreams either involve me having a size-two flat stomach and a closet full of stylish clothes, or a precocious baby who talks like an undergrad Philosophy major. One is depressing, the other unsettling, and neither makes me feel very content upon waking.

Jesus is just all right

Anger management: The upside to fighting with one’s husband all morning is that the house is now spotless. And the yard is raked, too. … Amazing, the lengths you’ll go to to avoid talking to someone.

Oooh, fancy: We went out to dinner this evening, at an Italian chain restaurant that is NOT the Olive Garden, because those bitches don’t take reservations, to make up and to reward ourselves for keeping way under on the grocery bill this week. Thanks to call-ahead seating we got a table right away, we had a lovely and attentive waitron, and the Sprite was really, really top-notch. I even wore makeup, which is about the only thing that fits anymore. Even my maternity shirt is stretched to capacity, and I have two more months to go. Goddamn.

Bookmark: Just a plug to make sure you all check out Novel-ties, this collection of short fiction and first-chapters that I’m hosting over here. It’s keen.

The hairball that ate New York: So [this is really gross] I am shedding like a freaking cat. Ever since I got knocked up, I’ve been losing giant clumps of hair. I’m talking handfuls. I could knit a sweater. And what’s left on my head is as thick as ever, to which I say, ‘What the hell?’ And ‘Thank God.’

Shasta makes beer. Just kidding — they don’t. And anyway, why don’t people sell Faygo out here?

Me want ice cream

The day before Grocery Day is always the hardest. We’ve run out of all the yummy food, and all that’s left is old spinach, the last crumbs of Raisin Bran, half a loaf of wheat bread — the gross, relatively healthy stuff left over after the Corn Pops and mac’n’cheese is gone.

Looks like PBJ minus the J for lunch, and don’t even ask me about dinner. On the upside, it’s a vividly beautiful, sunny fall day, and it’s the start of the weekend, and by the time tomorrow comes I’ll have yummy food again.

This both blows and sucks at the same time.

Dreary, rainy, cold, icky day. This was the weather those poor Ohio voters had to wait in for six hours until they could vote. Poor things; we were lucky in that respect, at least.

Absolutely nothing going on. Trying to recover from the shock and trauma of yesterday’s announcement. Comforting to know, for some reason, that about half of the rest of the country feels the same. Nothing much else to say on the topic that hasn’t been said before, here or elsewhere. But the black armband stays.

Think I’m going to make some tacos. Maybe watch Finding Nemo. Take my solace where I can get it.

Sigh.

Disenfranchised.

Boy. Did election day suck or what. My blog was down the whole day, I had no soapbox from which to preach, and I had to fill out a “provisional” [i.e. “make-believe”] ballot at the polls due to a Baltimore County Election Board screwup.

The day was short on sleep and long on disappointment [with the exception of finally living in a state where the Democratic incumbents win by landslides. That was nice.]. In fact, I’m still miserable today, because CNN is showing that rat fink Bush with 254 electoral votes and Kerry with 252. I believe in my heart that some rat fink Republicans tried their best to rig the election … either that, or Americans are more blockheaded than I thought possible.

Hope remains, but it’s such a tiny sliver I need an electron microscope to see it.

Doin’ the pigeon, ooh-ooh!

Oh, Andy Rooney, you so crazy: Was watching 60 minutes yesterday with Iain, and that old crank Andy Rooney had a pretty good bit. The piece on SNL was pretty good too.

Seems like I always watch just a little more TV than I mean to when the weather gets cold. I always manage to find some pretense for turning it on. In the summer it’s much easier to stick to the no-TV ban for some reason. Must be the weather.

Though I have to say, I’m definitely going to break the rule for the Beans every weekday at 9:30 a.m. — that’s when MPT shows Sesame Street, and I’ll be damned if I’m depriving my baby of my Henson-mania. I watched that show all the time when I was a tyke, and the Muppet Show too. [And look how smart I turned out!] I even had a little dance I’d do when it came on — just ask my mother. And if I had piles of cash laying around I’d call Time Life Video and order the whole mess on DVD.

But alas, I don’t, so it’ll just be me and the Beans, shaking our behinds and singing along, pausing now and then to adjust the rabbit ears. I can’t wait. I’m seriously getting impatient for this guy to be done cookin’, so I can meet him and hold him and teach him stuff. And see who he looks like.

But I suppose that would mean we’d have to have a name picked out, and all we have so far is Helicopter Jones, which I have to admit is a really crappy name.