Confession: I missed the early DNC convention coverage (including Michelle Obama’s knock-out speech Monday night) ’cause I was lounging in a hotel whirlpool and dining in a hoity-toity wine bar restaurant under the guise of being a good hostess to friend, akabini. BTW, I totally recommend the occasional “skippeth out of work day,” especially if it involves a short road trip, a tour of Taliesin and the companionship of a knitting friend.
My monitoring of the convention didn’t truly start until Tuesday night with Hillary Clinton’s speech. And, while I’m all in favor of the Dems growing a pair, I am fairly sick of the rampant “red meat” and “hit one outta the ballpark” sports metaphors being tossed about by every pundit, interviewer, interviewee and wanker with a microphone. Really, Rachel Maddow, you’re better than Keith & Chris. Make them talk “up” to you.
Not that there’s anything wrong with injecting some testosterone into the DNC Party pantaloons, but too much of the stuff inevitably leads to mind-numbing stupidity. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. This race is not going to be won by an orgasm of rage in Denver if it’s followed by two months of turning over and falling asleep.
What’s needed is the slow, simmering, never diminishing, always replenished rage of big “M” Menopause – the “take-no-prisoners-don’t-you-freakin’-dare-give-me-that-look-you-candy-assed-twit” kind of rage. The kind of anger that’s been building for so long it feels like it’s never going to run out. The kind of anger that comes from being put down, dismissed and under estimated over a lifetime. The kind of anger that leads a normally reserved woman to track down a man in a grocery story aisle to verbally kick his ass for being a stupid, flatulence-filled, waste of skin, behind-the-wheel jerky driver.
That kind of anger.
Not that I know anything about that woman in the grocery store.