Peter, our recession housemate, made pizza. Becca's eating with the kids, including my buddy Maurice's daughter, Maia. He's gone home to get his wife, Shannon, and his out-of-town guest, Tom, whom I've never met.
I decided to wait to eat with the grown-ups, and after a long tiring day with my boundary challenging children, I'm happy to bury myself in the Obama press conference with some hard cider. Honestly, I'm still in shock that this guy - THIS GUY - is in charge. I'm continually gob-smacked that the country that invented endless forms of fried cheese voted to put the professional in charge. It reminds me of when I was young and really poor - PO - working for $3.25 an hour sweeping popcorn and cleaning warm chew-spit from rum bottles at the movie theatre in San Diego. I remember having just enough in my bank account to pull the last 20 out of the ATM. And that last 20 had to last for-ever. We knew, as a country, that we had BLOWN it the last time, and the time before that. And we knew we had that last 20 in our hands and couldn't give it to the erratic old coot and his crazy winking wingnut of a sidekick.
That's all I have to say about politics. Margaret and Helen do it better, I can never compete.
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