Gratitude, oh gratitude, where the fuck art thou, dear gratitude? Well, that made Shakespeare shiver. It’s a tense time here at the ranch, meaning everywhere, all the time, in the good ol’ USA. We are not only smack in the middle of fall, that season you want to enjoy (with its kaleidoscope of colors dancing on trees and the autumn sun’s angle providing light that should be an Instagram filter), but you can’t, on account of the winter of our discontent (so literary today) is burning out our eyeballs. How will we, who were not smart enough to settle in a warm climate, sequester ourselves for an entire winter without seeing others? How will we not, if only in our minds, prevent ourselves from making an elaborate plan to murder those we are in quarantine with (calm down, I would never, but think about it, well yeah), eat carbs until we burst, forget all social norms, and ignore that leggings are not, indeed pants. Beats me.
Of course, that is the secondary worry that’s scaring away my usual ability to embrace gratitude like a long lost war hero back and unharmed. Three weeks from today, well, actually today, we are having an election for the president of these here unUnited States. Maybe you’ve heard. It is the election of a lifetime. It is an election that could change the very lives we live. And if it goes the wrong way, and I say that because there is only one real way that this thing can go that will be right, we are gonna be in hella bad shape. The pandemic is going to look like a fruity cocktail with a umbrella. And hey, I say that having lost my father-in-law to it, so you know, not lightly.
The Cuckoo for Coco Puffs Pandemic-defying, new cover girl for Jergens self-tanner current president is now spewing lies like a lawn mower spits out grass from it’s little side thingy (once my mom was in its wake and some piece of metal spit itself right into her ankle, but that’s a story for another day). He has taken his unmasked, unsocially distanced lie machine on the road to try and continue his quest to be the next Hitler/Mussolini/Superman-gone-bad.
For me and so many people I know, this is a time when gratitude seems to be slippery and elusive, a toddler in the bathtub, a dog who escapes his leash, a noodle who just can’t stay on a chopstick. The abject fear of another four years of Agent Orange is too much to bear. And we know that any gloves of decency or integrity that Don the Con may have ever worn are off and in the garbage. He will be a leader from hell.
And so, while I’ve come to this blog multiple times, and written my gratitude, I have not posted them because nothing seems as important as simply acknowledging the fear and paralysis of this moment. While I am cautiously terrified to believe that Biden Harris can win this thing, I am also too aware that a narcissist the likes of our president can and will pull out every maneuver to invalidate a Democratic win. He will encourage violence, and use all of his presidenty tricks to hide the truth.
Which is why, you have to vote. No matter what, where, who or how, you need to cast your ballot. If you think your one little vote doesn’t matter, think of Donald’s orange face with a little mustache above his lip, because he’s coming for you–your healthcare, your rights, your planet and so much more. No matter how long I have to wait, no matter what I might be up against, I will get myself to the polls and make sure my voice is heard.
Please do what you can, in the next three weeks to encourage everyone you know and those you don’t know (Check out Vote Forward) to vote. This is it. The gratitude I will feel if Biden Harris win this thing will only be topped if we can go Blue all the way up and down the ticket. Biden may not be your perfect candidate, but consider the alternative and his wake of truly heinous acts for comparison. Vote. There are three weeks left. Let’s do this.