Fortunately, I have lived through enough American elections to have faith – that west of the Honey Boo Boo belt – common sense would prevail, and redneck would give way to blue. But, who will ever forget 2000? We were living in California, and I watched in horror as Florida exposed its scraggly Bush to the world.
This was going to be a long night.
In an election where women, and families, and the gay community had so much to lose – I admit to being a bit terrified. America, lead by the Church of Moron, was an America I wouldn't want moving in next door. The Obamas, on the other hand, were good neighbours. The firefly glow of Barack's Marlboro on a late summer night was somehow, reassuring. And I would miss Michelle, puttering in her garden. Besides, how long before photos surfaced, of Mitt snorting coke off the ass of 15-year old believer?
As the evening evolved, I finally felt confident enough in Obama's numbers to shut off the television, and fall asleep, wondering what it would be like to pop in a TicTac and neck with the Commander in Chief.
But at 3:40 am, I awoke with a start and reached for the flicker. Before my eyes could adjust to the light of the television glow, I heard that beautiful voice, and burst into tears. Genuine tears. Not only did Obama win – Richard Mourdock and "legitimate rapist" Todd Akin lost. Binders full of women had kicked the Republicans to the curb!
So, this morning – there's another optimistically gun-shy Kennedy stepping up in the familial way. Boston is firing up doobies for arthritis, and sending Elizabeth Warren where no Massachusetts woman has gone before. There's an openly gay Senator. Heck, even Havenot has a Mayor we can be proud of – Mike Savage, winning handily – and the charismatic Fred standing tall in the polls, even after the hair was swept up off the campaign floor. There's a new Bond flick. And, after a year of rebuilding, White Point is kicking open its doors. Thornbloom have settled in their new Trillium location, and they're all bedazzled for the holidays. The Greek Village is going back to its cozy old location, and I've been so busy since The Little Bastard moved to Quebec, I've barely had time to miss him, or bitch about how he can still suck the life out of my bank account from two provinces over. I even used my Big Day Downtown $100 bucks for good – instead of evil – introducing a newbie to the glory that is Le Bistro Coq hollandaise, and falling in love with Inkwell Boutique. But that's another story.
Life is way too busy, but good.
Now all we have to do is get rid of the Harpers, with their constant peeking out from behind faded, balloon curtains. Steve mows the lawn in loafers, and his wife – Whatshername – well, let's just say she doesn't stroll over with a glass of pinot grigio like Michelle does. Besides, one day I saw a row of tighty whities billowing on their clothesline, and I haven't been able to look him in the eye since.
And nobody wants a neighbour like that.
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