My shooter is in prison for 20 years for interfering with my participation in a civic event, not for trying to kill me. That has always felt right to me; there has been a chilling effect on my public participation in political gatherings ever since bullets and I intersected at Gabby Giffords's Congress on Your Corner. My fears overwhelm my desire to participate.
Friday morning, I'll be faced with a similar situation. The fear is psychic not corporeal, unless throwing up counts as a physical threat. I have to decide whether or not I will join TBG as he watches the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States of America.
I don't know what I'll call him in The Burrow. I have respect for the office, but I cried last week when I saw Barack Obama's portrait in the Federal Courthouse lobby... cried because his replacement has yet to demonstrate that he, himself, deserves my respect.
He thinks it's okay to brag about grabbing and seducing and kissing with impunity. I am as appalled by the bragging as I am about the acts.
I used to take the kids out to Bill Clinton Dinners.
We'd dress up and find a restaurant with tablecloths and behave as if POTUS was dining with us. We had serious conversations and practiced being adults. It was playacting and it was rehearsals and it was altogether wonderful.
The name became somewhat risible once this photo surfaced in 1992, but we never stopped having Bill Clinton Dinners. The lessons were important.
FlapJilly's invitation to a Donald Trump Dinner would involve warnings about inappropriate touching.
Seriously. Would you encourage your daughter to spend time alone with him? Am I overstating the case? I really don't think so.
As the inauguration comes closer, I'm finding myself unable to listen to NPR; they keep talking about President Trump. I'm not a safe driver when I hear that. I had this reaction immediately after the election, but, up until today, I was feeling proud of my ability to accept the reality of the result.
Then, as I watched the Trump family leaving Blair House for a gala at Union Station on Thursday night, I found myself taking deep breaths, trying not to retch.
This is really happening and I'm having a panic attack. It's not a useful reaction, but it's my reaction and The Burrow is the repository for my truths.
I know I'm not alone. The Bride bristles with righteous indignation and a modicum of fear as her Facebook feed fills with incidences of anti-Semitism. Little Cuter worries about the world in which her daughter will grow to girlhood. Mrs & Mrs Realtor are bringing a new life into a world which is becoming ever more hostile to their love. My gynecologist is doing 7 or 8 IUD's a day, every day since the world went to Hell in a hand-basket.
I just don't think that I can sit on Douglas and watch this happen. I don't want to listen to the list of those who are not attending. If Rep. John Lewis thinks it is appropriate to absent himself, res ipso loquitor (the thing speaks for itself).
And then there is the whole thing about the ratings. I'm turning all the devices in the house to NatGeo; TBG can switch to the parade and the speechifying and the swearing in if he feels the need. I'm going to walk on Christina-Taylor's path and try to make sense of things. Perhaps she has some suggestions. I'm fresh out.