“My plan for tomorrow is to start drinking,” I text the group chat.
I am not a big drinker. On my patient forms at the doctor I write zero when it asks, “how many alcoholic drinks per week,” and it’s not a lie. I don’t share this so you feel bad about box wine or craft pumpkin beers but so you don’t worry that I am going to drink myself to death like a lot of women did in 2020.
But on election day, I will be drinking. I’ve even googled “easy mixed drinks” because that is how little I know about alcohol. I have one drink—Whiskey Sour—and I figure I might as well branch out a little. A Cosmopolitan sounds easy—Citron vodka and cranberry juice—I can do that, and pretend it’s 2005 and I’m a Carrie.
Gin and tonic, that was my best friend’s drink, and we no longer speak, so I cannot travel down that mixed path of awkward feelings and good times when the night is already going to be fully loaded.
Diet Coke and rum sounds like an obvious choice because I am made of 95% Diet Coke and 5% regret on a regular day, but Captain Morgan and Coke is my sister’s drink and absolutely not.
I’ll probably buy a bottle of already made mixed cocktails, and then sit back and let my life flash before my eyes.
Too dramatic?
In the group chat, my friend responds that she’s been out canvassing all weekend and is hopeful.
“I have hope,” I text, “but I will be drinking.”
I had hope on election day in 2016 when I went to the polls in a Nasty Woman t-shirt. It was cute, with its giant red heart and black lettering. I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed about this now, but I kinda am. The earnestness of it, that in real time some women tried to beat back the words of a misogynist and alleged rapist running for president by declaring themselves, ironically, “nasty,” and I was one of them. I even bought a nameplate ring. I still have it, though my fingers have grown too swollen since that election to wear it. Maybe in the future, I can fit into being nasty again.
On election night in 2016, I made plans to gather with a group of friends and watch the results. I started calling it the “end of the world party.” I thought, just like being nasty, it would be ironic.
Dear readers, it was not even a little bit ironic.
My friends and I no longer gather on election night. I sent text messages out for Joe Biden’s victory with a photo of the television screen. It’s largely gone unsaid, but coming together under one roof feels like a bad omen. Like our joy and anticipation, the thrill of going over a cliff with our hands smashed together, demanding a woman be our leader—it fucked with the space-time continuum and we’ve been sucked back into something even more awful than what we left.
I think a lot about how this guy, Trump, this metastasized villain with construction zone skin, ill-fitting suits, corrupt as the day is long, may potentially run again despite the violence, the insurrection, the one million dead, the covid money held up so his signature could be printed on paper checks and letters, and how Hillary Clinton is a…
Hillary Clinton is a podcaster.
So, no, I don’t really have hope. I have alcohol.
I think this is called pragmatism.
My kid is going to vote, and all of her friends are registered. They say they are going to vote too. I hope they do. I will check in with her, she will check in with them, and though I don’t know how they are voting, all of them are pissed. It feels like I gave birth to one kid and out came at least five more votes.
I consider this canvassing. My friend did the real kind. I did the “breed the vote you want to see in the world” kind.
Put THAT on a lawn sign. Tell Republicans about it. It will whip their heads back so fast, we’ll have abortion on-demand back by end of week.
Steve Kornacki will be pulling up to the big board. I hope he’s sleeping right now—that his tan “extremely normal khaki pants” are laying flat near his resting body. It’s going to be a long night. I hope his fingers are well rested. He’s gonna need to pinch and expand like a Lionel Richie song; all night long, baby.
I could not help bringing some side cheese to this. In fact, this is my second draft. The first one was very heavy on sad bastard, but it feels wrong to put more of that into the world. To not bring my kid and her friends into the mix when I know so many of them are angry and energized and plan to show up. I’m not saying I have hope, what I am saying is I’m going to be drinking.
Kornacki is a gay icon in this house. Well, for my kid. I am embarrassed to admit this, but for a long time he felt like the fetch MSNBC was trying to make happen.
I KNOW. I AM SORRY. Throw lettuce at me, make me drink water, do what you have to.
I live in Pennsylvania, we’ve been up to our forehead lines in political ads for months. I want this to be over, so I can prepare. Not in a doom’s day way, I mean at least I don’t think. Get back to me in six months. I want this stagnation to end. Let’s hurry up and get this over with—what is it going to be: fascism or democracy?
Maybe the cocktail I’m mixing is myself: 1 part optimism, 2 parts dread, splash of anxiety, dash of heart attack.
Wherever we land, I’ll be here. With an aching back, a bum right foot, and a very stiff heavy pour of whatever I can find to take the edge off.
Go vote, friends.
Currently
🖍 Reading: The Wayward Writer
The latest book from one of my favorite writers, Ariel Gore. She breaks down what it takes to make it as a writer without having your soul rocked by capitalism.
🇬🇧 Watching The Crown (Netflix)
Season 5 starts this Wednesday (11/9), and who is watching with me? Get to know the actress who’s playing Diana this season, Elizabeth Debicki.
🌊 Listening: This Hawaiian Party playlist
I’ve started listening to movie scores—I can’t hang with words while trying to write words—and this playlist includes old-timey big band latin flavor with Hawaiian vibes. If you’re a writer and don’t want to sit in silence, try this.
🖤 Buying: These black Christmas tree earrings are for the spooky and festive
This is my entire lane. And they’re currently on sale for under $20.
⚰️ Saving: Egyptomania!
The discovery of King Tut’s tomb turned 100 on November 4th, and just today I found out he more than likely had a cleft palate.
I’m making a push before the end of the year to add 40 new subscribers. Share FLOP ERA with your favorite people and I’ll send you a CAN’T STOP THE FLOP sticker. Once you share the newsletter, add your name and address to this form. You’re amazing, thank you 🙏