I saw “Women of a Certain Age”

What I saw: “Women of a Certain Age,” at the Public Theater, 425 Lafayette Street in New York City

What I did beforehand: I dreamed we were building a mews for our golden eagle and the snowy owl.  I woke up to take the Bacon Provider to the train. The power went out while I was brushing my teeth. 

Why do we say "the power went out?" Like power is alive, and it died. Or it left? The deranged thoughts run through me like electricity. As a female citizen in a country with a pussy-grabbing accused child-rapist as president-elect, the power has gone out. We'll be chased down the street with clubs. The presidency is lost to the forces of female enslavement and they will own the house and senate come January and pack the Supreme Court with old white men bent on snatching back women's bodily autonomy. And yet fully half the people who could have voted couldn't be bothered to. 

I drove my husband to the train. I got back in bed with my coat on and tried to check NYSEG's website on my phone. I couldn’t get enough signal. The cat thought it was taking too long, and stretched out across my chest. I listened to our generator hum. 

What I wore: favorite Fluevogs, black tights, navy eShakti dress that has birds on it, two jackets, eye makeup, look of resignation, unwashed and unbrushed hair. 

Who went with me: the Bacon Provider

How I got tickets: as soon as they were available, online, for $40 each

Why I saw this show: I saw part 1 (which I still consider to be among the best plays I saw this year) and part 2.

Where I sat: row C, seat 14, behind the kitchen sink.

Things that were sad: the Gabriel family is facing some serious financial challenges after a death. This play is set Tuesday night of this week, and the characters all still believe that Hillary Rodham Clinton is about to be elected President of the United States. 

Things that were funny: we arrived early enough to eat before the show, but The Library (a restaurant inside the Public Theater) had no available tables and the noisy bar was packed with happy hour patrons. So we used Yelp! even though I distrust it in New York, and were  directed to two promising nearby restaurants, both of which turned out to be not open yet. A third, Bergen Hill, was around the corner, and inside we found a gorgeous little place with top notch wines by the glass, fancy cocktails, and a variety of small, shared plates (we tried and loved the oysters, hamachi, squid, burrata, and winter bitter greens salad) giving us one of the best spontaneous dining experiences we have had this year. 

Things that were not funny: I want a fourth play about this family. I need to know what happens to them.

Something else I ate: candy I found in my purse. 

FUCK YES #PURSECANDY pic.twitter.com/MhP7BD1XMT

— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 11, 2016

What it is: a play, one hour and 45 minutes, performed without intermission. Highly recommended. 

Who should not see it: anyone still too wounded from Tuesday, people hungry for shepherd's pie.

Is this play gonna make me cry?

— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 11, 2016

What I saw on the way home: the post-its in the Astor Place subway stop. 

#SubwayTherapy #nyc pic.twitter.com/LKpj6LFrab

— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 11, 2016

The power came back, of course, and the generator went back to sleep until its next automatic weekly test, on Monday. When we lose power I over-focus on the things I can't do (use the internet, or bake), like I'm terribly inconvenienced by my momentary holiday from Twitter and being a #ragecook. 

racler (Fr.): to scrape

Two Sundays ago, a twenty-something friend of mine looked out across the dinner table and said, to no one in particular, “Granny told me she’s ‘Feelin’ theBern.’”

Her mother, Granny’s daughter, turned to another twenty-something-year-old at the table, and asked him which candidate he liked.

I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something along the lines of, “I like Bernie, and I think Bernie can win.”

It has been in my neighborhood for many weeks.

A week later, we had been invited to have raclette at the home of a new friend.  We didn’t know anyone but the host, but conversation had been lively, and limited to the two ends of the long table until one person spoke up in a lull. A funny and outspoken woman at the other end wanted to hear who was supporting Rand Paul. Or was it Huckabee? I can’t remember which one it was. One of the Republicans. Not Christie, or Trump or Fiorina. Maybe Carson, or Cruz. Everyone stared at her in silence. She kept listing candidates. More silence. No takers.

Cruz was dismissed by multiple people as, “ineligible.”

Kasich, someone said, “is a religious kook.”

As to Trump, another outspoken guest declared, “I know Donald Trump. I’ve had the misfortune to have dealings with him. He doesn’t care for me, either.”

“But,” she continued, “He has a real problem with the truth.”

Someone made a joke about Santorum.

A Frenchman, seated near me, asked, “Is the United States a democracy or a république?”

I may have my first 2016 resolution: More Cheese, Less Politics

— Hamster d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) January 21, 2016

Once the list of Republicans had been exhausted, we got to the meat of the matter; this was Westchester, after all. There are about twice the number of active, registered Democrats as Republicans here.

Someone said with palpable irritation that Bernie Sanders’ candidacy was "unrealistic."  The woman who knows Trump said, after gathering everyone’s attention and promising three excellent solutions, “I just want it to be Biden. Or Kerry. Or Gore.” She paused between each name to let each of her nominees be invited, arrive, and take a seat.

Supportive murmurings rippled around the table, heads nodding with subtle restraint.