My Brilliant Career - or Not

What’s on my mind? This is a writer’s story about writing. I am that writer. Before I joined a Big City Newspaper, I worked for a smaller one. I was young. I needed the money.

I knew zip! about the complexities of producing a daily paper. Truthfully, I still don’t - never have, never will. All I’ve ever wanted to do was write, which I have, my whole life.

I started in the Women’s Section, where I was given a desk next to the society columnist. Pat knew everything about everyone, including the stuff the lawyers wouldn’t let her tell. I knew nothing about anyone, and found every tittle and tattle fascinating.

It was the era of typewriters, Reporter Boys, and Copy Boys. From my bird’s-eye-view in the Women’s Section, I saw how fast those Big, Brawny, Hunky, Handsome Reporter Boys typed those Big, Breaking News Stories.

I spent most of my working day staring at those Reporter Boys. Whenever Pat asked what I was doing, I’d say: “Thinking.” She could hardly suggest I stop.

Each time one of those Chesty, Muscled, Reporter Boys took a lungful and yelled something I couldn’t quite hear, a runner materialized, waiting for the Gorgeous, Intelligent, Reporter Boy to r-r-rip a piece of paper from his typewriter and hand it to him (In truth, the Reporter Boys were Reporter Men aka reporters, but as any woman might, I fondly considered them “boys.”) 

The runners were known as Copy Boys. Despite my expansive and penetrative knowledge of how newspapers worked, this little fact was lost on me. I simply thought of them as “runners.” Where and why they ran, I had no idea.  

Some of the Copy Boys (mainly the ones with sunken chests and anemia who wouldn’t know a football from a frying pan) went on to became Reporter Boys - but they were never the Reporter Boys I idolized. 

The Reporter Boys I idolized had a broad knowledge of international affairs, as evidenced by whispered rumors of Russian hands and Roman fingers. Unfortunately (or fortunately), their “broad knowledge” didn’t extend to this particular broad.   

I was fascinated by the Reporter Boys’ ease and competence in the newsroom. I asked Pat what the Reporter Boys shouted that made the Copy Boys come running, but she had a cigarette clamped between her teeth and was banging out her column and had no time to waste.

(Pat didn’t actually smoke, but - hardened as she was to the truths of the social circles she frequented - looked like one of those women who should smoke. Lifting the veil, Pat saw the tensions and pretensions under the glamorous lives she wrote about. She shared these tidbits in daily, hour-long calls to her socialite sister, who - as everyone knew - was Pat’s secret source.) 

To my question of: “Why are the Reporter Boys always shouting?” Pat mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear. I tried to read her lips, but the cloud of imaginary smoke from her imaginary cigarette was too thick, so I cobbled together a consonant and a vowel, raised one arm, and shrieked:

“COFFEE!” To my surprise, a Copy Boy sprinted to my side,  trembling with anticipation. I knew the drill, and r-r-ripped a piece of paper from my typewriter so he’d get it straight. On it, I’d typed: “2 SUGARS. 1 CREAM.” The Copy Boy’s mouth dangled open.

“Chop-chop!” I said. He looked at me. He looked at the list. He looked at me, again. “Capiche?” I asked, fingers drumming the desk.

Technically, I, in my little wool suit and faux pearls, was his superior. I was a Reporter! He, in his butt-stretched, ill-fitting corduroy pants, was a lowly Coffee Boy, staring vacantly at She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Or so I thought. 

Little did I know that when the Reporter Boys yelled “Copy!” the Copy Boy’s actual job was to snatch each completed page (known as “copy”) from a Reporter Boy’s important story-in-progress, running with it to wherever the hell it was typeset, whatever the hell that means.

I screamed “COFFEE!” twice a day, every day, for the entire six years I worked for that newspaper. Although I was a lonely single mother of three lusty-lunged babies, my musings about the nature of the Copy Boy’s services never strayed beyond their caffeinated parameters. 

We of the Women’s Section operated in our own universe, critiquing and gossiping about one another’s stories, writing one another’s headlines, and, at the end of the day, handing everything over to Merv, the Managing Editor, who personally eyeballed every little thing we wrote about bazaars, bat mitzvahs, and society balls.

I never knew why Merv insisted on doing this, but he began checking our work around the time Pat attended some posh party boasting a statue newly installed in a reflecting pool. Pat headlined her column: “Ballet Beauty Mounted in Pool.”

I, too, felt the sting of embarrassment after writing a sensitive piece about a man courageous enough to reveal the pain his incurable stuttering had caused him. Helen, the big-bosomed dragon who sat across from me, headlined my story: “It’s Not F-F-F-F-Funny.” In doing so, she broke the man’s spirit and heart.

I bolted soon after, finding work at a larger newspaper, happily fetching my own coffee, and leaving the bazaars and bat mitzvahs behind.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Lost: The Hanging Gardens of Babylon

What’s on my mind? The recent events in the Middle East have made me consider the importance of diplomacy over bombs. 

I once had a friend named Nazi (pronounced “Naah-zee”). She came from Iran, which she (and others I’ve known from the region) preferred to call Persia. 

Principally, I’ve known Ismaili Muslims, and have had the privilege of visiting their places of worship. I remember those mosques as having beautiful windows and paintings, each created with a deliberate flaw. Do you know why that is? Because, as the Ismaili people believe, by whatever name He or She is known, only God is perfect. A good belief, I think. 

The people I knew over many years were smart and kind. I liked them, and they liked me. The Ismaili Muslims I knew believed in tithing. They worked hard. They were generous. They gave back to their adopted communities. 

A particularly generous Ismaili woman I knew frequently visited Pakistan. Women and girls were marginalized there; they were not allowed to be educated. My friend’s intent was to change that. She built a fine girls’ school with female teachers.

She was brave. She was strong. She was murdered. 

Human rights atrocities have been and are still committed in the name of God. Nonetheless, I continue to believe the majority of people hold goodness in their hearts. 

My friend Nazi? Although she had friends and family in Iran, she quit the idyllic dream that was Persia many years ago. Nazi and I eventually lost touch: I don’t know where she is today or how she’s doing. What I remember most about her was the scar across her throat, from ear to ear. I never asked the how or why; she never volunteered. 

Change can come like a stampede, red-eyed with terror and fury. Change can come like a slow horse, taking its time to arrive. Pushing and spurring the horse will only fester resentment and unpredictability. 

Kindness and understanding produce a better outcome, but with an angry horse, neither is quick or easy. Only God is perfect, as the Iranians sometimes say. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

A Fish Named Frankie

What’s on my mind? Buford, the dog of a woman I know only through social media, died the other day. Buford’s human companion posted his photo online. He was a beautiful dog. He had moxie. He had soulful eyes. He liked to play. I loved him from afar, as countless others did. 

This made me think about Frankie. Dear little Frankie. Perhaps, when you read about Frankie, you’ll love him from afar, too. Frankie was a betta, also known as a Siamese fighting fish. Appropriately named, these are solitary fish: Housed with another betta, they’ll rip their partner to pieces, just as some married couples do. 

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but Frankie wriggled his way into my second blog, Nicole Parton’s Favorite Recipes. You’ll find his name in the Index under F. Frankie became the Beau of the Ball, with a fan club and entries titled Frankie Joins the Witness Protection Program; Frankie Launders Money; Frankie Takes a (Disastrous) Vacation; Frankie Gets Uppity, and more. 

As Frankie’s online life expanded, I dubbed him “my personal secretary and chauffeur.” He went surfing on a nail file. He developed an emotional attachment to the fictitious Sadie, an Advice to the Lovelorn columnist. 

Frankie was fun to write about and fun to observe. We even took him with us on vacation. And then, not quite four years ago, he died. 

The death of a little fish can’t compare to the death of a dog, but we still felt sad, particularly because it was our misplaced kindness that did him in. When we first got Frankie, a pet store clerk said he needed only one pellet of fish food every second day. Frankie was smart and manipulative: He soon learned to link our hovering over his bowl with the appearance of food. 

He begged; he cajoled; he wanted more. One pellet every second day soon became two a day. He rose to the surface to flip his tail, all the while staring at us. He wrapped us around his little fin. 

Two pellets soon became three … four … five. Still, he wanted more. Frankie’s tiny head began to swell ... big, bigger, monstrously. He sank to the bottom of his bowl, fins flipping lethargically. We were shocked. He stopped pooping. We tried online remedies. Nothing worked. 

Frankie’s online persona was fictional, of course. He didn’t bake cookies; he wasn’t my chauffeur, but he did drive us to love him. Frankie didn’t recover from our overfeeding; with teary-eyed goodbyes, we euthanized him. He was a real fish who captivated our hearts; Frankie now lives on in my blog. 

Was Frankie important to our daily lives? Yes. Would we buy another betta? Perhaps: We’ve kept his little bowl. 

It’s never easy to quantify love, but in our own curious way, we loved him and like to think he loved us. RIP, Frankie. And RIP, dear Buford. If there’s a heaven for beloved pets, may your paths cross. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

The Unforgivable Sin of Growing Old

What’s on my mind? Insensitive restaurant servers.

“And what are we having to drink, today?” Ignoring my dining companion, the server addressed me and only me. My hackles rose. Was I being overly sensitive? I was furious. 

“We are not deciding. I would like water. My friend will tell you what she wants.”

Few people are sharper than Shirley, my friend of many years. Shirley could have run rings around this vacant-eyed twit, yet the server continued to treat her like someone lacking the smarts to order a drink.  

After Shirley and I had studied the menu, the same server asked me and only me what we’d like for lunch. Having noted our choices, she again turned to me to ask: “Will that be everything?” It was as though Shirley weren’t even there.  

I’ve seen this dynamic before. It’s prevalent when a nurse addresses the person pushing the wheelchair, rather than its occupant. When a man and woman stand side-by-side, the person “in charge” often speaks only to the man. When one person is louder than the other, the squeaky wheel usually gets the grease.

Shirley will be 84, next month. She’s in perfect health and has literally never had a cold. With the only clues to her age being white hair and a bum hip, she’s committed one major crime: She’s old. Old = infirm = decrepit = invisible.

Quietly seething that the 20-something server had ignored Shirley, I didn’t want to “make a scene.” I considered rising for a quiet word with the manager, but didn’t. I anticipated hearing the usual platitudes while the manager quietly thought: “The server’s done nothing wrong; this old crock’s angling for a free lunch.” 

I also anticipated that if the manager were 35 or younger (which today’s eager-beavers on management teams so often are), s/he Simply. Wouldn’t. Get. It. 

Everyone deserves dignity and respect - all ages, all ethnicities, all gender preferences and identities, all levels of intellect and social standing. 

I’m going to drop this post on the restaurant manager’s desk. This blog is read around the world. If you feel the same, I suggest you do the same, in whatever place you call home.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

A Coward in Sheep-a-Doodle’s Clothing

What’s on my mind? Why, thank you! Yes, I am Nicole Parton! How kind of you to notice! Pardon? A book? Yes, I have written a book! It’s called The Butterfly Box. Terrified? Yes, I am a little (a lot) terrified to submit it to agents. Why? Because a trusted reader said it was too long. It needs to be what’s called a “standard length” for its genre. 

This sea of sweat? That’s nothing. I’m preparing for my afternoon swimming lesson! (Yikes! They’re on to me ...) 

I recently came across some poor sot’s plea for tips on how to shorten her book to a more marketable length. I was that sot. Still am. 

After each day of trying, I left my laptop for a little scotch and a big cry. I’ve been doing this for the past three months. So I skipped over trying to condense the description of my 94,000-word novel (soon to be an 88,000-word novel) into the one or two paragraphs necessary for the inside of a dust jacket.  

Instead, I thought about myself – you know, the stuff where authors write third-person descriptions of their glamorous lives. Example: Suzy Schmerringer and Bo, her cocker-doodle-schnitzel-terrier (crossed with a sheep-a-doodle) divide their time between homes in San Francisco and Nantucket, where Suzy enjoys long walks on deserted beaches and Bo diddles and doodles. Woo-hoo! 38 words.

Then I thought: Gee … Maybe a literary agent would still find this too wordy. So I eliminated the part about Bo (who, to be honest, died 16 years ago and never set foot on a beach because of a teensy-weensy bowel problem I won’t get into here, but ask your vet about parasites in cocker-doodle-schnitzel-terriers crossed with sheep-a-doodles).

And then I thought: Gee, again … Maybe 38 words to describe myself and more words to describe my book and the  b-i-g problem with the length of the book is just too many words altogether.  So I polished and pared and perfected my book’s length, its title, and its dust-jacket description to just one word: The.

My sister, who is one of my book’s test readers and sometime-editors, approves the changes. “Nice to see the book so much shorter,” she said. “Also nice to see the new title end with a dot. That makes it a four-letter word.”

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Desperado, No Longer!

What’s on my mind? A few days ago, I wrote a post about how to bag a bloke (Advice to the Lovelorn: How to Meet a Man; Aug, 30, 2019). As the (shall we say?) femme d’un certaine âge that I am, I have more to say. 

Listen up, women readers! You want to capture a man (or another woman)? The trick is to wear shoes. Yes, shoes! The right kind of shoes! The uncomfortable kind that are impossible to walk in! 

I was once single and desperate. The single part was okay. The desperate part was not. Men shy away from women who are desperate. It was only when I morphed into a still-single woman happy within herself and by herself that men started clustering ’round. What had I done? What was the secret? 

Putting the shoe on the other foot, I did my best to think like a man while conducting a sociological experiment. I found the answer in my footwear. 

Stripping my headshot and interests from my dating site, I created a deliberately bland, generic listing of interests: “I enjoy trying new recipes … My dog Woofy is my very best friend … I love to walk on a beach at sunset …” And so on. 

After which I posted a shot of a single, high-heeled red stiletto shoe. I didn’t show any photos of myself - only that one red shoe. The men who saw that shoe imagined more than they read. An overwhelming number of responses flooded in. That little experiment told me that what a man doesn’t see is often more tantalizing than what he does.

I then posted the same listing of interests beside the image of a single hiking boot. I had no replies. And that little experiment told me that even if an older man can no longer march up a mountain, he likes to think his battery still has a charge as he removes that sexy shoe.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

What the Tourist Brochures Never Tell You

What’s on my mind? Remember that scene in Lawrence of Arabia in which the murderer sinks to his death after getting stuck in quicksand? Nor do I, but something similar happened to me, a non-murderer, the other day. 

Tra-lee, tra-la ... Innocently traversing a muddy beach at low tide, I began sinking. I mean really sinking, as in dangerously. 

“Or-rence! Or-rence!” I screamed. “Help! Help!” 

Himself tried to pull me out, but couldn’t. 

“I’ll bring a sheet of plywood!” yelled a construction worker who was transforming a $400,000 beach house into a $4.5 million gem. 

I was going down like a porn star. Plunging like a broken elevator. Sinking faster than the stock market on a mouthy Trump day. Although my life didn’t flash before my eyes, I felt relieved not to have wasted it on something stupid like sit-ups. 

Himself forced me to try my best to get on all fours. Not in a doggie-style sort of way, but in a let’s-save-your-life sort of way. It was very, very difficult to do that. My chest was heavy with mud. And then Himself pulled - HARD! The sand kept sucking me down. HARDER! He made a little progress. HARDER, HARDER! 

(I did say not in a doggie-style sort of way, didn’t I?)

The construction worker who’d offered the sheet of plywood was now reluctant, probably envisioning lost profits. Instead, he stood there yammering about some guy who was nearly killed in the deceptively calm waters beyond the sand. A whirlpool grabbed him and he went in circles for 30 minutes until some Tarzan-type swam to his rescue. 

This is the sort of thing the tourist brochures omit.

Himself managed to yank me out. I lost a shoe, but not my life. With skill, cunning, and bravery, Himself dug my shoe from the mud. All’s well that ends well.

Himself says his only regret is that he didn’t pause to film the scene. But then I might have been in even greater peril. And the construction worker might have lost a perfectly good sheet of plywood.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Advice to the Lovelorn: How to Meet a Man

What’s on my mind? The other day, while biting into a chicken salad, my friend “J” lost a tooth. “J” says she chomped a chunk of gristle. Knowing “J,” Himself says she probably bit off more than she could chew - that being the cap of a beer bottle. 

A-ny-hoo, I am far, far too discreet to reveal “J’s” full initials. As for outing Judy Peterson’s identity, I won’t say one word. Okay, maybe three or four …

“J” and I have been friends for 52 years - even longer than I’ve kept some of the leftovers in my fridge. “J” has been our house guest for the past couple of days. Which is how she came to find that the Tooth Fairy had magically left a quarter under her pillow, her tooth having fallen out, and all. 

(For a modest fee of $25 US, I will send you an un-retouched photo of a grinning Judy’s entire face, sans tooth. Handling and emailing charges apply).

Late yesterday afternoon, while “J” and I were sauntering around the block, we met a stunningly gorgeous man. He was 80 years old, 80 pounds overweight, sweaty, and bald. What made him so stunningly gorgeous was that my once-finely honed  hunting instincts screamed that he was a widower. My toothless friend “J” is single. This was a match made in heaven.

He smiled and nodded. She smiled (mouth closed) and nodded. He said something about gardening. She might have said something about the weather, but with her mouth closed, it sounded like: “Mmmff-mmmff-mmmff!” I’m not really sure what they did or didn’t say. Details, shmetails!

With a small, friendly wave, the stunningly gorgeous widower turned his back to us and began drifting into his house. All I could think of was that this magic moment mustn’t end! In seconds, I’d hatched a plan.

“JU-DY!” I rasped. (That’s Judy Peterson, aka my friend “J,” as you’ll remember).

“Pretend to fall down! I’ll catch you and I’ll scream ‘Help! Help!’ and he’ll come running and I’ll say ‘She’s fainted!’ and he’ll carry you into his house and you’ll be married in three weeks.”

That was the advice I gave Judy Peterson, whose full initials I am too polite to reveal. I thought about giving her some fake name - “Judy Paulsen,” for example - but Judy Paulsen is another friend (with a full set of teeth, mind you) who may not appreciate being confused with “J.”

On hearing my plan, “J” turned to me with one of those looks that said: “Ya gotta be kiddin’…” and tapped the hole in her mouth with her finger.

You snooze, you lose: The stunningly gorgeous widower would probably have given her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and would probably have got his tongue stuck in the gap in her teeth as she lay spread-eagled on the pavement. I believe being spread-eagled on the pavement is a great way to spark a whirlwind engagement and marriage, but “J” missed the boat on that one, yep-yep-yep!

Today, “J” and I took a walk through some nearby woods (constantly on the lookout that the stunningly gorgeous widower might just be following us). 

The susuration of the wind whistling through the trees and through the hole in “J’s” mouth made for some beautiful music! Unfortunately, “J” doesn’t appreciate the beauty of nature, kvetching that the wind blowing through the hole in her mouth left her with nerve pain.

So I hatched another plan, quite similar to the first (except for the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation part). To hell with the tooth, I thought. We’re going to walk by that stunningly gorgeous widower’s house as soon as I finish writing this post.

At the very moment “J’s” not looking, I’m going to stick out my foot, deliberately trip her, and start calling for help as soon as she loses consciousness. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s matron-of-honor, and this is my big chance.

So here’s a preview photo of “J,” covering up her mouth. You can see it all, with my 100% satisfaction guaranteed $25 US upfront email offer. Operators are standing by.

We will not reveal this woman’s true identity, but this is NOT! NOT! NOT! Judy Peterson. This is Judy Paulsen.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Gardening is Like Sex

What’s on my mind? Berberis Buxifolia, which sounds like the catch of the day in a Portuguese restaurant, but isn’t. 

I recently bought a Berberis Buxifolia to fill an empty spot in the garden. It was small, scrawny, and needed TLC. I am tall, brawny, with TLC to spare. I liked that the BB had tiny yellow flowers that would morph into edible berries. I liked that a lot. 

Himself asked where he should plant it. 

“There,” I said. 

“What does the tag say?” he asked. 

“There is no tag,” I said. 

So I looked up “Berberis Buxifolia” on the Internet. “Height: 9 ft. Width: 8 ft.” I took it back to the garden center.

I bought another plant that did have a tag - which I didn’t read. “It’s gorgeous!” I said, loading it onto my shopping cart. 

“Be sure to trim it back,” said the Garden Center Lady. “And contain it.” 

“My husband likes stuff wild and free,” I said. “He won’t want to cut it.” 

Her eyebrows shot up like firecrackers. “Your choice,” she said. 

When I got around to reading the tag, I noticed it read “Bamboo.” I returned it to the garden center, too.

Gardening is like sex. We’ve done it before, but not for awhile. 

I’ve written about the rabbits that hide behind every bush and peek over every flower in our garden. The Garden Center Lady said blood meal would deter them. I’ve written about the deer that nose through the tenderest of our plants before ripping them out with their teeth. The Garden Center Lady said a product called Bobbex would stop them, too. 

When I mentioned this to an experienced gardener in my walking group, she said: “But deer love blood meal! And rabbits love Bobbex!” The deer and the rabbits are still dining out in our garden: They’ve just traded places at the banquet table.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

The Lurkers

What’s on my mind? We call them the lurkers. 

No, not the deer, whose early-morning raids are brazen and obvious. A big chomp here. A little chomp there. Everywhere a chomp-chomp.

The lurkers don’t take. They give and give and give. Hiding under bushes, lurking in flower beds, they grow larger and heavier by the minute - until, at last, one of us says: “Good grief, here’s another!” The first to show itself was small, tucked under the flowers. Back then, we had no idea what awaited. No idea at all …

Friday, I followed the winding vines to count seven. I couldn’t hack my way through to the rest. And now …? 

We can’t possibly keep up. We’ll soon have no choice but to wrap them in swaddling clothes and deposit them on doorsteps, hoping they’ll find their “forever home.”

Take my advice. Never put two squash plants in your garden. One is bad enough: A family of five could dine for weeks on the single, small plant you start with. It will grow and grow and grow. Plant two and you’ve got trouble. 

Himself says planting two varieties of squash was an “experiment.” Frankenstein was also an “experiment,” and look how that turned out. So I’ll quote from that famous book. 

The squash? “Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.” 

Himself? “Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature.”  

And me: “My mind began to grow, watchful with anxious thoughts.”

There’s a food bank in our future. Of that, I’m certain. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Dial M for ... MURDER!

What’s on my mind? I am not a Buddhist. It’s said a Buddhist wouldn’t hurt a fly. Say no more. I am not a Buddhist. 

Sum-mer-t-i-m-e … And the livin’ ain’t e-e-e-asy! For us, or for flies. 

Typical scenario: I scream; Himself swats; fly dies. 

Even worse: I scream; Himself zaps; fly sizzles, frizzles, and dies. Horrible. But ... Have you ever met a fly that wouldn’t die? Have you? Have you? Huh, huh, huh? 

The other day, a teenaged fly sailed through the window. How did I know it was a teenager? Attitude. It swaggered around as if it owned the joint, thinking it was immortal. I almost thought it was, too. 

I’m not brave enough to kill one of those big, red-eyed, buzzy bastards. Besides, its compound eyes can see me coming faster than I can swat at it with a dish towel, a rolled-up newspaper, or a bug zapper. I also hate the pop! of its connection with the zapper’s electronic mesh. Horrible, horrible, horrible.

I sometimes think of the 1986 terror classic, The Fly. Pretty good movie, actually. Pretty scary, too. Watching it probably worsened my fear of flies, so when this particular teenaged fly commandeered the window sill, I knew this was all-out war.

Grabbing a paper towel, I lunged. It flew away. I inched closer in an effort to squash it. It was too quick. Sort of like the men I used to date.

Using cunning, stealth, and a flanking maneuver (ditto re: above sentence), I compressed its writhing body between the window and the sill. I lifted the paper towel. It crawled away. 

(“What’s with this fly???” I thought. “Is it wearing body armor???”) 

Seizing the opportunity, I again trapped it between the window and the sill. The squeezing and the squishing are too distasteful to relate, but its dénouement was assured. To the victor, go the spoils! I’d vanquished the Lord of the Flies.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Three Big Reasons to Vote for Donald J. Trump

What’s on my mind? Politics. Mustn’t talk about politics. Mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t!

But when it comes to Donald Trump, 45th President of the United Shatesh, I can’t hold back any longer. I mean ... Ya gotta love this guy! Don’cha?

Strongman Donald J. Trump: Seeker of Truth, President of Principle 

Take what he said to African American and Hispanic voters during a pre-election pitch at a mostly white rally in Ohio (Aug. 22, 2016): After describing their neighborhoods as being worse than war zones, he said: “What do you have to lose?”  

Take what he said to Breibart News (Mar. 14, 2019) about his political opponents on the left: “I can tell you I have the support of the police, the support of the military, the support of the Bikers for Trump – I have the tough people, but they don’t play it tough — until they go to a certain point, and then it would be very bad, very bad.”

Take what he said (Aug. 15, 2019) about why you should vote him in for another term: “You have no choice but to vote for me because your 401 (k) will be down the tubes, everything’s gonna be down the tubes.” With these words in a 90-minute speech to New Hampshire supporters, he made a tough face, clenched and felt his biceps, and made a fist. He told the same audience the stock market would crash if Americans didn’t vote for him. 

H-e-y ... What’s not to love? Be still my beating heart ... And my critical thinking skills ... And my common sense ... And my running feet ...

PS: There are s-o-o-o-o many other, far more serious reasons that I don’t have time (but do have the ability) to count.

© Nicole Parton, 2019