Evan and Michelle get married

So last night we did a thing, and it resulted in  one of the happiest days of our lives.

In front of a crowd that was small in size but huge in heart,  a crowd that was made up only with  four of Evan's closest friends from Rutgers,  his adored cousin Marissa, and  twelve  newly acquired friends and family members, mostly from Denver,   we officially  got a daughter-in-law, the best that any set of parents  could ever ask for.

I'm up for the challenge of trying to recapture the magic of the experience, knowing that  words can never suffice, especially when I'm handicapped while typing with a new manicure that has turned my fingertips into useless talons.

But I must write. 

It's like breathing today.

The storms in the forecast never materialized,  so while my hair and shoes and dress weren't ruined, my parody of "Get Me to the Church on Time" lost some meaning, because there was no rain to joke about in my   "Get Me to Baku on Time." 

I'll still forward my apologies to Eliza Dolittle.

Jim and l attempted to sing my lyrics on the Brooklyn-bound bus that most of us shared, but it lost something along the way, which was fine by us.

Baku Palace is the name of the Russian wedding venue in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, a town of diverse neighborhoods bursting with ethnic restaurants and fishermen relaxing on the pier as cyclists ride by. 

 Baku Palace is a magical place that looks like it might have been the inspiration for  "Aladdin." 

 From ornate decorations and glistening chandeliers, from multiple tables set up with fine linens and beautiful floral centerpieces and  aesthetically pleasing  cu

tlery and china, the massive ballroom designed for several shared parties is a site to behold. 

 We had a semi private enclave on a raised platform, two long tables,  which gave us great views of the dance floor and all the non-stop action.

But first things first.

A small ceremony was conducted in a private room before the spectacular event proceeded. 

For the first time since I was a child at an all girls camp for underprivileged kids outside of Philadelphia, where we'd dress in matching outfits and sing Jewish songs under the stars while sipping grape juice, I had a spiritual connection to my heritage. 

Michelle and Evan related to Rabbi Brian almost immediately.

  He was randomly selected by them on-line, and his in-depth interviews resulted in getting to know these two on a deeply personal level. Nobody in attendance would ever think they were witnessing a union between a generic couple.  It was more about a fairy tale coming to life before our very eyes.

I spent a nice chunk of change having my makeup professionally applied that afternoon, and suffice to say the artists' decision to apply waterproof mascara was a good one.

Evan, the same son who made me crazy at times as a surly teen, who seemed visibly annoyed by my every well-intentioned suggestion, was now the grown man walking down the aisle, linked to our elbows with  a smile that stretched for miles, one that could be seen and felt simultaneously, even when I thought I caught him blinking back tears. 

We were followed in the processional  by Michelle's grandparents and bridesmaid,  cousin Regina,  and Best Man Matt, Evan's closest confidante since grade school who flew in from Orlando for this magical day, in addition to the bride's cousin Mason, who made a memorable ring bearer, and her best friend and sister, Gaby, the fashionable Maid of Honor/grown up Flower Girl. 

There was a hush coming from  the small crowd when the beautiful bride began her walk, sandwiched between her beaming parents.

She chose an unusual song for the march, "Dancing Queen," but the slow, instrumental version of this  beautiful song made me weep with joy, tears that would have been shed even I were not a rabid fan of ABBA.

The rabbi spoke with eloquence and humor, infusing explanations of Jewish tradition with wit and personal touches and humanity.

The moment came for the exchange of personal vows that neither of them had shared with anyone before, not even with each other.

My son who has shunned the spotlight for as long as I've known him, was a rock star.  His words were dazzling; his emotions were on full display as he shared nuances about their relationship that I had never known before. Theirs is not the romance  story born on social media but one of deep love and commitment.  

Michelle's vows were just as heartfelt and stirring. She is not a fan of the spotlight as well, but on that stage, in front of that chuppah,  in front of that unconventional rabbi, shyness was put on the back  burner. 

Love was proclaimed as loudly as a rocket.

I heard their heartfelt words and will hear them again once the video tape is edited, but I don't think I'll ever be able to lift my jaw off of the floor.

Did my son really write THAT??  Is he really a..poet? 

Speaking of editing..I haven't even gotten to the reception yet, but this is not the time to be brief.  

My only son got married last night, less than twenty four hours before I  attempt to type this.

 I'm not turning off my brain yet.

 Nor my heart.

The reception was, in a word, spectacular! 

There were several occasions being celebrated at once, so maybe it'll be a little odd at first if videography captures a bouquet of balloons for a ten year old's birthday, but I think this is what makes everything so memorable and blog worthy.

If you've ever seen an evening  show at a Club Med resort, a European  based all-inclusive, then you've experienced a wedding like this one.

From the pulsating beat of Euro-pop tunes on the crowded dance floor, to the spectacular light show and dancers shimmying to ABBA tunes, this was not just having a wedding, it was conducting one.

Steaming plates of savory dishes inspired by  Eastern European cooking were non-stop.  The heavenly scent of the unfamiilar spices made me crave everything and sample each dish--which according to the scale this morning , I apparently did.

A singer in a beaded evening gown kept the songs coming and the dance floor hopping, and this wasn't even the Big Show yet.

The Big Show begins close to midnight, when guests at conventional weddings are grabbing their centerpieces and wrapped cake, hugging and thanking the hosts as they head home, tired and sated and filled with joy.

A Baku Palace..the night is pretty much  just getting started.

Children began to line up their chairs theater style, for better viewing.  We missed some of the story's  dialogue, even with the help of the bilingual translators in our group, but we got the gist of it. The theme was "Be Careful What You Wish For'  and I'm guessing someone wished for fire  twirlers and acrobats and  and masked creatures imitating  slithering snakes  with professional caliber choreopgraphy, which is exactly what we got.

This is not your mother's hora dance or your  octagenarians doing the "Alley Cat" at the weddings you've probably attended your whole life.

It was unique..and it was unforgettable, from the first "I do" to the last embrace goodbye.

We'll wait for the video to hear each word in the speech privately given by Jim and the Best Man Matt  and Michelle's parents. 

 I'll share the contents of those speeches in a future blog, but for today, I need to capture every detail while it's still fresh in my addled brain.

I'm functioning on about three hours sleep(the party bus returned us  to central New Jersey in the wee hours of the morning) so this recap may not be as sharp as some other blogs.  

Like the lengthly one I wrote a few days ago about our misadvenures with  buying new  kitchen chairs.

But even with limited sleep and our minds thinking we might have partaken in an Oz-like dream last night, we still woke up today with a feeling of unparalleled euphoria:

Our son is now somebody's husband.

A spectacular somebody's husband.

This is just the start of their long and beautiful lives together..

The Amazing Chair Race

We think like this:

“If it ain’t broke…don’t fix it.”

Beyond that, actually.

We think, “if it’s not one hundred percent dead, don’t even think about where you’re having the 

memorial service.”

Meaning, we hang on to EVERYTHING, as long as it’s remotely functional, no matter how unsightly or 

outdated or semi-useless it is.

We’ll recover broken couches with any stretchy material that we hope matches a “color scheme”, we 

save out-of-style wooden wall units that are so warped that field mice commit suicide from their 

drawers. 

It’s not like we don’t have disposable income to play with..we do..but why replace sixties style 

bathroom wallpaper(barely an exaggeration for comedic effect) when, for the same money, you can go 

to a half dozen specialty dining restaurants on your next cruise?

We don’t “redo”.we “make do”

That is, until recently, while sitting at the kitchen table and studying the six chairs that surround it.

The chairs look like we could have snatched them off of a street corner fifteen years ago.

(Wait..DID we??)

Bent..chipped..scuffed…legs being on their last legs…discolored fabric on the cushions from goodness 

knows what was in the wet bathing suits that sat on them…

I decided right there and then. 

No more pool parties or entertaining until we have a decent kitchenette.

“Is this for aesthetic purposes?” Jim wanted to know.

“No,” I answer. “We don’t NEED new chairs. We WANT new chairs.”

“We do?” he counters and quickly added, “a happy wife is a happy life, so I guess we DO want new 

chairs”

Our search for the dinette set that looks like something sold beyond a Goodwill outlet began last 

Saturday, the day before Easter.

Our fashion/decorating/life coach consultant Tami is on a cruise, so we had to make decisions on our 

own.

Which turned out to be a disaster of Titanic proportions.

Which makes our misadventures totally worthy of this essay-length blog.

Our first stop was at Lowes, where I immediately became felled with a panic attack from the long lines 

and the apathetic employees in this massive warehouse until one of them sensed my apprehension. 

Her nametag read, “Hello! My name is “Don’t Ask.”

Don’t Ask told us that we were in the wrong place..that if we drove on Route 35 South for about three 

miles, we’d get to “Big Lots” and they were having a Big Sale. 

Which was a Big Lie.

You can’t have a Big Sale if all your lights are off and your doors are locked because you’re out of 

business.

We’re already experiencing Shopper’s Fatigue and we hadn’t purchased a single thing. 

Jim googles “dinette stores near me” and we find one less than a mile away, and I immediately feel like 

Vivian Ward on Rodeo Drive, Julia Roberts’ hooker character from “Pretty Woman.”

The showroom looked like a buyer for Windsor Castle would shop there, and the saleslady just shook 

her head and sent us packing. I could swear I heard this conversation with her co-worker as we were 

leaving: “”The said ONLY METAL for the frame. The chubby wife wanted to know if we carried stuff 

without arms. They said mopping the kitchen floor would cause a “wooden” frame to warp. Oh dear 

lord, I finally have something to say at tomorrow’s dinner..I’m bringing the ham this year.”

We were in the car, heading north on route 35, when we remembered that we bought the kitchen table 

at a place on this very highway. It was a store with two initials, which we couldn’t remember, but 

because we’re foodies, we remembered what restaurant it was near. Even ‘though the sign on the door 

said it would be open for another hour, it wasn’t. The owner either closed early for Easter, or was tipped 

off by the Windsor Castle Lady that we were coming.

“I want my chairs and I want them now!”

I was exhausted, and as bent out of shape as the existing kitchen chairs.

“How hard can it be to buy six freaking kitchen chairs??”

I’ll answer that all right.

Hard enough to merit a blog. 

Brace yourselves..I’ve only just begun.

Jim decided to search on Amazon and we immediately strike gold.

He found six vinyl kitchen chairs in white, with metal backings that perfectly match the bar stools left by the previous 

owner of our home. They were in stock, available, durable, well priced, and could be delivered 

two days later. Some assembly was required but Jim’s forte is reading manuals.

He’s a great manual laborer. 

Problem solved.

Problem not solved.

Jeff Bezos only knows how to count billions. 

He does not know the difference between six chairs and two..which is what he sent. 

After an hour on line with “customer service” Jim gets an apology and a promise to deliver the six 

matching chairs within two days, as long as he returned the original box, which he did, afterwards

requiring immediate surgery for a labor-induced hernia.

But at least the six new do it yourself chairs were en route. Our kitchen was going to be bright and airy, 

beyond merely functional.

We wake up yesterday to abundant sunshine, the opposite forecast for Saturday, but everyone knows 

it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day. 

The pool company comes to open for the season…relatively problem free.

The only problem was my new manicure, making my virgin fingertips virtually unusable, which is why 

this essay is going to take three hours to type, which means if you’re an empath, you can spare the 

twenty minutes it’ll take to read on the toilet. 

These nails are so long!! 

Man, I hope Cynthia Erivo has a bidet in every bathroom.

Just after lunch, the kitchenette arrives. 

All two of the chairs.. again not six ugh.

Once again, customer service offered little help. 

You’d think someone would say, “keep the two..we’ll send you four more just like them” but if you 

thought that, you’d be wrong.

Another roll of masking tape, another trip to the UPS store, another hernia.

“I’ve had it with Amazon,” Jim says, something most of our Dem friends have been saying for months.

“Let’s go back to the initial store. Not our first stop—Lowes—but the upholsterer with the two initials.”

So off we go to a place I think was called “J.H. Upholstery”

The door is wide open but nobody is anywhere to be seen.

“Helloooo??” Jim calls. “Is anyone there?” We try another entrance, which leads us to a tile shop, and 

then another entrance on the other side, which leads us to a… Korean nail salon!!!!

“Hellooo?” Jim calls out again, wondering why the owner wasn’t concerned that anyone could literally 

walk off with anything in this unmanned showroom.

The owner, who had been upholstering something in the back room, apologized to us and tells us he 

was working on a “hard stool”..something you just don’t say to people our age.

“We’re looking for a kitchenette set,” Jim says, careful not to use the more formal “dinette” description. 

“We want metal”

“Everything in here is hand crafted from artisans and designers all over Italy,” he says. “I’m not sure I can 

help you, but I might have something..what’s your price range?”

“Five hundred?” Jim says, a little timidly.

“I can work with that,” says The Upholster. “I have something very nice..four hundred fifty dollars per 

chair.”

“Per chair??” Jim says, a little too alarmingly. “I thought that was the price for the whole set.”

“Hah! I’d be out of business if I charged that!”

“You’ll be out of business because you have no employees to guard the merchandise!’ I wanted to say 

but didn’t.

We leave, defeated and chairless, when Jim has an epiphany. 

“We want furniture right? Who sells furniture, according to virtually every commercial on TV? Bob, 

that’s who! As in “Bob’s Discount Furniture”..let’s go!”

If you’ve ever been in an airport and witnessed a Moonie selling flowers, or if you’ve lived through the 

eighties and have ever attended an “est” meeting, then you’ve pretty much been to Bob’s Discount 

Furniture.

We are greeted by a feisty redhead with a toothy grin and open arms. 

“Welcome to Bob’s..we are here to help. To help YOU!”

(She made it so personal)

“We’re here for metal chairs that won’t melt in the rain, “ says Jim.

“You mean like patio furniture?”

“No”..he continues. “For the kitchen. Where it won’t get warped by a bucket of Ajax.”

She introduced us to her trainee, and tells us that customer satisfaction is of utmost importance, as 

though Bob’s Discount Furniture was a brothel.

And she convinces us to go with the wood because it’s all they had.

She shows us a set with six designer label, attractive, functional chairs in white or teal (that matched 

the table) that could be delivered within a week..that would be assembled by their staff of 

competent..assemblers??..in just a matter of hours.

The chairs had at two hundred and fifty pound weight limit, but we have no plans to entertain Donald 

Trump in our home anyway, so we were good to go.

We had her assurance that everything was copacetic and a vision of a bright, shiny new kitchen. 

We were sold. 

Two hours later, we were still in the store, knee deep in documents and forms and assurances that we 

had to pay absolutely nothing until delivery day, which would happen within a few weeks, and that we 

could cancel our order at any time and for any reason.

We read the fine print , especially the part that tells us delivery can’t be guaranteed for up to eight 

weeks, depending on the demands from the factory of this very popular item.

“Eight weeks? We were hoping to maybe entertain on the Fourth of July..?”

She once again assured us that cancellation is an option at any time, and then offererd us..are you 

ready..coffee! Candy! Even ice cream!

I wondered if she’d be serving us from her van in the parking lot.

I wondered if there was an exit strategy.

I wondered what flavors of ice cream she was offering.

Even ‘though we thought we hadn’t signed anything legally binding, she insisted that we meet her 

supervisor, Mike, visiting from North Carolina, the furniture capital of the eastern United States.

Mike didn’t want to talk furniture, he wanted to talk about University of Michigan football with Jim. 

We’re fairly certain his car was the one with the Trump 2024 bumper sticker.

Twenty four hours later, I glance at the weather worn chairs in my kitchen as I try to tell this story, 

wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut and my desires silenced.

I wonder I’ll ever be able to type a coherent sentence ever again with these go forsaken glued-on nails.

I wonder if we’ll ever be able to get out of our contract with Bob.

I wonder if Amazon will ever be able to figure out how to send us more than two chairs in total.

I wonder if Bob’s Discount Furniture is actually a cult.

I wonder if any of my friends have the stamina to stick with this story to the bitter end.

I wonder if that whole time we were in Bob’s Discount Furniture’s Showroom that my poor sweet 

husband realized his boxer briefs were on display

Rogue chickens

Now there’s something you don’t see on your Ring Cam every day. 

Three live chickens. 

And no, I didn’t kidnap them.. 

I know how much eggs cost, but I did the right  thing.

Luckily their mom was home and she scrambled up and got them. 

Pun intended with the  verb scramble. 

Thankfully none ran into the street because I’d be forced to answer a question I couldn’t answer.. 

I’d have no idea why the chickens crossed the road

Do something even if it’s wrong

"The Phone Call"

(from  an alternate extension")

The time:  The Present

The Setting:  Unknown

Scene I, Act 1

FADE IN

KAREN DIALS AN UNFAMILIAR/FAMILIAR AREA CODE, ONE USED PRIMARILY IN FEBRUARY. WE HEAR THE  JANGLE OF A ROTARY PHONE OFF STAGE, AND AFTER FOUR RINGS, A QUICK CLICK BEFORE THE SOUND OF A RECEIVER BEING PICKED UP.

DAD:  Quaker..

KAREN: Quaker??? (BEAT)   I'm not calling you at work, Dad. I'm calling..I'm calling you at...well, I'm not exactly sure where.  But today marks thirty six years since I last heard your sarcastic tone, making fun of a slew of neighbors whom you've given nicknames that are fitting but often unkind. But always hilarious.  Thirty six years since I've seen you eat a sandwich with mini salami links and hot peppers.  Thirty six years since you yelled at the screen when the Flyers missed a scoring opportunity.

DAD:   Is this Agrisinious?

KAREN:  Um..it's your daughter..so yeah.  Call me whatever you want.

DAD:  Felicia!!???

KAREN:  As I recall, those  two were your favorites.  And you called all my girlhood friends Shirley, because that was the only name you thought suited little kids because you grew up watching  Shirley Temple.

DAD:  Bottom line this.

KAREN:  Yep..I remember that from your living days as well.  Nicknames..and your aversion to unnecessary detail. That was your catch phrase, "bottom line this." That..and "do something, even if it's wrong."  Your son-in-law loves that one..uses it all the time.  Even at work.

DAD:  Bottom line this.

KAREN:  Okay..Okay..um..a lunatic is in the White House, your Eagles won another Super Bowl in February, and your grandson Evan, your namesake and my awesome son, is getting married next week. At a Russian Palace in Brooklyn, for only a handful of guests and your granddaughter Marissa will represent the family. But a small crowd is a fun crowd, right?  Right?? (PAUSE)  Dad??  Are you listening?  (LONGER PAUSE) Are you still on the line??

DAD:  Here..talk to your mother...

FADE TO BLACK

Drop a Hitchcock reference

Hitchcock isn’t dead.. he’s just resurrected, and has come back in the form of the brilliant writers, directors, and cast of the thriller of the decade , “Drop.”

You’ll be on the edge of your seat, your popcorn will fly through the air, your seat mate will be icing a bruised elbow by the time the mystery is resolved.

The guts and gore are at a minimum, save for the trailers, but all trailers seem to be about horror films these days. 

You could be going to see a documentary about  Mother  Teresa and the trailer will show a hitchhiker’s arm being ripped off by a rabid monkey.

Minimal gore, maximum suspense.

This is what good movie making is all about. A good story, a good protagonist/antagonist, and an unpredictable plot that you don’t regret investing in.

The movie’s main plot( and this is not a spoiler.. it’s in all the publicity) centers around a blind date that goes terribly  awry.

I’ve had plenty of those myself.. some that were too frightening to even be shown in those unforgiving trailers I mentioned earlier.

Mark her words.. no whammies!

"The Luckiest Man in America" is a highly entertaining movie, despite some artistic license taken with the retelling of the well documented  event.

I remember the true story that inspired this movie like it happened just yesterday instead of in 1984. 

 I had a day off, and spent it like I usually do--avoiding chores and watching TV.

There was a contestant on "Press Your Luck" named Michael Larson, brilliantly portrayed in this film by Paul Walter Hauser. 

On  the day I watched the live show, he was just an ordinary citizen from a small town in Ohio, , an ice cream truck driver/ air conditioning repairman with extraordinary luck as he pressed his luck for those elusive  Big Bucks..avoiding The Whammy(that would have wiped out everything he accumulated) as 'though he had x-ray vision, as if he could read the board like no other contestant  in the show's history could.

I remember my friend Paula calling me during  every commercial break.  

"Are you watching this guy?" she screamed excitedly into the receiver.  "I'm going to have a heart attack!  Is his luck really this great?"

Any game show fanatic knows the answer...it was the biggest scandal in game show history, right up there with the cheating allegations rallied against "The Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar Question" that inspired Robert Redford's Oscar-nominated "Quiz Show" from the 90's.

Technology was green then, but not green enough to stop a math whiz like Michael Larson. 

He didn't cheat. 

 Not exactly.

 He outsmarted the producers by studying previous episodes of the show, collecting them on videotape. (something he wouldn't need to do these days)and memorizing patterns.

He studied the algorithms on the board and knew exactly when and how to stop the Whammy.

But of course, the shows' producers and CBS itself had to save face and make this guy look like a thief and a cheater..not the guy with shear dumb luck that almost made my friend Paula faint by her telephone..

He was not a cheater. 

 He was a savant.

Which leads me to talk about my own game show prowess.

I have been accused of cheating by everyone--including family members..who have watched me solve the bonus puzzles on "Wheel of Fortune" with absolute confidence and absolutely little effort. 

 I've been accused of having access to the solution earlier in the day(??!!) among other cheating methods.

I don't cheat.

I am to letters what Michael Larson is to numbers.

I have simply  "memorized" the way the puzzle contructors think.

 I've watched the show enough to be able to take highly educated guesses on what they will present in the bonus round.

 Yes, I do have a flair for anagramming, thanks to years of playing Scrabble and solving cryptograms and probably having a dose of undiagnosed dyslexia.

But my skill goes beyond these natural gifts..it's more about looking at the show's history, the same way Michael Larson did in the 1980's.

I usually yell at the screen when the contestant chooses the boring and generic "thing" as their choice for the bonus puzzle, but I also tell whoever is watching with me that "you watch..it's going to have a tough letter in it..like a "Z" or "Q"--because..it ALWAYS does!"

THAT'S the pattern..the algorithm! 

 It's not cheating, it's obsession.

I was screaming at the TV just the other night, when the boring contestant chose "thing" as her bonus puzzle category, 

 As soon as I saw the first word ended in "et" and had an "n" for letter three, I SAW the "Q"..knowing with one hundred percent certainty that the first word would be "banquet."

That it couldn't be anything else.

I saw the second word had four letters, so I knew immediately that it was "room", even before Vanna turned the "R"

The contestant called out a helpful consonant..A "B"..and a fitting vowel, an "A" when she was given the chance to pick additional letters,

I saw "Banquet Room" before the extra letters were given, but the contestant didn't see it at all.!

  I was screaming at her, as were word nerds across the nation.

How could she have possibly M_SSED T_HAT???

It was painfully OB_IOUS!

I'm getting long winded here, I know. 

Anything to avoid reading the news today.

I'm still on a high from great weekend  TV..The Studio" and "Dying for Sex" and a great ending in what was otherwise a mediocre season of "The White Lotus" in addition to  some awesome entertainment from Elton and Brandi.

Let me get back to my real world of chores and  weekday planning, by wrapping and saying that nerds are not cheaters. 

We have too much to deal with socially to risk being unpopular by being caught in something scandalous, so at least give us this:

Michael Larson was a math genius. 

Michael Larson beat the Whammy fairly and squarely.

And mark my word..yours truly does not.. mark her words.

I never have and I never will.

A story about a man named Cory

A bored Karen is an inspired Karen, so here goes, with my sincere apologies to fans of "The Brady Bunch"

Here's the story...of a statesman, Cory, 

Who is taking sweeping actions on The Floor

He's been speaking several hours..he's my hero..

(And who we voted for)

It's been non-stop..almost eighteen hours!

Skipping showers and the need to use the john(???!!!)

He will not give up his mission..you just watch him..

 complete this marathon!

Until THIS  day..no one seemed to get a move on..

we just took the crap dished out by Trump and Musk..

But today..this guy has got his groove on..

he'll speak from dawn to dusk!

Yeah, Cory B!

He speaks to me!

Let's pray that in.. four years..he's our V.P.!

Verse Two:

Got charisma!

And he's got muster!

It's a filibuster..

and it's streaming live!

He's remarkable! His stamina's uncanny..

the man is fifty-five!

He ain't flopping..

and there's no stopping!

I'm so proud to live in Cory's Garden State

He's contesting the agenda..let's all listen..

Oh, I can hardly wait..!

Because one day..he will touch our WHOLE great nation..

with his brilliance..this  historical grand speech!

And convince the skeptics and the die-hard Magas..

It's time..we MUST impeach!

No Greenland buy!

(He'll tell you why!)

And no Canada for purchase..he's our guy!!

Make April1 Great Again

I’ve been doing some serious thinking. Just hear me out for a second. As a liberal, feminist democrat, I’ve been doing some  in depth soul searching, and I’ve been really listening to all those valid points made by bright, well informed people who just maybe think differently from me. Look, Trump is our leader, and deserves our patience and respect. The poor guy survived not one but two.. two assassination attempts!! Could Y0U lead this wonderful country of ours after something like that? He may not come across as a loving husband and family man at first, but look how talented his granddaughter is on the golf course! You know how proud she is, inheriting his athletic gift. And our beautiful First Lady is so classy!! Her taste is so exquisite if you just open your blind eyes. Our President put a lot of thought into choosing the wisest and most qualified cabinet members.. just give them the chance to do their jobs! It’s been just over two months, so I suggest you skeptics look deep inside yourselves as I have. I know.. it’s hard, but when you think about all he’s done for Israel, not to mention our economy! When you make your omelette  this morning, think about this born leader,  and how he made your breakfast affordable. If you just have a little faith in him, I promise.. he will not let you down. Your children will stay the gender they were assigned at birth. Your pets will be safe from the voracious appetites of unwanted immigrants who are stealing your jobs!  Hey.. he may be flawed but he is certainly better than the alternative . If someone like me could come around, so can you! All we are saying.. is give Trump a chance!