I don't know why but the other day rather than turning to CNN to catch up on the latest installment in the ongoing freak show, I asked Alexa to play Motown. (When she's not busy spying she's a very good DJ.)
And then I proceeded to dance like I haven't in years.
Hard.
By myself.
In the kitchen.
I ignored my dog's look of serious concern and thought of nothing but kicking up my heels while harmonizing with Al Green and Diana Ross. Also Dusty Springfield.
(I know, I know. But doesn't Son of a Preacher Man sound as if it's straight out of Detroit?)
Anyway, for a good (great) half hour I did not think of any of the things that have been weighing heavy on me.
--Not the fact that after the unspeakable classroom tragedy in Uvalde I went on Bob Good's website (he's my Congressman) to learn about his stance on guns and found that while he promotes himself as being Pro-Life he also is a proponent of the -- and I quote--"God-given" right to bear arms. I'm not sure if he's among the 44% of Republicans who say Americans just have to suck up the fact of mass shootings as the cost of doing business. But it wouldn't surprise me.
--Nor the fact that at the campground one of our offspring stayed at during a family trip, her neighbors moved in and unfurled a huge Trump flag. Because it's not vacation unless you're terrorizing little kids of color who have to pass your ugly symbols on the way to play in the bay.
--Or the fact that other of their temporary landsmen drove around in golf carts adorned with these huge (except for the little hands) Trumpian flotation devices.
Or the fact that at my funky little country store where the character of the neighborhood is fought symbolically on metal shelves (overpriced craft IPAs located near items stamped with Confederate flags) a new piece of anti BLM merchandise was added to the offerings -- a shirt emblazoned with: Drunk Wives Matter.
Turn up the music.