Fact-Checking and Foreboding

“You’ll never guess who called me today.”

I was not in the mood to guess. I’d just finished a volunteer shift at the phone banks, calling on behalf of the Hillary Clinton campaign to make sure Democratic leaning voter’s registration was up to date. People hung up on me multiple times but that was far more pleasant than the “I don’t trust that lying bitch” tirades that so many people felt necessary to release.

“Actually,” I’d tell them, “the bipartisan group Politifact has done lots of fact-checking and they’ve determined that Hillary Clinton rarely lies. But Donald Trump’s record with the truth is terrible. He lies more than any recent candidate.”

“I’m not voting for him either! This year’s election makes me sick!” Then there’d be a click and I was left shaking my head in wonder that somehow, Clinton’s negatives almost matched those of a man who has built his campaign on hate, just like he built up his career by cheating people. Yet all it took was one or two well-staged photo-ops with the president of Mexico or at an African American church in Detroit, and the press let Trump win the news cycle. Meanwhile, if I had to hear about Clinton’s emails ONE MORE TIME I might just move to Canada.

Now I was home, stretched out in bed, after a long day during the last week of summer for Abby, Noah and me. Next week I’d resume teaching, Abby would start second grade and Noah would start Kindergarten. “Just tell me,” I said to Monty, who had been working out in our basement when I got home. A couple of moments ago I heard him bounding up the stairs, and now he stood in front of me, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and sweat beading his forehead.

“You look tired,” he said. “Rough night?”

I nodded my head without raising it. “She’s slipping in the polls and her negatives are actually going up. I don’t get it; how can Trump even still be standing after all the crap he’s said and done?”

Monty shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed. “People are idiots.”

“People are sexist idiots. Why can’t anyone talk about how much sexism still plays into presidential politics?”

“I don’t know.” Monty seemed nervous as he breathed in and out and looked away, toward the window. The shade was drawn, shutting out the fading light of evening in the suburbs.

I sat up, sensing a foreboding. “So who called you?”

By the time he turned his head back toward me he’d composed his face with an easy smile and unblinking eyes. I guessed he was trying to look relaxed and confident but he communicated the exact opposite. “Evelyn,” he said, his voice half an octave higher than normal.

I could feel something collapse inside my chest, a sickening sensation worse than the bristly heat that had repeatedly flared up while I worked the phone banks. “You’re in touch with her?”

He swallowed like it hurt. “Not for like, twelve years.”

“Not since she left you to die in the Congo?”

Evelyn had been Monty’s girlfriend over a decade ago. The two of them were both altruistic lawyers who had given legal aide to rape victims in the Congo, until Monty had caught malaria and Evelyn had abandoned him, running off with his doctor, no less. As far as I knew, the last time they’d spoken was when she’d ended their several-year relationship by walking out while he was feverish, delusional and too weak to lift a glass of water. It was sort of a huge deal.

“She didn’t exactly leave me to die,” he corrected. “I was pretty much on the mend by the time she took off.”

“Oh, well then, bygones. What did she want? How did she even find you?”

“She looked me up on Facebook and saw how often I’m in D.C.  She works there too now and she wants to have dinner.”

His eyes darted down so I couldn’t stare into them. I couldn’t garner the truth behind his casual facade. “Are you going to say yes?”

“Yeah, unless you really don’t want me to.” Finally, he met my gaze. “Would you have a problem with it?”

“I guess not,” I lied, not even sure why I let these words fly from my lips. “But why would you want to eat dinner with her?”

Monty took a careful breath, forming his response over the span of a few seconds. “I don’t want to. But she said she needs to talk to me about something, and that if we happened to run into each other it would be really awkward, so we should meet.”

“Oh.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to massage away the tension that pressed between my eyes. “What does she want to talk to you about?”

He stood and moved toward the bathroom, probably to shower. “She didn’t say. But you’re okay with it, Luce? It would just be a one-time thing.”

 My stomach turned over. His need to justify and reassure me that it would only be a "one time thing" was by far the most disturbing part of this conversation. “Just promise you’ll call as soon as the dinner is over and you’ll tell me everything.”

Now his smile seemed genuine. “I promise,” he said. And I believed him.

So this morning Monty flew to D.C. for the workweek. He’ll be back on Friday evening, but he’ll miss dropping Noah off for his first day of Kindergarten. “Promise you’ll take lots of photos,” he said.

“Of course. Do you want to call on Tuesday morning? Talk to him before I take him to school?”

His eyes watered and he gave me a sad smile. “Sure. Sounds good.”

We’d be talking on the phone twice in less than twelve hours. Monty had arranged his dinner with Evelyn for tonight, saying he just wanted to “get it over with.” I’d be counting down the hours until he could give me the recap.

But that isn’t all I’ll be doing. Today I’m driving for over an hour to see Hillary at an event, with both kids in tow. We’ll stand and listen to her Labor Day speech, proud that she chose our state as a venue. “She’s going to be the first girl president,” I’ll say to Abby.

And as a new season begins, I expect we'll be reminded, probably multiple times, that we're stronger together.

Onesies and Wikileaks

There is a difference between a leak and a hack and it all comes down to intent. I personally don’t see how Julian Assange can misrepresent the DNC’s emails as a leak of information, not when it’s clear that Putin, or some Putin-like-guy, broke into the DNC’s system to retrieve the damning material that rocked the first day of the Democratic National Convention.

Meanwhile, my breach was not malevolent by nature. Yes, Robin confided in me about her fairly new pregnancy, and yes, I promised not to tell. But a couple of days after she swore me to silence, Monty lost his cell phone and one of the places he looked was between the cushions of our basement couch. He didn’t find his cell phone down there, but he did pull out an adorable polka-dot onesie that both Abby and Noah had worn as infants, and had been stashed away years ago into a storage bag of baby clothes.

Monty found the onesie and then he found me, upstairs in the bedroom, where I was petting our cat, Captain, and (unfortunately) talking to him as if he was my furry feline baby (which he is.)

“Who’s my good boy?” I used a voice reserved for infants and pets as I buried my face into his soft, expansive tummy, and Captain gently swiped at my hair without using his claws. But when Captain heard Monty approach he startled, straightened himself, and sat in a more dignified position. “Did you find your phone?” I asked Monty, my back to him.

“No,” Monty came and sat beside me and Captain, placing the onesie down on the bed and right in front of me. “But I did find this. What was it doing out?”

I grabbed the onesie, as if hiding it could relieve me from having to explain. I looked up from the polka-dots to see Monty’s eyes which, to my horror, gazed at me with pity. “Lucy,” he said with gentle patience, “I don’t understand. I thought you donated all the old baby clothes to Goodwill before we moved from Seattle.”

“Yeah, I did donate most of them, but I kept a bag of sentimental stuff, in case Noah or Abby ever wanted it for their children.”

He cocked his head and gave me half a smile. “Okay, hopefully it will be at least two decades before we have to worry about that…” he took the onesie from me and held it up like it was exhibit A, “…still, what was this doing out?”

I glanced around the room and scratched my forehead. “What difference does it make? I can look at an old onesie if I want to!”

“Yeah, of course - ”

“I mean, really Monty, I don’t appreciate the third degree!”

“I’m sorry!” His offhand tone suggested that he wasn’t actually seeking forgiveness. “I just need to know that we’re clear. We’re not having any more kids.”

“No kidding.”

Monty’s face relaxed. He set down the onesie and used his hand to cover mine. “But some part of you must want another baby, or you wouldn’t have gotten that onesie out.”

My laughter in response did nothing to convince him otherwise.

He squeezed my fingers. “Luce, it’s okay to admit how you feel. I mean, I know this sort of thing can be… difficult for a woman your age.”

Suddenly I identified with Hillary. She’s always walking that fine line between cheering and yelling, between shrillness and conviction. Truth is, there are certain unavoidable perceptions that society forces upon women and growing older may change what those perceptions are, but it doesn’t make them any better.  Yet while society might choose to see me as a desperately aging cat-woman, I refused to let my own husband see that too.

I yanked my hand away and fought the urge to give him a firm shove in the chest. “Give me a break! Robin is pregnant, okay? I got the baby clothes out for her and I accidentally left this onesie out!”

Captain chose that moment to rise from his sitting position, arch his back and stretch. Then he forced himself onto Monty’s lap. Monty’s jaw dropped before it rose into a smile. “Really?” he said as he absently stroked Captain’s fur. “That’s great.”

“Humph.” I got up to go brush my teeth.

“What’s your problem?” Monty called after me.

“I’m glad your cell phone is lost,” I said over my shoulder, “because her pregnancy is a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

But I knew Monty would eventually find his phone and I also knew it was pointless to make him promise not to spill. Words tend to fly from his lips before he even realizes that he shouldn't be saying them. At least he doesn't inflate himself into an information anarchist; he's not like Julian Assange, but in this situation, the difference between a hack and leak was irrelevant. They both resulted in trouble.

                                                                  *****
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Morning Sickness in America

All week we spent our evenings away from the heat, sitting in the cool of our basement while watching the Republican convention. Monty and I delighted at the Trump campaign’s inept reaction to Melania’s plagiarized speech and actually, sort -of -liked Ted Cruz after his non-endorsement.  But then came Thursday night’s speech, with TRUMP broadcast in huge letters over the larger-than-life, official nominee for demagogue of the United States of America.

I felt nauseous with fear.

Lots of people liked his speech. They didn’t see any problem with seventy-four minutes of lies, fear and empty promises. Vladimir Putin praised Trump, probably because Trump gave the sort of speech that Putin often makes himself. And David Duke liked Trump’s speech so much, he’s been inspired to run for Senate.

Because after all, if Trump could win as president, then anything is possible.

This morning I was contemplating this, trying not to panic, when Monty’s cousin Robin showed up at our door. She often stops by on her way to work at her studio, and we’ll drink a cup of coffee and share some family gossip. But today she looked sort of green.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Would you like some coffee?” I pointed toward the fresh pot I had brewing in the kitchen. Robin took one look, put her hand over her mouth, rushed to the bathroom, and promptly threw up.

I waited until her retching sounds were replaced with the flush of the toilet, and then I wandered over to our first floor bathroom. In her haste, Robin had left the door open.

“Can you I get you anything, Robin?”

She had already risen from her crouching position and had closed the lid of the toilet. Now she sat on top of it, taking deep, calming breaths. “My purse?” she asked.

I went to the hallway where she’d dropped her purse, which was actually more like a tote bag, and brought it to her. Robin took her bag from me, stood, fished through it and found a travel tooth brush and some trial-sized tooth paste. I watched as she brushed her teeth. When she was done, she put that stuff back in her purse, fished out a sleeve of saltine crackers and a water bottle, and timidly nibbled and sipped.

“You’re pregnant?” I asked.

Her laugh sounded miserable. “How’d you guess?”

“But that’s wonderful!”

She didn’t smile in response.

“It’s not wonderful?” I asked.

Robin sighed. “To be honest, I’m completely terrified.”

I put a guiding hand against her back. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go down to the basement. It’s cooler down there, and there will be no smells from the kitchen to bother you.”

We descended the stairs and sat on the over-stuffed couch that was opposite our big-screen TV.

“I am actually excited,” she offered, “and it was planned. But the more I think about the fact that in a few months, I’ll be accountable for the life of an infant, the more scared I become.”

“You’ll be fine!” I gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re the bravest, strongest person I know. Compared to everything else you’ve done with your life, motherhood is nothing.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

It was true. After all, Robin had starred in two reality TV shows, she’d faced down ghosts and cyber-stalkers, she’d survived jury duty and she’d lost the first love of her life. But she’d come out of it all with barely a scratch, and if she could do all that, surely she could excel as a mother, especially now that she was happily married, financially secure, and successfully self-employed.

“I don’t know.” Robin took a sip of mineral water and crammed another saltine into her mouth, chewing slowly as she closed her eyes.

“How far along are you?” I asked.

“Only a few weeks. We want to wait a little while, until it’s safe to announce, so you can’t tell anyone yet, okay?”

“Nobody is supposed to know?”

She tilted her head from side to side. “I mean, even if you hadn’t guessed I probably would have told you, but only so you’d understand why I’m constantly queasy and crabby.”

I laughed. “I would’ve just assumed that you’re queasy and crabby for the same reason that I am…” I paused for effect. “…because Donald Trump might get the access codes for our nuclear arsenals.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Robin opened her eyes and stared into mine. “And I mean it, Lucy. Don’t tell Monty. Don’t tell Jack. If they mentioned anything to Ian or to my dad, there’d be hurt feelings because I didn’t tell them first.”

“I promise I won’t tell.”

Satisfied, Robin closed her eyes again and leaned her head against our couch cushion. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, relax. I know it’s hard, feeling lousy all the time, but it will get better. And you’re going to be a great mom.”

“How do you know?”

“Because your capacity for love is huge.”

She gave me a weak smile. “Nick said the same thing, more or less.”

“Is he excited?”

“Yeah. But he’s anxious about setting up a nursery and childproofing the house and making sure everything is perfect, like we don’t have nearly eight months to do all that.”

“Isn’t Nick the sort of guy who likes to focus on concrete details?”

She nodded. “It makes him feel like he’s in control.”

I leaned my back against a cushion and raised my feet from the floor, tucking them under me, feeling the scratchy upholstery against my bare legs. “I wish I had something like that, to make me feel in control.”

“I know, right?! But I’m too busy puking all the time.”

“Hey, I know what will make you feel better. Wait right here.”

I wandered into the storage area of our basement and lugged out a bag of Abby and Noah’s old baby clothes. We went through it, holding up each garment and imagining it on her new baby.

Robin seemed better by the time she left and I felt better too. I’d been distracted for an hour or so, able to forget about the months ahead, ones I knew would be filled with polling data, Nate Silver’s prognostications, and pundits talking as if Donald Trump’s candidacy was more than a sick joke gone completely wrong.

I realized that the roughly 100 days until the election will be like an endless pregnancy with all the typical discomfort, inconvenience, anxiety and pain, but and minus the joyful anticipation of motherhood. Sure, if Hillary wins I’ll be happy, but what if she doesn’t? Donald Trump wants everyone to think he’s the next Ronald Reagan, but this is no morning in America.

After his scary speech last night, he’s given us morning sickness in America instead.

                                                             ****
Hello, Readers! Thanks for visiting November Surprises Blog! Now that the campaign season is in full swing you can expect posts to be much more frequent, but if you just can't wait for more, I've got even more good news.
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The "C" Words: Conflict, Confrontation, and Caucus

Pretty soon it will all be over. Come February 1st, Iowans will finally get to caucus, and after endless months of speculation, we’ll choose our candidates. Will it be Sanders or Clinton? Trump, Cruz, or somebody else? Who would have thought we wouldn’t know the answers to these questions, let alone that we’d be asking them in the first place.

The way the media tells it, the race is incredibly tight on both sides and anything could happen. So I tuned in for the Democratic debate last Sunday, to see how it all went down. I thought Clinton was self-possessed and focused, while Sanders yelled so much he became hoarse, always cutting Hillary off and acting like a bully. But on Monday the columnists disagreed with me; they said that Bernie had commanded the stage and forced Clinton to play defense. One piece I read even said that she was yelling too much.

“Are you kidding me?” I yelled this to Monty, Monday evening at dinner. “If Hillary had acted like Bernie last night, the headlines would be that she’s strident and...” I searched for an appropriate term, since Abby and Noah were right there. “…and they’d use other words, like irrational or emotional, that are only ever used when criticizing women.”

Monty tilted one side of his mouth, and I thought I detected the slightest of eye rolls. “I don’t think this is about gender. Sanders just had some really good points.”

“Please! Of course it’s about gender. But nobody wants to admit it, so they come up with stupid reasons to criticize her, like her ties to big business or her emails, but if she was a man nobody would care about that stuff.”

“I disagree.”

“Dad,” Abby chimed in, “we’re playing Barbies after dinner, right?”

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. I have to pack.”

“But you promised we’d play before you left for your trip, and you’re leaving tomorrow. It HAS to be tonight.”

I like that our daughter isn’t afraid to assert herself. “She’s right,” I said. “You should play with her.”

He smirked. “You could play with her instead.”

“No,” Abby insisted. “I want you.”

I nodded. “We played together all day. She’s sick of me.” It was Martin Luther King Day, and the kids and I had hung out in the living room all afternoon, playing with toys and avoiding the frigid cold that we would have been with confronted with, had we gone out.

“Okay,” Monty relented. “But I get Eye Doctor Barbie.”

“No, I get Eye Doctor Barbie,” replied Abby. “You can have Gymnastic Coach Barbie.”

The next morning Monty left for D.C. and I returned to work after Martin Luther King Day. I listened to the radio on my way in, and the news was dominated with speculation about the Iowa caucus and the New Hampshire primary. What if Hillary lost both Iowa AND New Hampshire? Would Sanders gain enough momentum to score the nomination? And who would he be up against? What would a race between Sanders and Cruz be like?

The very question sent shivers down my spine.

My first class started at 10:30, but Steve, the instructor who uses the classroom before me, ran late again, so that my students and I were waiting out the in hall. This had happened many times before, but I’d never said anything. To do so would require me to confront Steve in front of all my students. They’d probably think I was overreacting, that I was strident, maybe even bitchy.

I leaned against the wall, cold from the outside air that assaulted the hallway. My arms ached from holding my books and my laptop; I was frustrated that I couldn’t set up my notes and my Power Point presentation, and I became enraged at losing more class time while Steve got extra time with his students. Why was his class so much more important than mine, so that he got more and I got less?

I decided that enough was enough. Hillary Clinton wouldn’t put up with this. Heck, my own daughter wouldn’t put up with this. If Abby has the strength to say how things are going to be, I could certainly find that strength too.

Finally, Steve let his class out and I rushed to the front of the room, to confront Steve before he could slip out. Steve smiled when he saw me. “Oh, hi Lucy. Did you enjoy the long weekend?”

I resolved not to return his smile or to answer his friendly question. “Steve,” I said, trying to sound calm but serious, “we have a problem. You’re constantly running your class late, and that’s cutting into my class’s time. This needs to stop.”

He twisted his face like I’d just done something offensive. “Nice to see you too.” He started to walk past me.

“Hey!” I was loud enough to startle Steve into turning around, but I also commanded unwanted attention from my students. “My request is simple. Just end your class on time, and we’ll be good.”

Steve’s eye roll was overt. “Sometimes I can’t fit everything into forty-five minutes. I’m not making you any promises.”

My stomach was clenched and I could feel my pulse race. Conflict always did this to me. “Fine. Then I’ll have to complain to the dean.”

He shrugged, and I wanted to throttle his nonchalance. “You do that, Lucy.”

 ****

“What a jerk,” Monty said that night, when I relayed the conversation to him on the phone. “Can I beat him up for you?” he joked.

I laughed. “Are you suggesting that I can’t handle this on my own?”

Monty didn’t miss a beat. “Of course not. I’m not nearly that stupid.”

I lay back, resting my head against the pillow on my side of the bed. “I hear there’s a blizzard coming to the East Coast. You might not be able to fly back on Friday.”

“Maybe I’ll be delayed past the 1^st. Then I’d miss the caucus.”

“You say that like it would be a good thing.”

“Well, then we wouldn’t be caucusing for separate candidates. We’d get to skip all the conflict.”

I didn’t respond, but Monty could hear my disapproval, nonetheless.

“Or,” he continued, “Maybe the storm won’t be as bad as they’re forecasting.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Then we talked about the kids and Monty told me about his day. I didn’t say what I really thought -

That lately, all the dire forecasts seemed to be coming true.

Freedom, Ben Carson and Giving Thanks

On Thanksgiving the family sat around our table, toasted our collective health and happiness, and took turns saying what we were thankful for.

“I’m thankful that I can read,” said our six-year old, Abby. She just started Junie B Jones, her first chapter book, and she never rarely misses an opportunity to show off a little.

“I’m thankful for the moon,” said her younger brother, Noah. He’s recently developed an obsessive interest in outer-space.

“Good one,” said Natalie, my mother-in-law. “I’m thankful that none of our freedoms have been taken away, and that we can all sit here today and enjoy this lovely meal together with friends and family.”

Monty and I exchanged a look, a silent agreement to ignore the part about our freedoms “being taken away,” and to simply be gracious. But later, after dinner was over and people were watching television, a Ben Carson ad came on. 

“I have to say,” Natalie said, after Carson’s ad had played. “There’s something very likable about him. I think he makes sense.”

“Mom, no.” Monty’s voice had that overly-patient edge to it, like a dog-owner reprimanding his frisky puppy. So while I totally agreed with Monty philosophically, I couldn’t blame Natalie for her testy response.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not incompetent. I can pick my own candidate.”

Jack, Monty’s brother, busied himself by starting a tickle war with all the kids. I began straightening up. But Monty, who is never afraid of conflict, turned toward his mother and stared her down. “Ben Carson may seem rational, but he’s not. He’s compared Obamacare to slavery, and gun control to Nazi Germany. He thinks Muslims shouldn’t be allowed to be president, and that we ought to have separate, transgender bathrooms.”

Since Natalie is actually the one who taught Monty to embrace conflict, she scoffed and spoke over the frantic giggles of the children. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know!” Monty grinned, obviously happy that his mother agreed with him.

“Women already have to stand in line far too long to use the toilet. If we’re going to build more bathrooms, we should just double the amount for females. Creating separate ones for these transgenders is a waste of resources.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” I interjected. “I mean… the part about more public restrooms for women.”

Monty shot me a squinty, exasperated look. After years of marriage, I knew exactly what it meant. Now was the time I was supposed to speak up and support him. I should convince his mother that she should absolutely not support Ben Carson.

But I went through this three years ago, when Natalie stayed with us during the 2012 election and Monty was working half a world away. During that time, she and I argued about Mitt Romney, and you know what it got me? A massive headache and mild digestive trouble.

“Thank you,” Natalie said to me, as if I’d just endorsed her own candidacy in the Iowa caucus. She turned back to her son. “You can’t take a few quotes out of context and let that define the man.”

“And you can’t take a 30 second campaign ad about ‘thinking outside the box’ and decide that he knows what he’s talking about.”

“I’m not! But the caucus is coming up soon, and so far, none of the candidates have impressed me. I might just pick the least offensive one.”

This leads me to what I’m thankful for. Of course there’s a long list: my family, my health, the ability to learn, the opportunity to teach, sunsets, Oreo cookies and lemon zinger tea while watching Scandal, and the fact that in a little over two months, the Iowa caucus will be over.

A lot of people envy Iowa for our unfair advantage in picking presidential candidates. Well, don’t. Even though I teach a class called 20th Century American Politics, I still get tired from all the competing voices. And then there’s the prospect of guilt. What if we choose the wrong guy? The whole country could blame us for setting that bandwagon in motion.

As for me, the democratic side of things seems pretty much sewn up (despite Monty's Bernie Sanders bumper sticker) But the republicans are still up in the air, with a lot of people undecided.

Natalie is one of those people.

Monty remains convinced that he can get her to vote Democrat, but when Natalie was his age she voted for Reagan. He was her first republican, and since then, she’s declared herself an independent.

“Who wants pie?” I asked.

Everyone but Monty and Natalie clambered upstairs, to pick between caramel apple and pumpkin, and by the time we returned to the TV room, their argument was over. Soon it was dark outside, people went home, and we all fell into a food coma.

The next day we did our Black Friday shopping, ate turkey sandwiches for lunch, and found ourselves speechless at the news reports of yet another Colorado shooting, this one at a Planned Parenthood.

“And mom thinks her freedom hasn’t been taken away,” Monty said later, when the kids weren’t in ear shot. “I think we need to redefine what freedom is, since we live in a country where shootings have become the new normal.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But if we can't do that, maybe we just need to rethink what we're thankful for.”

Bernie Sanders and Angry Sex

How well do you know the person you’re married to?

Last week, if someone had me this question, I would have said that I know Monty well. Sure, we have our ups and downs, but for the most part I can predict him. I can trust him.

But I forgot how subversive he can be. I’d forgotten that his passionate idealism, which is the very quality that made me fall in love, can manifest as a stubborn, petulant insistence to take the road less traveled. Even if that road is leading toward a dead end.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came home the other day and saw it. A sky-blue rectangle with large white block letters, Bernie, 2015, was plastered against the rear bumper of our Subaru.

It was the middle of the day. After a morning of teaching I had decided to pop home before heading over to my parent’s house. I spend every Thursday afternoon with my dad, who never fully recovered from his stroke, so my mom can run errands or just take a break. But when I saw the Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our family vehicle I could think of nothing else. I rushed inside to find Monty standing at our kitchen counter, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which had to be for him because Noah and Abby were at school.

He turned when he heard me come in, and a smile lit up his face. “Hey,” he said warmly. “You decided to stop home for lunch? Want me to make you a sandwich?”

Monty works from home a lot of the time. He’s a very social person and I know he craves interaction, so I felt a twinge of regret, bursting his bubble, meeting his enthusiasm with irritation.

But I was upset.

“Why is there a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our car?” My voice was hard and my arms were crossed resolutely over my chest.

He wrinkled his forehead and then turned his back to me, ostensibly to finish making his sandwich. “I got that the other day. They sent it to me for donating money to his campaign.”

“Monty!” I stepped over so I could invade his personal space. He finished spreading the jelly and pressed the two pieces of bread together. “How could you do that, without talking about it to me first?”

“I need your permission to put a bumper sticker on my car?” He rolled his eyes, put his sandwich on a plate, and busied himself with putting the jelly and bread back in the refrigerator, the peanut butter in the cabinet, and the dirty knife in the sink.

“It’s our car! I drive it too. And you knew very well that I wouldn’t be okay with this!”

“It’s just a bumper sticker, Luce!”

“No, it’s not!” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “You know I support Hillary, and you know I’m worried about her chances. So it’s not ‘just a bumper sticker’ – it’s a passive aggressive attempt to piss me off!”

He sighed and clenched his jaw simultaneously; I hate it when he does that. “This isn’t about you. I happen to support Sanders. Okay?”

“No, not okay! You liked Hillary in ’08, back when she was the underdog against Obama. And my God, you voted for Nader in 2000. You just want to be subversive!”

“So what if I do? It’s not like society is so great that we can’t use a little bit of subversion!” He closed the refrigerator door with his foot, and turned toward me, shoulders squared. “Besides, Sanders stands for what I actually believe in!”

“Oh, grow up, Monty! You know he has NO chance of getting elected! Supporting him is like handing Rubio, Bush, or God forbid, Trump, the presidency on a silver platter!”

Monty shook his head ruefully. “Do you even have any ideals anymore, Lucy? Or is it just all about winning? You tell me to grow up? Well that’s too bad, because you’ve gotten OLD!”

My jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you’d say something so mean!” I ran one hand through my hair and the other my stomach.

He stammered. “I didn’t mean old as in unattractive. I meant old, as in too conservative…”

“Never mind!”

I spun on my heel but he jumped forward and blocked my path out of the kitchen. “You’re not leaving until we resolve this!”

“You don’t get to decide that!” I pushed against his chest, but he was unyielding.

“You know I think you’re hot.”

“I don’t care about that. I want the Sanders sticker off our car.”

“How about I buy an even bigger Hillary bumper sticker and put it on other car?”

I shook my head. “No. We put it next to the Sanders one, so they’re side by side.”

“Fine.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sultry rasp. “But then we’re doing the same thing on both cars.”

I exhaled loudly. “Fine.”

I was very aware of the rise and fall of my chest, and how if I moved forward a fraction of an inch, my chest would be pressed against his. And then, because arguing can get us both riled up, and because I do actually care about whether or not Monty thinks I’m hot, but mostly because we were alone and awake, I let Monty kiss me. I knew what was coming when his lips parted, when he tilted down his dark head, when he reached out both arms to hold me.

I did not step away.

Instead I met his embrace with enthusiasm, though I was still angry. Soon we were tugging off each other’s clothes and taking out our aggression in the most fun, if not the most healthy, sort of way.

When we were done we laid together on the kitchen floor, sharing the peanut butter sandwich Monty had made earlier.

“I’m still idealistic,” I said. “I care about way more than winning.”

“I know.” Monty kissed me softly on the mouth and I could taste his peanut butter breath.

But I wasn’t so sure myself. It’s easy to make claims. It’s not always easy to believe them.

How well do I know my husband? About as well as I know myself.