Dear President-elect Barack Obama,

I could not be more thrilled by your victory. Our victory. Just knowing that a biracial man — a man raised by a single mother from Kansas and her parents, a man with the middle name “Hussein,” a man who comes from lesser means than I — can actually become president is a triumph for the American spirit, and for the world.

I haven’t felt this patriotic, well, ever. I came into political awareness just as a great president was being put through the wringer for lying about his indiscretions. Then an election was stolen from the people, by a proud ignoramus who is as close to American royalty as we come. And the second time around, my fellow citizens chose to follow him again.

I was left feeling disillusioned — with the leaders of our country, with the way our system works, with the smarts of “my fellow Americans.” But, with your election, I finally believe that this really is a country where the little guy can rise above. You have empowered a generation of young people — people who, someday, will have kids who roll their eyes when we talk about how we felt the night you were elected president, the same way we have scoffed at our own parents’ crazy hippie ideology.

Anyway. You may also be interested to know that you have now cemented your place as number one on My List, which is the cause of much self-loathing for me, because I also have a big crush on your wife and kids.

Speaking of those kids. During your victory speech in Grant Park, you so adoringly said: “Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House.”

(Incidentally, this was the moment I chose to start crying.)

Barack (may I call you Barack?), I am heartened to hear that you intend to keep the long-standing tradition of pets in the White House alive and wagging. I understand Malia suffers from allergies, and so you are looking to add a non-shedding, “hypo-allergenic” breed to your beautiful family.

If I may, sir, I’d like to offer a word of warning: Stay away from the Wheaten Terrors.

This summer, the American Kennel Club held an election for the best canine candidate for the Obama family. The winner, with 26 percent of the vote, is the poodle. A close second, with 25 percent of the vote, is the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier.

My fear, sir, is that you will overlook the poodle as you endeavor to choose a breed that does not connote elitism, and in so doing, you will opt for the more spirited, spritely, approachable qualities that characterize the Wheaten Terrier.

I know what you’re thinking. Here is a dog that is non-shedding, grows to just 30-40 pounds, and is known for being friendly, intelligent, and great with kids. The adorable puppies are born entirely black, but they eventually turn varying shades of brown and beige. Perfect for your family, right?

DON’T DO IT, sir. Do not be fooled by the spin doctors. When they say “friendly,” what they really mean is “jumps on you incessantly when you walk through the door, refusing to stop and often resorting to biting when ignored.”

“Good with kids” means “loves hard,” as in “has no qualms about knocking over a three-year old to give her a toothy kiss.”

“Intelligent” really means “conniving,” as in “intentionally doesn’t do her business on her walk, so you will be forced to take her again in 15 minutes.”

“Spirited” means “bossy,” “stubborn,” or “selfish.” As in, “looks you in the eye to make sure you see her peeing on the carpet,” or “determined to spend the entire evening with her head in the garbage can, no matter how many times you yell, swat, or do the Cesar Milan-style hand-bite to the neck.”

And then there’s the underwear-chewing, and the destruction of anything that costs more than her life is worth.

Just trust me on this one, sir. This animal does not belong in the White House.

Your humble servant,

Amanda

P.S. Here’s a photo or two of my own Wheaten Terror on election night. You see?

Let’s go change the world! YES WE CAN!

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With November 4 rapidly approaching, I have begun to feel all moony and romantic about this election. We are up in the polls, and in the early voting numbers. We have seen a classy, clean campaign run by a man who is today, as he ever has been, entirely calm, cool and collected. We have stayed the course.

Look at me, with the “we”s! Could it be that, for the first time in my adult life, I have nothing but wholehearted confidence and admiration for my candidate? Could it be that my faith in the American people — which I lost eight years ago, at such a formidable time in my life — has been restored?

We can do this! YES WE CAN!

We just need to take each day as it comes. One day at a time, one day more. Tomorrow, we could be far away from where we have been. Tomorrow is the judgement day. Tomorrow we’ll discover what our God in Heaven has in store.

Sing it with me now:

One more dawn, one more day … ONE DAY MORE!

Click here to view the embedded video.

AMAZING.

The only thing I would change is to include a Barack Obama singing the part of Enjolras (the leader who comes in toward the end with “ONE MORE DAY BEFORE THE STORM … AT THE BARRICADES OF FREEDOM! AS OUR RANKS BEGIN TO FORM … WILL YOU TAKE YOUR PLACE WITH ME?”)

But they probably couldn’t find a tall, handsome black man who would agree to participate. This kind of stuff is strictly for white bread choir boys.

Oooh, and I definitely would have added that marching choreography at the end that they do in the play.

Ooooh, and the London cast version of this song is way better.

Seriously, I have enough going on this time of year, without the election to distract me … and now a musical version of it!?! I’m never going to get anything done.

This post is dedicated to all my friends from high school show choir (which sang this song every year at our spring farewell concert), especially Mike, Tiffany, Stephanie, Adam, and Jon. We SO could have been in this video.

That’s it. Hell has frozen over. Pigs are flying by my window. Molly is going to become a trained guide dog, the Bears are going to win the Superbowl, and Barack Obama is going to win the presidency. I am absolutely sure of it.

You see, this weekend, my father and I were engaged in another one of our political debates, during which he likes to deliver any number of salacious, below-the-belt zingers designed to get me to leap out of my chair and storm out in a huff.

The conversation hadn’t yet hit a fever pitch — meaning Dad was still playing fair, most probably because Rob was present and participating (Dad only likes to make girls cry) — when my father made a series of statements that quite literally knocked my poor mother out of her chair.

First, he conceded that John McCain is far too old and bat-shit insane to be president. Then he said he just couldn’t bring himself to vote for a McCain-Palin ticket, and that, come November 4, he might commit the ultimate sacrilege for a man who never misses an opportunity to voice his opinion: He might not vote at all. 

And just before we thought the world we as knew it had completely unravelled, my father uttered ten of the nicest words he has ever said to me:

“I’m not saying Obama isn’t going to get my vote.”

(It was at this point that we had to get the smelling salts for my mom.)

This is a man who has never remotely considered agreeing with anything any Democrat had to say. My dad pulled himself up by his boot straps and expects everyone else to, too — without the help of his tax dollars, damn it!

This is a card-carrying member of the NRA, who thinks he should be armed for protection at all times, even for a trip to the suburban hardware store. This is an avid hunter who insists on wearing a blaze orange hat all winter (again, in the middle of the suburbs) and thinks our family pet (a hunting dog, of course) should have a matching blaze orange collar. This is a man who, at any given time, owns no fewer than three gas-guzzling outdoor recreational vehicles, which he tows behind his Ford F150 pickup truck.

Barring that crazy talk about dinosaurs and humans walking among each other, my dad is practically Sarah Palin. If you told me he was the one yelling “terrorist!” from the audience at the Palin rally last week, I’d have believed you in a heartbeat.

My father voted for George W. Bush TWICE. The only time I ever saw him and my mom fight was during the 1988 election, when Dad pasted a “DEFEND FIREARMS. DEFEAT DUKAKIS” bumper sticker on our refrigerator. To this day — for the sake of their marriage, I imagine — my parents do not discuss their politics with each other.

So you see, if this man is remotely considering not voting for McCain, or even refusing to vote at all, then so, too, are independents and undecideds and disgruntled conservatives across the country. And if my dad might actually vote for Barack Obama, so might millions of others who never thought they’d see the day when a black man won the presidency — let alone that they would be the ones to help make it happen.

Am I the only one holding my breath for tonight’s town hall meeting?

It’s not that I’m concerned about my candidate’s superior ability to connect with the people, which is what this format is all about. There has never been any question during this campaign that it is Barack Obama, with his charisma and good looks, who can reach out and touch people. It is McCain, on the other hand, with his creepy goiter and his awkward war-hero arm gestures and his child-molestor heh-heh-hehs, who voters DO NOT want touching them. Under any circumstances.

Mind you, I am plenty tickled that the meeting is taking place at Belmont University, thrusting into the international spotlight my beloved Nashville — you know, the place where even a highly educated, fairly cosmopolitan person will unblinkingly tell you that you shouldn’t be living in sin with your fiance because the Jews killed Jesus, but you are welcome to sit next to him at church this Sunday.

What actually worries me is that this forum will feature local “uncommitted” voters who will be permitted to ask their own un-prescreened questions. I guess everyone had to write their question on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope, and Tom Brokaw is going to call on them at random.

Seriously? They’re going to plunk down Joe Six Pack, completely unprepared and haphazardly vetted, hand him a microphone, and let him have at? On the world’s stage? LIVE?!?

This is a train wreck waiting to happen, and yet I feel like I have seen this before.

Oh that’s right: McCain thinks that not only should Joe Six Pack get to speak extemporaneously on live television, but his wife should also be the vice president.

Meanwhile, I’ll be very interested to see if and how McCain “takes the gloves off,” as he intends to do. I mean, to punch someone, you’ve first got to look in their general direction — something he couldn’t bring himself to do in the last debate. I don’t doubt that he’ll be slinging mud, but without a lectern to scowl behind, there’s just no way he can do it and still look dignified.

Obama, on the other hand, can deliver an indictment while looking you calmly and steadily in the eye. And then he can turn and flash a megawatt smile that could make even the most skeptical of so-called “uncommitted” voters swoon.

If Sarah Palin was my Christmas, then tonight may well be my birthday.

John McCain has decided to completely ruin my Friday night plans of staying in, ordering a pizza, and ranting and raving at the television the way most people do during sports broadcasts or the way my dad does during the ten o’clock network news.

To wit, McCain is dodging the presidential debates in a feeble attempt to distract voters from his recent drop in the polls (because out-of-left-field stunts, like Sarah Palin, have worked for him before) and to try to make it look like Barack Obama doesn’t care about fixing his country (even though it was Obama who reached out to McCain’s camp this morning to suggest they write a bipartisan statement on the economy), thus buying himself some time to beef up on his econ and to be photographed looking stern and important in Washington (consequently distracting the media and the rest of Congress from the actual crisis they’re trying to solve), even though he (admittedly!) lacks an acceptable understanding of the global economy and really has nothing meaningful to contribute whatsoever.

Because that’s how McCain would lead this country in our time of need: by pulling media stunts to improve his own image, by shuffling papers in Washington, and by hiding and stalling when the going gets tough.

Where have we seen this before? Oh, that’s right … in the very same self-serving politicians that McCain is supposedly going to kick out of Washington.

The world knows that now, during this economic crisis, is actually the most important time for the candidates to defend and debate their plans and qualifications for the presidency of the free world, the way Lincoln did during the Civil War, and Reagan during the Cold War, and Bush during wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (both of which he started!) (and he still won the election!).

But The Maverick is going to break from that precedent and … take a time out for a nap and a cookie. He may have invented the Blackberry – the very device that keeps the candle burning at both ends for millions of people — but he sure as hell can’t multi-task.

McCain forgets that it is the independents to whom he needs to pander in order to win this election. And if the independents are what they say they are, they’re going to see straight through this malarky.

Now Ole Miss is going to lose a lot of money if the debates are canceled altogether. So are we going to get a full two hours of Obama, then?

Or how about a debate between Obama and Palin? She has learned a lot in the past few weeks, and she has things to say! In fact, just this week, she sat down with Henry Kissinger and discovered that he can not, in fact, see England from his house. And just today, in her interview with Katie Couric, Sarah was oddly reminiscent of the infamous Miss South Carolina …

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and

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Maybe my Friday night isn’t ruined after all!

While I’m ticking people off, I might as well go whole hog and just say what has been on my mind. Besides, I’m running out of time to say it, because Obama is about to clinch the nomination. Matt Drudge called it, and Matt Drudge does not exaggerate.

I really don’t think we can have a female president.

That’s right, I said it. I’m an unmarried, liberal, working, childless female in the 21st century. But I won’t vote to put a woman in the White House.

It’s not that I think we shouldn’t have a female president. Really, as a global superpower among civilized nations, it’s pretty pathetic that we haven’t had one already. Even Pakistan has had a female prime minister. I mean, that’s just embarrassing.

And of course, women have every bit as much of the intellectual capacity and managerial skill and strategical prowess and yaddah yaddah yaddah as men do. I have no doubt that our nation would thrive under a female presidency, or that our society would experience the kind of real change that we have so desperately needed. I am absolutely confident that our reputation abroad would improve.

And I am certain that other nations would respect her. I’m just not so sure I can say the same for our own.

We are a country that celebrates our hot-shot, cowboy, rough-and-tumble attitude. We do what we want, how we want, when we want. We like our men beefy and our women dainty. We’re the kind of people who still buy Hummers, environment be damned.

We are a nation that elected and re-elected a guy that turns phrases like “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” and “SHOCK AND AWE” and “BRING ‘EM ON,” as though we are playing some GI Joe video game instead of sacrificing lives in the name of an endless war with a vague and ever-changing objective.

There’s no way these same people would actually elect a girl. Particularly when the alternative has a penis. He may be old and feeble, but that only softens him just enough that a Democrat would actually consider voting for him. That, or he’ll die in office and we’ll be stuck with whatever right-wing yahoo he picks as his running mate.

Consider how ri-damn-diculous Hillary sounded this week when she tried out her new rough-rider stance on foreign policy with Iran:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Obliterate! Them’s fightin’ words! Can you sense the hesitation before it pops out of her mouth, the millisecond in which a tiny George Bush with horns and a forked tail popped up on her shoulder and whispers the word in her ear?

But what America loves to hear George Bush say just don’t sound right coming from a female-type.

It sucks. I know it does. If a man is strong, he’s capable; if a woman is strong, she’s a bitch. It’s not fair. But it’s how our country operates. I want to see it change as much as the next person, but we have fallen into such a deep political and economic hole, I just don’t think now is a good time to risk our one big chance to dig ourselves out.

[I really meant to post about this yesterday. Sorry about that.]

Mardi Gras! Fat Tuesday! What a bizarre tradition. Leave it to the Catholics to decide that the most appropriate way to ready themselves for forty days of Lenten abstinence and penitence is to get rip-roaring drunk. I celebrated by eating a vegan chocolate cookie in the Whole Foods Cafe while wearing the free Mardi Gras beads they were handing out (no, I did not have to flash the cashier for them). And wouldn’t you know it, I felt guilty about the dessert, too. I guess I will always be a recovering Catholic.

Super Tuesday! I’m embarrassed to say that I’m still not exactly sure how all this delegate business works, nor did I actually vote, as I am still registered in Chicago and figured it wasn’t worth the drive to cast my ballot since Obama was going to sweep Illinois anyway.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to announce that Vanity Fairest is officially endorsing Barack Obama for the presidency. After eight years of this malarky, I’d be pretty happy to see any Democrat in office, but Barack Obama is the first candidate I’ve experienced in my adult life that really does it for me. In the same kind of way that Bill Clinton did it for our moms back in the day, if you know what I mean.

Long before the Ted and Caroline endorsed Obama and the papers started calling him the JFK of Generation X, Rob and I were talking about how much the Obamas reminded us of the Kennedys. Down to the cute kids and wife with the pearls and flippy hairdo.

Seriously, though. If this becomes a legitimate pattern, Elizabeth is going to start getting some marriage proposals from aspiring leaders of the free world. I mean:

Jackie O, Michelle O, Elizabeth … O?!?

More significantly, Barack is the kind of guy, we agreed, for whom we would throw ourselves in front of a bullet. (Well, OK, I said I would, Rob nodded and thought I was nuts, but close enough.) Before now, I couldn’t imagine crying over the assassination of any president of my time the way our nation mourned for JFK.

Now, I get misty just thinking about it. And nearly all those dramatic speeches of his reduce me to tears.

I am proud to be a Democrat seeing a woman and a black man on our ballot, and I would be proud to be an American to have someone in the White House who can instill that kind of emotion and belief and hope in our people. The kind of person who gives you goosebumps and makes you believe that we can, and that its time to get to work.

My friend Julia sent me an email the other day, discussing her feelings about Obama from her perspective as a doctoral candidate in psychiatry at Stanford and a psychology fellow at Yale. (Hope I got that close to right, Julia. You smart people and your complicated degrees!) She had a very unique perspective that I thought is worth sharing. She says:

“As someone who interacts literally every day with the broken health care system, recent returnees from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, people below the poverty line, and immigrants … I watch every day as people who are hopeless give up on their lives, relationships, and the world.

“One thing that psychological science has shown us over and over again is that a motivated person can do infinitely more than a person going through the motions of a task. Cognitive therapy works better when you supercharge it with discussions aimed at increasing the patient’s motivation to change. … Patients do better in therapy when the therapist manages to “instill hope” in the first session. People get better in treatment for psychiatric and medical disorders if they believe that the treatment will help them. Everywhere you look, there is empirical support for the fact that hope and motivation to change are more than a side note – they are in many cases the determining factor in moving beyond seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

“I’m voting for Obama because, given the fact that I think the candidates’ platforms are fairly similar, I can think of no more important cause than giving my support to the candidate whose speech and message is so clearly inspirational to people from such varied places, creeds, races, political affiliations, age groups, socio-economic groups, etc. When seeking change, the only thing more important than instilling hope is actually getting people to the table (can’t do one without the other!) and I whole-heartedly believe in Obama’s ability to do both.

“This isn’t a fluffy issue that distracts from the main agenda items. Years of research indicates that this is the issue that determines whether people/groups/systems move forward or stay stuck.

“No matter how it turns out, I hope you are able to able to find a way to believe that America can continue to move forward towards its lofty goals: to treat all people equally, to reward hard work with success, to value invention and innovation, and to provide freedom and justice to all.”

So there. I’m voting for Obama because my psychiatrist says its the only real way I can find peace in myself and in the world.

Also, he kind of looks like Grover:

And finally, yesterday was also super-cell Tuesday. Late last night, a huge “super-cell” storm ripped through the South, including metro Nashville. I was driving home from obedience school when I flipped on 92.9 FM for my daily dose of Delilah, which was being interrupted by continuous storm tracking updates.

It was barely misting where I was, and I don’t tend to get nervous about these things. But as I approached home, the sky turned about eight shades of black and lightning tore through the sky all around me as hail hammed down on my leased car (nice).

Suddenly, they announced that a tornado had touched down on Highway 100 (my street!) about half a mile from where we live, and was headed down my street, toward my house, as I was driving in from the opposite direction!

Rob was in his car, too, and we both drove about 80 miles an hour down our street, pulled into the garage, tires squealing, grabbed some flashlights and hightailed it into the closet. (We don’t have basements in tornado country. That would make too much sense.)

Now Molly was just loving the closet, since she’s not otherwise allowed in there because the laundry basket is too much of a temptation. Rob was pacing around in his usual caged-animal fashion, contemplating our certain death. And while I am not usually nervous about these things, there’s something about imagining the strength of a wind that could rip our house out from around us that can make your stomach hurt. I mean, there’s nothing to grab on to!

Fortunately, we were spared, as were the handful of others we know in Nashville. We emerged from the closet to discover that our house had not landed in Oz and was, in fact, still intact in Tennessee.

I’m not going to say I wasn’t a little disappointed.