So, the rafters of Harlem rocked last night as people took to the streets and sang and laughed and hugged and celebrated and played music until the wee hours.
I was not with them, of course. Not because I'm not happy that Obama won, I'm happy, but because I'm decrepit in spirit and I've become the type of person who dozes off in front of the TV set before 9, only to be jostled awake by my dutiful husband, informing me about what I've missed and me sputtering, "oh, oh...I'm up, I'm up, not asleep...just resting my eyes... eh...resting...not sleeping" and having to wipe the spittle off my cheek, which is imprinted with the shape of a shoe that I had unknowingly fallen asleep on.
I'm a catch.
Anyway, this morning I told Lucy about the election results that I slept through, even though a neighbor was here drinking beer with David and a party had kind of formed, even if it was a small one, and Lucy asked, "Is Obama coming to our house?" and I said, "I don't think so, baby...Obama is going to be very busy the next few months getting ready to move to the White House."
And she thought about this and said very confidently, "Well, we should go to his house then..." and then, she quickly added, "...I bet he has good toys."
And I bet he does.