Skipper casts her first vote for a woman in the Massachusetts Senate primary this morning.

Every few weeks, whether by design because it gets damn difficult to write thoughtful commentary once a day or more, or by accident because it’s, well it’s damn difficult to write thoughtful commentary once a day or more and sometimes we repeat ourselves, someone in the Puma/Disenfranchised Dems/Under-the-Bus-Liberals camp writes a blog post about the death of Puma, or the need for a NEW movement, brand (a term I loathe in this context, by the way), conference, committee, organization or SOMETHING to make everything all better and finally be THE “change” we’ve all been waiting for.

It’s enough to make a person just want to stay in bed and give up on the whole idea of being part of or trying to direct in even a small way an ACTUAL grassroots (messy, disorganized,un-or-hopelessly-under-funded, happening all at once with very little or no structure and absolutely no PREPLANNED structure for goodness sakes (the grass doesn’t grow according to an ORG CHART or by following the dictates of a TO DO list generated by a brainstorming session; the grass just GROWS.) ) movement to counteract the venality, the corporate ownership, the divisive lies, and the relentless misogyny of American national politics.

To borrow a metaphor from Twisty, I wasted WAAAY too much time yesterday on the event horizon of a Misanthropy Black Hole (and yes i DO mean that in a man-hating way) HERE.

The mug-shots remind me of August Sanders’ masterpiece: People of the 20th Century, but better because they are a deconstructed 20-FIRST Century masterpiece: The images keep updating and making themselves new in a not-quite unique way, like waves mindlessly beating themselves upon the shore, the same but different the same but different the same but different over and over and over again, except once in a while holy ficking smokes, run for your life.

Certain French feminists of the 20th century claimed that women write in White Ink or Mother’s Milk or Invisible Ink or what have you; that our authorial existence, what we say and do, is some sort of Zen Not Exactly Being In a Unique and Memorializable Way. Our words, thoughts, writings, are like waves beating mindlessly on the sand, the same but different the same but different, consensual, colloquial, concordant, and, above all, contributing to nameless sisterhood and faceless justice.

Please. The lord knows I love France, but what a bunch of hogwash. But, I digress.

And the torpor bogs down even deeper. Posts about process lead to very intelligent, on-point, often thoughtful, sometimes even very witty debates about VERY fine points.

I tune out.

But then, lo Tuesday morning breaks sunny and cold and it’s Election Day in Massachusetts. My third grader and I pull into Town Hall to vote for the first woman Senator from Massachusetts. Skipper is wearing a pink sweatshirt by chance. The ballot is pink. She marks a big “X” next to Martha Coakley’s name and I snap her picture.

I think as we drive back home that Martha Coakley will win and she’ll be the first woman senator from Massachusetts, and Skipper will be able to vote for her first re-election, and she will REMEMBER this morning. She will remember that it MATTERED. Something about this morning will stick in her head that says: Vote for a woman not because SHE is a woman but because YOU are, to paraphrase Robin Morgan.

And then, to make things even better Violet Socks has a clip from Shannon Drury, the president of Montana NOW,

“I am OVER compromise. I am DONE with bipartisanship. I will NO LONGER be told I have to take my health care medicine like a good little girl.”

and, how did I miss this?!? from Cathy and the Pumas:

I dutifully cast my vote for Hillary in the DFL caucuses, one of very few people to do so in my madly, wildly liberal south Minneapolis neighborhood. Barack Obama put a twinkle in even the most hardened pinko’s eye, it seemed. Come June, when Obama officially sewed up the nomination, I felt a little bad for my pantsuited sister, but I wasn’t terribly disappointed. I liked this “hope” and “change” stuff, too. I really liked it! Hell, yeah! It felt great to be a LIBERAL in my country again!

I found it a little weird that the National NOW PAC decided to give Obama-Biden their official endorsement, but I accepted the argument that they had to come out swinging against the lipsticky lady from Alaska who, while admirably female, remained staunchly pro-life.

But a lot of women didn’t like that. They didn’t like the NOW endorsement, for they didn’t like the way Obama treated Clinton in the endorsement race. They were outraged by her treatment in the press. Worst of all, they didn’t like being told that they had to silence their concerns for the good of the Democratic party. How did they respond?

Party Unity, My Ass!

Oh, how the PUMAs were mocked. They were vilified as a bunch of old gals who didn’t understand this too-cool third wave that was washing them to sea. They roared back, growling that we young cubs didn’t know half the shit they went through back in the day–because of them, I was recognized by my own name and not Mrs. Matthew, among other things. The PUMAs were fed up with the “post-feminist” generation, these ladies, women, and girls who acted like being able NOT to choose a woman candidate was a good thing.

Then we all got Stupaked.

And riverdaughter lays it out real good this morning as well.

The torpor lifts.