The autumn of my discontent

I'm suffering from that free floating, completely non-specific malaise again. Nothing is really wrong. It's just that nothing is really right.

Sometimes I feel rather spoiled at times like this. Bratty. There are people in the world with visceral, insurmountable problems. And here I am, wallowing in the blues. As Holly Golightly put it, "The blues are because you're getting fat or because it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all."

Maybe it's post-election depression … or that I haven't been working out … or because my career isn't traveling down the path I expected … or that the weather is unseasonably warm and I can't believe I went Christmas shopping in a short-sleeve sweater and no coat. Just, please God, don't let it be hormones!

Farewell, Rummy

Donald Rumsfeld is really easy to demonize because he's such a stereotypical rich old white guy. He knows better than you, Missy, about this war and about the armed services and about the world. Everything in his fabulously condescending manner says, "How dare you question me?"

But he was Secretary of Defense, not our national den mother. And he was only Secretary of Defense. George W. Bush was ultimately responsible for every decision Rumsfeld made.

That made his conduct today, as he stood there beside the man he served so loyally while being unceremoniously canned, very touching. Rumsfeld is a tough old bird, stoic and classy to the end.

I know, I know. As a liberal Democrat I'm supposed to hate the old guy. And I am happy to see him go. But I will always view him with grudging admiration. On 9/11, he very bravely ran toward the the Pentagon crash site. (You can actually see the smoke from the fire in this photo.) The old fella willing walked into danger when he didn't have to in an attempt to help save lives. So even though I disagree with every aspect of how he's handled the war, I still say, "Thank you for your service, Mr. Secretary."