So I've been screaming a lot in the shower lately.
No, not because there is a large mirror next to the bathtub, but because I have a radio in the bathroom.
I picked-up the habit of starting my day with the all-news, all the time station from my parents, who used it as their wake-up call. I considered it a downright inhumane practice. So of course, like all repulsed offspring, I ended up embracing the same bizarre habits as Ma and Pa, thus the tendency to listen to gut-wrenching news first thing in the AM.
This year, the top stories have been particularly grueling, causing me to scream in the shower like a Psycho wannabe. 
The neighbors must think that I'm being tortured and, come to think of it, I AM.
Who hasn't? There's the putrid thousand-mile wall to keep out the tired, the poor and the huddled masses; the countries that are literally cursed because they aren't nearly as white as the president thinks they should be; the embarrassingly juvenile nicknames unbecoming of an inebriated frat boy; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
So every day, the news blares and I scream.
And that's why I went to the Philadelphia Women's March on Saturday again this year.
In the past, I've always wondered why people marched and how they found the time to do it. Once, when I was lucky enough to buy preview tickets for a Broadway production, I almost missed the show because protesters were blocking a street near the theater. I wanted to wallop a few of the dissidents that day, no matter how noble their cause. I feel your pain, but don't come between me and my musicals...
But now I get it.
As I listen to the radio every morning, I understand WHY a person wants to march.(Although, let's be honest, for some of us who are in our sixties, it's DEFINITELY more of a stroll than an actual march).
And I realize how a good old-fashioned protest can be inspirational. After last year's march, my sister Re started to volunteer at a center for struggling migrant workers and is still donating her time there every week.
This year, me, a friend, my sister, two of her daughters and her seven-week-old grandson all stood together at the Women's March. Well, the baby just sort of napped, but it was still three generations worth of patriotism and chutzpah, which I shall never forget
Did we hold our signs up high? We did. (Mine: An illustration of the back end of a horse along with the caption "Stable genius? Or horse's ass?") Did we have a few laughs during the day? Indeed. Did we grab some lunch after the speeches were delivered? Girls gotta eat. Were we exhausted as we rode the bus home at the end of the day? You betcha.
But we were glad that we had the right and that we took the time to stand-up for equality for all, malice toward none.
Honestly, it felt marvelous to chant against the vicious tone that has been set in the United States this past year.
Pocahontas? Dicky? Rocket Man? Grow the hell up, that's MY message.
The presidential tweets alone are enough to make a sane person (not to mention an editor) scream.
And so screamed we did on Saturday.
And it's what we'll do in every damn election.
Just listen, America - can ya hear us roar?