After months of huffing and puffing, we now have some Actual Results–and I, for one, was left disappointed in a way that I don’t think I would have predicted, even though I’m pretty sure we’re all supposed to be really happy. In fact, my friend Barbara and I spent a very long time on the telephone afterwards, moping and fretting and engaging in pre-game analysis of New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Nevada. Is it, in the end, about really wanting a woman to win, even if one is not a huge fan of the particular person running? Possibly so, because I felt a certain sense of despair watching her get trounced. (Third place, and 9 percentage points behind, with 100% of the precincts reporting. Wow. Are heads rolling up and down the aisle of the campaign plane tonight? One can only assume so.)

And–yes–I’m disappointed. Miles to go before we sleep, and all of that–but, disappointed. Granted, my horse, Senator Feingold, wasn’t even in the race, but it doesn’t seem like a good sign when you’re sitting around thinking, well, okay, if the junior Senator from Illinois with no legislative accomplishments whatsoever–and a disgraceful attendance record, to boot–wins the Big Prize, at least he’s smart, and that will be a nice change.

Barack reminds me of the guy with whom you have an absolutely glorious first date, and you run home and tell everyone you know that you met someone intelligent, and good-looking, and funny, and he’s perfect, and they should maybe start saving up for your favorite silverware–except then, you go out with him again. And you’re dying to fall in love with him, because on paper, he just seems so wonderful–but, for some reason, privately, you’re already losing interest, and like Buffy, you’re kind of going through the motions. And, your loved ones say, gosh, you have not mentioned Barack at all lately, what’s up with that?–and you sigh and shrug, and mumble a lot.

Which was an embarrassingly banal description, but I am from New England, and many of My People are not good at expressing the way we feel about things.

Maureen Dowd did a fine job, though, and quite effectively pinned down part of what is bothering me the most about the winner of the Iowa Caucus–and the person who came in third. (is it wrong to say that the notion of 4–or 8–years of Michelle just makes me tired? In fact, even writing those words means that I may have to go over to the cupboard and help myself to some of The Wonder Drug immediately. The Caucus has only been over for a few hours–and I already want her to go away and leave me alone. Which was true the very first time I saw her interviewed, actually. Way too passive-aggressive–and simultaneously garden-variety aggressive, to wear well over the long haul. Or, in my case, the very short haul.)

But, regardless, it has all Begun–and until February 5th, we are looking at non-stop pundits, and talking points. Sigh. Deep sigh. Exhaustion. More Wonder Drug. And, perhaps, I’ll chase that with a glass of Rhode Island Elixir.

Is anyone else awfully damn sick of the word “Change” every four seconds? It beats “Tyranny,” a word I have come to despise during the past seven years–but, not by much.

By the way, Mike Huckabee won, too. I kind of like the guy, but I still laughed my head off.

On a more positive note, the Red Sox have not traded Jacoby Ellsbury yet, and a week ago, I was lucky enough to witness this, from the second-to-the-last row of the stadium. Although the friend I was with would assure you otherwise, (I was grouchy and tense and no fun at all for more than three full quarters), I enjoyed the game very much, once Eli finally coughed up the predictable crucial interception.

Forget February 5th; I am waiting for January 12th.