Suspicious

Honey had a cold last weekend and I congratulated myself all week for not getting it. Then, lo and behold, standing in line at Souplantation Friday night, I felt my throat getting sore. Sore throat led to aches led to stuffed up nose and headaches.

Honey and I were out of decongestant and I had managed (with some help from Biscuit) to destroy our hairbrush (yes we share(Honey and I, not Biscuit and I or Biscuit and Honey)...whatever). So I went to the drugstore this morning. I should add that I took our last decongestant this morning and I am very much congested. 12 hours my ass.

I guess I knew this, but when I got to the cough and cold aisle, anything with suphedrine wasn't there.

So, I picked out a new brush, got some Kleenex (anti viral Kleenex! Will technology never cease? Supposedly it kills 99.9% of cold and flu viruses. Now, I do have a question--if they can't cure the cold how can a Kleenex do what all of Western medicine can not? I mean, I believe in Kleenex. I'm just not sure these are SUPERKLEENEX.)

I go with my armload of stuff back to the pharmacy and ask for sudafed. The pharmacist looks at me as if I'm a threat.

"Do you have a cold?"

"Yesd." I then sniff to add emphasis to my congested response.

"Ok." She looks me up and down. I smile bravely and sniff again.

She starts to ring up the brush and Kleenex, then looks at me again and says--"I need ID." She scans it and nods when I don't come up on the drug dealer list they must have in the little box.

I walk out of the drugstore and imagine the little cameras that must be following my every move.

I walked out into the Southern California June gloom imagining all the trouble I could get into with my 12 Rite-Aid generic time release sudafed. She was right to worry. Once I tap into the superpower of the Kleenex and grind down those babies, I'll be able to take over the world.



+



=

Watch out!

One Woman, One Vote...or not

I picked up Honey last night and we headed off to the local elementary school to vote in the California primary. In the weeks running up the election we had been "called" by Sally Field, Magic Johnson, Barbara Boxer, nurses, firefighters, the California Democratic Party, etc. etc. We were coming home to five and six messages on our answering machine every night and getting that many more calls through the night. And then there was the mail. Buckets of mail. Yes on 81, no on 82, nurses for Angelides (did I mention the nurses? There were nurses who wanted to TALK to us).

So we get to out polling place and walk in the door. The nice and efficient woman at the first table looks us up and we're not on the roster. We check the address ranges and our address is within the range. Honey and I vote. Really. I may have missed a local primary here and there, but in every national election since I was 18, I have voted. Ditto the federal and state primaries. I've voted in Georgia, Maryland, and California. I'm a registered Democrat and always have been. Nope, not on the rolls. Honey either.

So we go over to the "green zone" table and the poll worker sitting there does not speak English. At all. I tell her my last name, she can't find it, because she does not understand me. When I tell her it's not on the page it supposed to be on (I look), she marks another name for me to sign. As Honey said, it's GREAT for California polls to have poll workers who can speak other languages. And having someone who is fluent in Spanish is terrific. But that person ought not to greet me, the Angloist Anglo who ever Angloed around. I'm pink. I speak a little Italian. I passed my written test in German for my PhD. I should know some Spanish. I know that. Still.

OK, so then we're shuffled off to address book lady. She's got a line. There's this old guy who keeps getting ballots out of a box, that say "DO NOT USE" on top of them. Then an independent wants to vote. Old guy give him a Peace and Freedom Party ballot. Then a Republican Ballot. Then an American Independent Party ballot. There's this big stack of ballots marked "Non-Partisan." He doesn't get one of those.

So Honey and I fill out the provisional envelopes. Because our address isn't in there either. We live at 13718. The addresses skip from 13717 to 13720. Cool. Did our house sink into something while we weren't looking? It was 6/6/6 after all.

After we vote, we go back to address woman. She's REALLY in to giving out the "I voted" stickers. Our ballots? She sort of throws them on the table. She doesn't fill out the "Poll worker" side. They're just sitting there on top of the "DO NOT USE" ballot piles. We start to walk out and I say to Honey that I don't think our votes are going to count. The efficient woman asks us if there's a problem. When I explain about the unsealed provisional envelopes sitting on the table, she gets up and finds them. She has us seal them and says she'll be sure they get taken care of. While she's doing this, she fusses at non-English woman, sticker lady and old guy. None of whom pay her any mind.

She gives us each a slip of paper and tells us that we can call in 30 days to find out if our votes counted. By which time we can do nothing about it.

And people wonder how voter fraud could happen.

Sigh.

Hands

Last night I shook between 400 and 500 hands. I know that's nothing for politicians.

My program had 700 students eligible for commencement and I had the "big" side of them to shake hand with.

I've never much liked my hands. They're small and have stubby fingers. Sausagey fingers really. My mother has nice hands. My brother does too. Go figure.

Still, they're not bad hands to shake with, I don't think. The size isn't overwhelming and they're pretty soft. I don't moisturize as much as I could, but they're pretty soft anyway.

There was a pause there while I moisturized. Nothing like the present.

Honey said that I should have gotten the optional extra pocket put into my gown for purell.

Most of the students whose hands I shook last night were women. The men were all vigorous grippers and some of the women were too. Lots of the women offered their french tipped hands like dead fish. I was into reactive shaking. I offered my hand, but the squeeze factor was determined by them.

I shook hands for more than an hour. The folks who shook before me could not keep their feet on the yellow "stand here" sign and the photographer had to keep telling them to move back to the sign. One guy, despite being told not to, kept turning toward the photographer to be in the picture with every graduate, arms around each one. Here's the thing, though. His department had like 25 grads. Mine had 700. And my Dean had a bet with the SocSci Dean that we would be faster. It was on me really.

So I stood on the yellow sign and did not move. I hugged one student. One. After I shook her hand and made sure her picture was taken.

But because I was standing still on the yellow sign, my leg fell asleep. The very nice Dean of the Library, who comes to every graduation, kept asking me if I needed a break. No f'ing way, I thought. I'm going woman-up here and make it through. Then I realized my leg was numb. Collapsing=not good.

I let her take over for ten minutes. Then I finished off. Here's where I'm screwed up...I felt bad about taking a break.

Back to the hands. Most people's hands are pleasant. Some are long and some are stubby. There were about fifteen people who had really wet hands. REALLY wet. And then what was I supposed to do? Give their wet to the next person? Or wipe it on my robe?

Here's what I settled on. Wet hand=I'd wipe my face with my left hand and then gently rub BOTH of my hands on the side of my robe. When all else fails, blame your own sweat.

The Dean reports that the President was grateful we were the hand shakers (this was an innovation for us this year and apparently only our college did it). The Dean herself had cautioned against rings: advice that I took. I was a little sorry I wore a bracelet. More people grabbed it than I would have liked.

One student, in a haze, said "congratulations" after I said it. Lots had their names butchered by the name caller. "Close enough" a lot of them said. Too many of them brought their phones onto the stage.

Still, the sun had sunk behind the big tower on our campus and the breeze felt nice. Lots of them wore leis and the jazz band sounded great, as did the national anthem singer. Our speaker quoted cool people and is a progressive political figure in local politics who told them why the humanities was best for their futures.

My hand is a little sore, but I like that it helped send the class of 2006 out into the future. Now, if they'd just put the phones down for a minute...