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The most dramatic voting experience in my short voter-life. First the lady at the door (who I guess was there for crowd control, but a crowd at 7:15 in the am?) asked me if I had my voter registration card.
“You mean the yellow card?”
“Do you have your voter registration card?”
“Do you mean that huge yellow card they send you in the mail?”
“You have your voter registration card?” (Neither of us is getting nasty or rude, but I was pretty incredulous.)
“Um, no, not really.” Deciding to vote in the morning instead of after work had been pretty spur of the moment. Like I literally turned on my heel at the corner of my block and went the other way, passing my mom in the process. Besides, I’d chucked that stupid thing the day they’d sent it. It’s not a card. You can’t fit that thing in your wallet. It’s a postcard on steroids. Anyway, so the conversation continued:
“Well it would have been easier if you had your card because then you would know where to go.” She says this even though we’re less than 3 feet away from the information desk…and there’s no one behind me, or in front of me. It wasn’t completely empty but, remember, 7 in the morning! Anyway, I go up to the table and there’s a little shuffle as they try to figure out who’s gonna take me. I get the only guy at the table. Okay. So he starts going through the books, looking all confused like. Why did stupid me open my mouth: “Oh, I know how to use that, sir.”
“So do I.”
Great…I’m starting the day off offending old people. I should have known it’d be downhill from there.
Anywho, there was the requisite backpedaling, but he was actually pretty cool about the whole thing. Thinking about it now, he kinda looked like the short version of one of my fave profs. Who I probably should have kept up with, via email…like a year ago. I’m so bad at keeping in touch. Can you tell?
So I’m pointed to my right booth (which was right next to the info table, go figure) and lucky me I’m the only one. The other person there is just stepping into the booth. Woohoo, no line for me! I partied too soon. So Old Lady 1 asks my name, I give it, and she starts flipping through the book. As she’s going through I spot my name at the bottom of the page she’s holding when she looks up to nose into someone else’s convo. (I have tiny handwriting, which is even smaller once you’ve condensed it to fit on a page with 6 other ppl’s.) “I see my name.”
“Huh?”
“I see my name?”
Flip. She’s gone past it. She looks up at me. “Mother of Tinpra?”
I managed to remain fairly chipper and go, “Uh, no. You passed it.”
“Oh. Tinpra?”
“That’s me.”
“Do you have ID, honey?” This from Old Lady 2, sitting to the right (my right) of OL 1. Sure I have ID. I fish it out for her and hand it over. Juuuust before OL 1 can turn the book around so I can sign OL 1 and Old Lady 3 (whom I hadn’t even noticed sitting on the left of OL 1 but kind of apart) chime in that you can’t ask for ID. So they get into a discussion about it. And OL 2 is now holding both my voter card thingamajig and my non-drivers ID hostage.
Me trying to expedite the process: “Um, well they were saying on the radio that you’re supposed to bring your ID.”
“Well if they’ve been saying it on the radio then you should.
“Yes I guess you should if they’ve been saying it on the radio.”
And OL 2 has still got my info. And I haven’t signed yet. Actually that was fixed pretty quickly b/c OL 1 decided that she could turn the book and talk at the same time. So I sign…and OL 2 still has my cards.
“Is this your first election, dear?” This from OL 3, the ringleader behind the kidnapping of my ID card.
“Nope.” Unlike the old guy, I didn’t feel so bad about being a touch rude to OL 3. So at this point I am literally waiting for OL 2 to finish filling out the vote-card (apparently she couldn’t talk and write) and give me back my stuff…some time before 9 p.m. when the polls closed. Then she does have it finished…but is still talking! It takes a couple of pointed looks and a muttered “I have to go to work” before I finally get my stuff back.
You’d think that after all that I would have been in the clear. But see you’ve forgotten one thing: my own stupidity. Apparently it extends farther than putting my foot in my mouth. Oh no, that’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
So I [finally] get into the booth and I’m all set to vote for my peoples. Except the little clicky lever thing won’t move. It gets so bad I even tried to flick the switch for the other guy…for any guy! I was ready to vote Libertarian, Working Family, Howdy Doody, anything if only I could get the little switch to work. And then, in a moment of clarity, I read the instructions. “First, pull back the red lever…” I looked down and, sure enough, there it was. The big (huge) red lever. Apparently you need that guy to work all the little ones. It comes nearly to my belly-button…and I’d still missed it. The lady running the booth, luckily not one of the OLs, probably thought I was wracked with indecision. If only that were so. At least then I’d seem like a concerned citizen and not the all around idiot that I turned out to be.
Fine…finally I’m voting. I vote our future president, I vote for our future senator/council-person, I vote for—
And here is where I got stuck. Suddenly there’s a whole row of people that I’ve never even heard of, whose positions I didn’t even know were up for grabs, and you want me to pick one? No, not one but “any 5 out of 7.” Are they mad? Who are these people! I seem to remember the same thing happening to me the last time I voted. I also seem to remember going “Okay!” and randomly flicking 5 levers. I’ve since matured, and in my maturity have decided not to vote for someone just because I’ve seen their name on a cheesy poster – because, let’s face it, all political posters are pure cheese.
“You mean the yellow card?”
“Do you have your voter registration card?”
“Do you mean that huge yellow card they send you in the mail?”
“You have your voter registration card?” (Neither of us is getting nasty or rude, but I was pretty incredulous.)
“Um, no, not really.” Deciding to vote in the morning instead of after work had been pretty spur of the moment. Like I literally turned on my heel at the corner of my block and went the other way, passing my mom in the process. Besides, I’d chucked that stupid thing the day they’d sent it. It’s not a card. You can’t fit that thing in your wallet. It’s a postcard on steroids. Anyway, so the conversation continued:
“Well it would have been easier if you had your card because then you would know where to go.” She says this even though we’re less than 3 feet away from the information desk…and there’s no one behind me, or in front of me. It wasn’t completely empty but, remember, 7 in the morning! Anyway, I go up to the table and there’s a little shuffle as they try to figure out who’s gonna take me. I get the only guy at the table. Okay. So he starts going through the books, looking all confused like. Why did stupid me open my mouth: “Oh, I know how to use that, sir.”
“So do I.”
Great…I’m starting the day off offending old people. I should have known it’d be downhill from there.
Anywho, there was the requisite backpedaling, but he was actually pretty cool about the whole thing. Thinking about it now, he kinda looked like the short version of one of my fave profs. Who I probably should have kept up with, via email…like a year ago. I’m so bad at keeping in touch. Can you tell?
So I’m pointed to my right booth (which was right next to the info table, go figure) and lucky me I’m the only one. The other person there is just stepping into the booth. Woohoo, no line for me! I partied too soon. So Old Lady 1 asks my name, I give it, and she starts flipping through the book. As she’s going through I spot my name at the bottom of the page she’s holding when she looks up to nose into someone else’s convo. (I have tiny handwriting, which is even smaller once you’ve condensed it to fit on a page with 6 other ppl’s.) “I see my name.”
“Huh?”
“I see my name?”
Flip. She’s gone past it. She looks up at me. “Mother of Tinpra?”
I managed to remain fairly chipper and go, “Uh, no. You passed it.”
“Oh. Tinpra?”
“That’s me.”
“Do you have ID, honey?” This from Old Lady 2, sitting to the right (my right) of OL 1. Sure I have ID. I fish it out for her and hand it over. Juuuust before OL 1 can turn the book around so I can sign OL 1 and Old Lady 3 (whom I hadn’t even noticed sitting on the left of OL 1 but kind of apart) chime in that you can’t ask for ID. So they get into a discussion about it. And OL 2 is now holding both my voter card thingamajig and my non-drivers ID hostage.
Me trying to expedite the process: “Um, well they were saying on the radio that you’re supposed to bring your ID.”
“Well if they’ve been saying it on the radio then you should.
“Yes I guess you should if they’ve been saying it on the radio.”
And OL 2 has still got my info. And I haven’t signed yet. Actually that was fixed pretty quickly b/c OL 1 decided that she could turn the book and talk at the same time. So I sign…and OL 2 still has my cards.
“Is this your first election, dear?” This from OL 3, the ringleader behind the kidnapping of my ID card.
“Nope.” Unlike the old guy, I didn’t feel so bad about being a touch rude to OL 3. So at this point I am literally waiting for OL 2 to finish filling out the vote-card (apparently she couldn’t talk and write) and give me back my stuff…some time before 9 p.m. when the polls closed. Then she does have it finished…but is still talking! It takes a couple of pointed looks and a muttered “I have to go to work” before I finally get my stuff back.
You’d think that after all that I would have been in the clear. But see you’ve forgotten one thing: my own stupidity. Apparently it extends farther than putting my foot in my mouth. Oh no, that’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
So I [finally] get into the booth and I’m all set to vote for my peoples. Except the little clicky lever thing won’t move. It gets so bad I even tried to flick the switch for the other guy…for any guy! I was ready to vote Libertarian, Working Family, Howdy Doody, anything if only I could get the little switch to work. And then, in a moment of clarity, I read the instructions. “First, pull back the red lever…” I looked down and, sure enough, there it was. The big (huge) red lever. Apparently you need that guy to work all the little ones. It comes nearly to my belly-button…and I’d still missed it. The lady running the booth, luckily not one of the OLs, probably thought I was wracked with indecision. If only that were so. At least then I’d seem like a concerned citizen and not the all around idiot that I turned out to be.
Fine…finally I’m voting. I vote our future president, I vote for our future senator/council-person, I vote for—
And here is where I got stuck. Suddenly there’s a whole row of people that I’ve never even heard of, whose positions I didn’t even know were up for grabs, and you want me to pick one? No, not one but “any 5 out of 7.” Are they mad? Who are these people! I seem to remember the same thing happening to me the last time I voted. I also seem to remember going “Okay!” and randomly flicking 5 levers. I’ve since matured, and in my maturity have decided not to vote for someone just because I’ve seen their name on a cheesy poster – because, let’s face it, all political posters are pure cheese.