Bright and early this morning, I drove into the polling precinct parking lot ready to do my duty as an American citizen and exercise my right to vote. Four years ago when I voted, it took me three tries to get my ballot right. The first two times the machine rejected my ballot and the third time I screwed up my ballot by not voting to retain a person near and dear to me as a judge. Pen and paper has always been hard for me. When the machine finally validated my ballot, the precinct judge and volunteers clapped. I bowed. This year I was hoping to get my ballot right on the first try as I walked confidently to the check in table.
Oops! Wrong polling place. My precinct had moved without telling me. Okay, fine. The precinct folks were very friendly and helpful as they redirected me to the correct precinct.
Voting precinct number 2 was located at a very large neighborhood school surrounded by one-way streets, making it almost impossible to find the front door, but we all know Katybeth is not a quitter! I found the precinct entrance, parked the car, walked to the table and, after much checking and teeth gnashing on the part of the volunteers, I was once again told that I was at the wrong precinct and directed to the library up the street.
Voting precinct number 3, located in a library, was easy to find and had ample street parking. I hopped out of my car with renewed enthusiasm and approached the front door where two men were arguing.
One was a man campaigning with an OBAMA sign and cards.
The other was an election judge telling him to move back from the door.
As I slowly approached the door, the man campaigning angrily turned, caught me on the side of the face with his sign, and knocked me to the ground. Adding insult to injury he took off at a run.
Obviously at this point I became the center of attention. It must have been hard for them to tell me as I sat there with a bag of ice on my eye that I had once again been sent to the wrong precinct. After a short recovery, well wishes, and offers to drive me home, I left for precinct number 4.
Precinct number 4 is about 3 blocks from home. Thankfully there was a parking spot outside the front door. I suspected more than my eye was going to be bruised as I limped woefully to the door. Finding my last name was once again a challenge. The volunteer looking for my name clearly did not know the alphabet. Her helper did not speak English. Compounding problems was my hyphenated last name. Finally, they allowed me to help look and together we found my name, along with dearly departed Joe’s and my father-in-law’s names.
When people ask me about my black eye, I am just going to tell them Obama hit me. It was a sign.
For 50 cent I will show you my other bruises tomorrow!
Odd Loves Company!