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How Much is That Doggy in the White House?

November 8, 2008
Life, Politics

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Just when you thought it was safe to exit the polls: RECOUNT! Now, imagine me saying that in the perkiest voice imaginable, because 1) if we are going to have a recount, I for one am damn well going to try and enjoy it this time, and 2) anything that makes Norm Coleman squirm makes me happy, because he is a spineless weasel. Also: getting all snarky and telling everyone that your opponent is wasting tax dollars with a recount when said recount involves a difference of a mere few hundred votes and is thereby mandated by state law? Not your shiniest moment, Norm.

But really, who else is sick of hearing about politics? (Raise your hands high; we want them to be visible in Washington.) I am just as excited about the new political era as the next rabid political news junkie, but OH MY GOD can we have a break, please? Meaning no more breathless updates on what kind of puppy the Obamas are planning to get, and what Barack Obama is doing RIGHT THIS MINUTE (one would hope it involves heavy liquor and eventual passing out), and the endless rounds of back-patting from the media because they made it through the election without wildly inaccurate predictions or exploding holograms. I will merely suggest that the Obamas get a holographic puppy (no allergins, Malia!) and then I will go lock myself in a closet until January 20, when the Obama administration actually lifts off.

If I am sounding kind of tetchy, it is because I had to go shopping today—not just grocery shopping, but girlie-stuff shopping, which is a whole ’nother world of boring. You may recall how Obama indirectly ruined my purse on Election Day; I have been trying to get him to clean up his mess and send me a replacement (or equivalent cash value), but he’s been avoiding my phone calls and e-mails. So I went out myself to find a new one myself, and I hope you will not accuse me of hyperbole when I make the following, completely true, not at all exaggerated statement: the current fashion trends are incontrovertible proof of the existence of a malevolent God. No, really. I thought pants and shoes were bad these past seasons, but purses—it is like some half-blind purse designers raided a furniture store for the ugliest couch fabric swatches they could find, made them into satchels based on patterns found at the nearest hobo hangout, then said, “Hey, this could use some bling!” and threw on as many pointless leather-and-dull-metal buckles as would fit on the damn pouch. And then they priced it at $30 and hoped maybe they would catch me on the day I had my eyes dilated at the optometrist’s office. The least eye-scarring number I could find was a $13 nylon deal from Walmart, and before anyone gives me hassle for shopping at the Devil’s Outlet for Worker Inequality and General Social Repression, let me protest that I will actually be doing society a great favor by not scaring babies and making grown men cry with the fountain-of-fug purses I could have bought. Also: my new purse has room for all my toiletries and my nunchaku, so I will be able to defend myself against the ninja forces of evil without having to give up my lip gloss or emergency scrunchie. Not that a scrunchie isn’t a good makeshift weapon in an emergency; just ask my husband, who sassed me earlier today and is even now picking elastic out of his teeth.

On second thought, maybe I should forget the nunchaku and make myself an army of holograms. Better yet: puppies. Cute, cuddly, lethal—no one would see the danger until it was far too late…

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