A Volunteer Speaks Once More

Canvassing.  I never really knew what it meant.

Okay, I knew what it meant, but I'd never really thought about what it entailed until this year's election.  I knew people did it, knocking on my door during my dinner-prep time just as the pasta was done or a baked good was finally to its golden-edged perfection and desperately needed to be removed from the oven.  So annoying.  This year, I am one of those annoyances.

This, I  hope, will be my last election-topic post.  I am frankly sick of the whole subject.  I can't wait for it all to be over, and I wish the vote had been last Tuesday.  I'm sick of writing about it- I'm sure you're sick of reading about it.  But, I thought election time would be incomplete without a little taste, for those of you readers who haven't taken the plunge, of how it feels to be a canvasser.  Canvasser?  Is that a word?  One who canvasses.

After showing up at HQ and attending a quick class which explained some of my thirty or so questions, I was assigned a canvassing buddy.  My term, not theirs.  Barry.  Barry the professional canvasser.  Chatty, friendly and super-quick on the issues.  Good ol' Barry.  

We were assigned a few neighborhoods in west St. Louis County; neighborhoods I knew would not be leaning, shall I say, the Obama way.  I've sold real estate there.  I know which way that wind is blowing, and it's not to the left.  

Barry, as I said, had done this before.  He knew the ropes, and zipped from house to house on the side of the street to which he was assigned.  I, on the other hand, could barely figure out the paperwork for the first half hour.  Once I did, I was cooking.  I bravely knocked at the doors (Barry did NOT) of even the houses with McCain/Palin signs out front.  At those houses, I explained that I had seen their campaign sign in the yard but was knocking anyway because of the large number of split voting homes we'd discovered in our canvassing efforts.  It was a line I'd stolen from the head of the canvassers back at HQ, and it was a good one.  It struck total panic in the eyes of those still willing to talk to me.  Yes, I knocked and I smiled, explaining that I was an Obama volunteer just trying to update our records: Is Mary at home?

This is the thing: at last Saturday's point in the campaign, the canvassing effort was trying to identify whether registered voters we had been unable to reach over the phone were leaning one way or another.  Eighty percent of the voters left on our lists, the ones they had been unable to reach, were between the ages of 18 and 26.  College-aged.  The kids who had just moved out on their own and hadn't yet changed their addresses.  The little bird flying from the nest and voting for just the first or second time in a Presidential election.  Still fresh birds!

I had a few doors slammed in my face.  I had a couple of shirtless male door answerers.  I  had a few who were downright rude, one birthday party (which they re-titled a "McCain Party" when I showed up), one twenty-something who said that voting wasn't really his "thing-" Barry and I were all over that one- and a few who actually wanted to talk about Obama's plans for the country.  The one I'll never forget, however, was a woman on King's Ridge.  Gorgeous house, well dressed, really didn't want to answer the door.  Looked seriously put out.  She made me wish I'd worn better than jeans and my grey hoodie.  She looked me up and down, I swear, and upon hearing I was a volunteer for Obama, closed the door halfway before even answering my question.  According to my clipboard, there were three kids at her address.  All college or young-adult aged.  

I asked politely before she could close the door all the way: "Are Mary, Amy or Bill at home?"  

"No."  

Okay, smile and go on.  "We're out today to gather information.  Would you have any idea if they are planning to support Barack Obama in the upcoming election?"

She sneered.  I haven't seen an actual sneer in a long time, probably because my daughter is off at college.  It's a very interested facial contortion- it looks as if it takes some effort, and it's not attractive.  It was strange to realize that, because of the name tag I was wearing, she REALLY DIDN'T LIKE ME.

"No," she said, sneer intact.  "We vote straight Republican."

In a flash, she'd made me realize: this lady didn't have a clue how her kids were going to vote. And she was SCARED. 

Her kids were off at college!  For all I knew, they could be off at Berkeley!  Brown!  Hotbeds of- horrors- Liberal Activism!  Kids have a way of deciding what they really are in college.  Isn't that one of the reasons we send them away, for better or for worse?  I was a registered Republican when I was eighteen, and look what happened to me- canvassing in a grey hoodie for a Democrat.  For all she knew, her kids could be out canvassing, too.  For Obama.  I have to admit, despite the sneer, I felt a little sorry for her.  

I smiled and marked "McCain" on my clipboard.  I thanked her, said goodbye and listened to the big thump of the door closing in my face.  Hey, at least she'd answered it, right?  

I can't help but think that it's the 18-26 year olds who own this election.  For one side or the other, we canvassers have talked to everyone else.  I have hope!  I think we can rock that vote, if we can just get them there!  If only 18-26 year olds took the time to read the blog of their middle-aged moms.    

So, I'm calling my daughter.  I'm telling her to vote, and to take her friends with her.  I'll tell her to do her part, to tell everyone she sees to vote, and she'll sigh heavily and think about the math test she has today or the mixer she has tonight.  She'll say "Okay, Mom," and she'll move on to another subject.  But, she will vote, and, come Wednesday morning, her world just might be more hopeful.

I'm sure the sneering lady is calling her kids, too.

I'm very nervous about election day.  And for some reason, I can't stop thinking about the mom on King's Ridge.  I wonder what she'll do if my candidate wins.  I'm sure her nervousness, despite appearances, at least matches mine.

I wonder how she'll feel on Wednesday morning?  

Multi-tasking for the Multi-tasker

by Jenny Gardiner

Okay, class. Today’s lesson is on multi-tasking. For the uninitiated, multi-tasking is the process of doing as many things as humanly possible in the same space of time: fixing dinner, cleaning dishes, feeding the dogs, writing a book, scrubbing the floor, fighting for world peace. It’s one way to maximize the limited 24-hour day.

It is a skill that has been honed throughout millennia by women in particular. Often times they receive their inaugural multi-tasking trial by fire upon the birth of their first child, whence they are called upon to perform such challenges as soothing a screaming newborn over their shoulder while picking up the burp cloth that’s inconveniently fallen on the ground with their toes while simultaneously attempting to clean up the projectile vomit said screaming child has just emitted while letting the barking dog out because the barking dog is what caused the child to scream in the first place. Oh, and cook dinner, dust the bookshelves and make the bed. While carrying a basket of laundry up from the basement.

Of course, when the husband comes home at the end of the work day and finds the new mother looking as if she just gave birth (again) and asks, “What did you do all day, honey?” implying that it looks as if she’d parked her butt in front of Oprah and didn’t even get up to go to the bathroom, a woman has to learn to cast that sphinx-like smile and just glibly tell her man, “oh, a little of this, a little of that” (either that or club him). But we know better.

Women are excellent multi-taskers. I have female physician friends who I’m sure could readily perform a C-section, bake a pie and clean the dishes, if only the operating theater were within reach of the kitchen.

Another friend of mine wins the award for multi-tasking. I saw her one time, shortly after her baby was born, on a neighborhood stroll. The baby in a jog stroller, the dog on a leash, and a book in front of her face. If that’s not an ambitious undertaking, killing three birds with one stone, nothing is.

I have found over the years that I can multi-task with just about everything. I read while brushing my teeth. Sometimes I clean my sink while blow-drying my hair. Check my e-mails, talk on the phone, feed the dogs, and clear my desk. You get the drift. I like to think of it as hyper-efficiency. My husband calls it ADD.

But I’ve found there’s one task that absolutely thwarts a person’s ability to seriously multi-task, and that is driving. Now, to a certain extent, we all multi-task when we drive. It’s an inevitable side effect of the process: checking mirrors, scanning the horizon, glancing over your shoulder before going into the passing lane. Even to the point that you might be eating a burger, licking an ice cream cone, or drinking hot coffee with one hand while driving. Who hasn’t steered with their knees occasionally?

Of course the cell phone has enabled those of us who spend an inordinate amount of time behind the wheel to at least partially fulfill the need to multitask. As a mother of three, I've spent several hours a day over the past decade or so couriering my charges to their various and many activities. At least with a cell phone I can take care of returning phone calls that are only interruptive when conducted at home, or catching up with someone I’ve neglected to contact in ages.

But I yearn for the ability to do more behind the wheel and long for the day that technology will catch up with a mother’s need to achieve while driving: how about a plug-in blow dryer so I can dry and drive at once? Or a way to fix dinner while stuck in traffic at 6 p.m.? We’ve all see those ambitious ones who boldly do the idiotic while behind the wheel: applying make-up, curling eyelashes, shaving, for God’s sake. That’s about as crazy as trying to perform a pedicure while tooling along the road. Those undertakings are obviously foolish. But really, I think the blow-drying idea is imminently do-able, provided of course that styling brushes are not required.

Having now ushered two kids through driver’s ed, where they learn to drive the way we’re supposed to drive, however, I realize that my days of ambitious achievement above and beyond the task of getting to and fro have drawn to a close: I now have a driving-age backseat drivers who are ready and willing to correct every little transgression I might possibly make while in the course of my daily driving.

Because after all, while idly sitting at a traffic signal catching up on my reading is a useful way to spend the forty-five seconds during which I’m stuck at the light, it’s probably more incumbent upon me to pay attention to other drivers. That is, not looking at what they’re wearing or how funny they look belting out a song alone in the car, but rather whether there are last-minute light runners who might impede my forward momentum once the light does change to green. Alas, it looks as if my days of multi-tasking are now limited to off-road moments. And that’s a good thing.

Ghosts, Ghouls, and Goblins, OH MY!

by Judy Merrill Larsen

When I was a kid, I loved Halloween. What was not to love about it? I got to wear makeup and collect scads of candy. I got to try on other personas and then go home and crawl back into myself. My favorite get-up was a gypsy. I must have been this at least 3 or 4 times. My mom would paint up my face (eyeliner! rouge! a beauty mark crafted from the mascara wand!). I'd wear bangly bracelets and big earrings. I loved it.



Then, when my sons were little it was fun all over again. One year, they were pirates. Another year green and purple dinosaurs. Then there was the year my older one was a police officer and the younger one was a prisoner. They really were cute.

We carved pumpkins and decorated the front porch.



But now, I'm not the quite the really fun Halloween mom anymore.

For one thing, the boys are both grown up and out of the house. And while I'm quite charmed with the little ghosts and goblins who'll ring my doorbell Friday night and tell me a goofy Halloween joke (that's a St. Louis custom--kids have to have a joke to tell before they get their candy. I love the ones that make absolutely no sense except to the seven year-old who made it up.), I have no patience for the older kids who'll tromp up on my porch later in the evening. The teens who thrown on a mask, grab a hefty garbage bag and think just because they want free candy it's okay for them to trick or treat. It's not, grow up, and get outta my yard.

Carving pumpkins has also lost its charm. A few years ago, Target had these great fake pumpkins. They look carved (especially when they're on my upstairs porch railing) and they light up when I plug them in. Voila! Jack-o-lantern fun without all the sliminess.

And then, there's the candy. Why, oh why, does all candy taste better in October? I mean, I know NOT to buy mini-snickers and other candy that I like. Because whatever is left over I will snarf. So my plan this year was to buy the mega-sized bag from Target with candy I don't like. The thinking being that since I don't like it, I won't eat it. Yeah, well, I've suddenly taken to craving plain sweet tarts, chewy sweet tarts, and sweet tart smarties. Craving to the degree that I always have one of those damn mini-bags in my purse and another in my pocket and a few in my car.



I'm thinking this is how a meth addiction starts.

You never think you'll like the stuff until you find that you do.

That's scarier than any ghost or goblin or teenager dressed like a ghoul. So will stepping on the scale Nov. 1, I fear.

For the Birds

By Margy McCarthy

My parents were avid birdwatchers when I was growing up. They still are, but at forty-four I am no longer forced to be still and quiet in the back seat while they pull to the side of the road for fifteen minutes and pass their binoculars back and forth, all the while rifling through dog-eared copies of Roger Tory Peterson Field Guides. Yawn.

I hated birdwatching with the passionate boredom only a prepubescent girl can muster.

My son, on the other hand, outdoor boy that he is, loved birdwatching with Grandma and Grandpa. In his fifth grade year, while studying the states, the class was watching a film on the swamps of Florida and a classmate exclaimed, "Look! There's an alligator!" The class oohed and ahhed, and a few seconds later, Michael called out, "Look! A common moorhen!" Total silence. A few slack jaws.

On another occasion, several years earlier, he'd nearly swerved me into the ditch when a desperate scream of, "Stop the car, Mom! Pull over! There's a black-necked stilt!" erupted from the seat behind me. Once recovered, I had been the slack-jaw that time. A black-necked what? Who is this kid?

When I was in Flagstaff last summer, I did my writing outdoors. I prefer to write outside for several reasons; the main one being that if it's not brain-damage hot, there's nearly always something lovely to rest my eyes upon while thinking.

In Flagstaff it was birds. Eastern bluebirds, woodpeckers, nuthatches, orioles, robins, mountain jays, the noisiest hummingbirds I've ever heard, (bossy, territorial, and aggressive) and a tough-love mother crow and her three young. I wrote ten thousand words in that mountain aviary, proud that I could identify as many of my companions as I did, surprised to find myself proud of that, and pleased to have their company.

Upon my return to the desert I still found myself watching birds. On the mountain, it was hard to tell the mother crow from the babies. They were nearly as big as she. It wasn't until I'd observed them for several days that I saw her feeding them, and by the end of the week, she had stopped. They still perched next to her on the branch overhead- open-mouthed and begging. And she looked back at their pleading faces steadily, without a flinch. I could hear her crow-thoughts. "Find your own food now, baby. You have to learn to do this for yourself." And they did.

Here I have a mother ring-necked dove and her two babies. Their feathers are still fluffy but they can fly; this is their second day out of the nest, I think. They peck around a little, but mostly stare in a dazed way at the world. They don't seem very bright. She comes to feed them, and sit with them, and I think she's saying mommish things like, "There's a dish of cat food over by the house there, honeys, but the kibble is too big for your beaks. You'll have to wait until you're older for that." and "These dried out palm tree seeds are pretty good, but it takes a lot of them to fill you up."

Yesterday Lolita the cat spotted one of the little doves. I told her I would prefer not to see it murdered before my very eyes, but she ignored me. The little bird just sat there, all fluffy and googly-eyed and stupid as the cat inched closer. Just as I was ready to leap at her, in swooped the mother dove, landing awkwardly between the cat and her chick. She threw her wing out of joint and staggered across the yard. Lolita went after Mom, baby took off and perched safely on the back of a wrought-iron chair, Mom flew up, turned around, crash landed again, and drew the cat away.

I was duly impressed with her acting skills. That was an award-winning performance in my book. And I sat here shaking my head in wonder because we moms really are all the same.

"Find your own food now, baby. You have to learn to do this for yourself."

"You'll have to wait until you're older for that," and Over my dead body will you harm my child.

So now I'm wondering if she nearly flies into the ditch when they chirp, "Pull over, Mom! There's a human!"

Thirteen Days and Counting

Thirteen Days Left.  Thirteen days until this whole fiasco is over, and we can stop wondering if our country has learned anything at all over the past eight years.  Thirteen days until, hopefully, we have a new President-Elect.  I say "hopefully" because of that little Florida incident.  You know, the weeks that made everyone named "Chad" want to change their names.  What are the chances there WON'T be any recounts in this one?  Say a little prayer, folks.

I spent the weekend, for the most part, in a political haze.  It started on Friday afternoon with a call from a friend who has friends in high political places.  Not the tippy-top, mind you, but high enough to get my family a meet-and-greet with Jill Biden on Friday night at tiny Jefferson College in Hillsboro, Missouri.  We drove to the campus, not knowing what to expect, and were greeted by a crowd of about a hundred, lots of union signage, and one darn perky soon-to-be Second Lady.  Drizzly night, fun group, good speech, adorable speaker!  I knew I liked her when she greeted my fifteen-year-old son and his best friend with a, "What are you guys doing here on a Friday night?  Any plans for the weekend?"  They explained that they had an early cross country meet on Saturday morning and she then described the trail she'd run that morning.  So nice.  So normal.  So never-shot-a-mammal-from-a-helicopter.  So who you'd like to see in the White House.

My favorite sign at that event, by the way, was pinned to the back of a spectator's jean jacket. "Rednecks for Obama," it read.  "Working for the man who will do more for the working man."

Well, okay!

Saturday morning- up early to pack supplies for the long day ahead at the Obama rally under the Gateway Arch.  After several discussions about route and parking, my friend Cindy and I were surprised and happy to experience no huge traffic jams en route, and fairly easy access to the site all around... until we realized that we'd entered the Arch grounds on the wrong side, and the line to get through the gates, I swear, was over a mile long, at least four people wide. But did we give up?  No!  We had packed water bottles and bags of mixed nuts, for goodness' sake.  Like little Girl Scouts, we were prepared.  We walked and walked to find the end of the line, ending our hike with little hope of actually making it through the gates before Obama began to speak.  After nearly two hours in line, we found ourselves positioned directly under the arch with twenty minutes to spare.  The line, in fact, was one of the highlights of the day. What a jolly group!  It was electric; every age, every race, every background imaginable, with the same shared hope. Leadership.

My favorite moment of that day?  Looking out over the sea of 100,000 people (had I known how many people were there I might have gotten a little jittery) under the beautiful, shimmering arch and knowing we all had something in common.  So cool!

The weekend ended with a trip to my daughter's alma mater- Kirkwood High School.  It had been announced at the Obama rally that Bill Clinton would be speaking at the high school on Monday night.  Bill Clinton!  At our local high school!  We had to get in.  So, again we faced the line, this time snaking around a high school parking lot.  We knew we'd be in luck to get in at all; we'd taken our spots way late.  Again, Lady Luck stepped in; this time in the form of an old friend of my husband's with a VIP pass to get into the main venue, front row.  ONE pass.  So, although he didn't have the nerve to step to the very front, my son has now seen Bill Clinton speak in person.  Twenty feet back.  I, on the other hand, have now heard Bill Clinton speak while sitting on a wooden gym floor, next door to the building in which he spoke, along with a few hundred others.  It was still fun, still special, and still the best speech I've heard in a long time.  Then, to see the excitement on our son's face... what a night.  I have always been, and always will be, a Friend Of Bill.

Has it seemed easier this year to get involved?  It seems that way to me.  Maybe it's because I'm older, and it all makes more sense.  At any rate, there's still time to volunteer for your campaign.  My friend Bill asked me to ask all of you to make a commitment in these last weeks, or days, to help.  Get involved!  To talk to friends and make sure they vote, for which ever candidate they prefer.  Of course, I hope you'll support my candidate!  I'd be happy to discuss with any reader the reasons for my choices: feel free to comment, and I'll make sure I get back to you, but PLEASE, no matter what: VOTE.  

Hey, I just looked up and noticed that it's after midnight.

Twelve days and counting.  

Straighten Up!

by Jenny Gardiner

I straighten my hair. Admittedly, that fact by itself is really quite unremarkable. After all, technology has gotten to the point that many, many women once cursed with unyielding kinks and obstinate tangles can now boast of that enviable straight hair usually featured on Pantene shampoo commercials.

No, what makes my admission somewhat bizarre is this: I already have straight hair. In fact, for the better part of my youth and well into my twenties, I went to great lengths to deny its natural state and instead curl the living daylights out of it.
Over those many years, I acquired an assortment of curling irons and brushes of varying curl-creating proportions; I even sported the occasional neck burns from dropping them on myself, and scalp-scalds from the steam function on the wand. My bathroom counters bore the telltale scorched plastic scars of a serial hair curler. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I even owned a purse-sized cordless curling implement, for those tricky occasions during which I couldn’t be caught dead with straight hair but had no access to electricity.

Along with my daily heat-induced hair fraying--more like frying--I periodically attempted to chemically induce a wave to my hair with one of those skunk-like permanents. Although in retrospect, I can’t recall when I’ve had more bad hair days than when my locks were under the influence of those pungent ammonia-laden toxins.

Despite my decades-long attempts to achieve that Andi MacDowell head of soft, cascading ringlets, I was never quite able to recreate the look, much to my chagrin.

It wasn’t until a rogue hairdresser decided to take flagrant liberties with my hair, creating what he dubbed the “firecracker” perm, that I decided I’d better accept my dreary straight hair as the lesser of two evils. The end result of that hairdo was more like a “safecracker” perm--as if my head had been locked in the safe when the explosives blew it open. Not a pretty sight.
So I settled for my more natural state. That same hair that a high school boyfriend once said reminded him of his pet Irish setter’s. Okay, so the fetching-a-stick-while-bounding-through-the-fields look is fine for a dog, but for me, not so much. But what could I do?

Not much, until one day not long ago, when my hairdresser--a veritable Rodin, with what he’s able to sculpt out of my mop of hair--started using a straightening iron on it. Now, for all I know, he was merely trying to fix a mistake he’d made when he dried it. I don’t know. But one thing is certain: my hair looked better after he’d used that thing on it.

And so I bought myself a straightening iron. Someone else at the salon urged me to try the straightening shampoo and condition, as well as some other product that renders my hair as Teflon smooth as a bobsled run. Gullible, bored, or desperate, I took her up on her suggestions.

So while for the past fifteen years, I have enjoyed a relatively maintenance-free, albeit boring, hair care regimen, I’m back to my old tricks. But this time, rather than trying to undo the plank-straight hair of my birthright, I’m spending far too much of my time, money and energy trying to merely improve upon it. Kind of straightening it better.

Now, you may think I’m crazy. And you might be right. And while this probably seems like a shining example of the emperor who has no clothing, I’ll persevere. Because I like to think I’m simply optimistic, and that eventually, I’ll get it right, and I’ll achieve the hair I’ve always wanted, whatever that may be.

So last week my older daughter--graced with gorgeous chestnut colored hair as long and straight as a stretch of Oklahoma highway--came home from the hairdresser with a strange request.

“Mom,” she said. “I really need you to get me a hair straightener…”

Now, this child has the sort of hair some women pay good money to replicate in hair salons. But I guess the grass is often greener--or straighter--on the other side of the fence.

I shrugged, opened the drawer and pulled out my own flat iron and handed it to her. If nothing else, it was good to know I’m not alone in my inane pursuit. Maybe I’m not so crazy after all.

Swinging in the Heartland

by Judy Merrill Larsen

I've lived 35 of my 48 years (including the last 28) in the midwest--Illinois, Wisconsin and Missouri. Fly-over country to you on the coasts. The Heartland.

I love being a midwesterner . . . it's solid not flashy. Practical not trendy. (Although I do seem to remember that the Crocs craze started here. Sorta defines us, don't you think?).

By no one's definition would I be considered a swinger.

But, man, oh man, am I starting to understand all the excitement in being a swinger. And it's changed my life. My husband's, too. It's crazy. Hot. Exciting. Even, dare I say it, sexy.

For the first time ever I'm living in a swing state. Oh, yeah, baby. Missouri rocks!

For example, on Monday, John McCain, Dick Cheney and Bill Clinton were all within a stone's throw (or short drive) from my front yard. Hubba hubba.

This weekend, Obama drew 100,000 people to a rally in downtown St. Louis. That's 15 miles from my house. I mean, he was practically on my front porch. Plus, in the last week I received calls from Michelle Obama and a bunch of pollsters. After all these years of feeling like my vote didn't really matter and my opinions counted even less, everyone is vying for my vote and complete strangers want to know what I think. (Too bad my kids are less interested in my opinions.)

Seriously, it's pretty cool. Democracy in action. Neighbors--even ones with dueling yard signs--are out talking and walking and participating in this every four-year political experience. Never have I lived in a state getting this much interest during an election. Never has it mattered more.

And, oh baby, does it have me excited. Swing high, swing low, swing all over the place--Missouri is where it's at right now and I'm loving it.

(Also posted on my author blog.)