I was one of the intrepid voters who braved treacherous road conditions and freezing rain to cast my vote in my state’s primary yesterday.
My voting location is an elementary school that I drive past multiple times every single day. It’s at the intersection of a main road and a cross street that bears the name of the school.
Yesterday, its front lawn was festooned with campaign posters. There were also balloons involved, and a big sign that read, “Rimarama, TURN HERE.”
But somehow, it took me seven drive-bys to locate it.
Once there, I ignored the side lot where everyone else in the state had parked and from where a steady stream of dejected Ohioans could be seen shuffling into the polling place. I proceeded to park the Ramamobile in the school bus parking lot, and was positively incensed upon finding that I was unable to gain access to my polling location via the loading dock nearest doors.
I did what any self-respecting and passionate voter would do: I backed up a goodly distance of about ten feet and threw the full weight of my body against the padlocked industrial double doors until they took me away in handcuffs screaming “Let’s Put the Hi back in Ohio!”
No, no.
I tried to pick the lock with my Target-issue Swiss Army knife.
OK, OK.
I jimmied the doorknob for about two seconds, then hung my head in resignation and shuffled along the sidewalk through freezing rain and raging winds to the main entrance.
But, friends?
The plight to exercise my democratic rights did not end there.
I followed the person in front of me into a classroom.
“Good morning, young lady! Would you happen to know your ward and precinct?”
“Uh . . . Jimmy Smitts?”
I made my way to my assigned table.
“Will you be voting Democrat or Republican today?”
“I have a question. By voting Democratic today, I am declaring myself a Democrat, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So, does that mean I have to vote Democratic all the way down the ticket forevermore? I mean, is it like a blood pact, where I can never go back to being an Independent and they inscribe my tombstone with a donkey after I bite it?”
(Blank stare from Velma McVoting Volunteer.)
“Here is your voting form, dear. Make sure you completely darken the appropriate oval with black ink and don’t cast more than one vote for any candidate. If you make a mistake, be sure to return your ballot and we will provide a new one. DO NOT attempt to correct any mistakes!”
For the sake of my own protection, I handed over the bottle of Wite-Out I had stashed in my purse.
Finally, I sat down at a table and set to the task of casting my votes. There were no butterfly ballots or hanging chads to contend with this time around, and yet I had difficulties.
I was confused by the county coroner’s lack of opponents. Same with County Recorder. Was I overlooking someone in the next column over? No, that appears to be a separate race, BUT what if I accidentally vote for two candidates and they throw my ballot out? What if I don’t vote for anybody and they throw my ballot out? What if I sit here too long and they throw me out?
I started to sweat under my parka.
Twenty minutes later, I had completed my civic duty and was in the process of an elaborate origami ballot folding technique, when the election volunteer sternly admonished that there was no need to fold up my ballot and won’t I just drop it in the ballot box please?
Which I did, but it killed me not to be able to peek inside and make sure the eagle had landed.
Anyway, Hillary better start readying the old Lincoln bedroom for me and the P-Dawg.
Because I’m pretty sure it was my vote that clinched the Ohio race.
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