Hiiii canyon-yodelers !
Everyone take a really deep breath.
AGGGGGH IT’S NOT HELPING.
OK I can’t.
I just really cannot.
*Warning* This post is about THE ELECTION. It’s not specifically about dykes or gaydar.
(I mean, the election has everything to do with dykes in general, but stop here if you feel like you’ll pass out if you read one more hysterical person shrieking about politics. It’s totes OK, you won’t hurt my feelings. We’ll be back with our regularly scheduled lezzer programming next time.)
I haven’t slept well for a week – there are black circles under my eyes and all I want to eat is frozen gluten-free bagels.
It’s the day of the election. My vote is finally in.
It took three hours (not bad, right, Florida?) at my local library, and then they almost didn’t let me vote because they couldn’t find me in the computer database and the address on my driver’s license didn’t match my current electricity bill.
I panicked at the polling station.
These people were serious: they weren’t going to let me vote.
They weren’t going to let me vote and I had just talked to a man in a Cosby-type sweater who was telling everyone within earshot that he was going to write-in “Charlie Sheen” on the ballot, “because at least then the debates would be interesting, right? Ha! Ha!”
I stood behind the desk at the polling station, waiting for them to find my name and confirm my identity, holding my coat, watching person after person be found in the database and then vote with no problem.
I had already registered. If they couldn’t find me in the database now, I was fucked, because my passport was lost somewhere in my house. I’d been searching for it for weeks; there was no way I’d find it before the polls closed.
This was it: my only chance to vote.
The woman doing the database searching had a fake bun pinned to the back of her head and long fingernails painted with gold and black swirls.
She took a lengthy swig from a Pepsi, supremely unconcerned with the fact that I’d already shat my intestines all over the floor from the stress.
Her fingernails clicked loudly as she searched my name.
“Hmm…looks like you don’t exist, honey. You sure you registered? Ok, hang on…Burton, Burton...well, we’ve gotta Barton. A Kristy Barton. Born in ’67, though, so I guess that leaves you out, unless you gotta a new kinda face lotion I don’t know about! Ha! Ha!”
Droplets of blood mingled with the cold sweat on my forehead.
I needed to vote. I had to vote.
My parents were voting for Mitt Romney and so, apparently, were an appalling portion of the people I’d grown up with, judging from their Facebook statuses.
Twitter feeds were beginning to haunt my dreams.
Click…clickclick…click went the gold and black fingernails.
Rustle rustle rustle went the hordes of people pushing past me to the voting booths.
“Are you sure your old address was within the city of Chicago, honey?”
Yes, I was sure, and WHAT IF THE ENTIRE ELECTION HUNG BY THE SLENDER THREAD OF MY VOTE? WHAT IF I DIDN’T VOTE AND MITT ROMNEY BECAME THE PRESIDENT AND NEWSCASTERS KEPT BLINKING RAPIDLY AND SMILING AND ASKING EACH OTHER, “Gosh, who would have thought the election could be swung by one vote?” WHAT THEN? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, LADY? IS IT????
I felt faint.
The sides of the table I was standing behind were made of a flaking black plastic. I began to pick at it with a studied concentration.
I was sweating like a criminal.
“Found ya!” The woman searching the database was holding a cell phone, grinning triumphantly.
She’d just called “downtown” and “confirmed my identity” and suddenly, without fanfare, I was a registered voter.
I could vote.
She handed me my voting card with an air of supreme satisfaction and pointed me in the direction of the polls.
Clutching the precious voting card with hysterical and slightly shaky fingers, I…I…I got a little misty-eyed.
This lady had spent 25 minutes trying to help a single person vote, when the line was backing up out the door of the library and everyone was glaring at us and all the other people working at the polls had processed about 50 people each in the same amount of time.
Now here was someone making a difference.
I’ve been doing nothing constructive whatsoever – just worrying pretty much 100% of the time for the last two months.
I’ve been devouring any and all articles relating to the election, avoiding all phone calls with parents (because last time we talked about politics, my mom choked up while telling me about the goodness of Mitt Romney), and spending time at work forwarding links to GIFs of Romney making terrifying faces or links to articles dissecting Romney’s over-dark spray tan during his speech on Univision.
I’ve been watching the debates and reading passionate columns and hooting over The Daily Show and pretty generally hoping that my personal, endless supply of worry will be enough to do some good.
Some of my friends actually work for Obama’s campaign.
If I’m this stressed about the election, I cannot even imagine what it must be like to be them.
CJ is tired, too.
I keep waking up in the middle of the night and FREAKING OUT on her about the fact that Mitt Romney might become the President and all the Planned Parenthoods will close and half the nation will be delighted (as well as be buoyed in their righteous and fervent belief that queers need to be smeared, or at least just quietly vanish) and we will suddenly have a supremely wealthy, white Mormon man who is an aggressive bully as our highest government official and women will go back 50 years in time and corporations will be people and and health care will only be affordable to the rich (wait that’s already true) and all the states that were hit by Hurricane Sandy will understandably be too busy trying to find food and shelter to be voting and THEN WHAT???
I’m also waking up at night over the idea that people in will vote YES in Minnesota and my sweet adorable ghey friends won’t be able to officially officially get married.
Everything is reaching burnout mode.
This election needs to be over.
I am running out of Tums and I haven’t been out researching lesbian gaydar at all.
I’m not myself.
I haven’t even checked a girl out in what feels like weeks.
The coffeeshop where I hang out just got a hot new barista and I barely even looked up from my McSweeney’s 90 Reasons essays.
(I was drinking decaf at the time – I haven’t had coffee in several days because I feel like I might shatter my mug from gripping it too hard.)
And I’m pretty sure almost every homo feels this way.
We need to pick a president (and could it please not be Mitt Romney? kthnx.)
Life as we know it is on pause.
Is this what it feels like to be an all-the-time rabidly political mo? How do you politidykes do this???
I need to go back to allowing myself to be occupied with stupid shit, such as the fact that Timothy Maxwell Thumperton was Wonder Woman for Halloween.
Amazing events like this used to matter.
I used to think about rabbits in Halloween costumes.
I used to think about stuff like gay girls and sex and boobs and how to tell a crush of mine she’s a crush of mine but then have it not be weeeeeiiird later.
Are you homosexuelles feeling like this, too?
How are y’allfags doing out there?
IS ANYBODY CRACKING UP FROM THE STRESS YET??
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Krista Burton is brand-new to Chicago. An ex-Mormon from Minneapolis, she writes a blog called Effing Dykes (www.effingdykes.blogspot.com), which is about activating your lesbian gaydar. She spends most of her time staring longingly at enormous dogs, riding her shiny orange scooter around town, and trying to bake gluten-free cake that doesn’t taste like gluten-free cake. She’s a staff writer at Groupon, and loves girls, inappropriate footwear, and hip-hop songs with filthy lyrics.