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Ms. Mon's Salon
Darn that Chris Potter of Pittsburgh City Paper keeping me up at all hours with his election tweets. I have his @CPotterPgh tweets sent directly to my phone, so I don't miss a thing. (And I'll have you know I don't let just any man tweet directly into my phone.)
Out of all of his tweets that made me sad (and oh, they were many), the one that made me saddest was this: "Voter turnout in Allegheny County with 99.55 pct of precincts reporting? Under 19 percent."
That one made me T.S. Eliot sad. Meaning those near and dear to me will inevitably have to deal with my existential angst over this for months to come. Probably until November.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
I always choke when I get to the "dried tubers" part.
Anyway, voter turnout: There wasn't a hockey game to blame. Could we blame Corbett and the Voter ID bill? How about all the local news teams and their severe weather reports? Were people still bunkered in their basements waiting for the "big storm" to hit? How about that "War Against Women?" Or "The Mommy Wars?" It just didn't add up.
Maybe some of them had had an experience similar to mine. But I say to you, are we not Pittsburghers, strong and proud? Undeterred by the deterring, undaunted by the daunting and unrelenting against the relentless?
Oh that's right -- that's only when it comes to being a sports fan.
This is the story of my voting experience last night.
***
Just leaving polls now, folks, at 7:57 p.m. Voter 66. When I walked in, one of the women working there looks me dead in the eye and says, "You're Republican, aren't you."
Funny thing, these voting places. Sometimes, they're just garages -- the detached, personal garages of homeowners. Dirty garages with the lingering stench of a thousand Saturday morning oil changes. But no matter how unsavory the structure, there is a dress code: women wear their Sunday best -- suit jacket and skirts; men wear polo shirts and "casual" pants.
I just moved in December, so this was my first time voting at this location -- an elementary school gymnasium. Fortunately, I noticed that public schools don't seem to wax the floors as much as Catholic schools, so the air was uncompromised by the aroma of turpentine and I was able to think fast on my feet when I replied to my assumed Republican identity: "Why -- do I look Republican? This is a nice coat, but the weather calls for it." I wished I would have said what a friend later suggested: "yer damn right I am ... "
After I convinced her I was Democrat, she fussed with my voter registration card for a while and sent me across the gym -- all of about 10 feet -- to "District 9," because she insisted I was not in their district. Just to help you with the imagery here: There are two sets of opposing rectangular tables with about five volunteers each, assorted men and women, facing each other. When I walked into the empty gym at around 7:30 p.m., everyone's gaze shifted to me. "Waiting for me?" I asked, trying to cut the tension in the air. It felt like they were hoping for the pizza delivery man.
Apparently, there is a rivalry between District 9 and District 1, though they deny it. But I can smell competition. Which is probably why I thought at some point I was going to be placed in the middle of the gym and told to fight for my life à la The Hunger Games. I do have uncanny aim (that's prerequisite of Republicans, right?), but I'm a little old for this.
Then, the people at the District 9 dismissed me and sent me back over to District 1, because it was, in fact, a "1" on my card, not a "9." So I told the woman who sent me ten feet over that I'm back now because she "misread" the card. Because she was probably tired out from those all voters (65 of them) before me today.
Another woman started to look for my registration and she said, "You're the Republican, right?" I said, "If you insist." (Minute hand goes round and round the clock while they still can't find my card.) "Yes, yes, that's Monahan. M-O-N-A-H-A-N." A male clerk said, "Just like the principal here." I replied, "Yes, just like him." (Minute hand goes round and round the clock while they still can't find my card.)
There was a lot of background chatter about how their books had written in them, "It says here, ask for ID." I hate to ignore chatter -- especially when it's about me -- and so I jumped in and said, "I'm ready." I was asked several times where I lived, to which I replied, "Right on this street." What number? "You know, [omitted] house." Ohhh.
"Since I moved, I made sure I registered right away. I've got all my ID here -- my driver's license. Wanna look? See? It's me. Governor Corbett wants you to look."
No, that's OK.
Finally, the woman looking for my card, says with great astonishment: "Monahan comes *after* Monaco?" I said, "Yes, yes indeedy." She shows me the card. I jump up and down and tell them I feel like I've just won Bingo.
"Great, I can vote now?"
"Yes, you're number 66 -- just like The Great One, Mario Lemieux."
"Yes, yes, just like Mario Lemiuex. That's me." Finally, I was shown to the ballot, and the male clerk who set me up said, "You're voting Democrat, right?" I paused and said, "Well, OK.
ut, just to satisfy the naysayers of my naysaying, I will say this -- 1) Texter is MADE IN THE USA! and 2) HE IS NOT DRIVING!