August | 2012 | FiftyFourandAHalf

Monthly Archives: August 2012

August 4, 2012 · 0:00

Don’t hang up!

As you can probably tell, there is little I like more than humiliating myself. Repeatedly. It makes for great stories.

So today I’m going to up the ante. Go deep into ritual humiliation. Voluntarily. With my eyes and my ego open.

Yup, I’m going to phone bank for political candidates. Barak Obama, Tim Kaine (VA Senate) and Kristin Cabral (VA-House).

I expect a lot of this:

“Hi, my name is Ely …” click.

But sometimes I’ll get through. And when I do, well, it’s a great feeling. I am participating in Democracy. Helping to make my country a better place. I am convincing folks that they should vote for the people I think are best for that office. And I am pretty good at it.

Some people won’t want to listen. Some will have gotten a zillion calls already. Some will be in the bathroom. Some will hang up.

Others will be disillusioned. Or disappointed.

So why do I do it? You know why if you read my blog. I am a bit opinionated, you see. But the thing I believe in most strongly is our democracy. Our right to vote. Because, as I keep saying

ELECTIONS MATTER

And if I can help get a few more votes for candidates I believe in, get folks who need to register, registered, transport folks to the polls who couldn’t otherwise get there, then I’m making a difference. ME! I’m taking an active part in the process of making things better in our country. Because I have done my best to help make my vision of what kind of a country we should have become a reality.

But I really do it for the stories. I always come away with great stories.

There was the time in 2006 when I was working on Jim Webb’s Senate primary.

The man said “I just want to beat George Allen, but I think both candidates are the same. I’m just going to flip a coin when I get to the polls.”

“Well then,” I responded, “you’d better take a two-headed coin, with Jim Webb’s head on both sides. Because Webb is only the one of these two guys who has a chance to beat incumbent Senator George Allen. If you want to get rid of Allen, vote for Webb. Now and in November.”

He promised me his vote, both times, of course. And it was entirely due to my phone call and my coin flip line. I put Jim Webb in the Senate. You’re welcome.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that George Allen showed himself to be a bigot. (George Allen is running for Senate in Virginia again. He is still a bigot.)

There was also the call in 2008 when I was working on Obama’s presidential campaign. I was calling registered voters:

“Hi, my name is Elyse and I’m calling from Obama for President HQ. Do you have a second to talk with me.”

“Sure,” said the man on the other end.

“Thanks, I appreciate your time. I just have a couple of questions. First, are you planning to vote Tuesday?”

“I always vote.”

“Me too. May I ask if you’ll be supporting Barak Obama for President?”

“I’d like to, but I was a mid-shipman with John McCain at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. I have to give him my vote,” he said.

“You were at school with Senator McCain?” I couldn’t resist, I had to ask. “I bet you did better academically than he did!”

The man got a little less chatty just then. “Well, I was actually a few years ahead of McCain. I graduated fifth from the bottom, too.”

Political work can be fun and fulfilling. And the stories are the bonus. I will be telling these and other stories to my grandchildren. Of course if the Republicans continue destroying the education system, I will also have to teach them history.

* * *

Have you ever done political calls? Canvassing? Worked the polls? Got a story? Send it to me at fifty.four.and.a.half@gmail.com. I will collect and post stories throughout the campaign season. And if you get a fun call from someone, send that to me too.

And remember — Elections matter. VOTE.

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Filed under Campaigning, Elections, History, Humor, Law, Politics, Voting, Writing

Tagged as Campaigning, GOP, Humor, Politics, Washington

August 1, 2012 · 0:00

All the Cool Kids Are Doing It

It’s Angie’s fault. Or Darla’s. Maybe it’s Peg’s. Or all three. Mostly, I blame Angie for pulling this memory out of my subconscious when she entered this post, An Epic Adventure in Babysitting in Darla’s Psst! Hey…Wanna Hear Something Really Embarrassing? contest. Then Peg threw her story in too, with The Substitute Babysitter.

Since all the cool kids are doing it, well, here is mine. Don’t hate me.

* * * * *

Unlike my cooler blogger sisters, I loved to babysit. I was born to babysit. And I had the best job on the planet.

Mr. and Mrs. F went out every single Saturday night, from 7 to 11 or so. They had two really nice kids, a huge colonial house and a swimming pool. At about 12 I started supervising kids in that pool, in spite of the fact that I bear no resemblance at all to Michael Phelps.

These folks were rich, but incredibly nice. And they loved me.

Their house was huge, and quite old, which meant it squeaked and made all kinds of noises at night. My much smaller house was old, too, so I was pretty much used to the noises.

But it was 9^th Grade that year. I was reading In Cold Blood by Truman Capote for English class. Yup. Reading about the slaughter of an entire family in their home.

To make matters worse the F’s house was being renovated. So after the kids went to bed, I hung out with the terrifying book in a part of the house I was unfamiliar with.

There were noises. Of course there were noises.

There were footsteps. Upstairs.

Was it in Hadley’s room, at the top of the stairs?

Or was it in Scotty’s room, a few footsteps down the hall?

I knew it was in one of the two. I could hear it. Clear as a bell, on the hardwood floor upstairs.

So I did what any dedicated babysitter sitting next to a fireplace would do. I picked up the poker.

I don’t want to kill anybody, I thought. So I put it back.

I picked up the little shovel. The spade. I was ready to protect those kids no matter what. And I crept up the carpeted steps.

I looked down the long, hallway. I didn’t want to alert the killer to my presence, so I didn’t turn on the light. The carpeted hallway was lit only with one measly nightlight. But the thick white carpeting helped me see that there was no burglar/murder there.

But there was plenty of space for the burglar/murder to hide.

I walked into Hadley’s room. She was sleeping soundly, still alive, because I could hear her calm breathing.

I had just walked into Scotty’s room when I heard true, distinct footsteps downstairs.

This time I knew it wasn’t my imagination. Because I realized that I wouldn’t actually have heard footsteps upstairs because the carpeting was thick and luxurious and the kids were always getting out of bed and sneaking up on me. (It would have been helpful had I remembered that earlier.)

But the footsteps downstairs were on hard wood. They were real.

“Elyse? We’re home!” Mr. and Mrs. F had come home.

And there I stood in their son’s bedroom, with a shovel in my hand.