It was kind of slim pickings here in South Carolina this time around. The governor's race could be interesting, but I fear our poor excuse for a Sarah Palin clone (and *that's* sayin' something people) is going to win that one by virtue of her mediocre looks, questionable morals and ability to speak without actually saying (or knowing) anything. See, the other guy is a *gasp* *horrors* trial lawyer. Which of course means he's dishonest, unfaithful and only out for himself. Oh wait, that's her again...
But I digress... I'm not here to talk about politics, I'm here to talk about the political process. Specifically, the political process of going to vote in my particular ward. The polling place in my ward is staffed primarily by retired members of the church in which the polling place is located. And when I say retired, I mean they're collecting their pension from the Confederate Army. And those are the younger ones. The poll workers in my ward take their duties very seriously, and they should - it's an important job, and it has to be done according to the rules to ensure that everyone's vote is counted, and counts.
That said, I sometimes worry they might be taking their jobs just the teensiest bit too seriously. See, every year I pretty much go through the same song and dance with them. I hand them my ID and they look at my last name, which starts, in my humble opinion, with three perfectly reasonable letters organized in a mildly unexpected fashion. Specifically, G-N-I. In that order. So I hand them my ID, which in years past has been my driver's license, they look at my name, and flip to the page of registered voters whose names start with G-I-N. They scan up and down a few times, and then say "dear, are you sure you're registered to vote? In THIS ward?"
The first year, I leaned over to point to where the G-N-I names (all one of them) should be and apparently got my finger too close to the list. The poll worker snapped "don't TOUCH THAT," growled at me and bared her teeth, which were ragged and covered with the blood of the last person who tried to touch the list of registered voters. (Okay, I made part of that up. But only part of it.)
This year I decided to avoid the assumption that I am either lost or trying to defraud the people of South Carolina by voting without registering, so I brought my voter registration card with me. Faced with the evidence that I am clearly registered and in the right place, the poll worker had no choice but to scan up and down the list, over and over, among the G-I-N voters, looking for my name. After a minute or so of watching her scan the same spot on the list, I leaned over, keeping my hands safely behind my back, and muttered "it's G-N-I" She glared briefly at me, presumably for telling her how to do her job, but then miraculously realized that my name would not be found on the page with the G-I-Ns, and flipped to the correct page, where she immediately located my name, just below the G-Ls and above the G-Os. How about that?
Anyway, I voted, despite the slim pickings (the Senate race was particularly difficult) and got my I Voted sticker, which is really the only reason I vote. Well, that and I like to complain about the government, and I'm pretty sure you can't do that unless you've actually taken part in the process.
So go vote! Get a sticker! And try not to lose any fingers, mkay?