Election Day – Morning. It’s a gorgeous sun-shiney day.

So, I just got out of the acupuncturist’s office and I’m all zen and shit, ’cause I just got poked with needles in my feet, neck and third eye chakra in an attempt to de-stress-ify myself and I’m walking to the polls to vote for CHANGE. I did my research. Not only was I ecstatic about voting for the new president, but I also knew how I wanted to vote on every single California Proposition on the ballot. I had a cheat sheet with me just so I would get it right.

As I said before, this year I chose not to work the polls. When I do not work the polls, I am a bit of a polling-place watchdog because I know that most people are not familiar with polls, having never worked them and have no idea what to expect. And since I do know a bit about polling place law, I keep an eye out in an effort to keep the process as pure as possible – because when dealing with the public, you get all kinds of folks with all kinds of passions – especially during this election.

As I walked up to my polling place, a lady with an anti-Prop 8 t-shirt tried to give me a flyer endorsing a “no” vote on Proposition 8. For those living outside of California (or under a rock), Proposition 8 was a church sponsored measure to overturn the same-sex marriage law and to legally define a marriage as a union between one man and one woman. Of course, I’m not a bigoted asshole, so I already had plans on voting “no” on Prop 8. But I was afraid that the activist was within 100′ of a polling place, so I stopped to tell her that she needed to be outside of the 100′ range of the front door. She informed me that the yellow signs on the hill above where she stood marked the required 100′. I smiled, gave her a thumbs up and went on my merry-zen way.

Then some crotchety, bitter, older woman on the verge of being elderly stomped up in line behind me. She was withered, her mouth set in a perpetual sneer,  with bleach-blond hair and a nose so crooked that she could have drowned had it been raining too hard. The only reason I noticed her was because after she got in line behind me, she began yelling toward the anti-Prop 8 woman on the street. I felt, and still feel, like I may have jumped the gun a lil’ bit and maybe have been too over-zealous about my self-appointed polling watchdog duties. But did I hear the tone in the older woman’s voice coupled with the angry sneer and then the words came out of her mouth.

“No, you have to listen to me,” she shouted at the anti-Prop 8 activist who was standing where she legally had to be, on the sidewalk, over 100′ away. I was NOT going to listen to this angry woman have any sort of screaming match over this issue, not while I was in line and not within that god-damned 100′ of pure voter safe haven. No, not on my watch,  I didn’t care if this insidious woman was my neighbor or not. Besides, hey, isn’t this Venice, California, the sanctuary of freak-dom?

“You know what?” I said to the sneering, screaming, finger-pointing woman. “If you want to have a conversation with her,” I pointed toward the anti-Prop 8 lady on the street, “then by law you have to do it on the other side of these yellow signs.”

The screaming lady turned to me and said, “You have a real attitude, you know that?” My zen began to melt. I guess I pointed my finger in her face when I repeated the mandate, “You have to go speak to her from over there,” I said. “Because right now you are within 100′ of a polling place and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to get your finger out of my face.” The old biddy shouted at me. She got within inches of my face, definitely violating my personal space and repeated her plan of attack on me. “You have to listen to me . . .”

I cut her off, because yeah, I have an Annatude all right and I don’t have to do anything, least of all listen to her nonsense. “Actually, I refuse to listen to you.” I said.

She countered with a furied stutter. “C-c-an I just . . . ask you one-one question. God, you have real attitude, you know that?” She looked like she wanted to spit, she was so angry.

“I do not wish to have a conversation with you.” I said, and turned my back. And thankfully, those zen-melted words were enough to keep her quiet or else it could have gotten real ugly, real quick because I was for-real angry. And people in line all around the two of us were dead silent. No one dared speak to or look at either one of us the entire time. The line wasn’t very long, but the 15 minute wait seemed like hours to me. The crazy lady left the line more than once, mumbling to herself, each time asking the lady behind her if she’d hold her place in line.

Each time she returned, much to my dismay, she claimed her rightful place in line, right behind me. I couldn’t believe how different this line was than the other precinct down the street. I went to the incorrect polling place earlier in the morning and was met by hordes of cheerful people with wide grins who were as ecstatic about voting as I. We all merrily chirped about the fact that together, we were all about to make history.

This polling place experience was turning out so much differently. Much to my chagrin, she would be right there in line behind me, potentially listening as I gave my name and address to the roster clerk. And because we live in the same precinct, she was more than likely a neighbor of mine. As soon as I gave the clerk my name and address, I kept an open ear in order to hear hers. (And you know what? I found out where that bitch lives. And I caught her last name too. She’s a couple of streets over.)

So, I voted. Right as I started my monthly cramps. Right as some guy who was next in line for an open booth answered his cell phone and said in a booming authoritative kind of voice, “Oh, I can’t talk. I’m in line next to vote,”  and proceeded to negotiate some sort of business deal over the phone for what seemed like a fucking eternity. I glared at him as I stabbed the ballot with my inky stylus, re-read the questions so I would make no mistakes, and felt another cramp in my lower belly. Ahhh, it made so much more sense now as to my state of mind!

When I exited my precinct polling place, the bitchy ole blonde was nowhere to be found, thankfully. But I did approach the anti-Prop 8 lady for a little bit of gossip. “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry I started any shit with that crazy old woman. I just didn’t want to hear her heckle you.” I should mention that at this point I still wasn’t sure if I was just an off-the-wall, crazed PMS-ing troublemaker or if I had any reason to be justified in my poll line actions.

“It’s OK,” the anti-Prop 8 lady smiled. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Someone told me that while she voted, she mumbled, ‘Jesus is watching me vote right now.”

It pains me to say that all of those Christian people are at home smiling right now, patting themselves on the back, because although as a country we all have a victory in the White House, Prop 8 did in fact pass in California with a razor-thin margin.

I still can’t believe that crazy old woman is my neighbor and I still can’t believe that she thinks that Jesus was watching her vote, sitting on his cloud, halo on his head and smiling down at her. And most of all, I honestly can’t believe I got so bent out of shape by the entire incident.

Are you all as nervous as I am?

I remember how it felt four years ago when Bush got re-elected. My boyfriend and I buried ourselves underneath the bed covers and cried. Like so many others we knew, we swore (but kinda didn’t really mean it) that we were moving to Canada. Then we actually called Canada. We got a recorded message from the government of Canada explaining that they were too swamped with requests. Then I remember just being thoroughly depressed and uncomfortable and angry.

I remember eight years ago when Bush first got elected. I volunteered helping to set up all the event barricades in Nashville for what we all just knew was going to be Al Gore’s victory party. I just remember how dejected and defeated we all felt as the horror unfolded – like a balloon that has a slow leak. The UN-reality of the situation hit so hard that everyone was stone silent. I remember one of my friends crying and wringing her hands and saying, “This is soooo bad. Do you all know how bad this is? We’re fucked! We’re really, really fucked.”

And at the time, I really had no idea what she was talking about. But, as I came to realize, she was oh so right.

So, now, I’m nervous. I usually volunteer to work at my local polling place on election day, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sign up this time. I’d rather be out and about in the public arena when I wake up in the morning, watching the media outlets tell the sensational tale in their biased manner. I want to be ready for anything instead of feeling like I just got sucker-punched. Again. This time I at least want to be able to brace myself.

Honestly, like many of you, I’m sitting here thinking, “Will Virginia be the new Ohio or Florida?” I hope not. I fear the ground work for that kind of debacle has already been laid.

Most of all, just get out there and vote. Please. I really do care who you vote for in the end, but I’m not going to get preachy about it. Just vote. Please. I also encourage you to ask to see the roster at your polling place late in the afternoon or early evening. This way, you can see who has not come out to vote yet and you can go knock on the doors of your neighbors who haven’t voted yet, and urge them to do so or help them if they need a ride or other assistance.

And for goodness sake, please be nice to those poll workers. They essentially are volunteers who work a 14-hour day and might get some coffee and donuts for their trouble, but they are too busy to eat anyway. Be compassionate, please.

It’s come to my attention that there is a huge hull-bubble-balloo regarding the Los Angeles county ballots in the presidential primary race. Here’s what I know:

All Non-Partisan voters were able to cast their vote for a presidential nominee from the Democratic ticket or the American Independent ticket. If you came through my polling place, and you were on the roster as Non-Partisan, you were told that you were also allowed to choose from the Democratic and American Independent tickets. All Non-Partisan voters were still given a Non-Partisan ballot and told to go to their voting booth of choice: Democratic, American Independent, Non-Partisan. We told everyone to very carefully read #6!

Number 6 was the infamous bubble question of – “do you want to be disenfranchised . . .” Appparently this bubble needed to be punched in order for the vote to count. I think this is too tricky for voters. If the Dems and the AI party opened up their tickets to NP voters, then let the floodgates open, with no hoops, tricks or confusion. It’s akin to being ‘kinda pregnant.’ You either are or you aren’t.

As one of the pollworkers, I’m not even sure which is correct – that if you are an NP voter and you wanted to vote as a Dem that you get a Dem ticket or if you still should have voted on an NP ticket and checked bubble #6. I voted on the Dem ticket (provisionally, I might add!) and there was no #6. So, that would mean that only the NP tickets had question #6, the question that you had to punch, which we’ve all agreed is redundant.

And, if it makes anyone feel any better, my vote probably ‘won’t count’ because I forgot that I am an NP voter and when I voted provisionally, I couldn’t remember how I was registered, so I voted on a Dem ticket.

Is my blood boiling that my vote ‘may not count?’ No, not so much as the mistake was a call to get my own politics in order . . . as in . . . know which party I’m affiliated with and go in to the polls a little better-informed. Maybe look-up ‘disenfranchised’ in the dictionary.

Am I annoyed with the continual shenanigans in our voting system? Yes! But I believe that community involvement can help foster awareness, which will lead to a better system. I consider this primary as practice. Let’s not get too agitated over the primary, fellow Angelino NP voters! Let’s all take this as a big lesson to open our eyes for whatever they try to pull over on us next time.

Also, I’ll say this: I don’t have a TV, nor do I listen to the radio, so I’m thankfully not sitting here being fed an AP story about “Bubble-gate” every hour on the hour.

If you can only remember one thing about voting, then remember this: One signature, one vote; that’s why you sign the roster.

Here’s a picture of the inspector of our precinct and another pollworker officially sealing the red ballot box after closing the polling place.

I was so wiped out, I slept nearly the entire day after the primaries, but I did have time to meet for coffee with a friend, who vocalized his reservations regarding the ability of pollworkers.

“The people running my polling place were lucky if they could put their teeth in,” my friend said. “There’s no way the vote is untainted, it’s scary, there’s so much room for error! These were little old ladies who need help putting on their pants in the morning and they are the ones handing out ballots??!” he snorted. From my work at a polling place, I can tell you first-hand that alot of voters automatically assume that the people running the polls are about 2 IQ points away from retardation.

And sadly, he’s probably correct. I’m sure that many people who sign up to work the polls are often elderly or . . . ahem . . challenged in some way. “Call the county – they never have enough help. They’d love to have more competent community leaders running their polling places,” I urged my friend, “get involved! Quit yer bitchin’!”

In addition to worries of pollworker competency, people also get really empassioned about whether their vote ‘counts.’ Especially if you bring up the word ‘provisional.’ It’s like a big, bad, ugly word. One friend of mine said, “Oh, they don’t count the provisional ballots. They just throw them in the trash.”

Well, I’ve got something to say about that and about the entire voting process. We had thirty provisional voters. Every time we give a provisional ballot to someone, we have to watch them to make sure that after they vote that they put their ballot in their matching provisional ballot envelope, before it is deposited into the ballot box. That’s because the provisional ballot envelope has the voter’s information written in on the front, including the ever-important signature as well as all the information necessary to confirm that the person whose ballot is inside that envelope is indeed a registered voter. Because remember, if someone votes provisionally, it’s because their name was not on the roster of registered voters.

So, how much does your vote count? Well, we had one of those thirty provisional voters sneak by us and drop his ballot, sans provisional info envelope, into the counting machine that tallies all the verified voters’ ballots. So, at the end of the night, we had 29 provisional ballots and 30 provisional voters. I know the name of the guy who mistakenly mis-cast his vote because we have to write down the first and last name of everyone who is a provisional voter. So, we had one ballot not verified, shuffled somewhere in the mix and no way to figure out which vote doesn’t count.

So now what happens? The precinct I worked for was one lil’ vote off, and after our long day, we were pretty happy with being one vote from perfection. Now here’s my question – who’s vote shall we dismiss?

1. Do not talk on your cell phone while giving your name to the Roster Clerk. This actually happened to me today. I said, “I will help you when you are finished with your call. Next?” And the guy got pissed off, asking, “Tell me where there’s a law?”

2. Do not huff and puff and crowd old people in line. Come on. That’s just wrong. They are old. Someday you will be too. Oddly enough, the rudest people tend to be middle-aged, between 40-55. I did not have this problem from our Venice youth.

3. In fact, do not huff and puff at all.

4. Yes, there is only one Roster clerk. Do not pester the other Clerks in an attempt to jump ahead in the line. You must wait your turn in line. Everyone is busy. Relax. Having one Roster Clerk (person who checks you in) is one of the measures that helps to keep the vote correct and fair. Don’t be impatient.

5. Do be nice, it makes our day when people smile. The pollworkers have a long day, from 6AM til 9:30PM. They might be living on shitty coffee and doughnuts and potato chips and no bathroom breaks in a cold auditorium. The job gives a small stipend, like $60 for the day or something. We’re not there for the dough, folks . . . We’re there so you can exercise your right to vote. Or rock your vote, if you must.

6. Don’t hang out for an uncomfortably long time. One of the many things I love about working the polls is meeting my neighbors, truly! But please – know when to go home. Don’t try to chat up the pollworkers. There was a creepy lady today who would not leave. I wouldn’t look her in the eye and so thankfully she didn’t engage me. Finally she waddled her orange pant-suited self right outta the gymnasium.

7. Do bring cute five-year-olds. I said, “Hello! How are you, lil’ man?” to the cutest little kid. And I swear he full-on winked a perfect wink at me, with absolutely no hesitation. Made my night!

8. If you have to vote provisionally because you don’t have it together and you are only vaguely sure of where you might maybe could be listed as having a last address and you aren’t on my roster, then don’t make a scene. Vote provisionally. Every vote counts.

9. Know that there is little training for pollworkers. Understand they are doing the best they can, especially early in the morning. Don’t be argumentative about the process. We’ve got booklets. And a cell phone . . . and a . . . hey, just don’t get in our faces, K?

10. If you must drone on and on regarding some issue over which I have no control, like parking or crowd management, please do it with the inspector in the middle of the auditorium, and not in my roster line. This is for the benefit of your neighbors who are all around you, voting, so they can see how much of an ass you are.