Obama-week

Yesterday I demonstrated that I do not have "the gift of helps." I volunteered weeks ago to bring a meal to the Obama HQ once the volunteers got into the swing of phone-calling and list-making. One of those phone calls consulted a made list and my name was upon it, hence I was called upon to supply the meal I had promised.

Now being female and a church-goer most of my adult life (female a bit longer than that, actually), I know all about the "make a meal" gig. It's just what we females do.

Unfortunately, I'm not one of those females who can also figure out how to get that meal for 25 made without also obliterating the kitchen. I planned a simple pasta salad (which could also be easily adapted into a three person vegetarian version for the left wing vegetarian volunteers), brownies, watermelon, salad and baguettes. Seriously, no coc au vin, or anything equally sexy. Just straight forward food.

Yet you'd think I had offered to bring a six course Parisian feast. I spent half the afternoon slamming cupboards in search of one large-ish Tupperware that suddenly "went missing" and I was convinced my family had conspired against me in one last attempt to coerce me to remodel the kitchen so that lids and bottoms would finally have a logical resting place. (If we hide the Tupperware she needs, maybe she will finally agree that this system of "close the doors fast so nothing falls out" is Not. Working.)

In any event, the missing Tupperware turned out to be housing Wii controllers (a use I put it to months ago, I had to sheepishly admit).

I went through about ten various sized Tupperware containers, cursing under my breath loud enough to get Jon to offer to drive to the store to buy me new ones (!). That shamed me out of my ridiculousness. I wound up putting it all in a big roasting pan with aluminum foil to cover.

Drove the stuff 20 miles to the office and found a rare parking spot right in front of Obama's red, white and blue face. Walked through the glass doors to be greeted by Obama himself, in life-sized cardboard. I announced to no one in particular that I had food! For dinner! A red-headed, white kid leaped from his station in one bound to help me unload the van. Hungry much?

Tony, the older gentleman who handles all janitorial work for the office, assured me that he personally would see to it that my utensils were returned to me and no one else. "Don't trust them young'uns ma'am. I gotchu covered." We giggled as we surveyed the room of barely-out-of-pimples workers hunched over laptops and telephones.

Spencer, my primary canvassing leader, has become the head cheese at the HQ (though he can't be more than 23). He yelled to me cuz we're BFFs now. I chatted up a few of the team members, we talked about the rising poll numbers for Barack and the good efforts everyone's putting in. At the exit, I nearly kissed that cut-out (swear he's hawt, that Obama man) and the equally middle-aged woman at the front desk agreed that it was tempting. She'd thought about it herself! (Are we all hopelessly flirty in our forties?)

I got it done. Dinner. For 25. Despite the absence of adequate Tupperware. Team Obama (the aggressively seeking volunteers staff) wanted me to make a weekly commitment to dinner. Uh... no. I think I'll do it when the mood and Tupperware strike me. In the meantime, I'm seriously thinking of getting myself an Obama life-sized paper doll. You know. For the campaign!