I’m off to the polls in less than 12 hours, and still unclear on which chad to punch. I know I’m not alone here. I’ve asked my sister every day for two weeks who she plans to vote for, and each time she sounds closer to tears born of sheer frustration. “I don’t knowwwwww,” she moans. “What am I going to do?”

Hell if I know.

Countless friends, all of them female, are in the same hand-wringing cycle of hope, pride, fear and guilt that leaves us bouncing back and forth between Clinton and Obama. Many of us are on the verge of junkie behavior when it comes to media consumption and political analysis. We’ve read enough articles in the Times (New York, LA), Slate, Salon, The Atlantic, the Post (Washington, Huffington), The New Yorker and The New Republic to have both candidate platforms memorized in unnatural detail. We can quote speeches and Maureen Dowd columns from memory. We know how to use the information, but we’re cautious about where to place our passion. This isn’t what the media might like to simply label a head vs. heart decision. This is heart vs. heart. And whichever way I vote, I’m worried mine might break.

I’ll let Rebecca Traister articulate the internal struggle of my left and right ventricles, because she really nailed it today. Beyond experience and inspiration and the looming legacy of Bill, there is a sense of duty and loyalty for Hillary that is difficult to reconcile with my very practical belief that the other candidate has a better chance of winning the general election. And my desire for a Democrat, ANY Democrat, to win this election is not practical. It is a desperate and true emotional need. I couldn’t bear to see McCain win because me and my fellow Californians picked the wrong opponent.

So when the other candidate also happens to be brilliant, inspirational to a new generation of voters, a poster boy for the new American experience, anti-war, a great orator and a savvy politician who has the chance to begin healing generations of racial discord in this country, what’s a liberal voter with an X chromosome to do?

Then there is my mother. And by my mother, I mean my mother and a generation of women who came of age in the sixties, fought for equal rights for their gender, endured blatant sexism in the workplace, raised politically engaged daughters and got us all excited about Geraldine Ferraro when we were still in elementary school. This was, and IS my mother. Her car always had bumper stickers that said “ERA Yes” and “Keep Abortion Legal”. She has sat in job interviews and been told, “Well, if you were a man I would hire you.” She’s been a single parent, the primary breadwinner, and by far my greatest political influence. You might not be surprised to hear she’s voting for Hillary.

And how could she not? Everything in her life has led to her clear choice. I get it. I’m grateful that she and her peers fought the battles that made my job interviews easier, and held to legal standards that protect my privacy and rights. I have my own woman-to-woman reasons for a Hillary vote, but they can’t begin to reach the roots of hers.

This morning I told her I was voting for Obama. And she told me that she’ll be (metaphorically, of course) bringing her mother and grandmother in to the voting booth with her tomorrow. Although it wasn’t her intent, a punch in the gut would have hurt less. There’s no treat in knowing that the cherry on top of my indecision sundae is letting down four generations of women. And really, I was feeling that pressure even before she weighed in. As Rebecca eloquently says:

What if I have a daughter someday and she asks me about why we’ve never had a woman president? Do I tell her that we once came close, but that Mommy was really digging Obama that day?

Thing is, I AM feeling Obama. Not without regret or reservation. And not with any huge margin. But right now, at 11:06pm on Monday night, I have a little more faith in his ability to land in the Oval Office. But I inevitably waffle, especially when I hear another man make a sexist comment about a woman who is crazy qualified to run this country. And then I think, I need to vote for her! Then I’m back in the cycle.

Sigh.

This evening on my way home from work, right before I got on the freeway, I drove by a dozen twenty-year-olds. They were pumping Obama signs in the air, grinning and jumping with the thrill of being hours away from their first legal vote. Begging each car to honk in response, their joy and hope was the perfect bookend to my morning Hillary conversation with my mother. I carried a drop of their optimism with me on the drive home.

Time for bed now. Looks like I’ll finally decide at 8:30am tomorrow when the curtain closes behind me - and I’m quite certain I won’t be alone.

Please help. Spaceship needs new parts.

Hopefully this is the first of many more online conversations about the activity we indulge in and enjoy the most. We could post a new piece every day and it would only reflect a few crumbs of the hours we spend talking about what we eat, processing the most insouciant details of what passes our lips. Thankfully, San Diego’s palate is growing more eclectic, sophisticated and delicious by the day, leaving us with much to chew on.

At intermission, as soon as the lights go up, he turns to me in horror.

“We’re at a musical?”

Hee hee. One of several laugh-out-loud moments during Cry-Baby.

Angela has a great post about the creative minds behind this new production, and the UT review is spot on. It may be flawed, but the show left me loudly and proudly signing “Baby, Can I Kiss You With Tongue?” for three days.

These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.

Virginia Heffernan’s take on the undiagnosed addictions and depressive disorders of the original puppet cast is pretty funny. I grew up thinking it was completely normal that Big Bird couldn’t see Snuffy, not realizing that he may have been exhibiting a serious social disorder. And so what if Oscar was a major cranky pants? To a five-year-old fan: funny.

Of course I understand that SESAME has evolved for good reason. Similar reasons, in fact, that kids no longer roll around in the way back of big station wagons without seatbelts starting at the age of three. And hey, remember when all our mothers smoked and ate soft cheese through pregnancy? Still, as someone raised on the original kids TV formula, I can’t help but feel a bit defensive of My First Media. The children’s shows on PBS today are excellent, but they’re a long way from the SESAME STREET of 1975. As Heffernan says, “Anyone who considers bull markets normal, extracurricular activities sacrosanct and New York a tidy, governable place — well, the original “Sesame Street” might hurt your feelings.”

Substandard urban housing, unchecked cookie consumption and a neurotic group of friends and neighbors? Perhaps the old school SESAME was my first exposure to reality TV.

“Yeah, you really need to hit the unsubscribe button on that.”

“NO! I just need more time. And maybe a reading buddy. How about you start reading them too, and then we can discuss our favorite articles?”

“NO! I see what you’re doing here. You’re just trying to shoehorn more relationship into this relationship. I’m not falling for it.”

By chance I was home when an inspector parked in front of my house. He apparently came to inspect the next door, eight individually leased bedroom, eight mailbox, 12 trash can, non-owner occupied, two kitchen, “single family” home mini-dorm at XXXX Dorothy Drive.

I overheard the inspector tell the owner that the property did not “really” pass inspection but that he would sign off on it anyway. The inspector also said he hoped that Code Compliance would not come back, and if so it would have to be dealt with then.

The owner of the mini-dorm stood in my front yard waving two thumbs up and danced a jig while the inspector sat in his car making this statement.

Of course, if you haven’t met the loser asshat who owns said property, then the image of him dancing a jig with thumbs up might not have the same effect on you that it does on me. Right now, that image makes me want to commit an act of violence.

City of San Diego Code Compliance: why the hate for the homeowners and love for the landlords? Why the lies and corruption? Do you just have a soft spot for garages converted to bedrooms, lawns paved into parking lots, and beer cans lying in a weed filled front yard? Are you swayed by the siren song of a hundred drunk sorority girls screaming, “I’m SO drunk!”?