. . . in Oldtown Pasadena. I'm having waffles, but everyone else—my husband, my father, and my father's wife—has decided it's lunchtime, even though it's only 1:00 p.m. They're eating seafood or something yucky like that.

Dad ordered red wine like he always does no matter what he's eating. And when it came he complained that the glass wasn't full enough. I instantly mutated into a fourteen-year-old and almost died of embarrassment, right then and there. They poured some more wine into his glass.

Somehow the 2008 elections came up, though my husband and I try to avoid talking about politics with . . . almost anyone in L.A. who doesn't belong to the Bear Flag League.

"It's almost certain that Hillary will run," I point out. My father's eyes light up, and he smiles and sort of coos, even though he hasn't had that much wine. "She has such a nice . . . smile," he tells us.

"And she may be running against Condi Rice," I add. Dad's eyes get big once more and he remarks, "oh, she's so . . . nice, too. Though I could never vote for a woman who was once a Goldwater Girl."

If people knew what Goldwater was about they would have been down on their knees begging for him.

I want to remark that the next presidential election is not Dad's own personal swimsuit competition, but, you know—he's 68 years old. And if I had said something he would have almost died of embarrassment, right then and there.

So I remained silent. Thank you, Mr. Prozac.

Posted by: Attila at 12:36 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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