Sometimes the Mountain Comes to You

"Hey, Fresca," my neighbor hollered from downstairs, "Do you want to come down and meet Robert Lilligren? He's going door to door, getting people out to vote before the polls close."

"I already voted," I hollered back, from my bubble bath, "and I'm in the tub."

"Well, come down and meet him anyway, or are you busy?" he said.

"I'm in the TUB!" I repeated, louder.

"Oh, OK, that'd be busy."

And then I remembered:
This is an item on the list of Stuff to Do I wrote at my birthday: meet my city council member. And here he was at my door.

"Wait, wait," I yelled, "I'm coming down!"

I leaped out of the tub, wrapped myself in a towel and ran downstairs with bubbles sticking to the ends of my hair. I shook hands damply with a surprised--and amused--Lilligren, who was standing on the porch talking to my neighbor.

I thanked him for his work [he's a good guy, one of those community organizers], and I told him I'd been voter #16 at 2 p.m.
He laughed and said, "Then you know your vote really counts."

Darn. I just checked my list, and I see I have only partially fulfilled item #4. The other part says I get a "gold star for asking [my council member] out to lunch."

Maybe this time I'd better go to the mountain.