Obamamania!

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This isn't my thong. But, it might be appreciated by Obamaites: It comes from another blogger and it's a feral cat attacking George Bush.

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I want Obamamania. Everyone but me seems to have it. It reminds me of the old-timey 1970's fads: yo-yo's, pet rocks, the Dorothy Hamill hair-do. There was a sweet optimism that these things could for a brief time, distract us from the residue of the Vietnam War, Watergate and Killer bees. I want to be swept up in the hope and the promise that has captivated so many of my intelligent and talented friends. In the meantime, while I sit and ponder what Dennis Kucinich is up to these days and how Elizabeth Edwards is feeling and who out of the top three condenders would make the best first lady or husband, I'll share an Obama story of my very own with you:

About a year and a half ago, my husband and I were at a hotel in Arizona for a gathering of magazine editors and Barack Obama was staying in the room right next door. He lost his room key and one of his security men knocked on our door and asked if he could go through our room so he could climb over the balcony wall and let Mr. Obama in. I wasn't there at the time but, my husband let the guard in forgetting that I had left some laundry drying outside in the hot Arizona sun. I was thrilled to later learn that my very clean thongs were only one degree away from the eyes of Barack. 

I had just learned who Obama was the day before and he cuts a very dashing figure. He is tall and lean and the first time I saw him he was walking across the hotel grounds. He was striking in the way that few people are. (Okay, the fact that he was one of a handful of hotel guests who didn't have the pasty pallor of a wintertime New Yorker may have unduly impressed me.)  I turned to my husband and said, "Who is that?"

"That's senator Omamba" My husband replied, garbling the poor man's name. "He's going to run for President."  "He already looks as if he won." I said. And it was true.