Episode 35: Wok the Vote
Episode 35: Wok the Vote
Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"
In general, I like to talk about sex way more than I like to talk about politics. I always feel more satisfied after a good girl gab that has to do with our sex lives (or lack thereof) than one of those boring meetings about who is running for city council. So when Annabelle said she was getting a bunch of us together for Chinese I got very excited. First of all, we all find Chinese kind of an aphrodisiac. (Annabelle says it’s the Five Spice Powder but my vote goes to the MSG.) Second, the delivery guy from California Wok has killer abs and wears skintight T-shirts that say things like, “Soy Boy” and “Stir Fry Guy.” Last but not least, I love Chinese food. I love the flavors, I love the way it fills me up fast and I love the way an hour or so later it leaves you wanting more. The way I see it, Chinese food is like sex, only better because you can get it any time you want. (Actually, if you are Jeffrey you can pick up the phone and call for sex and have it delivered just like Chinese food. But you sure can’t trust the egg rolls, if you know what I mean.)
So I get to Annabelle’s and I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and since I knew there were spare ribs in my future I didn’t eat much in the way of lunch either. I’m starving, actually. And for some strange reason, I feel like nothing will satisfy me but Chinese. Now, it’s only a couple of days before November 4th, which as you all know is Election Day, and Annabelle, surprisingly, has taken this election to heart. There are signs all over her front lawn, and posters in her windows and I’m a little nervous because I hope all that signage doesn’t keep the Chinese delivery boy away. “What if he doesn’t like coming to houses that are all political?” I say, thinking more about my stomach than anything else. Annabelle rolls her eyes. “I think they’ll deliver food wherever they know they’ll get paid, Missy,” she says. “Don’t worry about your spare ribs. Your pork is safe with me.”
So one by one the girls arrive. I’m surprised to see that a number of them are sporting campaign t-shirts, and not necessarily for the same campaign, though there are more for one than the other. “Am I underdressed?” I mutter, under my breath and Cody hears me. “I brought you a shirt, actually,” she says and pulls one out of her bag. It’s pink, and there’s a picture of a pony on it and a jumble of letters that spell out, “Girls Vote” like a child wrote it with a crayon. I look at it curiously. “It’s pink,” I say. “I don’t do pink.” Annabelle looks at me, astonished. “What are you talking about? What about that Missoni sweater you were so obsessed with?” I roll my eyes, “That was Missoni, for Chrissake. This is Pony. There’s a difference.” Cody shakes her head. “The color’s not the point,” she trills. “It’s the message that matters.” “What message?” I say, slightly irritated. “Girls can’t even vote until they’re eighteen. At which point they’re not even girls anymore. They’re women.”
Okay, I have to admit, that was my stomach talking. But I hadn’t eaten for hours, and suddenly I appeared to be having a political conversation. I mean, I’m not against politics, not in the least, but politics on an empty stomach was suddenly irritating. Cody looks at me, flabbergasted. “Aren’t you the one that stood out in the sun for hours in that stupid hat with the “Dump the Dump” sign? “Yeah,” I said, “But that was toxic waste near a pre-school.” Annabelle shakes her head, “Yeah, Dummy. And this is a Presidential Election.” “Fine, fine,” I mutter and slip the pink “Girls Vote” shirt over my head. “I’ll wear it. Now are you happy?”
Okay, I knew Annabelle had a point. This is a Presidential Election. Perhaps the most important one in our lifetime, as I’ve heard people say. But the election isn’t for a couple of days, and I’m now officially starving. There are visions of dumplings dancing in my head, except they’re all shaped like elephants and donkeys. “Where’s the food?” I say. “Didn’t we order over an hour ago? I mean, potential voters need calories too.” Iris wanders over. She looks like Wednesday Adams, lanky and morose, with kind of stringy black hair. She used to smoke, but she doesn’t anymore because she’s afraid of getting bladder cancer (she has a thing about pee) and so she wears a nicotine patch on each arm and is crabby most of the time as a consequence. “Who cares about the Election,” she sighs. “It’s such a bore.”
We all stare at her. Like, seriously, for a moment, no one knows what on earth to say. “A…bore?” says Annabelle. “What does that even mean?” Iris sighs again. (She’s a big sigh-er.) “You know what I mean, Doll.” Annabelle frowns. “No, I don’t, actually, why don’t you tell me.” Iris shrugs. “Well, look, it’s not like my vote even matters, Bella. We all know which way this thing is going to go.”
Crap. Crap crap crappy crap. I can see straight away that my Chinese dinner is going to be put on hold. Annabelle and Cody look like they want to strangle Iris, who, not really paying attention to anyone else, has started to braid her long, stringy hair. “Hey, I, would you mind not shedding all over my Berber?” Annabelle says. There’s a tone in her voice that suggests that Iris’s hair in the carpet is the least of her problems. Iris peers over at her. “You’re just pissed at me because I said my vote doesn’t matter.” Annabelle wrinkles her nose. “There are chicks who fought long and hard for you to even have the option.” Cody pipes up, “Yeah, and they had to wear really ugly clothes like bloomers while they were marching up and down.” Iris rolls her heavily made up eyes. “It’s a free country, I guess. You’re entitled to your opinion too.”
All of a sudden, the doorbell rings! “He’s here!” I shout out, before I can stop myself. The girls all turn to look at me. “Wow, you’re hungry, huh?” says Cody. I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Look, I haven’t eaten in a while. It’s been one of those years.” Iris is still braiding her hair and she’s clearly in a bit of a funk about the whole election thing. The girls turn to her while I go and answer the door. The Chinese take out guy is standing on the doorstep. He grins at me. “Hey, Esme,” he says. (Yeah, long story, he knows my name.) “Hey, Paul,” I say. He’s got another really tight t-shirt on that says “Wok the Vote” in letters that are done in this kind of fake calligraphy that resembles something vaguely Asian. He eyes my chest. “Nice shirt,” he says. I squint at him. “You too,” I say. He nods. “Yeah, I had sex once in a voting booth. It rocked big time, Man.”
I let Paul inside. I’m really, really hungry now, like suddenly this meal, this particular, eclectic collection of food is the nutrition I have been waiting for my entire life. I grab the paper bags and start sifting through them. “Egg rolls,” I mutter, to no one in particular. And then I realize that everyone is staring at me. I’ve spilled Hot and Sour soup in my rush to find the egg rolls, and the liquid is dripping all over my pink pony t-shirt and on to the floor.
Iris shakes her head. “I knew it. That t-shirt’s trouble.” I frown at her, exasperated. I mean I know I didn’t really want to wear the shirt at first, but once I had it on I realized the message was a good one. “The t-shirt’s not the problem,” I say. “The problem is people who have to be reminded.” “Dude, that’s so true,” says Paul. He points to his beautifully chiseled chest. “Wok the Vote,” get it? “It’s fierce inspiration.”
I may have forgotten to mention that Paul is like, in his twenties. And though he may be one of the reasons that we always order so much Chinese food in the first place, he’s also a really good guy. “Let me help you with that,” he says, and starts to unpack the food and place it on the dining room table. As he unpacks, he looks around the room and sees that a number of the girls are wearing their pink pony shirts too. “Oh, it’s not just you?” he says to me, a little curious. “No,” I say, “The rest of the girls are voters too.” “Well, most of them,” says Annabelle, glaring at Iris. “Awesome,” Paul says as he hands me the moo-shu. “So, like, what do girls vote for?”
I thought about it for a moment. This is some of what I came up with:
1. Equal rights for everyone who deserves to be equal (This disqualifies cheating husbands.)
2. Clean air for our children to breathe (our cheating husbands can go to Mexico City.)
3. Health Care for everyone (okay, even cheaters under the right circumstances.)
4. Wolves free in the wilderness. (Where they can eat up you-know-who when they go on midlife crisis salmon fishing expeditions.)
5. Good public education (so we can take the alimony money and put it to better use than private school.)
6. Shoes for all (and not just really high heels.)
7. Food on the table (Chinese and otherwise.)
8. Leaders who really care (husbands who care would be a bonus.)
9. No more war (idealistic perhaps, but we’re descended from women who marched for their rights in bloomers)
10. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness (yeah, we read the Constitution too.)
“Awesome,” says Paul, when I’m done listing. “Those things are all really cool.” I’m standing there in my wet, pink pony t-shirt and even Iris seems to be paying a small amount of attention. And then Paul pulls his shirt over his head and hands it too me. “Wok the Vote,” he says to me, grinning. (Crap, he has unbelievable abs.) “You heard the man,” says Annabelle. (And this is clearly directed at Iris.) “Whatever you want, you better vote it.” Paul nods, emphatically. “Wok the Vote,” he says again, all Chinese food and sexy. “Uh…yeah,” I manage to spit out. “You Wok the Vote too.”
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