Except while living in Sherman Heights for a year, my polling place for the last few elections has been just down the street in a Methodist Church that used to be a La Jolla train station.  A lovely place to vote – if you're on their list of registered voters. I wasn't.  

I venture a few blocks over to a multimillion dollar Birdrock garage on the advice of the poll worker. Everybody is Super nice, but I'm not on the white, pink or blue list here either.  I am offered a provisional ballot for the second time and refuse again – I feel like provisional ballots usually end up in the same place as letters to Santa. Part of me suspects there is a conspiracy afoot – but experience tells me these things are usually my fault.

I'm home now and have torn apart my room – my ballot mailer has been found and it looks like I'll be headed to a third polling place at the bottom of Super posh Mount Soledad to cast my vote for Obama, for 92, against 93, for 94 and 95, against 96, for 97. But right now it's time to go contribute to the economy.