and now, no word from our sponsors…

Fall in Missouri… the nights are cooler, the days are shorter, the leaves are turning, and every other commercial is a political ad.

Where’s a good embarrassing feminine product commercial when you need one?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t really miss commercials much. I hate waiting until after a commercial break to know the results of a Biggest Loser contestant’s weigh in or whose dish was Chopped. I really don’t need to be reminded during Hawaii Five-0 of all the remedies available to folks of a certain age. I’m reminded that I’m knocking on that certain age every morning when I wake up and try to read the alarm clock without my bifocals. I am truly thankful to live in a country where we elect our representatives and can go to the polls without fear of retaliation. I believe that every citizen who is eligible should vote. I understand that scores of voters have televisions and radios and mailboxes. I’m actually thankful that the folks who are sending me flyers and interrupting my favorite television programs aren’t standing on my front porch ringing my doorbell. (Actually, they probably wouldn’t ring the doorbell anyway.  The disabled motorcycle and odd bits of laundry hanging on the porch swing would probably lead them to believe no one lives here. But that’s another blog entry….)

If God allows parents to check up on their offspring from the everafter, my Daddy is standing somewhere shaking his head and wondering where he went wrong in my political upbringing. Daddy grew up in a generation where straying from your political party of birth was practically unheard of, and so he just assumed over the years that I knew what I was going to be when I grew up. I turned all that on its ear during the 1980 Presidential election. Our Contemporary Issues class held a mock election. We each had to pick a candidate and run a campaign. I picked the Independent. He could have claimed to belong to the Birthday Party and I’d still have picked him; I liked the guy and what he had to say. That was Daddy’s first hint that he was up for a challenge. I will never forget my first real election, shortly after my eighteenth birthday. The night before, Daddy asked if I knew how to vote. I assured him that I did. Turns out he wasn’t asking if I knew the voting procedure. He thought perhaps I needed help in deciding how to cast my vote. I assured him that I did not.

I wouldn’t mind the ads so much if I thought I was actually learning anything from them. Maybe I’m wrong, but with one or two exceptions, they all seem to be the same. Trust me, I already have my own opinions of how well the people currently in these jobs are(n’t) doing. I don’t need their opponents to tell me what I think. I can go to a web site and find out what all the parties think. I’m interested in silly stuff like what the candidate really thinks is important and what he or she realistically, as one voice in the room, plans to do if selected for the job. If we expect job applicants to boil their qualifications and experience down to a one-page resume, am I really expecting too much to ask someone who wants to represent me in some branch of the government to do the same in a series of original 30-second ads? (Or at least on one of those pieces of paper that keep showing up in my mailbox?)

I don’t think so. If I ever need a two-by-four, I’ll choose the product with the continuing saga of an Old West hero, complete with the Sons of the Pioneers singing in the background. I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast, but I can tell you the url for the web site and sing the jingle. The point is I remember, which is probably good since there may not be a free spot for any more of their commercials for awhile.

But then again, I might be the only one who thinks this way. All these words may be nothing more than the ramblings of a stubborn kid who just never has figured out what she’s going to be when she grows up.