Politics Island

This morning I was feeding the baby (who slept for 8.5 hours, thank you very much) and watching Barack and Michelle Obama on Today, and though I was interested in the conversation, I involuntarily slipped into my political happy place - a special destination my mind sneaks off to whenever election coverage bombards the airwaves and threatens to nab my last reserve of sanity: Politics Island.

Instead of thoughts on candidates and their platforms (Heels? No? Damn.), I envisioned - virtual margarita in hand - what would happen if a president moved into the White House with a cat that has marking issues. I pulled this scenario from my own home, where the littlest of the felines has been making the biggest mess (and will soon be on his way to a lovely farm located in the middle of the state)(No, it's really a farm, not a metaphor.). I imagined a group of tourists on the White House tour; the guide sharing the history of the Green Room: "Mrs. Kennedy chose the original delicate green color for the room in 1962, and in 1971 ... Oh Miss, watch your step there, please. It looks like Pooter made a piddle by the Federal-period armchair."

It doesn't work in the big house and it's not working in mine, either.