Truth be told, I like living in California. Sure, go ahead and
laugh. But, really, despite the inflated housing market and low
paying jobs and high taxes there are tons of perks.
Truth be told, I like living in California. Sure, go ahead and laugh. But, really, despite the inflated housing market and low paying jobs and high taxes there are tons of perks. Like, for instance, you can have a tan all year round and you never have to drive in the snow and you can get away with saying things like, “groovy” and “karma” without being met with a stare usually reserved for people wearing orange robes and hitting tambourines. But the best thing of all about living in California is that, for approximately the same price as a Prada handbag, you could become the next governor. I mean, let’s face it, chances like that just don’t come along in, say, Iowa.
Let me explain. Of course we all know by now that Californians have come together and put their collective foot down and demanded two things: 1) more outdoor seating at Starbucks and 2) a new governor. Since the first would require going through endless hours of tedious corporate red tape, possibly resulting in raising the price of a tall latte, we’ve decided to focus on the second demand instead.
But wait. Not so fast. Before you go running off to apply to become the next governor, it isn’t as easy as it looks. I mean, you can’t just plunk down your registration fee, hit the railroad circuit and go stumping for votes. Nooooo. You have to stand out from all of the other 200-bazillion equally unqualified candidates on the ballot. Which, for me, really shouldn’t be too hard. After all, I’m a mother. And a college graduate. And I have what my beautician calls “sassy red highlights.” All important criteria in running California.
OK, OK. So the idea sounds crazy, especially for someone like me, a person who can barely figure out the carpool schedule. But, hey, like the return of gouchos and shag haircuts, stranger things have happened. If you don’t believe me, just take a look at the other people who are running. People like Larry Flynt and Gary Coleman and an unknown man named “Chip,” whose platform is to legalize ferrets as pets.
And it’s not like I don’t have credentials. What I’m lacking in mathematical ability, I make up for in diplomatic mediation. Just ask my kids. Once, on a particularly long car ride, I got to the bottom of exactly how many breaths should be taken by the people in the backseat so that everyone has equal air.
And with my strong negotiation skills I’d be able to strike lucrative deals with the power companies during high-pressure debates that would go something like this:
Big Power Company: We need five billion in revenues or we’re going to have to shut down and move to another state.
Me: That’s not very nice, young man.
Big Power Company: All right. Four billion is the absolute lowest figure we need to remain solvent.
Me: This is what I get after all I’ve done for you?
Big PC: OK, OK. Three billion.
Me: Two. And be careful, your face could stick like that, you know.
Big PC: One and a half billion. That’s my final offer.
Me: One and a dozen peanut butter cookies.
Big PC: Deal!
But that’s not all. On top of negotiating deals and breaking up fights, I’d do what any women who suddenly finds herself living in a mansion built in 1877 would do: redecorate.
Of course, I’m a realist. The chance of me becoming the next governor of California is, well, none. But that’s only because I’m not a big movie star or a slick politician. And faux finishing the inside of the state capital isn’t as popular a platform as, say, legalizing ferrets. But, hey, that’s the truly great thing about living in California. A person can dream, can’t they?
