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MEASURE A, B, OR ME?
ALISON TYLER
“Look at this, Lisa,” James said, pointing to the voter registry
spread out on his side of the kitchen table.
“Nice,” I said, not glancing up from the newspaper.
“No, look right here.” He tapped the middle of one of the pages.
I gazed at him over the top of my glasses. I was busy reading Dear Abby. James knows better than to interrupt me during Dear Abby.
“These two names,” James insisted. With a sigh, I put down the paper and glanced where he was pointing.
“So? They have to list husbands and wives separately. Hus- bands don’t own wives anymore, you know.”
“I understand that you have zero interest in politics,” James said in that calm voice of his, “but look at the parties.”
Knowing James wasn’t going to stop, I set down my coffee, stood up, and headed around to his side of the table. James had volunteered to phone registered voters to discuss a ballot measure close to his heart. And for the first time since he’d begun to talk incessantly about Ballot Measure A, I found myself interested in the cause, or at least mildly so. Here was personal information for nearly a quarter of the people in our tiny town. The list contained not only their names, numbers, and addresses but also their cho- sen political parties. A couple we knew ever so vaguely were reg- istered with different parties—the wife a Democrat, the husband a Republican.
“How can that happen?” I asked curiously. “That was one of the first things I found out about you. Your religious prefer- ence, the size of your cock, and your political leanings. This is like something right out of a Dear Abby column.”
“I don’t understand it, either,” James admitted, “but look at the governor and his wife, and there are other famous couples who vote on different party lines, too.”
“You mean like Marlee Matlin and George Carlin?” James groaned. “It’s Mary Matalin and James Carville .”
“Yeah, but how can they get into the same bed at night? I’d
never be able to fuck you if I thought you were Republican. That would be an instant deal-breaker.”
“More so than the size of my cock?” James teased, and while I was considering my answer, he continued, “Hey, let’s have some fun.”
Since James had embarked upon this mission to make sure Measure A passed, he’d been neglecting some of his more impor- tant husbandly duties. I’m not the type to care about whether the lawn is mowed or the car is washed. But I’d gone through three packs of C batteries for my vibrator in two months. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. “I thought you had people to call,” I said tentatively.
“I’m talking about calling.”
I sighed again. “Come on, James.” I’d been hoping for a bit of frisky mid-morning fun. Dialing up voters wasn’t my idea of kinky sex play. But I should have looked more clearly into my husband’s deep blue eyes before writing him off.
“Lisa,” he said in that patently annoying tone of voice, “I know you have zero interest in politics—”
“I’m a registered Democrat,” I reminded him. “I wear
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I
MEASURE A, B, OR ME?
ALISON TYLER
“Look at this, Lisa,” James said, pointing to the voter registry
spread out on his side of the kitchen table.
“Nice,” I said, not glancing up from the newspaper.
“No, look right here.” He tapped the middle of one of the pages.
I gazed at him over the top of my glasses. I was busy reading Dear Abby. James knows better than to interrupt me during Dear Abby.
“These two names,” James insisted. With a sigh, I put down the paper and glanced where he was pointing.
“So? They have to list husbands and wives separately. Hus- bands don’t own wives anymore, you know.”
“I understand that you have zero interest in politics,” James said in that calm voice of his, “but look at the parties.”
Knowing James wasn’t going to stop, I set down my coffee, stood up, and headed around to his side of the table. James had volunteered to phone registered voters to discuss a ballot measure close to his heart. And for the first time since he’d begun to talk incessantly about Ballot Measure A, I found myself interested in the cause, or at least mildly so. Here was personal information for nearly a quarter of the people in our tiny town. The list contained not only their names, numbers, and addresses but also their cho- sen political parties. A couple we knew ever so vaguely were reg- istered with different parties—the wife a Democrat, the husband a Republican.
“How can that happen?” I asked curiously. “That was one of the first things I found out about you. Your religious prefer- ence, the size of your cock, and your political leanings. This is like something right out of a Dear Abby column.”
“I don’t understand it, either,” James admitted, “but look at the governor and his wife, and there are other famous couples who vote on different party lines, too.”
“You mean like Marlee Matlin and George Carlin?” James groaned. “It’s Mary Matalin and James Carville .”
“Yeah, but how can they get into the same bed at night? I’d
never be able to fuck you if I thought you were Republican. That would be an instant deal-breaker.”
“More so than the size of my cock?” James teased, and while I was considering my answer, he continued, “Hey, let’s have some fun.”
Since James had embarked upon this mission to make sure Measure A passed, he’d been neglecting some of his more impor- tant husbandly duties. I’m not the type to care about whether the lawn is mowed or the car is washed. But I’d gone through three packs of C batteries for my vibrator in two months. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. “I thought you had people to call,” I said tentatively.
“I’m talking about calling.”
I sighed again. “Come on, James.” I’d been hoping for a bit of frisky mid-morning fun. Dialing up voters wasn’t my idea of kinky sex play. But I should have looked more clearly into my husband’s deep blue eyes before writing him off.
“Lisa,” he said in that patently annoying tone of voice, “I know you have zero interest in politics—”
“I’m a registered Democrat,” I reminded him. “I wear
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