I don’t get political on my blog very often. For good reason. Not because I’m not interested in politics or I don’t have an opinion, but because I live in mortal fear of community uprisal and waking up to find a bunch of pissed off rednecks standing outside my door, chanting ‘Down with Tanis’, while angrily brandishing pitchforks and baseball bats in my direction.

I am a bleeding heart liberal, socialist-loving gal who hides her shrine to Barack Obama underneath an old poster of Alex P. Keaton. 

My husband, my family and 98 percent of the surrounding community would have me flogged painfully if I shoved my political views down their gullets every chance I got. As it is, they barely tolerate me within the midst of their misguided Conservative-supportive ways.

I do what I can to corrupt their little blackened hearts and try to ensure my children embrace my unicorn-loving ways and prevent any future kitten killing on their behalves.

I strive hard to set a good example for my children in hopes that they actually tear their eyes away from the computer screen or the television long enough to notice. Sometimes that example includes doing things I really don’t want to do, such as manning a voting booth for a federal election that seems redundant, has no new political policies to vote for, no real candidate to love.

 

 (Note to self: Please start looking to move into a part of the country that doesn’t bleed Conservative blue.)

However, I love Canada regardless of our yawn-inducing politics, and so yesterday I donned my civic hat and sat down at our community voting poll to help the public exercise their right to freely vote for the candidate of their choice.

Even if that candidate is a blue-blooded knob. 

Ahem.

I didn’t expect a thank-you or a group hug from the hordes of people who trickled filed in, but I also didn’t expect to be treated like I was Medusa with a head full of hissing snakes. I keep forgetting what my purple highlighted hair, visible tattoos and piercings mean to the average voter in a small farming community.

I mean, when I look in the mirror I just see myself staring back. Someone fairly easy-going. Someone fairly likable even.

What my beloved community of hillbillies saw was an outsider sent from Satan himself, to corrupt their Ann Coulter-devoted ways with my nose ring and sassy attitude. I was a visual reminder that they were killing kittens left, right and center. I was the white angel of conscience sitting on their shoulder that for one second they couldn’t swat away.

I’ve never had more fun in my life. Heh.

“Hey, you know there is a hunk of metal hanging from your nose, right?” said one not so original voter to me as I handed him his ballot. The first dozen or so times I heard this, I just grinned and nodded, or better yet, acted shocked like I didn’t know how such a thing could happen to such a good girl like myself.

But the day was getting long and nothing if not repetitive, so I let loose the big cannons. “Ya, it matches the hunk of metal hanging from each of my nipples too. Did you know the Green party sponsors body piercings because it is easier to attach their signage to my body with magnets than it is with string?”

The man looked at me and hissed, like I just threw holy water on a vampire. I swear.

“Oh dear,” one lady puzzled to me, “there seems to be something in your hair. Something purple,” she tsked to me as she stood before me waiting to cast her vote. “I know a great hairdresser who could fix that for you, lickety split,” she offered.

“Why thank you ma’am. I was thinking about changing it. Growing up a bit more,” I said solemnly. “I want to show the world my true colours. I was thinking of going orange and green to show my NDP support,” I grinned as I flipped my hair about.

She grabbed her ballot and made the sign of the cross while she walked to the voting booth.

No where in the books did Elections Canada say I wasn’t allowed to have fun while I was working. Heh.

Eventually my civic-duty came to an end once the ballot box was empty and the carnage was witnessed votes were counted.

Regardless of the results, I voted. And my kids saw me doing something more for my country than just bitching about the process and hurling insults at my husband the television when a candidate annoyed me.

I want my kids to know that I am passionate with the belief that the crayon box of the world has more than enough room in it for more than just shades of blue.

More importantly, I want to excite them to pick up their own crayon and get set to paint the world with the colours of their own political beliefs.

Even if that colour happens to be blue. (Crossing myself and tossing salt over my left shoulder.)

***Oh ya, and if you like that bikini pic of me, go and see this one. I’m trying to soften up my husband so he won’t divorce me. Wink.***

Thanks again Will for your tireless work on my behalf. Canada and the internet thanks you.