Whenever President Obama comes to New York City, my love life becomes more of what it usually is, a fantasy. I guess it's really not a part of his agenda, jobs, peace, the price of gas, getting reelected and if I, a divorced, rebellious baby born at the end of a major boom, am getting laid tonight? Not even if, to boot, I'm a registered Democrat?
I just replied maybe's to two evenings out instead of definite yes's. It's because of our president's constant visits to the Big Apple. Since we coincided our respective moves, me to the woods north of the city, and his into the White House, Obama has visited New York more times than I've had fat free chocolate ice cream with whipped cream while watching old sitcoms. I'm glad the man loves my hometown, but he is seriously cramping my style and my baby making desires.
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I want to take my bomb of a car that can't pass inspection into the city with the school girl crush hopes of seeing a hot guy with scorchingly awesome premature salt and pepper hair. We travel in the same circle. Me not being able to afford auto repairs. Him not knowing I exist. But it seems every time I make plans to drive into Manhattan, I need to check to see if President Obama is thinking of doing the same. Him, and his chauffeur, at some fundraiser. Me, hoping to play the shy, geeky girl drooling in the corner over the popular guy who may or may not show.
In the past, if the president wanted to go to Soho or to Broadway or wherever else in Manhattan, it was traffic hell for me. A sixty minute drive turned into a three hour commute where I would play act being one of the city's rats in a maze around some pretty buildings.
I'd, desperately, want to give up with thinking of streets being blocked from uptown to downtown, and onto the outskirts of Manhattan into the other boroughs. I'd want to not get upset at the thought that my hair would be a mess by the time I'd see Mr. Salt and Pepper, the guy who doesn't even know I, a junior high moustached misfit, have yet to get a life. Although I do now know a good wax lady.
So I began to play a game of sorts out of sheer boredom. Listening to conservative talk radio, specifically that other gorgeous man Sean Hannity, while driving and, luckily, not getting into an accident when I'd hear his voice, I'd seek out from my car window men in dark suits roaming my town's streets. I'd hope they were Secret Service guys in uniform, and not just Wall Street types. I fell madly in love with those Brooks Brothers men, some who did have salt and pepper hair with something bulging from their pants pockets. Please don't tell the original urban Mr. Salt and Pepper man that I've been cheating on him.
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I'd imagine them guarding my body, holding me down as I'd try in vein to get around the FDR. I'd occasionally get pulled off with everyone else to go cross town through Harlem with a circular stopover by Central Park. And it would be there that I'd hope one of the president's men would pull me over to very closely question my intentions. If not that, then maybe, during rush hour there could be a slow sensuous slide over to the Westside Highway to an imposed crawl onto 34th Street. Then I would surrender to those boys. I would trade seeing Mr. Salt and Pepper for the Secret Service men in uniform.
So question is, which man is worth the traffic: Mr. Salt and Pepper, President Obama, the Secret Services boys or should I travel north to another man with Salt and Pepper hair? Please let me know, and stay tuned...