There’s a family tradition that we don’t say who we voted for, but that doesn’t stop a guy from asking. So I do the usual: Clues, diversions, hidden meanings, extrapolations.
Me: “This is the only clue I’m going to give you: When I turned on the car afterwards, the radio was playing ‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy.’”
DH: So that means, what, you wrote in Edwards?
I’m wearing this fugly 3-inch-thick boiled wool suit jacket that’s like Mamie Eisenhower’s body armor. And I’m still freezing. I think it’s because of the 6 a.m. hot yoga. When you start your day in a 97-degree room, you know you’ll never be that warm again. And winter clothes bring a body down.