God, I feel sick.

Everyone is going to come out a loser with this election fiasco. Whomever wins will never have the support of the country and will be a 1-term President.

Perhaps I should explain? National Elections, actually all elections, are like an emotional rollercoaster for me. As a baby, I was spoon-fed on politics. I crawled among red-white-and-blue signs and some of my first steps were taken while walking door-to-door with my father, as he campaigned for someone or another. I traded Mondale/Ferraro stickers for the Strawberry smelly stickers and Dukakis buttons for Cyndi Lauper pins.

I spoke like an adult as a child, because the conversations I heard were among adults and involved things like strategy and platforms and debates.

Before I was old enough to attend school, I would go with my mom to the neighborhood polling place while she volunteered for the day and my Dad finished campaign work. I remember the neighborhood poll volunteers effusively telling me how much I had grown, and me rushing out to play with the other volunteer's kids outside the polling place in the last days before winter hit; before we'd be cooped up inside or too bundled up to have fun.

And when we came inside the polls to warm up, they would feed us powered doughnuts, or fastnachts, as I knew them. I come from Pennsylvania Dutch country, although we aren't descendents of the Dutch - as many assume, but are descendants of Deutschland...Germany. By the way, please don't send me hate mail because I am of half German descent. We were here before the war, and no, my grandparents weren't Nazi's and truly, we have no ill-will toward other races or creeds. My peeps were run out of Bavaria because they were too poor to feed their families and there was no work to be had, so they migrated to the U.S.

Back to the fastnachts. God they were good. Doughnuts like no other and us kids were allowed to eat them and get that powder all over us and we could drink coffee - although none of us liked it because it was so bitter - or hot chocolate.

After playing all day and being on good behavior when my mom pulled me over to say hi to the older voters in our neighborhood who hadn't seen me in months and filling myself with fastnachts and hot chocolate...I would usually crawl under the card table where voters were checked in and I would sleep on the waxed, marble floor. I hardly remember what happened when the polls closed - like how they count the votes - because my little eyes were long shut and dreaming about playing on the last days of Fall and visions of powdered fastnachts and hot cocoa.

Years later, the kind-hearted and now silver-haired poll workers whom were the memories of my childhood, were on-site when at age 18, my mother and father took me to this polling place where I grew up and announced that I would be voting for the first time. The volunteers told me how pretty I'd grown and "oohhhed and ahhed" and then they ::SERIOUS FACES:: asked me, "May I see your driver's license, Miss?" And I was officially checked off at that table that I used to sleep under and as I was walked toward the voting machine to pull the lever for the first time, one of my favorite volunteers told me that her son, whom I used to play with outside, was going into army soon.

And then there were the parties. Lots and lots of parties. No doubt shaping me into the Partygirl I am;-) Small talk and smiles, that's what I remember, which is probably why I am so good at what I do today. Museum openings, art shows, theatrical productions, outdoor concerts, parades, trips to get ice cream cones on a warm fall night - anywhere we went with our parents was a campaign stop. They were happy to run into their friends, who were from all walks of life, and spread the good word on whichever candidate they were endorsing.

As we grew older, the politics grew more heated. If my teen-aged brother didn't like the verdict on his social life, as decreed from my parents, he would threaten to report them to social services. This he would threaten as his 6' frame looked down on my 5'10" Mother. Ahhhhh, the joys of over-educated, free thinking children. And I, the catholic school matriculator, refused on principle to go to Washington and march for Pro Life. Thereby threatening my grade point average. Dragging my parents in to fight for my choice. While they, as Catholics by faith, were firmly trapped in the belief that abortion is morally wrong but bound to the Democratic principles with which they raised us.

No one said raising children is easy, did they?

For better or for worse they did so, and as you may have noticed they raised us with social and moral consciences. Yet, when I grew into a adulthood, they blocked me at every political detour I tried to take. I wanted to be a politics major and I heard, "You can do nothing with that degree. And you don't need to major in politics to work in it. Learn a skill that will enter you into a profession. If you still want to go into politics after that, than do so."

In college, as my parents withdrew from local politics, I ran campaign after college campaign and we won. It was like getting high. It was better than getting the high. The lack of sleep, the overthinking, the winning...And when I would call to relay the exciting news, I'd hear, "That's nice. What's new with you?"

A few years later, I went to work for an MP in Britain, and at the last minute, my father said "I don't think you should go." I explained to him that my experience would be nothing like the movie "Damage," secretly hoping to find a Jeremy Irons of my own, and was allowed to go.

When I returned, I decided to move to Washington, D.C. My father gave me some names and put me on an Amtrack train in my best suit with a portfolio I bought at the local Art Supply store and filled with my achievements. I felt so grown up and as we waited for my train, my Dad again explained the lay out of the town and reminded me to call when I arrived.

I pounded the sweltering pavement for about 12 hours. I covered mile after mile of town in the ungodly heat of July wearing a suit, stockings and heels. I arrived at the Washington Post and they wouldn't even let me hand deliver my resume to the HR Dept. I met my congressman, I met some lobbyists I had arranged to met; they all gave me about 15 minutes of their time and made me uncomfortable with their engaging looks. I ended my day at Greenpeace - meeting a hotty wearing Berks - which was the only place to offer me a job and I left, encouraged, on a train back to small town Pennsylvania.

My father nearly lost his mind. No, I was told, I would not be working for Greenpeace for reasons he gave me that now I understand. I'd rather not get into it here.

But a heated discussion ensued. And the end result was my father telling me, "Partygirl, you'll never make it in politics and you'll never make it in Washington because you are just too emotionally involved. And people can you read you like a book. If you want to get anywhere in life, you must shield your emotions." I gasped! How dare he! Tell me! That I won't make it! My 21-year-old self stomped off in protest. And never went to D.C.

We've had a laugh about this since then. I was too impassioned about politics and issues. And I've applied that learning statement to my career today. Never get emotionally involved; never let them read you.

Which is why it came as a surprise to this 27-year-old Partygirl raised on politics and fastnachts, when yesterday, she mentally transported herself back to second-grade. My behavior toward the Nader voters brought me back to another political fight... to the days of wearing a miniature uniform... and little Partygirl freaking out because she was only person to vote for Carter in her second grade election, because the little Irish girl next to her told all the kids that Carter wanted to "kill all the kids, but Reagan wanted to keep them."

And I remembered telling my father what had happened that day after school and watching him share one of those grown-up looks with my mother over my head, and him explaining me that the other girl's father was "being silly and that story was simply not true. Carter is not going to kill children."

And yesterday, as I explained to the Nadergators (as I now loving refer to them) the damage their votes for Nader would cause for a candidate who could address and work for many of their concerns (truly he could...and would)and how Nader was unfair in the allegations about Gore that he fed to his supporters and unfair in his platform promises to them, I was reminded of losing that "hands up" election in Second Grade.

And it made me want to pull Nader's Pigtails. Just like I wanted to pull that little Irish girl's in Second Grade.

This is what Elections mean to me. So I apologize, if I pulled any of your pigtails yesterday;-) Especially, you.

Because really, I want your voting experiences to be as warm, fuzzy and memorable as mine.

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