At around half past ten o'clock this morning I was sitting at a makeshift desk in a jam-packed bullpen on the third floor of an office building on Van Ness dialing Democrats in Ohio to make sure they know know where to go to vote on Tuesday when a super sweet-sounding eighty-seven-year-old woman named Joyce picked up the phone at her home in Akron.
Me: How are you today, Joyce?
Joyce: Not so great.
Me: Oh no. What's the matter?
Joyce: I have a headache.
Me: Did you party a little too hard last night, Joyce?
Joyce (like I'm a total idiot): No. It's allergies.