So it was red meat night at the Republican convention, and one expects the usual attacks and swipes at the opponents. Third night at political conventions for both parties can get rough.

I’m just wondering if there are any Republicans out there who are aware of the semiotics of an arena full of middle aged white people, arms raised over their heads, gleefully yelling “Zero! Zero! Zero!” about the most successful black American politician ever.

Here’s a classic conversation between the lad and me last night. He was playing store, and he was “the seller.”

Dad: I’d like to buy some peace and quiet, please.
Lad: Okay, I’ll just slide your credit card through here and there you go.
Dad: Great. I can’t wait for my peace and quiet to begin.
Lad: That was $30.
Dad: What?! That’s expensive. I better be getting a lot of peace and quiet for that much money.
Lad: Actually, I can’t sell you peace and quiet. I switched it to good luck.
Dad: But I really wanted that peace and quiet. How will I know that I have good luck now?
Lad: I’ll give you this good luck tissue to carry around. And, you can use it blow your nose if you need to.

With a pitch like that, who could resist?

Our son has this assessment to share:

Why is that judge on the end always so rude? He’s always so rude. I don’t like him very much.

I never blog sports, but having just watched the Eagles-Saints game…actually at this precise second, there are still 12 seconds on the clock…I cannot for the life of me figure out why the Eagles punted on 4th-and-long. It’s not like they were going to be better off with their defense on the field and even less time to work with even if they did manage a stop. That was a bad, bad play call. Tantamount to giving up and going home.

We Eagles fans once had our playoff hopes riding on 4th-and-26 and managed to pull it off.

Yesterday I learned the limits of my parental authority.

Lad: No, I’m the boss of playing, mommy. You have to do what I say.
Mom: You are? What am I the boss of?
Lad: You’re the boss of the house and I am the boss of playing.
Mom: What about Daddy?
Lad: Daddy is the boss of nothing. He’s the nothing boss.
[beat]
Okay, he can be the boss of the tree.

I think The Nothing Boss would be a great name for an Indie rock album. If only I had an ass-kickin’ rock band.

I’ve been at the polling place in Nether Providence Township since 6:15 AM. It’s impossible to know how things are really going, but here’s how it feels on the ground in our little sliver of the Philly burbs:

In the morning, the Republican base was out. They’re always there. This is a majority Republican district by registration, and it’s a community that votes. Hopes of a disgraced and discouraged Republican base staying away from the polls are, to my senses, wishful thinking. This is a fairly affluent, mostly white suburb, still tied to a county GOP machine. Your mileage may vary.

There are plenty of Republicans who will gladly tell you for whom they’re splitting their tickets.

The Democrats who are showing up to the polls are often angry. They don’t like the sleezey way that their candidates were attacked. One lady railed on the local GOP commissioner for more than five minutes about the disgusting ads that our local state rep, Tom Gannon, lobbed at his Democratic opponent, Bryan Lentz (PA-House 161). Others were suspicious and mad about the awkwardness of our polling site. This is probably a reaction to the national mood. Our local judge of elections, though a member of the other party, plays it straight and clean. I don’t think you’d come across a more civil and fair election board anywhere. Both parties work together at our site to make it work right.

Dems are motivated, and Republicans are still coming out, although we don’t know how they’re splitting their tickets.

The one thing I’m sure of: the independents are with us. That’s the group that’s approaching the outside workers and saying, “I’m an independent, but I’m voting straight Democrat this time.” I’d be willing to bet that the registered “NP’s” are voting so overwhlemingly in our favor that if I were a Democratic operative, I’d play the numbers game and turnout independents, period.

If I were a Republican in this neighborhood, I’d be allergic to every NP voter unless I had a voter ID from a previous canvass already in pocket.

By 2:00, our precinct, which has over 900 voters, had already seen 370 walk through the doors. We have an additional 31 absentee ballots returned.

My son came in and helped his mom and dad vote. He made sure we did it just right.

Now we’re at home. Our polls are staffed well and its the slow hour. In an hour, I’m taking some Tylenol and heading back out.

Mrs. Don’t-You-Dare-Call-Me-Mommy-Democrat (DYDCMMD) generally chooses not to be a celebrity on this here blog. This should not be confused with a lack of celebrity in our household or a proper standing in my esteem. For the record, she’s overwhelmingly perfect, and all the Democratic lads in our house are just gaga for her.

We’ve been an item for 11 years, and today we marked eight years of marriage. My gift was mightily appreciated. (Phew!) We had a nice dinner out. (Sushi…her fave.)

When you get a copy of a book titled The Ruins on your anniversary, are you getting a hint? (Mitigating factor: it was on my wish list.)

All this by way of saying, if you ever wonder why you only see a handful of mentions of Mrs. DYDCMMD, now you know.