Frank's having one of those mornings when his mind is just in some other time and space. He's calling our Yorkie puppy by the name of a Labrador we owned twenty years ago. She doesn't mind though. I have a feeling she'd answer to pretty much anything.
I was up early and have already seen the news, so Frank's having coffee with Robin Mead while I read the book I've been desperate to finish.
"Hey look!" he says. "It's George Bush on the news. And he's eatin' a corndog."
I don't have to look up. "That's not George Bush. That's Governor Perry."
"God, what'd he do to his hair? He was nearly white-headed when he left office. I wish people would just leave themselves alone."
I look at the stubble on his own head and decide not to mention his own act of head-shaving. Besides, the conversation has already taken a wierd turn - why complicate the issue?
"Sweetheart," I begin in my most patient tone. "That man with the corndog shoved in his mouth is not President Bush. It's Rick Perry. OUR OWN Governor. But he's RUNNING for President."
Frank squints his eyes at the television screen. "Well, he's got my vote."
"You didn't even vote for him for Governor. You voted for Kinky Freidman. Why would you want him as President?"
"I like corndogs. When's the election?"
"A year from this coming November."
"November? Well then, early voting must be coming up. Let's not miss it. The president we have now doesn't look like he's ever eaten a corndog in his life."
"I thought you liked the President."
"I do, but I like corndogs better." He nods with the satisfaction of a decision well made. "What's for lunch?"
I had a feeling we'd wind up on this note. I stand up and locate my purse, resigned to running to the grocery store to buy corndogs.
"Where ya' goin'?" he asks.
"You're absolutely right - I'm going to the grocery store to take care of early voting. Wanna go?"
My husband smiles broadly, glad to have one more thing marked off his "to-do" list.