I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I am the child of a bunch of socialist hippies. That’s right, my family is exactly who Rush Limbaugh warns you against. We’re those crazy weirdos who support things like gay marriage (can I get a shout-out from my Boston gays?), universal health care, and marijuana legalization. If we had our way, our country would have been Sweden about two decades ago, everything would be organic and free-trade, and everyone would join hands and sing Kumbaya around a campfire made from sticks that volunteered to be burnt. We’re really sorry about making America godless the way the founding fathers intended, but that’s sort of what we do on the weekends in between tending the arugala we grow in our pesticide-free garden. (Sidebar — that is the only non-facetious thing I’ve said so far. My dad just really likes gardening and arugala.)
So, as you can imagine, everyone in my house is pretty fond of Obama. That fondness, however, does not extend far enough to watch his press conferences for anyone in my household but me. But I love President Obama. I simply adore him. I would watch the man mow the lawn or discuss an ingrown toenail all day long. I would quit CliqueClack in a hot second (sorry guys!) if I thought the White House would take me up on my offer to be Executive Cookie Baker and Dog Walker In Chief. I would give all my limbs if Michelle Obama wanted to go clothes shopping with me so my remaining torso would look fabulous. But let’s be honest — Obama’s press conferences? They’re kind of boring.