I'm in the kitchen of house where I grew up. Barack Obama is standing at the harvest-gold stove. He's wearing a frilly apron and is talking to an adviser who is leaning against our harvest-gold dishwasher. Another adviser is rooting through our harvest-gold refridgerator. The President-elect is boiling two hotdogs, one whole, one that has been cut meticulously into eight equal pieces. He's using an avacado-green sauce pan that I own to this day. I suggest that the hotdogs would be better if he grilled them. He looks at me thoughtfully, then tells me that using the grill is really too much trouble for just two hotdogs. I press him on the issue, explaining that we have a gas grill and it's really no trouble and that I always use the grill, even for just two hotdogs. Obama patiently and politely declines my offer, then gives a meaningful look at the adviser leaning on the dishwasher. She glares at me, says "The President will take it from here", then motions for me to go to the basement, which is cold and depressing.
Analysis: I continue to suffer from anxiety as I wait to be appointed Secretary of Housing and Urban Development.