"You're really quite sexy for a talking head, you know that don't you?"

"Yes, but one can never hear it often enough."

I watch Ann emerge from my swimming pool. Her Calvin Klein satin swimsuit has cutouts that flatter her long, lean torso and water droplets on her waist turn into rivulets as they join and race south like border runners without a compass. Her cleavage is visible through a small square which holds the whole thing together and looks decidedly like the outfit worn by the Kelvan babe from Star Trek TOS way back when.

She drops down beside me in a sunchair and I reapply the sunblock lost in the freshwater pool. The shade of the palm trees contrasts with the blinding white concrete decking here in the backyard of this desert sanctuary. Very small, yet colorful, mother of pearl shell chips, imported from the Caribbean, are embedded randomly into the concrete, ostensibly for traction, but really because the pool designers get off on that type of detail and can charge another arm and a leg for it.

"Mmmm. That feels good. Your hands are nice and warm."

I massage the moisturizing sublock from her neck down past her shoulders in smooth vortical motions.

"The Arizona sun does have it's good sides and bad sides."

Ann's time in the pool keeps her toned and I love the way the straight lines of her narrow waist suddenly decide to blossom dramatically at her hips.

Ann grabs the oversize Chanel shades from the glass table next to the teak sun chair and protects her blue-grey eyes from the rays, "Did you catch my latest clip on Hannity & Colmes?"

"No. I haven't been watching any TV."

"Well you didn't miss much. Fox is already going into damage control mode in case Obama gets a big blow out victory. If Obama wins, my guest appearances will roughly be doubled over the next six months."

"It's always profitable to be a conservative - even during an economic downturn."

She turns to me, a toothy grin appears, "Hey, do you feel like going shopping? If Obama wins, I want to enjoy the malls and capitalist bastions before they have to shutter their doors."

"Sure," I close the laptop that I used to update my blog and take a sip from the glass of iced green tea beside me, "which mall do you want to go to?"

"Let's go to the Scottsdale Fashion Square. I want to stop by Armani Exchange, Abercrombie & Fitch among others"

In a matter of minutes I am backing the red Lamborghini Muricelago out of the separate vehicle garage and onto the half-circle drive past a fifteen foot high saguaro cactus surrounded by a sea of rust colored pebbles. Ann jumps in to the all white interior, black boots, tight black jeans and a colorful oversize sweater that hangs loosely over her lithe frame and contrasts nicely with the stark interior. The cactus recedes in the distance as I floor the throttle and leave some Pirelli tire rubber for the caretakers to remove the next time they powerwash the drive.

Ann pulls down the visor LCD screen and pulls out the white keyboard which slides out from the dash. She types furiously answering e-mails. I downshift and before long I am on the 101 Pima heading south, darting around slow moving SUVs and the early afternoon traffic. A yellow volkswagen convertible tailgates for five blocks all the way to the corner of N. Scottsdale road and E. Camelback. I look in my rearview monitor and depress the zoom function. Two girls, probably about 20, one with multiple piercings and pink spiked hair are laughing and extending one fingered salutes while mouthing words easy enough to decipher even without hearing them. "Satan" , "Nazi", "whore" and other expletives unsuited for poite company emerge are plain enough to hear. A matronly woman in a Mercedes beside me looks in her rearview mirror at the noisy girls with a look of disdain, probably wondering what small trifle triggered the latest bout of verbal putrescence.

Ann laughs, "I just can't go anywhere with you can I? You are such a hate-magnet!"

The light turns green. I hold the brakes floor the throttle and a small cloud of tire rubber is formed that leaves the tailgating driver and her passenger inhaling nastiness instead of spewing it.

I release the brakes, let off the throttle and let the tires get some grip. The resulting acceleration allows me to quickly evade the liberal VW screaming banshees.

In less than twenty minutes the episode is completely forgotten and I am watching Ann parade the latest fashions from Milan to a very small audience of customers that have gathered to ogle Ann in Armani.

A metrosexual customer is talking to his friend, just loud enough for me to overhear him, as he browses at a discrete distance without being too obvious.

"She's a total -itch, but she looks good in a cashmere cowl neck."

"No one ever said Satan didn't have good taste."

The shopping trip is marred by hate, but balanced by recognition, admiration and appreciation. After she ties up her hair and puts on a knit beret, which helps to conceal her from recognition, a welcome sea of indifference is our reward.

Obama shirts are for sale in many stores. I stop and turn to Ann at a particularly visible display near a storefront.

"Would you like one?"

Ann laughs.

"Sure."

I spot a clerk, sorting a rounder.

"Do these shirts come in a size small?"

"Oh no, sir - all those Obama shirts are one size fits all."

I turn to Ann to see if she is in tune with me.

She is. Her eyes lock on mine and I can see she suppresses a dark desire to make a loud, political crack.

I turn to her, "No need to try it on honey - it's a guaranteed fit."

Ann beams at me, her eyes on fire, and shakes her head. I can see that a thousand and one different responses are going through her head at once and she suppresses all of them so that we can enjoy the rest of the time shopping incognito.

I grab over two dozen shirts with various meaningless messages, symbology and platitudes and have the clerk ring them up.

"Wow. You must be the biggest Obama fan we have had in here! I think almost everyone who works here is going to vote for him tomorrow."

I look at the clerk and try to decide upon a suitable response.

"Hey...one size fits all. Who can argue with that?"

The clerk smiles but looks non-plussed. It flew over her head like a deep hit over left field. We leave the store and now my arms, and Ann's, are filled with shopping bags that will. literally, be hard pressed to be stuffed into the Muricelago's meager storage compartment.

"Not ALL those shirts are for me?"

"No. I think they will make great X-mas gifts for just the right people on my list this year.

Ann laughs. We walk back to the car and the sun has set. The sky is a surreal blend of crimson, lavender and gold. A sudden wave of euphoria washes over me as I can see that life is beautiful and always is no matter what happens. One merely has to reach for that feeling and perspective and it is there - awaiting one like a long lost lover.

Suddenly, I know the next four years will be absolutely glorious.

Only then do I notice that someone has keyed my Muricelago.

;-)