You’ve got your ballot. Four wonderful women have been maligned weekly in the paper. The choice is yours. Recall or a vote of confidence? For those of you who don’t know the facts—or haven’t made up your mind—here’s a profile of one of them. This is an actual person--human being, if you will. She turns me over when I snore. But the words which describe her, apply to each of these amazing women.

Everyone knows I married well above my station. From that first alarm in the a.m., to the moment the "last chore of the day" is consummated, I am hourly reminded of the awesome magic that was woven some 29 years ago in St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Like all of life's mysteries, marriage isn't like I had planned. I assumed that I would be the one in charge. Hey. I’m a man. I still make all the important decisions--like our position on the Swine Flu, the control of the Golan Heights, and the appropriateness of the Afghan War. I've learned to leave the “little decisions”—everything else-- in the hands of the one some want to recall.

I'm not vying for the Alan-Alda-men-have-feelings-too, award.

But sometimes one has to call a spade a shovel.

I thought classes ended when I last passed Sather Gate.

Little did I know, school wouldn't start until I entered the "the World according to Cindy Warren. What did I know about a home? The miracle of birth? How to handle death? Was I versed in febrile seizures, broken wrists, concussions that rolled eyes into the back of a child's head? I knew how to stay up all night studying for finals, not to nurse a shivering kid. No one had trained me how to deal with the betrayal of friends, dealing with in-laws, the rivalries of siblings-turned-adults. What did I know of artful compromise? Of compassion? How was I to know that thank you notes, baby gifts, house warming presents, token Christmas gifts, impromptu phone calls, and birthdays remembered with Hallmark cards were the lubricants that oiled friends and family? I never knew the subtle importance of fresh cut flowers on the dinner table. I could eat, but knew nothing about the meaning behind meals prepared by a mother, crafting each one specifically for her family.

I don't think that's the role Eilene Ford had in mind when she plucked her off that Buckeye Campus and wooed her to the Big Apple. Eilene wanted a face. "The Goobs" wanted a future. So she rejected Ms. Ford, 'till she earned that business degree. Finally, sheepskin in hand, she joined Eilene's agency and did battle with the bright lights and whirring cameras. Eilene and Wilhelmina sent her globe trotting--Germany, Paris, Milan, Greece, South America. Why she touched down on Allyn Ave. is one of life's great mysteries.

She traded in that signature, black portfolio for a plastic laundry basket, permanently attached to her hip. Where she once danced till dawn at Studio 54, she still stayed up late, nursing feverish kids. Where limos once drove her to “shoots,” she racked up more miles than a New York Cabby shuttling kids between ballet, football, baseball, piano, and tennis. She gave up talent scouts for cub scouts; head sheets for dirty sheets; go sees for committees; fine food for fast.

She pays all the bills and balances the office books. When the toilet runs, she walks from the shorted out lamp, tool belt akimbo, and solves it. She paints the porches and plants her peonies. She's had various monikers: Den Leader, Little league Coach, Auction head, Napa Valley C's President, Square Dance, fund raiser, and most recently, School Board member. That’s outside the home. Inside, she's the lucky vacummer, duster, cook, chauffeur, electrician, travel agent, keeper of the calendar, plumber, painter, fire builder, bar-b-quer, animal feeder letter writer, hostess, form filler-outer, laundress, and head picker-upper-afterer. In her spare time she goes to the gym, charges the net with a vengeance, does the shopping, and ties my bow ties. Who would want to strut down runways in Paris or pose on the beach in Cancun, when they could wake up to some early morning cat vomit on the stairs?

As you can see, she doesn’t work. She’s just a mom. Yet, like Minnesota Fats, “She’s got more character in her little finger than some folks in town have in their whole body.”

Throw this bum out? Why not. She deserves it.