 So my book is Love and Condition Yellow, and it's a story of an unlikely marriage. A few years back, it might have been called a red state, blue state marriage. Now you might think of it as a pro-healthcare, anti-healthcare marriage. But it is, in any case, particularly unlikely in the political climate we have today in this country. I was a political activist in college. I'm on the right side. I'm protesting everything from apartheid to the nuclear arms race to our intervention in Central America. While my husband went to West Point, became an army airborne ranger, and invaded Grenada. I realized our story was a fun, quirky way to examine divisions in marriage and in America while also telling a love story. In Love and Condition Yellow, I come to my most radical position yet that intimacy can actually be independent of outward similarity or agreement. Here we are. I am getting arrested, and here he is training with the Oakland SWAT team. Most people don't have differences that vast in their marriage, but everyone has some differences. My hope is that our story will not only be entertaining, but also will provide ideas and tools and hope for transforming differences of many kinds in our marriages and our other relationships, and maybe even in the political arena. So I will read a short scene from the second chapter of my book called Reconnaissance, the second chapter. And in it, we are on our second date taking our dogs for a walk at the Berkeley marina. We choose the path toward the methane vent, a concrete tube surrounded by chain link, which sits incongruously amidst the rolling green of Cesar Chavez Park. It is dark now and foggy. I remarked to Barrett that there is something poetic about this place, that on the weekends, everything from stunt kites to massive dragons to the simple diamonds of little kids will dance together above the old dump. He says, huh, I try a different tack and tell them of my ski weekend. There was new snow, and my friend Mark and I spied the ski patrol, making their way up to the top of a closed area. We joined a group of skiers racing to be the first behind them. Because I was lighter than Mark and the other skiers, all male, I was able to stay higher on the new snow and pass them up. When the patrol turned the sign and opened the slope, I was their first, whooping with the powder billowing up around my legs and even kissing my back under my parka. I swooped and glided down, queen of the moment. When I finish relating the story, I am grinning, full of the freedom and triumph of that run. Barrett says, I think you're the cockiest girl I've ever met. For some reason, this makes me very happy. Perhaps he understands bravado. I laugh and say to him, so do you ski? Haven't been up much in the last few years. I don't get that much time off with the SWAT team and pulling a lot of overtime. But what do you do for fun? Do you bike, hike, rollerblade? Rollerblade, he guffaws. Ah, no. Don't rollerblade. Don't wear spandex either. That's for guys with beards. We can see the lights of the Albany racetrack in the great distance. And as we turn the corner, the wind rolling in under the Golden Gate hits us hard and we have to lean into it and raise our voices. Barrett pulls a wool watch cap out of his pocket and tugs it on his head. I guess mostly I work. I was a salesman for a couple of years after getting out of the Army. And man, I just hated it. I worked real hard, but the sucking up to people, the schmoozing, the lack of real mission, real camaraderie, it just felt like I was slowly drinking pure acid every day. Drip, drip, drip, acid. So being a cop suits you better? Oh yeah, definitely. I like being outside. I love to drive. I love the rush of chasing turds. I can't believe they pay me when shit. I do it for free. I am examining Barrett's words and phrases like they're puzzle pieces. I hope that if I can arrange them the right way, they might form a picture I can understand. But turds? I feel a weight in my gut. This is what I was afraid of finding in Barrett. Going along with something like that is like giving tacit approval. Then I chide myself. Come on, this is just a lark. We don't have to agree. We walk a while in silence. Finally I murmur, so you call them turds? What? Turds. You call the people you arrest turds, didn't you? Oh well, no, not exactly, did I say turds? I should have said suspects. Mostly, that's usually what we call them. Mostly we say suspects. I don't believe him and I guess it shows in my face because he flashes me a guilty grin. Except the really bad ones. Okay, yes, some of the really bad ones we call turds. How do you know they're really bad? Oh you know, you just get a feeling. Or you see them all the time over and over again. I just don't like the idea of calling human beings turds. But come on, some people are just evil, aren't they? They're just bad. They really are. Like the guy that kidnapped Polly Class, he's a turd, no doubt about it. Jesus, a little girl, that guy needs to go. And he makes a quick ringing motion with his hands. Something in my chest tightens and I wrap my arms around himself. Barrett says, do you know a cop stopped that guy? When he had her in the car, he stopped the guy and he didn't savor. Jesus, I don't ever wanna make a mistake like that. I could never live with myself. He really is noble in a way I think. He wants to help people, especially those that are vulnerable. He wants to protect them. From harm, I can barely even contemplate. I am fascinated to walk next to him knowing that he travels in and out of the world of my nightmares. To me, Barrett is one of a monolithic block of impassive guys with bristly mustaches and mirrored sunglasses that I generally try to avoid. I can imagine him in his uniform looking tough and scary, but now I see him in his plaid royal robin shirt, his wrangler jeans, looking at me with eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. And I feel like I have slipped between the cracks of a concrete wall and found a lush, secret world.