For the most part, I'm told, voting went fairly smoothly yesterday. That wasn't my experience.

I didn't run into terribly long lines or anything like that, but I was shuffled from precinct to precinct to precinct before encountering a sick child.

I felt very good about being prepared to vote. I checked out the Secretary of State's Web site and found my polling place, a little church virtually across the street from my apartment building.

I had originally wanted to vote by mail, but I never received the ballot I requested, and from asking around, I'm not the only one. So, I actually had to go vote the "old-fashioned" way. Fine. No problem. Works for me.

Because I had to be at work by 6:45 a.m., I had planned to go do my civic duty right when the polls opened, but I didn't get up in time. I really needed the extra few minutes of sleep, I guess. Plus I have a moral objection to being out an about before the sun comes up, but that's another story.

So I took a late-ish lunch, about 1 p.m., hoping the lines wouldn't be too long. No problem there. I waltzed right in. To the wrong precinct.

The church was one of those three-precinct-in-one polling places. Apparently I live on the wrong side of the street and did not belong in any of the three. Never mind that that was where the Secretary of State's Web site told me to go.

The volunteers were nice enough to direct to my proper place. They sent me to a school not far away.

I apparently live on the wrong side of the street for that one, too.

They sent me back to the church. Where I was sent to another school. Where I was sent to another church.

By this time my patience was wearing thin and my lunch hour was almost over.

While I was waiting in line at the second church, the woman in front of me was explaining that her little boy was sick and that's was he was with her rather than at day care.

I nodded and smiled, but wasn't terribly into making small talk in the voting line. Too frustrated with being shuffled from place to place, wondering if my day could get any worse.

Which it did. Right then.

The woman's sick child vomited. On me.

Yes, it was completely gross.

The woman went to clean up her child. Didn't even apologize to me. Rather, when she came back, she yelled at me for taking her place in line. She pointed out that she had to step away because her child was sick.

"I'm aware of that, thank you," I said none-too-pleasantly. (Can you blame me?) There were a couple of people in line behind me, and the volunteers waiting to check me -- or somebody-- in, and they can check in one person at a time. What? I was supposed to keep everybody waiting?

By now, I was one step shy of raging. I just wanted to vote and get out of there.

Too bad that church wasn't my polling place, either.

I left, so frustrated I was practically in tears. I called my mom. Worried her since she didn't know what was wrong. I went home, put my pukey shirt in the tub to soak, found something else to wear and headed back to work.

My poor colleagues. They were right in the line of fire -- verbal, not vomitous. I told them what happened, and they struggled not to laugh while I tried hard not to cry. Befire long I was laughing, too, but I still hadn't voted.

After I finished up for the day, I decided to give it one more go. I drove around and tried to figure out which "vote aqui" sign could belong to me. I picked a church a few blocks from my home. Jackpot! It was indeed my polling place, although not according to the Secretary of State's Web site or volunteers at any of the previous locations.

The volunteers at this last place were very nice, apparently used to dealing with frazzled citizens.

I went in and presented my driver's license, which I got when I was 16. I'm 33, now, and don't live with my parents any more. Haven't for years. You see where this is going.

The address on my license, which is valid until 2033, is not the address I call home. The right address is on file with the MVD. I just never got a new piece of plastic. (Didn't want to get a picture taken. Again, another story.)

So the volunteer asked me if I had anything official with my name and current address on it. Frustration welling again, I said I didn't. She was starting to utter the dreaded words, "provisional ballot," when I spotted a piece of white paper with red printing on it in my purse. Jury summons. Score!

"Well, it doesn't get more official than that," the volunteer -- Connie -- said.

I knew there was a reason I had been shuffling that summons from purse to purse for two weeks. I had never been so happy to see a jury summons in my life.

The volunteers handed over the ballot I had worked so hard for and I had at it. Finally!

As I dropped my completed ballot in the bin, the scanner was apparently broken, a volunteer thanked me for voting and handed me a pink comment card. Was I satisfied with my voting experience? Not by a long shot.

Was it worth it? Sure.

Now I know there are people who go through much more to have their voices heard. But if I can get the red, sticky child slime out of my shirt (Help, Queen of Clean!), I'll be happy.