The Hurt (your wallet) Locker

Let me just quote Son #3:

"Gym lockers are mandatory. I never used mine. And I did not know, when they assigned me the locker, that there was a $3 fee for it. If I don't pay the fee, they won't let me graduate. I had to pay for a regular locker, too. $5. And I shouldn't have had to pay for that, either, because I never used it, never wanted it, but it's mandatory. It's not a lot of money, but still. It's like when you're at a stop light and some hobo 'washes' your windshield with dirty water, and expects you to pay him. Of course, there's nothing wrong with NOT paying the hobo, but if you don't pay the government, they won't let you graduate."

Excellent analogy, my son who was just informed he has been selected for a program for students with the potential to be high academic achievers.

And on a totally unrelated note (or absolutely connected, depending on your perspective), yesterday I had to proofread an article about negotiations between the school board and the teacher's union of a nearby public school system.

The union rep insisted that the schools would never be able to hire enough summer school teachers, if they did not raise the pay rate by $4/hour. The rate the school system is currently offering summer school teachers is, according to the union rep, "not even what they pay a first-year teacher."

What is this pittance they expect teachers to accept in exchange for their services on a summer morning? This ridiculously low amount no teacher in a sane frame of mind would stoop to accept?

$41/hour.

No, that is not a typo.

Honest.

Census Weirdness

I went out Enumerating today. I had a few houses in my book on which I have been unable to get information.

A few were obviously vacant, but I am not authorized to make that designation unless someone in the area verifies for me that, yes, that house with the tree growing into the roof is abandoned. Fortunately, on my third trip down that road, I ran into a woman who was able to sort that out for me for all of them at once.

I went back to one I'd visited a while back and caught the man at home. He stood in the doorway--well, kinda hunched in the doorway, as he was too tall to fit under the door frame--and before I could ask him any questions, he said, "I'm not going to give you any names or birth dates or social security numbers or income or anything."

"No problem," I said. "They don't make me ask about social security numbers or income, anyway. But can I ask you a few questions?"

"We don't have any illegal immigrants in here, neither."

"Yeah, really mostly all I need is a number. Can you tell me how many people were living here on April first?"

"Two."

"They want me to ask names and birth dates, but we can skip that since you don't want to say. Can you tell me what race each person is?"

"We're all white. Everyone around here is white."

Well, OK, then.

Since I am also white, well, I had to wonder if he would have said it the same way, and so forcefully, if I were not. But I was not about to ask, because he pretty much looked like he was ready to slug me the whole time.

I also stopped by an odd apartment building in the woods. You would never know it was back there, but I had found them once and gotten some of the information I'm supposed to collect, but not all. I've been back a couple more times with no luck. Today was my last attempt to catch someone willing to talk to me--as per usual, a lot of cars were there but no one was answering their doors.

Leaving the property I turned right, deeper into the woods, instead of left, toward the main road.

I have no sense of direction.

None.

Really.

Just ask anyone.

I realized it almost immediately, but since this was just a long, narrow, gravel road there wasn't much opportunity to turn around. I try to avoid using people's driveways, so I drove to the end, where the street got slightly wider, and turned back toward the main road.

As I passed one of the houses, a man flagged me down. "YOU NEED TO SLOW DOWN!" he said. I was going about 20 mph at the time, which I think is not all that fast for a straight road, even if it is a bit on the narrow side. But, hey, I am paid to count people, not to argue with them, so I said, "Yes, sir."

"You should not even be here," he said.

"Yeah, I know, I got lost so I had to turn around."

"You should not even be on this road and you are driving too fast."

At this I smiled, waved, and started to pull away, and a woman came out of the house, screaming so much her entire face was red. I am not at all sure what she was trying to say to me, but you have to imagine--I was beyond the end of her 100-yard-long driveway, politely excusing myself from her angry husband, and all I could think was, "If you two were not so busy telling me to get away from your house, I would be several miles away by now, but OK..."

I also went to a house I'd almost given up and impossible. Every time I came by, they were gone, or only their young children were there, and yet today I lucked out and caught them all at home. They invited me in.

I'm not supposed to go into people's houses, but sometimes I do, if it makes more sense. Best part of that house? The Race question.

"We're all rednecks. 100 percent, All-American Redneck. You can put THAT on your form."

And he said it with such a charming smile, while changing his baby daughter, I was tempted to write it in. We are expected to write in that sort of stuff, if they want us to. His wife, though, told me, "We're all white. Well, I'm a little Mexican, but that's it, and the kids aren't Mexican enough to count, so we're white."

I'm not about to decide how Mexican you have to be to count as Mexican Enough, so I told her that she could have me check that box for her kids if she wanted. She decided to stick with just white.

They then had a bit of an argument over how many people to include on the form. "The kids move out and they boomerang right back. They turn 18 and you think they're gone and then they come back with more."

My attitude for the whole thing is pretty much just one of gratitude for the job. I don't care what boxes you want me to check. You can identify yourself any way you like. "No skin off my nose," as my mom would say.

I do wonder, though, why we are required to fill out those forms in pencil. Our payroll forms have to be in pen, "for the scanning machines." But the Census data has to be in pencil, also ostensibly for the benefit of the scanning machines.

Well, which is it?

Conspiracy theorists can start riiiiight about there.

At least in my case it is not that hard to guess

Yesterday was my first day of Census training. Mostly it was filling out employment forms, getting fingerprinted (three times, in my case), and starting to go through the practice workbooks that explain all about what Census forms look like.

Not bad, but boy, is it dull.

Also.

You know those "gender and ethnicity" questionnaires everyone asks you to fill out these days? They are completely voluntary, right? Well, at Census training, they are also completely voluntary. However, if you choose not to self-identify, the crew leader/instructor is required to fill out the form for you, based on her observations.

When she explained that, I had to ask.

"You mean, I can fill out the form, if I want. But if I decide that my ethnic background is not the federal government's business, so I decline to fill out the form, they are going to make you guess?"

"Yes."

Ya just gotta love modern life, man.

Never thought I'd say this, but

Yes We Can!

We're such good parents

...because we've never even considered giving the Sons jailhouse tattoos. Thank you, PattyJo Marsh, for setting the bar delightfully low.

Janet Napolitano, Woman of Faith

Now I get it. Her "system" for preventing terror attacks is to assume that people who say they are part of al Qaeda are not, and that people whose own parents report them to MI6 are not worth keeping on a no-fly list, and then, basically, to hope for the best. Ms. Napolitano got her Christmas Miracle, I guess, and we can all thank God for that.

But the next Nigerian to email me is gonna get a piece of my mind.

UPDATE: Apparently Napolitano has decided that maybe it didn't work all that well after all.

A day for mourning, but also for justice

The Ft Hood memorial is today,


and the chief DC Sniper will be executed tonight.

Yes, there is a connection. God help us all.

Stuff you learn in public school, these days

Son #1's history teacher: North Korea is not a nuclear power and we have no reason to be concerned about their nuclear weapons program.

Son #2's history teacher: Ronald Reagan was beloved by the American people because he was so liberal.

Son #3's class: Boys are not allowed to express pro-life opinions, because they will never give birth.

Son #4's class: getting pregnant in 7th grade is "awesome," because it means you have already had sex. And using words like "essentially" means your vocabulary is unnecessarily large.

Also: when you tell your parents this stuff? They basically have a stroke.

"What's the big deal about a speech?"

The big deal is, it is not just a speech. It is a movement by the people entrusted to educate our children...to indoctrinate them, instead.

George Orwell Saw It Coming, #672

On September 8, President Obama is going to speak to all public school students in the nation.

For those of you from Across the Pond, we've never had a President do this before. And for those of you who haven't read 1984, well, go get a copy.

Yeah, part of me is thinking, "Go get a copy before they wise up and ban it."

Update--I have since read that in 1991, GHWBush did address the nation's schoolchildren.

OK, so sue me: I had no kids at the time, was not in the school system myself, and I was also living overseas. But I stand by my general creeped-out-ness. Not really sold on the President asking my kids what they'll do to help him.

See, now this is why we didn't want to be with you people

Sons #3 and 4 are entering the school system this year.

A few weeks ago, I realized, "hmmm, it is almost midsummer, I should register the boys." So I called the high school and left a message for the registrar.

"Hi, I have an incoming freshman who has been home-schooled since second grade so I need to make an appointment to register him. Give me a call."

No response.

A week or so later, I called again.

"Hi, I called last week about an incoming freshman who needs to register for school. Here is my home number and my cell number; I will come in with him at your convenience."

No response.

A week later, I called again, this time the main office.

"Hi, I have left two messages for the registrar, and the registrar's office has not returned my calls. Is there someone else I should call to make an appointment to come in and register my son, and make sure I have all his paperwork in order?"

No response.

I called the middle school and they said, "Oh, you don't need an appointment, just drop by." So I did. Got #4 all set up in maybe 15 minutes. Since they are in the same school district, I figured the paperwork the high school would need would be pretty much the same as the middle school. I had gone through this process with Son #1 and Son #2 in years past, as well. So I gathered everything, put it in an envelope, and this morning I said,

"Son #3, they are NOT returning my calls, so I guess we don't need an appointment, or if we do we're not going to get one, since school starts in less than 3 weeks. Let's just go."

So we did.

We went to the counseling department and the registrar was standing in the middle of the office, hand on hip, yakking about personal stuff with her coworkers. She looked up at me and said, "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I've been calling for the past three weeks to request an appointment and no one has returned my calls."

"Sorry," she said. "I get, like, 20 to 30 calls a day."

(and three of those have been from me, this month, and could have just been ONE call, if you'd handled it the first time around, so I wonder how much of that phone ringing you bring on yourself by not answering the phone)

She said I could have an appointment. So I followed her back to her office, where she asked when I'd like to come in.

"As soon as possible. School starts in a little over 2 weeks."

She handed me a list of all the paperwork I need. Which I had, in my hand. I told her so. She offered to keep my envelope in her office, until our appointment tomorrow. Yeah, like I am going to give her my son's Social Security card and birth certificate to keep. Sure.

She reviewed the list of paperwork, again, and I again stated, "Yes, I have all of that ready for you whenever you are ready to process it."

A third time she pointed to the list, and enumerated the various things which I would need to bring...and...which...I...had...assured...her...were...in...my...lap...already.

Then she asked for transcripts-or-equivalent, and I explained to her twice why I have them in an unfamiliar format, but that I have the information required by the state, and that I would give it to her at our appointment.

So, tomorrow Son #3 and I go back for our appointment, which will probably take all of 15 minutes.

I swear, though, that woman should be ashamed of herself for accepting a paycheck.

Maybe not racism, but racial attitudes?

About 12 years ago, or so, the Sons visited my parents for a few days.
Yeah, that meant my parents had four children under the age of five in their house at the same time. It was, to say the least, an adventure.

Part of that adventure included the police.

Son #1 dialed the police; my parents had it on speed-dial, so he only had to hit one button. The police called the house, and my dad explained that no, they didn't need to come out, it was just his little scamp of a grandson who did not sit still until he was sound asleep (and even then there was no guarantee, dear God that child did not sit still).

A few minutes later, Son #1 did it again.

This time, the police did not call. They showed up. My father explained, again, that they were just a little overwhelmed with the grandkids, and they were sorry for wasting the police's time, and they'd move that phone up to where a 4-year-old couldn't reach it.

And the police said, basically, that's all fine, but we still need to come in and look around.

So, my Dad invited them in. They looked at the house. They looked at my parents. They looked at the 4 wilding children. They confirmed that all was as my father said it was. Because, well, if my Dad had been held at gunpoint he might have said exactly the same thing.

It is the police's job to take seriously any call they get. Someone reports a crime, the police have to investigate. And my parents, as mortified as they were at the time, were also well aware that the police were there to help them out. That their intentions were noble and honorable. That if things were different, my parents would have been beyond grateful for the prompt and thorough attentions of the police.

So when Henry Louis Gates was asked to step out onto his porch, after neighbors reported a break-in at his house (a second break-in, apparently--the police had been there before while Gates was on vacation) and he shouted, "Why, because I'm a Black man in America?"

Well, it makes me think that it was not the police behaving badly, but the citizen jumping to race-based conclusions.

Racism is real. People get judged because of the color of their skin. I'm not saying that is not true. But I just think that in this case the cops were not the racist ones. They were just trying to protect the home owner from repeated crime.

I sorta won the dead pool

If you don't count all the people who died since we placed our bets (because none of them made it to our little familial list), anyway. Walter Cronkite is dead, and I did pick him.

I have fond (although, these days, vague) memories of Cronkite, but I have to admit that he started our mainstream news industry on a path it seems completely unwilling to leave: ignoring the facts to shape public opinion, so that public opinion would support a liberal cause, no matter what the tragic consequences might be.

RIP, though. Really.

Ya see, Colin, not every one of us can just "keep in touch"

Remember when Colin Powell endorsed Obama, and then got all huffy about it? And couldn't understand why some people thought that endorsing a far-left Democrat might give people the impression that he was, on some level, not really the Republican he might once have been, or perhaps even that he was supporting Obama for racial reasons?

Now, Powell is not talking about Obama's "ease and calm" in decision making. He's concerned, these days, that Obama is easing-and-calming us into gigantic government programs we cannot run or afford.

Lemme 'splain it to you, Mr. Powell: Those of us who were against Obama before the election saw this coming. This is why we did not vote for him.

And maybe Obama can schmooze you, Mr. Powell, because you "keep in touch," but he is not talking to me, or millions of the rest of us. Not listening to us, and not charming the pants off us whenever we pick up the phone.

Maybe Powell was just too close to Obama to see the big picture.

Monday: Sneakers and Places One Cannot Sneak

Monday morning, and here are the sneakers:


And where can't you sneak? Lancaster, Penn.

Up until this morning, you said "Lancaster" and I would say "mmmmmm pretzels." Because that is where I went on a tour of a pretzel factory, as a child.

(trust me, "mmmmmmm")

Saw this, though, and thought, "Hmmmmm....Orwell."

I can understand the appeal of faster police response and less low-level street crime. But my concern is, what happens when someone with more, um, Progressive plans for Lancaster decides that other things should be reported?

Like that chick eating a cheeseburger in her car?
Or the guy smoking a cigarette?
(When medical care is run by the state, will those things become crime?)
Are the people of Lancaster opening themselves up to harassment for, say, congregating in a public area for a political rally or a religious meeting?

Right now, the people who run the system and the government officials who contract with them are all saying they only want information on crime. But this technology must be really tempting stuff. If the officials decide they really should be more hands-on about the way citizens live, what's to stop them?

What's to stop them putting those cameras in ever more intrusive places, too?

I so needed this headline, a few weeks ago

"Mother fought off cougar..."

Because that is pretty much what I did.

Only I didn't save my toddler. I just deflected some unwanted attention from Son #1.

Honestly, the woman who was all giggly-stupid over him, at the orthodontist's office, is too old for Hubby, ok? She has the oldness. She has no reason to get all up in a 17-year-old's business, especially if said 17-year-old is in her workplace, and got there in his mom's car.

Am I painting a picture, here?

Son #1 was fairly oblivious. He just thought the woman agreed with everything he said, and sat really close to him, and laughed all the time, because he is a genius.

Yeah, Son #1 is a guy, alright. Were things reversed, I am sure a daughter would have, in the car, said, "Ewwww, Mom, that old man was totally hitting on me! Gross!"

Last week, I saw The Cougar again. I resisted the urge to tell her how very unprofessional and pathetic her behavior had been.

Honestly, though, Son #1 is stalked by cougars pretty much all the time. Women of a Certain Age need to get a grip.

The Presidential Oath of Office has penumbras & emanations too, now?

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

--the Presidential Oath of Office

"I consider it part of my responsibility as President of the United States to fight against negative stereotypes of Islam wherever they appear."

--President Obama, in Cairo this week

I keep looking for "Defender of the Faith" in there, but I just don't see it.

Anticipation, Frustration, Obama-Nation

Anticipation: Two weddings, in eight days. e haven't been to a wedding in years (and that one was doomed at the altar, no doubt), and now we've got two. I am looking forward to bringing my camera to both, and also to contributing actual food to the wedding reception for one.

I have received my Food Assignment and I am on it like Paula Deen on a stick of butter. Oooh, yeah.

Frustration: I am NOT getting what I want, on pretty much all fronts, these days. The car is still in the shop, even though they were sure it would be ready yesterday. I keep sending out queries for work and get back, well, the sound of crickets. So far, this week, the dog has peed on my purse, three leather coats, and a carpet. AND YET I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM, or even want to. Hubby's band is defunct, and I have no idea what comes next on that one, so no dancing to slap bass for me anytime soon. I keep telling the Sons to handle their business and my reward is a general sinking feeling that I am becoming an ineffectual nag.

The Beach suggests I get an air horn and striped shirt, for handling all those episodes of Brotherly Love. I think she is a genius. Just gimme that whistle on a string.

About half of our CD collection has been bogarted by a Son, I guess. I keep opening cases and finding nothing. HOW DARE HE MISPLACE GEORGE THOROGOOD? That's just wrong. I may have to toss his room.

On the bright side, the poison ivy seems to be clearing up, Son #1 has been asking my advice on a very sweet project of his own devising, school is almost out and my nail polish is pristine, for once. (Honestly, a successful manicure does lift my mood. I am more girly than I thought, I guess.)

And the Obama-nation?
Well, I just am speechless. We are out of money? Shutting down businesses run by owners who did not contribute to Obama's election? Choosing a Supreme Court justice because she is a Latina? (Hey, maybe she's okay, but her job is to follow the Constitution. Don't need a uterus or a Compelling Personal Story for that.) I haven't been blogging on all this stuff because, well, I don't want to turn into a ranting nutbag, and Dhimmi Carter has that effect on me on a pretty consistent basis.

So, you know, I'll shut up now.

Mixed feelings, oh, yeah, I got 'em

Part of me can understand and even support the "buy Black" movement this couple hopes to launch.

But if I said, "Let's only buy white", would I get that kind of happy coverage? Would I DESERVE that kind of coverage? Of course not. And I say that as someone who once knew just about every white person in the city where I lived (because I was living in Asia at the time)...it never crossed my mind that I should support white businesses just because they were white.

Ya know why? Because that is racist.

Random Thoughts

Flax seed oil and Texas Pete make the world's most awesome salad dressing. As in, I am sad when my salad bowl is empty, every day at lunch. Unlike Caesar salad, which makes me sad when I see it on my plate. Totally different experience.

Painting your nails makes you realize your head itches and you need to brush your teeth.

It also makes you think that maybe all that flax seed oil is making your nails grow.

Today, a dear friend and fellow gigwidow called me so I could hear her guy practicing in the basement. It was a private concert, just for me! I love that.

I also love YouTube, because I can get all obsessy about Simon & Garfunkel or Amy Winehouse or whomever else, even if I can't find my CD. Which is a sadly frequent event.

Watching some woman in her 50s get all giggly and stupid over my 17-year-old son was as creepy as it was amusing. For me and the Son.

Today, Son #2's U.S. Government teacher showed the kids a political cartoon unlike any other she has displayed this year: It illustrated a conservative viewpoint. According to Son #2, two students gasped when they saw it.

I don't care if April showers bring May flowers, I am tired of rain.

The house is mostly clean, the Sons are fed, I submitted two articles today; I feel good.

If you put ground flax seed on your chocolate ice cream, it instantly becomes a healthy food. Especially with some banana slices.

I like the sound of the dishwasher, the washer and dryer, the snorty, sleeping dog. Sounds like home.

Hubby and I loved Slumdog Millionaire, no matter what Salman Rushdie says.

I've been productive enough, today. Some days, it is OK to decide you've done enough and want to take the evening off. I'm going to go read Hard Times.