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.

Gay wants to know...

Am I working? Am I blogging? Am I still alive, even?

Actually, yeah, mostly. Here's a recap--and so dull you'll understand why I have not bothered to blog, of late.

Friday night I went to the ballet.
Ha!
No, really, Brick and I went, and it was lovely, although I must admit I did not feel like I understood it. Oh, well, one needn't understand to appreciate, I hope.

Saturday was my last day at the newspaper. I drove around the southern half of the county taking photos of Navy people donating their time to Christmas in April, an annual service day. People all over the country help those who cannot afford to maintain their homes. It's a good cause, but of course the motto for the paper is:

We Care About The World, As It Affects Pax River Naval Air Station.

So, ONLY Navy guys. Marines, maybe. Civilians with a tie to the base, OK. Everyone else, well, you will just have to gain satisfaction from some other source, because my photos of you were deleted as soon as I realized I could not use them.

On the cute side, one of the team captains was an older gentleman who said that he could only allow me on the work site if my Mom would sign me in.

Darn. So cute. This is the kind of thing you can say once you are Older. I shall keep that in mind.

Also Saturday was the Celtic Festival. I took Sons #1, 3 and 4. We had a good time, especially as we were making our way there.

Lemme set the scene.

We're walking towards the entrance, and of course my mind is swimming with images of poverty from the photos I'd taken hours earlier. I had also had only a normal person's ration of sleep, since I got home from the ballet at 1 a.m. and was on the road by 7:30.

Coming toward us was a family leaving the Festival. Big, harried mom and 4 or 5 rambunctious kids. They were all but brawling as Mom tried to herd them toward the car.

"Justin, slow down.
Justin, stop that.
Justin, be quiet.
Justin, leave your brother alone.
Justin, put that down."

At this point the child I can only assume was Justin lunged toward his brother, toy sword in hand, and faceplanted in the grass. Mom looked down, and without missing a step, said, "GOOD. I'm GLAD you fell down."

Son #3 looked over at the Mom, and said, "I'm glad you fell down?"

Sons #1 and 4 flipped. "Shut up. Shut UP. Geez, shut UP. Shut UP!"

Me, I just busted a gut laughing, and clearly I needed to. Made my whole day. Granted, I have 4 sons myself. I have had 4 small sons. And one of them is of the rambunctious, hassle-your-brother sort. I know for a fact that there have been times when I have seen Karma befall one or another of the Sons, and I have looked on and thought (and even said), "Yeah, well, you kinda earned that one, kid." It was just funny, though. Trust me. If you're not laughing, well, that's OK, too.

Sunday my parents & sister came down for dinner. Had a lovely time.

Today is Son #4's birthday. He is 14. Holy cow. He is right now calling friends to invite him to his birthday party next weekend, "So we can celebrate the inevitable tightening of the grip of death."

And tomorrow I start my new, part-time job as a Census Enumerator.

See? Lots going on, but not a lot that is really fascinating enough for all 30 of you who read.

Thanks for sticking with me, anyway...

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.

The Napkin Mafia is After Me

Today I went to the library. The parking lot is large (it's a pretty new library) and it was about 2/3 empty.

I turned into the spot I'd chosen; to my left, was a minivan. Its front and rear passenger doors were open, and a woman was standing in the doorway getting children out of the car.

To my right was the last space in the row, occupied by a very small car--like a Mini Cooper. Tiny clown car. It was parked waaaaay to the right side of its space, right near the curb.

So, to make room for the family on my left, and taking advantage of the space left by the tiny car on my right, I parked about 8 inches away from the extended open door to my left. Perfect fit all around, and as I said the parking lot was mostly empty in any case.

I went in to the library...browsed...decided, as I often do, that I probably have something at home to read, instead...picked up the book that was waiting for Hubby...went out to my car.

Where I found a napkin, tucked under my windshield wiper. Written on the napkin, in big capital letters:

"YOU ASSHOLE;
PARK YOUR SHIT
BETWEEN THE
LINES---
NOT ON THEM
LAST WARNING"

I looked around: No one seemed to be watching my car. And, just as it had been when I arrived, the parking lot was mostly empty.

I'm not at all sure what the "warning" means. Should I bring the napkin to the library security guard and ask him to protect me and my car from violent threats?

Just, you know, FYI: Sometimes, when you come across a car parked in a strange position, it is because that was a safer, more courteous position than the traditional. Not everyone is intentionally parking to irritate.

Also FYI: My name is not Asshole. It is Christine.

Nice ta meetcha.

And the SOTD: Mom bought these, can't wear them, handed them off. Not my usual style, but comfy.

You know what I blame this on the breakdown of?

Last night we had one trick-or-treater. One.

We also had someone come by to steal our pumpkin.

Yeah, the pumpkin that I did not have to carve, this year, so I was going to cook it. So I was going to get a holiday decoration AND food out of it. It is probably smashed on the highway right now.

You know what I blame this on the breakdown of?

Society.

Holy Mary, Mother of Hair Metal

We were invited to a party last night. Hubby's old band was the entertainment. And boy, were we entertained, in a perverse, schadenfreudey kinda way. Because since they gave Hubby the boot, they have become...an 80s hair metal band.

Actually, although the music they play is not what you'd call...great, they execute it pretty well. So, no real complaints there, and I think we both wish them well.

But the best part of all was seeing the Mother of Our Lord, front-and-center. Who knew she liked Def Leppard?

(Pour some sugar on mehhhhh, in the name of God! Pour some sugar on mehhhh....I'm made of concreeeete, from my head down to my feet, yeah!)

I'm sorry, it just is funny.

Not so great name for a band? Ugh

Well, we polled the electorate. Or, at least, we polled my readers on the blog, Hubby's coworkers, several bartenders and everyone at open mic night this past Thursday.

We presented that extremely long list (of names suggested by myself, Hubby's friends, and every member of the band), and accepted new ideas on the fly, and had people say what they liked of the bunch.

A lot of the names got a vote or two. A lot of new names went on the list.

The two big winners, though, were FrankenFish (Hubby's idea) and Oyster Shooter (mine).

Naturally, Hubby brought all this data to his last band practice and no one liked either one of those.

The drummer suggested a name. The rest of the band agreed to it. And so...at this point...Hubby's band is going to be called...

Ugh, I can hardly type it. The drummer's suggestions all had a certain ickiness to them. They all seemed perfectly suited to an early-80s, blue-collar, hair metal band. Which is totally unlike the music Hubby's band will play, but absolutely in line with the drummer's persona.

Not that he's not a nice guy and a talented drummer. I'm just sayin'.

The jury is still out. Maybe Hubby can talk some sense into the rest of the band. After all, they want something memorable, and clever, and easy to spell, and something that lends itself to a good logo for t-shirts and such, and something that is not already a band name on the interweb. Something that communicates the fact that this is a group of men in their early 30s to mid 40s, playing classic and modern rock and the occasional blues tune.

In other words, the last thing they want, is to call the band....

Infexious

First against the wall, when the Revolution comes

The other day I read this, and I thought, "Yeah, there is a lot of intolerance and hair-trigger hate, going around these days. Where is the 'kumbayah' I was expecting to have shown up, by the time I was 40?"

I commented on Nexy's blog. I like Nexy.

It's frustrating, especially, to hear the Sons' stories from school. These are the people who are going to be running things, when I am dependent on THEM. I'm a bit nervous. I know they're not adults, yet, they're still figuring out who they are, but at this point so much of high school cultchah seems nasty, brutish, intolerant, devoted to the most self-destructive of momentary pleasures, and unwilling to listen to opinions other than those they've already chosen.

Heck, I know, that was the case when I was in school, and things are better, among adults, I think. But still--it bugs me more than I let on, to the Sons.

And then yesterday Son #1 (aka "Jewfro", at school, because he has hair even curlier than mine) brought a photo of the family to school. People had been asking to see his family, and for myriad teen reasons he'd rather bring in a picture, than take them home to meet his actual family in the flesh.

"YOUR MOM IS SO JEWISH! And you look JUST LIKE HER! You are a JEW! JEW! JEW! JEWFRO is a JEW! WOW! And your Dad looks almost as Jewish as your Mom does! Wow! JEW!"

Son #1 tried to explain that his mother's, um, Mediterranean appearance is due to her half-Italian heritage, and that actually his FATHER (of the straight, glossy hair and straight, moderate nose) is 1/4 Jewish, but the crowd would have nothing of it. He is JEWFRO. He and his mother are JEWS. It is obvious, from the dark, curly hair and Mom's big nose.

"JEW! JEW! YOU'RE A JEW!"

This just seemed a little...well, a little scary to me.

I remember in college being good friends with a blonde, blue-eyed woman. Blanche and I went everywhere together, and people knew that one of us was Jewish. And, yes, almost always, people assumed that I was the Jewish one. We found it amusing. But the thing was, people were not POINTING and LAUGHING and SHOUTING at us.

(If you're out there, Blanche Brotman, I still think of you.)

"God's Chosen People" must get damn sick of having a target painted on their heads, all these thousands of years later.

Update on the Events of Christmas Week

I've been getting questions, so here are your answers.

Son #3's finger doesn't hurt. He is feelin' fine. He is also faithfully doing his exercises, because Dr Herring made it clear that the alternative was not cool in the least.

Son #4's arm doesn't hurt. The stitches look cool. He's working on a story to tell the ladies, in future. Something involving the Cong, I think.

My friend's son did not have a broken finger. He had a broken HAND. I am encouraging her to press charges, because thugs like that need to be labeled so the rest of us see them coming. HEAR ME, BLONDIE? POKE THE POLICE.

Son #1 had the same reaction to his friend's "the one who's a ni..." statement. "DID I JUST HEAR WHAT I THINK I HEARD?" I mentioned it to him after I blogged about it (because I AM interested in being factual, but...not necessarily enough to check things before I blog). And he scooted around with me for a while. "Mom, do you think he is...a RACIST? HIM? His whole FAMILY? Racist? REALLY?" And I left him with..."Well, all I can say is, I heard what I heard, and I can't imagine a situation where that word would cross your MIND, let alone your lips, so there it is."

NO, I am not sick of ACME Blues Company. They are awesome, and their CD will be in my car forever. No, I do not need more than one or two Non-ACME CDs in my car at any one time. If you don't like the rotation, bring your own CD. Better yet, tell the ACME guys to hurry up and release a second CD. What a ridiculous question. Geez. "sick of ACME yet." Where did that come from?

Did I hear what I think I heard?

Yesterday the Sons had some friends over. People they don't see very often. But nice, well-behaved kids. Quiet, respectful, church-attending kids who work hard at school and excel at sports and participate in community service projects.

There are no airsoft battles, lately, because 2 of the Sons are on the injured reserve bench. But they got to talking about a previous get-together. That day, there had been a LOT of kids over, from all over town. Most of them didn't know each other, but they all got along. It was nice.

One of the boys who was over yesterday asked a question about one of the other boys who had been here, that day a few months ago. But he couldn't remember the kid's name.

"You know, the one with the really short, fuzzy hair."

"Colin?"

no.

"Connor?"

Son #1 was going through his list of friends, most of whom have the long, silky hair that is popular these days. Pony hair. So, you know, he had no idea who his friend was asking about.

"You know, the one who's a ni..."

I think that yesterday I heard a teenager start to call a fellow teenager a nigger, in my own home. He caught himself, I think because of the reaction he was getting from Son #1. But holy shit. What is up with that? I had no idea.

Equally bizarre: he LIKES this other kid. He was not hurling anger, or hate. He was not criticizing Son #1 for befriending a kid whose mother is of African descent. He was just...describing him, so my son would know who he was talking about, while they rehashed the fun parts of a previous get together. Describing a kid whose name he couldn't remember.

As a nigger.

Jesus help us.

Also yesterday: a friend's developmentally disabled son got the tar beaten out of him by some kids in the neighborhood. He has cuts and bruises and a split lip and possibly a broken finger, I guess because he was trying to be "one of the guys" but can't quite master the mysteries of being a teenage boy. Can't quite see it coming, when the shit hits the fan.

The hospital called the police.

How bad do you have to look, before the hospital calls the police?

How bad do you have to BE, to gang up on a sweet kid with developmental problems and brain cancer?

Elvin Bishop had it right.

"People, people, what the hell is going on?"

Geno Didn't Mention and "Moose: a Three Strikes Story"

Last night I went to the Moose lodge to see my buddy Geno's band. They played a lot of old-school rock & roll, a couple of country tunes, Brick House, you know, fun stuff. Most of it was stuff the boys knew, too, so I noticed a couple of Sons singing along. I almost got a couple of them up on the dance floor, too, but...dancing with your mom is social death, and I wasn't going to push it.

I got to introduce the Sons to Geno, suitably transformed from "Christine's Fun Friend" to "Mr Mears Who Knows How To Act Around Children"--a transformation not every adult manages with grace.

The rest of the band was happy to talk music with Son #1, which was very cool. And the Sons shot pool. So the combination of pool and live music pretty much had us stoked, as a group. They even got along, mostly, which was a relief.

What Geno didn't mention, though, surprised me. Geno can sing.

He has been coming to Open Mic for months, playing great guitar, and keeping his lips zipped. But the man has a beautiful voice. GENO, NO MORE HOLDING OUT AT OPEN MIC.

And now, on to The Moose.

Years ago, when I was not even a teenager, I think, my father's boss insisted he join the Moose. And so he did. He ended up attending a lot of functions at the Moose lodge, because that's where his boss liked to do business, and Dad knew how the game was played.

The Moose, however, had a policy. "Moosettes", aka Wives of Moose Members, were only allowed in the front of the lodge. So, my mother could go sit around the bar with the other Second Class Moose Citizens, while Dad and his boss did Secret Moose Stuff in back, or she could stay home.

She chose, mostly, a third way, in which she taught me and my sister moose calls and a Secret Moose Handshake which we all used as my father left for his Moose meetings. It is very possible that the Moose has changed their policy on women, in the 25 or so years since Dad joined the Moose, but I don't know. When Dad's boss retired, Dad stopped going to the lodge. It wasn't all that fun, anyway, and Mom of course had us all Moose calling as a reflex.

Flash Forward to 1987...Christine, wearing a Cheap Trick t-shirt, most likely, brings Bash home for Thanksgiving weekend, and he proposes. My mother finally sees a use for the Moose: we can use their lodge for our wedding reception.

Except.

Two of my bridesmaids were not, apparently, suitable Moose guests. They were not eligible to enter the lodge, at all. Not the bar, where the wives cooled their heels, and certainly not the holy of holies which was the back room where receptions took place.

My dad officially quit the Moose, the day they told him he couldn't use the facility for my wedding reception because two of my bridesmaids were black. We all stopped Moose calling, and retired the secret handshake, and I for one was proud of Dad for taking a stand. Bigots. This was the late eighties, remember? As the Sons would say, "Cracker, pleeeease."

Again, it is very possible that the Moose have changed that policy, as well. I seem to remember a lawsuit, a few years back, that opened up the Moose for African-American members. But, you know, Two Strikes in my mind, against the Moose. Honestly, I never would have gone to a Moose lodge, if it were not Geno, and live music the Sons could hear.

And then, last night.

As I've said, Geno & band were great. We had a great time. Hubby came late, because he was auditioning a new lead guitarist for his own band. But about 10 minutes after Hubby arrived, they kicked me and the Sons out of the building. Apparently they noticed that they have a "no kids after 9" policy.

I think what they noticed was, I was a band Fan, not a band Wife. So all those kids shooting pool and bobbing their heads to the music were not there to support their dad, but instead were Breathing Moose Air Without Having Moose Cred. I will lay you odds, if Hubby had not shown up, they would have continued assuming I was there With Geno, instead of just To See Geno, if you know what I mean. And we would have seen the whole show.

But, hey, I have no problem with the "no kids around the bar after 9" concept, so we were out of there faster than I could even say goodbye to Geno.

(Goodbye, Geno!)

About 5 minutes later, I got a call on my cell phone from Hubby. He'd been kicked out of the lodge, too.

"ARE YOU A MOOSE MEMBER?"

Hubby explained that while he was not a Moose, he was with the band, and was going to join them on stage for a few songs. That cut no ice, with the Moose. Out on the street he went, after perhaps 15 minutes of Breathing Moose Air and Observing the Mighty Allure of the Moosettes.

Hubby and I, we are done with the Moose. But Geno, we love.