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.

This bathroom needs a disco ball.

I've been watching something at work, and it is getting weirder.

The ladies' room has a long mirror on one wall, and below it a table. There are hand lotions and hair spray on there. Nice touch. But there is always also something else.

One week, a pair of baby dolls, dressed in sailor suits. Odd, but, OK, goes with the Navy theme.

For about 2 weeks or so, there have been a stack of inspirational cassette tapes. Joel Osteen. The Power of Positive Thinking. Something with a pyramid on the front of the case. That kind of thing. Odd, and who even has a cassette player anymore, but OK. Maybe all that positive thinking is good for the Navy. Right? We shall become upbeat warfighters.

This week, though: Cheezballs.

There is a giant jar of cheezballs, and another of pretzels, and a pretty decent sized container of salted peanuts, sitting on a table inside the public ladies' restroom.

Have we not heard of atomization, people?

If they had little individual packages of snack foods in there I might be tempted to take one. But the idea of reaching my hand into a giant jar of cheezballs, left in the bathroom...ugh. No.

Do people grab a fistful as they enter the restroom? You know, to kill time while they're in there? Or are they making big cones out of the paper towels and bringing them back to their desk? I just want to look at all the women's fingers, to find the one with orange dust. THAT woman has a cleanliness standard I cannot share.

I think we should hang a disco ball in there, and tell the men they can join us if they bring cold beer.

I asked my boss if the men's room has a similar selection of oddities, and he said, no. He suggests that people are leaving things in the ladies' room as a sort of de facto Freecycle. And that makes sense. And I did see those cheezballs on a shelf in someone's office, before.

I'm still not taking them home.

The Smart Alternative!

Energy Club: The Smart Alternative, w/ Zero Trans Fats!
Yeah, that would be the giant bag of gumballs, or the candy orange slices, or the cream-centered caramels. Why anyone would choose oatmeal for breakfast instead of that, I have no idea. Lack of commitment to a healthy lifestyle, I guess.

Unexpected Proof that I Am Old

"What time are you picking me up for the orthodontist?"

"A quarter to 9. Your appointment's at 9."

"Does anyone SAY that? 'A quarter to'? What is that, like 8:45? Why don't you just say '8:45'?"

Fiddlin' Writer confirms that her sons also ride her about "a quarter to" and "a quarter after". Apparently you have to have a mental visual of an analog clock to have that make sense.

Sonny, bring me my pills. And hush, I don't want to miss my stories.

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.

May the Worst Present WIN!

First, let me just announce to those of you who do not know me personally that I am not really all that materialistic. If Christmas included no presents it would still be Christmasy enough, to me. And I am quick to remind the Sons to thank the person for the thought, no matter what the gift is. Being rememebered by your extended family is sweet, even if that means they sometimes give you gifts you can't really see yourself using.

But. It is only Christmas Eve, and competition for Worst Christmas Present of the Year is already particularly fierce.

Top contenders so far:
Kelly green microfibre sports coat, given to one of the Sons.

Gift with the giver's company logo on them (we always get a few, they never win, but they have to make the finals, don't you think?)

An Executive Desk Puzzle-type thing, given to another one of the Sons. Uhh...they're teenagers. Are you trying to prepare them for the endless disappointment which is Father's Day?

Nothing else really stands out, at this point, but voting is welcome. Just keep in mind, past winners included:

Stuffed Teletubbies for each Son (they were 12, 10, 9 and 8 at the time)
Etiquette for Dummies (Yeah, insult my boy TWICE, why don'tcha!")

And the all-time most spectacular win ever. God, it is something. I wish I could post a photo of it, but photos do not do it justice (and the giver might see it online)...a lucite cube containing a holographic image of my mother-in-law. Given to Hubby and each of his brothers, by her, a few years ago. Just breathtaking. I keep it behind my desk.

A Thanksgiving not of sight and sound, but of the mind?

Weird.

Yesterday, a little before 9, I put the largest turkey I have ever prepared into my oven. I followed the Liturgy of the Joy of Cooking, which said in that case I should turn the oven down lower than usual. I calculated how long it should take to roast. I inserted my meat thermometer. I figured it would be ready in about 6 hours or so, giving it time to "rest" out of oven with just enough time to carve it before the guests arrived.

An hour later, the meat thermometer said the bird was done.

This makes no sense. A 23-lb turkey does not cook in an hour. Not at 325 degrees (Shut up, Rol & Penelope, I'm talking Fahrenheit, and you know it), it doesn't. I opened the oven and touched the foil I had tented over the breast--cold. So I moved the thermometer and closed the oven.

In another half hour or so, the turkey registered "done", again. Still not possible. After some fiddling I decided to ignore the thermometer and just go by the time-in-oven, which is the way I used to do it anyway.

Then I could not find my good china, except for the turkey-serving platter and 2 small pieces.

I have service for a dozen people, ok? I have had it since I was 13. I use it twice a year, and I do not move it from its storage area at any other time. But it was gone. Hubby, Son #4 and I looked all over. Poof. We went with the Christmas plates, instead.

At 2, I pulled my turkey out of the oven. It looked good, although it was sitting in a massive pool of its own juices. Nothing like I have seen before. And when I lifted it out of the pan, it broke in two. Fortunately, it was only kinda dry. But odd, ok?

I put in the usual little bit of cinnamon, the same way I have made my apple pie since high school, and the entire pie came out a deep, mahogany brown. No one could choke it down. Normally my apple pie rocks.

On the other hand, my mother and uncle were here for hours, discussing politics, religion, child rearing, health issues, marriage and divorce, interracial relations, my sons' career and college plans, and everything under the sun, and no one yelled at anyone. No one dropped the F-bomb. No one burst into tears and left, or insisted anyone else leave. We had a lovely evening.

Clearly, we have a poultrygeist.