Primary 2010

214 Republican, 39 Democrats. That was the final count on Primary Election Day last month. A pretty typical voter turnout in Small Town, Texas.

I worked my first election in Harris County, Texas back in 1992, when my Man and I were approached by a fellow homeschool mom who I later found out served, with her husband, as the county chairman. We did not know, when we both agreed to do our Civic Duty, that it was actually a paying job. Not a big paying job, but still. When one is unemployed, as my Man was at the time, any pay is more than no pay. Since then I have worked at elections of all sorts ~ city elections, special elections, runoff elections, primary elections, presidential elections, off-year elections, school board elections, you-name-the elections ~ both as a clerk and as a judge.

Whatever one’s capacity, Election Day is one l-o-n-g day, beginning long before dawn and ending long after dark. Some elections, such as the Presidential election, are much more popular than others, but whichever it is, and no matter how un/popular it may be, you can just rest assured that somebody is going to be there well before opening time to whine about something:

• The door wasn’t unlocked until three seconds after 7:00a.m;
• The yellow sheet wasn’t posted;
• The VOTE sign is sagging at the corner;
• The distance markers aren’t exactly at 100 feet;
• This voter didn’t get a card in the mail;
  
• That voter’s mother is on oxygen and can’t make it to the poll, so she is being disenfranchised;
• The other voter wasn’t told who was on the ballot;
• The next voter doesn’t speak English, and an Urdu interpreter hasn’t been provided.
  

What doesn’t really matter; the object is to complain. Loudly and bitterly, making sure everyone in the vicinity is privy to the voter’s pain and suffering. And since, in the age of PC-ness, we are in the business of appeasement, well, we better be good and ready to fix up every little one of their little hearts’ desires. And that’s the way most elections go.

You might think all elections are equally easy/hard to hold, but you would be wrong. City and school board elections are usually easy ones, because only the most dutiful and informed citizenry are even aware of those. Presidential elections, on the other hand, tend to be somewhat hazardous, particularly when there is a hotly contested or polarizing competition. Voters who have never seen the inside of a polling place come out for those, and they all have “issues.“

If I had to choose the hardest/worst election to work, it would be, no contest, the Primary. That’s because that is the election where the most uninformed show up. All they know for sure is that they have rights: the right to vote, the right to have a ballot in their language, the right not to have to wait in line, things like that. Conspicuously missing is their duty to educate themselves, and they are often ignorant as to what is at stake and/or how the system works. This results in a whole lot of clueless voters, who, when asked if they wish to vote Republican or Democrat, lose not a moment unleashing a torrent of abuse and foul language on the poor miscreant who dares to inquire.

“WHAT do you mean??? You can‘t ask me THAT!!! How DARE you infringe on my right to privacy! That is NONE of YOUR BUSINESS!!! I have the right to a secret ballot!!! Where’s the complaint number??? I’m going to report you!!!” Etc.

Well, Primary Election Day, 2010 wasn’t any different. We had the usual assortment of righteously indignant voters who threatened not to vote if we made them divulge their party affiliation, but only one or two actually made good on their promise. And then there were those in the wrong precinct who heaped outrage upon us for trying to direct them to the right one. There were the requisite two or three illiterates who had to have the ballot read to them, and don’t forget the few who found it too difficult to get out of the car and had to have a ballot taken to them outside. Add to that two election workers who nearly came to blows. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Until…

Enter the voting Nazi (Am I allowed to use that word without being offensive to somebody?). In all my years of working elections, this lady was a first. My first thought was how much she reminded me of one of my children’s piano teachers. But I was quickly disabused of that notion.

She wore a pencil-skirted business suit and stiletto heels, and hair pulled severely back into a braid that was clipped onto the top of her head. In her left hand she carried a wallet/planner/something-or-other, and with her right hand she shook hands with everyone in the room, showing off her badge as she introduced herself. She made sure we alllll knew she was a special officer from Fort Hood who did background investigations for top secret clearances (Hmmm….Is that really something you go around advertising?).

“Rep or Dem?” we asked.

“I’ll take Dem,” she crisply informed us. “I’m not going to vote like everyone else.” And away she clicked across the freshly polished faux-wood floor to the corner of the room where the *e* voting machine was set up.

But almost immediately she was back. And she was frantic. There was only one person she specifically wanted to vote for. He had told her she could vote for him! But he wasn’t on the Dem ballot! And that’s when she bothered to look at the Rep ballot (which was prominently displayed on the wall next to the door, but which neither she, nor anybody else, had ever bothered to look at). Lo and behold, there was her man, and oh-so-fortunately, she had not yet hit the *enter* button on her ballot, so we were able to cancel her Dem ballot and give her a Rep one. That was our one-and-only canceled ballot of the day.

Off she scurried again with her ballot, presumably the right one this time, and she soon came back to our table, once again securely in possession of all her self-confident persona, for another round of smiles, head-bowing, hand-shaking, and “thank you’s” to each of us for doing our civic duty.

So in case you’ve ever put any faith in our “Democratic Process” or in our duly elected leaders, or in those who elect them for that matter, you may want to reconsider. Sometimes I think we would do just as well with a roll of the dice…a crap shoot, so to speak.

Happy Voting!

Census, Anyone?

People are funny. If you don’t believe me, try taking census. I did. Twenty years ago. In Houston, Texas of all places! I must have been out of my mind.

My first assignment was “non-response follow-up.” That meant going door-to-door to all the houses that had not returned a census form. Well, at least according to the Census Bureau's record. More than one of my “clients” claimed they had already sent in the form, and they weren’t all that pleased about now being interviewed in person, particularly when they had originally been sent the 6-question short form and were now being asked to fill out the 12-page long form. Can’t say that I blame them…

Talk about intrusive… How is the number of bathrooms in your house any of the government’s business? Or how much you paid for your house? Or what time you leave your house to go to work in the morning? Or whether you go to work in the afternoon? Yep. Definitely intrusive.

That distasteful aspect of the job aside, there was a sort of fun and fascinating side to it : going all over Houston to all sorts of neighborhoods and places I would never ordinarily go, and meeting all sorts of people that I would never meet on my regular daily rounds.

I’m pretty sure I would not tackle that job today; as I say, I was probably out of my mind. If not, I was at least Naïve, with a capital N. The country girl come to town.

Some of the people I met:

• A 35-year-old grandmother of five babies, all under the age of 3, all children of her 18-year-old daughter who was then pregnant with her 6th child (This, I learned, is possible, if you have four pregnancies, each 11 months apart, one of which results in twins, and, of course, you have to start early.). As Grandma lamented bitterly that the judge kept taking the babies away from the daughter and giving the custody to her, the bedroom door opened, and who should emerge but the pregnant daughter and her boyfriend. “MOM!” I wanted to say. “Get a clue!!!!”

• And then there was the guy on the bayou. A house on a bayou is no novelty in Houston. In fact, my own backyard ended at a bayou. But this guy was a wee bit different. His back yard was full of five alligators and 13 raccoons, and I left with an invitation to bring my children over to see them. Anytime.

• One address that had failed to respond turned out to be not a house, but a bar, where several of the midday patrons offered to buy me a drink. They didn’t really accept “no” for an answer, until the kindly bartender pointed out that I was “on duty.” He did, however, invite me to come back when I was no longer on the clock.

• Some people were just plain nice. They invited me to come in and have a glass of lemonade, and you know what? Sometimes I did. We were trained/cautioned/instructed NOT to go inside any houses, but, well, sometimes the heat and the humidity joined together to persuade me, and I must say, I was never sorry.

• Maybe the strangest place I went was the mannequin factory. As far as I could tell, it was just another old house in another old neighborhood. I knocked on the screen door, and in response to “Come in,” I did. And got the shock of my life. There was not a soul in the room. What there was in the room was a whole slew of body parts. Some hanging from the ceiling, others on the floor, yet others on a table. The sound of the voice calling to come through to the next room kindof jolted me back to, uh, reality, and I started to notice that these were parts of mannequins. Well, as I say, I must have been out of my mind, because I went on through. To another shock: Sitting in the next room on a stool, painting a mannequin head was…Santa Claus. I swear. He was sitting there, just like in the movies. Red pants. White t-shirt. Wire-rimmed glasses. Long white hair. Flowing white beard. As I looked around I could see into some of the other rooms, and they, too, were full of body parts. Santa explained that this old once-upon-a-time house had been changed into a mannequin factory, one of only a handful in the country, and he was it. He sanded and painted and whatever else it is one does to dummies and shipped them off to various clients all over the country. So he said. In hindsight, I think it might have been a toy factory in disguise.

• Another strange thing I encountered from time to time was a respondent who did not know who lived in the house. They were usually ok with their own name and maybe another one or two, but before it was over they would be yelling across the room: “Honey! Who else lives here?“ “Does Becky’s boyfriend stay here?“ “What about that guy that always wears a polo shirt?“ “Do any of them work?“

• More than once I encountered a less-than-friendly dog, but only once was I threatened with one, unlike another member of my team who complained that it must be mandatory to have a junkyard dog in Houston.

• Another time, while climbing the stairs to a garage apartment, I was met with a shower of dust and debris from above. I looked up through the cloud and discovered Magilla Gorilla sweeping off the landing.

I think the very best benefit of the job was that here I met SE. She happened to be driving out of the park one day as I was driving in to meet my team leader. I really didn’t notice her until she whipped around, got out of the car, and came towards me. She had seen my bumper sticker and wanted to ask me about it. It was love at first sight, and she remains one of my dearest friends still, 20 years later.

So now it is Census Day again. April 1st, 2010. Hmmm...Isn't that April Fool's Day? I can't help wondering about the significance of that. In another bizarre moment of madness, I applied for a job, which entailed taking a bonehead test and filling out some papers. I heard I did very well on the test, and if the number of follow up phone calls is any indication, I believe it. Someone or other calls from the census bureau just about daily to offer me a job, but somewhere between the test and the phone call, sanity kicked in, and so far I have declined every offer.

It’s a decent-paying job by any standard, especially so in the current economy. But…I am older and wiser now, and I fear I may get the task of going to any of several Edgar-Allen-Poe houses that I have seen around town. What if I run into Magilla or Santa again? What if they invite me in again? Twenty years down the road I have lost a lot of my innocence, and things just don’t seem as benevolent as they once did.

2010...it’s a different world. No, thank you.

Day 4

Sorry to say, I am something of a connoisseur of sore throats, and this one is absolutely the sore throat from hell, complete with knives and fire. At least the headache hasn't made a re-appearance.

Yesterday I tried oil of oregano and GSE. Oh, and chocolate. Nothing made a dent, and what a waste of chocolate that was.

Today I am still doing the hourly gargle with one thing or another, and still spraying as much as I can stand. Not that anything helps.

On tap for today: a steaming bath, reflexology, Aleve, and more fervent pleas to the Great Physician. If I don't miraculously recover by tomorrow morning...the doctor it is. I am desperate!

Say AAAAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!!!

I have the dubious distinction of playing host to the biggest, baddest sore throat on the planet. To borrow a phrase from the deadly departed Saddam Hussein, it is The Mother of all Sore Throats.

The last time I had this sore throat was, hmmm.... back in January. It was a just-shoot-me-now kind of sore throat, but it lasted only one day. Alas, it was followed by five solid weeks of rib-shattering coughing, but last Monday I noticed that the coughing had eased up quite a bit, so, even though my ribs were still sore, they were getting a break.

Tuesday my ill health took a Sabbatical while I worked a 14-hour day at the election, but yesterday, oh, my...

Yesterday the sore throat was back, with an edge, and instead of hanging out with D and the Princess and the Gingerbread Cookie, I spent the day trying out different cold/sore throat remedies:

• Tried-and-true hot water with honey and lemon. Check.
  
• Hot whiskey. Check.
  
• Salt water gargle. Check.
• Vicks. Check.
• Tea tree oil gargle. Check.
• Sore throat spray. Check.
• Hot tea. Check.
• Zinc lozenges. Check.
  
• Plain hot water. Check.
• Raw garlic. Really.

I tried them allll. Nothing touched it. It's a sore throat on steroids. I'd say the prize for the worst remedy was the tea tree oil gargle. Until I tried the garlic. Holy cow! That might have been the longest ten minutes of my life. It put tears in my eyes and fire in my mouth. If it had half the effect on the germs that it had on me...wow, the possibilities are endless. But no. Same old sore throat, and now I definitely need a new toothbrush.

That was yesterday.

Today, Round Two: Airborne, vinegar gargle, nutmeg tea, more Vicks, more hot tea. So far no good. I would have tried the dark Karo syrup gargle, but I don't have any of that, and I would have tried the neti pot, but I don't have any plain salt on hand, so those will be for tomorrow after a quick trip to the store.

So. Advice and suggestions welcome. I am willing to try anything. If anybody out there is working on any experimental drugs, I'm your guinea pig. For now, I am going to go to bed. At 8:30. Hardly proper.

If things don't improve around here, I may have to resort to my very last resort...GASP...the doctor...

Conservative? Or Liberal?

Just in case you might be wondering, this is how you can tell a conservative from a liberal:

• If a conservative doesn't like guns, he doesn't own one; if a liberal doesn't like guns, he doesn't want anyone to have one.
• If a conservative is a vegetarian, he doesn't eat meat; if a liberal is a vegetarian, he wants to ban all meat products for everyone.
• If a conservative sees a threat, he thinks about how to defeat it; if a liberal sees a threat, he thinks about how to surrender and still look good.
• If a conservative is a black or a Hispanic man, he sees himself as independent and successful; if a liberal is a black or a Hispanic man, he sees himself as a victim in need of government protection.
• If a conservative is down-and-out, he tries to improve his situation; if a liberal is down-and-out, he tries to find someone to take care of him.
• If a conservative doesn't like a talk show host, he changes the channel; if a liberal doesn't like a talk show host, he demands that the channel be shut down.
• If a conservative is a non-believer, he doesn't go to church; if a liberal is a non-believer, he demands that all churches be closed.
• If a conservative needs some $, he goes to work; if a liberal needs some $, he puts his hand out and waits for *someone* to put some $ in it.
  
• If a conservative needs health care, he shops for it, or he looks for a job that provides it; if a liberal needs health care, he expects his neighbors to pay for it.

And isn't it interesting that a conservative is proud to be called a conservative, but a liberal is *offended* to be labeled a liberal.

So...Any questions?

The Three-Party Day

Friendships are like anything else of value: they come at a cost, and one day last month I paid in spades.

• First up a baby shower, in a town 20 miles west of here, for a young mom-to-be, known to us before she herself was born. I had initially considered riding with a friend, but then I re-considered after realizing I would probably have to leave before the party broke up.

• Next in line, back in my own home town, was a bridal shower for the daughter of a friend. A luau. This was the *dinner* part of my day, but due to a reluctant gas grill, no one on hand who knew how to operate it, and a steady wind that quickly put out any flame that dared actually to light, dinner was just a vision of dreams to come by the time I had to leave that party. Early.

• The final event of the day, in the third town of the day 30 miles to the east, was a recital/high school graduation ceremony for another young lady who not so very long ago was just a little scrap of a girl. I coaxed my Man along for this with the promise of a reception to follow. Between our late start and not knowing exactly where we were going, we completely missed the recital part of the program, but we were there for the graduation. After the graduation was the perfect time for the visiting of old friends and the eating of cheesecake in a host of flavors we'd never heard of, but by that time my Man was hungry(er), and while I don't have any such qualms, he just isn't one to eat dessert before he's had some food. Not even cheesecake. :-(

So we compromised. I still got to talk with everyone I saw that I knew, but not for long. We took off for a quick stop at Chick-Fil-A to go, and then home again, home again, by...oh, 9:30 or so.

I'm really pretty much of a homebody. Give me an uninterrupted day at home and I am thoroughly happy, so a day like today wouldn't ordinarily be a great day in my book. But it is the price of friendship, and who am I to argue with that.

Besides, on reflection, it worked out rather well. The parties were nicely staggered, and we got to see a host of old friends, some of whom we had not seen in years... And, all on the same dress-up. ;-) Can't beat that!

One Year In

We are one year, and a little bit more, into a seriously empty-nested life.

A few days ago we had a surprise phone call from M. His only agenda was chit-chat, and he asked what I was doing. "Knitting a baby blanket," I told him.

Then he asked what his dad was doing. "Watching a PBS show about Pennsylvania diners," I said.

And then there was a l-o-n-g pause. "Did I call the house" asked M, "or did I call the old folks' home?"

Hmmmm....good question.

School's In!

The thing is, what passes for education today is not education at all. It takes no account whatever of the person; it makes no effort to capitalize on the student's strength or to strengthen the student's weakness. Instead, it insists on treating everyone "equally," meaning, for example, that a group of 5-year-olds will all be "taught" the alphabet, even though some of them already know how to read, while others haven't learned the shapes and colors yet. This results in a great deal of frustration to a significant number of children on both ends of the spectrum.

Rather than actually teaching, mentoring, or discipling by word and example, "educators" today very much prefer to stand themselves up in front of a group to tell and lecture, but there is a disconnect between the lecture and the lives of those in the audience, and while the lecturer may be willing to answer questions, woe betide the student who questions the answers. This is not education. This is brainwashing.

Rather than pose problems requiring thinking and discussion and discernment, it is far, far easier to set up a "test" of true/false, or multiple choice questions: Little to no effort required from either the teacher or the student beyond the memorization of a head full of trivia.

This has come about because in America today , the goal of "education" is no longer the development of mind and character. Instead, its object is for all students to come out looking like the same piece of bologna; it is preparation and conditioning for young people to take their places as cogs and robots in a mindless socialistic society and economy where they will be plugged in, interchangeably, at the will of the state.

Yes, there are some wonderful teachers out there, but even the best are hogtied by the rules and regulations of the bureaucracy under which they must operate. And yes, there are those students who come out of the public schools and excel, but I suggest that these succeed in spite of the system through which they are forced.

I don't mean to be facetious, but the detractors of homeschooling are almost always people who don't have a clue about homeschooling, or even education really. They generally labor under the misconception that going through the motions somehow assures learning, and that learning happens only in the classroom. I admit that learning can happen in the classroom, but I submit that more of it happens outside the classroom, in real life.

After a day spent learning to tie her shoes, my then 4yo daughter once said to me, "Now you just have to teach me how to read, and then I'll know everything." What wisdom from a child. If you nurture your child's curiosity and make sure he has the tools to learn ~ reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic ~ he may not know everything, but he can indeed learn anything.

Sadly, there is no longer any place in "education" for the creativity or imagination or inventiveness which once served as the foundation of the grandest, noblest of all social experiments: America.

Betrayed!

Whose body is this, anyway?! I am feeling hot and old and tired. Everything hurts. What doesn't hurt doesn't work. And some of what hurts doesn't even work.

My hair is turning GREY!!! At least around my face. That way, when you see my face, I look o-o-o-ld. The back isn't so bad. It's still mostly dark brown, but, being in a braid down the middle of my back, it's a well-kept secret. I guess I could dye it, but I don't know how much time I have left, and whatever I have, I know I don't want to spend it on a new career keeping the grey undercover.

My skin is giving in to gravity. Don't even wanna talk about that.

My hands look like overworked old lady hands, with spots and veins, and skin worn so smooth it shines. There are no fingerprints left.

My legs are patterned with varicose veins. Don't wanna talk about that, either.

My neck is killing me. I can't turn my head without suffering excruciating pain. I hurt it engaging in the strenuous activity of washing my hair. Leaned my head back to rinse, and *snap*!!! The neck bone is connected to the wrist/ankle bone, and every time I lift a finger or take a step, the pain shoots all the way up my arm, or my leg, straight to my neck. So in an effort to minimize the misery, I am mostly sitting, ramrod-straight. No movement = no pain, right? Wrong. No movement = different pain, this time in the form of stiffness and tension caused by not moving, leading to the mother of all headaches in a band of pain creeping up the back of my neck, over the top of my head, and settling in squarely behind my left eye.

Unless my Man happens to go to the store with me, I am reduced to buying the small bag of dog food for my over-sized dog, because I can barely pick up the big bag anymore! And if we manage to get the big bag...it takes both of us to dump it into the feeder.

Getting into and out of the car...a production.

There are a whole lot of other things to complain about, but...I can't remember what they are. I can't really remember much of anything anymore.

All I know for sure is I didn't sign up for any of this.

A(nother) Random Weather Report

Here we go again. Another "cool" day in the hottest summer of the century. This morning is cloudy ~ no promise whatever of rain though (more like an empty threat) ~ and coooool. Well, I suppose it's cool. It feels cool. But it's all relative, isn't it. It could be 98 degrees, and at this point we would find even that cool.

By late morning, we have reached a whopping 86 degrees, with a heat index of 89! But not to worry. There is plenty more where that came from, and long before the end of the day we should be well beyond our usual 100-degree mark.

In the words of our local weatherman, our area averages 21 days of 100 (or higher)-degree days in a year, so, going as we are, into our 23rd day of 100+ temperatures in a summer that is less than 23 days old, those days are behind us, and we are well due for some Hope and Change in the weather department. In fact, according to the non-prophets of The Weather Channel, this weekend will have "an almost fall-like feel," and the highs in August will fluctuate between 92 and 95. It's hard to place any confidence in their predictions, but...I want to believe them!

Well, regardless, in the meantime, it's a welcome relief for the chimney sweep, who has curtailed his $-making activities to early morning and late evening hours until further notice.

This perfectly pleasant morning doesn't fool me, though. It may masquerade as spring, or fall, but I know that it's really only the mask of a hotter-than-Phoenix summer in disguise.

Sometimes...

...I creep myself out just a little.

Like last Friday. I had gotten up a little after 5 to get my Man off to work. Usually I just stay up, but that day I decided to go back to bed, and the next thing I knew I was sleeping and dreaming away...

In my dream, I and some family members, one of which was D, were in a room in a house I didn't recognize. Notably absent was the Princess, which is about as strange as it gets. She is four years old and doesn't go places without her mom.

But even stranger, M, who was still at West Point, had gone to pick her up from wherever she was, and we were just sorta milling around and waiting for them. Finally I asked D when they were coming back, and she replied, "Any second."

So I went over and looked out the window, and sure enough, there was M, Princess in tow, coming up the walk. They came through the door, and I was just as excited as if I had really been awake, and M and the Princess were really walking through the door!

The waiting and killing time were over, and the best part of the dream was coming! Only just then the beeping of the phone woke me up. It was a text message from M. :-D

Summer Morning

It's a cool cool summer morning. Every cool morning is cool in Texas, especially in the summertime. But today... :-D

• The air is pleasantly cool and clean.
  
• The sun is peeping up over the horizon. That is, the house across the street...cool horizon, huh? But, for better or for worse, it's my horizon...
• My windows are open wide, and there is a cool breeze blowing in!
• The birds are still happily chirping out there. Later in the day comes only silence.
  
• Today, unbelievably, I have been a grandmother for ten years! Happy Birthday, BB1!
• I get to stay home today. That is a cherished rarity. Could only be better if the phone would stop ringing.
• No updates on MJ's funeral yet this morning! That's a biggie.
  
• Temperature-wise, this morning was so cool, my Man put on a jacket when he went off to work at 5:30. I know it isn't going to last, but for right now...can't beat it. Well, I take that back, because
• I hear the phone beeping now. It's a text message from M, off in the wilds of Camp Buckner, with the latest land nav report.
  

Can't get any better now. This morning is maxed out. Cool on so many levels!

Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, "Thy will be done," and those to whom God says, "All right, then, have it your way." ~C. S. Lewis

I hope someday to be one of the former; I have certainly had more than enough opportunity, but I fear I am probably still too much one of the latter. A myriad of situations and circumstances have surfaced around here lately, a great many of them not at all to my liking, and what to do?

One thing I can always do, and sometimes the only thing I can do, is to pray. Prayer calls on the Lord, the only One ultimately, Who can do anything about, well...anything. It might be my most under-rated resource, calling on trust and faith to take the place of worrying. That is hard. But there is only so much I can do, and I suppose that it would behoove me to stick to that and leave the worrying to God. But often that is hard, too.

So...Which one am I? I wish I knew...

Updates

• I got a new can opener for Mothers' Day. Leave the perfect gift to C!
• M is safe at home in his own little bed. Let the sleeping begin.
• Swine flu continues to be the biggest non-event of the year so far.
• My sister directed me to $ Tree for good old-fashioned 60- and 75-watt light bulbs, priced at 4 for $1. They are probably the exploding kind, but I won't know for sure until I use one; un/fortunately, most of my lamps and light fixtures are currently manned by the "new, improved" variety of light bulbs, so I should have an opening any day now. But how, oh, how, can I dispose of the used bulbs?

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I used to think Copperas Cove was the most highly regulated city in the country, but I couldn't be more wrong. That dubious distinction actually belongs to Killeen (the ironically motto-ed "City Without Limits") where C and De recently moved. They were ever so excited to be in their own house, after ten weeks at the in-laws', but it wasn't long before the snake showed up in Paradise.

Barely two or tree days after the move, as C was busily sorting out the kitchen, she happened to look out the front window to see a man at the curb taking pictures of her house. Dropping what she was doing, she went to the door, only to see the man taking off in a city truck, so, still in her slippers, she sprinted off after him with the Other Princess hot on her heels. Fortunately, he was compelled to stop at the sign at the corner, giving her the advantage to catch up with him.

"Why are you taking pictures of my house?"

"Umm.... which house are you in?"

"Duh, the only one you took pictures of..." Gotcha!

It turned out that this was one of Killeen's code enforcement officers, and he was there to take pictures of all the codes that were being violated:

• Thou shalt not have boxes on your front porch. Never mind that they are all flattened and clearly labeled with the name of the locksmith who had been by earlier and asked to have them, promising to pick them up that night.
  
• Thou shalt not have a trailer full of boxes and other miscellaneous moving detritus on the grass. It's a rodent hazard. Never mind that the only rodents that had been encountered came from the facility where their stuff had been stored for the past three months (Maybe this diligent public servant could find time in his busy schedule to check them out?). And when asked how moving the trailer to the driveway, as he strongly suggested, would be a deterrent to rodents, he neatly sidestepped the question and deftly changed the subject.
• Thou shalt not have bags of trash out here by the dumpster. Never mind that, courtesy of the last occupant, the dumpster was already FULL when they moved in, and if the city is so worried about the volume of trash, why don't they pick it up more than once a week? Could some of these code officers maybe go on garbage detail?
  
• Thou shalt not park you car so that the tail end of it hangs a foot over the sidewalk. Never mind that it is your car parked in your driveway.
  
• And on. And on.
  

C: Do you think it looks like we might be in the middle of moving in here?

Code Enforcement Zealot Officer: You never know. This is a military town and you would not believe how some people live.

C: So. Given the transient nature of the military, don't you think you oughta know what moving looks like? And what, exactly are you implying about the military?

And, given the overwhelming majority of military population in the area, I cannot imagine a civil servant making an offensive remark like that.

The man went on to explain that he was one of five code enforcement officers in Killeen, public "servants" whose job it is to drive around seeking whom they may harass. Given the dreadful state of the economy, are we sure Killeen can afford to keep these guys on the payroll? Perhaps the city could do everyone a favor and get rid of some of the dead weight, but until they do: Movers beware!

Commenting that she was unaware of the local codes, C was informed that she should have looked on the internet for the complete Rules of Engagement. Oh, well that solves everything, doesn't it? Like that is her top priority. Like she has plenty of time to sit and do battle with a sometime-functioning internet, leaving the children to run wild and make their own little living, while the unpacking chores pile up and proliferate. If the city's Code of Conduct is so all-fired important, why doesn't the city furnish copies to realtors and property managers?

Moving has to rate way up at the top of the list of stressors in modern life, so thanks, Killeen, for piling on a little bit more. C's final comment: Had we known, we would have never moved here, and we will never consider buying a house here.

Welcome to Nazi Germany Texas.

OINK!

PANDEMIC! The Swine Flu is upon us. Or is it? Not so sure, since we have now been instructed to call it the H1N1 virus, or something like that. Apparently "Swine Flu" is giving pigs a bad name. Well, whatever...a virus is a virus is a virus.

Ok. So to believe the media hype, the Swine Flu H1N1 is pandemic. Imagine...a Global Epidemic. That means everywhere. But, according to the same media, as of last night there were six people hospitalized with H1N1 in the entire country. Six? Pandemic? How many people are hospitalized in this country with TB or pneumonia or AIDS or HIV or who knows what other host of infectious diseases? I bet it's a whole lot more than six, and I don't hear any outcry going on about those.

So one person has died in this country with the virus. I feel bad for that family, I really do, and I don't want to trivialize it in any way. So what about the 36,000 that die from the regular flu every year? They don't call that a pandemic. Does one death from Swine Flu = Pandemic? If it does, then every infectious disease in this world is in a state of pandemiconium.

My Man always says if you really want to get to the root, just follow the $ trail. Hmmm...Well, let's see, Obama has graciously doled out $15 bil to the pharmaceutical industry. Of course the media stands to gain revenue from the ratings, and when it comes to ratings in this Age of Excess, the more sensational/spectacular/scandalous the better. So there are two possibilities.

The ludicrous inconsistencies coming from higher up are creating panic, but perhaps that is by design, allowing that giving the beleaguered public something new to worry about will take its mind off of its current economic and other woes. Besides, who knows what kind of wheeling and dealing might be taking place in the back room while all eyes are focused on the Virus...After all, why waste a perfectly good crisis?

Consider:

• We have a pandemic for Pete's sake, and yet the borders remain wide open, come one come all, and bring your latest diseases with you.
  
• Outdoor sporting events have been canceled, but child warehouses child care centers and most schools remain open. A quick check with the Public Health people would reveal that outdoor events aren't really problematic. Closed spaces, where little people cough and spit and sneeze on each other and breathe recycled air, are, however, a different story.
• They say we have plenty of flu medicine available, but they tell people there's no need to stock up.
  

Well, WHICH IS IT???? If it's truly pandemic, then let's get serious and give it its due. Lets shut the borders and close public places and quarantine the infected, and inconvenience be hanged. If it's merely the newest strain of flu showing up for the year, as happens every flu season, then could the media just stop whipping up hysteria? And if the Powers That Be really don't know, then could they find out and take some appropriate, rational action instead of all the knee-jerking they are doing?

Personally, I am depending on the time-tested methods of avoiding illness: wash hands often, don't eat/drink after anyone else, cover coughs/sneezes, wash hands often, stay home when sick, eat good, healthy foods, get plenty of rest, drink plenty of water, wash hands often. And if I feel the need to medicate I am well-stocked with Vitamin C, elderberry, echinacea, and GSE.

And on that note, Will the Real Story please stand up?

52 WHATTS?!!

I bought some light bulbs today.

In place of the high-$, energy-saving, long-living neon light bulbs currently in vogue, I opted for the old-fashioned ones. I'm not exactly against the currently fashionable "green" revolution, it's just that I've already tried those new-fangled light bulbs. They certainly are high-$, costing many times what a regular light bulb costs, and it seems reasonable that they save energy, being that they are only a fraction as bright. But they do not last the promised five years. They don't even last as long as the dependable old low-tech standbys. So as my current supply of these modern marvels dwindles, thank goodness, I am replacing them with the old kind. At least that is my desire.

But I made a sad discovery this afternoon: It appears that while I was getting up to speed with the realm of techno-lighting, something disturbing was happening in the world of the humble incandescent light bulb. My first clue of incandescence's imminent ixtinction was in the "Lighting" department at MoreMart which is no longer overflowing with every variety of incandescent light bulb. Nope. It is now overloaded with over-priced high-tech light bulbs of every sort: sunlight ones, daylight ones, blue light ones, coil shapes, spirals, U-shapes, long ones, short ones. I have tried them all, and guess what none of them measures up to the good old plain vanilla light bulb.

After a thorough search, I was thrilled to stumble across a section of incandescent bulbs, but it was very small, and as I searched for the 60-watts I got my second shock: the 60-watt is no longer. In its place we now have the new, improved...52-watt light bulb. 52? And then I noticed the formerly-known-as-75-watt bulb is now...67 watts.

Lighting. The next economic battle the consumer is bound to lose. It's the 21st Century incarnation of the shell game that I remember from the 1970's. In that version, the standard 5-lb sack of sugar was quietly down-sized 20% while the price increased 20%. Gotta make up that 20% somewhere, you know.

So I wonder. What comes next? What will be the next battleground? It could be anything at all, but good, bad, or indifferent, you can be absolutely certain of one thing: whatever it may be, you will pay. So hang on to your wallet. If you can. It's a conspiracy.

Notes From the Chimney Sweep

The song doesn't say, does it? But in case you have ever wondered what happened to that crazed Mississippi squirrel that brought on the revival in that sleepy little town of Pascagoula, wonder no more. I think I may have cleared up that little mystery.

Spring is often a busy season for a chimney sweep, but not for the reasons one might expect. Gone are the winter requests to cure a smoking fireplace or to inspect or rebuild a chimney after a fire, and we get a few calls from those organized souls who want to get a jump on next fall’s heating season by cleaning their chimneys ahead of time, but a lot of our spring calls come from people who have discovered animals and/or their nests in the chimney: usually an assortment of birds or squirrels, less frequently a raccoon, or perhaps a possum. At least on one occasion, we were called by a homeowner whose house was suddenly infested with flies; and then there was the time this chimney sweep was called upon to ascertain that the stench in one house was caused, not by a dead animal in the chimney as surmised by the owner, but by a package of fish rotting on the coffee table in the living room. Really. The chimney sweep seems to be the go-to guy when people just don’t know where to go, and, as I say, spring ends up being fairly busy.

So when the phone rang a few days ago I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear, “I saw you on the computer. I know you get birds and things out of chimneys, but I have something much worse than a bird!” followed by a tale of woe, poured out, if you can imagine, in a frantic voice with a serious Southern d-r-a-w-l.

This poor young woman’s house reeked so badly with the odor of something dead and decaying that they could barely stand to stay in it, and after looking everywhere they could possibly think of to look, they concluded that a squirrel had died in the chimney, a not at all unheard-of event in the world of chimneys and fireplaces. She had called to see if we, or anyone we knew, could take care of such a problem for her, going on to tell me that she had called the “wildlife people” who had someone that took care of such things, but, alas, they were unable to locate him.

Even in her misery, she was so very polite, as Southern belles are wont to be, and I found myself wanting to help her. Almost. Such a job is always distasteful, to say the least. I started to ask where she was located, but before I could get the question out, she asked me if the job could be done for free… That made me laugh and I told her that there would certainly be a charge. If anyone could be found to do it.

And then, “Are you in Alabama?” Alabama? Uh…no. She explained that our area code was only one number off from an area code that she knew of in Alabama, so she thought maybe we were there, close enough to come to her rescue in…. Pascagoula, Mississippi.

Relief! I no longer felt bad for not figuring out how to help her. Being in central Texas ~ the part she missed when she found us on the computer ~ I couldn’t if I wanted to. So, I wished her well, expressing hope that she would find someone to take care of that for her. And in that lovely, lively, eager Southern voice she assured me, “Oh, I will! Even if I have to pay them!”

Ah…

Well, in any event…one Squirrel of Mississippi Revival fame: Found! And now you know...the rest of the story.

"The Computer is Down"

. . . and now that I have a wee bit of time to indulge my blogging mode, I am cut off at the pass by an uncooperative internet at home. TWO WEEKS so far, with no more hope than a faint possible light at the end of the tunnel, which of course could be a train, or maybe just something in my eye. Thank God and the government for the public library. . .

Shiver Me Timbers!

Just think. . .2009. . .The civilized age of high-tech marvels, medical miracles, instant worldwide communications, higher education, general enlightenment, pirates. . . Pirates. . .?

As a child, M fell heir to an outgrown Halloween pirate costume. The costume was really nothing more than a pair of black below-the-knee-length pants with a tattered edge, worn with a raggedy white t-shirt. To dress it up a bit, I offered a favored hoop earring and a red bandana. Being prior to the age of earring-wearing males, we attached the hoop to the bandana, thus giving the effect minus the agony. When his birthday came around, I took myself off to the pharmacy where I bought him a black eye patch to complete the rogue look. Accessorized with imagination. . . he was ready for adventure!

In those day, M lived his characters. We had been through eras of baseball players, frontiersmen, astronauts, astronomers, pirates, and even Navy SEALS, among others. His pirate period included teaming up with his dad to build a stunning papier-mache pirate ship, The Jolliest Roger; he also ventured into the world of pirate cuisine, cooking a meal of ship's biscuits, oh my. . . definitely best left for when one might be absolutely perishing from hunger with no other possibilities in sight.

Pirates from the past. . . Adventurers on the High Seas. Hunters of treasure. Chasers of dreams. Swashbuckling figures clothed in mystery and legend and romance. The dream of any small boy equipped with imagination and a little creativity.

Fast forward to 2009. Of all things incredible, piracy is making a comeback. You'd think, wouldn't you, that in this touchy-feely age of non-violence and tolerance, we might have outgrown this uncivilized, barbaric sort of behavior? Nope. It seems that all political correctness has really accomplished is to disarm the law-abiding victims, thus giving even more power to the criminals. After all, we wouldn't want to offend anyone, would we, and we certainly don't want to be intolerant of a pirate.

The latest in the modern pirate saga began just a few days ago, off the coast of Africa (think "shores of Tripoli"). The first attack on an American ship in over 200 years was carried out by a band of reprobates from Somalia, an anarchic country where piracy is apparently a mainstay of the economy. In the spirit of "international cooperation," our ship was unarmed, on its own out there upon the Seven Seas, with nothing more than a fire hose between it and any assilants that might come around. Hardly a match against these particular pirates who happened along well-armed with a variety of machine guns, in noisy motorboats, probably stinking of oil and gasoline. Looked at through modern-day eyes, piracy has most assuredly seen better days.

In the valiant tradition of true and honorable captaincy, Captain Richard Phillips offered himself hostage to these thugs, who promptly carted him off in a lifeboat where they planned to hold him for ransom. They obviously underestimated the United States Navy, who came quickly to the rescue, isolating the maverick lifeboat from reinforcements; and late-breaking reports indicate that Captain Phillips is today a free man, courtesy of the Navy SEALS, that elite team of real-life, all-American heroes who go through the world's toughest training only to do a job which few even know exists.

After parachuting down in the dark, the military snipers patiently watched for their chance, and with the Commander's "fire-when-ready" ok in place, they opened up on the renegades, killing all but the one who had gone off to the Bainbridge to negotiate (That one is now in American military custody, and will no doubt be treated to a civilized trial where he will be represented by the finest legal counsel the American taxpayer can provide. . . another rant for another time.). Sharpshooters, YES! Three shots, three pirates.

Yep. . . Piracy may have lost its luster, but the United States Navy just makes me proud! And the Navy SEALS. . .? You gotta love those guys!