The Fire is Coming . . .

I tangled with an old classmate yesterday.  A woman I remember as kind and sweet, at least outwardly, in high school.  She hung out with the "royalty," the high horse ego-junkie Wendys and rich-boy Rons, but was always more open, accessible, friendly.  I believe she still is all those things, but, sadly, she's not particularly smart.  Watching her argue a point is like watching a slow motion train wreck with the train hauling boxcar loads of bad grammar and logical fallacies.  

This time? She posted one of those crappy "If I have to take a drug test for my job, YOU have to take one for welfare--if you can afford drugs, you can afford groceries" buckets o' puke.  When cornered, it all came down to the "I don't want my tax dollars paying for . . ." spiel.  

Oh.  Oh, Brenda.  Oh, hon.  

A few things:

• Your employer requires you to drug test because your job carries with it responsibility, and you could do harm to people if you were operating in the office while tweaked.  Not saying I agree that you should be drug-tested, but rather showing that there is a bit of a difference between drug testing for a job and for sustenance benefits.
• Every state that has instituted drug testing has discovered one thing--precious few welfare recipients are on drugs.  So few, in fact, that the withheld benefits don't begin to pay for the drug testing program.  So if it's about your TAX dollars, drug testing costs you MORE.  Of course, it's not really about your tax dollars at all, whether you realize it or not.
• Part of what gets lumped in with these drug tests is marijuana use.  I'm sorry, I'd rather have a pothead raise children than see those kids go without food or wind up in foster care.  Almost certainly, the potheads will do a better job than our creaking foster care system.
• Most importantly?  Welfare feeds kids.  So it doesn't matter if the parents are junkies or not--the kids still need to EAT.  

What people like Brenda don't get?  They're being manipulated.  The amount of money we, as a nation, lose to rich tax evaders and off-shore account holders would pay for TANF and SNAP a half-dozen times over, easy.  But the right doesn't want you looking at THAT, because THAT might make you angry.  THAT might make you scratch your head and say, "Whoa, hang on--what do we call this, besides corporate welfare and political corruption?"  So they point you at the poor and whisper "lazy junkies" and repeat the lies about people who could survive on fast-food wages if they would just budget better or work more.

And more.

And so folks are bombarded with the "Welfare Queen" tales, they're spoon fed the stories of junkies who have baby after baby to rake in those big welfare bucks.  Are there the rare "welfare queens," the once-in-a-great-while junkies who trade their food stamps for drugs?  Sure, but they are RARE.  But it only takes one--one case to be blown up to spectacular, breathtaking proportions and then generalized across an entire population.  Because it's politically BRILLIANT for the rich and the influential to disseminate this mythology.  Brilliant and EASY, because it's human nature to despise folks who seem weaker.  We do that, we get to feel superior AND we don't have to worry that something like that might happen to US someday.

And the Brendas of our nation buy into it because it is SO much easier to demonize the poor than it is to admit that we labor under a ruling class that controls many of our representatives.  It hurts to admit that we'll never be rich, that the American Dream of working hard to earn riches is pure myth.  Perhaps it once wasn't, but with the astounding influence the rich few have on our government now?  We have no chance.  And admitting that is tough. So much easier to just point at the poor, the homeless, the helpless and tell them they're lazy.  Shiftless.

Deserving.

I actually had someone (not Brenda) once suggest that, if welfare feeds kids, and the parents are junkies, the welfare should be cut off and the kids tossed in orphanages.  ORPHANAGES!

"Please sir?  I want some more?"

Holy COW!

Where to start?  Humanitarian issues aside (I know, tough to push those aside), orphanages cost money.  Wowser money.  Not just in the warehousing and upkeep of the children, but in the years of counseling, remedial education, and prison costs arising from an orphanage upbringing.  In effect, you're saying, "The parents piss me off, so let's torture the kids, set them up to almost certainly fail in life."  It is markedly cheaper to just keep the kids at home and keep them fed, not to mention almost always better for them.  Do we want tweakers rearing kids?  No, but it doesn't take a random drug test to spot a tweaker--their behavior, their appearance, their very smell should clue in any case worker.  

Yes, I said smell.  Meth smells.  Like cat piss.  

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Back to the "my tax dollars" thing, am I the only one sick to death of the "I don't want my tax dollars paying for X" crap?  Here's a list of things *I* don't want MY tax dollars paying for:

1. Foreign wars based on hypocrisy, back-room deals, and profiteering.
2. Big Business Lobbying that buys influence and power for companies looking to dodge or gut environmental and workplace safety policies
3. Corporate Welfare and tax breaks for mega-corporations
4. The support of apartheid states that occupy and/or oppress people based upon race or religion
5. Schools that push a religious agenda in this nation that should be above such silliness
6. Tax-exempt churches that operate like Political Action Committees.
7. Routine infant circumcision and other elective, non-therapeutic surgeries covered by insurance or Medicaid, especially when inflicted upon infants who cannot consent
8. WIC/food stamps for infant formula in the 90%+ cases where breastfeeding is possible (though, of course, I do NOT advocate letting babies starve if their mother will not nurse for whatever the reason!)
9. Tanks and jets our military says it doesn't need but politicians insist upon procuring because they've made deals with manufacturers
10. Wingnut representatives who refuse to do their jobs and instead blow our money with endless attempts to oppress women and overturn health care reform because they don't like the way our Presidential elections have turned out the last couple of times

There are more, but nine seems a good number.  And you know what?  I have almost no say in any of these things, but they all seem pretty sensible to me.  But to hear someone squeal "I DON'T WANT MY TAX DOLLARS GOING TO FEED CHILDREN?"

That doesn't seem quite so sensible.  Maybe because people who say that (and saying "I don't want my tax dollars paying for food stamps IS saying that) can't give a reason why, other than "I got mine, screw all y'all!" or "It's not FAIR that I have to pay for your ______."

Hmm.

But when a forest fire rips through your community, a hurricane devastates your state, a bridge collapses in your town or a drought decimates your crops, you're perfectly okay with MY tax dollars covering YOUR ass.  

You know what?  So am I.  Seriously, I am PERFECTLY okay with my tax dollars rebuilding your homes, your roads, your bridges.  I am THRILLED that my tax dollars can put out YOUR fires, that my contribution keeps YOU fed and clothed in times of need.

It's not "socialism" or "communism" (or FASCISM--get your terms straight, you silly wingnuts). It's called being HUMAN.

Try it some time.

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So, my son was on the computer the other night, chatting with a friend from camp, when an odd message popped up on the screen.  It was a secure URL that ended with the phrase "the water is gone, the fire is come."

Boy, that's dark, isn't it?  Almost as bad as when he cracked open his first-ever fortune cookie to find . . .

NOTHING.  

I know, insert ominous chord, right?  I admit, even being the atheists we are, there was that momentary gasp, that "oh, NO!"  Because superstition?

Is a tough one to shake off.

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Oh, and this, because it made me laugh and laugh.  Discussion on a Facebook group, just a fun "let's reminisce about our little town" sort of group.  Someone was talking about coming across an older woman who had forgotten to put her car in gear when turning it off, and now couldn't figure out why her car wouldn't start.  Not an uncommon thing, happens to a lot of folks, especially if they're accustomed to driving a stick.  Some dippy creature stepped in and said, "Sounds like she was schizophrenic." Or that's what she TRIED to say.  I think.  What she ACTUALLY said?

"Spuds like she was schizophrenic."

Goodness.  Speak of the devil, huh?  The irony of spitting out something that disjointed when Facebook-diagnosing someone else with schizophrenia?

Priceless.  

And for the record, no, it doesn't sound at all like she was schizophrenic.  It sounds like she spaced. Out here in the real world, we all do it, no psychosis required.

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One last thing.  I typed up a whole hurt, sad blog entry on this one, but I'm going to condense it, boil it down to the gist, which is this:

If you love someone and see that something is going on with them that's potentially humiliating or socially mortifying, have their back.  Spare them that embarrassment.  You know, if their fly is open at the company picnic or they have holes in their pants flashing panty to everyone in the grocery store?  Don't giggle to yourself about it and then throw it at them afterwards, when it's too late for them to preserve their dignity.  Because that sucks in ways that defy description.

And that's all.  I have nothing else to say on the matter.

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And finally, another "name."  This one's different--rather than being all new-fangled and modern, it's from back in the 1940s or so.  From Utah, of course.  The land of silly names.  This one?

Gneel.

I know!  It's like KNEEL, only with a G!  Like a gnat, a gnu, and a Gneel!

I'm pretty sure it's supposed to sound like "Janiel" or "Genile."  PRETTY sure.  I'm also pretty sure THAT'S NOT A NAME!

Here, have something ugly now:

Because No Lice is Twice as Nice

I have no idea why I typed that title. Because I'm tired, I guess.

Haven't seen any lice for over a week.  Nits, either. No, the super-heavy-duty 5% permethrin the doc prescribed (even after I said these seemed to be permethrin-resistant) didn't do a thing.  What DOES seem to be doing the trick?

Religious combing.  Lice combing, nit combing, nit picking.  Plus a heavy dose of heat via my blow dryer.  Every other day we shampoo, load our hair with Pureology (a very pricy conditioner to be using as nit-combing gel, but it's perfect for it), nit comb, then fry the hair with the blow dryer.  Thankfully, the Pureology seems to do a pretty good job of protecting the hair from the high heat. 

What a mess.  I guess a trip to the hairdresser will let us know if we've really gotten rid of them.

Watched the rat-children's Dad lose his truck today (the family's only vehicle).  Looks like it's just stopped running.  Not a surprise--the poor thing has no front door windows (they try to use towels and blankets to keep the rain out), and it's sounded increasingly unwell for months now.  My first urge?

To head over and commiserate, because I have SO been there.  To recommend Brown's Hyundai because, hey, they financed us when I didn't think ANYONE would.  I feel bad for the guy, I do.  I think he's an ineffectual, weak parent whose kids are scary and out of control, but fact is, I think he's a nice guy.  A nice guy who works hard and has it rough--and it just got a whole lot rougher. 

Right before Christmas.

I wish we could afford to step in and be the good guys for him. 

I remember, back in 1995, when we were moving from Fontana (Fontucky), California back to Utah.  It was a miserable move--hubby driving his car, me driving the U-Haul truck (with the broken dash lights) with the Mustang on the trailer (with the broken stabilizer).  I cried from Fontucky to Barstow.  Not easy, driving a 26 foot truck pulling a 17 foot auto transport over Cajon Pass while sobbing.

No, I didn't want to leave SoCal.  In hindsight, of course, I'm glad we did.  It led us here.  Eventually.

Driving that rig was very hard in the dark, and, by the time we reached Jean, Nevada (after deciding against picking up hitchhikers near the women's prison outside of town), I had a migraine that was the size of--well, at least the size of my head.  We pulled into the parking lot at some Jean casino, hoping to find some way, in those over-packed vehicles, to nap.  Understand we were moving a snake, a rat, five cats, and a dog.  All their cages crammed in the cabs of the two vehicles.  Before I could nap, however, I really needed to take something for that eye-bleeder of a headache. 

To do that?  I needed food.  We had no food.  Know what else we had almost none of? 

Money.  In fact, we were not sure we had enough money to keep the U-Haul truck in petrol. 

I tried to beg off, told hubby I'd just take the pills sans food.  He wasn't having any of that, so we headed into the casino in search of cheap casino fare.  And we found some--$2.99 prime rib with baked potato and some rather disconsolate, woobly green beans.  Add a Diet Coke for a buck and we were set.  An eight dollar meal, basically.  Well, a ten dollar meal, once you count the tip.  Of course, this was back when gas was 80 cents or so a gallon.  So ten dollar meal was a LOT of fuel.  We were now even closer to not making it to our destination.

On our way out of the casino, we passed a rather inebriated gentleman who had just hit it on the dollar slots.  He started yelling for hubby to come over.  Hubby, at the time, wasn't the Mr. Respectable he is now in a suit and tie.  No, he was a long hair (down to his ass) in grubby jeans with the obligatory tat on the arm.  He approached the man, who scooped out handfuls of dollars from his machine and offered them to us.  Hubby tried to beg off, but the man insisted--said it would screw with his luck if he didn't share with the first person he saw.  Wisely, hubby didn't persist in objecting, and we walked away with thirty-eight dollars.

38 bucks.

He had no way of knowing it, but that drunk at the slots?  Saved us.  He got us home.  We've never forgotten him.  As much as I fear and loathe those kids across the street, I don't wish them a crappy Christmas where presents go back so the truck can be fixed or replaced.  I don't wish their dad yet another crap job so he can keep them afloat.  I wish we had the money to help.  Because you know what?

I can't imagine anything cooler than being the person who puts a hand out there and pulls someone else up.


Another good diet day. I think tomorrow I'm going to start including pics of bad paneling. Because, as I pore over real estate listings, I realize there is a LOT of really offensive paneling out there. Like this (which isn't the worst I've seen, but it sure would make me sad if I had to look at it every day):

More on "Deathicane Sandy"

Oh, a big thank you to the folks over here who've informed me, advised me, and given me the wonderful phrase "Deathicane Sandy!"  No, laughing at it doesn't make it any less likely to flood my utterly non-flood-insured basement, but it does make the waiting a lot easier.  Deathicane Sandy?  No worries, New Jersey--no way this things gets past my web of crappy luck.  Prince William County, Virginia is gonna be where this storm starts, lingers, and finishes.  Right over my head. 

Betcha.

Also, I forgot to post this little Halloween beauty.  It's brought me joy every year since I discovered it, and I want you to have some joy, too!


Jonathan Coulton--Eat Your Brains

Hours later--went to Wegmans for the usual shopping, plus to grab some extra waters for Deathicane Sandy.  They were almost out of waters--luckily, we've already got a fair bit, so only needed a couple of packages.  It was Halloween Trick-or-Treat at Wegmans, so the store was crawling with little kids in costume.  During checkout, a poor woman with three little princesses lost one.  Little Courtney, who is only six, had poofed, and her mom was increasingly panicking.  I don't blame her--our boy's done that to us more than once.  I asked her who she was missing, and then offered to watch her other two (who were a very small four and eight) while she looked for Courtney.  At one point, I saw her running to the customer service desk, frantic, and I started to really worry.  I had been asking people as they went by to keep an eye out for a little girl in a bright yellow princess dress, but no one had seen her.  After about ten minutes, Mom came back with a very teary and contrite Courtney.  I was very happy--almost crying happy.  Because crappy things happen and this needed to not be one of those crappy things.  I'm happy that Courtney is safe at home with her Mom and sisters.