Above and Beyond

I have had the worst experiences with car dealerships/repair shops. I pretty much always think I am going to get screwed one way or another . . . and I usually do. So, when I have a good experience with a car place, I feel the need to sing their praises as loudly as possible.

My car recently needed some body work and it was taken to Peoria Auto Body. After about a week, they called to say the work was done and I could come pick up my car. I was dreading it, but I had a friend drive me down there. The damage to my car involved broken glass - glass that had shattered into tiny little pieces and sprinkled all over the front seats in my car. I was dreading having to vacuum up all of the tiny pieces of glass out of my car.

When I got to Peoria Auto Body, I peered into the front seat of the car. Completely glass-free. It was spotless - it looked almost as good as it did the day I bought it. I was so happy, I ran inside to pay them and get the keys. I was giggling with excitement. They probably thought I was insane.

It was not until I was transferring car seats into the back seat that I noticed Peoria Auto Body had made all of my dreams come true. Not only had they vacuumed the glass out of the front seat and cleaned out all of the flotsam and jetsam and other random crap, they had vacuumed all of the dog hair out of the back seat!!!

Now anyone who has a large dog, particularly a large yellow Labrador retriever, knows how prolific their dog hair shedding capacity is. My dog seems to lose 75% of her hair on a weekly basis and most of it ends up on me or my furniture. She sheds even more in the car because she is excited and nervous about being in the car. So, under normal circumstances, the back seat of my car looks like it is wearing a dog hair sweater. I have learned to pretend it doesn’t exist, which is really the best way to deal with some things.

Dog hair is one of the most insidious substances to vacuum. It has an amazing capacity to stick into cloth and fibers and never let go. The last time I cleaned the dog hair out of my car, it took me more than an hour to completely rid the back seat of dog hair. I don’t know what kind of vacuum they used at Peoria Auto Body or how long it took them, but they got every single piece of dog hair out of my car. And for that, they will always have a special place in my heart.

Above and beyond the call of duty, Peoria Auto Body. Above and beyond.

And they gave me a free key chain with a light on it. I’m a sucker for freebies.

I Did Not Sign Up For This

**Gross out alert.** If you have a low tolerance for grossness, please beware of this post.

I am not a squeamish person. I do what needs to be done in the gross-out department. I have cleaned up so many ungodly awful messes involving all sorts of bodily fluids and other nastiness, I really shouldn’t be objecting to one more horror being added to the list. Really, gross stuff is just part of motherhood. I accept it. I dare say, I welcome it - it provides great stories for my children’s teenage years for embarrassment purposes.

But I have drawn a line in the gross stuff sand.

I have reached my limit.

And that limit is having to pull a semi-digested, half-expelled, poop covered baby wipe out of my dog’s ass because her poop muscles do not have the capacity to poop out the entire length of a baby wipe and she just let it hang there. And that thing was not coming back into my house until that baby wipe was fully removed from her butt.

The sad thing is, I know exactly how this happened. We had an incredibly messy dinner of ravioli a couple of nights ago. The kids loved it. My son loved it so much, he rubbed his entire head in red sauce. He looked like a hairless oompa-loompa. He was so dirty, I had to switch from washcloths to baby wipes because I ran out of clean washcloths. Then I threw the dirty baby wipes in the trash can. (In retrospect, I should have just carried him to the bathroom and hosed him down with the hand-held shower head.)

Sometime in the night, the dog ate the baby wipes, unbeknownst to me. And she almost got away with it. Until I saw her duck-walking in the back yard with what looked like a four inch piece of poop hanging out of her butt. When she caught my eye, she knew she was in trouble and tried to hide under a lawn chair.

Here’s the thing. I can try to say "I put my foot down - too gross" or refuse to deal with it, but I can’t. Who else is going to deal with this? It’s not like I can send out the 15 month old and say, "Go pull that thing out of the dog’s butt. Come on - it’ll be good for you. Make you a man." I can’t exactly call my friends or neighbors and explain the situation. "Yeah . . . do you have a minute? My dog has a poop-covered baby wipe hanging out of her butt and if you could just . . . . hello? Hello?"

I know it is incredibly shallow of me to wish I was married so my husband could do the gross things . . . I mean, I know marriage is about a whole lot more than who gets to do the gross stuff . . . but sometimes, I just wish I was able to see the poop-covered baby wipe hanging out of the dog’s ass and look over to my husband and say, "Enjoy yourself, honey. Wash your hands with bleach when you’re done."

Welcome to My World, Babe.

A study was recently published that found first born children are smarter than their latter born siblings. Since I am a firstborn, I wholeheartedly embrace the study’s conclusions. The study also concluded that the increased IQ might be related to the amount of time the older child spends teaching the younger child new skills. Using that same analysis, here’s my addition to the theory: oldest siblings are better able to appropriately deal with frustration because they spend more time trying to teach younger siblings who have no interest in learning the crap they are teaching.

Here is how this theory has developed in my house. My two and a half year old girl is in her full-on mimicking stage currently. She wants to cook like mama, take care of babies, pretend she is a nurse giving babies medicine, take babies for walks, etc. But most of all, she likes to play school. Of course, most of her playtime is trying to herd dolls, toys, animals, and people to her "circle time" so they can listen to her read a story. So, she walks around the house yelling, "CIRCLE TIME! Come sit for CIRCLE TIME!"

And pity the fools who fail to sit in her circle.

She does pretty well with the dolls and toys. She arranges them in a circle and only reprimands them if they don’t sit still. (Some baby dolls just do not sit on their bottoms like they should, you know, and falling forward on your face is apparently not a good reason for missing circle time.) She has little trouble with our dog, who will do just about anything you ask her to do if it involves the chance of love and attention. Of course, the 120 pound dog takes up a large portion of the circle, particularly when she wants to put her head in your lap while you read the story.

She does have some trouble with the cat. When she yells CIRCLE TIME in his general direction, he puts his ears back and take off like his tail is on fire. When he gets far enough away from her, he turns back and gives her that "HELL NO" look that cats are so good at.

However, she has the most trouble with my 15 month old son. Being human and all, she expects him to sit attentively in her circle and listen to the story without talking, moving, gesturing, averting his eyes, or touching anything else in the circle. She gently walks him over to the circle and says, "Sit here. On your bottom. Sit HERE!" He just walks away. She brings him back, "Sit here. HERE! IT’S CIRCLE TIME. SIT ON YOUR BOTTOM!" Now he thinks it’s funny and he runs away.

This could go on for hours. She has a burning desire to have him behave, sit in circle time, and do exactly what she tells him to do and he has a burning desire to screw with her because he loves to see her mad. Yesterday, this "game" ended in tears for my little girl. "MAMA - he won’t sit on his bottom! He won’t sit in circle time! It’s CIRCLE time. He won’t use his listening ears! MAMA - he’s running away! He took my book! MAMA! He won't sing ABCs! MAMA! I want him to sit and he not sit!"

I explained to her that he is still a baby and babies sometimes don’t listen and you have to remind them and sometimes they still don’t listen. I said that we are teaching him to be a better listener but it is going to take practice. She responded, "NOOOOO! It’s CIRCLE TIME!" I told her, "This is how I feel when I say, It’s time to put your coat on and you run to the other side of the room." She responded, "But he won’t listen to ME! It’s CIRCLE TIME!"

I found myself at a loss as to how to explain this further to her. All I could say was, "Welcome to my world, babe."

A Good Laugh Always Helps

I’ve been having a rough week of sorts, but I can always count on my brother and sister-in-law’s parenting stories to lift my spirits a little bit. The thing is, I don’t think they intend these stories to be uplifting or humorous . . . but they so are.

My sister-in-law had their second baby in early February - another boy. Not surprisingly, their first son has had a difficult time adjusting to the new baby. One of the behaviors he is exhibiting is not going to bed easily and not staying in his new "big boy bed."

So, the other night my brother and I were talking on the phone about the trials and tribulations of our two and a half year olds and comparing notes. My brother said things have gotten better with my older nephew’s behavior, particularly with staying in bed. However, they have an unusual method of getting him to stay in his bed:

Me: So, things are getting better with bedtime?

My brother: Yeah . . . tonight he only got out of bed once, but that was because the big rice cooker scared him.

Me: Umm . . . the big rice cooker scared him? Were you cooking rice near his room?

My brother: Oh no, he gets to choose a kitchen appliance to take to bed with him every night and tonight he picked the big rice cooker. But then, after he was in there for awhile with it, he came out and asked to swap it with the little rice cooker.

Me: Because the little rice cooker is less scary?

My brother: I guess so . . . and it takes up less room in his bed.

Me: Well . . . whatever gets him to sleep at night, I guess.

After we hung up the phone, I sat there wondering how far out of control a parent has to get when he or she allows a child to take a kitchen appliance to bed with him. I mean, I have had some desperate times as a parent, but . . . taking kitchen appliances to bed? I just can’t picture the scenario occurring in my house.

Well, at least it wasn’t a kitchen appliance with blades.

Clearly, my nephew is still in control of this house.

News Flash

"Men Who Do More Housework May Get More Sex" says a group of researchers after looking at the roles of men and women in two income households. Well, I'd like to send out a nice fat DUH on that one. One researcher says:

"If a guy does housework, it looks to the woman like he really cares about her — he's not treating her like a servant," said Coleman, who is affiliated with the Council on Contemporary Families. "And if a woman feels stressed out because the house is a mess and the guy's sitting on the couch while she's vacuuming, that's not going to put her in the mood."

OK, I'll go along with those statements, but I think there is a little more behind all of this. It is not just the man doing more housework and the woman automatically "rewarding" him for his good behavior. In a broad sense, relationships are becoming more and more equal for a variety of reasons.

First, the men who are in their 20s and 30s now were more likely raised by women who came of age during the women's movement. It is more likely their mothers worked outside of the home during part or all of their childhoods. It is more likely that these men experienced homes where their fathers helped a little more than their grandfathers, and also where the children helped out as well.

Both of my parents worked full time during the entire time my brother and I were children (and both still work now). My father did a great deal of the household chores, probably equal to the amount my mother did. However, both of my grandfathers were very traditional; they did no housework that I remember and considered mowing the lawn and grilling steaks on Saturday significant contributions to the household. Furthermore, my brother and I also helped more around the house because both of our parents worked.

Second, couples may be having more sex now than they did 30 to 40 years ago, but not just because men are helping more around the house. I really dislike this notion that men are the only ones who want to have sex and that women don't really want to have sex, but they use it to reward their men. This completely disregards women as sexual beings as well, not just as candy machines where men have to "pay" the right amount to get some sugar. Sometimes women want to have sex to reward themselves and because it feels good, not to reward their men.

I would venture to say that in the last 40 years, it has been more acceptable for women to consider themselves sexual beings and admit they want to have sex because they enjoy it. (I am not going to use my family as an example here, because frankly I don't know how often my parents and grandparents had sex and don't really want to know.)

This does not mean men should stop helping around the house. After all, it does really piss off a woman when she is vacuuming and you are sitting on the couch. But remember, it is not the fact that you vacuum that makes a woman happy. It is the fact that you consider her your equal partner in the relationship. Now that's sexy.

Call Me Crazy

I work near the top of a 16 floor building. The elevators in this building have always been a little . . . erratic. This morning, I got into the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. The elevator went right up and made no stops and opened on my floor. As the doors were opening, I glanced at the electronic display that tells me which floor I am on. The display said 28.

I find it very disconcerting to be told I am getting off on the 28th floor of a 16 floor building. I know it's not true, I know I am really on my floor, but there is a part of me that feels like it is a really, really bad sign. I picture myself in the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, popping up through the top of the building and flying around downtown Peoria with an old guy and a guy in a purple suit and top hat. Of course, I also pictured myself stepping out of the elevator in to a vast nothingness and falling to my death.

Of course, this is not the first time the elevator has done crazy things. It often says we are on level MM, which sometimes means mezzanine, but there is no mezzanine in my office building. I also got stuck in one of the elevators once. I called my secretary on my cell phone and said, "I'm stuck in the elevator!" She said, "Where?" "Where do you think? In our building! Call maintenance!" It was during my lunch hour and I had my lunch with me, so I sat on the floor and ate it. When the elevator company finally came to get me out, I had to crawl out onto the floor above where it stopped.

I try not to think about that when I get off on the 28th floor.

Foul on George Blackburn

I was listening to WCBU on my way to work this morning and heard interviews with the two republican candidates for Peoria County Coroner, Johnna Ingersoll and George Blackburn. It's not a race that really fires up my political juices, but I did feel the need to call foul on Blackburn.

Admittedly, my knowledge of the coroner's office is pretty limited. However, it seems to me that someone who has been a deputy coroner and the coroner (Ingersoll) is more qualified for the job than someone who works for the Sheriff's office and owns a property management business (Blackburn).

But what really irked me this morning was Blackburn's statement that he was more qualified for the job because his schooling is in "the humanities, like psychology and sociology." What?? The Humanities are Classics, History, Languages, Literature, Law, Performing Arts (Music, Theater, Dance), Philosophy, Religion, and the Visual Arts. Psychology and Sociology are social sciences, not humanities.

You would think that, if he really had been educated in psychology and sociology, he might be aware of this fact. I'm pretty sure the first day of any psychology and sociology class covers the classification. And since one of my majors in college was psychology, I'm pretty sure of this fact.

What Not To Do When You Can’t Sleep

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Monkey See . . .

When I picked up my little girl from day care on Friday night, one of her teachers said to me, "Oh, by the way, you might want to watch out this weekend. She might try to flush stuff down the toilet."

I turned to look at her and said, incredulously, "She DID that today?"

The teacher said, "Oh, no, but we have had several children do that today and in the past couple of weeks. We have had the plumber come out and even had to have the whole toilet replaced."

Oh my god. It shocked to me to think that this happened at her day care once, let alone several times. Several questions came to mind. (1) How closely are these two year olds being supervised if they can get a large item into the bathroom and flush it before a teacher notices and do it more than once? (2) What makes her think my kid would do this sort of thing? Monkey see, monkey do?

Well, my little girl is not a particularly destructive child and I would never think she would do this sort of thing. (My son - that's another story.) But, despite their individual personalities and destructive natures, I can't imagine that they would be unsupervised in my house long enough to accomplish this task. In addition, my house is small enough that I can pretty much see what is going on in all rooms on one floor at a time.

Just in case, she and I had a long talk about what goes in the toilet and what doesn't go in the toilet. Of course, this weekend I had decided to seriously start potty training and the talk fit right in to our plan. Pee and poop and toilet paper in the toilet, only! In her infinite two year old wisdom, she asks, "What about throw up?" OK, you got me - throw up goes in the toilet too. I say this as I am thinking in the back of my mind, "Yeah, throw up goes in the toilet. If I could only be that lucky . . . ."

My Groin, My Groin!

When my nephew, my parents’ first grandchild, was born, they put a great deal of thought into what they would like to be called by their grandchildren. We don’t use the traditional labels of "Grandma" or "Grandpa" in my family, so the names had to be somewhat unusual. My mother chose to be called, "Gran" and so that is what my children and my nephew call her.

Unbeknownst to her at the time, Gran happens to be a very hard word for small children to say. My nephew called her "Gee" for a long time. Pronounced like "Ghee" (rhymes with key), not like "Golly-gee" or the letter G. My brother and I got a huge laugh out of calling our mother, "Oh, clarified butter! Come here, clarified butter!!"

Well, my little girl can’t quite say Gran either - it sounds like "Groin." In the end, this turns out to be much funnier than calling my mother clarified butter. Last night, the three of us were looking at some pictures and my little girl saw a picture of Gran and said, "There’s Groin!" My son thought that was funny and reached toward the picture to grab it. (His language skills are not as good - he said, "Ugh!") Thinking he was trying to take Gran away from her, she yelled, "NO! MY GROIN! MY GROIN!!"

Neither one of them understood why I was laughing so hard. All I could picture was my brother and I lying on the floor, clutching our lower stomachs and yelling, "My groin, oh, my groin!"

Really Think About It

As a follow up to a comment I made on Peoria Chronicle, I thought I would expand on the serious collateral consequences of being a convicted felon. Many people focus on the effect of the traditional concept of punishment - time spent in jail or prison. However, for most felons, the more devastating consequences come after they have served their time and reenter society.

Of course, the consequences may depend on the crime and the jurisdiction of conviction. However, this is a basic list of the things convicted felons cannot do. Most of us take these things for granted. What would you do?

Convicted felons cannot hold public office. They cannot serve on a jury. They cannot possess firearms. They cannot vote. They are ineligible to serve in the armed forces. They may be denied public housing or housing assistance. They cannot hold drivers licenses in certain circumstances. They may be barred from adopting or becoming foster parents. They may be denied food stamps or other such benefits. They can be barred from being the personal representative or an executor of an estate (meaning they cannot serve as an executor for their parents). They cannot be designated as a Representative Payee for a Social Security benefits recipient (meaning that they cannot receive a disabled child's benefit payments, even if they are a single parent).

Here is a list of professions or jobs that felons are barred from holding in most states:

Acupuncturist
Air Conditioning Mechanic
Architect
Asbestos Worker
Attorney
Certified Public Accountant
Chiropractor
Clinical Laboratory Technician
Commercial Driver
Correctional Officer
Cosmetologist
Dentist
Dietitian
Electrician
Funeral Director
Insurance Broker
Insurance Agent
Investment Advisor
Land Surveyor
Marriage and Family Counselor
Massage Therapist
Notary Public
Nurse
Nursing Home Administrator
Operating Engineer
Optometrist
Pharmacist
Physician
Plumber
Police Officer
Principal
Property Manager
Psychologist
Real Estate Broker
Real Estate Salesperson
Real Estate Appraiser
Securities Broker
Securities Agent
Security Alarm Agent
Social Worker
Taxicab/Limo Operator
Teacher
Veterinarian

Even if they aren't barred from a particular job, would you hire someone to work with you in your business if they answered yes to the question, "Are you a convicted felon?"

And we wonder why the recidivism rate is so high. Where are felons supposed to work? How are they supposed to feed themselves and their families? Where should they live? How should they pay for all of this without a job?

Sure, they have all committed a crime against society in some fashion - some worse than others. But, after serving their time, many people feel they have "paid their debt to society." Just how long should society continue to collect this debt? Do we really think every crime is deserving of a lifetime of misery? I certainly hope not. Unfortunately, this is the system we have in the United States. Who is going to change it?

Well, one thing is for sure - not the felons. They can't vote or hold public office. And guess who that leaves . . . .




For more information, read this report published by the District of Columbia Public Defender's Office or this report published by the Department of Justice.

Well, I Would NEVER Write a Blog

My mother was in town this weekend, having fun while my dad was snowshoeing in the UP of Michigan. (That's a lie - since it was 23 below in the UP, without considering the windchill, they just sat around and drank, but anyway . . . .) So, my mom was in town for the long weekend helping me around the house, bonding with the kids, etc.

While fixing dinner on Saturday night, we got to talking about the books my book club is reading. I was really disappointed I had to miss our last book club meeting because I had a lot to say about the book. I was telling my mom that our next book is called Drunk, Divorced, and Covered with Cat Hair. We were laughing because I was kind of embarrassed to go to the store and buy it. Plus, when I went to Borders, I couldn't find it and I was too embarrassed to ask.

My mom was laughing with (at) me about this and asked why I was so embarrassed. Well, it just hits a little too close to home . . . you know . . . drunk . . . divorced . . . covered with cat (and dog) hair . . . still single after all these years . . . not getting any younger . . . or thinner . . . etc. My loving mother said, "Well, at least you're not divorced." Thanks, mom.

I admitted I didn't know much about the book but I did know that the author was a blogger and the book is substantially based on her blog entries. I also said I think a few book club members picked it because they have blogs.

As an aside, my parents are not aware that I write this blog. The only reason they don't know is that they would not approve of the way I talk about my sister-in-law. They agree with me, but they would not like that I talk semi-publicly about her in such an honest way. I find it therapeutic to bitch about my sister-in-law, so, my parents don't know about the blog.

Anyway, my mother says, emphatically, "OH, I would NEVER write a blog! Having all of that personal stuff out there in my profession? I mean, just like you, I feel it is not very professional to expose yourself to all of your clients and the public in such a way. Oh, I can't imagine all of those people reading all of that stuff about me."

Ummmm . . . so, I guess it was not the appropriate moment to come out of the closet about the blog. I guess I will wait until my book deal includes an nice big advance and then tell them about the blog.

Dance Me to the End of Love

Every night before bed, I read one story to my son before he goes to bed. Being only 13 months old, he usually doesn’t listen, but I still read to him every night. Now that we have been joined by a little girl, she gets to have two stories before she goes to bed. She gets to pick any two books she wants me to read to her from our children’s books shelves.

I have quite a few children’s books because I was a preschool teacher and I worked in a bookstore for many years. I started buying books I liked even before I had children. When I was a bookseller, a beautiful picture book came in and I fell in love with it. It was book where the words were Leonard Cohen’s lyrics "Dance Me to the End of Love" paired with paintings from Matisse. It is an absolutely spectacular book, but the combination tends to be a little more adult than a regular picture book.

Last night, one of the books she picked was "Dance Me to the End of Love." I hesitated, but agreed to read it to her. I figured that it can’t hurt for her to know an expression of deep love for another person. Like every other time I have read the book, I get tears in my eyes. I’m not an overly sentimental person, but I like to think that when I find that person, these words would be representative of our bond:

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love

After I was done reading, she looked up at me, smiled and said, "That’s a pretty book, Mommy."

Panhandling to a Cold Heartless Bitch

Maybe I am a cold heartless bitch, but I never give money to people who ask for it on the street. The main reason I don’t do it is because it think it is highly dangerous to open your purse in front of a stranger, take your wallet out, and let them see how much money you have. I just think that is stupid and, frankly, asking to become a victim.

I also don’t do it because I donate to charity and I volunteer quite a bit of my time. I really do feel as if I give back to my community. Could I do more? Sure - everyone could do more for their community. But I give what I can considering my circumstances. In addition, the very nature of my job could be considered charity, mostly because I could make twice as much money selling my soul as a corporate lawyer in a big firm.

But, deep down, in my heart of hearts, I know the reason I don’t give to panhandlers is because I think panhandling is rude. When I am walking down the street (particularly downtown Peoria), I am on my way somewhere. I am not just wandering aimlessly, strolling along waiting for someone to talk to me. I just don’t have time to listen to your sob story about your mother’s sisters’ uncle’s dog’s baby needing a foot operation and you can’t get there because you are too weak from the medical problem to hail a cab or eat or dress or whatever and just a few dollars will help you get there. I don’t have the time - I am going somewhere, or did my determined footsteps and failure to slow down not clue you into that?

And besides, I never buy these stories. Some people say, "I don’t give them money because they aren’t going to buy food - they’re going to buy drugs or alcohol!!" You know what, I don’t care if the panhandler is going to buy a Big Mac or an 8-ball of crack with the money he gets from begging. He can do whatever he wants with it - he earned it by duping someone into giving it to him. The problem lies with the people giving him money.

Yesterday, I was crossing Main Street downtown and a woman starting yelling at me from across the street. I was crossing toward her, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying until I was close to her. She gave me this big story about how her car ran out of gas (just down the block, next the Pere Marquette) and the gas station "just over there" wanted five dollars for a gas can and she only had three dollars and she needed to get to the hospital to see her mom.

I said, as politely as possible, "Sorry, I can’t help you" and turned to walk away. She said, "But ma’am, it’s really true - you can go get in my car and try to start it. I ran outta gas!" I said, "I’m sorry, but I am on my way somewhere" and turned to leave again.

It was then that I felt a hand on my sleeve. She touched me! I spun around to glare at her, but she only continued, "The man at the gas station just over there won’t give me a gas can without five dollars. Don’t you have a few dollars you could spare?" I held my hand out and said, "No, I have no cash with me right now" and backed away. She then turned bitchy and said, "FINE, WHATever" and walked away in a huff.

You see, I knew she was lying from the beginning. Aside from my dim view of all stories told to me by people in the street, this story’s facts didn’t add up. There is no gas station "just over there" in downtown Peoria in relation to the corner we were standing on. The nearest gas station is more than six blocks away, over the interstate. By the looks of her, there was no way she had just walked from her car (by the Pere) to that BP station and then back. Her hands weren’t frozen, her ears and cheeks weren’t red, and she wasn’t all that cold looking, considering she only had a sweatshirt on. But more than the lying, what really irritated me was that she felt she was entitled to a handout from a complete stranger on the street.

So as not to be misconstrued, this is not a statement about welfare recipients or any needy people who receive public aid of any kind. I believe we should, as a country, provide for those who are unable to provide for themselves in whatever ways necessary. I also believe we should do much, much more than we do now to address poverty and sub-standard living in this country. But this entails a system - a way of monitoring who is really in need of assistance and who isn’t and getting the right assistance to the right people. She couldn’t go into some public aid office and lie about her circumstances to get assistance. (Well, she could, I guess, but would risk prosecution.) She shouldn’t be able to get money out of me the same way.

Does that make me a cold heartless bitch? Well, I've been called worse.