Ballot 101

Before I get to the good stuff, I have a quick question:
I want to get something straight.

A convicted felon cannot vote, but a convicted felon can run for political office?

One of my very loyal library patrons was convicted of burglary ten years ago. He is now, for all purposes, a single father trying very hard to raise a two year old that has a energy level similar to the Tasmanian Devil from the old school Looney Tune cartoons. Sometimes this kid moves so fast, you can't see him. Tuesday I asked this father if he voted yet. "No, I lost my voting rights." I asked him how long that was for. He said forever. Well, okay. It is what it is, I guess. I had forgotten this price to be paid for a felony conviction but if this is a consequence, so be it.
But unless I'm mistaken, and set me straight if I am, there's a man running for senator in Alaska who was recently convicted of seven (SEVEN!) felonies. I say 'running' because last I heard the race was too close to call. I actually find myself speechless in face of this ridiculous reality. Sometimes we really suck.



Better stuff........:

I have three children: Two boys, neither of whom is registered to vote. And my daughter, who is not yet old enough.

When I learned the boys don't vote, I admit I chewed on them a little bit. I let it be known that I thought this was wrong and what were they going to do about it right now! as only a mother can.

Since then, it occurred to me, I never taught them.

I never thought to teach them, offer to go with them, get them a voter's registration and show them my absentee ballot. Or, Genius, *head slap* take them with me when I voted in person. Take them by their little hands, back when their hands were still little, and let them walk with me into their local elementary school and watch me vote. I do not know how I missed this.

Now I know they are perfectly capable and behave in an adult manner on most days, so they could have done this on their own. Most do. But why wouldn't I want to be part of this, show them. It would have been a great memory for me, and hopefully for them as well. It would have been my privilege and I missed the opportunity.

Parenting is indescribably and impossibly impossible but there are some amazing things we are privileged to teach these innocent victims: Walking, bike riding, proper potty practices, Lego sorting, cooking, Zelda on Gameboy, shoe matching and voting.

I'm sure at some point in school, they were taught about bills, laws, senators, judges and government type facts that also included how we, as American citizens, get to vote for our leaders, as opposed to having them thrust upon us, (in theory). Yet as far as I know, there was no practical lesson or demonstration on how to place one's vote.

When I got home today, my daughter needed to use my computer to do homework. She sat next to me working, typing away. We had some light political talk in between the sentences of her creative writing assignment.

Then out of the blue, at least from her perspective, I declared,

"When you turn eighteen, I'm getting you a voter's registration."

It probably sounded like an ominous parental threat. "And I'll help you fill it out. I am totally goin' with you the first time you vote."

She looked at me blankly waiting for the point. I explained, "I think your brothers don't vote because they don't know how it works and they won't admit it." And like the great daughter that she is, she completely agreed with me. "Exactly." Just what I needed to hear.
Hmmm, that's odd. I wonder what she wants......kidding.

"I should have taken them with me when I voted."

"You took me," she said.

"I did not!" I said, in all astonishment. "How old were you?"

"I was pretty little. All I remember is we went into some kind of booth."

Yea! Hurray me. Score one for the mom. One out of three, could be worse. In baseball I would be batting 300. Now I don't exactly remember this event so I can't actually claim the memory. But she can.

Here's what I think, in case you were wondering:

I propose that schools should teach voting. Maybe they already do, but I don't think so. I believe it should be a requirement in their junior year of school. They should set up a mock polling place that looks exactly like they could likely expect the next year when they turn eighteen. With faux election volunteers staffing the room, as they actually do on Election Day. They should learn how to step up to the table and 'sign in.' They could see the different voting methods: paper ballot, touch screen, absentee, chad punching and any others I've left out. They could see voter's registration cards. They could 'pretend vote,' then turn in their completed ballots and watch how the counting happens. They'd get a sticker that says "I fake voted."

Imagine the generation of registered, educated and confident voters that could be produced. I wonder how many people in our country don't vote because they simply don't know how and are embarrassed to ask. I suspect it's significant.

My daughter turns eighteen in a few months. I am going to wrap up a voter's registration and put it among her gifts. Happy Birthday to you.

Then I'm giving one to each of her brothers.

What am I thankful for today, November 5th, 2008?

I'm thankful for the two men I saw on the side of the road, on my way to work, removing political signs. The bed of their full size truck was completely crammed with signs and sticks. I wish I'd stopped and thanked them. I should have. But for whatever it's worth here, Thank you so much. I'm grateful and impressed.

My name is Barbie and I approved this message...

Okay before I get to the good stuff, a couple of 2008 Election Day wishful thoughts... or should I get a petition going and maybe get them on the next ballot as initiatives, or would they be propositions, or referendums? Prepositions? Amendments?

Anyway...

1. If a voter votes by absentee ballot (which I totally do) , said voter (me) should no longer be subjected to nor inundated by political commercials and roadside campaign signs of any kind, effective immediately from the moment their ballot is dropped off. In this hypothetically closer-to-perfect world, if I mail in my ballot two weeks before the actual Election Day, by some miracle of technology my television would no longer televise any political commercials. Interviews, debates and sound bites could also go away, as far as I'm concerned. If you choose to have signage in your own yard, I am not opposed. But every linear inch of road side would be wiped magically clean between my home and where ever I choose to go. I'm pretty sure this technology already exists but there's no profit in it so it goes the way of (until recently) the electric car and solar panels, as far as marketing and public availability goes.
2. And another thing, there should only be one channel on tv that is permitted to televise political commercials. And yes, I'm aware that this would negate the need for the proposed Proposition #1 described above, but I'm just sayin'. If there were only one channel designated for the marketing of political views, people would be free to spend as much of their precious time viewing these entirely useless electronic forms of human regression and degradation but those of us who could live quite happily without, would be free to do so. Instead of the current 'system' of thinly veiled imprisonment and torture that I'm feeling now. Free choice. That can't be a bad thing, right? Choose to subject yourself to the lowest and most common practice of elevating ones self by tearing someone else down. Or not. Up to you.

Today is the best election day I have ever had. And the reason might not be what you think.

I work at a library. It is a very small, personal, intimate library. One of my patrons is a teen mother. Brave, strong, smart, tired Mom is nineteen years old. Amazing, adorable, library loving, genius Daughter is two years old. Mom and I talk often and have really grown to appreciate each other. I look forward to her almost-daily library visits.

When I got to work today, she was in the parking lot by her car. We exchanged smiles and 'hello's. She said she had been to the election polling place that is in the community center building that houses our library branch. She looked crest fallen and said she had gone in thinking she could vote. She didn't know you had to register a head of time. She mistakenly thought she could register there, then vote. Now I have been voting for a few presidential elections, and it was hard to imagine her not knowing this. But she didn't. (And frankly I probably didn't understand such voting details until I started the process, myself.)

She said she felt stupid for not knowing and standing there in that line thinking she could vote today. I felt terrible for her and wanted to walk into the polling place and demand she be allowed to vote. Sensing a certain amount of futility in this fantasy, and wanting to preserve my own right to vote in all future elections, I refrained.

Much, much earlier in the day, before the polls were open in my time zone, in a news report about some of the ballot problems they had last election, I heard the term 'provisional ballot.' I didn't know what this meant at the time but from the context of the news story I surmised that it was a ballot you could use but would not count until your address and such were verified. Thinking this might be the case, I suggested we walk over to the polling place and see what we could find out. There were five people ahead of us. We waited. I held her two year old child in my arms. We watched the voters.

It was the proverbial range. Old, young. Large, small. Dark, light. Bathed and not. There were several people in military uniform. Some that appeared to be health care workers. All reading their voter's pamphlets, marking their ballots. It was very solemn and respectful. Yet at the same time, shiny and energizing. Fresh airy. The woman behind the table we stepped up to, explained (and don't quote me here) that a provisional ballot is for use in the event that your name is not on their voter 'roll.' And she indicated the ream of paper before her with names and addresses of those voters assigned to this polling place. But that you did in fact have to be registered somewhere, but maybe were just not able to get to your own polling place.

It was a sad moment for me, for Mom and for the woman explaining. My sweet, well-intentioned patron would not be allowed to vote today.

We started to walk away, when I turned back. I asked if she could at least register today. An emphatic 'YES' was the answer. The woman retrieved a voter's registration and we left to make room for the people behind us in line. The day could have remained a disappointment for this Mom, but together we decided that we should celebrate this historic Election Day by getting her registered for the next one.

She came into my work room. I played with the darling Daughter while the evolving Mom filled out her registration. She had to run outside for her driver's license. I took her picture filling in the blanks. We walked back over to the polls and they happily took her registration. The woman handled this registration with the same care and respect that she handled the ballots. She made sure Mom had signed in the proper place and said she'd receive her voter's card in the mail, shortly.

We went back to the library and I proclaimed her accomplishment, quite vocally. I literally patted her on the back. "You should be very proud of yourself. Good for you. I'm so proud of you." She hung with me in the back room for a while after, with some questions about today's election and voting in general. I took out my absentee ballot (that I dropped off at the polling place just moments ago...) and showed her what it looked like. What the secrecy envelope looked like. Together we looked through a voter's pamphlet. She wanted to know how soon we would know the election results. I said at the next election, I'd go with her to cast her vote, so she wouldn't feel nervous if she didn't know how it all worked.

"So I'll be a democrat, right?" she asked me, when it was almost time for her to head off to her job at the fast food place down the road, making minimum.

"You can be what ever you want to be," I said. "It's up to you."

She said, in complete sincerity, "I thought you had to be rich to be a republican."

I love this girl. I do. I love that she trusted me enough to ask a question that she might not feel safe asking other people, afraid of looking stupid. I love that she believed I would treat her with respect and courtesy, in her pursuit of information. I love that I got to be with her through her registration experience. I explained in the most non-partisan and empowering manner I could, how she gets to decide to which party she will belong and in fact, she gets to decide if she joins one at all.

It was far and away that best part of my day. Even better than actually voting myself. I loved looking at the whole day through her inexperienced and eager view. I loved telling her with watery eyes, that which ever way the election went today, one of two things was about to happen. Either a black man was about to be elected our nation's president. Or a woman was about to be elected our vice-president. I feel prehistoric. How often do we get to watch an historic moment approach like this? I am living through a moment in time that will be the test question on future middle school exams. I will never forget this year. My mind will quite effectively erase the hard feelings I could hold on to, about all the political double speak and slinging of crap and I will be left with a singular sense of gratitude that I was alive today.

November 4, 2008

Daily Bread

Today I'm thankful.

I am grateful for food that requires work.

Steamed artichokes. Crab legs.

I love food that takes two hands and one's full attention.

Grapefruit. Steamed mussels.

I love when my food is of the 'some assembly required' variety.

Fajitas. Nachos.

Eating nachos might not be a choreographed experience for some people. But I can tell you, if the only way you know how to eat nachos is so that there's a little bit of each & every topping represented on each & every single chip, that takes some serious concentration and skill, if I do say so myself. *Blowing on, then shining my nails on my shirt*

There are so many things in life that we can accomplish quite mindlessly. This is a shame. I try to make sure that the food I eat is not one of them.

I have profound appreciation for food that takes coordination and deliberation.

Chopsticks.

I love dipping and scooping.

Chips and crackers and torn chunks of exceptional bread.

I hate when I'm preoccupied while I'm eating and the next thing I know, I look down and my meal is done.

I want to savor, enjoy, relish my meals. I appreciate it so much more when it is a very personal and intentional experience.

Pomegranates.

I can't pull this off every time, of course.... McFries and a Coke..... but when I can, I'm much more satisfied at the end of the meal.

I feel fuller, happier. Satiated. Food sustains me, it propels me and nourishes my spirit.

For this I am thankful. (And now quite hungry...)

Live Long and Prosper

It's November 2, 2008 and I'm thankful.

Today I'm feeling warm and fuzzy appreciation for the falling back that occurred last night while I slept.

This past week in anticipation of the nation's return to Standard Time, there was a 'news' story that people seem to have less heart attacks the Monday after the turning back of the clocks. The thinking is just that one hour of sleep makes us more heart healthy. This could be, but I'm thinking something else.

I don't know about you, but I don't actually end up getting an extra hour of sleep. Somewhere deep in the dark, quiet places of my brain that I'm not in direct contact with, I 'know' there is an extra hour. So what ends up happening pretty much every year is that I don't actually get an extra hour of sleep, those sixty minutes just get absorbed in my evening or the next morning.

Kind of like time afloat.

In spite of this, I still actually feel the extra hour. The morning after the time switch, I feel less groggy. I wake up more fully, more quickly. I don't seem to have that non-alcohol hangover from daily stress and the progressive build-up of non-rest.

My spirit feels the extra hour somehow and it's good.

For this I'm thankful....

I've won a major prize.....

The most wonderful time of the year is cresting on the retail horizon.

Well, in the name of fairness, maybe not so much this year as much as some previous, but I'm okay with that.

In fact, I might be revelling in this fact.

I personally think that the time honored tradition of Retail - Advertising - Sunday circular - 'Hottest item in low supply (hmmm, curiously enough, year after year....)' - "Friday after Thanksgiving 4:30 a.m. or you're completely screwed" shopping line with free donut holes for the first six customers - Cabbage Patch doll and Wii scarcity hives could use a little pendulum reality swing way the other way in 2008.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

I'm ready for a season of giving, but not of the old school WalMart price slashing version.

And I'm starting my holiday merriment early this year. Early in terms of my own standards, not the standards of Macy's or Target, both of which probably started decking their mall halls back in June.

Historically, I love the holiday season. Some years my heart is more into it than others, but over the curve of my life, on average Christmas and the five or six weeks preceding are my favorite.

I love the songs. I love the colors. I love the lights. I especially love the lights. I love the planning and shopping for that uniquely perfect gift that people can't believe I found or remembered. I love wrapping presents, drinking hot cocoa with Schnapps and watching The Christmas Story alone in the house. "You'll shoot your eye out!"

I love the traditions. In our family, the new yearly ornaments for each off spring to help begin their own collection with their own new families. Cookie Christmas, with outrageous cookie decorating designs, some appropriate for all audiences and some not. Hot, spiced apple cider. Stocking stuffing.

I could go on, and you know me, I will at some point.

But for now. I'll leave you with what I know today.

I'm grateful.

November 1, 2008 I'm grateful. I am thankful for the clarity that this Christmas will be different. Meaningful. Thank goodness the economic shift has brought to my mind the intent to unplug from the retail Christmas machine. I'm not saying I'll buy nothing. I'm not saying the gifts I give will not be wrapped in pretty, shiny gift wrap. But I am saying it will be remarkably and drastically different from years past. I am determined to think outside the marketing box.

And I suggest you give this some thought yourself. Think of ways to untangle your thinking of what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown. Disengage the sales and the specials insert from your central nervous system. Consider not putting so much of your life energy and economic investment into financial aspects of giving. Give of yourself in other ways. Ways of loving, of celebration. See how special you can make your loved ones feel this Christmas with your words, with your appreciation, with your support and encouragement.

Invest in the people you love, not the people who own Sears.

Respect is Relative

Every family is different. This is a safe statement, relatively speaking.
(Get it? Family? Relatively? Haha!)

Okay, well anyway.....

I am speculating that in most families there is one trait or characteristic that is looked upon with greater respect than any other. It might be one's net worth, in comparison to the rest of the family members, that is admired most. It could be longevity of marriage. The number of one's college degrees of one sort or another. Maybe it's physical strength or perceived physical beauty. Who knows, if you are a particularly close family maybe it's the size of those prime body parts you're comparing.

In my family, you could have degrees at Harvard and Oxford. You could drive the newest Porsche and own three homes. You could have the latest cutting-edge plastic surgery procedures of one body part or another but if you're a bit of a dunce in the smart-assery department, you're a loser. And, added bonus, probably the butt of most family jokes.

'Clever' is the currency of my family.



It took many adult-type years for me to come to this realization about my 'loved ones.'

En garde. Wit. Sharp. Edgy. Dark. Quick intellect. Jab, jab, jab. Verbal triumph! All in the name of laughter and familial entertainment. Quick, stabbing retorts as a form of showing off one's intellectual prowess. The quicker, the sharper, the sexier. Comebacks and jabs are gold in my family. And in all honesty, I am not exactly bankrupt in this area.

But I'm not nearly as well off as the two most prosperous members of my family. My grandfather and my uncle. It took me years to realize that each time I found myself traveling to a family gathering, I also found I was girding myself with an emotional Kevlar vest. Bracing for the assault that would surely come my way, just as much as any other family member's way. Yet at the same time, arming myself with any weapon of wit I could think of. I was as guilty as anyone, but alas not quite as 'good' or well skilled as these two. Yet it was not from lack of trying. I justified it as self-defense.


Earlier today I walked into the building at which I work. A friend of mine said Hello and asked how I was doing? I explained that I was working about ten extra hours this week and to check with me at the end of the week.

"We'll see how I look after working all these hours," I said.

"Well you don't look that great to begin with," was his reply.



Now let me say up front, that I did not take offense at this. Well, okay maybe a little bit. I understood fully that he was kidding around. Being funny. I know this form of humor well. I was raised on it. Maybe it was it's familiarity that caused it to linger in my head and stimulate my blog thoughts. (Honestly I was not offended. This 'jab' was nothing compared to the stuff my family can sling.)

Say anything as long as you say it with a big grin on your face, or tack on 'just kidding' after the damage is done. The pay-off is the laugh from the standers-by. Ca-ching! The laugh and the slight crumble of expression on the 'victims' face.



Yesterday at my other place of work, one of my favorite young patrons took a couple of cheap shots at my expense for the sake of the amusement of his nearby peers. We're talking about thirteen, fourteen year old boys here, so my expectations were not all that lofty to begin with. However, I still found myself quite disappointed. And frankly sad. Not in a personal manner, exactly. Okay, well maybe a little tiny bit. But more in a big picture, human spirit, right-brain manner.

When did being hard on people become entertainment? Our society, the media industry especially, puts a high premium on laughs coming at the expense of others. This feels like easy, cheap humor to me.

I don't know if I'm evolving or regressing but I have come to the point where it just doesn't feel good anymore. The ca-ching has an empty and mournful ring in its tone. I believe it's entirely possible to be charming, social, funny and desirable company without someone taking a hit. And when I think of all the years spent swinging at those I love most. Being swung at by those who are supposed to love me most, it makes my eyes water.

I'm not whining about being a recent target. Because really, it doesn't hurt my feelings. It just makes me sad. Okay, sometimes it might hurts my feelings. A little bit...

I think my time is better spent building up those people around me, as opposed to tearing them down, bit by witty bit. I do not grow by ripping others to shreds in the name of funny. I do not gain. I do not shine when those I love crumble the tiniest bit. That is the path to emotional bankruptcy. I lose a little of something good every single time. And I resolve to stop. I have no interest in being the unfortunate comment that rings in someone's ears when they go home at night. I want the words I choose to use to create and strengthen. I'm determined.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but our words can break someone's heart or make someone's day. Speak softly, spiritually speaking.

Two-ply Quilted, Please

I was so looking forward to Wednesday. Today.

It's pretty much the best day of my work week. If there is such a thing.

It's a light day work-flow-wise and typically a light day patron-flow-wise. Win-win, smack dab in the middle of my week.

I now have two blogs in the center of my radar. I love this. It is all, all good. However, it does double my blog expectations. Expectations strictly self-imposed mind you, but still, being my own toughest critic this is no small thing.

As far behind as I am feeling in the area of 'blogging,' a wide-open, slow day looked like a hot fudge brownie sundae sitting in front of me.

So there I was, starting my much anticipated Wednesday work shift, eager to get the blog wheels turning.

What shall I write about? Fiction? Non-fiction? (And I totally know the difference.) Personal, intimate? Or irreverent and observational? It would be fantastic to get two whole blog posts up and visible in this one day. And I'll do it, too. Because I've got all day for the 'brainstorming' part of the process, so no problem right? Yes indeed, that's what I thought as well.

Hello, Inspiration? Hello. Are you there? I'm here, I'm ready. Let's go.

Nothing. Less than nothing, if that's possible.

In the mean time, I keep chipping away at regular, on-going chores. Waiting, waiting. But nothing.

*drumming my highly polished, overly bandaged library fingers impatiently on a book about the Amish*

Waiting. Woo hoo, Inspiration. Where are you? WAITING already!

Now I won't explain in detail what happened next but I will tell you the discovery I've come to because of what happened next: Writing in the bathroom! Eureka.

Of course! Why hadn't I thought of this before? Years before? *head slap*

I am a writer and I have colitis. 2 + 2

Writing in the bathroom just makes sense, doesn't it? A match made by the gods of porcelain and Northern toilet paper. Not that I did the writing on the actual toilet paper, but that's not a bad idea either. Although single-ply might prove a bit problematic with my favourite fountain pen.

Now . . . .this was not exactly the type of inspiration I was aiming for, but I like to remain open-minded when the Universe speaks to me, all poetic like.

If you happen to be the squeamish sort, be not afraid, for I did not write this particular piece in the bathroom but good things are to come, I assure you.

If you happen to be a participant in the other blog in which I am engaged, please note the following permission slip:

To whom it may concern ~

Barbie has my permission to use this fluffy piece in both of her blogs. But just this once. Please allow her back into class upon return of her senses and do not count this entry against her. Just pretend like it never happened.

Yours sincerely....


Thanks for reading.

PS: Let's never speak of this again...... unless of course you have a comment of encouragement, in which case, speak away.