I May Not Like Politics, But I Like Voting

It was Election Day here in the United States, and election days are always a big deal. The period leading up to Election Day is a time when candidates for office and political parties spend enormous heaps of money to “get their name out there”.

Apparently, getting a candidate’s name out there means saying many bad things about the other candidate in the election. This year one of the candidates accused his opponent of thinking our senior citizens didn’t need teeth; another person accused his challenger of not wanting people to work and earn a living wage.

In spite of the spate of negative advertisements, this year’s election was “only” a mid-term election. This means we weren’t voting for who was going to be president, which, apparently, means many people didn’t think it was an important election and consequently, didn’t get out to vote.

Allow me to point out that no election is unimportant. That is like saying that lunch isn’t important since it is neither breakfast nor dinner. Lunch is very important-especially to me. I like sandwiches, and lunch is the one time each day when I can eat a sandwich without people condemning me.

In fact, mid-term elections are also like a sandwich. If you take the middle of a sandwich away, you are only left with a couple slices of bread and mustard, which is not a sandwich; it is simply boring.

Mid-term elections are also like those other mid-terms -- mid-term exams in school. No industrious and serious student, would say, “I am not going to take my mid-term exams this semester. They aren’t important. Now, final exams, they are important; I will take those.

And so I voted on Tuesday. I voted because I am industrious, serious, and not boring. I also voted to discharge my civic duty. To sweeten the deal after I voted, the nice people at the polling place gave me a sticker that proclaimed “I voted”. I wore that sticker with pride, until I went to work that evening. I work in a home for individuals who score lower on some tests of intelligence; lower than you or I might score. One of the residents, a dear friend I have worked with for over a decade, saw my sticker. His eyes got big and round. “A sticker!” he exclaimed, “I want it.” Since it was the day after his birthday, I let him take the sticker.

It was later that I noticed that it seemed to be the “thing” for people to post pictures of their polling place or their ballot on social media (Odd, I know, but some people really shared those pictures). Many, many, people posted pictures of their little sticker, proclaiming that they had voted.

Swept up in the passion for the democratic process, I grabbed my phone to take a picture of my sticker and share with the world that I had exercised my democratic right and responsibility to vote.

Then I realized I had given my sticker away. So, I took a picture of my shirt, where the sticker once hung, and I posted that on social media. 

At first I felt flaky for posting a picture of my shirt without the sticker, but then I realized it wasn’t a big deal. After all it was just a mid-term election.

I Shared Something on Facebook that Disturbed My Wife

Last week, I saw a post on Facebook that I liked and shared on my timeline. It was one of those posts with a picture and some words. The words read, “Women are made to be loved, not understood.” I found the caption to be humorous and insightful, but my wife didn’t. Within a few moments, I receieved a text from her asking why I posted that picture. Did I not understand her, did she do something to make me not understand her?

Let me point out that I have known my wife for more than two decades. I know my wife. I know her birthday, her social security number, her favorite color, and the color of her eyes. I know what to say to make her smile and what not to say, because it makes her unhappy. Apparently I can add one more thing to the unhappy list. Despite all the things I know about my wife, and all the many things I understand, there are things I still do not understand.

I know my wife likes cards. Very early in our relationship it became quite clear that one of the ways she demonstrates her love is in the giving of cards. This was not true of me, but I quickly learned to show her affection by giving her cards. In those early days of our relationship, before cellphones, we would talk on the land line  phone during our lunch breaks. During one particular conversation, it was clear Beloved was not having a very good day. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, I considered how to make her feel better. Soon, a plan emerged, and when work was over, I put it into action.

Beloved rode home from work with me at that time. When I went to pick her up, I quickly found a parking spot and hurried into the basement of the building where she worked. I rushed into the bookstore conveniently located in the basement level and scanned the small section of greeting cards in the center of the store. I found the perfect one, It had some teddy bears on the front along with some affectionate words. I grabbed it and opened it up to makes sure it wasn’t one of those gag cards with the picture of some horrid biker guy and some awkward words scrawled across the top. Thankfully, the affectionate words continued and there were more teddy bears inside. I didn’t have time to accurately read them, but it was a card, teddy bears, and affectionate words. How could that go wrong?

I made my purchase, scurried back out to the car, signed my name, put the card in the envelope, wrote Beloved’s name on the envelope and laid it on the dash of the car for her to see when she got in. And I did it just in the nick of time. She sat down and when she saw that card she gave me that smile that gives me warm fuzzies inside.

As we pulled into traffic, Beloved let out an unexplainable sound I shall not forget. It was a cross between a loud laugh and a gasp of horror. I looked over at her, very concerned. She was aghast as she said, “Father’s Day? You bought me a Father’s Day card?!”

I don’t understand why my wife likes cards so much, even if they are Father’s day cards, but I know her, and more importantly, love her. Men smarter than I have spent years researching the human psyche and have but scratched the surface. How can I expect to understand the wonderful, complicated, exciting woman I have decided to spend my life with? I cannot, but I love her.

You Are My Favorite

I work with a gentleman who often announces that he “loves” someone “the best”.  Usually the person receiving his affection is the person closest to the coffee maker. I think he believes that if he bats his big brown eyes, gives a huge toothy grin, and butters up his target with shouts of sweetness from across the room, he may be rewarded with a cup of coffee.

Last week, Eldest hacked my Facebook. She took my phone when I was distracted, and updated my status to read, “Eldest is my favorite!” She then ceaselessly giggled when she told me what she had done. I didn’t say anything; I just plotted my next move. That post, by the way, received two likes and a number of comments about how I must have been hacked.

Any good parenting book will tell you not to play favorites with your children. But a few years ago I asked Littlest to put a load of laundry into the washing machine. She was deeply offended since she thought it was one of her sister’s turns to do that chore. She pleaded, “But daddy, why me?” I replied, “Because you are my favorite.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she rolled her eyes, “I know, but...”

I think I am still waiting for that load of laundry to be put into the washer.

This choosing of the best has been a tradition in our house since that time, with Eldest and Littlest each arguing between themselves as to who is really my favorite. Meanwhile, Middlest stays out of the fray, and when I tell her that she is my favorite, she replies with a stately and quietly dignified, “I know.” This is out of character for Middlest, who has made it a point to attack every moment of the day with enormous gusto, scathing sarcasm, and the wittiest of comments, such as, “What?! It’s 5 o’clock already?! God Save the Queen!”

So, on Friday, Eldest posted that she was my favorite when she hacked my Facebook. On Saturday, I posted, “Middlest is my favorite.” She remained silent, but her sisters argued back and forth in the comments that they were actually my favorite.

On Saturday, I posted “Littlest is my favorite.” By this point social media apparently had grown bored with my inability to pick one favorite and stick with it; that post only had two likes and no discussion. Littlest would say that there were no comments because it was the truth.

On Sunday I posted that my account had been hacked, and that “Beloved  is truly my favorite.” Now that post was greeted with great mayhem, with 14 likes and 5 comments.

Unlike my friend from work, I would never resort to underhanded complimenting in order to get something I wanted. I simply have a hard time making up my mind who is really my favorite.

Although, Littlest has been getting up early and making me coffee this week.

And the other day, Middlest had me laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Oh, and Eldest has been playing the piano lately.

And Beloved took me out to breakfast.

Crud, I cant make up my mind.

Congratulations James Tate, you are going to the Prom.

Congratulations are in order for James Tate. His school administration has decided he can attend the prom. You have probably heard the story already, but if not you can find it here. (http://www.foxnews.com/us/2011/05/11/conn-teen-posted-prom-invite-barred-dance/?test=latestnews ). Since this article, his school has relented and is allowing him to attend the Prom.

But, that isn’t why congratulations are in order for Mr. Tate. Congratulations are in order because he stood up to bureaucracy and celebrated distinctiveness. Schools are temples of bureaucracy. Young people herded down corridors, into pens, where they sit for a predetermined number of minutes as they are force fed facts and knowledge. After the proscribed number of minutes, a bell rings and instruction is over, regardless of whether learning is done, or even if it had begun. The students are being prepared for the great world beyond the school, the world of standardized tests. 

In the midst of all this standardization, Mr. Tate did the worst thing imaginable. He was creative. He made his date for the prom feel special and unique. He did not text her, he did not twit her, he did not facebook her, he (along with three friends) posted on the school’s wall, literally, with large cardboard letters. “SONALI RODRIGUES WILL YOU GO TO THE PROM WITH ME? HMU –TATE”

Immediately the bureaucrats were stunned and threatened. A subject student had escaped and was now going ‘individual’.  Individuality threatens the very precise control over large crowds of subjects students and bureaucrats sense of power. Please do not get the impression that bureaucracy is all bad, I am sure there are some positive and productive aspects of bureaucracy. I would take the space to list them here, but I cannot think of any.

The school suspended Mr. Tate for his infraction of the individuality policy. The statement made to the public indicated that Mr. Tate had trespassed on school property and his actions were dangerous and “gosh durn, somebuddy cudda gotten hurted.”

It is quite apparent that not one bureaucrat from that school has bothered to observe the student parking lot at dismissal time. Hypnotized hoards of subjects students exit the building, their mind numbed with thoughts of Pythagoras, the Marshall Plan, and visions of participles dangling in their heads. They get into their vehicles and the rush of freedom fills their blood. The roar of engines coming to life fills the air and it is a drag race to the exit. It is my observation that the male students engage in this escape behavior too.

Therefore, despite bureaucratic pressure to maintain mediocrity, inhibit individuality, and support the status quo, the school has relented and allowed James Tate to attend the prom.  Therefore, we congratulate Mr. Tate, not because he can go to the prom, but because he stood up for creativity, he was not afraid to step outside the box celebrate his date’s individuality. He decided Ms. Rodrigues was special and deserved to be asked to the prom in a memorable way. The moment he and his friends acted on his plan he won. 

Congratulations Mr. Tate.