Ah... Child 2.
Does Senioritis translate? The strange illness that besets students towards the end of their studies - lack of motivation, general malaise, marked antipathy to the school/teachers/administration/school system/evil parents who have put them in this situation? Maybe it's an Americanism but I'm going to bet that the disease is universal.
Child 2 had it last year.
Had it bad.
Had it so bad its fingernails itched with it, it's skin crawled at the very thought of studying.
Which, what with the kinda, sorta need to... I don't know... TURN THINGS IN... produced a bit of angst. In fact, the last semester of Child 2's high school career was, erm, tense.
I would be the lowest sort of hypocrite if I didn't say at once that I behaved eggzackly the same way my senior year, flitting through classes, ignoring little things like attendance and assignments and the simple need to PASS in order to graduate. There was, however, one rather startling difference.
Child 2, apparently for a number of months, had been giving serious thought and consideration to What Happens Next. I was more of the 'neener-neener, I can't hear you' school of thought and blithely ignored little things like college admissions or employment.
Not Child.
University, it reasoned, was something it was not yet ready for. Employment with only a high-school diploma and a set of skills heavy on the rhetorical side but light on the practical, was going to be an issue. Child knew it was facing a year or two of minimum wage jobs that were, however necessary, likely to be menial and unfufilling.
But, and here's the bit that really amazes me, Child didn't stop there, the obvious stopping place which would have resulted in three weeks of sulking and then a scramble to land a fry cook spot at the Greasy Pit down the road. It wanted to do something to earn its way into university, to actually learn some reasonable skills and get some valuable experience AND it wanted a job that would, in its own words, be something important, something meaningful.
Does anyone see where this is going? Because I didn't. It's obvious now, but at the time, and knowing Child 2? Nope, totally blindsided me.
It went to talk to the military recruiters.
Which meant it had to take the basic entrance exam, the one everyone has to take, the one that neatly sorts people into job categories. Now, this isn't the most difficult test in the world, but it does include two sections that Child is, sadly, not terribly qualified to take: automotivey stuff and practical engineery type stuff. The rest is easy peasy maths and reading comp and things. And Child? The Child who wasn't, apparently, up to the difficult task of writing up a two paragraph response to a short story?
Child got a perfect score. Didn't miss a thing - not even the bits that asked about throttles and spark plugs and widgets and things. I have no idea how it pulled it off.
So the recruiters's eyes got all misty and shiny and I forcibly pulled Child into each and every office (talk to them ALL and see who has the best offer) and it was agreed that basically the military would be delighted to have Child doing any job - any job at all that it wanted.
What it wanted was to learn a language and go through the rather rigorous school in Monterey. Which meant another exam, far more difficult, and another extremely impressive result, and while I'm sort of flapping my hands aimlessly and bleating, 'but you don't HAVE to do anything if you don't want to...' Child is calmly and steadily qualifying itself to do exactly what it wants.
Which is why, exactly one week before Child 1 left for its road trip, we all went downtown to the same building where I said goodbye to Kirk over 20 years before and Child, a little pale but confident and determined, stood in a little room and took an oath. And then it flew away.
By choice, right now in Texas, it's facing some of the things it has struggled with terribly in the last year: it will be doing new things under pressure, strangers will be scrutenizing its every move, it will have no privacy, no quiet time, no escape. Before it left I pushed it to run every day, to do push ups and sit ups and anything else I could think of that might arm it just a little bit for what is to come, both of us worrying far more about all the things it couldn't prepare itself for.
It's called twice now, sounding miles and miles away. The run is doing okay, it says, the push ups and sit ups coming easily now. It boasted a bit about being toned and in shape, joked that the only muscles out of use would be for smiling. The words tumbled out though, about how it had been made dorm chief and was responsible for a gaggle of other recruits, about how it worried about them, fussed over them, folded their socks and gave them pep talks. It spoke about how it had learned that if you hate failure you have to figure out how to do things right. It sounded confident, older... different.
It's strange to have this Child, this Child who put off growing up for so very long, suddenly running so far ahead of me. It's strange to know that there are things now, and will always be, that I can't share anymore, that I will have to be an outsider to.
It's strange, but it's wonderful too.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Child 1
[Yes, the order imposed by the list in the previous post is not only going to be violated, it's going to be thrown on the floor and stomped on]
Some time during the last academic year I noticed, as I wandered blithely through the University campus, colorful posters enticing innocent young to attend a meeting. Normally I'm extremely dubious about these as they are usually of the, "come and see just how much money we're going to charge you to have what we're pleased to call a 'life experience!'" This one, though, had that magic word, "employment" on it. So I stole one of the posters and shoved it under Child 1's bleary eyes (for my mother: I stole one of thousands, there were at least five more in eye sight. Also it was replaced by the end of the day by some poster minion. Technically it's still theft but my blackened soul doesn't even twinge a little bit).
Child 1 brightened a bit at the thought of gainful employment that meant a) missing school and b) spending months in a state that actually boasts a real genuine beach*. It managed to get itself to the informational meeting AND fill out the online application and then we both assumed that it wouldn't hear for months and months if ever and that was that. You know, one of those things that would be very nice if it happened but is so terribly unlikely you don't want to dwell on it**.
Only it was contacted within a couple of weeks, and asked to have a telephone interview. And then it was, to our great surprise, offered a job - a job at the better of the two facilities. We sort of stood around all gobsmacked for a while until one of us (me) realized the other of us (Child) had better do a few things about insuring its scholarship wasn't roughly pulled out from under it, lining up plane tickets, figuring out logistics and the like.
Of course, the actual start date was months and months away. So far away that it was, once again, in the realm of the mythical.
Right up until about last month when I realized my baybee, my first-born, my own Child what I reared myself by hand, was LEAVING. As in going away for months and months and, here's the tricky bit, kinda sorta not coming back. Because we both agreed that this was a good moment to sort of make that first, desperate, wing-flapping leap out of the nest, and that when it finished its internship it would be finding a house/apartment and living on its own.
So Child, a few weeks ago, made its last sugary coffee beverage, stuffed half its bedroom into two suitcases and flung itself into a friend's car for a month-long road trip before facing the grim world of full employment and self-sufficiency.
It will be back for three days*** and then it boards a plane and realio-trulio heads out on its own.
It didn't even have the common decency to sniffle as it went out the door.
*Our town does claim a "beach" but as it is a) man made, b) less than 100 yards long [well, any one bit of it] and c) freshwater and full of stocked, farm-reared fish I refuse to even consider it. However, I do think it's funny that one may purchase postcards showing a tan young person surfing a ginormous wave with, "greetings from [local] beach!" in large, unconvincing lettering across the front.
**mythical events such as, say, a labor department actually doing what it is supposed to do...
*** During which time it is meant to take a hike with a friend, complete the "cleaning" it supposedly did of its room (into which its sibling moved the very evening it departed), visit all of its dear friends and relations and re-pack its belongings for the flight out.
NB - this internship may just require that Child 1 greet all and sundry with a sunny smile and the injunction to, "Have a Magical Day!" If this were Child 2 we're all agreed that there would be blood and mayhem within three days. However, Child 1 will not only willingly do this, it will MEAN IT.
Some time during the last academic year I noticed, as I wandered blithely through the University campus, colorful posters enticing innocent young to attend a meeting. Normally I'm extremely dubious about these as they are usually of the, "come and see just how much money we're going to charge you to have what we're pleased to call a 'life experience!'" This one, though, had that magic word, "employment" on it. So I stole one of the posters and shoved it under Child 1's bleary eyes (for my mother: I stole one of thousands, there were at least five more in eye sight. Also it was replaced by the end of the day by some poster minion. Technically it's still theft but my blackened soul doesn't even twinge a little bit).
Child 1 brightened a bit at the thought of gainful employment that meant a) missing school and b) spending months in a state that actually boasts a real genuine beach*. It managed to get itself to the informational meeting AND fill out the online application and then we both assumed that it wouldn't hear for months and months if ever and that was that. You know, one of those things that would be very nice if it happened but is so terribly unlikely you don't want to dwell on it**.
Only it was contacted within a couple of weeks, and asked to have a telephone interview. And then it was, to our great surprise, offered a job - a job at the better of the two facilities. We sort of stood around all gobsmacked for a while until one of us (me) realized the other of us (Child) had better do a few things about insuring its scholarship wasn't roughly pulled out from under it, lining up plane tickets, figuring out logistics and the like.
Of course, the actual start date was months and months away. So far away that it was, once again, in the realm of the mythical.
Right up until about last month when I realized my baybee, my first-born, my own Child what I reared myself by hand, was LEAVING. As in going away for months and months and, here's the tricky bit, kinda sorta not coming back. Because we both agreed that this was a good moment to sort of make that first, desperate, wing-flapping leap out of the nest, and that when it finished its internship it would be finding a house/apartment and living on its own.
So Child, a few weeks ago, made its last sugary coffee beverage, stuffed half its bedroom into two suitcases and flung itself into a friend's car for a month-long road trip before facing the grim world of full employment and self-sufficiency.
It will be back for three days*** and then it boards a plane and realio-trulio heads out on its own.
It didn't even have the common decency to sniffle as it went out the door.
*Our town does claim a "beach" but as it is a) man made, b) less than 100 yards long [well, any one bit of it] and c) freshwater and full of stocked, farm-reared fish I refuse to even consider it. However, I do think it's funny that one may purchase postcards showing a tan young person surfing a ginormous wave with, "greetings from [local] beach!" in large, unconvincing lettering across the front.
**mythical events such as, say, a labor department actually doing what it is supposed to do...
*** During which time it is meant to take a hike with a friend, complete the "cleaning" it supposedly did of its room (into which its sibling moved the very evening it departed), visit all of its dear friends and relations and re-pack its belongings for the flight out.
NB - this internship may just require that Child 1 greet all and sundry with a sunny smile and the injunction to, "Have a Magical Day!" If this were Child 2 we're all agreed that there would be blood and mayhem within three days. However, Child 1 will not only willingly do this, it will MEAN IT.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Back
Sorry! I'll respond to comments and emails in a bit but I wanted to break the silence before it got so thick I couldn't manage it.
Things I would have posted about if I didn't need to write that last post but now I can post about once I start posting again (which I have. Started I mean):
See, life has gone on rather a lot, it's just that this darn claim and the labor department and the legal implications and all of that gafuffle has rather drowned it out - at least bloggily speaking.
However, I'm back now, and primed with excellent blog fodder (see above).
I know you're all delighted.
Things I would have posted about if I didn't need to write that last post but now I can post about once I start posting again (which I have. Started I mean):
- Child 2!
- Child 1! (slightly less exclamation marky than Child 2, but still pretty markish)
- Holidays, the taking thereof
- Child 3, the interesting logic thereof
- The Falafel King (no, really)
- How Movies in Theatres Are Evil and (related) How My Darling Children Mock Me
- (added) Totally Genuine Text Exchange, or: Why My Family Gets Odd Looks in Public
See, life has gone on rather a lot, it's just that this darn claim and the labor department and the legal implications and all of that gafuffle has rather drowned it out - at least bloggily speaking.
However, I'm back now, and primed with excellent blog fodder (see above).
I know you're all delighted.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Fallout
Two weeks.
I know.
But I've been a bit... taken aback at how difficult it has been to write all this.
And apparently two weeks is what it takes to face up to the last post.
Not that it's a big one, it's just really the point of the whole thing.
The point is, about a year ago I heard from an expert, a lawyer who knows how to deal with Labor department claims and he thought he could help me.
A year ago we once again got everything together, this time with some amazing expertise that managed to get things moving and, a year ago we talked tentatively about not hoping that something would come of it.
Because hoping is the last thing we wanted to do.
Still, it was hard not to hope when the claim sluggishly moved ahead, when it cleared the vital hurdle of the local authority (the hurdle that the lawyer felt was the really important one). It was hard not to hope, at least a little.
Only everything stalled again, and the national people insisted we resubmit all the paperwork that had already been handed in. And then they asked for a copy of the original file I had faxed in so many years ago - more and more hoops that had to be cleared, hoops the lawyers hadn't ever seen asked for before, and copies of letters in legalese that I couldn't begin to understand.
But that's not why I started this. It's not why I have put together a timeline and a press kit and everything else I can think of. It's not why, after all this time, I'm going to try to get some media attention on this thing.
It's because I found out that I'm not the only one - that this ridiculous run-around, this refusal by the government to fulfill their own obligations and follow their own laws, is happening with all sorts of other people - people who might not be lucky enough to have an expert legal team helping out; people who might not have even the small voice I have.
And I have to do it for them.
I know.
But I've been a bit... taken aback at how difficult it has been to write all this.
And apparently two weeks is what it takes to face up to the last post.
Not that it's a big one, it's just really the point of the whole thing.
The point is, about a year ago I heard from an expert, a lawyer who knows how to deal with Labor department claims and he thought he could help me.
A year ago we once again got everything together, this time with some amazing expertise that managed to get things moving and, a year ago we talked tentatively about not hoping that something would come of it.
Because hoping is the last thing we wanted to do.
Still, it was hard not to hope when the claim sluggishly moved ahead, when it cleared the vital hurdle of the local authority (the hurdle that the lawyer felt was the really important one). It was hard not to hope, at least a little.
Only everything stalled again, and the national people insisted we resubmit all the paperwork that had already been handed in. And then they asked for a copy of the original file I had faxed in so many years ago - more and more hoops that had to be cleared, hoops the lawyers hadn't ever seen asked for before, and copies of letters in legalese that I couldn't begin to understand.
But that's not why I started this. It's not why I have put together a timeline and a press kit and everything else I can think of. It's not why, after all this time, I'm going to try to get some media attention on this thing.
It's because I found out that I'm not the only one - that this ridiculous run-around, this refusal by the government to fulfill their own obligations and follow their own laws, is happening with all sorts of other people - people who might not be lucky enough to have an expert legal team helping out; people who might not have even the small voice I have.
And I have to do it for them.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Reality
So.
If you've managed to plow through things as they possibly should be, and taken a glimpse of things as they were, let's finish the job, shall we? Again, sorry for the length, but I think this is important.
Kirk went missing on October 9th, 2003. I've said that so many times in so many ways its acquired a strange life of its own. For a very long time it was defiance, and denial as I tried to shield Kirk and the children from what was happening; eventually there was a battered sort of resignation while I tried to find a way to tell the story without... well... disturbing anyone. But that's where it starts.
Kirk was the breadwinner of the family. He used to laugh and say that he would win the bread if I would win the gold. It was a private joke we had although I used to feel a bit guilty that I played around with things, taking private contracts as they appealed to me so I could stay home with the kids and do what sounded fun or caught my interest. I could have done a lot more; I had the skills to do it, but there were soccer games to go to and lunches to pack and Kirk was, at least in California, earning a pretty good living.
When he joined Ultra Services he asked for a salary that would equal what he brought home from his civilian job. We knew that if things went well there could be bonuses far above that, but for his base salary he didn't ask for anything more than what he was already making. It was important somehow, to both of us, maybe because of the brush that all contractors seem to be painted with.
When he went missing his immediate boss, his friend C, did his best and managed to get his salary paid to me for two months. That two months helped support my family for the next two years (the only work I found -six months after Kirk disappeared- was part time).
It was in March when my sister, a lawyer, told me about a strange little law she had discovered. It sounded a long shot to me - Kirk had not yet signed a contract with the company although he had clearly acted on their behalf (with military contracts signed and paid); worse, the company had not carried the required insurance since apparently they hadn't known of the requirement, but, about six month after Kirk vanished, I filed a claim with the labor department, and tried not to hope that something would come of it.
It's hard to describe how debilitating it is: money. I hate it. I was raised to hate it really, which makes it even more difficult. There aren't words, aren't even cliches which I've explored extensively in the last several years, to talk about what happened. But worse, in the 3 a.m.'s, the horrible weakest moments when I didn't even have logic and reason to help cover up the fear, the bleak knowledge of raising three children alone. So there was a dreadful tug of war between wanting to believe that the claim would come through and a depressive belief that nothing positive would ever happen again. And, ridiculously, I had the ingrained idea that even hoping for a settlement was somehow putting a price tag on Kirk's life.
Of course I never even had the chance to get to that point. It was months and months before I got the letter in the mail, the one telling me that as Kirk was missing, and as the investigation was on-going, the Labor Department could sadly not rule one way or the other. By that time it wasn't even a disappointment.
Months and months and months later there was a meeting with the CID and a 'final' answer (sorry, the quotation marks aren't intended to be ironic, honestly). Within a week or so I sent a copy of the certificate I was given: Presumption of Death of A Citizen Abroad to the Labor Department. At least, I thought, I'd know one way or another.
And nothing happened.
Really nothing, not a letter, not an acknowledgment that the claim now had changed: nothing.
And I thought that was it. Because I was raised to think that it was wrong to press things when it came to money.
But Susie Dow wrote an article. And someone who makes it his business to see that the government does what its own laws says it should do took an interest, and... well, it seemed that things were going to actually progress.
Hands up: who can guess what happens next?
Sorry, no prize for the winner.
If you've managed to plow through things as they possibly should be, and taken a glimpse of things as they were, let's finish the job, shall we? Again, sorry for the length, but I think this is important.
Kirk went missing on October 9th, 2003. I've said that so many times in so many ways its acquired a strange life of its own. For a very long time it was defiance, and denial as I tried to shield Kirk and the children from what was happening; eventually there was a battered sort of resignation while I tried to find a way to tell the story without... well... disturbing anyone. But that's where it starts.
Kirk was the breadwinner of the family. He used to laugh and say that he would win the bread if I would win the gold. It was a private joke we had although I used to feel a bit guilty that I played around with things, taking private contracts as they appealed to me so I could stay home with the kids and do what sounded fun or caught my interest. I could have done a lot more; I had the skills to do it, but there were soccer games to go to and lunches to pack and Kirk was, at least in California, earning a pretty good living.
When he joined Ultra Services he asked for a salary that would equal what he brought home from his civilian job. We knew that if things went well there could be bonuses far above that, but for his base salary he didn't ask for anything more than what he was already making. It was important somehow, to both of us, maybe because of the brush that all contractors seem to be painted with.
When he went missing his immediate boss, his friend C, did his best and managed to get his salary paid to me for two months. That two months helped support my family for the next two years (the only work I found -six months after Kirk disappeared- was part time).
It was in March when my sister, a lawyer, told me about a strange little law she had discovered. It sounded a long shot to me - Kirk had not yet signed a contract with the company although he had clearly acted on their behalf (with military contracts signed and paid); worse, the company had not carried the required insurance since apparently they hadn't known of the requirement, but, about six month after Kirk vanished, I filed a claim with the labor department, and tried not to hope that something would come of it.
It's hard to describe how debilitating it is: money. I hate it. I was raised to hate it really, which makes it even more difficult. There aren't words, aren't even cliches which I've explored extensively in the last several years, to talk about what happened. But worse, in the 3 a.m.'s, the horrible weakest moments when I didn't even have logic and reason to help cover up the fear, the bleak knowledge of raising three children alone. So there was a dreadful tug of war between wanting to believe that the claim would come through and a depressive belief that nothing positive would ever happen again. And, ridiculously, I had the ingrained idea that even hoping for a settlement was somehow putting a price tag on Kirk's life.
Of course I never even had the chance to get to that point. It was months and months before I got the letter in the mail, the one telling me that as Kirk was missing, and as the investigation was on-going, the Labor Department could sadly not rule one way or the other. By that time it wasn't even a disappointment.
Months and months and months later there was a meeting with the CID and a 'final' answer (sorry, the quotation marks aren't intended to be ironic, honestly). Within a week or so I sent a copy of the certificate I was given: Presumption of Death of A Citizen Abroad to the Labor Department. At least, I thought, I'd know one way or another.
And nothing happened.
Really nothing, not a letter, not an acknowledgment that the claim now had changed: nothing.
And I thought that was it. Because I was raised to think that it was wrong to press things when it came to money.
But Susie Dow wrote an article. And someone who makes it his business to see that the government does what its own laws says it should do took an interest, and... well, it seemed that things were going to actually progress.
Hands up: who can guess what happens next?
Sorry, no prize for the winner.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Re-charted
So, to adjust the chart a bit for the real world:
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Charted
Right, sorry about the lag there. So to recap, here's a little visual of the ideal claim process:
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Ideal
Right.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Reluctant
I didn't want to write this post.
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Pun
I spent Memorial day weekend watching masochists. Someone noticed that there were two towns about fifty miles apart with a rather large mountain between them - a rather large mountain that, at the topish bit, was nearly 11,000 feet higher than the ocean. And that someone also noticed that a very clever person had built a) a road and b) a train-track between the towns and said to itself, gosh! Wouldn't it be absolutely great fun to ride a road bike from one town to the other and at the same time try to do it faster than the train can? Apparently around 2500 people agree with this. I, however, drove and thus beat the whole lot of them AND the train. Still, it was a very lovely drive and there were many opportunities at either end to purchase t-shirts and wooden train whistles.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Finally
It's finals week which means:
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Sprung
It was Spring, at least I think it was - just a week ago or something. And then something went snap (or maybe Sproing!) and it's summer and the mercury is creeping past 90 already.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Unecessary
1 man-made duck pond, verdantly green with algae
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Comfortable
My memories of moving out here, within a month of Kirk's disappearance, are split. I have the calm, reasonable moment to moment memories, the ones where I could line up the next hour and walk through it carefully, eyes on what had to be done, looking only as far as the thing directly in front of me. Eventually that stretched to a day at a time, still with a stolid interior dialogue that recited a litany of what would happen next. It kept the rest of it firmly at bay, the roiling, desperate misery that would have swallowed everything otherwise.
I have no memory of that - or rather I have, but I still can't visit it. There isn't anything to look at anyway, nothing like ordinary memories you can shake out like last year's summer clothes and look at the cut and the color and catch a whiff of sun screen and camp fires. Instead I acknowledge it's there, a sort of respectful nod to it, neatly boxed up: it's there, it's not the memory of Kirk himself, it's the memory of that pain and it's a part of things, that's enough.
Still those first months, the first year, was split like that, the practical, divided precisely into ordered pieces of time: school schedules, soccer games, meals that all subdivided and labeled the day, and under it the constant, howling, almost featureless awareness.
Eventually perspective shifted somehow and the daily things became easier to focus on, the rest of it more compressible. It didn't threaten to swamp me any more and I only felt it flick on the raw a few times a day.
What I hadn't realized was that through the years that became, rather than a method of coping with the unbearable, a way of life. I still start each morning focusing firmly on a list of what has to be done: what will I wear, what needs packing or signing, meetings and deadlines, errands and reminders. I have an inner voice that chimes in whenever there's a lull with, "right, there's still that data to get sorted and analyzed and what about finally deciding on a palette for that project?" It's just that there isn't, really, anything to cover any more.
I still miss Kirk - I miss him daily, but, somehow in the last six months, without my really noticing when, it's become, yes sad still, but acceptable. Perhaps I've finally grown myself enough to fit it.
And, for various reasons that may or may not come up here on the blog, I found myself being still for the first time in ages, letting the next moment simply arrive.
I found myself, to my great surprise, comfortable.
I have no memory of that - or rather I have, but I still can't visit it. There isn't anything to look at anyway, nothing like ordinary memories you can shake out like last year's summer clothes and look at the cut and the color and catch a whiff of sun screen and camp fires. Instead I acknowledge it's there, a sort of respectful nod to it, neatly boxed up: it's there, it's not the memory of Kirk himself, it's the memory of that pain and it's a part of things, that's enough.
Still those first months, the first year, was split like that, the practical, divided precisely into ordered pieces of time: school schedules, soccer games, meals that all subdivided and labeled the day, and under it the constant, howling, almost featureless awareness.
Eventually perspective shifted somehow and the daily things became easier to focus on, the rest of it more compressible. It didn't threaten to swamp me any more and I only felt it flick on the raw a few times a day.
What I hadn't realized was that through the years that became, rather than a method of coping with the unbearable, a way of life. I still start each morning focusing firmly on a list of what has to be done: what will I wear, what needs packing or signing, meetings and deadlines, errands and reminders. I have an inner voice that chimes in whenever there's a lull with, "right, there's still that data to get sorted and analyzed and what about finally deciding on a palette for that project?" It's just that there isn't, really, anything to cover any more.
I still miss Kirk - I miss him daily, but, somehow in the last six months, without my really noticing when, it's become, yes sad still, but acceptable. Perhaps I've finally grown myself enough to fit it.
And, for various reasons that may or may not come up here on the blog, I found myself being still for the first time in ages, letting the next moment simply arrive.
I found myself, to my great surprise, comfortable.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Helpful
Child 1 is studying for an anthropology test. I am being Helpful.
Child 1: Dating methods,
Me: [avoids talking about chat up lines and clubbing. Am very helpful]
Child 1: Radiometric
Me: That's where they check out their Pandora stations
Child 1: [natters on about something anthropologic]
Me: If it's mostly classic rock they're probably in their fifties.
Child 1: [natters rather more loudly]
Me: Hey! Child 3! I'm helping Child 1 with its studying!
Child 2 enters and proceeds to point out all the snerkable words there are in anthropology - surprising how many there are. Child 1 bravely soldiers on, substituting Homo Ergaster for Homo Erectus.
Child 1: ... [anthroisms] ... Oldewan ...
Me: [delighted] That sounds like a Jedi!
Child 1: ... occipital bun ...
Me: That's where they liked to pile their hair!
Child 1: [patient explanation of occipital bun. Which I ignore]
Child 1: Out of Africa... no interbreeding...
Me: I don't think that works. I think we would have laid everything that came across our path.
Child 1: [with enormous patience] I think I'm done being helped with now.
Child 1: Dating methods,
Me: [avoids talking about chat up lines and clubbing. Am very helpful]
Child 1: Radiometric
Me: That's where they check out their Pandora stations
Child 1: [natters on about something anthropologic]
Me: If it's mostly classic rock they're probably in their fifties.
Child 1: [natters rather more loudly]
Me: Hey! Child 3! I'm helping Child 1 with its studying!
Child 2 enters and proceeds to point out all the snerkable words there are in anthropology - surprising how many there are. Child 1 bravely soldiers on, substituting Homo Ergaster for Homo Erectus.
Child 1: ... [anthroisms] ... Oldewan ...
Me: [delighted] That sounds like a Jedi!
Child 1: ... occipital bun ...
Me: That's where they liked to pile their hair!
Child 1: [patient explanation of occipital bun. Which I ignore]
Child 1: Out of Africa... no interbreeding...
Me: I don't think that works. I think we would have laid everything that came across our path.
Child 1: [with enormous patience] I think I'm done being helped with now.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Holiday
Child 1 is scheduled to work all day tomorrow and, being a-religious AND rather an idiot I hadn't realized it's Easter Sunday until about two days ago. Quick talk with Child 1 to re-schedule traditional family activities to today plus even quicker run to the store to procure the necessary supplies and ka-bling, holiday saved!
So last night we had the Traditional Tossing of the Jelly Beans (all-time high score for getting beans down one child's shirt, but disappointing on the bounce-em-off-the-male-child's-head round. Still, Child 1 continued to make entertaining whooping noises and diving for cover so, all in all, a great success).
This morning we had to cancel our hike due to wind, rain and hail (and Child 3 even more disappointingly wasn't able to go on a training flight) but made up for things with an excellent omelet and rather a lot of giggling.
In the afternoon the Children were all shoved out the door and the Hiding of the Easter(ish) Candy was accomplished. This year I did break with tradition and actually write down the hiding spots - good thing too as the Children were only able to find about 1/4 without hints (apparently the ones taped to the inside frame of the kitchen cabinet and stashed deep inside the sheets of foil were particularly nasty).
While the Children replenished their mental stores with large amounts of chocolate and gummy bears I made some rather nice marinated lamb, potatoes and a salad (because nothings says Happy Fertility/Return of Spring celebration like eating the flesh of sweet cuddly animals, particularly if it's been well seasoned with cumin and allspice).
Amongst all of that we STILL managed to clean the refrigerator, vacuum pretty much anything that seemed even moderately floorish and get those surfaces that hadn't been thoroughly swept over in the candy hunt well and truly dusted.
Now, replete and beautifully virtuous, we're lolling around following Child 3's suggestion of having a Jackie Chan-fest (at this very moment the evil Eagle Claw school is trying to wipe out the Snake-something-or-other school. It's all very exciting).
Child 1 had a moment of brilliance and coined the perfect name for this faux-Easter holiday we've had all day.
Happy Feaster everyone.
So last night we had the Traditional Tossing of the Jelly Beans (all-time high score for getting beans down one child's shirt, but disappointing on the bounce-em-off-the-male-child's-head round. Still, Child 1 continued to make entertaining whooping noises and diving for cover so, all in all, a great success).
This morning we had to cancel our hike due to wind, rain and hail (and Child 3 even more disappointingly wasn't able to go on a training flight) but made up for things with an excellent omelet and rather a lot of giggling.
In the afternoon the Children were all shoved out the door and the Hiding of the Easter(ish) Candy was accomplished. This year I did break with tradition and actually write down the hiding spots - good thing too as the Children were only able to find about 1/4 without hints (apparently the ones taped to the inside frame of the kitchen cabinet and stashed deep inside the sheets of foil were particularly nasty).
While the Children replenished their mental stores with large amounts of chocolate and gummy bears I made some rather nice marinated lamb, potatoes and a salad (because nothings says Happy Fertility/Return of Spring celebration like eating the flesh of sweet cuddly animals, particularly if it's been well seasoned with cumin and allspice).
Amongst all of that we STILL managed to clean the refrigerator, vacuum pretty much anything that seemed even moderately floorish and get those surfaces that hadn't been thoroughly swept over in the candy hunt well and truly dusted.
Now, replete and beautifully virtuous, we're lolling around following Child 3's suggestion of having a Jackie Chan-fest (at this very moment the evil Eagle Claw school is trying to wipe out the Snake-something-or-other school. It's all very exciting).
Child 1 had a moment of brilliance and coined the perfect name for this faux-Easter holiday we've had all day.
Happy Feaster everyone.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Friday
Early morning conversation with Child 1 produced:
The invention of the Chastity Quarter (you had to be there)
Declaration of the need, at least locally for "What Not to Wear" for transvestites (no really, you had to be there)
Concise and fascinating discussion of the cultural revolution among modern humans 30,000 years ago and how the increase in trade would have produced a need for changed/increased altruistic behaviors.
Excellent start to Friday
Well, until I glanced down and realized I'd been sitting at my desk for an hour with my fly down.
Oh well.
The invention of the Chastity Quarter (you had to be there)
Declaration of the need, at least locally for "What Not to Wear" for transvestites (no really, you had to be there)
Concise and fascinating discussion of the cultural revolution among modern humans 30,000 years ago and how the increase in trade would have produced a need for changed/increased altruistic behaviors.
Excellent start to Friday
Well, until I glanced down and realized I'd been sitting at my desk for an hour with my fly down.
Oh well.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Addendum
In relation to the previous post - having spent a few minutes walking the aisles of a well known store I would like to request the following:
Dear little-girls's-clothing-manufacturers:
1) "Little" girl also implies young. As in not 20. Or 30. Seriously.
2) Please cease instantly producing a) anything sporting the words 'foxy,' 'sexy,' or 'hot.' I would personally prefer to add 'princess' but that's just me; b) shorts or trousers with ANYTHING written across the bum - anything at all; c) belly shirts, micro-minis and short shorts for the under 18 group. I'm a mother so honestly I'd like to make that ban universal but having worn all three in my rash and splenitive youth, the God who Smiteth Hypocrites would probably wallop me.
3) Bratz. No. Not ever, not at all, not remotely - NO.
4) While I recognize that Disney Poplette's sell items, the number of tweenlings baring their teeth at me from t-shirts etc is giving me nightmares of being gnawed to death by miniature plastic people who, strangely, keep breaking out the jazz hands. You just might be held responsible for the therapy bill.
5) Please explore the amazing range of colors beyond your current palette of 'light pink,' 'mid-pink' and 'dark pink.' In particular consider the vibrant possibilities past the pastel line. Blue, green, it's a whole world of Barbie-free opportunity.
Yours sincerely etc.
Dear little-girls's-clothing-manufacturers:
1) "Little" girl also implies young. As in not 20. Or 30. Seriously.
2) Please cease instantly producing a) anything sporting the words 'foxy,' 'sexy,' or 'hot.' I would personally prefer to add 'princess' but that's just me; b) shorts or trousers with ANYTHING written across the bum - anything at all; c) belly shirts, micro-minis and short shorts for the under 18 group. I'm a mother so honestly I'd like to make that ban universal but having worn all three in my rash and splenitive youth, the God who Smiteth Hypocrites would probably wallop me.
3) Bratz. No. Not ever, not at all, not remotely - NO.
4) While I recognize that Disney Poplette's sell items, the number of tweenlings baring their teeth at me from t-shirts etc is giving me nightmares of being gnawed to death by miniature plastic people who, strangely, keep breaking out the jazz hands. You just might be held responsible for the therapy bill.
5) Please explore the amazing range of colors beyond your current palette of 'light pink,' 'mid-pink' and 'dark pink.' In particular consider the vibrant possibilities past the pastel line. Blue, green, it's a whole world of Barbie-free opportunity.
Yours sincerely etc.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Suggestions
Dear Women's Clothing Manufacturers:
In the current economic crisis I'm sure you're aware that it's your responsibility to encourage customers to return to the market-place and spend their money, increasing consumer confidence and hopefully speeding the recovery we all hope for. Isn't it nice when patriotic duty and innate greed coincide so beautifully? As a concerned citizen and an (occasional) shopper I feel it's important that I share the following suggestions with you. I hope you receive them in the spirit in which they were given.
1. I am not a piece of furniture. Please stop trying to upholster me.
2. Nor am I a toddler. I require neither extreme ruffles nor enormous bows.
3. "Fit" is an important word. I suggest it does not imply either bulging flesh or billowing, tent-like fabric. Perhaps a happy medium?
4. "Waist-band," another interesting word, actually gives a subtle hint as to its meaning. I have no desire to hear the come-on line tried on a friend of a Child's, "you have the nicest plumber's crack I've ever seen!" Really, an inch or two, it's all I'm asking.
5. "Classic." Please investigate the implications in fashion. I think you'll find that it does not refer to the more extreme and less salubrious trends of the 80's.
6. Bold color, bold pattern or bold cut - choose one. At a pinch, choose two, but only very, very carefully.
7. Leggings are vile. They will always be vile. Even on the twiggiest of pop-tarts or starlets they are STILL VILE. Just stop.
8. Reworking your sizing system so what was once a six is now a four does not, actually, make me believe I'm a size smaller than I used to be. Nor does it flatter me into thinking I have to buy, for example, a lime-green pair of cotton pedal-pushers patterned all over with yellow smiley-faces simply because they say "4" on the label and they fit.
9. There are out there women who are a) not 18, b) not interested in the fashion "designs" of Lohan, Hilton, Simpson et al and c) more than willing to pay for clothing that fits and is flattering. Look into it. Could be the next big market for you.
Most sincerely,
etc.
In the current economic crisis I'm sure you're aware that it's your responsibility to encourage customers to return to the market-place and spend their money, increasing consumer confidence and hopefully speeding the recovery we all hope for. Isn't it nice when patriotic duty and innate greed coincide so beautifully? As a concerned citizen and an (occasional) shopper I feel it's important that I share the following suggestions with you. I hope you receive them in the spirit in which they were given.
1. I am not a piece of furniture. Please stop trying to upholster me.
2. Nor am I a toddler. I require neither extreme ruffles nor enormous bows.
3. "Fit" is an important word. I suggest it does not imply either bulging flesh or billowing, tent-like fabric. Perhaps a happy medium?
4. "Waist-band," another interesting word, actually gives a subtle hint as to its meaning. I have no desire to hear the come-on line tried on a friend of a Child's, "you have the nicest plumber's crack I've ever seen!" Really, an inch or two, it's all I'm asking.
5. "Classic." Please investigate the implications in fashion. I think you'll find that it does not refer to the more extreme and less salubrious trends of the 80's.
6. Bold color, bold pattern or bold cut - choose one. At a pinch, choose two, but only very, very carefully.
7. Leggings are vile. They will always be vile. Even on the twiggiest of pop-tarts or starlets they are STILL VILE. Just stop.
8. Reworking your sizing system so what was once a six is now a four does not, actually, make me believe I'm a size smaller than I used to be. Nor does it flatter me into thinking I have to buy, for example, a lime-green pair of cotton pedal-pushers patterned all over with yellow smiley-faces simply because they say "4" on the label and they fit.
9. There are out there women who are a) not 18, b) not interested in the fashion "designs" of Lohan, Hilton, Simpson et al and c) more than willing to pay for clothing that fits and is flattering. Look into it. Could be the next big market for you.
Most sincerely,
etc.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Abandoned
We welcomed the Superior Aunt and its Superior Offspring with a cold front that dropped the temperature down about 25 degrees. The nice thing about living here is that you can get temperatures chilly enough to produce goose-flesh and yet still get sunburnt if you're rash enough to wander around outdoors for any length of time (we did. However I'm not an idiot and thus was well sun-creamed. Didn't protect against the sun-induced exhaustion though!).
So, we admired a large selection of aquatic things (once spending several minutes staring at a rusting shrimp boat in a disturbingly green "pond" and trying to see something, anything larger than a minnow), including petting some rays and almost-but-not-quite petting a very small, very wary shark. We then wandered around some gardeny type things and correctly identified: roses, cacti of various types, grape vines, several sheep, a cow and two very large horses. Then we headed home and collapsed for the rest of the evening (well, the adults did. The broods were removed to a distant location where their exuberance wouldn't spill over onto those collapsing).
Also, chile rellenos were successfully located and consumed (so I hear. Darn work) and sopapillas filled with honey so as to ensure the greatest possible spread of stickiness.
However yesterday the Superior Aunt and Children and one grandparent folded themselves into the rental car and took off south with the intention of seeing: a) some observatory thing of some sort b) White Sands [where there is Natural Beauty as well as a missile range] c) Carlsbad Caverns and d) Roswell UFO museum. I argued passionately for them to stay at The Little A'le'Inn but was ignored. If they survive all of that they will, in theory, be back tonight, possibly hungry.
I think I'll spend the day trying to figure out how best to add green chile to Coq au Vin.
So, we admired a large selection of aquatic things (once spending several minutes staring at a rusting shrimp boat in a disturbingly green "pond" and trying to see something, anything larger than a minnow), including petting some rays and almost-but-not-quite petting a very small, very wary shark. We then wandered around some gardeny type things and correctly identified: roses, cacti of various types, grape vines, several sheep, a cow and two very large horses. Then we headed home and collapsed for the rest of the evening (well, the adults did. The broods were removed to a distant location where their exuberance wouldn't spill over onto those collapsing).
Also, chile rellenos were successfully located and consumed (so I hear. Darn work) and sopapillas filled with honey so as to ensure the greatest possible spread of stickiness.
However yesterday the Superior Aunt and Children and one grandparent folded themselves into the rental car and took off south with the intention of seeing: a) some observatory thing of some sort b) White Sands [where there is Natural Beauty as well as a missile range] c) Carlsbad Caverns and d) Roswell UFO museum. I argued passionately for them to stay at The Little A'le'Inn but was ignored. If they survive all of that they will, in theory, be back tonight, possibly hungry.
I think I'll spend the day trying to figure out how best to add green chile to Coq au Vin.
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