I had a disturbing incident in Wal-Mart the other day. No, I was not attacked, nor was the item I was looking for out of stock, nor did that crazy woman who works there lead me on a wild goose chase around the store, though she has done that in the past. I just saw something that set off my inner granny. *beats cane against floor*
Allow me to explain with some background information:
I have recently decided that I have been lazy this summer. True, I have only had a couple of weeks off, but I am already getting bored . . . and disgusted with my boredom. I have been reading and blogging regularly--which I am pleased with--and I have been working at the library a couple of days a week, but I feel like I need to do something slightly more constructive with my free time.
To that end, I have vowed to work more on my writing--more on that another day--and resume painting. I used to love to paint. There is just something so soothing about mixing paint, applying that paint with methodical brush strokes, and then seeing what becomes of it. My family has never really quite related to my writing--though, for the most part, they have supported it--but painting and visual art? Now that is something they understand. My grandmother is a talented ceramics artist and we have other artists scattered through out the family, the best being my father. Nicknamed Picasso in high school for militantly refusing to draw what he was assigned--he would draw everything but what he was told to--my dad actually won a full art scholarship for four years when he graduated high school, but he turned it down to join the 82nd Airborne (Yes, my dad jumped out of planes for four years. ) and then the navy. After that, other than some time he worked as a tattoo artist, my father's artwork has mostly been hilarious but decidedly politically incorrect cartoons he drew to amuse my brother and me. (You may have gathered that my father is a somewhat colorful individual. You would be correct.) I never inherited my father's amazing talent for art, but I did inherit his interest--and his ornery defiant streak. :P
It has been awhile--about two years, to be precise--since I last painted. I decided to start small by buying a couple of those paint by number things (Don't laugh! They are harder than they look!) just to get used to painting again before I started painting my own stuff. So I ended up in Wal-Mart last week, wandering around looking for the craft section. I assumed that the craft section would be near the toys, which was incorrect. (They were near the school supplies. Logical, no?)I didn't find paint sets in the toy section, but I did see something that morphed this twenty year old nerd looking for paint into a raving granny brandishing her cane like a weapon--Bratz dolls.
Have you seen these monstrosities? I had heard of them before, and even seen pictures on the commercials, but I had never seen one up close and personal. They look like hookers! Parents are buying their children dolls that look like prostitutes! I don't consider myself a prude, but that just really bothers me. Why would you buy your kid a doll that looks like a streetwalker?! What kind of message does that send! (I kept trying to craft a mock conversation illustrating this point, but it was just not really PG, if you know what I mean.)
And that's when the little gray-headed granny inside of me emerged. If I would have had a walker, I would have thrown it at someone. If I had false teeth, I would have lost them. When I was a kid, we didn't have skanky dolls! All you had were Barbies. And you had to like them! Regardless of the fact that they were all skinny, pale blondes, and you were a stocky, swarthy brunette. (I always wanted a Jewish barbie. They always have those princess dolls. Why not a Jewish American princess doll? Oh, erm, well, maybe not . . . )
If you happened to amputate Barbie's leg--that was not me. I do not know how that happened--you just got more Barbies and strict warnings to not perform surgeries upon them. We didn't have dolls that looked like strollops! And if you were somewhat disappointed in the manliness of her compadre Ken, you just had to live with it and let them have their little pie-in-the-sky perfectly manicured dream world. (Well, actually, if you noticed the overly masculine army dolls that were intended for boys, you could buy Barbie a harem of macho guys in fatigues. I had a couple of these army dolls for my barbies. They were buff and came with assault rifles! Shortly after their arrival, Ken lapsed into a deep depression. He would just sit in the little Barbie convertible all alone while his lady friends were having fun with other guys. One day Ken was found decapitated. No suspect was ever determined. No, honestly! We don't know who did it. I wasn't there! I SAW NOTHING! I WANNA LAWYER! YOU CAN'T PIN THIS ON ME! He didn't die anyway! His head was duct taped back on and he now lives in a plastic tub in my basement! He looked somewhat happy last time I saw him before I closed the grave, erm, container! *dramatically points in direction of basement door* SO, THERE! IT WAS NOT A DOLL HOMICIDE! I PLEAD THE FIFTH!)
Ahem, where was I? Granny Zella is getting old and can't remember what she was complaining about. Platypuses, was it? They are funny creatures. I don't trust them. They have beady eyes. Hmm . . . *scratches head* Granny Zella doesn't remember now. Well, whatever it was set me off and upset me in K-Mart. Or was it McDonalds? Yes, it was their sweet tea. They don't put the sugar in at the right time. They don't know how to make proper tea and that infuriates Granny Zella. She has contemplated fire bombing their tea machine, but her arthritis prevents her from doing it. Granny Zella is getting old and feeble and she wants to take a nap. (And she wants to know why she is being forced to refer to herself in the third person. Granny Zella finds this a little creepy.) *toddles off*
P.S. I have shared this blog link with a couple of you already, but if you have never read Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and a Half, you are missing out! (For my Sparkler blogger friends, she is like a cross between Auntie Sparknotes--without the advice but with the hilarious drawings--and Dan Bergstein.) You must read her work! Try her latest. The part where she says "I would have shanked an infant for juice" was more than I could handle. :P)
02 June 2010
27 May 2010
Dress British; Think Yiddish
I stole the title of this post from Gene Simmons--the Israeli-born frontman of KISS who once trained to be a rabbi. Simmons claims the key to being successful is to "dress British; think Yiddish." I kind of wonder if he isn't referring to the Yiddish term Yiddische Kof--literally "a Jewish head", which refers to being shrewd--as opposed to a "Goyische Kopf, " which is, well, a Yiddish phrase that means to not be quite so shrewd, but that's besides the point.
I dress anything but British--my style is more fashion inept dork--but I am somewhat over half Jewish (We argue about how much is on my dad's side, but my mom is full-blooded) and I practice Judaism, so I like to think that I think Yiddish. To that end, I also love to use Yiddish. It's a rich language with so many wonderful expressions--and heaps of delightful insults--and I think it is an absolute shame that Yiddish is dying out. Therefore, my dear readers, I want to introduce you to the joys of Yiddish with a small sampler of this delightful language.
I will start off by saying that this is by all means not an exhaustive list of Yiddish words. I would also like to add that I have excluded a few words just because, well, to be honest, Yiddish has a lot of profanity in it (Waaaaaay more than you guys would think and some of the more famous Yiddish words--like "schmuck" and "putz"--are actually very vulgar and would never ever be used in polite company. Therefore, for the sake of not having my younger readers' parents try to kill me for corrupting their kids' minds with Yiddish profanity, I have left the more loaded words off.)
And with that, I give you my list of favorite Jewish words, many of which describe specific personality types perfectly. ^^
chazzer--a pig. Chazzer refers to someone who either eats like a pig or acts like one by being slovenly, coarse, or greedy: "Look at that chazzer! He has a banana peel on his suit!"
chutzpah--audacity/brashness. Many people use chutzpah as a synonym for "courage" but actually this word has a very negative connotation in Yiddish. Someone with chutzpah is someone who has presumptuously crossed the line. Being told you have a lot of chutzpah is the equivalent of having an old lady shake her fist at you and shout "You got some nerve!" Feel free to use chutzpah in this context next time you get cut off while in traffic.
draycup--someone who is perpetually confused to a spectacular level. (Like, as one example I read puts it, someone who doesn't just lose her keys but loses her car in the process.) Perfect for describing a spacey airhead: "My sister is such a draycup!"
kibbitz: (verb) to butt in and provide unwanted advice. I believe all mothers do this at some point in their lives. :P Kibbitz describes the act of providing this advice. A kibbitzer is someone who is kibbitzing: "That kibbitzer has kibbitzed for the last time!"
klutz: a clumsy person. I am a klutz. If people look at you when you enter in a room not because of your graceful entrance but because you trip over the carpet and smash Grandma's antique Ming vase, you are also a klutz.
kvell: to be proud of an accomplishment (either your own or others'): The key to kvelling is the intense accompanying urge to tell everyone else about said accomplishment. When your parents embarrass you by telling your next-door neighbor that you won your school spelling bee, they are kvelling. When you tell your cousin that you stole her boyfriend, you are kvelling . . . maybe.
kvetch: to chronically and excessively complain. The noun for someone who kvetches is kvetcher. ("That kvetcher never shuts up!" "Don't kvetch about it anymore!"). This word literally means "to squeeze". Anyone who has ever been subjected to a kvetcher knows exactly what this feels like. :P
maven: an expert. Like many Yiddish words that are not blatant insults, this seems like a relatively innocuous phrase, but it's actually just another insult. (Yeah, we Jews have fully earned our reputation as sharp-tongued.) Maven is rarely used as a compliment, as in "You're such a maven!". Usually it is used as shorthand for "know-it-all." Next time your brother-in-law offers to fix your car and causes $3000 worth of damage instead, congratulate him on being such a maven. :P
meshugganer: a crazy person. This is a fun word, because there are so many variations. The adjective for crazy is meshuggah, and insanity itself is mishegas. Next time you're tempted to twirl your fingers at your ear to indicate that someone is a loon, instead exclaim, "Can you believe this meshuggah mushugganer's mishegas?!"
nebbish: a loser. This is one of my favorite Yiddish words. A nebbish is a someone who is so pathetic you really sorry for him, yet he is so annoying you can't stand him. Woody Allen often plays a nebbish.
noodge: to pester/whine. Noodge is also a noun that refers to someone who noodges. "I heard you the first time! Stop being such a noodge!
nosh: to snack. This is just a cute word! What sounds better: "I am going to eat some pretzels" or "I am going to nosh on pretzels"?
nu: This doesn't have an actual translation. Usually, nu is used to indicate "Well" or "So": "That is interesting, nu?"; "Nu? Why should I care?" Depending on the context, nu can mean anything from "Hello" to "Huh?" to "Duh!" It works for any occasion. Next time you feel like being cryptic, respond to everyone statements with a simple "Nu?"
nudnik: a pest. A nudnik is just annoying. Younger siblings are prime candidates for nudnik status.
oy: Like nu, this is a word with several meanings. Usually it is an outburst that indicates frustration or anger or exhaustion. "Oy! I just got beat up by a zombie ninja penguin!" but it can also be a good outburst: "Oy! I defeated a zombie ninja penguin in hand-to-hand combat!"
plotz: This is a word that has some controversy attached to it. I have always heard it as "faint" usually in frustration/anger--"Don't tell grandma. She'll plotz!"--but sometimes in a good way--"I was so surprised, I nearly plotzed!" During my study for this post, I learned that plotz actually literally means "explode" and some Jews use it solely in this context, which usually indicates anger: "ARGGGGGH! That idiot telemarketer makes me want to plotz!" Either way, it is a cool word to indicate strong emotion. Next time your mother yells at you, beg her not to plotz. (Well, maybe don't do that. She is liable to plotz if you say that.) :P
schlemazel: a born loser. Schlemazels have horrible luck. A schlemazel is someone who, to quote my father, can't win for losing. No matter what he does, it never works.
schlemiel: an incompetent, inept person. A schlemiel is someone who screws everything up no matter how simple the task is. To tie in with the previous entry, an old Yiddish saying says a schlemiel is the guy who always spills his soup. A schlemazel is the guy whom the schlemiel always spills his soup on.
schlep: to drag/carry something. Originally in order to schlep, one had to be carrying/dragging something somewhere. ("I'm schlepping my luggage to the airport.") Now schlep is also used to to indicate that one is dragging oneself. ("I'm schlepping to my next class.") As the definition indicates, the pace of a schlep would not cut it in most P.E. classes.
schlock: junk. There are several Yiddish words to indicate that something is worthless. Some of them literally mean than the object in question is a piece of crap, others--like schlock--just indicate that something is cheaply made and of dubious quality: "What did you pay for that schlock?"
schlub: an unattractive, stupid person. You may have noticed that a lot of Yiddish words call into question one's intellectual abilities, but I am not sure any of them sound quite as insulting as schlub. ("Rachel's boyfriend is such a schlub.")
schmaltz: Literally, this word refers to goose fat drippings, but it is commonly used to describe something that is overly sentimental, like most Disney movies. Next time you watch a heartwarming film and are feeling cynical, disrupt everyone's bragging on it by saying, "I thought it was too schmaltzy." And if you're feeling really mean or just really like Yiddish, try "I thought it was schmaltzy schlock." (or "schlocky schmaltz" if you prefer.)
schnook: an unusually meek/gullible person. You know that kid down the street who bursts into tears if you blink at him? He is a schnook. Your friend who always falls for April Fool's jokes is also a schnook. The guy who believes you when you tell him you have a bridge in Brooklyn that you want to sell is a major schnook.
schnorrer: a beggar/leech. This one is pretty self-explanatory based on the definition. We all know a schnorrer. Next time your no-count brother-in-law tries to borrow money from you, tell him to stop being a schnorrer and get a job.
Now that you have read this list, I believe a party is in order. We shall dine upon bagels and listen to "Pretty Fly for a Rabbi" incessantly! *cranks up music*
P.S. In a language that is so rich in insults, you may be wondering if we even have a word that is a genuine compliment without underlying sarcasm. Yes, we do! We really do! No joke. The word is mensch. To be called a mensch by a Jew is the greatest compliment you could ever receive (and, as you may have noticed, is much better than some of the alternatives ^^). A mensch is an honest, honorable person who is a true friend. I consider all of my Blogger pals to be mensches. :)
What is your favorite Yiddish word?
I dress anything but British--my style is more fashion inept dork--but I am somewhat over half Jewish (We argue about how much is on my dad's side, but my mom is full-blooded) and I practice Judaism, so I like to think that I think Yiddish. To that end, I also love to use Yiddish. It's a rich language with so many wonderful expressions--and heaps of delightful insults--and I think it is an absolute shame that Yiddish is dying out. Therefore, my dear readers, I want to introduce you to the joys of Yiddish with a small sampler of this delightful language.
I will start off by saying that this is by all means not an exhaustive list of Yiddish words. I would also like to add that I have excluded a few words just because, well, to be honest, Yiddish has a lot of profanity in it (Waaaaaay more than you guys would think and some of the more famous Yiddish words--like "schmuck" and "putz"--are actually very vulgar and would never ever be used in polite company. Therefore, for the sake of not having my younger readers' parents try to kill me for corrupting their kids' minds with Yiddish profanity, I have left the more loaded words off.)
And with that, I give you my list of favorite Jewish words, many of which describe specific personality types perfectly. ^^
chazzer--a pig. Chazzer refers to someone who either eats like a pig or acts like one by being slovenly, coarse, or greedy: "Look at that chazzer! He has a banana peel on his suit!"
chutzpah--audacity/brashness. Many people use chutzpah as a synonym for "courage" but actually this word has a very negative connotation in Yiddish. Someone with chutzpah is someone who has presumptuously crossed the line. Being told you have a lot of chutzpah is the equivalent of having an old lady shake her fist at you and shout "You got some nerve!" Feel free to use chutzpah in this context next time you get cut off while in traffic.
draycup--someone who is perpetually confused to a spectacular level. (Like, as one example I read puts it, someone who doesn't just lose her keys but loses her car in the process.) Perfect for describing a spacey airhead: "My sister is such a draycup!"
kibbitz: (verb) to butt in and provide unwanted advice. I believe all mothers do this at some point in their lives. :P Kibbitz describes the act of providing this advice. A kibbitzer is someone who is kibbitzing: "That kibbitzer has kibbitzed for the last time!"
klutz: a clumsy person. I am a klutz. If people look at you when you enter in a room not because of your graceful entrance but because you trip over the carpet and smash Grandma's antique Ming vase, you are also a klutz.
kvell: to be proud of an accomplishment (either your own or others'): The key to kvelling is the intense accompanying urge to tell everyone else about said accomplishment. When your parents embarrass you by telling your next-door neighbor that you won your school spelling bee, they are kvelling. When you tell your cousin that you stole her boyfriend, you are kvelling . . . maybe.
kvetch: to chronically and excessively complain. The noun for someone who kvetches is kvetcher. ("That kvetcher never shuts up!" "Don't kvetch about it anymore!"). This word literally means "to squeeze". Anyone who has ever been subjected to a kvetcher knows exactly what this feels like. :P
maven: an expert. Like many Yiddish words that are not blatant insults, this seems like a relatively innocuous phrase, but it's actually just another insult. (Yeah, we Jews have fully earned our reputation as sharp-tongued.) Maven is rarely used as a compliment, as in "You're such a maven!". Usually it is used as shorthand for "know-it-all." Next time your brother-in-law offers to fix your car and causes $3000 worth of damage instead, congratulate him on being such a maven. :P
meshugganer: a crazy person. This is a fun word, because there are so many variations. The adjective for crazy is meshuggah, and insanity itself is mishegas. Next time you're tempted to twirl your fingers at your ear to indicate that someone is a loon, instead exclaim, "Can you believe this meshuggah mushugganer's mishegas?!"
nebbish: a loser. This is one of my favorite Yiddish words. A nebbish is a someone who is so pathetic you really sorry for him, yet he is so annoying you can't stand him. Woody Allen often plays a nebbish.
noodge: to pester/whine. Noodge is also a noun that refers to someone who noodges. "I heard you the first time! Stop being such a noodge!
nosh: to snack. This is just a cute word! What sounds better: "I am going to eat some pretzels" or "I am going to nosh on pretzels"?
nu: This doesn't have an actual translation. Usually, nu is used to indicate "Well" or "So": "That is interesting, nu?"; "Nu? Why should I care?" Depending on the context, nu can mean anything from "Hello" to "Huh?" to "Duh!" It works for any occasion. Next time you feel like being cryptic, respond to everyone statements with a simple "Nu?"
nudnik: a pest. A nudnik is just annoying. Younger siblings are prime candidates for nudnik status.
oy: Like nu, this is a word with several meanings. Usually it is an outburst that indicates frustration or anger or exhaustion. "Oy! I just got beat up by a zombie ninja penguin!" but it can also be a good outburst: "Oy! I defeated a zombie ninja penguin in hand-to-hand combat!"
plotz: This is a word that has some controversy attached to it. I have always heard it as "faint" usually in frustration/anger--"Don't tell grandma. She'll plotz!"--but sometimes in a good way--"I was so surprised, I nearly plotzed!" During my study for this post, I learned that plotz actually literally means "explode" and some Jews use it solely in this context, which usually indicates anger: "ARGGGGGH! That idiot telemarketer makes me want to plotz!" Either way, it is a cool word to indicate strong emotion. Next time your mother yells at you, beg her not to plotz. (Well, maybe don't do that. She is liable to plotz if you say that.) :P
schlemazel: a born loser. Schlemazels have horrible luck. A schlemazel is someone who, to quote my father, can't win for losing. No matter what he does, it never works.
schlemiel: an incompetent, inept person. A schlemiel is someone who screws everything up no matter how simple the task is. To tie in with the previous entry, an old Yiddish saying says a schlemiel is the guy who always spills his soup. A schlemazel is the guy whom the schlemiel always spills his soup on.
schlep: to drag/carry something. Originally in order to schlep, one had to be carrying/dragging something somewhere. ("I'm schlepping my luggage to the airport.") Now schlep is also used to to indicate that one is dragging oneself. ("I'm schlepping to my next class.") As the definition indicates, the pace of a schlep would not cut it in most P.E. classes.
schlock: junk. There are several Yiddish words to indicate that something is worthless. Some of them literally mean than the object in question is a piece of crap, others--like schlock--just indicate that something is cheaply made and of dubious quality: "What did you pay for that schlock?"
schlub: an unattractive, stupid person. You may have noticed that a lot of Yiddish words call into question one's intellectual abilities, but I am not sure any of them sound quite as insulting as schlub. ("Rachel's boyfriend is such a schlub.")
schmaltz: Literally, this word refers to goose fat drippings, but it is commonly used to describe something that is overly sentimental, like most Disney movies. Next time you watch a heartwarming film and are feeling cynical, disrupt everyone's bragging on it by saying, "I thought it was too schmaltzy." And if you're feeling really mean or just really like Yiddish, try "I thought it was schmaltzy schlock." (or "schlocky schmaltz" if you prefer.)
schnook: an unusually meek/gullible person. You know that kid down the street who bursts into tears if you blink at him? He is a schnook. Your friend who always falls for April Fool's jokes is also a schnook. The guy who believes you when you tell him you have a bridge in Brooklyn that you want to sell is a major schnook.
schnorrer: a beggar/leech. This one is pretty self-explanatory based on the definition. We all know a schnorrer. Next time your no-count brother-in-law tries to borrow money from you, tell him to stop being a schnorrer and get a job.
yekke: a German Jew. I am a yekke. My maternal great-grandparents hailed from Berlin and Munich. You're probably wondering why German Jews have earned themselves their own name. Well, much as how Germans are stereotyped as being humorless and excessively efficient, we yekkes are stereotyped by other Jews as being freakishly obsessed with details and punctuality. This is a stereotype that cuts both ways. On one hand, we yekkes pride ourselves on our reputation. We think our meticulous thoroughness is a good thing. Other Jews think we're overbearing, condescending, and petty. I suppose some yekkes dislike this characterization of us, but I kind of like the look of holy terror that other Jews develop when I tell them I'm a yekke. *crafty smile* I would argue this is just a stereotype, but I fit the yekke stereotype to a tee, so there you go. Next time one of you catch me having an online meltdown over an incorrect fact or a semicolon, you have my permission to say, "Zella, stop being so yekkish!"
yente: a shrew. Many people think this word means matchmaker. Um, no. At one time, Yente was a perfectly respectable Yiddish name for girls. Eventually, it became an insult that describes a woman who gossips and talks incessantly. The confusion comes from the movie Fiddler on the Roof, because the village matchmaker is named Yente. The character's name is actually a play on the name and the insult, but many people incorrectly assumed a yente was a Jewish matchmaker. Never call a Jewish woman this to her face, but feel free to use it to describe a very disagreeable woman behind her back. :P
Now that you have read this list, I believe a party is in order. We shall dine upon bagels and listen to "Pretty Fly for a Rabbi" incessantly! *cranks up music*
P.S. In a language that is so rich in insults, you may be wondering if we even have a word that is a genuine compliment without underlying sarcasm. Yes, we do! We really do! No joke. The word is mensch. To be called a mensch by a Jew is the greatest compliment you could ever receive (and, as you may have noticed, is much better than some of the alternatives ^^). A mensch is an honest, honorable person who is a true friend. I consider all of my Blogger pals to be mensches. :)
What is your favorite Yiddish word?
20 May 2010
My Day Glued To A Chair
I realize that a majority of my readers are not yet voting age, so I may be asking a moot question: How many of you had state primaries this Tuesday? My state had a primary! In fact, I worked as an election official in it. Now, before you get any ideas about my involvement, my role was quite minor. I was a clerk. Translated into actual job duties, this means I asked people for their driver's license; checked their address and birth date against the county's records; asked them which primary ballot they wanted--Democratic, Republican, or non-partisan judicial; then asked them to sign their name in our records. (I am always getting stuck as a clerk/secretary/recorder. As student editor of my college's literary magazine, I was first pick as secretary. I don't know why. Is it my glasses?) As mundane as this may sound, my job as an election clerk actually shaped up to be a rather interesting day, even though it lasted for nearly thirteen hours.
I would like to say I was picked as an election official because of some mystical qualifications I possess, like laser vision or the ability to correctly guess most of the answers on Wheel of Fortune, but the truth is my grandfather is good friends with the county election commissioner and the commissioner wanted to know if I was interested, because I have a reputation for being honest. I agreed, the $125 I'd be paid for working in one day was some small enticement, so I attended a two hour course last week and was told to show up at the city community center on Election Day at 7:30am. Simple enough, yes? Well, in theory.
In reality, I showed up to find what appeared to be utter bedlam. There were six tables set up for six different precincts with stacks of paperwork on each one and the head guy told me I was thirty minutes late. When I protested that the form I received told me to come at 7:30am, so by arriving at 7:25am I had assumed I was early, he hollered at the county clerk's assistant to send coherent instructions next time and ordered me over to a table. In theory, all of the inexperienced workers, like myself, should be paired with experienced workers. Instead, I soon found that of my four colleagues, only two had previous experience with election work. The rest of us were utter newbies. Heck, I always early vote at the clerk's office, so I had never even voted on Election Day before! Even better, we had the least number of workers per table and were assigned to cover three precincts, the most represented by one station. *twirls finger*
After some initial jitters, we finally determined who was doing what and took our seats. As is common in the small town I live in, I soon realized I knew all of my coworkers by association. The real estate agent who was technically our section's leader used to work with my uncle; the retiree who was my recorder comes in the library I work at all the time; the other clerk is the sister-in-law of one of my library colleagues; and the other recorder was my mother's fourth husband's landlord's wife (Seeing as that rent agreement was terminated following a meth lab explosion, I decided not to mention the association. ^^)
At first things were kind of crazy--for several reasons. In addition to the fact that we were handling three precincts between the five of us, we soon learned that there was no central location for voters to determine which precinct they belonged to and, since 90% of them had no idea what precinct they voted in--do they even look at their voter registration cards?--we became the default location for queries by virtue of our location closest to the door. There was only one map that detailed where precincts were located and said map spent a lot of time away from us, so most of the time we just had to estimate based on addresses. ("Oh, is that south of town? How far south? Hmm . . . I think you should go over there. If not, try the table next to it.")
We soon got in a routine and ended up being rather efficient with our traffic directions and identification confirmation procedures. Though our system was decidedly low tech (what with our handwritten confirmations and manual checking of ID), most people were relatively understanding. We did have some people who were outraged that we dare ask for ID. OMG! I didn't realize I was talking to a celebrity. Your biographical notice wasn't included in my welcome packet, pal. Now fork over your driver's license. I also had one woman who went ballistic when I asked for her birthdate, and she started kvetching about how old she was as I asked her to sign her name:
Me: "Ma'am, would you please sign your name."
Crazy Woman: "I am an old lady now!"
Me: Ma'am, would--"
Crazy Woman: "Just old!"
Me: "Um, ma'am, we need--"
Crazy Woman: "I am so old--"
Me: "Ma'am, please--"
Crazy Woman: "--that I--"
Me: "MA'AM!"
Crazy Woman: "--remember when these here elections were--
Me: "MA'AM! PLEASE SIGN--"
Crazy Woman: "OLD! OLD! OLD! OLD! OLD!"
Me: *contemplates stabbing crazy woman with pen before instead shoving paper in her face and wildly waving pen under her nose in a desperate attempt to shut her up*
In between refraining from murdering an old woman stuck in 1950 and trying to decipher people's addresses to direct them to the right polling station, I got my only exercise of the day by running into the break room to snatch doughnuts, cookies, and brownies to munch mindlessly.
As we had feared, come lunchtime we were stormed by voters. Before this, I had kept a careful mental tally of all of the people I know that I had seen. (This is a pastime in my hometown. When you see someone in public, you must tell your family when you get home. This is so we can compare notes on the last time we saw them with what we observed this time.) By now, everyone just started to blur together and if they told me to tell my grandma "hi" or passed along an insulting but affectionate greeting to my brother, I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it. I do remember my friend Dana came in, but that may be because he spoke to me directly and didn't treat me like a message service. (Take that, people who treat me like a message service and don't talk to me directly!) I begin to develop one of my splitting tension headaches, which always like to sneak up on me in the afternoons. Technically, none of us were allowed out of the voting area while the polls were open, so one of my friends stopped by and offered to bring me something to eat. I had already devoured a bowl of chicken stew, so I turned down the offer, though later I would regret doing so. :(
As the afternoon wore on, we had morphed into a lean, mean election machine. We were doling out ballots at warp speed. Full speed ahead! I was also mindlessly noshing on chips, cheese crackers, and what was left of the brownies at an alarming rate. At some point, I remembered taking that eating quiz on Auntie Sparknotes. (Any of you take it? Um, I didn't fare too well on it . . . ) I tried to stop by focusing on how incredibly numb my legs were from sitting for seven hours. I also began to pay attention to what other polling stations were doing. This only served to irritate me, because they were mispronouncing the ballot's name! The woman next to us was calling the non-partisan judicial ballots non-judicial ballots. Those ballots were only for judicial races. She was calling them the exact opposite what they were and, as an anal retentive obsessive compulsive perfectionist, I found this really pissed me off. I tried to remind myself what a jerk I was being and instead returned to focusing on my numb legs.
After about 5pm, I started to suffer the consequences of noshing on junk food non-stop. My stomach started to hurt and I felt nauseous. Fortunately, this coincided with a rush of after-work voters, so I didn't have time to be sick. I also noticed a drastic shift in everyone's personalities. After being locked in the same room for over nine hours, we all started to get stir-crazy. Everyone--myself included--started shifting in their seats (As if that was actually going to help) and jumping up every five minutes to check for signs of electioneering. (We feared sudden ninja attacks via campaign signs within 100 yards of the polls, hence the necessity of frequent stealth searches. No, honestly! We were most certainly not just temporarily running away to preserve our sanity. I swear! Election worker's honor!) We also started filling out the paperwork we needed to finish after the election about an hour before the polls closed while everyone obsessively checked their watches. Raucous celebration broke out when someone shouted we only had fifteen minutes left. Party time! Five minutes before the official closing time, we started putting away chairs and everything else, but we kept the ballots and ballot box on the table for the sake of appearances.
Our joy was tragically cut short when we tallied up the number of ballots we had left. You see . . . before leaving, we're required by law to count the number of voters our little station served and correlate that with the number of ballots used. Despite our best efforts--and repeated calculations--we always came up with three more ballots than we were supposed to have. Thirty minutes later, we still had the same screwy numbers and we all looked ready to cry . . . or kill. The guy in charge of our entire bundle of precincts told us that if we were short of ballots, we would be in big trouble, but since we were instead long on ballots, we had probably been given a few more than we were supposed to, so he allowed us to sign out and go home, which we all promptly did. I drove home and celebrated the end of a long day by sleeping for eleven hours.
And that, my friends, is the epic tale of my day glued--metaphorically--to a chair. I get to do it all over again in three weeks for the state run-off elections. I will be bringing myself a pillow . . . and some extra snacks. :P
I would like to say I was picked as an election official because of some mystical qualifications I possess, like laser vision or the ability to correctly guess most of the answers on Wheel of Fortune, but the truth is my grandfather is good friends with the county election commissioner and the commissioner wanted to know if I was interested, because I have a reputation for being honest. I agreed, the $125 I'd be paid for working in one day was some small enticement, so I attended a two hour course last week and was told to show up at the city community center on Election Day at 7:30am. Simple enough, yes? Well, in theory.
In reality, I showed up to find what appeared to be utter bedlam. There were six tables set up for six different precincts with stacks of paperwork on each one and the head guy told me I was thirty minutes late. When I protested that the form I received told me to come at 7:30am, so by arriving at 7:25am I had assumed I was early, he hollered at the county clerk's assistant to send coherent instructions next time and ordered me over to a table. In theory, all of the inexperienced workers, like myself, should be paired with experienced workers. Instead, I soon found that of my four colleagues, only two had previous experience with election work. The rest of us were utter newbies. Heck, I always early vote at the clerk's office, so I had never even voted on Election Day before! Even better, we had the least number of workers per table and were assigned to cover three precincts, the most represented by one station. *twirls finger*
After some initial jitters, we finally determined who was doing what and took our seats. As is common in the small town I live in, I soon realized I knew all of my coworkers by association. The real estate agent who was technically our section's leader used to work with my uncle; the retiree who was my recorder comes in the library I work at all the time; the other clerk is the sister-in-law of one of my library colleagues; and the other recorder was my mother's fourth husband's landlord's wife (Seeing as that rent agreement was terminated following a meth lab explosion, I decided not to mention the association. ^^)
At first things were kind of crazy--for several reasons. In addition to the fact that we were handling three precincts between the five of us, we soon learned that there was no central location for voters to determine which precinct they belonged to and, since 90% of them had no idea what precinct they voted in--do they even look at their voter registration cards?--we became the default location for queries by virtue of our location closest to the door. There was only one map that detailed where precincts were located and said map spent a lot of time away from us, so most of the time we just had to estimate based on addresses. ("Oh, is that south of town? How far south? Hmm . . . I think you should go over there. If not, try the table next to it.")
We soon got in a routine and ended up being rather efficient with our traffic directions and identification confirmation procedures. Though our system was decidedly low tech (what with our handwritten confirmations and manual checking of ID), most people were relatively understanding. We did have some people who were outraged that we dare ask for ID. OMG! I didn't realize I was talking to a celebrity. Your biographical notice wasn't included in my welcome packet, pal. Now fork over your driver's license. I also had one woman who went ballistic when I asked for her birthdate, and she started kvetching about how old she was as I asked her to sign her name:
Me: "Ma'am, would you please sign your name."
Crazy Woman: "I am an old lady now!"
Me: Ma'am, would--"
Crazy Woman: "Just old!"
Me: "Um, ma'am, we need--"
Crazy Woman: "I am so old--"
Me: "Ma'am, please--"
Crazy Woman: "--that I--"
Me: "MA'AM!"
Crazy Woman: "--remember when these here elections were--
Me: "MA'AM! PLEASE SIGN--"
Crazy Woman: "OLD! OLD! OLD! OLD! OLD!"
Me: *contemplates stabbing crazy woman with pen before instead shoving paper in her face and wildly waving pen under her nose in a desperate attempt to shut her up*
In between refraining from murdering an old woman stuck in 1950 and trying to decipher people's addresses to direct them to the right polling station, I got my only exercise of the day by running into the break room to snatch doughnuts, cookies, and brownies to munch mindlessly.
As we had feared, come lunchtime we were stormed by voters. Before this, I had kept a careful mental tally of all of the people I know that I had seen. (This is a pastime in my hometown. When you see someone in public, you must tell your family when you get home. This is so we can compare notes on the last time we saw them with what we observed this time.) By now, everyone just started to blur together and if they told me to tell my grandma "hi" or passed along an insulting but affectionate greeting to my brother, I couldn't tell you if my life depended on it. I do remember my friend Dana came in, but that may be because he spoke to me directly and didn't treat me like a message service. (Take that, people who treat me like a message service and don't talk to me directly!) I begin to develop one of my splitting tension headaches, which always like to sneak up on me in the afternoons. Technically, none of us were allowed out of the voting area while the polls were open, so one of my friends stopped by and offered to bring me something to eat. I had already devoured a bowl of chicken stew, so I turned down the offer, though later I would regret doing so. :(
As the afternoon wore on, we had morphed into a lean, mean election machine. We were doling out ballots at warp speed. Full speed ahead! I was also mindlessly noshing on chips, cheese crackers, and what was left of the brownies at an alarming rate. At some point, I remembered taking that eating quiz on Auntie Sparknotes. (Any of you take it? Um, I didn't fare too well on it . . . ) I tried to stop by focusing on how incredibly numb my legs were from sitting for seven hours. I also began to pay attention to what other polling stations were doing. This only served to irritate me, because they were mispronouncing the ballot's name! The woman next to us was calling the non-partisan judicial ballots non-judicial ballots. Those ballots were only for judicial races. She was calling them the exact opposite what they were and, as an anal retentive obsessive compulsive perfectionist, I found this really pissed me off. I tried to remind myself what a jerk I was being and instead returned to focusing on my numb legs.
After about 5pm, I started to suffer the consequences of noshing on junk food non-stop. My stomach started to hurt and I felt nauseous. Fortunately, this coincided with a rush of after-work voters, so I didn't have time to be sick. I also noticed a drastic shift in everyone's personalities. After being locked in the same room for over nine hours, we all started to get stir-crazy. Everyone--myself included--started shifting in their seats (As if that was actually going to help) and jumping up every five minutes to check for signs of electioneering. (We feared sudden ninja attacks via campaign signs within 100 yards of the polls, hence the necessity of frequent stealth searches. No, honestly! We were most certainly not just temporarily running away to preserve our sanity. I swear! Election worker's honor!) We also started filling out the paperwork we needed to finish after the election about an hour before the polls closed while everyone obsessively checked their watches. Raucous celebration broke out when someone shouted we only had fifteen minutes left. Party time! Five minutes before the official closing time, we started putting away chairs and everything else, but we kept the ballots and ballot box on the table for the sake of appearances.
Our joy was tragically cut short when we tallied up the number of ballots we had left. You see . . . before leaving, we're required by law to count the number of voters our little station served and correlate that with the number of ballots used. Despite our best efforts--and repeated calculations--we always came up with three more ballots than we were supposed to have. Thirty minutes later, we still had the same screwy numbers and we all looked ready to cry . . . or kill. The guy in charge of our entire bundle of precincts told us that if we were short of ballots, we would be in big trouble, but since we were instead long on ballots, we had probably been given a few more than we were supposed to, so he allowed us to sign out and go home, which we all promptly did. I drove home and celebrated the end of a long day by sleeping for eleven hours.
And that, my friends, is the epic tale of my day glued--metaphorically--to a chair. I get to do it all over again in three weeks for the state run-off elections. I will be bringing myself a pillow . . . and some extra snacks. :P
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