But who's gonna meter my rage?

            Today's post is a failed attempt at guest-blogging for a bigger site. So I'm using it here- 'cause I LIKE it, even if it met none of the previously-non-mentioned-but-yeah-it-kinda-makes-sense criteria. It's just as well- I'm horrid at following directions (baking, unplugging my laptop during a storm, that whole waiting after eating to swim...)
            I wrote it about a month ago. Ah, how simple things were back then. They were different times.


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            The water people have just left. I think they have a real name/company/title, but that’s what I’m going with.

            They’ve been here three times.

            Optimistically, we signed up for a water meter that would- ideally- cut back on our usage. Or, rather, what the city thinks we use. (For those non-Chicagoans, you don’t get your own water charges- oh no! You get what the City of Chicago- a wonderfully, refreshingly honest town- thinks you’re using based on what your neighbors are doing. Or what the city thinks they’re doing.)

            This means that, based on the fact that we live in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood with multiple families living in the same three-flats, the great Windy City thinks our water usage equates that of eighteen related people fighting over three showers.

            A water meter seemed like a no-brainer. And of course, that’s exactly what it turned out be; a project with zero brains involved.

            The first team, having shown up late and having hung out for a good hour, couldn’t figure out how to turn off our water. (Given that our previously foreclosed rehab is less House of Dreams and more Money Pit, we believed him.) They told us about a B-box or somesuch that needed a blowout. (Look, if we’re handing out city-funded blowouts, my hair has been standing in line since last November. Also, I originally heard “beat box,” rendering me tragically excited.)

            My husband called to reschedule the water meter install and the B-box blowout- but sadly, no accompanying a capella group- and was informed that the B-box thing had already been done. Wow! Okay…

            The second team showed up a couple of weeks later. Late. (It is the city, after all.) They informed us that our water wouldn’t shut off and that the B-box needed to be blown out. Hmm.

            This morning, the third team arrived- including, as the supervisor put it, his “best guy.”

            I was prepared to be less than impressed. In fact, I was riled up to be downright snotty. My husband, who had been here for the previous attempts, offered to work from home this a.m., something that I waved away. I wanted a confrontation. Tuesday mornings are my time off from nannying with our infant gal in tow, a couple of hours that I can enjoy writing while she naps- in other words: Me Time. Now these fools were going to waste Me Time with a third vocal acknowledgement that we needed a blowout of some sort? I didn’t want my husband to temper me. I didn’t want witnesses.

            Turns out, all we needed was a “best guy.” He turned off the water indoors (“I don’t know why the other guys couldn’t get this!”) He turned off the water outdoors (“No prob.”) He installed a water meter (“You’ll be seeing a big reduction in water bills.”) And, for our troubles- a free rain barrel! Sure, people in more civilized, green and outdoorsy parts of the world already have these. But here? Cutting. Edge. Technology. (Also with a multi-month wait list. Suckers.)

            Now we’re the home with only three residents- and a water bill to match- plus the means for a slightly more sustainable backyard. (Hey kids, it’s your pal Whitey McHippie!)

            So now it’s on to dealing with the 2010 Census; folks with a razor-edged vendetta, bent on proving that our single fam home is a secret haven for multiple apartments, tenants and doorbells.

            I am only one woman.

            Regardless of what they might have in their file.

Put THAT in your system.

The Census is convinced that there are multiple families residing here. Like, slightly psychotic ex-girlfriend convinced. ("Are you sure there's no one else? I saw you out with someone." "Uh, that was my sister.")

There is nothing I can do to alleviate their suspicions- or, more rudely, to get them to leave us the heck alone.

We filled out the initial Census form. Promptly. We had a few self-congratulatory moments acknowledging how on top of things we were. Sure, we have a kid and a baby and a plethora of jobs and a punkin' vine that's threatening the very landscape of the property- but our paper trail is being dealt with.

Then we got a second form in the mail. Saying the exact same thing, with the addition of a kinda snotty tone: Did we know that the Census form is how our city decides how many schools there should be? So we filled it out again. Laughed a little, rolled our eyes and did a a little shoulder shrug; waa waa- Government.

Got a third form. Dis.Re.Garded. It. Stupid fools. You know why there's no money for Illinois education? Because it was all spent on paper!

Then they started coming to the door. "Is this Unit 1?" "Nope, it's a house." "Yeah, but...this is the first floor unit?" "Nope." Convinced them [poorly] that only 2.5 people lived here. "Did you send in your form?" "YUP!" She laughed. I laughed. (Waa waa- Government.)

Second lady came. I think it was her first day walking about on her own two legs, let alone actually having to talk to people. I'm not ashamed to say that I laid into her. Did the government appreciate that she was wasting both their time and mine? Especially mine? Did she know how sick I was of the whole process? And was she really gonna stand there and tell me MY house was the real problem? Millions of people don't fill in the darned thing but I'M in the hot seat?

 "Sorry for the trouble. One last question before I leave- this is Unit 1, yes?" "No. No units. Just house." "Did you recently convert it into a house?" "Nope." "Well, if you had sent in the form and stated that, it would be in the system." "You're probably right."

As we left the house that day to run errands, we saw her sitting on the stoop. This was a good half an hour later. She was writing frantically with a nubby pencil. I think her mind had been shattered.

Then, last week- my favorite encounter yet. A woman appeared on my doorstep and rang the doorbell a few times. As Nora hadn't been feeling so hot that morning and had just dozed off, I was already prepared to rip the face off of any unfortunate bystander. And the fact that it was a lady from the Census? Perfection.

I tersely informed her that I had already dealt with the Census. Many times. My info was in the system. She scoffed. The woman SCOFFED! And told me that I couldn't possibly have dealt with her department, she was with the Verification Team. With all of the patience that I could possibly muster (and using up some from the next week as well), I listened to her spiel. In no uncertain terms she told me that yes, my info was in the system, but I had left out crucial details about MY TENANTS.

I have no tenants, I told her as pleasantly as humanly possible.

She scoffed again. "Then why do you have two doorbells?" Checkmate, her smirk seemed to say.

"On either side of the house?" I yelled. "We have two doors! Each gets a doorbell! We have two doorknobs, too!"

I then threatened that my mother worked for the Census in Massachusetts, an arbitrary fact that- even while I was saying it- carried so little weight as to be kinda ridiculous. Yep, watch out- or I'll tell my Mom.

"So...no apartments?" Her smugness began to dissipate.

"Would you care to come see?"

She looked like I had slapped her. "Uh, no thank you." She thought for a moment. "That info should really be put into the system."

As nicely as I could manage, I replied that since I didn't actually work at the Census, there was only so much I could do in terms of getting them my info. Permanently. In the system.

She sat on the stoop, another victim of mind shattering.

My pal Bethany, who had stopped over before to say hi, left from the side door to go pick up some food. And the lady saw her. I'm sure she was convinced- after all that- that I was, indeed, harboring a tenant. So I'm sure I'll get a follow-up visit.

And, whilst blogging just now, the doorbell rang. (I swear. I can't make this stuff up.) Taking a deep breath (and a shoe in case the situation got ugly), I prepared to the Senseless Bureau onslaught.

But it's okay. It was just a Jehovah's Witness.

For the first time in my life, I was stoked to receive their pamphlet.

Nothing to fill out and return, there.