Once Upon a Housing Authority: The Great Biscuit Caper of 2003

Let me preface my entry by simply saying that no matter how many psychology courses you take, you will never, ever understand the depths of the human psyche until you have worked in social services. Never.

Some of you may have gathered from my previous postings here that I once worked for the local Housing Authority in the city where I live, providing rental subsidies to families in need. Unfortunately, this profession didn’t work out for me for a variety of reasons and there is no way in hell I will ever work in social services ever again. Ever. It could be the most dire economy in all of history and the only possible way for me to earn a living could be to work in social services and I would choose instead to construct a little box hut down the alley and burn pine needles picked out of people’s yards for heat before I would go back into social services. It was that bad.

I am normally one of the most pathetically soft-hearted people you will ever meet. I’m one of those people who can’t set mouse traps because I’d feel guilty if I caused some poor little mouse to feel pain. I see mice in our garage and I actually tell them to please stay in the garage because I think a kitty would get them if they went in the house and I’d rather they didn’t get hurt. I don’t know if they understand or not, but I figure it can’t hurt.

Naturally this transfers over to people. Well, it used to…. before the Housing Authority. I used to see families with food stamps and get myself all worked up and upset that anybody had to suffer. Hence, I ended up in social services in the first place – I wanted to make a difference and help people get on their feet and make the world a better place… yada yada, bullshit, bullshit. Whatever. That was all before the Housing Authority. Now I see families using food stamps and if they are not elderly or obviously handicapped my immediate thought is, ‘Hey, get a job dumbass.’ Not terribly sympathetic, I’m afraid, but sadly my experience in social services taught me that the vast majority of people who need help from the government need assistance only because they have made shitty choices. After hearing for years and years about how everybody’s only one paycheck away from foreclosure, and so many families ‘just need help getting on their feet’, I spent 3 years at the Housing Authority looking for these proverbial families who were just down on their luck. I didn’t find many. Most of what I found were young people who made crappy choices that were being paid for with cash out of my paycheck. It was quite depressing.

But that’s a story for another day.

My job at the Housing Authority consisted of managing the waiting list and bringing people off of the waiting list and onto the program. As you can imagine this was quite depressing as my entire caseload lacked basic shelter and I constantly had homeless people calling me to either cry on the phone or scream at me. Like I said, I’m never, ever, ever going back to social services. Ever.

Now the housing program is not an entitlement program. This means that you can be denied assistance for a variety of reasons, including the contents of your criminal history report. Hence our story today….

Now the Housing Authority isn’t terribly picky about the little things like traffic violations, but they sure don’t want to use government funds (read: money from your paycheck) to house people with violent criminal histories, past sex offenses, past welfare fraud, or a history of dealing drugs. I’m pretty okay with this – after all, I haven’t committed any violent crimes, sex offenses, welfare fraud, or drug deals and nobody’s paying my rent.

Part of my job at the Housing Authority was to send out for criminal histories for clients on the waiting list and then send them rejection notices if I saw any one of those crimes. Here comes the fun part: anyone who is rejected from the program has the right to request a hearing to plead their case. So if a client requested a hearing I had to grant them one, and then set up a meeting with a hearing officer who would hear their case and decide whether or not to override my rejection.

Let me tell you, nothing is quite a fun as sitting in a little room across a flimsy table from an arsonist/rapist who is already pissed off at you because you sent him a rejection notice.

Did I mention I’m never going back into social services again?

Hearings resulted in a variety of interesting stories including one lady who offered to lift up her shirt to show us where somebody ‘bit her on the breast’ to prove her battery charge wasn’t unprovoked and another who came into her hearing claiming that we were only rejecting her because ‘her babies were prettier than ours’ and ‘we were jealous’.



Anyways, I’m here today to tell you one of my hearing stories. I call this one The Great Biscuit Caper of 2003. I hope you enjoy…

Once upon a time a very young Housing Authority employee named H had to send one of her clients (we’ll call him Fred) a rejection notice because he had been convicted of and served 10 years for dealing cocaine. Fred, not realizing that there’s pretty much nothing you can do to overturn a drug deal you have served hard time for, requested a hearing. Upon receiving his hearing request, H did a series of things in this order:
1) rolled her eyes
2) sighed loudly
3) yelled, “Hey, Lisey and M, check out this guy who thinks he can get his cocaine dealing rejection overturned!”
4) accepted Lisey & M’s sympathies
5) set up the hearing

The day of the hearing arrived. Fred made it to the Housing Authority on time and was brought into the hearing room with H and her hearing officer. All appeared to be going well – the hearing officer explained the purpose of the hearing and Fred nodded that universal nod that indicates understanding and acceptance of the situation and we moved right along. While we didn’t have a stenographer, this is my best guess at what followed:

Hearing Officer (HO): So, Fred, what’s the story? Looks like you served time for dealing cocaine.

Fred: Well, ah, no, I didn’t have no cocaine.

HO: You served 10 years. Are you telling me a jury put you away for 10 years but you didn’t have any cocaine?

Fred: I didn’t have no cocaine. Was them cops, them had it out for me!

HO: You were convicted of dealing cocaine. How is that possible if you didn’t have any cocaine on you?

Fred: I didn’t do no dealing. They got me on possession.

HO: Your police record states that you did time for dealing cocaine.

Fred: Yep

HO: So, were you dealing or did you have possession?

Fred: I didn’t have no cocaine.

(HO & H look at each other very confused - after all, most clients who have done time know for certain what they were convicted of)

HO: Ok, Fred, what happened?



Here’s where it gets good….



Fred: Well, I was out one day an I got hungry, so I went over to the McDonald’s and got me a biscuit.

H: A biscuit?!? (thinking, what the hell? What does a biscuit have to do with anything?)

Fred: I got me a biscuit. I was eatin’ me my biscuit and walking ‘round and you know, I wasn’t hungry no mo’, so I went an stuck my biscuit in my pocket (taps breast pocket with his right hand).

HO: Okay…..?

Fred: And then there was these cops, see, an they stopped me an they took my biscuit outta my pocket and then they was saying it was cocaine, see?

HO: The cops said your biscuit was cocaine?

Fred: Yep.

HO: So, were you trying to sell this biscuit to someone? Because I’m not sure where the dealing charge comes in.

Fred: I didn’t have no cocaine. I had me a biscuit.


This went on for approximately 15 minutes before the hearing officer realized that the only information she was going to get out of Fred was a steady cry of ‘I didn’t have no cocaine’ and a story about a damn biscuit. Needless to say, his rejection wasn’t overturned.

This is why I can never work in social services again, people. Seriously, you claim you had a biscuit that the cops mistook for cocaine? And then a jury of your peers also mistook the biscuit for cocaine? And what’s up with the dealing charges for a biscuit? Can you imagine dealing biscuits on the black market?

*
Setting: dark alley, late at night, steam rises up from the manhole covers in the street up ahead

A tall, lanky figure in a trench coat walks up to a shorter man huddling in the cold, heating his hands with the warmth of his breath

Trench coat man: Hey, man, you lookin for sumpthin?

Cold man: You got the package?

TCM: I got it right here, bro (opens his trench coat to reveal biscuit after biscuit after biscuit lining the inside of the coat)

Cold man: (transfixed by the site, reaches forward) Oh, man…

TCM: Not so fast. (closes his trench coat and wraps it around himself tightly) You got to give me sumpthin first…

Cold man: (reaches inside his jacket and pulls out an envelope. Looks suspiciously around for passers by before quickly handing it to TCM). Now?

TCM: (looks around suspiciously) Ok, man (opens coat and pulls out biscuit. Closes coat quickly, hands biscuit to cold man, and walks away without looking back)

Cold man: (cups biscuit in his hand and looks at it as though it is its own secret world. looks around suspiciously again and wanders off in the opposite direction of TCM)
*

Like I said, this is why I can never work in social services again. Look at what I just wrote – do I or do I not sound like a crazy person? Case and point.

Fun Library Fact

Did you know....

If the Allen County Public Library doesn't have a book you'd like to check out, you can place a request for them to buy the book and add it to their collection?

Awesome!

Abortion Is Apparently Far More Tragic than Pregnany Loss

Lately I've been seeing these signs all over town for 40 days of prayer and fasting to end abortion. They're everywhere - people's yards and in front of churches and just hanging out by the street. I have strong suspicions that this has been taken on by a church or several churches - or is at least heavily endorsed by our area churches.

You know what? I get it. Abortion sucks. I'd really rather no one had one. It would be awesome if a movement was successful in not only eradicating abortion, but eradicating the circumstances that lead young women to this decision. I'm one of those crazy people who think abortion is as much a symptom of a greater problem as it is a problem in and of itself. I won't go into my rant about abortion protesters here, but let it just suffice to say that for as much as the hardcore pro-lifers I know (all church people, by the way) want those babies to be born, they sure don't want to be the ones who have to take care of the babies (or the moms) once they're here. Another topic for another day, I suppose, along with my rant about how the church doesn't like liberals or their social programs too much yet Christians don't provide for the poor like the Bible commands them to, etc, etc, etc. It is doubtful that the church is going to make me happy about much of anything at this point. Let's just leave it at that.


Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

I did not see one sign, anywhere.

Nothing.


So, apparently if you abort your baby a terrible thing has occurred and you've robbed a little soul of its chance to make a difference in the world and it is a terrible tragedy.... but if you lose a baby to miscarriage or stillbirth or SIDS (or a freakishly placed ectopic pregnancy).... eh, *shoulder shrug*, you'll get over it.

Maybe it sounds like I'm over-reacting to a lack of signage, but the truth is this has bugged me for awhile. The very same people who would have been horrified had I had an elective abortion just looked at me and gave me a crappy cliche' when I lost babies that were very much loved and wanted. The people from my church who would've jumped at the chance to help me repent of an abortion and would've found me a support group and checked up on how I was doing months later simply squirmed in their seats and made non-commital noises and went about their lives without further inquiries or support when I lost babies I loved. Apparently, support just isn't as much fun when there's no sin to fix. Perhaps the entire church is co-dependent? A few Christian members of my community were exceptions to this rule, which doesn't surprise me at all - living in community is far different than attending church.

Tell me, why are the babies I lost so much less precious than a baby someone chose to abort? Did they have less capacity to make a difference had they been born? Were they less real? They were alive at one point and then they weren't. How is that so different?

I was thinking last night about all those signs and about the two babies we lost last year and how I still miss them and wonder what would've happened if things had turned out differently. I thought about a woman I know who had an abortion long before I was ever pregnant and how easy it was for me to love her and accept her regret and pain and be the support she needed. I thought about the support groups and free counsling that were available to her to help her heal. And then I thought about how hard it was for so many people around me to love me and accept my pain and be the support I needed. And I thought about how the only support group I could find was online and how I couldn't see a counselor who specialized in this area because she wasn't covered under my insurance.

And it occurred to me, I'd have been better off if I'd actually terminated those pregnancies myself.

Something about that seems very wrong to me.

Adventures in Aquacise

I am now enrolled in an Aquacise class at the YMCA.

Go ahead, laugh. Get it out of your system. When you’re finished, keep reading.


Initially, I decided to enroll in a pre-natal Moms N Motion water class that the Y was hosting. As I am a member of the Y I was going to be able to take this class for free, so I figured why not? A water class wasn’t my first choice for exercise, but somewhere around 3 weeks ago I stopped being able to ride my bike due to the horrible round ligament pain (read: Satan himself stabbing me repeatedly with a jagged piece of broken glass in the muscles on the bottom of my tummy) that ensues whenever I make it to my destination. The bike also didn’t help with the random bouts of hip pain and ‘shooting down my leg from seemingly nowhere and completely disabling me’ pain that also seems to come with the pregnancy, so I decided it was time to move on. As I would prefer not to be a doughy blob of flesh when this baby pops out, it seemed I had to do something in terms of exercise, and the Y was going to let me do it for free. Besides, I reasoned, I would meet lots of other expectant moms and the rest of my friends’ eyes would no longer glaze over with constant talk of baby-ness. So I thought.

Apparently there are only two other pregnant mamas in all of downtown Fort Wayne who can spare an hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Thus, the Moms N Motion class was cancelled. The nice lady at the Y called to tell me the bad news, but offered to enroll me in Aquacise. Okay, whatever, I thought.

Aquacise isn’t actually all that bad. There are, however, a few factors that make it slightly humorous to me, namely that:

1) the class consists of a bunch of little old ladies and me

2) I have to stuff my huge pregnant self into a bathing suit in order to take the class and then waddle out of the changing room and over to the pool in plain sight of anyone who happens to be walking around the lobby of the YMCA.

Now, if I had actually read the description for this class I might have seen the blurb that read, “ideal for active older adults!” and anticipated the little old ladies. And had I been more observant on my past several hundred trips to the Y I might have observed the way you can see right into the pool from the lobby. However, I am neither practical enough to read nor observant enough to figure out what’s going on with myself most times, let alone other people in the pool at the YMCA. Thus I didn’t see these enormously humorous circumstances coming.

Aside from the way I have to physically brace myself and swallow my pride every time I walk out into the pool area in my giant bathing suit, the class is going well. The little old ladies like to dote on me because I am the cute pregnant chick they all remember being so well. Little old ladies love pregnant chicks. I don’t know why, but they do. This has worked out in my favor. The instructor has also been given instructions (I presume by the nice lady who called me) to be gentle on me and make sure I don’t drown myself or put myself into labor during her class. As much as I appreciate the concern, it’s a little bit humiliating to be swimming around with a bunch of 70 year old ladies who are all paddling and using weights and jogging underwater while the instructor looks over at me – a perfectly healthy (if pregnant) 27 year old woman – and tells me not to worry about keeping up the pace if I can’t.

Example:

Instructor: Jog forward everyone…. arms beside you… let your arms scoop the water! Great job Nancy! Keep it up Georgia! (looks over at me worriedly) H, don’t worry about keeping up if you can’t. (I slow down and she looks to someone else) Wonderful job Betty!

How humiliating.


Another example:

Instructor: Ok, everyone, keep your head up and balance yourself on the noodle. Keep that back straight and those shoulders down! Squeeeeeeze those glutes! Work those abs! (looks over at me) oh, H, don’t worry about the abs.

Me: (turns bright red) I can’t feel my abs.

Instructor: I know. It’s okay. Great job Susan, keep it up!


So basically, I go to class twice a week with 12 little old ladies who look like I could break them in half with my pinky but who are totally kicking my ass at Aquacise, swimming around and around with their weights and doing lunges while I wander meekly around the pool trying not to do anything that will send either the instructor or the old ladies into panic mode believing I have gone into labor. These old ladies are swimming laps around me, I tell you.

Things That Make Me Happy (AKA The Sappiest Thing I've Ever Written)

• When I walk into the bathroom right after my husband is done getting ready and the whole room smells like his cologne.
  
• Bees landing on the sunflowers I planted this summer.
  
• Buying a used book that is worn and marked and I can tell someone loved it very much.
  
• The way Dingo jumps and runs in circles and wags her tail when I come home from work.
  
• The first 4 measures of Rufus Wainwright's 'Hallelujah' when I recognize the song and instantly think of the people I love.
  
• The smell of fall.
  
• Finding candy I'd forgotten about.
  
• Feeling my baby kick.
  
• The smells of Black & Milds and clove cigarettes.
  
• Knowing the secret languages of my friendships - i.e that Lisey and M hate bouncies and knowing all of Mia's 10-cent abominable words.
  
• Handmade clothes and accessories.
  
• When my husband rubs my fat, pregnant belly.
  
• Chiclets out of a gumball machine.
  
• When gay men hold hands unashamedly in public.
  
• Calling an old friend and saying, 'It's me' and she knows exactly who it is.
  
• My Channel Surfers hoodie.
  
• Waking up to find my cat Zeus asleep and spooning with me with his head resting in the crook of my arm.
  
• Asymmetrical art.
  
• When I bring my husband peanut butter no-bake cookies from the grocery store and he gets really excited about it.
  
• Hearing homeless J on the radio.
  
• Every time Locke doesn't let Jack tell him what to do on LOST.
  
• When my sister makes me laugh really hard and my mother gives us that look that says, "Guess it must be a sister thing".
  
• Coins from foreign countries.
  
• Hearing a reference to classic literature and knowing the story it came from.
  
• Runts Easter Egg candies.
  
• Getting handwritten notes from my grandma in the mail.
  
• Giving away something I made by hand.
  

Hops!

I apologize, but this post will probably not be humorous in any way, shape, or form. Before you give up and wander onto another blog that will entertain you more, at least give me the chance to explain myself.


You see, I have been growing hops. Apparently, this is something of a novelty as every person who comes over to my house is greatly impressed by the hops. Now that I think of it, I'm the only person I've ever known with a hop garden. So today I decided I would tell you a little story about the creation of the hop garden, show you a few pictures, wish you a happy Labor Day, and go on about my weekend. No harm, no foul.


Once upon a time my friend J decided it would be fun to brew beer. We all heartily agreed that this was a good idea and happily sipped away at the confections that were coming out of J's house. Unfortunately, hops cost money. Apparently they're going for something like $40 a pound at the moment. J had the brilliant idea of growing hops ourselves. There was just one problem: he leaves town for months at a time due to his occupation and wasn't going to be here to plant, tend to, or harvest hops this summer. We figured this pretty much prohibited J's growing any hops as they generally have to be planted, tended to, and harvested to do anyone any good.

However, I do happen to have a little garden out back. And I do happen to like it that J brews his own beer. And I also happen to think $40 a pound is a little excessive. And so, the great hop garden was born. J ordered 2 hop roots, D constructed 2 lattice structures for the hops to grow up, and I sat around and watched all of this until it was time to plant the little guys. We've had mixed results. Unfortunately, the fuggle hop root completely bit the dust. It wasn't growing and wasn't growing and wasn't growing.... when I decided to dig it up and take a look at it, I couldn't even find the root. Sad day. However, our cascade hop root took off and has provided us with a good deal of hops. I don't have our final tally, but I'm hoping to have saved J $20 in hop fees this year. Since many people have never seen a real, live hop plant, I decided to take some pictures and show you what they look like.

The green, vine-y looking plant growing up that lattice is the hop plant. The lattice we have is 8 feet tall. From what I've read, the hops can grow 12 feet up and 25 feet out. Mine really didn't grow out, just up.

Here are the actual hop fruits/flowers. The green pinecone-looking things are what actually gets used for brewing. They are surprisingly light - not thick and heavy like pinecones would be. They're mostly made up of little tiny leaves all over. I've picked about a mixing bowl full and am drying some right now. J says that once they're dry all I have to do is freeze them and wait for him to come home.

Hops are what gives beer its bitter flavor. As you may have guessed, very bitter beers have more hops and less bitter beers have less hops. J has also informed me that some hops are used for flavor and some more for aroma. The hops that died on me were aroma hops (I think) and the ones that grew were flavor hops (again, I think - I could have gotten it mixed up). I'm going to keep picking them until frost when I plan to just cut the whole plant down and take what I can get. The plant will grow back next year (bonus!) and provide us with even more hops. Yea!

So, there it is! Your useless information station has provided you with a short little lesson on hops. Use it to impress your friends and loved ones!

Big Ass Problem with this Big Ass Ad

So..... a magazine came to my workplace. Common enough, right? And there was a full page ad on the back of the magazine. Again, common enough. Humor me and read the whole ad, right down to the very bottom.

Erm, who named their company BIG ASS FANS? And then who thought it would be a good idea to put the words 'hard to reach places' and 'big ass' in the same ad with pictures of giant rotating fans?

Words escape me at the moment.