Census and Sensibility

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Have you all filled out and returned your census forms to indicate that you are a family of 4.37 with an incontinent pug, a cat with three legs, and a lizard that went missing last Christmas, though it may still be living in the walls of your family room, so it may merit including in the family total? I’ve done mine. Why am I reminding you?

I’m practicing. I have a job as a census enumerator. They called me today.

What’s that you say?
Does the blue, green, and white mold growing on the macaroni salad from Easter that’s still in your refrigerator count as a life form and as a subsequent family member?
I’ll ask when I attend the four-day training session at the end of the month, but I don’t think so; however, you might be able to count the gentleman friend of Aunt Flo’s who came for Easter dinner with her and is still sleeping on your couch in the living room. By the way, you might want to check for a pulse.

During “Curb Your Enthusiasm” but before I went to the gym to avoid the after-Curb-Your-Enthusiasm episode of “Law & Order,” the phone rang. Not feeling like answering the phone and hearing the CVS robot voice announce an available prescription or the Waste Management robot voice proclaim that my trash collection next week would not be interrupted by the Patriot’s Day holiday on Monday, I let the answering machine pick up.

A man with a very commanding and deep voice started to speak. I thought, “Oh, another robot voice!” When the voice said, “You took the Enumerator test, and we’d like to know if you’re still interested in the position,” I ran to the phone and pressed the Talk button.

He seemed a surprised when I said, “Hello?! Hello?!” I was hoping I sounded like I had just come in from a 10-mile run and not like I had made a mad dash from the sofa after flinging the remote control down. He began to repeat the information that he had left thus far on his answering machine message, and then he said he needed to ask me a few questions.

Since this was a “federal” job, I was hoping the questions weren’t going to be too invasive like the last time I met with the Lovelies. I entered the party, and before I could get my coat off, I was asked, “When was the first time you had sex?” I looked around quickly, because I thought for a moment that I had entered the wrong party, but after visually identifying the usual suspects, I laughed out loud.

He asked, “You will have to ask people their age, their race, and how much they make. Are you comfortable with that?” I said I was; however, I lied. I hate asking people their age. When I dare to ask, they usually say, “Oh, guess how old I am!” and I always make them older than they really are!

He asked, “You will have to go into many different kinds of neighborhoods. Are you comfortable with that?” I almost laughed. Different kinds of neighborhoods? I wasn’t sure if he was implying I might need to carry a concealed weapon or that I should make sure I left my credit cards at home in case I hit a an abfab shopping area.

He asked, “You will go to multi-family homes where there will be stairs and perhaps have to take elevators. Are you comfortable with that?” I wanted to say, “Dude, I bike and run. Send me to Robinson Crusoe’s house if he hasn’t filled out his census yet, because I can make it to that island, scale those palm trees, swing by a vine, and knock on the front door of his tree house!” But, I said, “Yes.”

He asked, “Do you have a valid driver’s license and a car?” I must have paused when I heard that question, and then I answered, “Yes!” He said, “You’d be surprised at how many people say no to that one.”

When the conversation came to the end, he told me that the training would take place over four days during the last week of this month. He said, “When you come to the training, you need to bring a check for direct deposit, two forms of ID, and you will be fingerprinted because this is a federal job.” Most would cringe at “fingerprinted.” Being a CSI and Law & Order junkie, I said, “Cool!”

He laughed and said, “Yes. You’ll have the black finger tips.” I said, “Not a problem.” Of course, I had never been fingerprinted, though you all know how much I love a good crime scene. In a way, the census was letting me live a life of crime without committing any crime, and they were going to pay me $18.50 an hour and give me 50 cents a mile for driving my car!

I told one of my friends that I was now an Enumerator, which should in no way be confused with a Common Denominator. He said, “It’s a job.” He was right; because I knew it was a job, too.

It was not my job though. It could be my job temporarily if unemployment benefits were willing. Half of me wanted to bike away the next three months and continue to look for my baby (i.e., the job I am supposed to have)* and then half of me wanted to walk the streets of my community, because I longed for work, camaraderie, and a paycheck that I had earned.

*Whenever I experience the loss of a job opportunity, I say to myself, “That’s not my job.” When I say that, I am always reminded of an episode of Sex in the City that I loved.

Charlotte: [hearing the front door open] Hi, honey. I'm a bad wife. I ordered Chinese.
Harry: I got something from China, too. They're giving us a baby.
Charlotte: What? How?
Harry: I guess God remembered our address. We get her in six months... and here she is.
[hands Charlotte a photo of the baby]
Charlotte: [smiling through tears] That's our baby. I know it. That's really our baby!

Today, I am an Enumerator. Tomorrow, I hope to find my baby. Some day my job will come, and when it does, I hope it’s similar to this one, one which I am applying for. ♥

Happy Weekend! ♥