Register To Vote, No ID Required

Because I was living in both NorCal and NorCaro, and because I wasn’t sure where I was registered to vote, and because I wanted to be careful not to accidentally cast a presidential ballot for The Cackler, I didn’t vote at all.

Last week I went out Low Gap Road to check on my status. It was not a surprise there were no long lines, or short ones, in voter registration; it’s a county office, y’understand. The lady was pleasant, efficient, asked me a few questions and gave me a form to fill out.

It was a long sheet with boxes to check, kinda like what you fill out at the doctor’s office but without having to lie about your daily alcohol consumption. I signed at the bottom and the nice lady tore off a small receipt stub and thanked me for coming by.

And I thought: Doesn’t she need to see a valid ID?

So I said: Don’t you need to see a valid ID?

“Oh no,” she said. “We have a copy of your signature on file. No ID necessary.” Well okay then!

As I left the big office I looked around. It has eight or ten desks on the floor, a series of private offices at the back, plus a fair number of female employees. I saw zero men.

I suppose that’s typical of most government agencies, including offices in the city of Ukiah and the other hives in the county.

But why? It can’t be talent or training or aptitude. That narrows it down to either discrimination or something I haven’t yet thought of. Either is possible, and at least one is illegal.

My New Car

Now that we are back among the walking living in Ukiah I decided I need a car, so I went out and got one.

It’s a used (2018) Ford and having spent perhaps 30 total minutes at the wheel I am completely certain that:

1) The car is smarter than me.

2) The car is better looking than me.

3) But my car is a hybrid so I can run faster than it.

It came with the original owner’s manual of more than 500 pages. That “five hundred” thingie is not a typo. When did you last read anything half that long? Only reading I’ve done that was close was the pre-nuptial agreement the wife made me sign many years ago.

Exciting stuff! The yacht, the house in Florence, the cubic feet of jewelry!

I should have had her sign one; I’d hate to be forced to give up my favorite baseball, the one signed by all the Cleveland Indians in 1961.

Any Coat In A Storm

There’s a good organization on the south side of Cherry Street that does plenty in helping put clothes on the backs of locals with wardrobe deficits.

Trophy the wife loaded up a big white plastic bag full of women’s clothing and had me drop it off. That I did, hauling the bag through a side door, into a laundry room and the waiting arms of a couple friendly women.

They opened the bag, took a deep sniff and handed it back. “Cigarette smoke. We won’t take anything that smells of cigarettes.”

And I wondered. I wondered what some underdressed woman standing in the cold and rain would think of having a warm winter coat, even if it suffered of Marlboro fumes.

It’s a policy that might be relaxed, or a new policy enacted where every donation gets run through the laundry.

Maybe not the mink coats or the Dolce and Gabbana evening gowns, but all the rest could spend an hour in the suds, then to the clothes rack.

Next stop: A wet, cold, coatless person.

Great Dog Option

Everyone, almost, should have a dog but a lot of people have legitimate reasons not to have one. I get it.

Oh, we’re too old, or Gee, we want to travel, or Golly, our house is too small. Whatever.

Out on West Clay Street the neighbors seem to have collectively and perhaps unwittingly come up a fine compromise of a sharing system. Although someone over there owns the dog, you could hardly tell by Blondie’s laissez faire approach to life.

Blondie is a good-looking gal of a certain age and doganality. She’s a quiet roamer who doesn’t stray far from home, whichever house that is. But the local folks look out for Blondie, and she pays them back with frequent unscheduled visits, and they pay her back with biscuits and treats, and she pays them back by not overstaying her welcome, and they pay her back by making sure she always feels welcome.

So there’s no need to worry about getting old or a vacation to Cleveland or the square footage in your home. All you have to do is buy a place on West Clay and wait for Blondie to come around.