How to have a really quality pity party...
Step 1) Don't invite anyone. Not only do you not want witnesses, but you also don't want the possibility of having someone cheer you up. That is NOT the point of a pity party. Unplug your phone, too. There's nothing like being interrupted by Mom in the middle of a really good pout.
Step 2) Pick a good day for your party-- like Mother's Day if you don't have kids, or Earth Day if you live in a big stinky city... I picked early February because I'm single, not currently dating anyone, and those damn pink-and-red displays are EVERY-FUGGING-WHERE!!
Step 3) Stop at the store on your way home from work on the day of the party. If you've had a really shittastrophic day at work, and are coming home later than usual, so much the better. While at the store, assume an expression that says, "If you bother me, I will hurt you, and then I will cry." Try to look as wan as possible while wandering aimlessly through the store. It helps if you forget to grab a cart, too. Grab whatever you think will make you feel better, and don't forget the magazine aisle, the jewelry counter, the fuzzy PJ's, the freezer section, the candy aisles, the wine and beer section, the specialty cheeses, something really garlicky, and the food. Allow yourself to feel even more depressed by the gargantuan bill at the cash register-- you just blew half your rent money, isn't that great!
Step 4) Make sure you haven't gotten enough sleep for several nights in a row. This adds to the drama and anxiety necessary for a truly successful pity party. Personally, I just worked a ten hour day (plus an hour's drive time on each end), I smell and feel like melon-orange baby poo-- there may even be some on my socks, and I haven't slept more than five or six hours a night for about two weeks now, courtesy of my delightful little kitty cat, who thinks 4am is WAY too late for anyone to be in bed-- especially when they could be petting her! (And she has been ignoring my usual methods of saying "no" between the hours of 2-5am... like throwing shoes and yelling unintelligibly.)
Step 5) When you get home, put on a sexy top-- preferably with a pithy saying on it, and then pull your hair back in one of those clips that leaves lots of weird strands sticking up at the back of your head, and straggling oily wisps sticking to your forehead. That way, when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, you can feel both depressed that you can look that good and still not be getting any and, conversely, be depressed at how un-sexy you look even when you 'try.' Remember, you still smell like baby poo anyway. (My sexy tank top says "ALLRIGHTYTHEN" on it, and has lace straps.)
Step 6) Finally, put the most corny romance movie you can get your hands on in your DVD player, and crank up the volume. Maybe, if you're lucky, your cute young neighbors will be so annoyed by this that they will actually knock on your door to ask you to turn down that DRIVEL... and will thus get to see (and smell) you in all your self-pitying glory, and start to giggle uncontrollably. Wouldn't that just make your day complete?!
Any Questions?
STOP BOTHERING ME!! Just stand still for a minute while I cock my fist... and grab a kleenex... sniff....sniff... You ASSOLE! Who invited you, anyway?! (Thanks, I actually feel much better now.)
Friday, February 9
Thursday, February 8
Oh, Please, Sir!
I recently had reason to reminisce about my life as an Army Wife. As thinking about the pain and isolation of the year that my then husband was deployed to Iraq is still painful and upsetting... I tried to think further back-- back to when the irrational reality of The Right Way, The Wrong Way, and The Army Way could be laughed about... and I started thinking about that pizza box, and about all the stone buildings at the Post that is West Poignt on the Hudson. I realized that most of my experiences there fell into one of three categories-- stone, iron, or brass. Stone buildings. Dumb as a stone. Iron cannons from every war America ever fought in, and possibly a few we didn't. Iron-tough men with no emotions and no originality. Then I started thinking about brass... and here is what I thought:
I have always wanted to understand any organized activity before I took part in it, and so it was with my future plans to become an officer's wife-- a soldier's wife-- married to the military. So, my patient fiance was asked to explain each term he used that I'd never heard before ("What the heck do you mean, the spiders are barking?!"), and the reason for each rule or social expectation or tradition in which we took part. ("So... you don't want them to know when your birthday is because you people celebrate birthdays by getting tarred and feathered, and carried around Post naked in a laundry hamper... what the HELL?!")
(This might also be a good time to tell you about the bizarre USMA tradition called "doing the Naked Man." It is the accepted high-brow version of howling at the moon. It's 11pm, after lights out, and you have spent the last four nights frantically writing your final term paper by the flickering light of your computer screen. It is due by 7 am tomorrow morning. Your computer just crashed, and the "gold-coats" --aka technical support-- are not available to help you until sometime next month. Great. Perfect. Ya know, while my life is going down the toilet anyway, I might as well do a Naked Man. So, you strip naked, grab a flashlight, and begin to run around outside, in a predetermined and traditional square pattern. This most often occurs in winter and after dark, to the cat-calls and jeering encouragement of your fellow cadets of both genders, who helpfully shine flashlights and other torches on you and the ground in front of you as you run, so that everything can be clearly seen. You can't graduate WP without doing the Naked Man at least once. And then there are the guys who find that public exposure is really their thing. There has been quite a bit of statistical analysis done on how many times you can do a Naked Man before the odds are no longer in your favor of not getting caught.
Sometimes it's even done in packs. The more participants, the greater the risk, and the more fun, apparently. The big challenge is to get around BOTH QUADRANTS of barracks and back to your room, and put your clothes on before the authorities can catch you. If they don't catch you with your clothes off, they can't punish you. And I mean CATCH you. Some of the best stories to come out of that bastion of honorable decorum have been about close calls for those brave and intrepid souls who dared to do a Naked Man before dark, and almost got caught. It's even been done by a few of the female cadets there, but not by anybody I know, of course.)
Thus it was that, come the great Ring Weekend, I knew what was really going on. I knew why we weren't allowed to go down into the knoll where the juniors (the "cows") were seated, receiving their class rings-- and all those of us parents, girlfriends, and family who'd come all the way here to witness it (and feast and dance after) had to stand around in 95* weather and strain our eyes to see all the little white-uniformed cadets running around performing arcane and unintelligible rituals. I knew that once they received their rings, there would be an insane and nefarious tradition in which freshmen are allowed to harass the WP ring recipients, so long as they do so in the traditional format:
Groups of Plebes (freshmen) run around cornering the soon-to-be-seniors in the two hours immediately following the ceremony, and quote a memorized historical poem about wanting to touch the ring-- the amazing and shiny new ring that means they are going to graduate from that pie-in-the-sky institution known as West Poignt. And the ring-wearing cadets must stand there as each person quotes the poem, and then he or she must let them touch or kiss it. It's like going on safari at Dinosaur Island, and watching the little mad packs of flesh-eating Deinonychuses hunt down and devour their much larger prey. These newer cadets have saved up months and years of silently accepted abuse from these same individuals, and NOW is finally their chance to give a little back. And they do it with GUSTO!
The other tradition was that you just HAD to have a girlfriend for the big Ring Dance-- and although the girlfriend (or your blind date for the weekend, as was often the case) thinks that what is being commented upon and rated by your fellow cadets all evening is the new ring sitting on your finger... it's actually the qualities of the girl hanging on your arm that are being discussed. Right in front of her. Some guys even make it a contest to see who can get the ugliest or least appealing date for this event. I was not amused. Talk about brass!
So, to commemorate all those poor innocent (and not so innocent) women who have gone through the ritual hazing of Ring Weekend, and never even knew it, here is a short quote from the traditional ring poem... One that always makes me laugh as I think of all these desperately heterosexual men grabbing onto each other in tight, sweaty little groups, and begging to get a turn at handling what has essentially become a symbol of his manhood. (By the way, I have no idea how I got this whole underlining thing to happen, and I can't turn it off, but that's okay because this is a commemoration of a time-honored and highly anticipated yearly event.)
I have always wanted to understand any organized activity before I took part in it, and so it was with my future plans to become an officer's wife-- a soldier's wife-- married to the military. So, my patient fiance was asked to explain each term he used that I'd never heard before ("What the heck do you mean, the spiders are barking?!"), and the reason for each rule or social expectation or tradition in which we took part. ("So... you don't want them to know when your birthday is because you people celebrate birthdays by getting tarred and feathered, and carried around Post naked in a laundry hamper... what the HELL?!")
(This might also be a good time to tell you about the bizarre USMA tradition called "doing the Naked Man." It is the accepted high-brow version of howling at the moon. It's 11pm, after lights out, and you have spent the last four nights frantically writing your final term paper by the flickering light of your computer screen. It is due by 7 am tomorrow morning. Your computer just crashed, and the "gold-coats" --aka technical support-- are not available to help you until sometime next month. Great. Perfect. Ya know, while my life is going down the toilet anyway, I might as well do a Naked Man. So, you strip naked, grab a flashlight, and begin to run around outside, in a predetermined and traditional square pattern. This most often occurs in winter and after dark, to the cat-calls and jeering encouragement of your fellow cadets of both genders, who helpfully shine flashlights and other torches on you and the ground in front of you as you run, so that everything can be clearly seen. You can't graduate WP without doing the Naked Man at least once. And then there are the guys who find that public exposure is really their thing. There has been quite a bit of statistical analysis done on how many times you can do a Naked Man before the odds are no longer in your favor of not getting caught.
Sometimes it's even done in packs. The more participants, the greater the risk, and the more fun, apparently. The big challenge is to get around BOTH QUADRANTS of barracks and back to your room, and put your clothes on before the authorities can catch you. If they don't catch you with your clothes off, they can't punish you. And I mean CATCH you. Some of the best stories to come out of that bastion of honorable decorum have been about close calls for those brave and intrepid souls who dared to do a Naked Man before dark, and almost got caught. It's even been done by a few of the female cadets there, but not by anybody I know, of course.)
Thus it was that, come the great Ring Weekend, I knew what was really going on. I knew why we weren't allowed to go down into the knoll where the juniors (the "cows") were seated, receiving their class rings-- and all those of us parents, girlfriends, and family who'd come all the way here to witness it (and feast and dance after) had to stand around in 95* weather and strain our eyes to see all the little white-uniformed cadets running around performing arcane and unintelligible rituals. I knew that once they received their rings, there would be an insane and nefarious tradition in which freshmen are allowed to harass the WP ring recipients, so long as they do so in the traditional format:
Groups of Plebes (freshmen) run around cornering the soon-to-be-seniors in the two hours immediately following the ceremony, and quote a memorized historical poem about wanting to touch the ring-- the amazing and shiny new ring that means they are going to graduate from that pie-in-the-sky institution known as West Poignt. And the ring-wearing cadets must stand there as each person quotes the poem, and then he or she must let them touch or kiss it. It's like going on safari at Dinosaur Island, and watching the little mad packs of flesh-eating Deinonychuses hunt down and devour their much larger prey. These newer cadets have saved up months and years of silently accepted abuse from these same individuals, and NOW is finally their chance to give a little back. And they do it with GUSTO!
The other tradition was that you just HAD to have a girlfriend for the big Ring Dance-- and although the girlfriend (or your blind date for the weekend, as was often the case) thinks that what is being commented upon and rated by your fellow cadets all evening is the new ring sitting on your finger... it's actually the qualities of the girl hanging on your arm that are being discussed. Right in front of her. Some guys even make it a contest to see who can get the ugliest or least appealing date for this event. I was not amused. Talk about brass!
So, to commemorate all those poor innocent (and not so innocent) women who have gone through the ritual hazing of Ring Weekend, and never even knew it, here is a short quote from the traditional ring poem... One that always makes me laugh as I think of all these desperately heterosexual men grabbing onto each other in tight, sweaty little groups, and begging to get a turn at handling what has essentially become a symbol of his manhood. (By the way, I have no idea how I got this whole underlining thing to happen, and I can't turn it off, but that's okay because this is a commemoration of a time-honored and highly anticipated yearly event.)
Oh, what a crass mass of brass and glass...
That cool jewel that makes me drool...
Oh, please, Sir, May I touch it? May I touch it, please?
That cool jewel that makes me drool...
Oh, please, Sir, May I touch it? May I touch it, please?
Monday, February 5
Leverage, Says You
I've moved around a lot in my lifetime. Not as much as some folks I know, and mostly in the Northwest, I'll grant you. But... (I'm counting)... I moved five times last year alone... and ten times before that-- not including college. Everyone moves around during college.
This year, I managed a first. In the one month this year has existed, no less. I moved without being aware of it. Yes. I find that impressive. In fact, it was this weird little 21 year old banker at my local branch (who kept saying "Score Team!" whenever he entered info into a field on the computer, and it stayed there) who informed me of the change. Apparently, I've not only changed zip codes, but I'm now in a different town as well. The post office has just been nice about forwarding my mail for the past few months, apparently, because they are nice like that. (And yet, nobody TOLD me that I MOVED! I guess some things are supposed to be self-evident. I haven't even noticed any extra boxes sitting around!) I still don't know what this will mean for my taxes, either. But, I'm a veteran when it comes to moving. I know enough not to panic for the first few months if I can't find my bank statement or my birthday gifts are delivered in person (a few months after the fact) because it's just easier that way. Not a problem.
(As a side note, my cat has now given up her attempts to physically move my fingers from the keyboard with one paw, and down onto HER, where she believes they'll be much more useful, and is now informing me that it's cold in here. She does this by sitting very primly in front of the only heater in the living room. RIGHT IN FRONT OF IT. Shrinking in upon herself. Because she knows this is usually the warmest spot in the house, and it's NOT. So I've given in to peer pressure, and turned on the heat. As soon as she felt the warm spot get warm, she relaxed her posture, and started washing her paws. Success! Those big idiots can be TAUGHT!! I hope to feel the same way about my govergnment someday.)
Apparently, the part of town I was living in got too big, and had to be annexed. Rather than just giving us a new zip code, they decided instead to give us to a smaller neighboring town. How sweet. Is it legal to give my home to someone else without my consent? It is if my taxes are lower as a result, that's for sure.
Taxes. I went to a poetry reading over the weekend. Well, actually, I went to the 18th Annual International African-American Read-In at one of my local libraries. How it can be African-American AND international, I have no idea, but they did it. And it was an excellent event. I'm planning to keep an eye out so I can attend again next year. One of the speakers was a Ms. Alicia Jackson. She read a poem she'd written, and I LOVE IT. I want a copy of it. I just don't know if it's in print yet. All about how the world is... in her mind's eye... with everybody making enough money, no taxes (since we didn't make the mess we're paying for anyway) and children in all countries with food, shelter, safety and love, and reports from the governmgent you can trust, institutions to Educate, and not to Incarcerate, no drunk drivers with multiple warnings who just go out and do it again, and so on... But how that's not real. It's not the world we live in right now. It was a beautiful poem, well-read, and an appropriate reminder that there is always work for us to do, bringing our dreams for ourselves and our children and neighbors and friends into reality.
It's this annual worry about taxes that reminded me. Another civic duty. One so totally disconnected from our actual choices of leadership and interactions with our governing body's adopted laws, and hands-on volunteer efforts to make a difference on this earth, that most of us don't even connect the two in our minds anymore. We pay taxes because we make decisions about where the money goes... through voting. It's not just because we have to pay even more money later if we don't pay it now, and Big Brogther is Watching.
I don't feel the connection anymore. America is too big, too ruled by the politics of corporations and money lenders, the computer programmers and ballot counters too biased, and the whole system too unwieldy for me to believe that I actually make a difference by casting my one little vote. I think we, the people, have more voice by rioting in the streets en mass than we do by voting sometimes. But I still vote. Because just maybe, someday, some of what I see in my mind's eye will exist when I open my eyes, too. And I'd like to be a part of that.
Had an interesting conversation with a good friend about Social Segcurity today. Somehow, of the vast majority of people I've spoken with in my generation... none of us believe we'll see any Social Security payments in our lifetimes. We know the SS taxes we pay this year will go directly to pay the dues owed our grandparents and the older retirees, THIS YEAR. We know that the current average life expectancy of a woman is 97. We know our parents-- the Baby Boomer generation-- will probably see that age. Most of them. And that most of them, who saved for retirement at all, were on the "we'll live about 20 years after we retire" plan. Because back when they were my age, that was the life expectancy... about 82. Even life insurance plans don't go past age 99. There hasn't ever been any point to doing so before.
So how will they live out those last twenty years? They'll use Medicare and Medicaid, and Social Security, and loans and credit cards and second mortgages if they can. There aren't as many workers in the coming generations-- a terrible ratio between the working and the retired that does not bode well for any SS financial reserves or even any direct payments to be left for us gen-Xers, and those in the surrounding generations. (I'm not actually sure what mine is called...) So we all know how important it is to save for our own retirements. And none of us expect to stop working at age 60 or 62 or 65. We'll only be middle aged by then. Heck, my parents took up kayaking at age 60! They aren't old. No way! ... so I know when their retirement money runs out, there had better be an extra room on the ground floor with their name on the door, and a bathroom they can use down the hall. They aren't leaving this world any time soon, and I'm glad of it. (They would be horrified if they knew I plan on this happening. On them moving in with me. They are independent and capable right now. And they have planned for retirement. I think they just still look at it the way they did when they first started saving. And they don't want me to feel obligated to them in their old age. I don't as such... but with love comes responsibility, and it is not a choice they can make for me. So I borrow house plans with mother-in-law suites from the library, and ask about their latest boating trip on the phone.)
We are making more amenities and programs and resources available to our retirees because they have leverage. They are a large and growing group in our population, and they have special needs. "Leverage, says you... I feel a change in the wind, says I." (Quoting a pirate, for all that I don't believe those who fall behind should be left behind. What kind of social morals are those? ...And do we want to risk actually being one of the ones falling behind some day?)
You see, there is a ray of hope in this, if you can call it that. First, we all see it coming, so we have time to prepare. And second, the younger generations-- kids in 4th and 5th grade-- they have actually got a SHORTER life expectancy. The first generation of kids who can expect to live shorter lives than their parents and grandparents did. At that point, when they retire, SS probably won't kick in until they are about 75 or 80 anyway, and by then... most of them will already be dead from cancer or growth hormones or apathy or asthma or aids or diabetes or chronic obesity or chronic depression. Heck, half of the coming generations will probably be BORN with these challenges... and many of them won't be able to work at all ever anyway-- so again, Social Secgurity as it stands would be a moot point.
So what is our government doing to ensure that there is a new and more adequate plan in place to answer the swelling medical needs of our country? To deal with the aftermath of changing everything to cater to the retiring Boomers as we are struggling to do now... and having those changes to the system still in place after those boomers are gone, when the population of America suddenly decreases dramatically... but for the incoming swells of people with dreams, born in other countries, and needing health care and unemployment insurance just like the rest of us humans? How will we care for the ill, the homeless, those unable to hold or work a job, the multitudes of our men and women who are mentally and physically ill from the wars or from toxic work environments? How will we stem the increasing proclivity of our youth to rely on credit cards and bank loans for income and for unexpected expenses like hospitalization and pregnancy?
I don't know. But I keep voting, and closing my eyes to see the world I want to live in, and paying those taxes anyway. I don't want my parents to be homeless one day either, and I'm willing to pay into a government program to keep that from happening. Call it social security if you want.
This year, I managed a first. In the one month this year has existed, no less. I moved without being aware of it. Yes. I find that impressive. In fact, it was this weird little 21 year old banker at my local branch (who kept saying "Score Team!" whenever he entered info into a field on the computer, and it stayed there) who informed me of the change. Apparently, I've not only changed zip codes, but I'm now in a different town as well. The post office has just been nice about forwarding my mail for the past few months, apparently, because they are nice like that. (And yet, nobody TOLD me that I MOVED! I guess some things are supposed to be self-evident. I haven't even noticed any extra boxes sitting around!) I still don't know what this will mean for my taxes, either. But, I'm a veteran when it comes to moving. I know enough not to panic for the first few months if I can't find my bank statement or my birthday gifts are delivered in person (a few months after the fact) because it's just easier that way. Not a problem.
(As a side note, my cat has now given up her attempts to physically move my fingers from the keyboard with one paw, and down onto HER, where she believes they'll be much more useful, and is now informing me that it's cold in here. She does this by sitting very primly in front of the only heater in the living room. RIGHT IN FRONT OF IT. Shrinking in upon herself. Because she knows this is usually the warmest spot in the house, and it's NOT. So I've given in to peer pressure, and turned on the heat. As soon as she felt the warm spot get warm, she relaxed her posture, and started washing her paws. Success! Those big idiots can be TAUGHT!! I hope to feel the same way about my govergnment someday.)
Apparently, the part of town I was living in got too big, and had to be annexed. Rather than just giving us a new zip code, they decided instead to give us to a smaller neighboring town. How sweet. Is it legal to give my home to someone else without my consent? It is if my taxes are lower as a result, that's for sure.
Taxes. I went to a poetry reading over the weekend. Well, actually, I went to the 18th Annual International African-American Read-In at one of my local libraries. How it can be African-American AND international, I have no idea, but they did it. And it was an excellent event. I'm planning to keep an eye out so I can attend again next year. One of the speakers was a Ms. Alicia Jackson. She read a poem she'd written, and I LOVE IT. I want a copy of it. I just don't know if it's in print yet. All about how the world is... in her mind's eye... with everybody making enough money, no taxes (since we didn't make the mess we're paying for anyway) and children in all countries with food, shelter, safety and love, and reports from the governmgent you can trust, institutions to Educate, and not to Incarcerate, no drunk drivers with multiple warnings who just go out and do it again, and so on... But how that's not real. It's not the world we live in right now. It was a beautiful poem, well-read, and an appropriate reminder that there is always work for us to do, bringing our dreams for ourselves and our children and neighbors and friends into reality.
It's this annual worry about taxes that reminded me. Another civic duty. One so totally disconnected from our actual choices of leadership and interactions with our governing body's adopted laws, and hands-on volunteer efforts to make a difference on this earth, that most of us don't even connect the two in our minds anymore. We pay taxes because we make decisions about where the money goes... through voting. It's not just because we have to pay even more money later if we don't pay it now, and Big Brogther is Watching.
I don't feel the connection anymore. America is too big, too ruled by the politics of corporations and money lenders, the computer programmers and ballot counters too biased, and the whole system too unwieldy for me to believe that I actually make a difference by casting my one little vote. I think we, the people, have more voice by rioting in the streets en mass than we do by voting sometimes. But I still vote. Because just maybe, someday, some of what I see in my mind's eye will exist when I open my eyes, too. And I'd like to be a part of that.
Had an interesting conversation with a good friend about Social Segcurity today. Somehow, of the vast majority of people I've spoken with in my generation... none of us believe we'll see any Social Security payments in our lifetimes. We know the SS taxes we pay this year will go directly to pay the dues owed our grandparents and the older retirees, THIS YEAR. We know that the current average life expectancy of a woman is 97. We know our parents-- the Baby Boomer generation-- will probably see that age. Most of them. And that most of them, who saved for retirement at all, were on the "we'll live about 20 years after we retire" plan. Because back when they were my age, that was the life expectancy... about 82. Even life insurance plans don't go past age 99. There hasn't ever been any point to doing so before.
So how will they live out those last twenty years? They'll use Medicare and Medicaid, and Social Security, and loans and credit cards and second mortgages if they can. There aren't as many workers in the coming generations-- a terrible ratio between the working and the retired that does not bode well for any SS financial reserves or even any direct payments to be left for us gen-Xers, and those in the surrounding generations. (I'm not actually sure what mine is called...) So we all know how important it is to save for our own retirements. And none of us expect to stop working at age 60 or 62 or 65. We'll only be middle aged by then. Heck, my parents took up kayaking at age 60! They aren't old. No way! ... so I know when their retirement money runs out, there had better be an extra room on the ground floor with their name on the door, and a bathroom they can use down the hall. They aren't leaving this world any time soon, and I'm glad of it. (They would be horrified if they knew I plan on this happening. On them moving in with me. They are independent and capable right now. And they have planned for retirement. I think they just still look at it the way they did when they first started saving. And they don't want me to feel obligated to them in their old age. I don't as such... but with love comes responsibility, and it is not a choice they can make for me. So I borrow house plans with mother-in-law suites from the library, and ask about their latest boating trip on the phone.)
We are making more amenities and programs and resources available to our retirees because they have leverage. They are a large and growing group in our population, and they have special needs. "Leverage, says you... I feel a change in the wind, says I." (Quoting a pirate, for all that I don't believe those who fall behind should be left behind. What kind of social morals are those? ...And do we want to risk actually being one of the ones falling behind some day?)
You see, there is a ray of hope in this, if you can call it that. First, we all see it coming, so we have time to prepare. And second, the younger generations-- kids in 4th and 5th grade-- they have actually got a SHORTER life expectancy. The first generation of kids who can expect to live shorter lives than their parents and grandparents did. At that point, when they retire, SS probably won't kick in until they are about 75 or 80 anyway, and by then... most of them will already be dead from cancer or growth hormones or apathy or asthma or aids or diabetes or chronic obesity or chronic depression. Heck, half of the coming generations will probably be BORN with these challenges... and many of them won't be able to work at all ever anyway-- so again, Social Secgurity as it stands would be a moot point.
So what is our government doing to ensure that there is a new and more adequate plan in place to answer the swelling medical needs of our country? To deal with the aftermath of changing everything to cater to the retiring Boomers as we are struggling to do now... and having those changes to the system still in place after those boomers are gone, when the population of America suddenly decreases dramatically... but for the incoming swells of people with dreams, born in other countries, and needing health care and unemployment insurance just like the rest of us humans? How will we care for the ill, the homeless, those unable to hold or work a job, the multitudes of our men and women who are mentally and physically ill from the wars or from toxic work environments? How will we stem the increasing proclivity of our youth to rely on credit cards and bank loans for income and for unexpected expenses like hospitalization and pregnancy?
I don't know. But I keep voting, and closing my eyes to see the world I want to live in, and paying those taxes anyway. I don't want my parents to be homeless one day either, and I'm willing to pay into a government program to keep that from happening. Call it social security if you want.
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