It took us a few days to get to the census. As I said previously, we aren't good at doing things, and we especially aren't good at doing things together, because although we have parallel lives, we have completely different schedules. But yesterday, the stars aligned, the kitchen table was cleared of its usual clutter, and I flopped the big newsprint survey down and got to work.
The first few questions are easy. What is today's date? What is your name? How many people live at this address? Over the next few pages, Josh and I are transformed from two complex writer-types with hobbies and interests diverse and varied into Person 1 (me) and Person 2 (Josh.) The survey gives us plenty of room for other housemates (10 more, I think, and if we need to, we can call for any other residents in excess of a dozen) and I ponder, for a moment, how much trouble we'd be in if we claimed Jesus and Moxie as roommates. Probably a lot.
In any case, filling out the survey gives me a profound sense of accomplishment. I breeze through the brief profile of Persons 1 and 2, and get to skip several pages because we don't have children or other roommates. I'm cooking with the proverbial gas.
There's a whole section about the house. Do we rent or own? Is there hot and cold water? A flush toilet? A bathtub or shower? A sink with a faucet? A stove or range? A refrigerator? Telephone service from which you can receive or make calls? I pause here to think about the kind of housing one must have to answer no to all of these questions. Are there people, for example, who are paying rent on apartments without flush toilets? The census leads me to believe that there are, and I say a quick prayer of thanks to the Great Panda for providing me with such thoroughly adequate housing.
But then things get complicated, and quick. What is Person 1's ancestry or ethnic origin? I write Portuguese in carefully, making sure each letter is perfect. Then I scribble "Hillbilly," erase, "Okie", erase, "Mutt", erase, "Heinz 57", erase. I am sad that this isn't multiple choice--my ethnicity of choice is "Other."
And then come the funny questions. "Does Person 1 have difficulty dressing or bathing?" The answer to this question is yes, but not because of an infirmity. Primarily, my dressing difficulties have to do with my inability to do laundry regularly and my pathetically one-note wardrobe. "What kind of work does Person 1 do?" Teaching/Tutoring. "What where this person's primary job responsibilities?" I don't want to be snarky to the census, so I try to find an answer that isn't Teaching/Tutoring, but there isn't one. I hope the census will keep in mind that Person 1's ancestry/ethnic origin makes her exceptionally likely to be a smartass.
Showing posts with label the census. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the census. Show all posts
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Census Panda part 1
This week, Josh and I were the lucky recipients of a Census survey. It came in a big envelope, which was marked in ten places with "Participation in this Survey is Required by Law."
Now, I should mention here that Josh and I are not good at getting things done. In fact, Josh has an entire library of what he calls "productivity porn," which is a genre of books dedicated to whipping people like us into organizational shape. He probably reads one of these books every three or four months, and they always send him into a flurry of cleaning and labeling. However, these systems never stick, and the best way to make sure that we get something done is to tie us to a chair and force us. (Which is, of course, what she said.)
So there we were, in the mailroom of our complex, bent over this survey in which we were legally obligated to participate, our other mail (jury summonses for two different former residents of our apartment, unlikely but true) forgotten in the box, our dog waiting patiently at the end of her red leash.
"I guess we're going to be participating in the census," I said. I'm always excited by things like this. I like to be chosen for things that not everyone gets chosen for, even if those things are silly and random and not even fun to do, like jury duty or the assessment group at school or this census business. It makes me feel like my life matters a little bit more than other people's, like I'm exceptionally interesting and worthy of study. Being chosen to participate in the census brings out my inner diva.
Josh replied: "Or we'll be arrested." Josh does not share my positive outlook on life. For him, things like this represent an intrusion by the federal government into our lives for no good reason. Or, on an even more pessimistic day, Josh sees things like this as one more way the police are authorized to abuse their power and make our lives Hell. Josh is a bit of a drama queen.
"We won't get arrested," I say, "because we're gonna do it." To this statement, I am sure Josh rolled his eyes.
We walked back to our apartment, each of us in a cloud of our own thoughts.
Now, I should mention here that Josh and I are not good at getting things done. In fact, Josh has an entire library of what he calls "productivity porn," which is a genre of books dedicated to whipping people like us into organizational shape. He probably reads one of these books every three or four months, and they always send him into a flurry of cleaning and labeling. However, these systems never stick, and the best way to make sure that we get something done is to tie us to a chair and force us. (Which is, of course, what she said.)
So there we were, in the mailroom of our complex, bent over this survey in which we were legally obligated to participate, our other mail (jury summonses for two different former residents of our apartment, unlikely but true) forgotten in the box, our dog waiting patiently at the end of her red leash.
"I guess we're going to be participating in the census," I said. I'm always excited by things like this. I like to be chosen for things that not everyone gets chosen for, even if those things are silly and random and not even fun to do, like jury duty or the assessment group at school or this census business. It makes me feel like my life matters a little bit more than other people's, like I'm exceptionally interesting and worthy of study. Being chosen to participate in the census brings out my inner diva.
Josh replied: "Or we'll be arrested." Josh does not share my positive outlook on life. For him, things like this represent an intrusion by the federal government into our lives for no good reason. Or, on an even more pessimistic day, Josh sees things like this as one more way the police are authorized to abuse their power and make our lives Hell. Josh is a bit of a drama queen.
"We won't get arrested," I say, "because we're gonna do it." To this statement, I am sure Josh rolled his eyes.
We walked back to our apartment, each of us in a cloud of our own thoughts.
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