In The Poor House
6:06 PM Edit This 0 Comments »
I got the privilege of visiting the local housing authority today. For those of you with money or who have reached the unattainable goal of home ownership, the housing authority is essentially "rent-help" for us po’ folk.
I am mo’ po’ than usual at this juncture as I am CHOOSING to stay home with my baby. By ‘choosing,’ I mean that I am an educated person/woman/mother who is perfectly capable of getting a job or continuing my career and/or education. However, as an educated mama I am also aware of the benefits of breastfeeding and being with your children for the valuable ‘attachment & bonding’ years. It’s unfortunate that my baby-daddy is not a millionaire who can keep us in the lap of luxury while I stay home with my new baby. However, not near as unfortunate as the way I am treated because of it, which brings us back to the housing authority.
After being told that I cannot be seen without an appointment, I begin to explain how I’ve been calling for days. I explained to them all of the many errors of their voicemail system. Sometimes I would type "0" for the operator and the message would start replaying. Other times, I would spell my caseworker’s last name using the telephone alphabet and when it got to her name, the voicemail that the city employee’s set up (in their infinite wisdom) would say, "for R*** R********* please push beeeeeeeeeeeeeep" It was as if instead of someone saying "push 3" some moron thought you had to push the number yourself when recording the voicemail. I then finish by explaining to the receptionist, that now that I have wasted my gas driving down in person, because they cannot understand how to set-up their voicemail system, they BETTER see me without an appointment!
After 20 minutes of sitting in the lobby, the receptionist calls me back up to the desk to ask me to repeat my reasons for my visit. I try to think of just the right words to convince her to PLEASE let me speak to an actual human being. I then sit back down for another 10 minutes. Eventually a lady wanders out to the receptionist counter, which is her way of letting me know she will not be accepting me into her back office and I better make this fast. She then looks at me with those eyes that say, "Why can’t all of you losers just go work at McDonald’s and leave me alone." I explain why I’m there, including how one of her colleagues referred me in her direction. She then says, in a very patronizing voice, leave whatever papers you brought at the front desk and they’ll date stamp them for you and put them in my box."
Me: "Can you look at them now? Can you give me an idea of what you think at first glance, make sure I have everything, tell me when I’ll hear back from you?"
Her: "Give them to the receptionist and she will date stamp them and put them in my box."
Again, keep in mind the entire time she’s speaking to me like I’m 3 years old and I fully expect her to reach over the very tall counter she’s hiding behind and start patting me on the top of my head at any moment.
AARRRGGHHH!!!
I guess what I’m trying to say is when I gain 300 pounds after having 4 more children and decide that it’s an acceptable idea to wear my neon green tube top to the local Wal Mart, then you can judge me. But until then…….SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!
I am mo’ po’ than usual at this juncture as I am CHOOSING to stay home with my baby. By ‘choosing,’ I mean that I am an educated person/woman/mother who is perfectly capable of getting a job or continuing my career and/or education. However, as an educated mama I am also aware of the benefits of breastfeeding and being with your children for the valuable ‘attachment & bonding’ years. It’s unfortunate that my baby-daddy is not a millionaire who can keep us in the lap of luxury while I stay home with my new baby. However, not near as unfortunate as the way I am treated because of it, which brings us back to the housing authority.
After being told that I cannot be seen without an appointment, I begin to explain how I’ve been calling for days. I explained to them all of the many errors of their voicemail system. Sometimes I would type "0" for the operator and the message would start replaying. Other times, I would spell my caseworker’s last name using the telephone alphabet and when it got to her name, the voicemail that the city employee’s set up (in their infinite wisdom) would say, "for R*** R********* please push beeeeeeeeeeeeeep" It was as if instead of someone saying "push 3" some moron thought you had to push the number yourself when recording the voicemail. I then finish by explaining to the receptionist, that now that I have wasted my gas driving down in person, because they cannot understand how to set-up their voicemail system, they BETTER see me without an appointment!
After 20 minutes of sitting in the lobby, the receptionist calls me back up to the desk to ask me to repeat my reasons for my visit. I try to think of just the right words to convince her to PLEASE let me speak to an actual human being. I then sit back down for another 10 minutes. Eventually a lady wanders out to the receptionist counter, which is her way of letting me know she will not be accepting me into her back office and I better make this fast. She then looks at me with those eyes that say, "Why can’t all of you losers just go work at McDonald’s and leave me alone." I explain why I’m there, including how one of her colleagues referred me in her direction. She then says, in a very patronizing voice, leave whatever papers you brought at the front desk and they’ll date stamp them for you and put them in my box."
Me: "Can you look at them now? Can you give me an idea of what you think at first glance, make sure I have everything, tell me when I’ll hear back from you?"
Her: "Give them to the receptionist and she will date stamp them and put them in my box."
Again, keep in mind the entire time she’s speaking to me like I’m 3 years old and I fully expect her to reach over the very tall counter she’s hiding behind and start patting me on the top of my head at any moment.
AARRRGGHHH!!!
I guess what I’m trying to say is when I gain 300 pounds after having 4 more children and decide that it’s an acceptable idea to wear my neon green tube top to the local Wal Mart, then you can judge me. But until then…….SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!
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