Where My Peeps At?

Idaho is a red state. Really, really red. Like, blood red. Yesterday, I saw a bumper sticker that said, “Guns kill people like spoons made Rosie O’Donnell fat.”
Clever.
But not so funny because it reminds me that scary-ass right wing people are a dime a dozen out here.
So, it takes some doing to seek out the liberals. The blue peeps. However, I think I have cracked the code.
I started noticing a bumper sticker that said,
“Blue Girl. Red State.”
Yes!
These are my people!!
Now, mainly these Blue Girl stickers are in my neighborhood. It isn’t a coincidence that I happen to live in the only district in Idaho that voted for Obama in the last election. I chose wisely.
Sometimes, though, I come upon them in unexpected places. Like, out in the suburbs. Gasp! Like a little blue gift to brighten my day.
I have chosen to build my social circle around these stickers. The first thing I did was put one on my car. Gotta represent. Then, I started paying attention. I noticed one on a mom’s car at my daughter’s school. I then found out she was the Chairperson of the auction committee. Damn straight I am now Co-Chairperson of that committee.
I also noticed one on the car of a family at my son’s toddler basketball class. I am extra nice to that mom now and am working up to play date status with the kids.
You can’t be too careful around here. I have found that the red people are deceivingly sweet. I met a mom at a birthday party who seemed really nice. We exchanged emails and she sent me an invite to a home, direct sales party thing. It was home décor type stuff.
I decided to research the product and came upon this mission statement on the company’s website, “We are founded on solid Christian principles. We believe homes and everything related to them are God’s business. “
Um, I’m sorry, but…
What.
The.
Fuck?
No, I am not going to that shit and I also think that in the future you should be more upfront about your cult-like home business, lady. I watch TLC’s Sister Wives so I know what you people are really up to.
The Blue Girl stickers are invaluable. They are like messages from a secret society. We smile, we nod, maybe a little wave. It’s comforting knowing there are more of us out there.

Crime and Punishment

I am married to the adult version of a Bobby Brady-like hall monitor.  So, we extensively checked crime statistics before we picked a neighborhood in Boise. This was important to us as our old neighborhood in California was a bit sketchy the last 5 years or so. Our next door neighbors had quite a pot farm in their backyard and last 4^th of July, my husband and I sat up in bed trying to figure out if what we heard outside were illegal fireworks or gunshots.
It was time to get out.
As for the Boise crime check, it was futile.  All the neighborhoods turned up the same. Safer than safe.
A few weeks after we moved here, I was home alone one night watching the local news. The local news in Boise, by the way, is really funny. It is riddled with cheezy graphics, cheap studio desks, and anchors who consistently fumble their words. Michael Finney need not worry. No one in Boise is breaking out into the Bay Area news market.
Anyway, the lead story that night was “Aggressive door to door salesmen in the North End.”
I live in the North End.
I know this area is safe but I cannot yet shake my California paranoia.
They teased that damn story all night and I stayed up late, huddled in the living room, waiting for the scary salesmen story.
Aggressive. What does that mean? Are they just robbing people or do they have weapons? What the hell!?!
They finally get to the story. It reads like this, “Police have received reports of aggressive door to door magazine salesmen in the North End. Apparently, if residents say no to the magazines, the salesmen begin yelling at them. If salesmen come to your door, stay inside and call police.”
Really? That’s it? They just yell at you? That was a daily occurrence at the grocery store in Fremont when I wouldn’t give the homeless shelter people money on my way out. The police here will actually rush to my aid if someone yells at me?
This, by the way was the lead story on the news for a week straight. I don’t know if they ever caught those out of control yelling salesmen. I hope so. I can’t sleep at night knowing they are out there.
I was telling this story to a mom on my daughter’s soccer team. She said that when she moved here 5 years ago, the lead story for months was about someone putting mayonnaise in the library book drop downtown. Seriously, it was a big deal.
Everyone was talking about it. Crime of the century.
They finally set up security cameras to catch the hooligan. Turns out it was some old lady that was pissed off about late book fines.
Ummm, I think the hall monitor can take a break.
We’re safe here.

Edginess Redefined

When I first moved to Idaho, I didn’t quite get the rhythm of communication here. I would approach an employee for help in a store with what I thought was a polite, “Excuse me, where are the plums?”. The employee would seem taken aback, almost shocked at my abruptness. They would give me a nice, slow, “Oh, hello, how are you today?”. It was a bit condescending. I knew they were trying to tell me something but it took me a few tries before I figured it out. They were being patient with my California rudeness. They were used to bitches like me moving into the area and would kill me with kindness until I slowed down and unwound a bit.

Once I figured it out, I was annoyed. It seemed like a complete waste of my precious time to have a 3 minute conversation with the cashier at Shopko (that is Idaho’s Target, for all you out of state peeps) about why Swiffer is better than a mop.
I am down with the Swiffer, just so you know. She was so right.
Slowly I began to realize, though, that I did actually enjoy the chit chat throughout the day. It turns out, people are interesting. Who knew? And, I do feel more relaxed without the unnecessary rushing. My friend, Keri, noticed it when she came to visit. She basically said that I no longer drive like I am in an army combat tank. I didn’t take offense as bat-out-of-hell driving is something we have, or I guess had, in common.
I mean, really, what the hell am I in such a hurry for? Nothing I am doing is so important that I can’t take time to find out that the guy bagging groceries is wearing a pink shirt in honor of his mom, who is battling breast cancer.
So, maybe I will lose a little bit of my edge. That’s okay. I’ll still be me, just a little calmer.
P.S.  Thanks, Kris, for helping me make my blog look cute!!

The License Just Sucked All My Coolness

Being from California gives me some sort of cool factor. Or at least, I like to think it does. When I am talking to my Idaho relatives, I get the sense that my ideas are more progressive, that I dress quite hip and that the way I speak is more witty. I can say outdated shit like “That is the bomb dot com” or “Save the drama for your mama” and it is all new to them. Basically, I have my finger on the pulse of pop culture.

In reality, I have never been cool or hip.   
Ever.
But don’t tell that to my Idaho relatives.

Which brings me to my DMV story. First of all, let me just tell you that the Idaho DMV is a gorgeous, well run facility. It makes the California DMV look like some clinic in a war torn, third world country.

The Idaho DMV is brand new with comfortable seating for all, bright lighting, and flat screen televisions hanging up so you can watch the news while you wait. I make a mental note that this might be a nice place to hang out once the kids are in school. Grab a latte and spend a few hours people watching. Of course, all the seating and Tvs are unnecessary because you never have to wait.

While still living in California, I called the Idaho DMV to find out how to get our car registered here. Being a compulsive multi-tasker, I first set up a few projects I could work on while waiting on DMV hold. I knew from experience calling the California DMV that this would be an all day event. I get my coffee poured, all my projects set up, and I dial the Idaho DMV.

After a few rings an actual flesh and blood human answers, “Hello, how many I help you?”

“Oh, I am sorry”, I say. “I was trying to contact the DMV.”

“Yes, this is the DMV. How can I help you?”

I was so thrown off, I couldn’t speak. One of my multitasking projects was going to be making a list of things I needed to ask the DMV about. Once I compose myself and ask my questions, the woman on the line answers everything clearly. When I ask how to make an appointment, she chuckles. “Oh, you don’t need an appointment. Just come down any time and we will take care of everything for you.” She then thanks me as if it is actually her job and pleasure to help me. Amazing!

So, back to my Idaho DMV visit. As soon as you walk in, they have a greeter who directs you where you need to go. It is pretty clear where to go because everything is open and signs everywhere tell you what to do. It is a nice touch anyway. They have one of those number machines like at the bakery counter at the grocery store. I pull a number, step to the side, and my number is immediately called. I didn’t even have a chance to try out the comfy chairs! I fill out all the paperwork, take an online driving test, have my eyes checked by some little fancy laser machine, get my picture taken, and am handed my new Idaho driver’s license all within 20 minutes.

It was great. Except for one thing. In order to get my spiffy new Idaho license, I had to surrender my California license. I held onto it a little as the DMV guy took it from my hand. He gave me kind of a weird look so I had to let go. I wanted to grab it back and run screaming from the clean, pretty building. “No, no, you can’t take my coolness from me!”

As I get in my car, I take a look at my new license. The picture is decent and they even let me keep my old height and weight on there. When the DMV guy asked if that info was still the same as my California license, I said, “Sure, why not?” He didn’t catch my sarcasm and so left it all the same. I didn’t have to heart to tell him that I hadn’t changed it since age 25 and that maybe he needs to check his eyes in the fancy little laser machine because that, my dear, was about 40 pounds ago.

As I stare at my picture and the word “IDAHO” in block letters above it, I burst into tears. Holy shit, I think, I live in Idaho. I am an Idahoan. I am no longer cool. Not that I ever was, but you know what I mean. I pull myself together, turn on the car, and blaring from the radio is the song “California Girls” by that little tart Katy Perry.
Yes, Katy, I know.
Nothing comes close to the Golden Coast.