It could be the hormones talking. Or the change in weather. Or maybe it is the fact that I am finally starting to grow up, but I have come to the sad realization that I have lost my faith in humanity. That deep-down assumption that most of the time, most of the people are good. The idea that there is some great Karmic force weeding out the ne’er-do-wells and the low-lifes and, well, the people I seem to find myself coming into contact with on a daily basis.

Steve and I had a lengthly discussion about it on our drive down to the valley over the Thanksgiving holiday. I can’t remember exactly how it started, but it was most likely in response to me making another flip comment about the overall downfall of our society and it’s inability to care about anyone but itself. Once he got me going he couldn’t shut me up. There has been a slow accumulation of instances overe the last couple of years that has ignited this slow burn of frustration. He tried the whole you-need-to-be-more-optimistic approach, then the don’t-you-think-you-are-being-too-pessimistic angle, then finished it with the you-need-to-have-more-realistic-expectations plea. I was having none of it. I am now beginning to think that the whole time we thought Stella was soundly sleeping in the back seat she may have actually been faking in an attempt to avoid any involvement in the conversation taking place in the front seat – I am sure Steve would have done the same if he wasn’t belted into the driver’s seat next to me.

I have had this conversation in various forms with about all of my friends and family. The one about how insanely rude people can be. And there is the one about the people who spend their lives working the system. Of course there is the ever-popular one about people who BREAK INTO YOUR HOUSE AND STEAL YOUR THINGS. Ugh. And don’t even get me going on customer service – or the ubiquitous lack thereof. That is a post all unto itself.

We live in Gods’ country up here. It is physically beautiful, remote, moderately progressive, home to a state university and aside from being ethnically homogenized, we seem to do pretty well in cultural enrichment. So why is it that each time I leave my home I seem to spend my time wondering where the normal people are? The people you look at and don’t immediately question whether or not you locked that 15th deadbolt on your house. The ones that actually think there is life beyond meth? The ones that aren’t materialistic, but take pride in having nice things. Or the ones that don’t think smoking when you are pregnant is okay? One trip to the grocery store reveals a fine sampling of what Humboldt County has to offer – and it just seems to be getting worse. And no matter how much Steve tries to deny it, he knows I am right.

One of the sadder realizations that I have come to over the last couple of years is that our one line of defense against this plague – law enforcement – really don’t seem all that interested. Mostly it is the jaded, “oh well” attitude they seem to have about everything. Yes, I know they see this all the time and it’s all just another day on the job, and Yes, I know they are understaffed and underpaid. It has, however, been my experience over the last couple of years that, when it comes to law enforcement, there is some secret memo that outlines what kinds of crimes acutally matter. Everything else is strictly procedural. Car got broken into? Bummer, it happens all the time. Mail in this report. House got broken into? Sucks, doesn’t it? In the last 2 months I have actually heard two completely separate stories wherein law enforcement’s official answer to questions of follow-up were “What do you think we are – CSI?” Are you kidding me? It is one thing to blow stuff off, it is quite another to confirm our worst fears – that we aren’t worth your time. Perhaps we should be notified of what kinds of crimes really matter so that we don’t get so disappointed when we set our expectations too high:

• Anything involving kids = Action (thank God)
• Death = some interest, but really… it happens all the time
• Property crime = good luck on that (insert CSI comment here)
• OBVIOUS AND BLATANT DRUG AND STOLEN MERCHANDISE TRAFFICKING = we’ll see what we can do – but no promises
• Over a dozen burglarizations/thefts in the neighborhood within the vicinity of a single house that is participating in OBVIOUS AND BLATANT DRUG AND STOLEN MERCHANDISE TRAFFICKING = let’s not jump to conclusions

I may have missed a couple, but I think we all get the gist.

For those of you who have not yet heard my mail delivery story – sit back and refill that bucket ‘o popcorn, because this one had me baffled. About mid-way through the summer I started to realize that we weren’t receiving any of our magazines. When we finally did receive them they were either mangled and/or weeks late. Now, when it comes to me, there are a couple of things you don’t want to mess with. One of them being my monthly delivery of Vanity Fair. When I die, my subscription will be clearly bequeathed in my Last Will and Testament. So you can imagine my frustration when I realized that – HORROR – my July issue had not arrived! After a couple of months of this, a conversation with the guy at Borders (because I actually had to go buy a copy off the stand!), and a phone call from Dore telling me to read the article in the paper about the local post office, I became aware of something that, to this day still confounds me: all third class mail was being housed in a parking lot under a blue tarp. Wha-? This is the United States Postal Service. (Maybe that is my answer right there.) According to the article in the paper, going back to March, the local postmaster was implementing some operational and personnel changes, and they were in some sort of “transition” period. That’s it. No apologies, no answers, no reassuring words that my next issue of Vanity Fair would be with me soon. So, I did what any person not receiving their holiest of scriptures would do, I fired up the computer, dug around on the USPS site and found myself a complaint form. A couple of email exchanges and two weeks later all of our myriad of paid magazine subscriptions starting arriving with a vengance. Back issues of Eating Well and Sunset and Everyday Food and Woodworker and VANITY FAIR! I have since also heard that there is a new postmaster at the local Eureka branch. Gee, ya think?

I guess lately I have just started to feel like the balance of decent people is being outweighed by all the others. Maybe it was always that way and I was just too naive to realize it. Either way, I find myself practically moved to tears by a polite and curteous girl at the coffee counter and seriously considering acquiring a firearm so that I can shoot at the ridiculously loud red Honda with the muffler kit that roars past our house, rattling the windows 15 times a day.