Yipe! It's a Bad Day

Tuesday: Stepdaughter's birthday and field trip. Day 5 of relatively self-inflicted unemployment.

My back feels as if someone is jabbing an ice pick in the bottom of it, provoking your Wandering Gentile to yelp, much like Scooby Doo when frightened. I was sitting in the foyer of Cooter Holler Elementary School, in the Atlanta suburb of Wolfboro, and noticing a tapestry which purported to have all of the Latin American countries celebrating their independence in September.

Mexico. No surprise there, Cooter Holler is predominately populated by children of Mexican ancestry or birth. September 16 was the last time I was in Laredo, and I spent a good amount of time parked on my behind in Laredo.

Guatemala. El Salvador. Honduras. Nicaragua. Chile. All present and acounted for.

No, Got Dang It, that ain't the entire list.

15 de septiembre, Costa Rica. Nope, the tapestry did not even have a provision for Costa Rica. It went straight from Nicaragua to Colombia. One would suspect that the Panamanians might be a little bit miffed, too. On the other hand, well, John McCain's birthplace (the Canal Zone, and the only nominee of a major party not to be born in an actual state! Ever!) is not there, either.

One wonders if Governor Palin had anything to do with this map. It seems unlikely, being that the correct number of countries is on the tapestry, however in the wrong places.

There was a big chunk of the Amazon basin bordered by Brazil, Colombia, and Peru. There was another country between Ecuador and Peru (Ecru? Peor? Pookie? Peekaboo?). And there was a third country somewhere else, sort of like a misplaced Bolivia, hopefully with a history of (comparatively) well-treated indigineous peoples, a middle class, high literacy, high levels of home ownership, and a well checked government.

Oh, wait. Snap! That country already exists, and it's called Costa Rica. No, they couldn't have left off one of the little armpit countries, places so devoid of hope and opportunity that looking to Castro's Cuba for possibilities becomes a very real option. There was no consideration that anyone would ever notice.

And one suspects, no one did until a couple of days ago when someone else noticed Costa Rica's absence. Of course, it would not be the first time. Costa Rica totally dropped off Spain's radar until they declared independence in 1821. The conversation may be imagined as such,

"Your Royal Noisomeness, Costa Rica also delared their independence."

"You mean We still owned it? Why wasn't I told?"

No, I wound up spending 45 minutes waiting to chaperone a field trip, looking at this facockta tapestry that put countries where the maker pleased, and the map of the US had Chicago where Bismarck ought to be, Lake Ontario dipping down to Tioga County, Pennsylvania, and the tip of Texas cut off from Eagle Pass to Corpus Crispy.

So I calmed down, after annoying my wife about what was wrong with the geography on the tapestry for 45 minutes, something for which I may not be forgiven soon. We got on the bus.

For purposes of respecting my stepdaugter's privacy, she will be referred to as Sasha Ortiz. It seems appropriate, as the real hijastra's real big papi is Dominican.

Now, I had never chaperoned a field trip in my life, and keeping up with five energetic eight-and-nine-year-olds had never really been much of a life goal. In fact I wasn't really aware that I would be chaperoning a group of third graders until it was too late to jump back in the Pornstar Minivan, go to QT and buy cheese taquitos. No, I was locked down.

I was the hog committed to crispy bacon. And, to be fair, the kids were totally cool. It doesn't hurt that I don't like most grown-ups much, either.

But we got that perverse sense of presumptuous politeness which is only found in places where people like Mrs. Palin. As the children were being parceled out amongst one little girl's aunt, one father, my wife and me, we were introduced by our presumed surnames.

Teacher got Miss Martinez right, and Mr. Claxton as well. However, when she got to Mrs Wandering Gentile, my wife suddenly became Mrs. Ortiz.

There were two problems with that. First of all, the real Mr. Ortiz had enamored my wife under an assumed name. Second of all, they had never married. Mrs. Wandering Gentile was never at any time in the past Mrs. Ortiz. Nor was Mr. Ortiz an Ortiz at all. Thus, hijastra la menor a/k/a Sasha is listed as Sasha Ortiz, but the name is an illusion of sorts.

That bothers me, because she is a lovely child who deserves an identity that was not speculative. However, I am kind of fond of the idea that she is the first of a real Ortiz line, so one must be somewhat ambivalent.

Of course, what came next tickled me. Because I was introduced as Mr. Ortiz.

And one of the few places where one may find a six-foot-tall, blue-eyed, Mr. Ortiz being completely ordinary does not exist at all on the tapestry in the foyer at Cooter Holler Elementary School in Wolfboro, GA.