The Junior Progressives and the Death of My Bumper

Yesterday was our first protest, and also the last day of the four door sedan having a front bumper.

The Protest.
The junior progressives and I went to a Tax Day protest in front of Wells Fargo in Fort Collins. The object of the protest was to bring attention to the fact that due to various off-shore tax havens and other loop holes, Wank Fargo did not pay the approx 5 billion in taxes that they should have based on their approx 19 billion in profits.

I have mixed feelings about kids and protesting and kids and issues. There's always the risk that if they are introduced to a tragedy too early that they will accept it and not see room for change. For example, I have always strove to introduce them experientially to nature, but I refuse to utter the word "endangered" to them and have kicked my husband on occasion when I thought he was going to utter the E-word.

However, they seemed to have a fairly decent grasp of this issue, and the advertising and presence of banks is so pervasive that I would rather force them to critique the BS at an early age than let them develop some idea that these institutions are above reproach.

Signs. Boy Two wanted his to say, "Pay taxes so the guv'ment can buy a roller coaster." He's clearly  missed some nuances on the issue so I took over the slogan drafting. Their signs said, "I pay taxes on candy, and I'm only 3. What's your excuse?", "Balance the Budget with Corp Taxes. Not on the backs of the Poor", and "Pay Your Fair Share".

We went with my friend so I was pretending that we had the whole lesbian mom thing going on. She, I think, was clutching a little tighter to her IUD and hoping that nobody mistook any of the young progressives for hers.
It was totally awesome.
For about five minutes. Then, the young progressives got whiny. Boy Two wanted to lean his sign against the wall because he was too tired to hold it. What a union worker! (HAHA...  get it that's irony cause we're at a left wing event and I made an anti-union joke.)

Them: "We want to go home. We're tired. Protesting is boring."
Me: "This country is in a lot of debt that you will have to pay back, and considering you can't even clear the table without whining, I really doubt that you'll be able to work this debt off. Hold your signs. Stop whining. This is important."
And so on and so on until I bribed them with licorice which they quietly ate next to their signs.

We may have to try protesting again on another date when they're not being such union workers.

The death of my bumper

I dropped Boy One and his bicycle off at soccer, and I was going to drive home and then ride my bike to pick him up so we could ride home together. That way I get a thirteen mile ride in and he only has to do six or so.    

Long story short. I trusted a blinker. I pulled out, and the guy didn't turn so he ripped off my bumper. My father is, no doubt, rolling in his grave or churning in his urn because he always said, "Never Trust a Blinker. Never Trust a Blinker"

The Man was surprisingly calm about the entire thing. The same man who took four years to forgive me for losing the second key fob was utterly gracious about the fact that I crashed our car, got a ticket, and will have depleted our savings account by the time the deductible is paid. That was a pleasant surprise from The Man.

That was enough for one day.