When I was 15, my mother sent me to a psychologist. She was a very direct, often abrasive German woman, with a thick accent and a collection of gorgeous suede skirts, and I hated her. At first. Eventually, though, I realized that making me angry was her way of getting inside my shell, and once she was in there, she did start helping me rearrange the furniture in ways that were, ultimately, beneficial. She ran me through a battery of tests, and at the end of it, she told me I was highly intelligent and clinically depressed. She didn’t want to put me on antidepressants, though – she didn’t like the side effects, and she thought exercise might do just as well. So, she told me to walk, half an hour every day, and she’d re-evaluate me in a few months.

She was right. The exercise helped. I haven’t always been good at remembering that, though, when I’ve started slipping back into the grey places – partly because it’s so difficult to know that you’re depressed. I’ve gotten better at it, though. I don’t want to live there again, and I certainly don’t want to take NovySan there with me. So whether or not I manage any other exercise, I’ve been walking, daily, and it helps.

The other thing it helps with is getting to really know this neighborhood I’ve lived in for seven years, but haven’t thoroughly explored. If you follow me on Flickr, or on Twitter, you may have noticed posts and pictures of things I see when I’m out and about.

Yesterday, it was this one:

I still don’t know for sure, but the Twitterverse has several theories:

The child was kidnapped:

The child escaped:

The child was ejected:

Or, the child was traded for a fifth of JD:

What do you think?

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So, I went out to my car, half an hour later than I had intended, turned the key, and glanced at the gas gauge. My gas gauge does tend to be a bit flaky (there’s a reason I carry a jerry can in the boot), but there was definitely something wrong. I filled up Saturday morning, just before driving to Topanga for class, and I haven’t driven it since then. So either I’m now getting 3 miles to the gallon, or I’m missing about 7 gallons of gas.

“Maybe I didn’t fill up on Saturday,” I thought. When you drive so seldom, it’s easy to lose track. “Well, fine. I should have enough to get to the gas station.”

I didn’t.

It died in the middle of a five-point intersection.

As to the people who swerved around me while I pushed it to the curb – well, at least they didn’t honk. (Seriously, people – I realize I’m no fragile flower, but you see a lone woman pushing her own damned car, and you can’t be bothered to stop? Or even ask if she’d like you to?)

The aforementioned jerry can being almost empty (due to a previous incident with the aforementioned flaky gas gauge, and me being in a hurry the last few times I’ve filled up), I drained the dregs into the tank and prepared to see whether it would be enough to get me to the gas station. Meanwhile, I called Novy and asked him to let the organizers know I was on the way. “You’re out of gas?” he asked. “Totally out,” I said, and it began to dawn on me what that meant.

As I put the now completely-empty can back in the boot (after an heroic struggle with the nozzle – the spring kept flinging itself into the gutter), a white van stopped across the street. I heard the words whose absence had echoed while I pushed the car out of the intersection. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ve just run out of gas.”

“Can I give you a ride to the gas station?” he asked.

I know a lot of people would have hesitated. I didn’t.

“That would be lovely,” I said.

And then he said, “Wait, I think I have some gas in here.”

He did. A whole gallon. And he wouldn’t let me pay him for it.

“The van runs on veggie oil,” he told me. “So do my two Mercedes sedans, and my other van. I’ve got a work truck that takes gas, and my ’63 Comet. I learn something new every time I convert one of them, so I keep buying more cars. A lot of my machines for work take gas, though, mixed with oil, but I haven’t mixed the oil into this one yet. With the price of gas,” he said, “I guess a lot of people aren’t filling their tanks up all the way.”

“I did,” I told him. “On Saturday. And I haven’t driven anywhere since then.”

“Oh,” he said. “You should get a locking gas cap.”

Novy agreed. He ordered two this morning.

The gasoline saga wasn’t quite over, though. After the event, I went to the parking garage to find a pool of gasoline under the back of my car. I popped open the engine cover to discover that the hose leading into the fuel filter was so loose, there was gas dripping from it. I jammed it back together and thought, “Maybe someone didn’t siphon my gas. Maybe it just dripped out.” But then I thought, “There’s no way seven or eight gallons of gasoline dripped into the driveway without any of the four people who live in my house noticing.”

So we’re still buying the locking gas caps. And replacing that hose this weekend.

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“Things have been quiet since school got out,” he said, “but I figured you’d want to know.”

I thanked him, and then he said there’s a guy who works somewhere in the neighborhood, who always parks on our street and likes to eat his lunch in his car. “I’m going to ask him to keep an eye out,” he said. “He knows what all of us look like, so he’ll notice if there’s someone around who shouldn’t be.”

I have no idea who this guy is.

He sits out there almost every day, eating his lunch, and I’ve never noticed him.

It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with him.

I’m sure he’s a very nice man.

But this morning I realized that if someone were out there casing my house – I might never notice.

I should probably go outside more often.

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*NovySan gets the credit for this title.

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The Family Watchdog is a website that shows the names and addresses of registered sex offenders in the US. Oh, and their pictures. And sometimes their work addresses. All delivered up in a way that says, “These predators are stalking your children. And if you don’t take steps to protect them, you’re a very, very bad parent. Our map will show you where these animals live (one of the testimonials actually uses that word — animals), and then you can order our video, and find out how to protect your children from these predators.”

Now, I have strong, and mixed, feelings about sex offender registries. On the one hand, of course I want to know if the guy next door is a danger. And there are people on these lists who are truly dangerous. But there are also people on these lists who aren’t at all dangerous, but are having their lives ruined by being on these lists. (As someone on Boing Boing pointed out, in some states, peeing in public will land you on the sex offender registry. So will having sex with a 16 year old when you’re 18. Hell, I work with a retired cop who thinks a lot of the crimes you’ll have to register for in California are bullshit — and in California, the registration is for life. Think about that for a second.)

The maps shows clusters of sex offenders concentrated around schools (creepy), but it also shows clusters in low-income neighborhoods (which suggests to me that A) low-income offenders are more likely to be convicted of crimes that will land them on “the list,” very likely due to less-than-competent legal counsel, and/or B) people whose names are on these lists have difficulty finding jobs that would allow them to move into higher-income neighborhoods).

In many instances, the dots on the map are linked to addresses and mug shots, which raises serious privacy concerns. Many of the listings fail to show what the person’s offense is, meaning that despite the differently-colored dots on the map, you don’t know whether you’re looking at someone who whacked off in a porn theatre (Pee-Wee Herman — who, granted, did also plead guilty to “possessing obscene materials,” due to his collection of vintage erotica, some of which involved teenage boys) or someone who ass-raped a teenager in a hot tub (Roman Polanski).

I think the thing that bothers me most about this site, though, is its smug assurance that it can keep your children safe. (“Your family’s best friend,” says the slogan next to the friendly bulldog in the upper left. “Protect your Community, Protect Your Family, Protect Yourself.”) As though sex offenders were the only danger facing your children. As though every sex offender who might harm your children is listed here. (California, at least, points out on its sex offender registry site that 90% of the children sexually abused in the US know their abusers, and that nearly half are abused by family members.) As though only children need fear sex offenders. You have to dig for the disclaimers that admit that not every offender in the country will be listed and that not every sex offender notifies the state every time he or she moves. I can’t find a disclaimer that says that some of these people may have been falsely convicted, or that some of them might have very common names, and you shouldn’t assume that the Dave Jones who shows up here as a serial rapist is the same Dave Jones who lives up the street. The only privacy statement involves the privacy of the people who register for updates (oh, yes, they’ll be happy to let you know when a new “predator” moves into your neighborhood, for a small annual fee) or who buy their video. It draws no distinction between “offenders” and “predators,” and provides no definitions of the offender categories it includes (Offense Against Children, Rape, Sexual Battery, Other Offenses).

Out of curiosity, I attempted to locate the only convicted sex offender I know — a man with a history of sexual misconduct with minors (two that I know of — one was 5, the other 15). His name isn’t on their list. So I ran his current address. He lives equidistant between two schools, but he’s not on their map. A couple of his neighbors are — I see a few convictions for sexual battery, one for statutory rape, another for felony sexual assault on a child. And I think about the people who may live nearby, checking this site to find out if they’re safe, and thinking they are, because the nearest offender is half a mile away, when actually he’s right next door.

Is a “National Sex Offender Registry” a valuable service? I suppose it could be. But this feels exploitative to me. I don’t like it.

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