Top Ten: Twenty is the same twenty.

A date night with the BHE in 2011

Warning: Non-medical, non-important post ahead. Proceed with caution. (Or to my archives on the right if you prefer something deeper.)
_____________________________________________

Alright. So check it. Last Friday evening we had child care for the whole night. The BHE and I had a lovely date night -- fairly standard date night activity: dinner and a movie.

But.

Dinner was late. Like 8:30 or so. Which meant that the only movies we could catch started in the ten o'clock hour. So we clinked our wine glasses and decided to go for it since our kids were at a sleep over.

And so. We went to Phipps Plaza to check out the movie of Harry's choice since it was his turn. And "his turn" always means one of the following categories:

• action
• war
• things blowing up
• fast car chase scenes
• Jennifer Aniston
• things blowing up
• soldiers
• soldiers blowing things up
• gladiators
• any movie similar to the movie Gladiator
• Braveheart
• any movie similar to Braveheart
• things blowing up
• somebody being a spy
• somebody spying on Jennifer Aniston
• somebody with a vendetta
• somebody blowing somebody up over a vendetta about Jennifer Aniston

Well. As it turns out, Jennifer Aniston is all in love these days and doesn't seem to be doing much work. So we decided on the new Denzel Washington movie called "Safe House." Oh, and in case you're thinking of seeing it? Trust that it hit every single one of Harry's categories except for gladiators and Jennifer Anniston. Otherwise it was a slam dunk.

One problem though. The only showing left of "Safe House" at Phipps Plaza started at 10:50 PM. And. We had just eaten.

Chile please.

We were KNOCKED OUT in that theater. Do you hear me? Those explosions and special effects served as nothing more to us than a gigantic sonic-booming alarm clock without a snooze button. Our repetitive startling into wakefulness got to be so comical that finally we just had to call it a night. We had to before somebody started snoring. Or got whiplash.

Oh. Did I mention? There were still about thirty to forty-five minutes left in the movie. And it was literally the climax. We have no idea how it ended.

Um, yeah.

When we got into the lobby (which was empty) we couldn't help but LOL at how ridiculously lame we are. I mean. . .who does that? Like who pays five trillion dollars for a feature movie and then walks out on it--not because they are highly offended or because it's such a bad movie--but simply because they're. . .well. . . kinda sleepy? Who does that?

Answer: People over 40, that's who.

All this business about 40 being the new 20 or 30 being the new 20 or anything being the new anything is a terribly unfortunate trend. (Just ask Demi Moore.) 40 is not even the new twenty. I don't care what size jeans you can fit into. Period. End of story.

And so. Inspired by Friday's epic failure-slash-comical attempt at late-night gallivanting, I bring you this week's top ten:

TOP TEN EVIDENCE-BASED REASONS WHY THE ONLY "NEW TWENTY" IS TWENTY -- SORRY, Y'ALL.


#10  --  Closing up shop.

People in their twenties do talk about birth control--that's a known fact. But they rarely spend their time talking about permanent forms of it.

Real discussion overheard in the hair salon:

"Girl, I told him it's his turn."

"Really? My man said he ain't letting nobody go near him with no knife. I went ahead and got mine tied up during that last c-section."

"Mmmm, well you better than me. I made him an appointment with the urologist and was like, 'It's all you, boo.'"

"Did it give him problems with his. . .you know?"

"Aww hell naw!"

"Hey! You know they got something now where they burn your uterus with a laser. No pregnancy and no monthly, girl! Dead serious!"

"No way!"

"Sho nuff!"

"Does it hurt?"

"They knock you out."

"Damn. . . .no monthly? Is it covered by Aetna?"

"Ooooohh Aetna?  Girl, I don't know about that. You know Aetna is a trip."

"Dang, that sounded like the bomb."

#9 Busting a move(ment)

When I was in my twenties it seemed like everyone I knew had perfectly working innards. Even if they didn't, at least they all had so much going on that bowel movements never seemed to be a topic of conversation. I don't recall anyone discussing which foods or supplements would help you get thing going nor do I ever remember hearing my friends refer to themselves as "regular."

But once you are in your mid-thirties and beyond, it seems like for about 67% of people -- the bowels go on strike. Picketing in your bathroom shouting "We shall not be moved!"

(Ah hem. I am NOT in that 67%, thank you very much.)

So yeah. You know you ain't twenty-something anymore when you don't feel the least bit embarrassed about buying Fibersure or Benefiber or hearing your spouse make disgusting jokes and announcements like the ones that I may or may not have heard in the last 48 hours:

(preceded by exaggerated hand clapping)

"Alright! Looks like these Browns are gon' finally going to make it to the Super Bowl!"

*sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit.*

Verdict:  Even if you are "regular" -- you are officially out of your twenties if you have discussed or thought of bowel movements any in the last 72 hours.

#8  -- Two for the price of one.

When you're out of your twenties you start getting real particular about what makes an outing "sitter-worthy." If the plan is just to talk junk with your girlfriends and open up Costco or Trader Joes' wine, it's hard to see why a whole BABYSITTER night should be wasted on that. Having your kids and their kids at the same time cancels everything out! First, turn on the Wii or bust out some Legos for the kids. Second, open up that vino and enjoy it with some kind of dip that one of you made from a recipe out of "Real Simple." Third, Sit around and talk about permanent forms of contraception.

Verdict:  If somebody is washing dishes and discussing their bowels on your Saturday girls' night, you are 100% beyond your twenties.

#7  --  Same page.

Childless people in their twenties find it kind of cute when someone periodically meets them out for lunch with a kid in tow. Well, not us. Me and my friends have this simple rule that we all abide by:

When I don't have my kids, I don't want to see yours. Either it's a kid-friendly situation or it's a grown-folks gathering. Period.

There's nothing worse than winning rock, paper, scissors with your spouse for a kid-free pass only to get ambushed by that last minute text from a friend saying that they are bringing their kid along. Aww hell naw! Look. . . I need to be able to talk about grown-folks topics without spelling out the expletives. And to be able to eat without scooting a booster seat closer to the table and cutting up somebody's food. Unless of course we have already agreed that it's going to be that kind of evening.

Isn't that terrible for me to actually say?

Well, too bad. It's true.

Verdict:  Kid times and Kid-free times need to be respected. For reals. And if you have a last minute change of plans, the rule is that you have to tell the friend so they have time to get their kids, too, and SAVE their precious kid-free pass for later.

Not. Kidding.

#6 --  We card.

Have you ever noticed that people well out of their twenties become extremely interested in age? Like, when I used to read People magazine as a twenty-something, I could give a crap less about whether Heidi Klum was in her thirties or Halle Berry was almost fifty. But just cross that thirty threshold. Man. Even it you don't realize that you care you find yourself scanning that first paragraph for the part that says:

"Manning, 41, says her husband is the BHE."

What's funny is that the magazines all know this now so they give us ages even when it is TOTALLY irrelevant to the story.

Paula Deen, 56, baked a hummingbird cake. Nicole Ritchie, 31, loves black eyeliner. Bobby Brown, 45, kissed Whitney's casket. Bobbi Kristina Brown, 18, wishes y'all would stop talking so much crap about her daddy. Aretha Franklin, 71, was supposed to sing at the funeral but was under the weather. Dionne Warwick, 68, didn't realize that Aretha couldn't make it. Will Smith, 45, looked really hot in I am Legend.


Ah hem. You get the picture.

Verdict: For whatever reason, we card people when we get out of our twenties. This can be especially encouraging or discouraging depending upon who and what the topic happens to be.

#5  -- Your ideal Britney.

I've said this before but will say it again -- when you get out of your twenties--and especially after you drop a baby or two--your ideal body image changes.

I like to think of it in Britney Spears' stages of hotness:

Ideal Britney for person in high school or in their twenties

Post baby ideal for real! I see this and think,"You betta WORK, Miss Britney!"

Left: What our husbands see no matter what.  Right: What we see (give or take 10 inches)

That picture of Britney in the black would make me immediately scan the article for her age so I could feel better. Ha. If it says seventeen, I'd say, "Figures." If it says thirty seven I'd say, "Photoshopped, mm hmmm." Ha.

Verdict: Growing older gives you more nerves and more curves!

#4  -- Hair? There? Everywhere.

Twenty-somethings think about things like highlights, bangs, and products when it comes to hair. Get well into those thirties or cross over the 40 rock then that all changes. Yes, you care about highlights, bangs and products. But you also spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the hair that shouldn't be there (if you're a woman) and the hair that should be there (if you're a guy.)

The whole thing is jacked up.

Verdict:  If you keep a pair of tweezers in your car and if me saying this makes you laugh out loud, you are definitely not in your twenties anymore.

#3  -- Baseboards.

If you actually know what they are and give a damn whether or not they are clean, you are no longer in your twenties.

Verdict:  Grown folks approach cleaning up different than the young-uns.

#2  -- Two step.

What is the deal with all people over 35 doing the "two step" whenever they dance? This is where you snap and nod your head while stepping from side to side in front of your partner. Then you see some young person dancing so hard and so well that you lose the beat and realize that you look like a person with exactly zero rhythm.

Now. Let's just say you DO have mad skills on the dance floor still but are over 40. The problem with that is that if you unleash your moves too much, you look ridiculous. Even if you are doing it right. Harry calls it "Old brutha in da club."  He always says that that's who you never want to be. How to know if that's who you are? If your kids look at you like this while you are dancing:  0_0  -----> You need to go back to the two step.

Anty-who. The only caveat is a resort vacation or the wedding reception  or cookout of a very close friend. Then and only then are you authorized to drop it like it's hot while doing your two step. For all other times, stick to what you know.

Verdict: The only thing worse than the "two step" is being the "old brutha in da club."

#1 -- Doing you.

In your twenties there are so many things that make it hard to "do you." For starters, you're likely broke as hell so that always makes "doing you" tricky. Second, you are either very junior on your job or still in school. Which takes me back to reason #1.  But the main thing is that you just haven't lived long enough to eff enough things up yet and learn from it.

Now I do know some super mature twenty-somethings who technically seem like they are much older. But most of the time, the person thinks they are in this place but really have no idea what being a forty-something really entails.

In other words, the best thing you can ever do is. . .you.  About to turn thirty? Own it, chile. Knocking on forty? Work it, honey. Well into your fifties and pushing up on sixty? Baby, give you best "two step" and when nobody's looking, go on ahead and drop it like it's hot. Because doing you includes accepting you. And accepting all of the years you have under your belt.

Verdict:  Twenty is still twenty. Thirty is still thirty. Forty is still forty. And word on the street is fifty is when all the fun starts.

No matter what age you are. . . .

Just WORK it. . . .

OWN it. . . .

and if that's not enough. . . . go on ahead and drop it like it's hot. :)

***
Happy Monday

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .this always makes me want to work it!

Hooligans.

hooligan [ˈhuːlɪgən] n  : Slang a rough lawless young person

____________________________________________________

Those boys played hard. Even if they're only five years old, they ran that full court like it was Michael Jordan in game six.  With the BHE as the bad cop coach, by the last game they were doing cross overs, jumpers and "boo-yowww!" moves in their opponents' faces.

Unnnhh! In yo' face!

I was snack mom yesterday. It was the last game of the season so they ran over to those Capri Suns and Cheez-its with extra zeal. It was funny to watch them at this point. One kid reached into the box and took it upon himself to start tossing the juice pouches in high arcs to his teammates. Nearly every person caught their drink and I may be exaggerating but I am almost certain that that Harlem Globetrotters whistling music started playing while someone else tossed the cracker bags under legs and behind backs.

They were hyped, stoked, and with an added bit of giddiness since they'd not only played -- but WON --their last game of the season. Despite the bumps from the earlier games, to them that final game win meant that they were champions. Champions over the whole thing.

None of us parents objected.

Good cop coach V gave head nuzzles and side-hip hugs while bad cop coach Harry doled our fist bumps and hyper-masculine back slaps. Both coaches rounded all those boys up into a big huddle and initiated what became a giant stack of hands. On three, they yelled it. Loud and proud like the five year-old champions that they were.

"One! Two! Three!  HAWKS!!!"

And we all left the gym with the beginnings of that bittersweet feeling you always feel at the end of a season with a good team. Thinking, Man, that was fun. And, Dang, we were a good team together. 

But before you get to that part, if you're lucky, there's the celebration. Breaking bread in a park somewhere or at one noisy table in a pizza parlor. Seeing as it's winter, we all ended up at a neighborhood pizzeria just a few blocks away from our YMCA.

You can't go wrong with pepperoni and plain-cheese pizzas. Especially if you have eleven giddy five year-old boys and both soda and pink lemonade as your drink options. The cop-coaches gave out certificates and the parents and family members gave out applause. Tucked in the back of the restaurant we all laughed and joked and clapped like old friends while the kids, still clad in their championship uniforms, moved on from basketball discussions to Lego lingo.

That bittersweet end-of-the-season feeling was definitely more sweet than bitter. Numbers were exchanged and promises made to be on future teams together and, of course, to come to houses for play dates, too.

It was all good and feel-good. Even if those giddy five year-olds kept forgetting to use their inside voices. Any who looked at our boys in their matching red jerseys would understand. Because this was a celebration. Of champions.

Finally we rounded all the kids up and headed in a big single file line out of the restaurant. With kids skipping ahead of me and running to catch up with the cop-coaches, I scanned the area one last time for lone jackets or overlooked children. Seeing none and hearing none, I slipped on my coat and picked up my footing to catch up with the rest of the Hawks.

It was fairly early so the pizzeria was pretty much empty. But there were a few scarce diners in the room, most of whom made tender eye contact with me and smiled. Just as I neared the door I glanced to my left at an elderly fellow dining alone at a booth. With hair as white as snow and eyes of an other-worldly cerulean, I softened my gaze at the very sight of him. Slowing my footing in deference.

Our eyes locked and his facial expression seemed to lock, too.

"Excuse me," he announced in an authoritative voice that startled me a bit.

"Yes, sir?" I stopped and leaned toward him smiling to show him that he had my attention. I figured he would ask me a question about their team or wish the boys luck.

Wrong.

"The next time you decide to bring a bunch of kids into a place like this," he scolded me, "you need to control them and quiet them down! That was the wildest bunch of kids that I've ever seen in my life!"

I stared at him incredulously, wondering if this was some kind of joke. Then I looked into his steely gaze and saw something familiar. Something eerily similar to that day that the woman flipped out on us in the YMCA locker room. No, this was not a joke. He kept his eyes trained on mine; his entire expression was twisted and disdainful. And dare I even say it? Hateful.

Wow.

I looked around that empty restaurant and then back over my shoulder at the private area where we'd been sitting and briefly caught the eye of the Latin man bussing the table. I lifted my eyes toward the entrance where the majority of the team was filing out, realizing that nearly all of them were black.

Sigh.

I shook my head and then put my eyes back on that elderly man who sat there ice grilling me while chewing his pizza. Like I wasn't even worth him stopping his eating to give me his two cents. Almost like I was the help or something. That hateful stare spoke volumes. No. This wasn't just about noise. Those angry blue eyes told me so. Still full of disgust or something eerily close.

I cleared my throat and folded my arms. Looking him squarely in his eyes, I replied, "The wildest bunch of kids you've ever seen? Like ever? You look to me like someone who's seen a lot of kids. I would think that surely you have seen wilder than this." I put my hand out toward the kids while keeping my eyes on him.

I chose those words because I didn't want to unleash the expletives dancing on the tip of my tongue. His nasty grimace and icy glare made it clear to me that this was not about a few kids making noise. This was something bigger than that. And in 2012 I wasn't having it.

"NO! I've never seen such a wild and unruly bunch of little kids in life!"

So uncalled for. So hateful. So entitled. I narrowed my eyes and moved those folded hands to my hips. "And you felt like you just HAD to stop me to tell me this, huh?"

And I said it with this slowly escalating pitch and volume to let him know that he had chosen the wrong black lady. He was not the least bit fazed.

"I SURE DID feel like that," he loud-talked me. "You all have all these boys running around and yelling in here like a bunch of hooligans!"

Eeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. 

Wait. Did he say hooligans? HOOLIGANS?!

Awww hell naaaw!

And this time, I let him and everyone else know where I was with that. And just maybe he got something extra to even the score with that lady in the locker room.

"Well you don't GET a say on what the HELL I do," I bellowed. I could tell it startled him. Heck, it startled me. It also got the attention of Harry who had just ushered most of the children outside behind another dad. I went on. "It is SO FUNNY how you feel so damn ENTITLED that you actually THINK you have the RIGHT to stop a GROWN ASS woman and tell her some NONSENSE like that. And it IS NONSENSE because you know DAMN WELL that if those kids didn't all look like ME and more like YOU you wouldn't've had NOTHING to say!"

And yes I said NOTHING and not ANYTHING because that's where I was at that moment. That man looked at me with all that hate still oozing from his eyes. He kept chewing like some kid of cow, kind of smirked at me and did not even bother disputing this observation of mine. "Well, I JUST KNOW that if you're going to bring THEM KIDS into a place of business then -- "

"THEN WHAT?" 

I swung my head around and saw Harry standing there. Bad cop was in the building. Looking meaner and badder than a shut-yo-mouth. And now right next to his wife.

Rut roh.

And that man was shaking like a leaf. I felt kind of bad because he could not have been any younger than eighty and was probably a longterm resident in the area. An area that right now is predominantly white and that, in his lifetime, was likely whole lot more than just predominantly so in the past.

"THEN WHAT?! You saw ALL OF THESE FATHERS walking out of here FIRST but YOU decide that YOU want to stop HER?" Harry stood there grilling him like a bad cop for real. "LOOK, man. If you got some kind of ISSUE , then I'M the one you need to be talking to, YOU GOT THAT? I'M the one who was watching all the kids so why don't you just TELL ME what you feel like you just GOT to say, alright? If you so BIG AND BAD, why don't you just SAY IT TO ME." Harry patted his chest for emphasis.

That man was terrified, do you hear me? And yes, he was dead wrong for calling our kids some "hooligans" so he had it coming. But still, y'all know I didn't like the idea of us going off on an elder.

Even a racist and hateful one.

The more I thought of it though, the more I realized. You know? This isn't just HIS neighborhood. This is my neighborhood, too.

So Harry just branded him with his eyes and that man (who had finally stopped chewing) just sat there nervously looking back at Harry. And honestly? I don't blame him considering Harry looked like a Paul Bunyan-John Henry hybrid standing next to that little man in that little booth.

Ol' blue eyes changed his tune real fast and suddenly had nothing else to say. It kind of annoyed me because it mostly looked like he thought that this scary black man was about to assault him--which was not even the case.

"Yeah.I DIDN'T THINK SO," Harry said firmly. Muttering under his breath he prepared to walk away from the whole thing before his bad cop really came out. He looked over at me and gestured toward me to leave.

The whole interaction was so upsetting that I felt like my feet were glued to the floor. Harry reached out gently for my arm. I finally started to walk away.

I took a few steps but then paused for a second. I craned my neck back at that man and gritted my teeth. I had one more thing to say.

"Our kids AREN'T HOOLIGANS. They're just HAPPY. You GOT that?"

And with that I marched away.

On the ride home, I didn't say a word. My eyes kept welling up as I quietly rode and thought about my boys, this world and its harsh realities. A world that still has leftovers from that Jim Crow era like that man in the pizzeria or that woman in the locker room. Even though they might be leftovers, the sad truth is that there are still people sitting at dinner tables learning from what they say and do.

I made a vow to make sure my manchildren always know who they are. And that they realize that they, too, sing America.

Especially at times like this.

***
Happy Black History Month.

Baby, you're a star---not a hooligan.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

~ by the poet Langston Hughes

And now playing on my mental iPod. . . .of course. . .because as the Grady elders say, "Don't you let NOTHIN' steal your joy!" And what could be more joy-filled than Ray Charles' rendition of "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing?"



Addendum:  I recognize that the man never directly reverenced race nor did he ever make an overt racial slur. But remember--in 2012 people rarely have the guts to do that . . . .at least to your face.  That's my point. And look--I'm a 41 year old woman who works with elders every single day.  Trust me. . . .I know "grouchy old man" when I see it.  And this? It wasn't that. I truly wish it were just that. But unfortunately it wasn't.

Ode to the Grady Elders: Having you there

 In the good times

and in the bad times

in the happy times

and in the sad times

Having you there

made the difference

Just having you there

~ from The Mississipi Mass Choir 

"Having you there"

Grady Elder
________________

I get to be here
because of you
and I love being here
because of you
and that's the God's-honest truth

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
your knowing eyes
surrounded by tiny skin folds
that, to you, "show your age"
but not to me

I see layers and layers
of been theres
and done thats
of uphill climbs
and intrepid faith
of mountains moved
or torn down altogether

yes, I see it all
and especially
I see love

when you open your mouth to speak
I have learned to close mine
and hear your words
and savor your voice
every part of it
sometimes wobbly like elementary school cursive
or gravelly like tires rolling over old-school asphalt parking lots
or even
perfectly smooth like grandmama's  hand-stirred batter
but always worthwhile
and always worth hearing

always
because you have taught me that
listening to a person's voice
is the best way to give them one
yes, you have
and yes, it is

even when I'm tired
I still know that
it is a privilege
to care for you
to laugh with you
and cry with you
to learn from you
and just be with you

yes, ma'am, it is
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

you teach me what the books cannot
the things that matter most
and give me pieces of your dreams and struggles
to take with me
to the places you couldn't go

all I really want to do
is make you proud
so proud that your heart takes wings
and begins to fly
believing that your struggles were not in vain
and that my triumphs
are yours, too
because no, they weren't
and yes, they are

yes, they are

thank you
for sharing with me
your been theres
and your done thats
your uphill climbs
your intrepid faith
and
for moving those mountains
or tearing them down
long before I got there

yes
you hold in your hands
the wisdom of the ages
and I get to experience it all
wrapped in knowing nods
tight hugs
physical findings
funny sayings
and easy, unfiltered banter
I get to experience it all

and I 'preciate that
and even more
I 'preciate you

Yes, ma'am I do
and no, sir, I ain't just saying that

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . 

Out of the deep.

One of the students rolled up on me yesterday and said, "Hey Dr. M! Your blog has been CRAZY DEEP these days. Man!"

And I'm sayin'. That med stud totally meant that as a compliment, but seriously. . . . for whatever reason the word "deep" is one I don't like connected to me. It seems like you're trying to hard. In fact, one of my favorite sayings is, "It's just not that deep."

So check it. Today? I bring you the world's LEAST deep post ever on a Hump Day mornin'.  Nothing but unedited randomness, which I assure you will not be "deep".

*Yawn*

So where to start? Hmm. Oh, Dia de San Valentin. Let's start there.

Valentine's Day was kind of cool. The BHE is on this kick where he wants the boys to know "how to love like a real man." Hmm. Take that back. It's not a "kick" really. It's more like this ongoing thing where he is always declaring to the kids that "a man" does this and "a man" does that.

Like help out his wife.
And get her some pretty flowers if that's her thing.
And tell her she looks pretty even on the days when she doesn't feel that way.
And pay some bills.
And not just lay around doing nothing.

Mmmm hmmmm.  The BHE told the little future BHE's that you "can't treat your wife special only on Valentine's Day but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't do something special for her on that day, too."

You betta preach, Bro' Manning.

Yep.

Oh, what'd you ask? You said what did I do for the BHE on that day? Okay, glad you asked because I was going to ask your thoughts on this.

Alright so check it. I gave a lecture and did some writing for this shmancy National Organization and instead of giving an honorarium ("cash-money" as I like to call it) they said they give a gift.

Errr, what?

Well, that's fine because I do so much stuff SANS HONORARI (my fancy way of saying without an honorarium) that I was lightweight surprised that they thought I was expecting one.

Well. Turns out that gift was a -- shut YO' mouth -- iPad2. Whoops. That's AN iPAD2. Sorry, Mom.

So the thing is this: I have an iPad. An iPad UNO, no less, but a perfectly working iPad of my own. The BHE, however, declares himself a no-gadget dude. And though he is constantly swearing up and down that this is who he is, he like TOTALLY is always up on somebody's iPad "for just two seconds."

Mmmm hmmm.

So you know where this is going, right? Or do you? Okay, I'll tell you. The BHE got an iPad for Valentine's Day.

*eyeroll*

NO! I didn't take the iPad2 for myself! I gave him the spanking new one with FaceTime capability and ALL THAT new stuff. It even came with that funky magnetic cover. He tried to conceal his happiness but he was WAY happy.

Question: Would you have kept the iPad 2? Was it bad to give him something that didn't cost me money?

Well, I know the second answer for our household. Harry immediately opened his eyes wide like saucers and said, "YOU DID NOT GO OUT AND BUY ME THIS AT AN APPLE STORE DID YOU??!"

In other words, "UNLESS you got this on 'the hookup' I'm taking it back due to the expense."

And not "the hookup" in the terms the twenty somethings think of. But "the hookup" you know about if you grew up in the hood and are over the age of thirty. Or unless you are an old soul under thirty (ah hem, Jameil.)

I think it's funny when a spouse buys a really expensive gift and acts like it's not all one money pile. And just because I think it's funny doesn't mean I'm against an overpriced baubles or handbag, people. But seriously. . . in my head I know--it's one big pot we're dipping from. Well, sort of. Even if you have separate finances, all roads lead to the same home.

Which reminds me. Do y'all have separate finances? We sort of do. But sort of don't. It works.

Oh yeah. And what do you all think of re-gifting? You know--like if your kid gets seventy trillion gifts on their birthday, is it okay to re-gift to someone else? Especially kid things? Do any of you do that or do you just put them away and allow them slowly through the year?

Man. I may or may not have busted out some birthday bounty under the Christmas tree. And just maybe one Isaiah A. Manning promptly called my ass out on it.

"Santa did NOT bring that. That's from Zachy's birthday."

Alrighty then.

Well. Even if y'all don't re-gift. I save all of the bags and tissue paper. I don't think I've bought a gift bag in five years. Dead. Serious.

0_0   ---->  what?

Anywho. What else? Hmmm.

Oh! Did y'all know that tilapia isn't really so good for you? Damn. No wonder it's so cheap. Turns out that the way they are raised on the farm or whatever they get fed a bunch of crap. That crap then makes an already not-so-nutritious fish less so. You know how salmon has the omega 3 fatty acids? Tilapia has some kind called omega 6. Not so good for you, actually. Not horrible. Just not your best choice.

Better choices are things like salmon and tuna.

I used to love salmon but during my first pregnancy I developed a complete aversion to salmon steaks. Ick. Funny thing is that the BHE did, too. I used to hit up Sam's club or Costco and get a big bag of salmon. Now we can't even stand the sight of it. Neither one of us regained our "salmon tooth." Wait. I take that back. I still like salmon croquets and lox. But the steaks -- ickity-ick.

Did that happen to any of you when you were preggers? What about your better half. Or baby-daddy. Take your pick on how that person is described.

What else?

Oh. I went and got a pedicure and the dude working on my foot was obviously new. Like NEW-NEW. It's bad because I'm really secretly sexist with pedicures and don't generally want a dude working on my toes. But the real issue wasn't his Y chromosome but instead the fact that he was new. Very new. Working all slow and nervous-like. And I could tell from the very first moment he sat down. Looking all around for stuff like he was confused.

I'm sayin'. The foot-experience is sacred to me. I find it very relaxing and his newbie-ness was blowing my experience. I thought about asking for another person. Just maybe a lady that had been there more than two minutes. Because I am really thinking I was his first "real" customer.

Then I realized that I am a teaching physician. I remembered that a lot of patients are super gracious with my novice students and so I shut my pie-hole and tried to relax. I kept saying in my head, "See one. Do one. Teach one."

Dude was only one step beyond "see one." So yeah, I chilled and let him. He cut my toenails down waaaay too low but whatever. I meant to tell his attending manicurist to supervise better next time.

What else? Oh this. When I was a medical student I was presenting a patient and said that he had no "dypnea on exertion." My attending promptly lambasted me for pronouncing the 'p' in that word "dyspnea."  For you lay folk, dyspnea means "difficulty in breathing."

So anyways. That attending screamed on me and said, "The 'P' is SILENT! It's DIS-NEE-AAAH!!! Like the way you say PNEUMONIA not P-NEUMONIA, got it????"

And I got it. So much so that I have said it that way ever since.

Until yesterday when just maybe I corrected someone for saying it with a 'p'. And just maybe I slightly lambasted them, too. Albeit with a smile.

Turns out that students now have things like "dictionary.com" and "merriam-webster.com" to immediately check your facts. And. They even can push a button to hear it pronounced. And it is pronounced:

DYSP-NEE-AA.

The 'p' is not EVEN silent.

Awkwaaaaarrrd.

Ha. All I could do was laugh. Which I did and do often. Bwah ha ha.

The lesson there? Uhh, no lesson. I still like saying things loud and wrong instead of soft and right. Ha.

I'm sayin'. This was the least "deep" post ever. And this was my goal.

I hope you have a wonderful day and that you don't develop any dysPnea.

Heh.

*****
Happy Wednesday, party people.

And now, the most random thing ever, this song that is playing on my mental iPod. I blame my friend Psonya for this because she put it in my head today. And now, I've tagged you and put it in yours. (You can thank me later.)

And crown thy good.

"I'm talking 'bout America

Sweet America

God done shed his grace on thee

And he crowned thy good 

(He told me he would)

with-a brotherhood

from sea to 

shining sea."

~ America the Beautiful (as sung by Ray Charles)

 _____________________________

When I walked into the room, I felt it. This palpable heaviness that I couldn't put my finger on. The woman waiting for me in the room was staring straight ahead and didn't even flinch when the door opened.

"Good morning," I spoke quietly.

Her head swung toward my face and she offered a tiny nod. "Good morning," she replied. After that greeting her gaze drifted off to where it had been before I entered the room and her face was an expressionless mask of complex emotion.

For a few moments I simply watched her. Skin of such a strikingly dark hue that it almost appeared black. Dark like night; a shade so uninterrupted and pure that it clearly hadn't originated on this continent. Her delicate hands of that same complexion rested in an idle stack on top of her lap. I nodded back.

"My name is Dr. Manning. I am the senior doctor here today and wanted to come and introduce myself to you. Your doctor told me a lot about you, but I hope you don't mind me speaking with you for a bit."

And to that she nodded again.

This was a straightforward follow up visit. A quick check to make sure that the issues from her last visit were continuing to move in the right direction. I chatted with her briefly about what had transpired before and since that last visit. Next, I did a focused examination with the intern seeing her that morning. Things were well. She looked good. There wasn't much more to do.

But still, there was that heaviness. Not necessarily heavy all over. More heavy like some kind of lopsided down comforter where all of the feathers have gathered in one area. Not necessarily oppressively heavy, but heavy still.

"What questions do you have for us today?" I finally asked.

"Questions? I have none."  Her voice was thick with some kind of accent. Likely peppered by her native African tongue. Each word was careful and formal; almost as if she was consciously translating them word by word from her first language into English. Separated by double-spaces and perfect in their annunciation.

I decided that I, too, should be deliberate about my next words. With her, I also recognized the need to keep things as formal as she which isn't necessarily my style. I followed her lead, but still wanted to know who she was.

"Where did you grow up? Your accent is lovely." I chose that word lovely because it was decidedly formal and also because her accent was just that.

"The Congo."  She cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. Then she looked back at me and waited to see what I had next. It felt like an invitation, so I accepted it.

"I've never been to Africa," I gently replied.

"Africa is beautiful," she quickly interjected. "Full of richness, sounds, nature, life. You must go."

The Congo (National Geographic image)

You must go.

Beautiful and formal and meaningful. Just like her posture and hands and her gaze. Sorting through my words, I chose these next: "You're right. I must."

She smiled for the first time after I said that. Her strong white teeth were so straight that they almost looked like dentures. And seeing them against the midnight of her skin nearly took the wind from my chest.

"What brought you to Atlanta?" Careful. Deliberate. Quiet. Formal.

"Atlanta is in America. I came to America." That answer was loaded. Her face washed over with some fleeting grief. I knew then that this might be part of that heaviness I was feeling in the room.

"I would guess it's been a big change for you." I waited for a second and sifted through my words again. "Have you . . .Do you like being here?"

Uggh. So much for my careful words. That felt dumb the minute it escaped my lips.

"I came through a lottery system. They enter your name and if you are lucky you get the visa and the green card to come and work in America. Everyone wants to come to America. It is the dream."

Loaded again. My intern sat on the footstool of the examining table and listened. I followed her lead and waited for the patient to continue.

"In my country, I had a good job. I worked for a company. Not manual labor or any such thing. But a good job and I could care for my family. My whole family was there and they were so happy when I won this lottery. I came with my two sons to this country in 2008." She sucked her teeth and looked away. Then staring right back at me she said, "I did not win anything. I lost."

Damn. 

I pressed my lips together and looked for the right thing to say. I stopped being careful and decided to just be my normal self. "It wasn't what you imagined?"

"No. Not at all. You come here for this America Dream. The dream that you can be anything and do much more and much better just by coming here. But this America Dream is not what I thought. I know it isn't what anyone in my country thinks."

We sat there riveted, watching her mouth move as her body remained as stiff and formal as before.

"It was better for me at home. Here, I cannot find work. At first, I could. Cleaning jobs, bagging in the Kroger store. But then it got worse. Nothing here for me to do."

"What about your sons? Has it been good for them? Better for them?"

"They were already teenagers. It was hard. They do not look like people here so people were not nice. They came home and said, 'Mam-ee, they treat us like we are aliens from another planet.'" She sucked her teeth hard again and this time rolled her eyes. "And they are smart boys but not A students. So a college scholarship was not there. They are looking for work, too. It is bad. Very bad. And I cannot afford to go back home. No money."

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"It isn't what they tell you. My country is beautiful. The people work hard and I wish I could go and tell them, 'Appreciate this. Love that this is your homeland and you belong.' That is what I would tell them all."

And so we just sat there in that heavy. Cloaked in the reality of something that I never had to think of. Smothered by those layers of complexity that I initially felt but for which I had now gained insight.

Finally, my intern spoke up. "What will you do?"

And even though that question seemed vague, that patient understood it as the direct question her doctor intended to be. She drew in her chest and straightened her spine once more. And finally with a slow motion blink of her eyes, she paused and then prepared to speak. With that same fiercely searing gaze and her formal staccato English she firmly declared:

"I will survive. It is all I know to do."


And this? This, too, is Grady.

   

"'til all success

be nobleness

and
every gain divine."

***
Happy Tuesday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

Road Trip.

One mommy + one daddy + two little stinky boys + nine-and-a-half hours-in-the-car + four different states + lots of snacks + one hard-working DVD player + two Star Wars Clone Wars DVD packs + "thank God you guys are boys so we can just pull over right here" + "Eeeww Harry! Nobody will be 'using a cup until we stop'!" + a whole lot of laughter + a whole lot of singing + a whole lot of talking +  a whole lot of friends + a whole lot of good times =

A whole lot of uninterrupted family time that may not now but likely will later be just one part of a whole lot of wonderful childhood memories.

Which made that crazy-long drive a whole lot of worth it.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . and bringing back memories of our childhood road trips as a family. Best family road trip song ever.

Stronghold.

Giving up 
is so hard to do
I said I've tried
But it just ain't no use

But my light of hope 

is burning dim

But

But in my heart I pray
That my love and faith in the girl
will bring her back someday

~ from Donny Hathaway "Giving Up."

"Sit down on that chair, hear? What did I say?"

This sixty-something year old woman furrowed her brow and pointed her finger sternly at the two toddlers fidgeting in the chair beside the examining table. A little boy and a little girl -- certainly no older than three and clearly a big handful.

"Gran'mama, I'm hungry!" the little boy whined.

She didn't say anything in response. Instead she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a little box of animal crackers and opened it up. Next she whipped out a little package of travel tissues and quickly secured one tissue in each hand. Holding both up to each child's nose simultaneously she directed them. "Blow."

*phhhhhttttttthhhhh*

Those little toddlers did just as they were instructed. This grandmama meant business.

I had just stepped into the clinic room with one of the residents when I caught all of this. And honestly? It wasn't exactly unusual to see a patient with children in tow. I kept things light and made a little small talk.

"Hey there, Ms. Ashton. I think we may have met before -- I'm Dr. Manning and I work with your resident doctor." I reached out hand shook her hand even though she'd just had a snot-filled Kleenex in it. "I see you have your grands with you today, huh?"

She made and exaggerated eye roll. "Honey, I got my grands with me every day--y'all stop dropping' all them crumbs all over the place, hear?" The obedient toddlers shifted nervously in that shared seat.

"Are they twins?" I asked. Partly because I was still making small talk but also because I was just curious.

"Mmmm hmmm, chile. And they a handful, too. Sweet little babies, but they a handful for sure. Cain't you tell?"

We all laughed, the resident, Ms. Ashton and me.

"You keep your grandbabies during the day?" I chuckled and reached out for the little girl's hand. It warmed my heart when she let me.

Ms. Ashton grabbed the box of animal crackers and dusted the crumbs off of their laps with her other hand. Her wide hips shook as she swished her hand and caught crumbs into the box. She returned to her chair and let out a sigh. "I keep my grands all the time. They stay with me 'cause my daughter cain't take care of 'em herself."

I widened my eyes and prepared to back off. I cast a quick glance in the direction of my resident because none of this had come up when she'd presented the patient to me. The look on her face suggested that this was news to her, too. I suppose she'd simply assumed that a kind grandmother was watching two of her grandchildren.

"Her mama got a stronghold. Hooked on that crack mess. So the state was gon' take her babies but I said, 'Naw, we don't do that in this family.'"

"Stronghold." Sure, Merriam-Webster has its own meaning for this word, but coming from a Grady elder, I knew exactly what this meant. A stronghold. The term the elders use to describe an addiction or gripping weakness; usually referring to how powerless it renders its victim.

I remembered that woman today. I remembered her not because of the medical problems we treated her for that day but because of our very brief conversation about her daughter. She went on to say a few words about her daughter and her addiction--always referring to it as a "stronghold."

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do."

***

This past weekend we went to visit some of our closest friends, Shannon and Michelle, in Virginia. The weekend was full of joy and laughter and memories and all of the things that time with old friends affords. Saturday was full of celebration. Their youngest child, Colin, turned five and we spent the day swirling in kid-centered fun. The night involved sugar-hyped children and dance games on Wii consoles. Wonderfully trapped in the basement where no one could get into much of anything. Which for us grownups meant clinking wine glasses and adult conversations. It was the very best kind of time.

At some point after a few too many laughs and after the Pinot Grigio had just about worn off, a couple of us wild and crazy kids decided that nothing would better than some Dunkin Donuts coffee for the after party. So my friend Nikki G. (who was one of the only ones who'd passed on the Pinot) agreed to drive and off the two of us went on an 8 PM coffee run. On a Saturday night. Which, okay, now that I think of it, sounds like a very lame and forty-and-up thing to do.

But I digress.

Anyways. Here we are all loquacious and happy like some twenty-somethings who are just leaving the club. LOL-ing and OMG-ing. And full of life and vigor and joy as we danced our way into that empty Dunkin Donuts. And, yes, it was totally empty because, as it turns out, America might run on Dunkin but Dunkin Donuts is not EVEN the hot-spot on a Saturday night. At least in Alexandria, Virginia it isn't.

But for me, it was the place to be because I felt light and free and relaxed. My kids were having a great time with great friends in a safe place around people I trust. And at the very same time, Harry and I were, too. The older you get, the more you appreciate these moments. Yes, you do.

So yeah, Nikki and I bust into the spot all giddy and goofy--her just because and me because I'm out of town/away from work/and okay, perhaps with some remnants of Pinot Grigio--and it was a perfect moment. It truly was. I even had on Zachary's Paul Frank monkey hat which made us laugh even more. And that made it just that much more perfect.

"Dude! Since when do they have plasma TVs up in Dunkin Donuts!" I joked. Still laughing and giddy. With my monkey hat on.

But then, just as Nikki prepared to counter my observation, we look up at that screen and see this:

And just like that we stopped laughing. Both frozen in our tracks, staring at this literally sobering news. Because we both knew that this was one of those "where were you" moments. So we just stood there in silence for a few seconds letting it sink in. 

Whitney Houston Dead at 48.

"NO WAY!" I immediately yelled out. 

"WHAT!?" Nikki screeched a mere two seconds later.

CNN. That's reputable. Wait, huh? Whitney? Whitney Houston? Our Whitney? Dead? According to CNN? 

"NO WAY!" 

"WHAT?!" 

And then we just paced back and forth, looking at the flatscreen television and repeating those same words over and over again.  NO WAY! WHAT?!

Then I turned my shock toward the poor, unsuspecting South Asian man behind the counter. "WHAT HAPPENED TO WHITNEY? WHAT DID THEY SAY HAPPENED TO WHITNEY!?" 

And yes. I meant to put it in all caps because I was speaking loudly and was probably being a close-talker to boot. Hearing that Ms. Whitney Houston was no longer alive was disorienting. So much so that I decided that Mr. Dunkin had some kind of hot off the presses information that we hadn't yet learned. I mean, seeing as he is up in there with that flatscreen on CNN all day. 

"YO! What they say happened to Whitney?!" I demanded again. And yes, I meant to write "what they say happened" because honestly? This is exactly what I said. I mean, somebody had just said that Whitney Houston had died. This was no time for standard English.

where I was when I heard

So Mr. Dunkin just shrugged in this weird way that looked partly like he had no idea what I was talking about and partly like he was deeply afraid that this was about to be a stick-up. I believe that my interpretation of that shrug is spot on. 

So we go from pacing to just standing there with our arms folded shaking our heads. Then we both get tearful for a moment as the same images keep showing over and over and over again.

Whitney is dead. No, wait. Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston--is dead.

That's when that word popped into my head:

"Stronghold."

So apropos, that word. I thought of Whitney Houston's mother, Sissy. I imagined her daughter, Bobbie Christina. I even thought of Oprah Winfrey applauding her big comeback and punctuating it with a two-part episode in her final season. 

Stronghold.

I thought of every single woman who has ever sang a song or wanted to have a big and unforgettable voice and how by definition she had to look up to Whitney Houston. Because regardless of her struggles, her voice was unmatched. 

That voice made her very rich and very famous. But despite her talent and fame and fortune, she wasn't immune to that stronghold. And just like Ms. Ashton said that day, it was nothing her family could do. Hell, it was even too big for Oprah Winfrey herself to love her through. 

Ms. Ashton spoke a good word that day between passing snacks and wiping noses:

"It's out of your hands. That's the thing about a stronghold. All you can do is love 'em and pray. Getting' mad at 'em don't help nothin'. So you jest love 'em and pray. Other than that it ain't much you can do." 

Ain't that the truth.

So today I'm reflecting on Whitney Houston--our Whitney Houston-- and her stronghold. I'm also reflecting on Sissy Houston and Bobbie Christina Brown and every single Sissy and Bobbie who have ever had to stand by helplessly in plain view of their loved one being strangled by some kind of stronghold. 

Because the worst part about it is that it's out of your hands.

A lot of us were disappointed in Whitney. I guess we thought that with a voice like that, that she was superhuman and supposed to do more with her legacy. Seeing her erratic behavior was so hurtful yet we still loved her and accepted this version of her. That's the thing about a stronghold. 

Yes, we loved her and saw her as a golden girl. We wanted a scapegoat  so we even blamed Bobby Brown for a while, but over time it became apparent that she was ill. And even if Bobby sat next to her acting quirky and high on Barbra Walters' show, he still had his own stronghold. And Whitney's belonged to her. 

No, I don't know the specifics of Whitney Houston's cause of death. But I have lived long enough and worked at Grady long enough to know that even if it wasn't specifically related to drugs, it still was. We had waved good bye to the old version of her some years ago. That lanky, confident songstress with the poise of an opera singer and had forced ourselves to get used to this new person in her place. That's the thing about a stronghold. It's like watching a slow death. . . . even before someone dies.

I have seen people escape strongholds. Very few--but I still have. 

I've seen Ms. Ashton a few more times since that first meeting. Every time those grand babies are in tow. And most of the time, we've moved on and chatted about mundane things as if her lost daughter was just "one of those things" that you know of but tried not to think of. But you quietly promise in your heart to pray about it because the love is the part you can't forget.  Even when they're gone. 

Kind of like we did with Whitney all those years.

That's the thing about a stronghold. We hold on, too.

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . "Giving Up" by Donny Hathaway. . . .the song that always reminds me of strongholds -- and especially the people loving someone through one. His haunting voice and the musical accompaniment seems like it was recorded for this very moment, I swear. Please. . .please listen to this one,okay? Thanks.

You were loved.

Whitney Houston (1963 - 2012)

We all want to make a place in this world

We all want our voices to be heard

Everyone wants a chance to be someone

We all have dreams we need to dream

Sweeter than any star you can reach 

is when you reach and find

You've found someone

You'll hold the world's most priceless thing

The greatest gift this life can bring

is when you look back and know

You were loved

You were loved by someone

Touched by someone

Held by someone

Meant something to someone

Loved somebody

Touched somebody's heart along the way

You can look back and say. . . 

You did okay.

You were loved.


~ Whitney Houston in "You were loved."

***

We don't know exactly what happened. And sure, we can all speculate. But what we do know is that she was loved. I guess that's what makes it so sad. 

More later. But for now, may your soul rest in peace, Ms. Whitney.

And now playing on my mental iPod. . . . one of Whitney's most beautiful (yet rarely heard) recordings. . . ."You were loved."

Red light, green light.

Driving down Ponce de Leon Avenue yesterday. Helped give prospective parent tours at the kids' school that day so had a few open morning hours afterward to run errands.

Red light.

Do we have any bread? 
Dang. The classical music is already on on NPR. 
I actually like classical music.
I think the "Second Cup" classical music show lady secretly kind of creeps me out. 
Yes. That's what it is.
Just how old is that NPR "Second Cup" radio-lady Lois Reitzes anyway? 
I need to Wikipedia that.
Is today somebody's birthday? 
Wait--was yesterday?
Did I give a check to after school care?
Apples. We need some apples.
Will the kids know the difference if I tell them the Gala apples are Honeycrisp apples?
Damn, why do Honeycrisp apples cost so much? Oh. They taste good.
I wonder what Jay-Z and Beyonce's baby looks like.

Green light. 

Turned to a music station. But no music. Just a whole bunch of loud talking. At the moment loud talking is about some photograph of Beyonce and her post-baby body. I need to make sure I Google that. She look good, one personality said. Yeah, now I really believe that she actually had that baby 'cause you can see it all up in her face, was the reply. She lost all that baby weight already? A caller calls in. Naaaah. That's just Spanx and a good girdle.
Yeah. You gotta love those Spanx.

Red light.

The Spanx slimmer-stocking-thingies can easily take five pounds off. 
That and five years worth of cellulite off if you're lucky. 
Also smooths down a mean mummy tummy. 
Eeew. Hate it when someone wears thigh length Spanx and you can see their Spanx-line.
Looks like a sausage being choked by a rubber band. The worst.
*Yawn*
Do we have any milk? I mean 2% milk, not soy. 
I wonder if soy products are really bad for you. I know it has estrogen in it. The plant kind.
I wonder what Oprah is up to. I haven't watched OWN in ages.

Green light

Glancing around the front of my car. This thing needs cleaning out. Badly. Finally some music on the radio. Guess who? Beyonce. Singing "Love on Top." Think I am Beyonce'd out for the morning. Turn back to NPR. This time some dude is reading a poem. Love NPR for that. Where else can you hear a random dude reading a random poem on the radio? He probably isn't so random. He may be the "it guy" of radio poetry for all I know. Either way, I like it.

Red light

*Yawn*

Look over to my right. A lady is sitting on the bus stop. She looks to be at least sixty but overall it looks like she's had a hard life. That could mean fifty. Or even forty-something. Something about her draws me in. Her hand. One hand is rhythmically beating, as if to music. I know it isn't supposed to because she keeps pressing it into her torso to make it stop. Side effect from a psychiatric medicine? Uncontrollable.

Beating. Beating. Beating.

Her mouth is moving. I can't hear but she is talking. Definitely talking. And not like me talking in my head but a full on conversation with someone. But no one is there. Yes. Definitely, a psych medicine. Schizophrenia?

Beating. Beating. Beating.

She reaches for her matted hair with that renegade hand. To smooth it perhaps? No. Just to scratch it. Then I see on her wrist. An armband. No, two armbands. From the hospital. Lips protruding and face is sunken in from being pasted over an edentulous mouth.

Beating. Beating. Beating.

Her head swings from side to side. Nervous. Paranoia. That conversation appears to become argumentative. Belligerent. Indignant. But still, no one there but her. And me, sort of. Watching through my window. Big plastic bags at her feet filled with what actually looks like paper. But she keeps on clinging on to it, pulling it in closer with her feet and non-renegade hand like some sort of precious cargo.

Beating. Beating. Beating.

A man passes her and stares. Doesn't even try to hide it. Picks up his pace and hurries away. From this "crazy" lady with the hospital bands on her arm. And she barely notices. She just keeps on yelling at those vacuous people threatening her all day. Waving her beating hand and clutching her plastic bag of nothing-but-everything so that no one takes it away.  Alone. With no one there but her. And me, in a way. Watching and wondering and wishing at a red light. If only for a moment.

Green light.

Silence.

***
Happy Thursday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .my favorite Beatle, Mr. George Harrison.