Barack's Been Good, God - Inaugural Prayers for Barack Obama at Ruby's Diner

For our inaugural eve dinner, we hop over to Ruby's Diner down the street for Super Burgers--hamburgers served on grilled Parmesan toast with avocado and the usual fixings. Tasty. Where ever I've gone today while doing errands, the air is simply palpable with excitement. It's truly electric and I feel it even here in Ruby's atmosphere. People are laughing as they wait in line to be seated; they smile at strangers knowingly, as if we're conspirators in a great master plan.

We are seated in a red vinyl booth in the middle of two rows of such booths adjoined on one side. The booths behind, ahead and next to us are already occupied by diners. Two parties chomp happily on their burgers, fries and shakes and the third family is waiting for their food next to us.
This African American family includes two parents and two daughters, one about six and the other near 10 years old. The girls sit next to each other and fold their children's' menus into the toy cars they were designed to become. Their mother sits in the nook of their father's arm wrapped round her shoulders. She wears a large gold cross around her neck.

After we order, the family's food arrives and teases my hunger with the aroma of grilled beef. "Yay!" squeals the young one. Her sister puts her hand over the child's mouth. The parents laugh. The small girl starts to grab a fry and her father stops her hand. "We say grace whether we're at home or away," he tells her. She releases her french fry, all four join hands and bow heads.

Her father prays in a low voice. I cannot hear much and feel rather sleazy listening to someone's prayer. At the end, I do hear a request to bless tomorrow's inauguration. At the end of her Dad's sentence, the youngest daughter says loudly:

"And God, Barack has been very good. Please protect Sasha and Malia's Daddy. Amen!"

An older woman in the booth across from this family, says "Amen", also. A younger couple behind this family clap for the little girl, and others join her in our booth area. I look around at the handful of people clapping, they are white, black, Hispanic people applauding a small child's request to protect this man who assumes his awesome responsibility to protect us, all of us, tomorrow morning.

How Do You Become a Desperate Housewife?

I am one of those silly people who buys a Christmas tree at the crack of December's dawn. I know it will be stiff and crispy by the 25th, but I can't be reasoned with. The tip of my nose tingles with cold tonight as fog rolls in. The moving misty blanket starts obscuring the trees and I feel a few pangs of panic. This is my only free night until the weekend and I simply can't wait that long if I don't find a tree, the tree, tonight.

A little girl's happy squeals erupt a few trees over. Curious to see which tree has found its family, I amble over. A young girl zipped and hooded inside a pink puffy jacket hops up and down holding her mother's hand. Her dad gives the tree a final once-over. The little girl hops faster. Her mother tells her gently to calm down. She stands still and pushes the hood off of her head:

Girl: Daddy! This is the prettiest tree here! Ours is the best tree. And we have to keep it safe.
Dad: What do you mean?
Girl: Today? At school? We learned you cannot ever leave its lights on all night and you can never ever put it by a heater because it will catch fire.
Dad: That's right. We won't do that.
The girl begins hopping again and her mom bends to hug her into stillness.
Girl: Mom, know what else I learned today?
Mom: What's that?
Girl: That if you're a boy you have to buy a lot of Christmas presents for your girlfriend.
Mom: Who said that?
Girl: Kelly. She heard her sister tell her boyfriend all the stuff he has to buy her for Christmas or else he's gonna be single and Kelly said being single is the worst thing you can be when you grow up because then you are a desperate housewife, like on TV.

What's on the Breast Feeding Menu?

I am eating rotisserie chicken and hummus for dinner at a casual Mediterranean restaurant. The decor is brightened with vibrant colors I'd never think to combine - lime green, bright red, orange and deep brown. I realize how boring my home's walls are and look away from the canvas to the people around me.

The tables lining the restaurant's perimeter are a bit closer together than most would find comfortable, but after a short time most diners are lost in conversation anyway. This, as you might suspect, delights me.

Tonight, I'm eating alone and free to listen undisturbed by my companions. What an anti-socialist I am, I think to myself. Three quarters through my one-quarter white meat chicken, a family of four takes a table near the center of the room. Mom, Dad, toddler and baby settle in. I polish off the crispy wing of my bird and again look over at the family. In those few minutes past, the mom has deftly set up to breast feed her infant. She wears a nifty cover that wraps around her neck and tucks around the outside of baby's head and side. Only two little feet poke out the other end of the cloth.

The baby fusses a bit and a few high-pitched screams grab the attention of two little girls dining next to me with a young woman who is pregnant. The children are around five or six years old and sit next to each other, on my side of the bench, opposite of their guardian. One is frozen, chicken leg in hand, looking toward the screaming baby:

Girl 1: Mom! Why's the baby screaming?

Mom: He's probably hungry, sweetie. He has to eat, just like you need to eat your chicken.

Girl 2: He is loud!

Mom: Yeah, babies can be really loud, huh?

Girl 1: Why is he all covered up like that if he's hungry?

Mom looks back at the other mother and baby.

Mom: Well, um, his Mom is feeding him and she needs privacy.

Girl 1: How can she feed him if he's all covered up?

Girl 2: He's eating from her boobie. My brother ate from my mom's boobie, too. I saw it lots of times.

Girl 1 is silent and looks at her mother.

Mom: Honey, mommies' bodies make milk when they have babies and then the babies drink the milk from our breasts, like our kitties did with Snowy, remember?

Girl 1: Are you making milk for our baby?

Mom: Yes! And when I feed her I'll show you.

After some thought, the daughter makes a recommendation to her mom. "You should make chocolate milk. She will like it so much better than plain," she says.

Bail Me Out, Mom

I am at Best Buy electronics browsing all the gadgets I cannot afford. I'm amazed at the ingenuity on display here; everything is smaller, better, faster, cooler. I remember when my first cell phone weighed about one pound. Now, a few ounces in your palm becomes your second brain.

I take my philosophical thoughts and walk to the video game area. I have wanted to get involved in gaming for a while, but am afraid of addiction. Many of my coworkers are World of Warcraft players and well, let's just say they are fully immersed in their online world and have constant cases of red eye.

The aisle buzzes with shoppers. Two young boys play an X-Box game on a system display at the aisle's end. Their eyes bulge with adrenaline. "Yeah!" says one as the other's car flips off the track in a ball of flames. Another young boy stands behind the two, watching a new race begin. Hands in pockets, eyes transfixed on the monitor, his body jerks slightly left and right as the players navigate the turns of the race track.

A bit later, the boy joins his mother in the gaming aisle. He is perhaps eight or nine. His large brown eyes behind small glasses scan the aisle offerings. He bounces from one product to another, running back to his mother with reviews of each discovery.

Eventually, he stops next to me at the Nintendo Wii display. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look me over:

Him: Are you getting this?
Me: No, just looking. Cool, isn't it?
Him: Really cool. It's the best one. But it costs a lot. See?
The boy points to the price, nearly $300.
Him: It's sold out online. My Dad said. So you have to get it here. In the store.

His mother calls him back. "Sorry," she says to me. No problem, I tell her, and compliment her son's product knowledge. A few moments later, when his mother is ready to leave:

Son: Mom, the Wiis are gonna be all gone really fast. We should get one now, before they're ALL GONE.
Mom: Nice try, honey. The store has more. We're not buying anything tonight, remember? Just looking.
Son: But it's important! I need this. It's the only thing on my Christmas list.
Mom: Well, yeah, it better be. It's a lot of money. Just wait and see what Christmas brings, okay?

The boy sighs deeply, spins around and jams his hands into his pockets. He again approaches the Wii display and touches the price tag with one finger. As his mother passes behind me, he grabs her arm with urgency:

Son: Mom! Wait! Maybe you could bail me out.
Mom: What? What do you mean?
Son: You know, bail me out, like on TV for banks. But instead for Wii.
Mom: Oh my god. Michael, that's for big businesses that are going to close if they don't get money to help.
Son: Well, why can't I get money to help?
Mom: Michael! Stop it. It doesn't work like that. Just wait and see what Christmas brings.
Son: Well, it's not fair. I'm gonna write a letter.
Mom: Who are you going to write?
Son: The president of the United States. He is getting his kids a new puppy and he will understand why I need a Wii.

Repossessed

I am slumbering nicely after an emotional day. A close friend's father was laid to rest at Riverside National Cemetery and my last images behind closed lids at bedtime are of the flag presented to her mother by a soldier on bended knee. Grief is a mysterious emotion. An old woman's silent tears flow and yet she looks strong as an oak.

A bright yellow light awakens me, screaming through my bedroom window. An engine chugs. Clanging and rattling chains yank me into coherence. I peek through my blinds and see big plumes of exhaust rising in the cold early morning air. It is coming from a rumbling tow truck across the street.

The man quickly hooks my neighbor's SUV up to his tow truck, working deftly with chains and levers. I wonder for a fleeting moment if he is stealing the car. A light flicks on in the house. The man looks at the glowing window and returns to his cab. His muffled voice speaks into a radio. He returns to his levers and the SUV begins rising.

My neighbor comes out. On bare feet she walks slowly to the car, clutching her thin arms across her nightshirt. The man says something to her and she answers. She stops in her tracks on her lawn, near the sidewalk. She looks left and right, down the street, up to the night sky and then down at her feet.

The SUV jerks to a stop and hydraulics wheeze. The man lowers it back to the ground and motions the girl over. She unlocks the doors and retrieves a tote bag, some papers and a stuffed toy from the back seat. After closing the door, she gives him the key and wipes her face.

The man turns his yellow light off and flicks on flashing blue ones. His tow truck groans and again the SUV rises. Moments later, he climbs into his cab , revs his engine and slowly rolls away.

My neighbor has dropped her bag and papers on the grass. She stands alone on the sidewalk, clutching the small bear and watching her car disappear. I do not know her, but I know the car. It is already gone when I leave for work in the early morning and it does not return until long after I've finished my dinner. It carries two young children to and fro with their mother, and sometimes a friendly mutt bursts out of its hatch back.

I turn my head back from the disappearing tow truck to see the girl looking at my bedroom window. I feel like an intruder. Does she see me? Should I go outside? Stupidly, I wave at her. She does not wave back. She gathers her belongings, wipes her face again, straightens her hair and walks to her front door. The silhouette of a small child stands behind the screen door against the yellow light.

How Superman Defeats Broccoli

The brisk fall evening has me yearning for hot soup and warm bread. I arrive at my favorite destination for such comfort foods, The Soup Plantation. I love to people watch at buffets; euphoria is in the air with so many delicious choices and no limits besides self-imposed ones.

It's a busy dinner crowd. Adults are giddy at the bread station (myself included) with three kinds of cheese breads, baked potatoes, muffins and more. I remember this is where I watched the Bathroom Sneak last year and wonder if he's been back since. The children here provide a stark contrast to their indulgent parents. Most look out windows or twirl in their chairs, eating a bite now and then. They've not yet courted a love affair with food, like we have.

My full plate and I take a two-seater table along the edge of the main dining area. Tables for four occupy the center of the room. Parents, a young boy and a grandfather dine immediately to my left. The boy and his mother sit with their backs to me, across from the dad and grandfather. A bright red Superman cape covers the boy's back and I wonder if he's had a Halloween costume day at school.

The little boy chatters to his family constantly. His mother taps his plate and he takes intermittent bites of food. About 15 minutes into my meal, I hear stronger urging from his mother:

Mom: Brandon, eat the broccoli now. You have to finish just these few pieces. It's very good for you.

Boy: Yuck! I don't like that. I don't want to.

Mom: Stop it. Dip it in the ranch dressing and it will taste better. No desert until it's gone.

Boy: (shakes his head vigorously back and forth) I DON'T LIKE IT. It tastes like trees.

Dad: What do you mean it tastes like trees? Have you ever eaten a tree?

Mom: It looks like a little tree, but it tastes good. C'mon Brandon, no more fussing. Eat it.

Moments later, the parents return to the buffet. The boy looks at his grandfather, who is deep into his salad. The boy looks toward the buffet and then down at his plate. He swings his legs a few times. His hand quickly snatches a broccoli floret and gingerly drops it under the table. He looks again at his grandfather, still busy eating. The boy's hand returns to his plate. Several broccoli florets lob under his table, bouncing on the floor.

The parents return with soft serve ice cream and some fruit. The mother looks at her son's plate:

Mom: Good job honey! Dad, you must have the magic touch.

The grandfather smiles to himself. The boy's mother returns to the buffet for her son's ice cream and the family enjoys desert together. As they prepare to leave, the boy darts away from the table and his mom follows him. The dad collects the coats and walks away as the grandfather rises. He opens his wallet and leaves a tip. The older man stretches his back, puts on his jacket then bends under the table and picks up the broccoli.

Large Fries and a Side of Compassion

The moment I enter the deli, all my guilt over being there melts away. What reasonable person would not surrender to the sweet smell of dry salami? My frozen Lean Cuisine left in the fridge at work is long forgotten. A hint of sour from pickles and eggs curing in large glass barrels of vinegar wafts by. A great mound of pastrami steams on the counter top, ready to be taken to a hungry dinner guest. Heavenly.

I am studying the vast over-sized menu on the wall above and having a particularly difficult time deciding on German potato salad or wonderfully seasoned fries for my sandwich's side order. My coworker suggests I pull out all the stops and get both. Why not? You only live once, I say.

Decisions made, I eye the people standing in line with us. A woman behind me waits with two young children. The girl and boy look up and me and offer small smiles. The little girl holds a picture she has colored of an orange pumpkin with a happy grin. "JUAN" is near the top of the page in big green letters with an orange happy face in Crayon. She is perhaps five and proud of her school artwork.

An unseasonal heatwave cooks the pavement outside, but the children's mother wears a nylon jacket. Her hair is long, thin and separating with oil at the crown. She wears no makeup and there are no socks between the end of her faded blue sweatpants and her scuffed tennis shoes. Both children wear school uniforms common in this area - khaki pants and a white shirt. The boy's hair is buzzed. His sister's blond hair is cut a bit jaggedly at the neckline.

As I order my pastrami dream boat, one of the cooks waves enthusiastically from behind the counter. The little girl yells, "Juan! Hi!" and waves her pumpkin drawing in the air. The cook holds up one finger and smiles. "Hi Juan!" says the girl again. Her mother quiets her gently.

We step aside to wait for our take-out orders. The woman approaches the cashier, who greets her warmly. She orders a side of fries and three waters. She pays for her order with exact change: $2.60. The woman and her children sit at the counter, she in between them.

A few moments later, Juan emerges from the kitchen with a pizza platter piled high with fat home style french fries, another plate with condiments of peppers, ketchup, and small cups of shredded cheese, onions, salsa and possibly cilantro. He sets down three tall glasses of ice water with several lemon slices in each. Both children's drinks have colorful corkscrew straws.

He pats the woman on the shoulder and they share some words. He shakes the little boy's hand and the young girl can no longer contain herself. "JUAN!" she yells, "Look at! For you!" He takes his pumpkin picture, smiles widely and gives her a light hug before returning to the kitchen. The woman has already begun eating. She takes one fry at a time while her son takes heaping handfuls.

The cashier calls our number. She hands me my bag heavy with a pound of pastrami, potato salad AND french fries in one hand, super-sized Coke in the other.

Lady Luck Gets Hosed

I feel my ankles swell as I stand on the outdoor escalator gliding my friends and me into Bally's casino in Las Vegas, our home base for this trip. I am sure we have walked 10 miles today, having repeatedly fallen for the Strip's mirage that everything is so much closer than it really is. The air is heavy with dry heat and it muffles sounds in my ears, which feel like they're stuffed with cotton. We cross the hotel entryway and welcome the beautiful sight of glass doors. In Vegas, the other side of glass doors means air conditioning.

The coolness blasts my face and I am happy once again. The jingles and clinks of the casino instantly energize me and I decide to do a once around before heading upstairs to bed. The table games are fairly empty; only one craps table is open with a handful of subdued players. Most people sit mesmerized by the twirling reels of slots. Some players' eyes are nearly shut with sleep, others are wide with anticipation.

I come upon a very large video slot decorated like an Egyptian sphinx. A young couple is playing the $5 a pull machine. Their credit balance reads $27. A few others watch them and I join in, intrigued by the fancy animation and sounds of the big machine. The young man pushes the button while his girlfriend cheers him on. Three pulls in and the machine gives up nothing.

With $12 credit left, the young man tells his girlfriend to push the button. She hesitates, but with a kiss and a nudge from him, hits the spin button. The reels turn extra slowly, it seems. The couple leans forward, his arm around her shoulders. The first reel stops with a King Tut symbol on top. The second reel does the same. The third rests with another King Tut on the top line and the girlfriend gasps. The fourth and the fifth reel bring two more King Tuts to the first line and the machine explodes with sound. It plays the "Walk Like an Egyptian" song and all the King Tuts' mouths open and close with gold coins flying out. The win box says $2500.

The girlfriend jumps up and down and claps. Gasps and "Oooohs" come from the onlookers. The young man kisses his lady while holding her face in both hands, "I told you", he says to her. An attendant soon arrives, talking into a radio. He pushes buttons on the machine's panel and congratulates the couple:

Attendant: Who's the lucky winner?

Man: We both are! But she's lady luck on this one!

Girl: I was so scared to spin, but I'm happy I did!

Attendant: First trip to Vegas?

Man: Yeah, for both of us. Our first night here, too.

Attendant: Okay folks, that's great. May I see your IDs, please?

The young man quickly produces his wallet and while removing his ID, suddenly snaps his head to his girlfriend. She is frozen, biting her bottom lip, hands gripping the sides of her shorts:

Girl: Um, I don't have my ID with me.

Attendant: I cannot pay the jackpot to you without ID, miss. You spun the machine on this win, correct?

Girl: Um, yes, I spun it, but it's his money.

Attendant: Folks we can't prove whose money it is. Whoever activates the machine is the player. And we do have tape to verify that if it's unclear.

The girl's face reddens and her chin quivers as she looks at her boyfriend, who looks to the ceiling.

Attendant: Miss, I 'll leave the machine locked if you can retrieve your ID quickly.

Man: No. Forget it. She's 19. We're celebrating my 21st birthday here. I was spinning the whole time, doesn't that matter?

Attendant: Sir, I'm really very sorry. The young lady is under aged and I cannot pay the jackpot to her. The winnings are void if the player is not of age. It's the law.

The girl cries openly. Someone yells, "That's bullshit, man!" from the small crowd. The young man takes his girlfriend's hand and leads her away.

The Pea Questions the Pod

I am enjoying an afternoon off work by baking at the community pool. A handful of children splashing in the water remind me of summer's carefree days outside my cubicle walls. Cries for moms to watch this and that ring out repeatedly. Accomplishments include jumps into the deep and submersions without holding noses.

A pair of young girls play with water noodles near the pool steps. They are perhaps four. Both wear bikinis, one in light pink with ruffles on her bum and the other in bold orange with white bows on top and bottom. They try to sit on their noodles, which keep sliding out from under them. "Mommy!" one says to the woman sitting on the pool edge in front of my chair, "Help me!".

The woman steadies the noodles and both girls quickly straddle the bright green tubes. They shriek and laugh, then suddenly one is quiet. I look where she is looking. Three young women are walking toward pool chairs with their bags and towels. All three wear bikinis. One is about eight months pregnant.

The little girl stares open-mouthed at the woman's protruding bare belly, which commands even more attention with three colorful butterflies tattooed across it. The other child now sees what has captured her friend's attention and points while drawing in her breath. Her mother gently pulls her arm down:

Ruffles: Mommy! Look at her tummy!
Bows: Yeah! Look!
Mom: Yes, I see. Don't be scared. It's okay. Her baby's in there. Growing until it's time to come out.
Ruffles: When will she come out?
Mom: Probably soon, she'll be ready.
Ruffles: Before we go home?
Mom: No! Not that soon. It will be a lot more days from now.
Bows: Who put the baby in there?
Mom: Um, well, the daddy.
Bows: Why didn't he put it in his own tummy?
Mom: Ha! You know honey, that's a very good question. Why don't you ask your daddy when you get home.

How French Manicures Attract Boyfriends

I'm exploring a new candy shop in an outdoor entertainment area down my street. No matter how old I become, I will always enjoy candy parlours because I have a permanent case of whimsy. This store is edible imagination. There are many giant barrels of sweets on the floor, vines of goodness hanging from the ceiling, every kind of jelly bean waiting to be dispensed and retro candy galore.

The store buzzes with customers, mostly children darting from one display to another squealing, "Mom! Mom!" for no particular reason. The air smells sweet and the shop feels happy. Even the employees seem to be enjoying themselves. They wear bright candy cane striped aprons. Some circulate sample trays to eager customers.

Chocolate people in a display case catch my attention. They are paper doll style. The mix and match clothes and accessories are made of sugar. Two young girls are picking out there candy dolls' clothing, which are glued on with hot sugar. Both girls are about six, have blond bobbed hair, wear shorts and sandals. They are white; one has sun-kissed legs and while the other is very fair. They each stand tipped-toed against the doll case as they pick their accessories. After the choices are made and the worker begins gluing, the girls relax a little and chatter together:

Tan: If they had nail polish, I would pick nail polish for my doll.
Fair: Yeah, me too. I would pick hot pink.
Tan: No, you should pick French. That's the very best one.
Fair: Why? What color is French?
Tan: It's white and clear. It's really fancy. And it makes you look expensive.
Fair: Why do you want to look expensive?
Tan: Because then you get better boyfriends. My Mom said. And it's true. She always gets more boyfriends when she has French nails. Finger AND toe nails.

The fair-skinned girl is silent. She glances at her own fingernails. The candy employee hands them their chocolate dolls in elaborate boxes just as an adult female joins them. "All ready, girls?" she asks as both children show their selections. As the tan girl continues telling the woman about her doll, the fair-skinned girl grabs the woman's hand and looks at her nails. They are painted rose pink. The girl presses her mother's hand to her cheek and smiles.

Water Torture

Today I am recharging my batteries with a day off work at the beach. My bare feet touch the sand and I inhale deeply. It is the perfect kind of warm today, hot enough to claim summer and cool enough to bake all day in the sun. I walk forward until my feet just stop. This is always how I find my spot.

I am not looking for interesting people to observe or hoping to overhear anything at all. Today I visit the sea to flush two weeks of anxiety away. My Dad came home from the cardiac unit on Monday and is finally healing. I allow myself cautious joy.

I drop my stuff and set about arranging everything just so. My favorite "Havana's Bananas" towel is a welcome site, indeed. I sit cross-legged on it under the brilliant sky and breathe. Looking at the vast ocean always shrinks my troubles. "Amen", I say, without prayer.

I lay back, close my eyes and begin absorbing vitamin D. I love the sounds and smells of the beach and I leave my iPod ear buds off for now. I hear gulls, waves, radio stations and chip bags ripping open. Laughing, coughing, scolding, more laughing. And then, shrill and breathless:

"Mommy! Mommy! Daddy pooped in the water!"

A young boy bounds up the sand dunes to his mother, dripping wet and panting. He is five or six, brown haired and fair skinned. His tummy pudges just a bit. He holds it with both hands and catches his breath:

"Haha-ha! Mom! I saw the poopy! It floated."

His mother sits straight up and removes her sunglasses. "What?" she says. Three teen girls giggle in front of me. The woman looks at them, me and back to her son, who laughs louder:

Son: Dad pooped in the ocean! Haha!

Mom: Shhh! Stop fibbing.

Son: I'm not!

Mom: Shhh!

Dad jogs up and his son howls with laughter. His wife says something to him. The man shakes his head back and forth. The boy continues laughing. His father grabs his head and chin from behind, temporarily silencing the outburst. "No!" I hear, out of context from the man. As he further turns away from me, I see the back waistband of his swim trunks are doubled over on one side.

Breaking Up

I've returned to the sounds and smells of the hospital. By now I've learned which bells are harmless and which mean a difficult phone call to another family. The air is simultaneously sterile and stagnant. Preoccupied faces taught with worry or vacant with exhaustion pass in elevators and hallways. Races, ethnicities and genders fade away in the hospital. There are only two kinds of people here: the healthy and the sick.

My Dad may come home tonight but after three failed discharge orders, my Mother and I don't count on anything. We are fully immersed in the land of quotas - pee this much, breathe this deep, walk that far and then maybe we'll see, they say. I take a break from my Dad's room and wander down the corridor away from the cardiac unit and toward the women's wing. I begin passing photos of motherly love on the wall, women of all shades and sizes cradling brand new lives in their arms. The odd contrast strikes me - at one end lay those whose hearts are struggling, on the other side tiny hearts beat strongly with the joy of new beginnings.

It's strange how tiring it is to just sit and wait. I come upon a cluster of faded gray arm chairs in a nook and plop down in one. My legs feel like tree trunks. I leave them sticking straight out and close my eyes. When I peel them open again, I see the sign on the adjacent wall, "Neonatal Critical Care Unit. Parental Visits Only." Double doors without handles next to the sign lead into that area. There is a card reader on the wall.

A few moments later, a 30 something man emerges from the doors. His wavy brown hair is flattened on one side, a popular look among we visitors who steal naps in a chair propped against a wall. His brow is furled and he keeps wetting his lips. An ID badge is strung around his neck with the word "Neonatal" clearly visible. He removes a cell phone from his pocket and sits down in a chair in the nook katty corner to mine.

Phone conversations broadcasting the most private medical details are around every corner in the hospital. Modesty and personal boundaries disappear under higher priorities. I want to give the man some privacy, but I am simply too tired to move. I close my eyes and turn away, but his voice fills the empty hallway:

"Hi Mom, it's me."

"I know. I fell asleep."

"No, no. It's alright. We're alright. Don't come."

"Yes, I know you would. But don't. There's nothing you can do here."

His voice cracks slightly

"Mom, it's too far. You stay there with Dad. She's gonna be alright. She's gonna get through this."

"Mom, Mom, you're breaking up. I can't hear...I'll call again at 6, okay? Bye Mom, bye - "

I hear the phone click shut, a deep breath, a pause, then muffled gasps. The man holds his head in his hands and cries.

I Pooped!

I'm enjoying a tall stack of cinnamon raisin pancakes this morning in an outdoor neighborhood eatery that overlooks a little of the bay. Fellow breakfasters also brave the cold weather with me, refusing to accept this unseasonal chilly Memorial Day in Southern California. My friend and I chat about her cousin, a Marine serving in Iraq. He's especially on her mind today.

As she speaks, I absent-mindedly pour some more delicious maple syrup on my pancakes (nothing beats original maple flavor). Looking down I see the bottom two pancakes are completely submerged in syrup. Perfect.

There's a steady din of conversation around us, punctuated with seagull squawks now and then. Suddenly, a toddler's voice breaks out above the rest:

"Mommy! Mommy! I pooped! I pooped in the potty!"

He's a round little bundle with pink cheeks chilled by the crisp air. A small green cap atop his head says, "ARMY". He wears tan cargo pants and the feet inside his brown hiking boots stomp quickly toward his mother, who sits next to us at a table with an older woman and man. The teenage girl bringing him back to their table laughs loudly and claps.

Another man at a nearby table also claps. A woman joins in, a girl, another man. The applause makes the boy stop in his tracks. His mother stands up and goes to him, also clapping. A high pitched giggle bursts forth from him as mom picks him up and snuggles his face with hers.

She wears a dark green sweatshirt. It says, "Support Our Troops" on the back. As she settles him back in at the table, she sits down and I see, "ARMY" across the front of her sweatshirt. My friend and I wonder who has missed this joyous occasion, a father, a boyfriend, a brother, a son? All of the above?

A small boy's poops in the toilet - something we laugh about and take for granted; another event to write him about.

Attitude and Gratitude at the Garage Sale

As the orange sun rises over my little pocket of California, I’m unpacking boxes and boxes of trinkets, CDs and jeans I can’t believe once fit me. Arranging everything on the lawn and driveway, I wonder why I chose the hottest Saturday of the year to have a garage sale. Beads of sweat flick off my forehead, a little river courses down my back. Lovely.

Before we even finish laying out the goods, carloads of shoppers drive up. Young kids find the stuffed animals and board games immediately while their parents pick through more practical items. Some prices are marked while others are up for barter. A Hispanic man tries out my maroon velvet over sized chair. “How much?” he asks. “Thirty bucks,” I say, and he suggests $10. No, not at 6:30 in the morning. I tell him $10 is the afternoon price.

A white woman kneels beside one of my jean piles. She is mid-40s, blond, wearing Capri pants, a white t-shirt with “DKNY” in black and nice leather sandals. Her toenails are French manicured. She calls her daughter over, who has iPod buds stuck in her ears. The girl takes her time responding. She fixates on her iPod Nano, working the wheel and taking a few steps toward her mother at a time. She is thin with blond hair cut in a fashionable bob, making her look older than the teenager she is. She wears tight white Apple Bottom jeans and a light pink halter-top. I put her at 16 years old.

By the time she reaches her mom, the woman holds a stack of my nicest jeans – about 5 pair – and smiles eagerly at her child:

Mom: Honey, these are all sevens and in great shape!

Girl: Oh.

Mom: Well, check them out. Here. I think they’re really nice. Look! There’s L.E.I., Ralph Lauren, Calvins… (she hands her the stack).

Girl: Uh huh. Yeah. (She looks at the top pair and hands the stack back to mom).

Mom: Okay, well, I’m going to get them. They’re just your size and in mint condition. They’re only $3 each.

Girl: Fine.

She walks away from her mother and towards their SUV. The mother pays me $15 without hesitation and leaves with a nice stack of denim.

I turn to find a Hispanic mother and her teen daughter looking at one of my old bridesmaid dresses hanging on a coat rack. It’s a lavender strapless chiffon, a popular style in its day but not so high fashion a decade later. Still, the girl fingers the material carefully, swishing the long skirt around her dark legs in faded jean shorts. Her mother removes the dress from the hanger and holds it up to her daughter, both smile.

The mother asks for the price. I tell her $5. The two confer together for a few moments. Both open their purses. The mother produces $4 and the daughter adds $1 of her own. I package the dress in its original garment bag and when I turn to hand it over, the girl is hugging her mother with both arms:

"Thank you mom! Thank you so much."

Easter Bunny Needs GPS

It's Easter Sunday afternoon and I'm braving the crowds at Albertson's grocery store because I forgot to get my parents a card. I'm old school; I still like real cards instead of e-stuff on special occasions. So, on my way to Easter dinner I stand before the picked over card section of strays with mismatched envelops, folded corners or too much glitter. I'm a bad daughter.


I finally find a nice card tucked behind a ghastly one and walk towards check-out. I'm walking upstream. Everyone comes at me with carts full of ham, wine, produce and other feast fixings. I swerve left and right, dodging wild-eyed shoppers rushing to complete their lists.

I try to pick the fast lane. All the lines look the same so I pick my favorite number, cashier #9. A young mother with a small boy waits in front of me. She shifts from one foot to the other. The boy waits quietly, occasionally leaning against his mom's legs. He is maybe four, with sandy blond hair and faded jeans. As we approach the cashier, the woman puts her items on the conveyor belt. She separates food from paper goods, putting a divider between the two groups. She finishes quickly. Her cart is only half full.

Her son looks at the barrage of candy on display at his eye level. He fingers a Cadburry creme egg but puts it back as his mom nudges him forward. The cashier rings up the first part of her order, the food. The woman fiddles with something inside her purse. As she digs into her bag, the boy peeps above the counter top at the cashier, an older woman with long white hair and bright red lipstick:

Cashier: Hi there, honey! How are you?
Boy: Fine.
Cashier: Happy Easter! What did the Easter bunny bring you this morning?
Boy: He didn't come to my house.

The cashier's smile drops, her eyes widen a little, she looks at the woman, opens her mouth and closes it, then gives a tight-lipped smile. The woman hands her something that I believe are food stamps. The cashier processes the order and begins checking the second half. I see paper plates, towels and toilet paper.

As she prepares to pay, the cashier locks her drawer and says, "Just a second folks, if you don't mind. Just a second," and walks to the florist island a short distance away. She speaks to a female employee there and they huddle together for a second. Moments later, the cashier returns holding a small prepacked Easter basket with a blue stuffed bunny and some candy:

Cashier: Well, look here! I believe this is your basket, honey. He must've gotten lost! Easter bunny needs GPS or something! If it's okay with mom, you go on take this.

The boy gasps a little and smiles wide. His mother nods slightly and he reaches both hands up for the basket. The mother says thank you in little more than a whisper and whisks him away.

"That was very nice of you," I say to the cashier.
"Good Lord," she says. "Good Lord. I wish I hadn't said anything at all - "
"Yeah," says the man behind me. "He'll want to check the grocery store at Christmas! Hahaha!"

No one laughs.

Pancake Euphoria

I’m grabbing a bite at a neighborhood charbroiler near and dear to locals’ hearts. As usual, the place is buzzing with customers and I’m happy to find a stool at the counter that faces large windows overlooking the street, instead of the kitchen. There are a handful of tables outside, along the restaurant’s perimeter. Those are also occupied by people enjoying late breakfasts.

In front of me, on the other side of the window, sits a family of three with a cherub-cheeked little boy. He is white, perhaps five, with dark brown curly hair and deep brown eyes. He sits behind a pile of pancakes on his plate. With each bite, he pours more maple syrup atop the remaining stack until his mother gently removes the bottle from his reach.

He eats happily, smiling and patting his tummy every few bites. His parents talk to him and all three laugh easily throughout the meal. When every bit of pancake is gone, the boy dips his finger in a pool of syrup on his plate and swirls it around. Before he can bring the maple finger to his mouth, his mother intercepts it and wipes it clean with a napkin. He says something to her with great enthusiasm on his face. She replies and after a few moments, both come inside and walk towards the ordering counter.

I hear his mother ask the cashier to get the cook and I wander up to the condiment area to listen better. A Hispanic man appears in a cook’s uniform and the boy beams up at him:

Mom: Go ahead, honey.
Boy: Um, uh, hi!
Cook: Hi.
Boy: Um, Miss Johnson says that everybody has a job. And if somebody does their job good I should tell them. So I’m telling you. You make the best pancakes ever in my life!
Cook: Oh! Thank you.
Boy: You make the best pancakes! You should make them all day because they are really, really, really, REALLY good. Your pancakes are better than IHOP even!
Cook: Thanks a lot young man. You know what? You make me feel happy. I’m gonna be happy all day because you like my pancakes so much.
Boy: Yeah! You should be happy. You make good pancakes.
Mom: Thank you, we’ll see you later.

Mother and son walk away and continue down the street together. They leave behind a grown man in his cook’s outfit who is still smiling as he prepares someone else’s meal.

Drugs are the Only Answer

I am escaping reality at the movies, thrilled to get in under $10 with the matinee price. Loads of children jump and bounce around their adults, waiting in line for “The Spiderwick Chronicles”, I presume. An odd sound rings out among the usual noise kids make. It is shrill and repetitive, like a high-pitched bark. Turning, I see a tall boy, early teens, standing at the end of my line with an older male teenager. They look similar enough to be brothers. Both are dark-haired with big brown eyes.

The older boy stands still, arms crossed, looking down. The younger one twitches, his head and right arm jerking sideways every few moments. Occasionally he jumps forward a little. The sounds he makes are loud and gathering attention. Each time he yelps and says, “RoooOOO!….bap, BAP!” a few more kids and adults glance back at him.

My line advances slowly. His noises continue and other conversations are falling silent. Some children stare wide-eyed and parents nudge their heads back around, away from him. I look back once more. His companion peers toward the parking lot as his brother jumps and barks.

A little girl and her mother wait behind me. They are white and both blond. The child’s long hair is tied in pigtails. The elastics have big red plastic cherries that shine bright in the sun. She's five or six years old. Clutching her mom’s skirt, she wraps around her and looks back at the boy. Her mother also glances back at each noise:

Daughter: Mom, why is he saying that?
Mom: I don’t know, Ashley.
Daughter: What is he saying?
Mom: Who knows. There’s something wrong with him.
Daughter: What’s wrong with him?
Mom: How do I know?
Daughter: But what happened to him?
Mom: (sighs) You know what? His mom probably took drugs and messed him up.
Daughter: (silent)
Mom: See? See what drugs do? Aren’t you thankful I didn’t do that?

It’s my turn to buy a ticket. After paying, I look back at the two boys once more. An older couple has joined them. The woman holds her back with one hand and pats the younger boy’s shoulder with the other. The man is giving the older boy some money. After a few moments, the adults turn to go. Each takes one of the younger boy’s hands and lead him away. He doesn’t go willingly. The older boy moves forward in line without looking up.

Rudeness Jeopardizes Your Food

After a year of insisting Monster energy drinks will explode my heart, I drank one yesterday in desperation. I was falling asleep in front of my computer monitor at work after a restless night of hacking and wheezing. There's no turning back now; I am in the 7-11 convenience mart for another today.

I see the tops of brown-haired heads gathered in the next aisle over as I walk down mine toward the cold cases. The girls talk and I hear youthful giggles. I select just one Monster can, close the case and turn to walk down their aisle. They are Hispanic teens deciding between different flavors of sunflower seeds. One is talking about her shift in the drive-through. Not expecting much, I circle the Twinkies and Ding Dongs at the aisle's end and come back up the adjacent one. I'm confronted with toilet paper, napkins and paper towels. Taking particular interest in quilted two-ply, I kneel down and listen to the girls on the other side:

Voice 1: Man, I hate that job. It sucks!
Voice 2: Haha! 'Hi would you like to try our macho tostado today?" Haha!
Voice 1: Shut up!
Voice 3: Yeah! 'How about a combo, today?'
Voice 1: Whatever. Drive-through sucks. Damn people are rude, you know?
Voice 2: So mess their order up or something! What are they gonna do, drive back from home?
Voice 3: Yeah! What are they gonna do? Why do you take it?
Voice 1: Well you know what? Sometimes? If they're a total jackass we tear their taco shells.
Voice 3: What?
Voice 1: You know, split the shell down the middle a little bit. Then wrap it up and -
Voice 2: Oh! Ha! Then they go to eat it and crash!
Voice 3: Yeah, the whole thing falls apart! You know that's messed up, man, when you go to eat a taco and it breaks all up. People are so rude, though. They deserve it.
Voice 1, 2, 3: Hahaha!

Piercing Pain

Warning: This Post is Rated "R"

I trudge to the mall to buy a gift card for a friend's teen daughter from her favorite clothing store called "Forever 21". Funny, I still feel like I'm in my 20s (I am not), so the store's name sits right with me. Browsing the clothes, I'm struck by how incredibly small everything is; the skirts are maybe one foot long, the jeans about the width of my arm, the tops fall off hangers at the slightest nudge. Their stringy straps don't hold. It's official. I no longer dwell in the blissful decade of carefree styles and fashion magazines. I'm all grown up.

Young girls' chatter brings me back from my reverie. Two teenagers pour themselves into a selection of doll-sized furry jackets the next rack over. Black, pink, baby blue and white jackets form a tight ring and the girls try on each color. They look high school age, with bright eyes and easy smiles. They are white, one blond and one brunette. They each wear jeans. One sports a white and pink "Roxy" surf top. The other wears a red t-shirt with lips outlined in silver rhinestones. Their own lips are heavily glossed. One has glitter spray in her hair. They model their choices in front of a mirror, the puffy jackets rack separating us. I bury my nose in a rack of brightly colored ponchos, my back towards them. After a few seconds of fashion talk:

Girl 1: Oh my god! I saw Jenny's sister's nipple ring!

Girl 2: No way!

Girl 1: Serious. I totally did! She showed it to me and I'm like -

Girl 2: NO WAY! Was it gross? What did it look like?

Girl 1: It was soooo cool. So cool. It's silver with two ball thingies on the bottom.

Girl 2: Ew! I am never doing that. I mean, in your boob?

Girl 1: It's so hot! You have to be totally brave to do it. She said it hurt like FTF.

Girl 2: Like what?

Girl 1: FTF.

(silence)

Girl 1: You know, F-T-F?

Girl 2: What's that?

Girl 1: Oh my god! You don't know what FTF is? Haha! You really don't know? First time fuck! Guess I know what you are.

Santa's Health

I am in the refrigerated section of Ralph's grocery store on my way to the cottage cheese but linger in front of the cookie dough with particular interest in the mini cinnamon rolls. Shoppers whiz by with carts loaded to the brim for holiday feasts. A little girl steps up to the cold case and puts her nose within inches of a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough. She is white and wears a pink jacket with a "Dora the Explorer" graphic. She jumps a little in place and claps her hands twice, smiling. A man follows close behind:

Girl: Daddy! Here! Cookies for Santa.

Dad: Okay, okay, honey. Let's see. Here, these are good. Santa likes chocolate chip.

Girl: Is it no sugar? I want to get no sugar.

Dad: Why? These are fine. Regular cookies are fine.

Girl: No! Dad! What if Santa has diabetic like me? It's dangerous!

Dad: (laughs) No, honey. Santa is not diabetic. Don't worry about it. These are fine.

Girl: Daddy! We can't do that! It HAS to be no sugar.

(The man keeps the tube of dough originally chosen and begins to walk away with his daughter pulling on his arm. A few more protests, but soon they are out of sight.)

Moments later, I cave in to the mini cinni's and am wheeling my cart away when the little girl returns holding a woman's hand. The lady carries the tube of cookie dough. The two approach the cold case, put the tube back and take another. They leave with Pillsbury sugar-free chocolate chip dough, sweetened with Splenda.