Barack Obama is Different

I am spending the evening around some of my favorite friends: books. Whether I enter a big box bookseller like Barnes and Noble or a small cramped hole in the wall with stacks and stacks of dusty books, I feel excited and anxious at once. All the possibilities of new worlds and amazing characters between these covers excite me, while looking at the stacks or shelves of books makes me anxious because I'll never have time to read them all.

Tonight I'm navigating around big tables piled high with coffee table books deeply discounted at Barnes and Noble. I look at one called The Complete History of the World, which keeps sliding on the slick glossy covers of the books underneath it because it's nearly two feet tall.

The table also has a selection of books about President Elect Barack Obama - his two bestsellers, a political pundit's analysis of him and a giant picture book of his campaign. Soon two female seniors approach the table. One of them opens the Obama picture book and stops at a double-page spread capturing close-up photos of three black women in the crowd at Obama's victory speech. Tears stream down all three black womens' faces and two of them grip tiny American flags in their clasped hands.

The older white women looking at the book pause at this photo, one smiles softly and the other utters a barely audible 'hhmm':

Smiles: My, my. It must be something to see one of your own finally make it this far.
Hhmm: Yes, well, Obama's not your average black. He's different.
Smiles: How do you mean?
Hhmm: Well, he's not on welfare, a thief or a gang member, is he? And he went to college. And got a job.
Smiles: Ohhh, shhh! Don't say that!
Hhmm: Why? I don't hear you disagreeing with me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Slow Down and Stand Up

I don't often go to mass midweek, but something is looming for me and I am one of those Catholics who feel my prayers might get on the express way if I show up in person. I am hop skipping toward the church entrance, arriving five minutes into the service, as usual. My mindset is not quite right for church. On this busy weekday dawn, my head is already filled with reminders and tasks for the office, a place that's further away on a Sunday morning.

Reaching the church doors, I wait behind a few people and wonder why the delayed entry. My impatience becomes a sigh and I peer around the heads in front of me. I glimpse the side of a wheelchair and it's pusher navigating the narrow side entryway and the pews. Great, I think to myself. I always pick the slow line.

After a few moments, we filter in. I hurriedly poke my finger in the holy water vessel and some splashes on my hand. Quickly, I slide into a pew near the back, averting my eyes from the priest who I am certain notes my tardiness. Only one other woman sits nearby, an older lady clutching a rosary with eyes shut in prayer. Most of the parishioners sit in the front pews, mostly elderly women alone. A handful of younger adults are scattered about.

As I kneel to pray, my cell phone vibrates in my bag. I am missing a network breakfast this morning and a wave of annoyance tightens my chest. Before I bow my head, I habitually look at my watch. I hope this mass will not be too lengthy. Perhaps I'll make the second half of the breakfast meeting.

I kneel, I rise, I pray, all with good, albeit, distracted intentions. And now it is communion time. As I wait for my row to be lead, I gather my belongings to exit directly after receiving. Standing there in the church as the sun glints through the stained glass windows, a serenity asserts itself ahead of my daily worries and I pause to feel what I think is divine peace.

When I look again to the front of the communion line, the wheelchair and its pusher are next. An old man sits in the chair as an equally old woman wheels him forward. They reach the priest, who smiles broadly and steps back a bit. The woman walks around to the front of the wheelchair and slowly kneels down. I cannot see what she is doing. She comes around to her husband's left side and slips her arm under his. The man is rising, carefully but purposely rising from the chair. He bobs slightly forward and backward as he leans on his wife, who supports him as the priest places the communion wafer in his mouth.

Only after the man faces the alter and crosses himself does he sit back down in his wheelchair. The two slowly wheel away and back into the front pew. The woman kneels beside her husband's chair and I glance at her as I approach the priest. She prays, hands clasped, eyes closed and smiling gently. Her husband places his hand on her head and bows his own.

I take communion. I pass the exit and continue back to my pew. I kneel. I push the breakfast, the annoyance of getting up earlier and the restless thoughts out of my mind and pray.

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 Can't Say Goodnight

My Mom and I walk down the stark hall and stop at the staff elevators. Our tired feet refuse to continue around the corner to the visitor elevators. I know my Mom must be more exhausted than I because she never breaks a rule. We've just left my Dad in his hospital room for the night after getting a pace maker. This after a three-day stay of not knowing what was wrong. He was groggy, but in pretty good spirits.

The elevator door slides open. An older Asian man leans against one wall and looks at the floor. We enter and he briefly glances at us. He wears a cap that says, "America the Beautiful" with a bald eagle graphic. His eyes are weary behind his glasses, red and a bit puffy from the evening's goodbyes, I imagine. He holds a plastic "patient's belongings" bag by its drawstring. It is full with items. One pink fuzzy sock pokes out of the hole on the top.

We reach the ground floor and the doors clank open. We three worriers walk in silence to the exit doors. It feels unnatural to leave a loved one behind in the care of strangers and that feeling tightens your chest when you reach the edge of the building.

As we go through the exit, the man's bag hits the door frame and the pink sock falls out. Its bright color in sharp contrast to the gray sidewalk and our somber mood. I snatch it up and for a split second, wonder whose foot it belongs to:

Me: "Sir, Sir! Your sock!"

Man: (Turns to me, eyes wide and startled by my voice) What? Oh. Oh. Thank you.

Me: Here you go.

Man: (He clutches the fuzzy sock in his hand) Ah. My wife. I could not say goodnight to her. I could not say it.

Me: Oh. It's alright. I'm sure she understands.

Man: She had cancer six years ago. And she survived. But the radiation burned everything up. Ahh. This is a hard life. I could not say goodnight to her...

My Mom: I'm sure you are doing your best. We do our best and we just keep going.

Man: I'm going back. I'm going back to say goodnight. I thank you.

The small old man clutching a pink fuzzy sock walks purposely through the double doors and back toward the elevators. Just before he gets to the visitor's desk, he brushes the sock against his cheek, I think to wipe a few tears away.

Last Night's Sex

I bought our tickets early in the morning, left work before 5 p.m. and drive up to a completely packed parking lot. After circling for 10 minutes, boom, a beautiful space near the front of the aisle. I'm way early and feeling good about taking my responsibility as seat scout seriously. As I wait in my car for 6:30 to roll around, throngs of young women pass by. Most walk briskly, some run toward the movie theater.

I'm here for the Sex and the City movie premiere. I convinced my two girlfriends it's absolutely necessary to see it on Southern California's opening night and thus, became the seat scout by default. No complaints, it's worth it to me. So, while we're enjoying a night of girl talk with our friends Charlotte, Carrie, Samantha (my favorite) and Miranda, our boyfriends will have just as much fun watching sports and bumping chests together. Life is good.

At 6:30, the line forms for our 7:15 show. I leave my car and happily take my place, fourth in line. It's a literal fashion parade. Girls in sundresses and little sweaters sashay by, every hair in place (the Charlottes). Ladies in edgy outfits with big flower pins or long dangling necklaces prance along the line (the Carries). Women with plunging necklines and tight mini skirts or white Capri pants going commando walk their boobs past me (the Samanthas). Chicks in jeans and fitted cotton tops with flat ironed locks march purposely to the end of the line (the Mirandas).

My friends arrive and we play a fun game of "fake or real". The ratio's about 3:1, fake. The two movie goers behind us in line laugh once they catch on to our game. They each wear a hot pink boa around their neck:

#1: Oh my god. Oh MY GOD! This is so much fun.

#2: Yes! I totally feel like one of the girls tonight.

#1: It's gonna be great. It's gonna be fabu.

#2: I just hope Carrie and Big finally just get married already.

#1: I mean, hello? After all he's put her through?

#2: Ugh, that Big boy....hahaha!

I take great delight in pushing my more conservative girlfriend's chin up to close her slightly open mouth. "Those boys are wearing pink boas," she whispers.

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.

Ball Buster

I'm having a strawberry shake at Archie's Diner around dinner time. (Yes, I know, it sounds like a joint straight out of the Happy Days TV show). You can't beat the shakes here, or much else, for that matter. It's dusk and unusually warm for a spring evening in Southern California. There are eight tables arranged outside and I grab one of the last two empty ones.

Mostly couples surround me, enjoying their dinners. A small girl has found a beetle of sorts scurrying toward her on the ground. "Daddy!" she shrieks. Her father jumps up and squashes the bug under his big foot to her delight.

Pronounced shuffling drawing near catches my attention. A large white woman wearing a Sponge Bob t-shirt, white sweatpants and flip flops drags her feet. She holds a super-sized soda and claims the last empty table. Her nails are done red and her wedding ring finger sports a big rock. She sits down with a sigh.

Moments later a small white man with thinning brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses joins her. He carries two trays of food and I wonder how he managed to navigate the door to come outside. He gives her a burger and fries combo. She begins eating before he unloads the other tray. He sets a sandwich down for himself. He's about to sit down:

Sponge Bob: Where's my ranch?

Husband: Oh, uh, I thought I asked her for a side.

Sponge Bob: Guess not. Go get me some ranch. Get me two cups.

He goes back inside without taking a bite. She continues eating. She spoke loud enough for two other people to take second glances at her. She doesn't notice. Her husband returns with three cups of ranch.

They barely speak during dinner. Her chair screeches on cement no more than 10 minutes later. Her food is gone. Her husband is just finishing the first half of his sandwich:

Sponge Bob: Come on. Let's go. I'm tired.

Husband: Oh -

He wraps his sandwich in the paper and takes it with him. She has already reached the sidewalk. He skips a few steps to catch up with her, much like a squirrel hopping across the grass holding a little nut.

I look around and notice at least three men staring after them open-mouthed. One of the wives looks at her husband looking at them and laughs.

All Up in Her Business

A mundane trip to the grocery store finds me deciding whether my cats would like grilled chicken and liver or shredded beef for dinner. I go with the beef; chicken AND liver is even too much for me to imagine. I check out the people ahead of me in the express lane, counting items to see who has more than 10. No violators this time.

My turn to put items on the conveyor belt. Wet streaks slide by and under the metal end. A piece of lettuce bumps along the corner nearest the cash register. The cashier doesn't notice. He banters with the female bagger. Both are black; he is perhaps 50 with a gray-rimmed short afro, round prescription glasses and nails a little too long. He smiles and reveals one gold bicuspid. She is early 20s with smooth skin and beautiful make-up, light pink lipstick and a wide, sparkly smile. She wears dark burgundy braids.

The cashier doesn't look at me as he scans my items. He glances down, picks up a can and turns right back to her, busy with conversation. She responds but looks up or away as she speaks to him. After my last can, he states my total and says to her:

Him: Hey, you need a ride home, girl?

Her: Why do you say that?

Him: Uh, well, I heard you had a car accident today.

Her: (looks directly at him) Why you all up in my bizzznes?

Him: Huh?

Her: Why are you concerning yourself with my business?

Him: Okay. I'm sorry. Walk home, then.

Her: My boyfriend is picking me up, thank you very much.

She bends down to restock the bags. He gazes at her backside. My hand is still extended with payment. Only when I let a quarter fall to the counter does he snap back to present and finish my check-out.

Cougars at the Casino

A spontaneous trip to the Indian casino puts me at the Crazy 4 poker table between two chain smoking older men laughing too loudly at the dealer's jokes. After a hand worse than the first, I slide under the smoke cloud and off my stool, heading for the terrace with a panoramic view of the mountain vista. Fresh, cool air flushes my face as I open the glass door and step into the sunshine. This alone is worth the hour drive. About 20 others enjoy the view, sitting at little tables against the railing.

Some have cocktails and chat, others simply sit in silence gazing at the mountains. I find the perfect nook and settle into the corner chair, turning it to face the railing. Two women chatter on my left. Their conversation does not pause when I sit down. They are both blond with hair styled in the edgey cuts so fashionable these days. The one with her back to me wears a turquoise top and a thick gold chain around her neck. As she speaks she waves her left hand up and around, red nails swirling. Her right hand holds a glass of white wine.

Her friend is also heavily necklaced with gold chains that drop down an impressive cleavage revealing an orange tan underneath her tight white sweater. She sports large black sunglasses with the Channel logo on the side, which I see when she steals glances of the vista as her friend drones on.

The face I can see is tight, but both pairs of hands and little cracks in the voices suggest late 40s, early 50s. The one in white holds a drink in one hand and a cig in the other. She nods in agreement as her friend rants:

Turquoise: I mean, I just told him, I said, "Just tell me right now. Is this how it's gonna be? Grilling me every time I don't call back right away?".

White: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Turquoise: Right? Who needs that? I don't need that.

White: Who needs it?

Turquoise: I told him. I'm not your wife, hell I'm not your girlfriend -

White: Hahaha! Exactly. Oh these guys, these poor guys just don't know what to do with us.

Turquoise: TELL me. I mean, tell me about it. The insecurity, the checking up, the checking in. I don't need that.

White: No, no. Me neither.

Turquoise: He's acting like a little girl. Haha! He's acting like one of his little girlfriends he complains to me about!

White: Ha! Isn't that just precious. Well, here, girl (she holds her drink to toast). We've come full circle.

Turquoise: Cheers to that! Come on. Let's go find some young and dumbs at the bar.

The two pop compacts, relipstick and strut inside. I finish jotting down some notes of this conversation and look to the blue sky, about to commit the scenario to memory. A hawk circles high above, looking for prey.

Fried Chicken in the White House

I've come to the mall against my better judgment. I promise myself to restrict spending to my loot of holiday gift cards and enter Macy's department store, wide-eyed. I've purposely arrived in the early afternoon on a week day to avoid crowds. Stumbling into a completely empty dressing room with an armful of clothing, I'm very pleased with myself.

I choose the corner stall in the back because it's big enough for my own private fashion show; I don't much like twirling in front of the paneled community mirror. A small flat screen TV is on the wall close to the entrance. The volume is a little high and Wolf Blitzer's voice booms from the CNN channel. In between two pairs of jeans (on sale!) CNN cuts to clips of the recent heated debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

Two female voices enter the dressing room. They talk to each other as friends do. One says how happy she'll be if the jeans fit. The ladies choose stalls midway down the row. Two doors open and close. Hangers clink and conversation continues:

Friend 1: It's great shopping this way! No kids hanging off us. No crowds!

Friend 2: Yeah. Look at this! We have it all to ourselves!

(I freeze, jeans in hand)

Friend 1: We should take a day off every month for shopping.

Friend 2: Definitely. Oooooh...I love these -

(Barack quips about Bill Clinton. Hillary snaps back at Barack.)

Friend 2: Oh god. Again. If I have to hear this one more time...

Friend 1: Ugh! Can you believe him? How he picks at her? Like a little chicken.

Friend 2: Yeah. Pick, pick picaaaw! Hahaha!

Friend 1: Can you imagine him president? What are they gonna serve at White House dinners? Fried chicken? Grits?

Friend 2: Ha! Yeah! And he'll make us pay the Blacks restitution for slavery -

Friend 1: Uh, we already do that. It's called welfare.

Bathroom Sneak

I am out amongst the after-holiday sale crowds at a local mall. People yawn as they trudge around clothes racks. Some scowl as I wait in line. Merchandise litters the floor in aisles near the cash registers. I finally reach check out and my stomach growls audibly. As I step out into the fresh air, a Soup Plantation restaurant beckons. I approach eagerly, under the spell of delicious soups, salads and breads served buffet style.

The restaurant is only scattered with diners. I'm relieved. I grab a tray and start down the assembly line of fresh food. A couple falls in behind me. The man sighs repeatedly as the woman talks about someone's family drama. She is a slender brunette in jeans and a black turtle neck. She selects lettuce and spinach, piling more fresh vegetables atop the mound. The man is heavy-set with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He wears black sweat pants and a plaid flannel shirt. He fills his plate with Caesar's salad and spoons pasta and potato salads onto it. The woman looks at her husband's plate repeatedly as she's talking. We approach the salad dressing bar and the man pours two ladles of blue cheese atop his plate. The woman chooses raspberry vinaigrette:

Woman: Honey, come on. That's too much dressing.

Man: Oh geez. Not today, huh? Let's just enjoy our lunch.

Woman: Well, you wanna lose weight. I'm just trying to support you.

Man: Do me a favor. Don't be so supportive.

Woman: Well. I'm just saying.

Man: Trust me. I know what you're saying.

We pay for our meals and part ways. After cleaning my plate, I head back to the buffet for some delicious fat noodle chicken soup. On my way I pass the bread island. The man is standing in front of a steaming tray of chocolate muffins. He leans forward, then hesitates. He glances around the island toward the dining area. He returns to the muffins, takes one in each hand and walks opposite of the dining room. My bowl of soup and I peak after him around the corner. He and his muffins enter the men's restroom.

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.

Giving Before Receiving

Yesterday was Thanksgiving in my country. I try to be mindful of my blessings, but easily get caught up in the rush of life during the year. That's why I spend at least a few hours at a local food bank handing out free turkeys and trimmings. It makes me feel good and also reminds me that life is hard for many. I hear a lot of interesting comments at these events, but I see far more in the body language and expressions of those who come for help.

I was there quite early in the morning and so were at least 200 people lined up around the block. The surge of people was a bit scary when the doors opened, and staff reminded visitors to wait their turn. Any aggression was promised to be dealt with by two rather imposing security guards. Still, the hungry people pushed a little, anxious to get their share. It's this behavior from perhaps normally mild-mannered women and men that shows what desperation can do. One person after another held out there arms to receive the single or family meal boxes and quickly rushed out of the store. Some said thanks, others merely snatched the boxes and left.

About 30 minutes into my stay, I turned from the pantry to see an older Asian woman next in my line. She was so slight and so very dwarfed by those waiting behind her. She did not immediately approach the counter, instead looking at me while leaning slightly forward. A white woman bumped her shoulder from behind and said, 'Go!'. I motioned for her to step up and only then did she approach the counter. She walked quickly toward me and kept her eyes downward:

Me: Hi, happy Thanksgiving.

(The woman does not hold out her hands, instead she bows her head several times and clasps her hands together.)

Woman: I am saying to you thank you first. I am saying thank you for my family, very much. My husband is not coming here. He is ashame.

Me: That's okay, ma'am. You don't need to feel ashamed.

(Others in line become impatient and a few try to rush her on.)

Woman: (she turns to the others) Please, one moment. Please. You must not receive so easy. (Back to me) I want thank you and I want thank this country. I appreciate so much this country help us.

Me: You are very welcome and I hope you enjoy your dinner. You and your family.

Woman: Thank you, thank you young lady. I want give you this. I have pray on it for you.

The woman, so small, struggles with the large box for a moment, gets her bearings and walks away. Some watch her leave with curious looks. On the counter is a tiny white Buddha she left for me. Another person has already stepped up for his box.

Queen of Hearts

I am in the emergency room with a family member today. It's warm and the air is a bit foul. People of all varieties pack the waiting area. Some look miserable, others worried, a few bored. The automatic doors whoosh open and closed again and again. A health care worker cups her hands and calls names above the din, there's no microphone. My relative is called. We go through vital signs and more questions in a tiny room. Then we are ushered further to an area with gurneys separated by blue curtains. The nurse settles us in and we wait for the doctor. After more questions, some pokes, prods and measures, another patient arrives on the other side of our curtain. Besides the nurse, there are two voices, an older woman's and a man's cracked with age and frequent, raspy coughs.

I would never disclose someone's private medical conversation, but I'll share with you tender talk that I hope I will speak myself someday, or more dearly, hear from my own husband:

Nurse: Okay folks, let's see what we can do here. You know the drill...

Man: I sure do, honey. I'm your best customer!

Nurse: (laughs) You sure are and we love you.

Man: Watch out, my wife's right here...

Woman: Come on now, stop joking honey. Rest your lungs.

Nurse: Alright, let's start the questions. (After many routine questions and answers, and nearly as many coughs and hard breathing - ) Have you fallen recently?

Man: Yes. In love.

Woman: Oh yeah? With who?

Man: Next week is our 61st anniversary.

Nurse: Wow! That's something to celebrate.

Man: We're going to have burgers from "In and Out". I took her to a burger joint for our first date. She stole my heart over a cheeseburger. She's my queen of hearts.

His voice cracks, but it's not from coughing.

Puppet Masters

Today I'm browsing in the designer bag area of Bloomingdale's in Orange County, just looking. The sales lady hardly takes me seriously; she seems to see right through to my practicality. She doesn't ask me if I need help, nothing. Two young 20's come near. Both girls are blond, one with long straight hair and the other with a short bob. Both wear mini skirts and t-shirts. One girl's top says, "Don't hate on me" with a princess crown graphic. The other carries a giant Louis Vuitton bag. Gold bangle bracelets clink with every move. "May I help you ladies?" the sales person says:

Bangles: Yeah. Let me see this one, please.

Lady: Oh, that's a lovely bag. You've got great taste!

Bob: Oooooh! I love it, Stacia! Do you love it?

Bangles: It's alright. Yeah, I like it.

Lady: It's very stylish, honey. Very classy.

Bangles: Yeah, it's cute. Okay, thanks. We'll be back later.

The girls go towards the wallets and I follow:

Bob: You didn't like it? You're not getting it?

Bangles: Nope. I'm gonna tell my dad I'm depressed and he'll give me $500 bucks to go shopping. We'll come back tomorrow.

Both girls continue looking at wallets and openly displayed bags. Bangles's huge Vuitton bag knocks into the edge of a display and two bags fall on the floor. She doesn't pick them up.