Why on Earth Do They Have Wings?

Recently my church put together care packages for the homeless.  In each package, there were items like a toothbrush and toothpaste, lotion, razors, shampoo, Q-tips, socks and a $5-10.  Along with those we had smaller additional bags with snacks, like trail mix and granola bars.  There were also additional bags with feminine hygiene products, for the female homeless we unfortunately have here in Southern California.  I don’t know why, but it bothers me much more when I see a homeless woman than when I see a homeless man. 

However, I was excited about these additional female-centric bags as I know of several homeless women who spend time in and around the shopping center parking lot, across the street from my medical center.  I go there almost every day to get my iced tea at the Starbucks located just inside the front door of Target.  Full disclosure, I go there six days a week and they make my drink (along with my co-worker Melissa’s drink) a soon as they see us enter the store.  I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed, so I choose to be flattered.  I do not have an addiction to tea, he said defensively.

                I took five of the large packages as well as the snack bags as there are a surprising number of homeless on my drive to work, even though the commute is less than two miles.  I also took three of the female packages as I thought I might be able to help the ladies around the Target.  I refer to them as the Ladies of Target but I realize, as I type this, you might confuse them with the wonderful ladies who work at said Target and I don’t want to upset them, as they hold the keys to my happiness; mostly iced tea and the occasional bag of Pop Chips.

                As the week went by, I was able to navigate the appropriate and safe lane changes to come into contact with the homeless on my trips to and from work, errands, dinner and, let’s be honest, shopping.  However, I ran out of bags before I saw any of the homeless women.  I began to notice that I had not noticed them in the week or so since I became well-supplied to offer assistance.  I am unsure if they have found housing or moved away or something more nefarious has happened.

                Truth be told, since I have been out of town on a whirlwind speaking tour of Central Texas (and by whirlwind, I mean I spoke at one conference, but they paid me to speak so, yay me!) I had completely forgotten about the small bags filled with bags of tampons (and I apologize to my sister Shontyl, for having just typed that particular word) sitting on the floorboard in the back seat of my car.

                Their presence was brought to my attention this morning when Ben opened the back door of the car to place the groceries on the back seat after our jaunt to Trader Joe’s.  He asked, with great concern in his voice, “BooBoo (he calls me BooBoo), what is in this bag?”

                I replied, “Oh, it’s just tampons for homeless people.”

                He asked, “Oh?  Do they require these items?”

                I said, “Well some of them do but I couldn’t find them so I now have a bag filled with smaller bags filled with tampons and I don't know what to do with them.”

                And I truly don’t know.  Do I drive up and hand them, without any other items or explanations, to the first homeless woman I see?  Do I throw them away?  Isn’t that wasteful?  Do I take them back to church and turn them in?  Do I offer them to a female friend?  Is that intrusive?  Is it appropriate?  Wouldn't it be considered a great thing for someone who is cost-conscious? 

                Moreover, I don't even know what kind they are.  Are they the ones that make you ride a bike or go mountain climbing?  If so, do I need to inquire about the intended recipient's activity level before I offer them?  Are they the ones with wings?  Why on earth do they have wings?  Are there different kinds or have I fallen victim to predatory advertising?  Am I over-thinking this and just need to stop?  Am I the only person with these types of problems?  I’m at a loss, y’all.

                I’m up for suggestions.  Thank you in advance for your assistance.

               

Does preppy come in pill form?

           Anyone who knows me knows I have one cowlick in the front of my hair and two in the back. Why my parents left me in the care of bovines in my formative years is anybody’s guess.  The cowlick in front is a nuisance to someone as particular about my appearance as I am.  For the remainder of this entry, I will refer to my cowlick as the swoop as shortening it to, simply, ‘the lick’ makes me as uncomfortable as I was accompanying my niece to the premiere of Eclipse, one of those horrifying Twilight movies.  Since when did pasty become the new chic?   If I were in high school now, I would be muy popular (that’s Spanish)  as I am so pale, I’m almost translucent.  And I have been known to sparkle in the sunlight.  Well actually I freckle, but they both end in ‘kle’ so I’m still in the game, right? 

               So, when the swoop is parted on the left, it causes my hair to swagger into a formation not unlike Conway Twitty.  For those who aren’t familiar with Mr. Twitty (may he rest in peace) you can reference John Travolta in ‘Grease’ or Johnny Depp in ‘Cry Baby.’  If you’re younger than that, you shouldn’t be reading this and need to go to bed.  I feel quite sure it’s past your bedtime, child.  However, if I part my hair to the right, the swoop leaps into a formation resembling Superman, from the movies starring Christopher Reeve, not the TV show where Bo Duke was the Dad.

                The point I am trying to make is why do we call it a cowlick?  Why this particular animal?  Why this particular gesture?  Did it actually happen to someone back in 16whatever?  I have researched the history of the swoop and here is what I found.  They are also referred to as hair whorls and trichoglyphs.  It was started in the 16^th century and referred to the way a mother cow licks her young’s head causing a swirling pattern in the hair.  While those are interesting facts, the name needs work, doesn’t it? 

Trichoglyphs could be useful in my quest to use as many obscure references as possible in casual conversation.  Telling someone I have multiple trichoglyphs could elicit all manner of responses depending on whether they thought this was a medical condition, weird animal or tattoo.  Hair whorl could be interesting although it would be consistently misspelled by a citizenry who for some reason can’t seem to master the proper use of your and you're. 

I realize the word cowlick is not something to which most people pay much attention; however it is the one thing keeping me from becoming completely amazing.  I think we can all agree with fantastic hair I could take over the world.  Well, hair and a family fortune.  And considering my Dad lives with me, I’m thinking the family fortune is nowhere to be found.  When he asks me why he couldn’t he have been born rich instead of good looking, I wonder myself.  About the money, that is.  I have grown accustomed to ignoring my father’s lunatic rants about his awesomeness at anything other than reality show competition-level eating, Olympic caliber flatulence and, oddly enough, crocheting.

Yes, my redneck, macho father crochets.  It’s an interesting dichotomy to reside in someone who retains no semblance of the couth he apparently faked throughout my childhood.  Don’t even start with me, the man leaves his (sugar-free) Popsicle sticks stuck to the placemats on my dining room table along with used blood sugar test strips, crumbs of indeterminate origin, his electronic solitaire game and whichever paperback western he is enjoying at the moment.  It looks like he robbed a Walgreen’s.  And he never says “Excuse me,” when he passes gas from either end.  He ignores it, guffaws or begins to look for the frog he assures me he just stepped on. I rest my case.

But, back to the crochet, which is French for “hook”.  He is pretty adept at a skill he obtained while being jailed for some random fight on some random weekend in the bustling metropolis of Lake Providence, LA when he was younger.  I’m not sure if it was one of those times where he got in a fight because he was bored or simply doing any manner of things that were illegal in that era.  I can never depend on him to stick with the same lie twice; much less tell the truth once.  But whatever the situation he is a skilled crochet artist.  And he produces them at a rate you can only compare to Southeast Asians sewing hidden buttons for Tommy Hilfiger.  He crocheted 8 afghans and 4 scarves between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  He’s already finished a gift for someone who is retiring in June. 

 I have made more runs to the craft section of Wal-Mart for thread than an ill-prepared Vacation Bible School teacher.  And if I have to lie to the woman at the check-out line about my daughter Kinley’s last minute school project one more time, she’s going to get suspicious.  Apparently, I do care what Esperanza thinks of me.  Oh, did I tell you that I now have a daughter named Kinley?  She’s ever so sweet.  She is a carbon copy of my niece Payton.  So much so I could use Payton’s photos and say they were Kinley if push came to shove.  Not that I would do it.  Well, at least not more than once.  Okay, twice.  Okay, once at Wal-Mart and once at Target.  Lydia, my  Target cashier, seemed curious as to why I had so many boxes of popsicles, Uncrustables and kool-aid.    “That darn Kinley,” I laughed and gave her my patented “parent shrug”.   “What can you do with a teenager?”

What am I supposed to do, admit the Uncrustables are for me?  That’d be like admitting I like the song by the boy who used to have the haircut and that I stood in line (in line!) to see Toy Story 3 and that’s a bit more mature than I care to be at this juncture. 

And I fully intend on blaming The Dad. Apparently lying is contagious.  I knew catching “country” was just a gateway, y’all.  I’m slowly becoming a redneck.  But I’m going to do everything in my power to fight it.  In fact, tonight I’m wearing a tie and matching pocket square to bed.

 

Como se dice, "Who ate my sandwich?"

              I should have known turning into the drive thru of the Jack-in-the-Box would lead to ruin.  I fastidiously avoid fast food as it is (1) not very tasty and (2) egregiously fattening and I would like to retain my newly trim “figger” as my Daddy would say.  But the greasy siren call beckoned me and as I am embarrassingly susceptible to advertising I had decided that I wanted, nay needed one of their value menu chicken sandwiches, with bacon. 
                As I was turning into the parking lot I noticed a small gathering of Hispanic men.  Now, I know that most of you are familiar with the undocumented workers who congregate at busy intersections waiting to be offered money to do all sorts of manual labor somewhat like a prostitute, if Home Depot of Lowe’s were involved in that sort of thing.
                Never having engaged one of these “workers” lest I ruin any future chances of becoming a Supreme Court Justice, I usually pay them no heed and go about my merry way doing all manner of glamorous activities like buying potatoes and sugar-free popsicles in bulk.  As I turned into the lot, one of the men signaled me with his finger and looked at me with a questioning eye and hopeful look on his face.  Although I was flattered that he thought that I might be of the stature to procure his services (I’m not wealthy but I have more money than, well, HIM) I was immediately caught off guard wondering how to respond.  I didn’t want to ignore him; it’s not his fault he’s an undocumented worker in our country.  Well, I suppose it is his fault, seeing as how he came here illegally. But are we to assess fault for someone trying to make a better life?  I don’t want to get all liberal sounding, but, are they all here illegally or is the economy so bad that even legitimate immigrants are out of work and desperate to provide for their families?  Even if I didn’t have any work for could I just hand him money? Would that be offensive?  Would he care?  Do I? 
                You must understand I pride myself in being a very compassionate and generous person, unless I am behind you in traffic or the express lane at Target.  No, old man in front of me last Tuesday, 27 cans of tuna do not count as 1 item just because they are identical.  On the other hand, if it were an old lady, I’d think, “Bless her heart” and simply wait my turn.  A gentleman is always a gentleman after all, when it comes to a lady.  Other dudes, regardless of age, are on their own.
                Unsure of how to respond without giving him any reason to think I needed his services, regardless of what they were, I tried to smile without any erroneous signaling lest I inadvertently request something through an incorrect nod of the head or too lengthy eye contact and end up with an unwanted employee, bag of drugs or live chicken.  Is there some sort of code?  Shouldn't there be an information sheet?  Where do I get one?  I felt a little like a spy.  Like Jason Bourne from all those books and movies.  I feel sure I could be mistaken for a suave, intelligent CIA agent.  At the very least I feel I could be mistaken for someone named Jason. 
                I guess it’s a good thing I’m not in the CIA.  For one, the CIA has secrets, people.  And if you know me, you know I can’t hold water.  I’d be on the phone with my sister saying, “Ooh, let me tell you who we tried to assassinate today.  You will NEVER guess, but his name rhymes with ‘Dennis Quaid’s brother’.”  Plus, I can’t beat up an assassin with a rolled up newspaper.  I can barely kill a bug with a rolled up newspaper.  I usually resort to stomping it with my shoe and that doesn’t seem to be an effective method for saving America from the terrorists, I think we can all agree.
                In my zeal to non-offensively, non-signal this man who may have simply been trying to scratch his nose as far as I know, I somehow ended up leaving the parking lot through the ‘enter only’ lane and almost turned the wrong way down a one-way street.  Trying to maneuver my car in the right direction while hiding my shame and ignoring the honking from the other customers who were in fact not attempting to scratch their noses (I am quite familiar with THAT particular gesture), I was able to head back down the road to the Target from whence I came, as I had forgotten to purchase get breath spray for our dog Lulu.  I’m not sure exactly when she began dining on dirty diapers filled with athlete’s-foot-flavored bilge water, but something’s making her breath reek.  And how am I supposed to convincingly say, “Who’s a good girl, yes you are” if I’m trying to breathe through my mouth?
         I’m not quite sure where I was going with this entry, but suffice it to say, I made it home in one piece sans illegal alien but with some basics for the pantry, you know stuff like a $5 DVD of “Fletch”, an awesome movie starring the guy my sister thinks is Bill Murray, a Big Grab ® of Doritos®, two 9-volt batteries and 3 packs of spearmint Extra. I told you I was susceptible to advertisement.
             Once I got home I immediately regretted not stopping to get a worker or two, undocumented or not.  You see, today was housecleaning day and I was not in the mood, do you hear me?  I have no problem with cleaning up after myself and when I lived alone, my house looked like it was unoccupied most of the time as I am very particular and very neat.  However, while living in a house with multiple bedrooms means you can have houseguests and roommates, it also means you have to clean it all, even the rooms you don't ever use.  Yes, sun porch, I'm talking to you.  And the maid duties have increased far more than the occupants as there is a swirling vortex of disorganization that is my father residing with me.  Things on shelves move out of their proper alignment simply by him walking through the living room.  When he sits at the dining table, food leaps from his plate onto the placemat and table.  And don't even get me started on the delicate maneuvering required to sweep around more yarn than a nursing home craft room or a Brownie troop trying to earn their "Knitting" badge.
            Although, now that I think about it, how would I have communicated with this gentleman of the parking lot what I needed from him anyway?  Do the men from Mexico clean, seeing as how Mexico doesn't seem to be a hot bed of women's lib, based on what I read on the news.  And how do you say clean in Spanish? I only know how to say "Where's the party?" (Donde esta la fiesta), "I want two chickens" (Yo quiero dos pollos) and "that statue is Greek" (esa estatua es griega).  This, I feel sure, is not going to get me clean bathrooms or a fully dusted living room, although it might get me a cooked meal, an invitation to a party or a look of confusion as to the statue in question.
            Ah, well, at least I have my chicken sandwich from Jack-in-the-Box to sustain me through this cleaning binge.  But now I can't find it.  I'll bet Daddy ate it. Como se dice, "Big ol' hog?"