I live in a city that has a high homeless population. It’s quite unfortunate, but it also demands a greater degree of wariness on my part. You and I both know that what I mean by that is that I have to be suspicious of anyone who looks or behaves as if they might be homeless. It goes against my own scruples and what I preach to others. I am, for better or worse, discriminating against people. I am applying a stereotype that may or may not be deserved. I fight over which course of action to take, and I waver on it on nearly a daily basis. Mostly, I stay to myself and ignore everyone else; it seems the safest and least discriminate choice of action, but even doing that often strikes me as giving off a vibe of disrespect. There’s always a tug to go up and talk to the people I am fairly certain are homeless so that they can feel like a person for once rather than a social pariah. Yet, I don’t. My past bad experiences have left a sour taste in my mouth and colored all future interactions, but I hide behind my rude behavior with the excuse that I am merely being safe, being smart.
Today, while waiting for the T, a man with a Santa beard and extremely grungy, disgustingly pungent clothing came up to me. I had my headphones on (the universal way of saying “Please go away” to the world), but that didn’t deter him. I found myself inwardly smiling at his perseverance to interact (I know I wouldn’t be so brave were the tables turned). He asked me if I came to this station a lot. I thought about what my roommate would do, so I told him that I didn’t, that I was just visiting a friend. (I do. I go there very frequently.) He gingerly touched my arm. I flinched a bit, as is normal reaction for me with strange men. He didn’t notice, or he didn’t show any indication if he did. He pointed to bricks going in a different direction than the others and informed me that they delineate where the T doors open if the T conductor stops where he or she is supposed to. I don’t know if that’s true, but I thought his gesture was sweet nonetheless. I smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. I hit play on my iPod and resume listening to Flyleaf.
A moment later, he whirls around and comments on the weather. I hit pause on my iPod, and I respond in kind. Thinking his musing is over, I inch my fingers back to my iPod, only to be interrupted again by his voice. I don’t particularly mind, though the interaction is somewhat clumsy. It’s clear he wants to talk, so I try to cater to his desire, but I don’t know what to talk about with a strange man who is in all likelihood homeless, not to mention a stranger who I have already lied to within seconds of meeting. He briefly comments on one thing and skips to another, acting to all the world as if it’s normal. There are no transitions. There is no discernible relevance of any one comment to any of the others preceding or following. I find myself thinking he is schizophrenic.
Then he asks me if I have any pets. Still somewhat dazed by following his thought patterns, I respond, “I have a roommate.” I find myself realizing that this came out sounding perhaps quite…uhm. Misleading? Bad? Insensitive? Really insanely hilarious? But before I can clarify, he tugs at his Santa beard, nods and says, “Mmm,” as if what I have said makes all the sense in the world. He asks me if I have any fish. I say no. He asks me if I have any exotic fish. Again, I say no. I find myself glancing in either direction to make sure there are people around, because I’m not entirely comfortable with the conversation and people, even useless people, are a reassurance. I find myself thinking I am a big, huge donkey. The guy crowds into my personal space. His breath is nauseous. I chide myself. I shouldn’t be thinking about that. He is a person, darn it. He grabs hold of the breast of his sweatshirt with one hand and the zipper with his other. He glances around and then slowly–agonizingly slowly–begins unzipping his sweatshirt. I wonder if it would be inappropriate to gingerly grab hold of the zipper and pull it right back up. I mean, this is weird, I don’t know him, it’s cold, and he’s trying to take his clothing off. Ok, so he’s unzipping his sweatshirt, same difference. How does one handle such a situation? Heck if I know. I look around to see if anyone else is watching, to see if anyone else is as perplexed by this impromptu homeless strip show that’s occurring in front of me. I chide myself again for the odd, inappropriate thought. Even if it does make me want to laugh. Because I’m picturing Santa. Undressing. Inappropriate. Wrong. Perturbing.
He reaches his hand inside his sweatshirt. I stiffen, because I don’t know and can’t see what he’s grabbing. This bothers me. Again, I remind myself that there are people around. But, before I can really think any further than that, he pulls out a bag. Inside that bag is a beautiful white fish in water. Suddenly, I understand, and I feel like the world’s biggest donkey. I wonder if they have a world record for that. The man smiles and points to the bag, saying, “His name is Princess.” Yes. His name is Princess. I tell him that Princess is a very beautiful fish. The comment seems hackneyed. Then he puts Princess back inside his sweatshirt and walks away while I’m left standing there thinking about the interaction.
If you look up the words “nice” and “kind” in a dictionary, you’ll most likely find nearly identical definitions. In my mind, though, the connotation of the two is not the same. I consider nice to be more indicative of an individual’s behavior, whereas I think of kind as being more of a state of mind. Kindness leads to niceness, but the reverse may not be, and often is not, true. That’s not to say that there’s anything wrong with being nice. Being nice is good. You’ve got to start somewhere, and it’s certainly better than the alternative. We can control our reaction to our thoughts if not the actual thoughts themselves. We can choose to be nice even when we would rather not. We can choose to not answer the door when those thoughts knock. But, still–how nice (no pun intended) would it be to be kind? To be able to skip over the mental reproaches and the guilt and just go straight into action?
That man was kind to me. I was nice to him. One day, maybe I’ll be able to call myself kind. In the meantime, I’ll be monitoring my thoughts and thanking the good Lord that Edward Cullen doesn’t exist.
“No more kisses, Mama! No more!”
“I mean, I guess these…Colt thingies are fun to watch. They ram into each other and make fun noises. I totally look better in blue, though.”
“Bumbo for baby! Bumbo for baby! Bumbo for baby! Wheeeee, this is fun.”
Who let the dogs out?
Woof! Woof, woof, woo…f? 
“I’m Rolly, ’cause I’m hungry all the time! Really! All the time!”
“‘I’m hungry, Mother–really, I am. I’m so hungry, I could a–a whole elephant!’ So I did. And now I’m in a food coma.”
Enjoy it while it lasts, Alice, because you will never have skin that perfect ever again.
My new goal for Christmas: get that child to smile like that as often as possible. I will gladly make stupid faces, noises and humiliate myself if it means she’ll be that happy. 
I am told this is the first time she ever reached for something. I don’t know why; she’s already got everyone wrapped around her little not-so-nimble finger.
I like to think she’s belting out “Hammer Time.”
This was taken right after my sister dressed her. She does not seem to approve of my sister’s clothing choices.
“You come to me on this day, the day of my daughter’s wedding?” (Ok, not the actual quote. But she DOES look like 
“I say. That’s wonderfully entertaining. Do continue, my good man.”
“What the hell is that? You call this television?”
“It’s almost sad that this face works on mama every time. Almost.”
“Whatever, man. My hat does not look like a Papal tiara.”
“Wait–Peyton who? Oh, this is so not good. These people look serious. What did I get myself into?”
“Yes, yes, you just keep on thinking that. Your ignorance is so delightfully amusing.”
“Noope! Not me! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been right here the whole time, honest!”
“And then she was all…”
I eventually let the cat out of the bag.
See? He’s cool. You would be looking at just shy of 80 books and 19 movies, purchased for less than $10.
The movies–all VHS, because that’s all they had.
Books I got for Alice. See? I’m a good aunt. I’m thinking we should probably wait a year on reading her The Aeneid, though. She’ll probably be able to handle that when she’s one, right?
My books, numbering 40 in total. Well, 41 if you consider that one is a two-volume set.
Jessica’s books. 
The book which perfectly sums up the day.
I chuckled when I saw this, carefully placed it in my bag and then proceeded to grab three nearby books. Yeah.
“Dude. Seriously. Where are you going to put all those books?” 
