GIGI GOES GAGA

NURSING THE KITTY

My cat, Boo, had kidney surgery this past Wednesday. About a month ago, we came home to find her frighteningly lethargic, with no energy to eat or drink. She also had bloody diarrhea, and was so miserable she didn't want to be touched. When I kept fussing over her out of worry, she got upset and promptly peed on the bed. We rushed her to the hospital; she was confined immediately to make sure she didn't get any worse. They did all kinds of tests, gave her meds, and a few days after we brought her home to heal, we had to take her back because we were clearly losing her.

Without getting into painfully long details, we were told she needed surgery. We scheduled it immediately -- and then had to cancel because she'd caught an upper respiratory infection. More tests, more meds, and more healing time than usual. Then the surgery this week... but now she's finally home.

Three thousand dollars later, my baby's now doing fine (although she resents having to wear this soft cone around her head, which keeps her from getting at her stitches). My husband and I -- well, we're eating in more and spending less. I'd planned to meet up with my friends up in San Francisco this weekend but decided I couldn't afford it, even if I'd found cheap airfare.

So I was talking to my husband about how I planned to add more money into the household kitty. I'm going to sell more of my stuff on eBay, maybe even on Craig's List. No facials or massages this month, and manicures only every other week (and maybe even fewer than that). I'm buying my skincare at the drugstore, and I'll have to forget about shopping all the summer sales (sob!). And as I calculated the savings in my head, I realized all my efforts still might not be enough.

I turned to my husband, sadly. "I think I'm going to have to sell my body. What do you think?"

He looked at me in protest, obviously he didn't think it was a good idea. "Honey," he began, "But we really have a LOT of bills..."

Bastard. There's another word for kitty that he's not getting anytime soon.

REAL BEAUTY

The last few couple of days I've been thinking about authenticity. Am I being true to myself, honest with myself? Because unless I can answer in the affirmative, then I'm not being real with anyone else either. My friend W and I were just discussing this last night: it's simply too easy to rationalize what we want, especially when what we want isn't in line with what we say we want. This is how we find ourselves doing things we're ashamed of: we deny to ourselves that we're capable of the unthinkable.

Trying to live an authentic life is just too difficult these days. We can create idealized personas online, not to mention completely false identities. Instead of trying to deal with the world we live in, we can invent our own. And even if we choose to live in real life, we can fake almost anything; we can erase the facial lines we've earned, shave off a bit of the nose, swell our lips, raise our eyebrows. We can create sculpted abs, leaner thighs, inflated boobs, and fuller butts. I mean, think about it: we all live in an age when "reality shows" aren't real at all and when the line between scripted and unscripted gets hazier by the day.

Today I saw a photograph of a 98-year-old woman who passed away on Monday. Before I read the accompanying text, I was already struck by her amazing face. I had no idea who she was but she looked so kind, yet so brave, and so profoundly wise. And as I stared into her eyes I thought: I want that face. I want to EARN that face. Then I discovered who she was -- and exactly how kind and brave and wise she was, and why her face revealed all of that.

This woman, Irena Sendler, saved 2,500 children from the Nazi Holocaust, smuggling them out of the Warsaw Ghetto. She was caught and tortured repeatedly yet refused to give up, and she never stopped her life's work. And despite all that she'd accomplished, she didn't like being called a hero because she always felt she'd not done enough.

I'll never measure up to the woman she was; that much about myself I already know. But tonight I sit here and think that while it's not wrong to desire to be a better, or at least different, version of myself, I need to be cautious, to be mindful about always wanting the change instantly. In real life, it takes time to develop, to grow, to become better, perhaps even to become our true self.

What I've learned through all this time, through all these many years, is that everything that's real takes time and effort. What's real can be painful, embarrassing, humiliating, and ugly. But there's also deeper beauty in the real. I want that real kind of beauty.

But I also know that deep inside lies that part of me who wants it now.

KEEPING IT REAL

Just recently a very good friend told me he's gay and that he's "finally come out of the closet." I suppose I'd been expecting the news for years even if I'd never given it any conscious thought. "C'mon I bet you've known all along," he said. And he was right -- I think I knew it the day I met him. I never knew for sure because he never talked about being attracted to anyone, male or female, and he might have even mentioned an ex-girlfriend.

See, the way I saw it, whether he was straight or gay didn't matter to our friendship. And even after knowing for certain, I still feel the same way; his news has not redefined our relationship. To me nothing much has changed; he's still my friend, not my new gay friend. I'm not expecting him now to suddenly drag me off to a Bette Midler concert and then force me to sing show tunes with him while we're driving over there, you know? And if we're planning a trip to the Barney's Warehouse Sale it's because we discuss this every year without fail. If anything is different I would wish that he feels freer, that he can breathe easier knowing now that he's well on his way to living authentically. That he's now keeping it real.

But what I wish for much more is that my friend didn't have to come out of the closet at all -- I wish there had been no reason for him to have ever hidden in the first place. I've just never understood the hate and intolerance that forces good people to curl up inside themselves for protection; no justification I've heard or read has ever made sense to me. None. Ever. And I can't empathize with those who keep coming up with these reasons -- excuses -- to marginalize, ostracize, and dehumanize other people.

I don't feel and think like this because I have a friend who happens to be gay. What I've always known is that when we allow society -- individuals and institutions -- to decide who is worth more or less, we run the risk of one day being devalued as well, for simply being born who we are.

 

NEANDERTHAL MAN SPEAKS

Just spotted this a moment ago.

LONDON (Reuters) - Neanderthals have spoken out for the first time in 30,000 years, with the help of scientists who have simulated their voices using fossil evidence and a computer synthesizer.

Robert McCarthy, an anthropologist at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, used new reconstructions of Neanderthal vocal tracts to work out how they would have sounded, NewScientist.com reported on Wednesday.

So this is how a Neanderthal would have sounded like. Funny, I know a few who still do, too.

SECOND CHANCES

If you've been visiting this blog long enough you'd know that I believe in second chances; in fact I believe that it's never over until it's really over, when you're no longer around to keep trying. While you live, you've got possibilities. Sure, they might be different from the ones you had when you were younger, but they exist nonetheless.

Another thing I know is that we should never let someone else's fears dictate how we lead our lives, even if that person is only full of good intentions. It's hard enough to conquer our own fears and move past them, but because we can't control someone else's trepidations, it seems only foolish to let theirs control us instead.

I remember a long time ago when dad advised me against having one "too many" boyfriends or even dating "too much". He said girls who did were doomed to become old maids because no man worth marrying would ever want to marry them. I didn't listen to my father, obviously, especially because he used the detestable phrase "old maid". And not only did I get married to a good man, but I did so twice.

Now while I don't think that this is what my dad hoped for either, my point is that I didn't allow his fears to become mine. Besides, what's too many? What's too much? As far as my dating history is concerned I will use the answer Andie McDowell's character gave Hugh Grant's in Four Weddings and a Funeral: "Less than Madonna, more than Princess Di -- I hope." (Note: she was referring to the princess' stats before she married the prince, not afterwards. I hope.)

I know that some folks think that because my friend got divorced then she's failed -- even if she tried so very hard to make her marriage work but chose to get out of a humiliating situation that would have eventually destroyed her. I'm also aware that there may be those who think she should now simply concentrate only on being a mother and deny other aspects of herself. Her children, by the way, are clearly my friend's main priority -- but I don't think they should be her only one (and thankfully, neither does she). Because what would her becoming invisible then teach them about the value of their own lives? And when the day comes that they no longer need her, would that mean that she has nothing left to live for?

Life isn't simple, it's true. Consequences rarely work out according to strict "If....then" terms we've worked out in our heads. What's worked for me might not work for you, there just isn't a sure-fire formula for anything. The only thing we know for sure -- that I know for sure -- is that if we keep trying, we'll keep failing. But we'll also learn how to fail less and succeed more. The only thing we need to fear is fear itself. Especially fears that aren't even yours but someone else's.

The third thing I know for sure is that a chance is something you make, not just take. If you sit around idly waiting for a do-over, it may really be over for you instead. So go find them, they're there, even if they might not look the same as you remembered. Who knows, maybe they're better? You certainly won't know until you try. Or try again.

ALL IN THE FAMILY

I've been obsessed lately with mapping out my family tree. Perhaps because I have no children of my own and am aware that my branch ends right here with me, I've been looking backwards to see how all the pieces fit and figure out how the picture will look like after I'm gone.

All my life I've been told that this-and-that person was my cousin, but I really had no idea how we were related or if we were actually related at all. When you consider that the Philippine notion of extended families can transcend blood ties, it's not at all surprising to find out later on in life that you can (legally) marry someone whom you always thought was off-limits. Or the other way around, if you're not so lucky.

I'll never forget this one reunion we had a long time ago to honor my maternal grand-uncle. It was held over the course of a summer weekend at a mountain resort and so there were people bustling all over the place. A few of my second cousins and I gave up trying to figure out who our uncles and aunts were, and so we decided to simply greet all the adults we bumped into, kiss them on the cheek, and call them "tito" or "tita." Nowadays, given how we're now instructed to teach our children about deterring and avoiding child predators, this was probably a fairly dangerous plan. But at least we didn't disrespect anybody.

One thing I love about this Information Age we live in is that I can fill in the blanks not only with names, but also with interesting facts about each ancestor or relative. There are so many amazing people in my tree -- on both sides of the family -- who contributed so much to the history and culture of the country. It not only makes my heart swell with pride and a sense of belonging, but also reminds me of a legacy that needs to be respected and continued. Interestingly enough, however, when it comes to my grandparents' generation (and older) I can only seem to find research about the males of the family -- it's almost like the women never existed. Thankfully, that has changed (though not yet completely).

The logical next step -- for me, that is -- is to get to know all my first and second cousins. For some this means simply reconnecting and staying in touch; for others it will involve much more effort. I'd have to go find them and then boldly introduce myself, hoping they care even a bit. When I think about how once upon a time all our parents and grandparents grew up together and directly impacted each other's lives -- just as how my sisters and I have with each other -- it makes me realize that my cousins and I probably have more in common than we suspect.

My US-born-and-bred niece once asked me where she inherited her artistic and creative genes from, since both her parents are techies to the core. I was able to point out several members of our family who were writers, artists, and architects. I'd like to think it made her feel like she was part of a never-ending, always-expanding circle and that she was continuing to write the family history in her own distinct way.

And just this past week, my sister, who's based in Washington D.C. met two of our second cousins who were in town for business -- and who also barely know each other. The three of them spent the day in Georgetown, enjoyed the sites and, more importantly, got to know each other. My mother gets to speak with both their fathers from time to time, and I'd like to think their children will continue to do the same, especially since they have already begun the conversation.

For me, the best part of this discovery process is the bottomless pool of stories that await. For my two nieces -- who have no first cousins on their mother's side -- I hope it means they can now feel more strongly anchored to the Filipino side of their family, where they get much more than a few of their physical features from. My stronger hope is that their second, and even third, cousins will feel the same way about them, too.

CHEAP TALK

Here's the thing I love most about being at this stage in my life: No more excuses.

For practically my entire life I felt like I had to either defend myself or deny myself. Either I was too aggressive or laid-back, too focused or too mercurial, too wild or too strait-laced. I was either overdressed or underdressed, too serious or not serious enough, too clingy or too detached.

The whispers that used to concern me the most were those accusing me of being easy (and I'm certain I don't have to explain what this means). When I was a college freshman, my well-intentioned distant cousin walked up to me and said, simply, "You know, PDA is just not preppy." I thought he was kidding; no one actually took The Official Preppy Handbook seriously, right? Apparently, this guy did. Then at a house party soon afterwards, he got busted for making out with his girlfriend inside one of the rooms by the host's mother. So not preppy.

So when I switched colleges (several times) and later became a campus student leader, I took great pains to hide my relationships and even my sexuality. I didn't date my classmates, in fact not anyone who attended the same school -- and certainly not anyone connected to either. I was frequently asked why I was such an ice queen. The answer was that I didn't want to undermine anything I was trying to do. And so, in a way, I lived two different lives.

But now, these things don't bother me. Maybe they should, but they just don't. If anyone accused me of being easy, I'd even agree, just to throw him or her off. I'd say something like: "Well I am! I'm a nympho, didn't you know? I'm totally addicted to sex! In fact, I prefer the kinky, perverted kind -- the dirtier the better. Got a problem with that?"

Yep. When you've battled your worst fears, over and over again, and not just survived but thrived, it's easy to ignore stupid things like gossip or idle talk. Unless you're a politician or a celebrity, I suppose, when public image is everything. But I'm not either -- and will never be. And talk is cheap, but I'm not.

The best part about getting older, I've found, is that because the window ahead becomes smaller and smaller, the last thing you want to do is cover it up. Especially because the view only becomes clearer; so much the better to enjoy it.

VETTING

"Honey, I think I should have married a veterinarian instead," I solemnly told my husband yesterday. He didn't say a word, but I think he agreed with me. Or maybe he wondered if he should never have married a crazy cat mommy instead.

My cat, Boo, and I have been together for more than a decade now. My husband had to blend into the household that she and I built together way before he came along and so he found himself -- for the first time in his life -- having to make way for a pet. If someone had told him years ago that he'd have to arrange golf games and even vacations around the needs of a four-legged creature he never would had believed it. And now he does as a matter of course, though not quite willingly but resignedly. It's just the way it is, he says.

Boo was scheduled for surgery this past Wednesday -- which we had to postpone when she suddenly developed an upper respiratory infection. The doctor sent us home with a vial of pills and a simple set of instructions: twice a day for the next 14 days. But nothing is ever simple when it comes to pets and their medication; anyone who says differently is either a liar or a braggart, I'm certain.

I investigated every trick in the book and tried them all. We tried hiding her medication in tasty pill pocket treats, but she outsmarted us. We tried liquefying the pill and plunging it into her mouth with a syringe, but that didn't work either. It was time, we knew, to actually put the damn thing into her mouth. But how?

With the aid of a few helpful how-to videos, which we watched carefully and repeatedly until we were sure we had the technique down, we went straight to work. We hadn't considered, of course, that these well-intentioned folks who put these video clips together cast more docile, at least more acquiescent, cats than ours. I mean Boo is a really sweet and laid-back cat, but her 11-lb. frame kicks both our asses when she puts up a fight. Or maybe we're just wusses.

We wrapped her up in a towel like a burrito, held her firmly as we pushed her head back, pried her mouth open, and quickly placed the pill towards the back of her mouth. We kept her mouth shut as we gently massaged her throat until she licked her lips, indicating that the medicine had gone down. We did this successfully. But only twice.

On the third try my husband was so frustrated, I told him to let go when I saw he was about to strangle and shake her into submission. And then I sat on the floor with my face in my hands and moaned as she stared back at me, still sneezing and breathing noisily. Did we have any neighbors who are vets or vet techs? How much would Boo's pet sitter charge us to come out to do this for us? Maybe I should have married a vet instead? I thought of the cute, dark-haired doctor who used to work at the hospital years ago; the first time he held Boo tenderly in his arms I thought: "well hello daddy!"

Last night I bought a pill gun online and spent considerably more on shipping than I did on the gadget itself just so that it gets here ASAP. Today, in bleak desperation, I brought her back to the clinic and asked one of the techs to help me out. When she brought Boo back to me moments later she said with a smug smile, "It took only a second to pill her." Gah.

My cat, man, she can be such a pill. Just like her mommy, my non-vet husband would probably say.

WEIGHT FOR ME

At my new workplace, apparently, we have our own version of the dreaded "Freshman 10." I've heard it from every single person I've spoken to; so far I haven't yet met anyone who claims to have beaten the odds. Of course I'm determined to be the first one to do so -- even if I'm already three pounds heavier than I was since I started working here a month ago.

It doesn't help that I haven't spent a single dollar on food since I've been at this place (seriously). There's free food everywhere -- even our vending machines give without taking. If I'm hungry but sick of string cheese, tuna and crackers, and trail mix, all I need to do is phone over another department and find out if there are leftovers from some team's catered lunch. At times I don't even have to ask: "There's KFC in the warehouse," someone will casually mention while walking by. Then minutes later another voice: "Want Indian food?"

Back at Trader Joe's there was always (free) food for the taking in the backroom or at the demo station, but the difference was that I never stopped moving so I burned calories quicker than I could consume them. Not here when I'm practically chained to my desk. So I've taken some drastic steps to stop this downward spiral. I've decided to stop using my phone to talk to my co-workers; I walk to their offices instead. I now bring my own sugar-free oatmeal mixes and low-sodium soups to work and drown everything with bottles of my favorite Skinny Water.

I suppose what I still need to do is walk to and from work (I live less than two miles away) and use the on-site gym regularly and I'll even get to reverse this awful trend. Gah, but I hate freshening up at work, especially if it means lugging all my gear around (you've probably guessed I'm not a minimalist by any means). Not even if the company provides us with lovely shower facilities, free towel service, and extra amenities like hair dryers. But I'll have to take these extra steps if I don't want to see another seven pounds on my frame and become just another workplace statistic.

In the meantime I'll have to stay away from the free food and take one step at a time. Literally.

BECOMING AMERICAN

When the Immigration officer told me after our interview yesterday that I had passed and she was recommending me for naturalization, I felt tears welling up in my eyes and it surprised the hell out of me. After all, I could have done this much sooner but waited instead. That, too, is something I can't quite explain still.

I've been in the United States for almost 24 years; for a third of that time I was really neither here nor there. I was out of status, to put it politely. So while I lived here as an American -- paid my taxes, followed all the rules, worked my ass off but also had the time of my life -- deep inside I knew I really shouldn't have been here still. But I couldn't (wouldn't) leave either because it would have meant not being able to come back, and I knew if I stuck it out I'd have more options in the end.

Although originally my father was the one who really wanted me to study here -- just as he, my mother, and my older sisters had done at my age -- ultimately coming here was my choice to make. The consequences, however, were not mine to bear alone. I arrived here just as my father's business slowed down and money was tight. I'd always expected he would pay for my tuition and expenses, especially since unlike my sisters I was not a US citizen and wouldn't be allowed to work while attending school as they had done.Well, at least not in theory.

So my mother came over and petitioned for me. At first we thought, as we were advised, that the process would take about five years. It took 10 instead. Mom left a comfortable life back home, one where she was always the boss and gave directions, and dumbed down her resume so she could work as a secretary, where she took them instead. Her bosses didn't know about her Master's and Doctorate degrees and although they were impressed that she was one of the few people who still knew how to write in shorthand, they had no idea that she had actually met the guy who wrote the definitive texts on the subject. Or that she had written a couple of textbooks, too.

Later on, mom actually took additional teaching jobs when dad could no longer send money over. And we lived in a tiny shoebox apartment on the wrong side of town, surrounded by the freeway entrance, a rundown hotel, and an apartment inhabited by gangbangers. On cold nights we'd find a bum huddled inside the one rickety elevator inside the building. When I look back I realize that we didn't even sleep on a proper bed with a spring mattress for many years.

We moved around a bit as our circumstances became better. But not fast enough. In our next apartment we woke up to hear a man banging on our window as he was being stabbed repeatedly by his dealer. There was blood all over the next morning, after the cops had come and gone. In the next one it wasn't unusual to find that our car had gotten broken into -- again and again. Eventually mom and I went our separate ways and she finally went back home, after about seven years, when she saw that I had found a way to be on my own and (barely) able to make a living here.

Just as mom had done, I worked multiple jobs and lived in places that scared me at night. Sometimes I ran out of money and had to rely on the kindness of friends. I couldn't pursue the career I really wanted because of legal impediments and so took a detour that has since led me here. I even seriously considered getting married strictly for the papers when I became impatient, even desperate. I know there are decisions I've made in my life because of the limited choices available to me at the time. The irony, I suppose, is that I made them because I wanted to have more choices in the long run. Which I now have.

My mom and I, we made sacrifices so that I could be here (although mom, I believe, gave up so much more). The people around us, who loved us and whom we loved in return, also did the same. And despite all of that, despite what all of us each gave up, I had to remain invisible here for years as I waited for my papers to be processed. I waited so I could finally have a right to be here. I suppose I waited all this time for yesterday to come.

My friend Ed just asked me: do I feel any different? Oddly enough, even if I've been a permanent resident for 10 years now, I do. I still remember the time I was involved in Filipino-American community activism. I turned to my friend, a dedicated advocate and activist whom I highly respected, and asked her, "Why am I even doing all of this when I'm not supposed to be here in the first place -- while I don't even belong here, technically speaking at least?"

The answer is: because I was here. And now, because I belong.

PHONE-Y

I went to Santa Ana to take my US citizenship test today. The good news is I passed. The bad news still bothers me on so many different levels, I'm still processing.

My husband and I agreed that he would drop me off and then chill out at the nearest Barnes & Noble; this way we wouldn't have to deal with finding parking at the Civic Center Plaza and then also have to pay for it. So I got out of the car, climbed up the steps of the building, went inside, and stopped at the security check.

"Do you have a cellphone?" the guard asked. I had a bad feeling about what was going to happen next but because I'm a lousy liar I replied yes. He asked to see it.

"This has a camera so you can't bring it inside," he said. "You're going to have to go back to your car and leave it there." Flabbergasted, I waved my appointment letter and protested, "But it doesn't say anywhere here that we can't bring those in here." (Besides, the only reason I have a camera built into my phone is because most happen to come that way these days. I don't even use it.)

"Oh yes it does," he argued with me -- and then pointed to a small sign in front of where he stood. "No, not there," I replied back, "It's not here in the letter with all the other instructions. And I didn't drive here so I have nowhere to leave this." He shrugged his shoulders, "There's nothing I can do. Maybe you can go to the Starbucks across the street and see if they'll hold it for you."

I went back outside and phoned my husband to turn around. Minutes later, as he swung around the corner, I threw my phone into the open window and he drove off. That was the easy part.

When I was done at the Immigration office, I went to look for a pay phone. Another guard informed me that there were none anywhere in the building: "They removed them because they weren't making any money." He suggested I try the other buildings.

So I did. I walked around and found out that pay phones are apparently obsolete. Someone suggested that maybe the jail nearby would have a phone. No freakin' way, I thought; there's a reason I've been a law-abiding citizen my entire life -- so I wouldn't ever have to go to jail, you know? But I considered the suggestion and realized it was perhaps worth a try. Before making the trek, I decided to check my wallet and discovered I had no cash or coins on me. I'd have to seriously beg.

Defeated, exhausted, and with blisters on both my feet, I walked across to the Starbucks. They have this renewed pledge to excellent customer service supposedly (all stores even closed early one Friday a few weeks ago just so all employees could undergo training) and I figured perhaps they would help me.

I approached a helpful-looking girl behind the counter and kindly asked if I could borrow their phone for 30 seconds. I explained the story: I just had to make a quick local call to tell my husband to pick me up. I don't have my cellphone because I wasn't allowed entry into the Immigration building with it. There are no pay phones around and, even if there were, I have no change anyway. She shook her head, "Nope, sorry. We don't allow customers to use our phone." So much for her customer service training. As well as for the idiot who taught her that exceptions to the no-use-phone rule can't ever be made, at least just to help a customer in real need.

At this point I realized that possibly the worst place to have an emergency in Southern California is within the Civic Center Plaza area in Santa Ana -- home to various local, state, and federal government buildings, by the way. Apparently folks around here assume everyone drives a car and carries a cellphone. And politicians wonder when the people complain that they're so out of touch with the rest of the world.

I dragged my painful feet into the building where -- that coffee shop -- was located in and walked towards the guard/concierge standing in the middle of the lobby. I asked him if there was a phone I could use anywhere in the building. I explained my situation, knowing it wasn't going to do me any good anyway.

He paused for a second, pulled out his cellphone and handed it to me. I punched in my husband's digits and prayed it would ring. I heard his voice and sighed, "Please come get me" and hung up immediately.  I looked at the kind owner of the phone I'd just borrowed. "Salamat po," I said in deep gratitude.

"Ay Pilipina ka pala!" he said. And he smiled as if to say, "it was no problem."

Today I was approved for US citizenship and the only person who bothered to help me was a fellow Filipino. Somewhere in here is another story, perhaps another bit of bad news -- but definitely a bit of good, too.

WHAT I DID THIS WINTER

I've never had a summer job -- a job you took to keep you out of trouble and provide you with some pocket money, something you knew you'd have for only a few months, to do in-between the other stuff you normally did. But this was the closest to it.

This past Sunday was my last day and, as expected, it was all quite bittersweet. Even customers waved goodbye and wished me luck as I walked out the door wearing my store-issued tee for the last time. I suppose I felt like a kid again just being there, maybe because at times I felt stupid for not knowing something that should have been obvious, while there were many moments it seemed as if I were simply at play (though truth be told I felt like a grandma every time my muscles and joints ached -- which pretty much was every day for the last three months).

Before my first day on the job, I even had to -- geek that I truly am -- google how to bag groceries because I knew there were rules involved though I had absolutely no idea what they were. But let me tell you: I can build a bag now like no one's business. I even got whoops and cheers regularly from customers; the best compliment I received came from a geometry teacher who said I obviously learned my lessons well. My co-workers were the best bunch of folks I'd ever worked with and many of my customers were more neighborly with me than my very own neighbors.

Like there was the tiny old lady in her '80s who insisted on bagging her own groceries every time because she had fun doing it; she was hunched over and looked like her bones would break if I only sneezed in her direction but she kept up with me as I rang her up item for item. And I didn't slow down for her benefit either (I think I even went a bit faster just to prove I couldn't be outpaced by someone who walked with a cane). And there was the other old lady who still drove (very scary thought); I loved carrying her groceries to the car because she'd entertain me with her stories of life way back in the day. She walked very slowly so we'd get to talk for a while.

Then there were these two adorable Chinese-American girls, about 2 and 3, who'd chant my name nonstop during the entire drive to the store, according to their mother, and who shouted out as soon as they walked in and saw me. And this boy who overheard a random conversation I had with his parents one afternoon and so always remembered that I was allergic to alcohol and how that unfortunate fact possibly kept me out of all sorts of trouble (his folks were grateful to me, let me tell you). And there were all these other lovely people who restored my faith in the kindness of strangers.

The only thing I will not miss is doing cart runs -- especially in inclement weather. I realized I was in such a sorry state when I watched a Target employee haul a long line of carts back to the store in the middle of a storm -- and envied him because he got to use a motorized trolley. Me? I only got to use this thing that resembled a dilapidated, incredibly long black luggage strap and my own brute strength.So now I always make sure I return my shopping carts either back to where I picked them up or to their designated return area. Yes, even at Target. Because somewhere out there, every day during all times of the day, in every shopping area in the world -- is an employee cussing out everything about life simply for having to wrangle carts back to the store and on the way dodge speeding vehicles trying to run him or her over.

I'm certain that even when I'm an old lady I'll be bagging my own groceries and returning my cart to wherever it belongs. Some things you learn during the course of a summer -- or in my case, winter -- but that you remember all your life.