Today I woke up to my boy cuddled up in the covers next to me watching nursery rhymes on the iPad.
Then we went to his best friend’s house and played and laughed and had a good time.
When we came home, I dug a plastic drawer organizer out of the shed, rinsed and dried each drawer, and sorted all of the paperwork, mail, coupons, receipts, and miscellaneous items from the kitchen table into each of the drawers.
Then I did the dishes while dyeing my hair.
Productive-as-fuck, meet Tempest Rose.
Anyway, after all of my doing all the stuff, Adam and my dad got home so I ran out to get them (and me) some food. I stopped to get milk at WaWa, and got in line behind an adorable little boy. I’d say he was about 10 or so, definitely no older. He was just standing there staring sadly at a pile of change in front of him — the cashier had the same sad stare at a 12oz cup of hot chocolate.
He turned to me and said, “Do you have . . . Can I have twenty-five cents?”
I gave him a dollar.
But it made me so upset. Where were this child’s parents? Why didn’t they give him twenty-five-cents? Did he spend his allowance for the week and the pile of change was all he had left?
Why didn’t his parents teach him how to properly and respectfully panhandle? Everyone knows you don’t immediately ask for money, you work into it. You have a backstory.
“Excuse me, Sir. Would you by any chance happen to have a few extra dollars? I got stuck down here and need to catch a train home.”
That worked for me countless times. That’s how you panhandle. You don’t just look at someone with your puppy dog eyes and frizzy, curly hair and mocha skin and demand money.
Or maybe you do . . .