My teef hurt!

This is a blog about dentists and memory.

On Monday, I got up very early to go to the endodontist. An endodonist is a dentist with more training and a more confusing title. An edodonist is someone who specializes in root canals, which means they have many, many interesting and frightening tools at their disposal. And because a root canal on my front tooth was infected, I had the pleasure of visiting said super-dentist.

I was not looking forward to it. There was, of course, anesthesia. There was also drilling with tools that sound like lasers from a bad B-movie. I gripped the sides of the chair a lot, closed my eyes, and tried to fall asleep. On the whole, it was painless but it was not pleasant. And, then, when it was all over, the doctor told me something that surprised me: he said the root of the tooth had been broken off by a “trauma,” most like something that happened to me when I was a child.

Trauma. Trauma. What trauma? I tried to think, but nothing came to mind. Yes, I’m the clumsy type, but I also wasn’t very athletic, either. So there really wasn’t a chance I got hit in the face with a baseball, soccer ball or any other flying objects, because typically I wasn’t playing sports. So what was it?

But for about 36 hours, I forgot about what he said. I just popped some Ibuprofen, went to work, came home, went to the gym, came home, popped some more Ibuprofen, went to sleep, woke up the next day and went to work again. And then, tonight, as I left the building, a memory flashed in my brain.

Elementary School. Music class. We had a substitute teacher, who had us playing a game where we passed a blue drumstick-like thing as fast as we could from student to student. Whoever passed it to me — and just, now, as I’m writing this, I think I remember who it was — hit me in the front tooth with the stick. I remember lifting my hand to my mouth, looking down, and seeing that it was covered in blood.

I don’t remember crying. I don’t remember what the teacher said to me. I only remember the metallic taste of blood in mouth, and that I was sent to the nurse. I don’t remember what happened when I got there, or what I said to my parents when I got home from school that day, or if I ever said anything at all. Because school pictures prove I lost my front baby teeth in the first grade, and I’m almost sure this happened later in elementary school, I have a feeling this music-class incident was very likely the trauma that broke the root of my tooth.

I’m not sure why this struck me so much today. I started smiling after the memory came to me, not because it was a happy one but because it was so vivid. And how could one thing in my life now could trigger something so far away in the past? If I’m right, that little elementary school mishap cost me a few hundred dollars two decades later.

Also, I don’t know about you folks out there, but my short-term memory is terrible. And my long-term memory feels farther and farther away. What was important to me, back then? Life can seem so long when you’re in the middle of it, but yet I can’t remember what made my days long when I was a little girl.

Memory is all about triggers. If I think about dentists, or if I think about even teeth, so many different images pop in my mind. I don’t remember my first cleaning, I don’t remember losing my first tooth. But I do remember the small, white pillow my mother gave me when I was little. A tiny pocket was sewn on the front; above it, stitched in blue thread, were the words, “For the tooth fairy.”

Or I think that’s what it said. What I remember for sure is that the pocket was for each baby tooth I lost, to be replaced by a penny or a dime in the morning. I also remember that the pillow was stained from apple juice I spilled, right over the pocket. I wonder now, where did my mother put the baby teeth later, and did she ever tell me? Did I ever ask? And is that kind of thing parents preserve, a tangible thing that recalls the way we are as children?

I have plenty of bad memories about dentists and teeth (and braces. Don’t get me started on the braces). Of course, on a day to day basis, I don’t think about any of these things, nor do I think about what they mean or trigger. But around every little corner, or underneath the sound of a very, very scary endodontist’s drill, float these fleeting, elusive pieces of the past.

Now where the hell is some Ibuprofen?

The Mysteries of 21st Century Adulthood, Jaguar Sharks & Inconclusive evidence

My parents are doing a major renovation at their house, which means cleaning out a lot of old boxes, which of course means I recently ended up taking home a bunch of books from my childhood and young adult years. Among them was the Chris Van Allsburg book “The Mysteries of Harris Burdick.” Van Allsburg is usually known for illustrating and writing “Jumanji” and the “The Polar Express.” Those are beautiful books, but I think “Harris Burdick” is my favorite. It’s made up of 14 different drawings, each with a title and a brief caption: in one, entitled “Under the Rug” a man holds a chair over his head, as he stares in horror at a giant lump under the carpet; the caption reads, “Two weeks passed and it happened again.” Ah, what a delicious invitation to creativity. I was shy, with a hyperactive imagination, so needless to say, I spent hours looking at the pictures and then sitting in silence as I imagined a back story for each illustration.

I loved the book, because I loved the idea of an endless combination of possibilities. I also loved the idea of mystery, of lives pumped full of excitement and sharp turns of plot at every corner. Didn’t every life unfold in the manner of a classic story? Buildup, conflict, climax and then a neat, lovely denouement?

Dear English teachers, why didn’t you tell me, that my life would be more like The Lady and the Tiger? In other words, there are no easy answers. There are no obvious answers.

This particular blog post won’t have much of a conclusion. It won’t have a conclusion because I haven’t figured things out yet. And that means it’s going to meander. So, sorry.

In my first blog post, I wrote that I’m going through one of those “what does it all mean” periods. And I’m not alone. Lately, it seems like al lot of people I know are at some kind of major crossroads or turning point, whether it be in their careers, their romantic relationships or their friendships. There’s a lot of crying, a lot of hand-wringing, a lot of staring at each other across the table with the same looks in our eyes as if to say, so this is it?

It’s not that life is terrible. There are wonderful things to enjoy. I am one lucky, lucky, lady. I’ve got food, shelter, Internet and Girl Scout Cookies — that is a downright luxurious life.

There are just those days, where you think, wait, wasn’t I just 16, planning the rest of my life yet having no idea what would become of me? Of course, 16 doesn’t exactly sound appealing either. (I could show you a picture of Vianna Davila at that age, but it would have a Medusa-like effect, and then you couldn’t read the rest of this blog post). I just think we naively hope life will be filled with lots of moments like this:

But in reality, I think it’s filled with more moments like this (metaphorically speaking):

No, we are not all in submarines looking for the Jaguar shark that ate our best friend. (although, those red beanies are AWESOME). I think we want to work up the energy to confront things, confront anger, or to make some big kind of splash — but in the end, we are sometimes at a loss to understand it all, and we just have to accept and let go and release all the old frustrations and expectations and love what we have. And that’s the moment when we need all of our friends’ hands on our shoulders.

There’s a great line in this scene, that sums a lot of things up to me, though I couldn’t explain it now. So I’ll just write it.

Cate Blanchett’s character looks down at her soon-to-be-born son. “In 12 years, he’ll be 11 and a half.”

Bill Murray’s Steve Zissou replies, “That was my favorite age.”

Yup, Steve. Ditto.

Blind Spots

The Express-News ran a story and photos today about a visually impaired, transgender drag performer named Alexis Nicole Whitney. I wrote the story, and wonderfully talented photographer Lisa Krantz took the photos.

If you were to click on this story, here, on our Web site and read the accompanying comments section, you would see, at last count, 43 messages. Some are incredibly ugly, some support the article and some don’t make a lot of sense.

Several commenters, when they weren’t decrying our character’s so-called “lifestyle,” said that this wasn’t news.

Let me be upfront. Besides the fact that Alexis is moving to Dallas next weekend, there was no real news hook to this story. That made it a problematic one to run in a Metro news section.

But I argued that this still was news. Well, why? What is news?

I turn again to the comments section. One of the commenters who criticized the piece noted in her diatribe that this isn’t the “San Francisco Express-News.”

Ah, how clever. Point taken. In other words, we are not a liberal city like San Francisco, a metropolis known to be friendly to people with these “different” lifestyles.

Well, first of all, I take the comment as a compliment. If it means I’m challenging someone’s idea of what should happen or should be, then I’ve done my job.

But I think commenters deserve an explanation of why anyone would pursue a story like this, when there is, in theory, nothing inherently newsy about it, at least not in the traditional sense of something happening right this moment: I think this is an ultimately news-worthy story because there are people like Alexis everywhere in this city. Of course, I’m almost entirely surely she is the only visually impaired transgender drag queen in town. But what I mean is, there are transgender people everywhere in San Antonio, and you may just not know it. There are drag shows happening, right now, and you may just not know it. And you don’t have to like it. But I think you should know that it’s out there.

That, to me, is what news is really all about — it’s the story of a place; it’s pulling up the window shade on something, perhaps, you never saw before.

So, in case you missed it, here is Lisa Krantz’s absolutely beautiful slideshow; and the link to my story is above.

Here’s a preview of one of those photos here.

AMAZING MUSIC VIDEO

Holy crap, this song is incredible, and so is the video. The song, “Way Down” is a collaboration between DJs Squeak E. Clean and Dj Zegan, from Brazil. They call their duo N.A.S.A (North America/South America). The video is just….wow.

Here is a link to a very surreal and brief quicktime movie showing the evolution of one scene — the sound seems to cut in and out but it’s still pretty snazzy.

You know, the list of birds I like is a short one: Big Bird; grackles, when they cooperate for a film I’m making; baby birds; I’m sure there are bird dogs that are very nice. In general, I don’t like them. Maybe because a pigeon once slammed into the company vehicle I was driving, knocking out the passenger side mirror. Maybe because I know they used to be dinosaurs, and dinosaurs are definitely more interesting. Who knows why. But I definitely think I will add the birds in this video to the short list of my favorite things from the class Aves.

MLK Edition

Happy MLK Day, everyone! Sorry, it’s almost over. But one can never learn enough about Martin Luther King Jr. I say this because in recent years, I’ve listened to his most famous speeches again — really listened to them, rather than just paying attention to the snippets they showed us in history class. And they are amazing.

So first, in case anyone needs a little refresher course on Dr. King’s life, specifically the last few years of his life (including a period when he struggled to stay politically relelvant), check out the PBS/American Experience documentary “Citizen King.” It’s amazing! And I’m not supposed to tell you to do this, but it appears several parts of this film are available on YouTube. In order. Ahem, ahem.

Second, I saw this amazing documentary this summer about the days and moments before MLK’s assassination called “The Witness From the Balcony of Room 306″. It’s a lovely film.

Here’s a link to an NPR Morning Edition story on a recently discovered MLK speech.

Here’s a link to the video I did of the MLK march in San Antonio.

Lastly, here’s a video of something I like to remember every now and again, as just a little reminder of how much things have changed since MLK’s life and untimely death.

Yeah, yeah, I know, bleeding heart, bleeding heart, once again. Eh. S’ok.

An earful (or a coffee cup full)

The long wait is over. The General Assignment resumes production today. The presses are back on schedule.

The focus of this entry is health, and the adjustments we are forced to make in order to ensure our little bodies stay healthy. It’s also about why, often, these adjustments can be difficult for the habitually unhealthy.

My close friends can tell you that, since I’ve returned home to San Antonio, a week doesn’t pass without me experiencing an incredibly painful ear ache that essentially renders me useless. I get nauseous. I get dizzy. I go through many, many Q-tips in ill-advised attempts to dig the pain out of my ear. Because that’s what it feels like — a knot of highly agitated nerves deep in my ear canal that are tied ever so tightly. I don’t know who else has regular experience with these kinds of things, but if you have, you understand how horrible they can be.

However, since I didn’t have health insurance for a few months, and because when I finally did get insurance, I was lackadaisical about addressing the problem, the ear aches continued, relentlessly. They came up when I was visiting New York in September. They came up at family functions. They came up when a friend was visiting for one night only and I had to tell her we couldn’t go to the VFW for Lone Stars as planned. That’s when I knew how much I hated them.

So, this week, I finally saw an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist. If you’ve never seen one, please, go, right now, just to get a look at the gadgets they have in there! Machines that measure the pressure in your ears and print small receipts with tiny little graphs on them! Machines that measure the waves coming out of your ears! I even did a hearing test, one of those, raise your hand whenever you hear the beep things. It was pretty much the best visit I’ve had at a doctor’s office since my pediatrician used to prescribe that very yummy pink medicine that looked like Pepto Bismal but wasn’t.

But here’s the best part — the doctor told me there’s actually something wrong with me. I may actually have a disease!

Um, ok, you may ask. Why does this make me excited?

Because there’s a NAME for what I’m feeling. And there’s something I can do about it.

The doctor believes I have something called Meniere’s Disease. In complex terms, it’s a change in fluid in the part of the inner ear called the labyrinth (there’s a problem with my labyrinth! Where’s David Bowie??). In simple terms, it means I can feel like crap at any moment, thanks to my ear getting funky. My doctor said the causes are up for debate: some people with the disease suffered from numerous ear infections as a child, which I did; others had previously experienced head trauma, which I haven’t; and there are others who suffer from the problem for no discernible reason.

There’s also no known cure. But one can take preventative measures.

Here’s where the bad news comes in. The doctor suggested four things I can do to lessen the chances I’ll get more ear aches: reduce nicotine use (no problem: I don’t smoke); reduce salt intake (eh, I can deal with that); reduce alcohol intake (oh, well…what?) and reduce caffeine intake (WHAT????).

I delicately asked what he meant by reduce caffeine intake, since I don’t drink every day and decided I would figure that one out on my own. He smiled, in a very kind yet you’re-out-of-luck kid way. One cup of coffee is fine in the morning, he said gently. After that….not so much.

In the doctor’s office, I wasn’t so concerned. He said I could still have coffee, right? And some alcohol is OK, right? No problem! So when the appointment was over, I promptly got in my car and drove to Starbucks for a latte. That evening, I promptly went home and had a little sip of wine.

Then, I moved on to Day 2. I bought my regular cup of coffee in the morning, and I did my best to stretch it out as long as I could. But around 3 or 4 p.m., I was desperate for another caffeine fix. Suddenly, I realized, this meant no more ice tea at lunch or the occasional caffeinated soft drink. No longer could I say “yes” when one of our editors, bound for an afternoon coffee run, asked if I wanted him to bring me back something.

Oh, dear.

On Day 3, I tried to wiggle out of my dilemma — I ordered a Grande coffee at Starbucks instead of my usual Tall. My doctor didn’t specify a size! But again, by the afternoon, I was ready for a ritalin shot. I held strong as far as caffeine goes. Then, that evening, I met some work friends for drinks and I promptly ignored the doctor’s orders.

But what’s more important? Caffeine fix, socializing over a gin and tonic or addressing my health problems?

These are the questions of our adult lives.

I still remember my first cup of coffee. I was studying for an economics midterm my junior year of high school at IHOP. I slowly sipped at it, slightly put off by the bitter taste but wanting to impress my friend Erin, who was already disappointed I’d never tried coffee before. I continued to sip as I studied microeconomics, the language of supply and demand, market failure and fixed costs. I barely made it through that class in high school, and I still have a rudimentary understanding of economics; but I have never, ever lost the taste for coffee I developed that night.

Now it’s strange, to tell the waitress not to refill my coffee cup after getting tacos. It’s strange to think, well do I really need a glass of wine or a beer to relax after a long day at work? I don’t have an addictive personality, but I do like ritual: the ritual of a cup of coffee or tea at my side; the ritual of a little drink with my dinner.

Part of me thinks I shouldn’t write about this at all, because anyone who reads this blog could possibly chide me when they see me entertaining one of the aforementioned vices. But, please, don’t get me wrong — I’m not going to give up all the fun stuff. The doctor also said that, if his diagnosis is right, my case doesn’t seem too severe. So, I’m following Aristotle’s lead on this one: everything in moderation.

Besides, there’s always a chance the doctor’s dianosis is wrong….right?

Oh, and for anyone wondering what a person suffering from Meniere’s disease looks like, here’s the pamphlet the doctor provided me.

Haiti

I’m at a loss for words about the situation in Haiti following a devastating 7.0 earthquake that struck Tuesday; in fact, I had planned to write about something else today, but the tragedy is so great, and the images are everywhere I look, that I felt compelled to at least devote one blog post to it.

Haiti is considered the poorest country in the Western hemisphere. According to the US State Department’s Haiti Web site, “there are no ‘safe’ areas” in the country. This NY Times op-ed by Tracy Kidder offers a brief history of Haiti and how it ended up in an economic and political predicament even before the earthquake hit (and yes, America has played quite a hand in this situation). Also check out the newspaper’s Times Topics section on Haiti, which aggregates numerous articles and summaries about the country and the earthquake.

If you feel like giving, and somehow you missed ways to do it, here are some of the simplest ways I’ve seen to donate a few dollars:

*Text HAITI to 90999, and $10 will be given to the Red Cross; it comes out of your phone bill. It works — you will text the number, get a confirmation text back, and then you reply YES.

*Former President Bill Clinton has mentioned this other means of giving: text HAITI to 20222 and $10 will be given to UN Relief Efforts.

If you’re looking for a long list of ways to give, MySA.com has listed many resources, some of them local, here: How to Help Haiti’s Quake Victims

Also, here’s a story by San Antonio Express-News reporter Vincent T. Davis, about local aid heading to Haiti.

As far as videos, here’s a Frontline World online rough cut about a Haitian musician and first-time Haitian music festival from 2007.

Also, below is a video showing images of Haiti pre-earthquake, set to Arcade Fire’s beautiful song “Haiti.” The band has also listed ways to help on its Web site. What’s striking about this and the Frontline video is that they show Haiti as a real country, not just a ravaged one. Now I look at the faces and wonder, where are these people now, and are they OK?

Think fast: exercise, write, or sleep?

I’ve never managed my time gracefully. Not when I was 5 years old (“Mom! Five more minutes of sleep, ok? Just FIVE MORE!”). Not when I was 10. (“Mom. 10. TEN MORE MINUTES OF SLEEP. That’s it!”). Not in high school (my mom stopped bothering). I am always, as they say, flying by the seat of my pants.

Yet, I have gotten a lot done in life. I’m not quite sure how, but there is a paper trail to prove it. But then I wonder, how does anyone get anything done, especially journalists, who are constantly reacting to breaking news, getting in early or staying late, keeping our cell phones at our sides at all times just in case a source, or a copy editor, calls at the very last minute?

In the old days, there were plenty of explanations for one’s inability to finish everything on your plate: there was, I imagine, crop-tending, animal husbandry, butter to churn. Our modern world is just a very updated version of those chores: Twitter posting/checking, Starbucks lines, the checkout aisle at HEB.

But I’ll admit, I’m at a real loss about how successful people manage to fit in everything, like going to the gym at 5 in the morning and then being charming and productive at work. Are you people magic? Are you…are you unicorns? I don’t even have kids yet and I feel like I’m flailing sometimes.

My overall new year’s resolution was to stop avoiding in life what I’ve gotten skilled at avoiding for a long time. This blog was an answer to one of those things, which was my refusal to sit down and write, just for me. Another thing I do but not regularly enough is exercise. So I’m attempting to add more regular gym visits to the list. I also want to actually learn how to cook things, simple but tasty things, and yes, this is a challenge for me. Oh, and I want to produce better stories and videos at work, and I want to pursue documentary. And I want to sleep more.

Sleep. Mmmmmmm. Sleep.

So yes, how does this all get done? Andy Borowitz wrote this hilarious New Yorker essay on how to make the most of “quiet time.” At the beginning of the essay, he quotes the Disney CEO who says he recharges every day by getting up at 4:30 in the morning. Of course he does. He’s working for the magic kingdom, where a giant mouse is a celebrity and not a health hazard.

So I’ve already decided if I try to blog every day, I might be setting myself up to fail. In fact, I already failed because on Sunday night I zonked out around 10 p.m. without meaning to and last night I caught up with a friend from grad school on the phone and then tried to sleep off an ear ache. Oops.

I know if I also  vow to exercise every day, that might not work out either. Because there is still work (a lot of work– remember, these are journalists’ hours we’re talking about) and meals and news and art and family and friends and real, genuine quiet time, that I can do with whatever I please.

Now I know — I know – not everyone has half the luxury I have, because they have families or responsibilities that wouldn’t allow them the time to get to the gym or write an inane blog like this one, even if they wanted to. Clearly, I don’t know what real time management is all about.

People, I respect those of you who are doing that much. I respect you a lot. I wish I was more like you. I’m just trying to manage my time my own way.

So here’s a compromise: blog several times a week, period. Blog every day if a particular topic strikes me. Make a vow to AT LEAST either exercise OR blog every day, but no week can pass without some exercise. Is this the right way to go about this? Suggestions? Anyone want to be my exercise partner so I can’t get out of it?

Nocturnal transmissions

Well, I just ended a six-day work week, which was also my first week back at the Express-News after a glorious vacation (when did a week and a half vacation become glorious? Since I entered this thing we call the news biz). I am tired, quite tired, but energized by the week.

But I’m a little worried. I see a pattern forming when it comes to this whole blog idea — when I get around to writing these posts too late, they are likely to get a wee bit random. Don’t hold this against me, please. This is a new experiment. I’m still in the caterpillar phase of this blog life cycle.

Anyways, here’s a sampler pack version of a blog.

Chapter 1. I had to write another weather story today, but I was told homelessness was too overdone. So what did we chose? Plumbing. Naturally. Readers, you’re probably wondering, why? Well, it’s tricky to make weather new every day. And you know someone would complain if we didn’t write about it in the paper. So, we get creative. Cold snaps like this one tend to freeze and subsequently bust water pipes. I know. So sexy. But what else are you going to write about when you’ve only experienced a hard freeze and no precipitation, ie, no snow, no sleet, no calamity? I need to start compiling a list of ideas so I’m prepared for the next cold weather go-round. How about, where do the taco trucks go when it’s below freezing? Who are these chicks who still wear heels and short skirts when it’s glacial outside? Why is God smiting us right about now with these frigid, frigid temperatures?

Oh, and here are some pretty photos of ice that formed when sprinkler systems went off in an empty lot near my apartment:

Chapter 2. The Conan v. Leno fight continues, (if you don’t know what I’m referring to, please turn to your preferred online search engine and look it up, and then, choose a side. Now’s not the time to be Switzerland). As I was leaving work yesterday, I overheard two of our security guards discussing this topic. “Isn’t it awful I?” I exclaimed. “How can they mess with Conan.” “Oh, I hate Conan,” said one guard. “I like Leno.” “Really?” I answered, trying not to reveal my true feelings, that clearly he and I would never understand each other on a root level. I looked to the other security guard, sitting behind him. “What about you?” “I don’t like either one of them,” he said. At this, we all laughed. He doesn’t like Letterman either, so I guess he’s an equal opportunity hater. Can’t argue with that.

Chapter 3. Today’s music selection. I looooove the Bat for Lashes song, “Daniel.” I read awhile back that Natasha Khan, aka, Bat for Lashes, was inspired by Karate Kid when she wrote this number. Well, the video certainly has that look to it. It is also very, very weird. Thus, I cannot look away. If you don’t really like the folks in black tights with weird cloth balls tied to their heads (and yes, this is an accurate description), just close your eyes and listen. You’ll feel like you’re running away with Ralph Macchio.

Man, I really, really want that Bat for Lashes hoodie.

Also, here is a short “making of” video, which pretty much proves “abstracty things” were the concept behind this particular work of art.

Baby, it’s cold outside

Once again, after a long day, it’s difficult to work up the energy to write. Today, I was on weather duty at the Express-News, taking over for rockstar EN reporter Jennifer Lloyd, who had handled weather duty earlier this week. I can relate to this situation: last summer, I was the “no rain in sight/this drought really sucks” reporter. It’s a dirty job, but there is nothing more universally interesting to most folks than whether or not they should wear a parka or a tank top today.

Inevitably, when writing winter weather stories, the subject of the homeless comes up: what will they do in these frigid times? So today, I joined badass EN photog Lisa Krantz on a ride-along with the director of one of the Salvation Army shelters. It was a fascinating journey, even though my hands felt like they might fall off the entire time. First, we went to the South Side, behind a Lowe’s, where there were reports of a homeless man. We found him walking through an empty lot, littered with trash that included mattresses and a graffiti-covered love seat and other signs that someone had made this their home. Like many others, he refused to go to a shelter.

Later, we stopped by a massive building just north of downtown, an abandoned apartment complex. It was a five story structure that had been transformed into a surreal ghost town: again, graffiti on the walls proclaimed this a homeless community. We found mattresses and bags full of products and signs of real people, living real lives here. But the place was empty. Either the residents had found shelter, or they were hiding very well, waiting only for us to leave their self-made kingdom.

I know — it’s an old story. What will the homeless do in the cold? But it is no less relevant just because it is typical. It is not less cold this year just because it gets cold every year. (and, practically speaking, this really IS the coldest winter we’ve had for the better part of a decade). It’s amazing to go these places and see how people live, even if it’s for a weather story that is getting old fast.

I think of the homeless man that sits near where I park every day. He never bothers me. His hair is mussed and matted. He is usually sitting beside a vacant building, reading a book or a newspaper. We say hi now. Hello. Hello. I think I asked once what he was reading, but I still don’t know his name, or how he ended up here. I meant to bring him a Christmas present, either a book or a blanket, but that hasn’t happened. I haven’t seen him lately, because it’s been too cold to park where I normally do, several blocks from my office. But I wonder if he’s gone to one of the shelters during this cold snap, or if he is braving it, outside, like so many. And I wonder how big of a bleeding heart I sound like. But then I think, so what?

So what if I do?