Last night was like no other.

I usually have too much to say…too many words to write down.

But, this experience has affected me in a way others have not, hurling me into unfamiliar territory.

So, here I sit, speechless, before a blinking cursor that’s begging me for words.

I have spent my entire life looking away from the misfortune, hardship, and pain of others. I’ve found it too much to bear, so instead of dealing and feeling, I run away, back to my comfortable life.

What if everyone ran?

Last night, I surveyed young, homeless people. I gathered information for the heroes who run towards those without, rather than away from. Heroes who seek to better understand these young people, so they can help them get back up.

I was so nervous in the hours leading up to the count, my heart pounded through my chest.

I was nervous I wouldn’t know how to talk to them. I was nervous they would see me for what I am – someone who’s been given everything and lacks for nothing. I was scared they wouldn’t feel how deeply I feel for them, or how much I want to help them.

But, I forced myself to enter the shelter anyway, pushed through the doors with all of your beautiful words.

The first person who walked over to me was broken in so many ways; her soul was in pieces. I did my best to make her comfortable, letting her know she could say whatever she wanted, and hold tight to those things that were too hard to share.

I feared going into this that I’d break down right there in front of these young ones. Or, that I would detach too much, masking how much I cared.

But, sitting there in front of these beautiful humans, I felt at home. I managed to find a balance between being a sobbing mess and a robot.

Some shared very little of themselves. Some couldn’t let it out fast enough. One thing was evident – both hadn’t been listened to for a very long time, and have been swept aside by all of us…sweepers.

I shared with the ones who checked yes that I, too, had been to jail – for a DUI when I was 25. I needed them to know that bad choices don’t make you a bad person, and that they mustn’t define you.

I wanted her to relate to me, despite our different journeys.

I stripped my finger of it’s sparkly engagement ring, my ears of their small diamond studs, before heading over there.

I was desperate to remove the tell-tale signs of privilege, wanting them to see me for who I am underneath it all.

A fuck-up.

A failure.

An insecure girl, who has fought, and continues to fight, the voices that have told me my entire life that I’m worthless.

Fearful.

Lost.

A work in progress.

Someone who is just now learning that I’m worth so much, and more than capable of all those things that once seemed impossible.

A fighter.

A success.

I sat in awe before the 18 year old young man who’d been bounced around the system from the age of six months old, never having a mother, a father, or any family at all.

Despite it all, he wanted to be a counselor.

He told me he’d change the world.

And, he will.

With all that’s been handed to me, it still took me so long to find his kind of bravery. Sometimes, it still eludes me.

A young girl tapped me on the shoulder and asked if we could just talk.

She shared with me a life filled with pain and neglect…one void of love or kindness.

I finally asked her if she needed a hug (because I needed to hug her). She cried, and said yes.

I hugged her so hard I could have broken a rib. I was desperate for her to know that I loved her and believed in her, even if no one else ever had.

She asked me if I’d be back. I promised her I would.

I hope she’s still there for me to hug again.

Over the past few months, something has clicked for me.

The homeless epidemic that once seemed too big to tackle, now seems too big to neglect.

I’m tired of hearing people that come from trust funds say they’ve worked for all they have and resent those who “mooch” off the system.

I’m tired of others, that truly have worked for what they have, asking why everyone else can’t do the same. No two situations are alike. It’s absurd to compare hardships.

My problem has always been assuming that I can’t make a difference.

I’ve always thought to myself, “Why bother?”

Screw that.

We must bother.

We must try to be parents to the parent-less, sisters and brothers to the sibling-less, and friends to the friend-less.

We must do less judging and questioning, and more listening and loving.

We must remember that, one day, it could be us, our children, our parents, or our friends, that need a hand.

We must be softer.

And, most importantly, we must stop pretending that we aren’t part of the problem…or the solution.

Because, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Why the hell else are we here?

* * *

Stay tuned tomorrow for Project: We See You – February!

And, for my next installment of Project: We See You…

Yesterday, I woke up overwhelmed.

As I do.

I spend much more time stressing out about the things I need to do, than it takes to actually do them. And, I’m not talking about husband-sex, weirdos.

I showered (2 points!), got dressed, and slipped on an old ring I found. It’s bigger than my hand and older than both my kids. I think it is probably something I picked up from from Urban Outfitters, back when I was still cool. Sometimes, I feel like it gives me extra sass and bigger balls. Like a hipster superhero ring of sorts.

Also, I figured if something went wrong with the transaction over at Raising Cane’s (in Cypress), I could just coldcock the general manager, Mike Guido, in the nose really fast and run off with the gift cards he’d offered me.

But, luckily, I didn’t have to knock Mike out, because he delivered – and BIG TIME!

He walked out with a huge handful of box cards, and a smile – a very cute one at that (no disrespect to his wife, of course)! I would’ve been happy with a mere fingerful of cards, but Mike gave me way more than that.

*Cue the standard, awkward Allison interaction*

OMG. THANK YOU SO MUCH. CAN I HUG YOU? Do you mind if I take your picture? Because, you can say no, my husband does all the time. I get it.

But, Mike didn’t leave me hanging, or make me feel like a dork. He accepted my awkward hug him and let me take his picture. Then, he handed me their card and said he’d love to help out whenever we need it!

I thanked him again, and headed back to my car to check that off my list and plan my next move. I drove away from Cane’s, then did a U-turn through a bank parking lot, and pulled right back up to the Cane’s drive-thru for some grub.

I hopped back on the highway and immediately went into hungry-raccoon mode, ripping into the chicken strips with my bare-hands. They don’t make blue-tooth for chicken fingers, so it was risky, but I can be pretty crazy like that.

It was my first time eating there and it. was. amazing! In fact, these chicken strips are so good, that if I’d been PMSing I probably would have just pocketed all the box-cards and gone underground for a week or two.

It got me thinking…who even needs Chick-Fil-A (besides them, of course.)?

My friend Justin told me that Raising Cane’s was known for generosity and helping out in their communities. Boy, was he right.

The best part was that Mike replied to my public tweet with a private message. He didn’t offer his donation to be acknowledged, he did it just to be good.

Aside – I nearly published this post with that last sentence reading “Pubic” tweet. Yay for editing!

Thank you so much, Mike! You rock! Almost as much as Cane’s special sauce.

I drove over to the Texas Medical Center, where the oh-so-helpful George Irvin of McDonald’s had arranged for me to pick up the remaining 150 Arch cards at their Texas Children’s Hospital location.

Mr. Irvin has been a god-send getting all of this figured out. Especially since I sleuthed out his number and cold-called him out of the blue one day, asking him to process 1,000 cards in a one day.

And, then continued to text him things like this….

Poor George.

He’s taken me in stride and been so gracious, bending over backwards to get all of this done in time.

Back to yesterday…

I pulled up to Texas Children’s to get the last bunch of cards for tonight.

Aside #2 – The building below is located right next to Texas Children’s and I’ve always thought the architect must have somewhat of a boob-fetish.

Where were we?

Chicken fingers….boobs….Oh, right, Arch cards!

This past Friday, they processed 850 $5 Arch cards at the same location, ringing them up one by one through the register, which took the manager her entire shift.

I offered to help speed things up this time around and they let me slide and activate the cards one by one.

This takes so much longer when you have to pee.

LaToiya Harris was the unlucky one who got stuck helping me. She put up with my very bad jokes throughout the entire process. Like, when we were nearing the end and I told her, with a fake cry, “I’m really gonna miss you when this is done.”

She was amazing, quick, efficient, and so gracious! Not an easy feat considering the woman behind me was yelling at her, “I JUST WANT ONE MORE BBQ SAUCE!”

I’d also like to take this moment to apologize to her for leaping over the counter to bear-hug her on my way out.

Juliette, the manager, came out to see how things went, and handed me a STACK of free sandwich coupons. So wonderful!

I told her I was going to tweet her and she looked at me like I had just offered her a weird sexual favor. So, I explained to her what Twitter was, as best I could.

I walked out with an unmarked, white paper bag of coupons, feeling like I’d just made a very important sausage biscuit drug deal.

With not a minute to spare, I booked it over to the homeless shelter to get trained for tonight’s youth count.

It’s not in the nicest part of town, so I ended up handing out a few coupons along the way.

Cities are required to take part in the annual point-in-time count. Per the Coalition, “The point-in-time count is a requirement of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) for the local Continuum of Care funding process which brought over $23,000,000 to the Houston, Harris County and Fort Bend County homeless assistance programs in the FY2011 application process.”

In other words, the PIT count allows the government to know how much money and what types of services are needed in each community.

This year, there’s a pilot program – Youth Count! – in nine cities (including Houston) across the country. They’re trying to come up with more efficient and comprehensive means of tracking and counting homeless youth in America, and get answers to questions like…

Why are these young people homeless?

How did they end up there?

What do they need?

I was saddened to hear that up to 40% of homeless youth here are gay. Some of them have been kicked out of their homes for simply being who they are, making their parents despicable monsters in my eyes.

Tonight, I’ll be stationed at a homeless youth shelter from 5-10 pm, where they’ll send in young, homeless people for me to interview.

The final numbers will measured and sent to HUD.

I shall slip into my professional pants and try not to adopt anyone tonight, but I can’t promise I won’t try to hug them.

It’s kind of a thing with me.

Music is a huge part of our life.

No, we aren’t a family of lifelong musicians.

I can barely play chopsticks on the piano.

When I was little, my piano teacher diagnosed me with an untreatable, genetic case of too-tiny-hands and too-little-talent. This is also probably not the best combo if you’re looking to get into the porn industry.

My husband can jam, though. He started guitar lessons several years ago, and has since picked up the harmonica, as well.

I’m basically married to Bob Dylan.

Really, though, our main thing is listening to lots of music, hitting up live shows, and dancing like the dorks we are.

I do believe that music is the universal language, and that we’re born drawn to the beats.

I remember watching Footloose a couple of centuries ago and being so confused about the whole Jesus hates dancing thing, because music is in all of us…it’s natural. There’s no better example of this than witnessing a tiny baby shake what his mama gave him when someone drops that funky bassline.

We listen to music everyday in our house. We have dance parties, sing loudly, and dance like crazy.

It used to be so simple. We’d put a song on and the kids would dance.

But, now that Luca’s four, he’s really starting to listen to the songs I play, and ask about their lyrics.

(No more 2 Live Crew for us.)

Like, the other day on the way to school, I played a Neil Young

As the song ended, Luca chimed in from the backseat, “What’s that guy talking about?”

Oh, how I love this song, with it’s meaningful, powerful, and goose-bumpy message. And, while 2 Live Crew would have been much easier to explain, I tried my best.

“Okay, honey. The song says, to me, that you should never back down or give up on your dreams. Always be who you are, because you can do anything…even if others try to convince you that you can’t. Does that make sense? So, I guess what I’m saying is that don’t be denied means never taking no for an answer, and living your life the way you want it, as long as you don’t step on anyone else along the way, of course. Am I confusing you? This is a hard one for me to explain.

No, mommy. I understand. When you tell me no more candy, it means I should still have candy.

I’m currently rethinking the 2 Live Crew ban.

* * *

When I was a young boy
My mama said to me
Your daddy’s leavin’ home today
I think he’s gone to stay
We packed up all our bags
And drove out to Winnipeg

When we got to Winnipeg
I checked in to school
I wore white bucks on my feet
When I learned the golden rule
The punches came fast and hard
Lying on my back in the school yard

Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied

Well pretty soon I met a friend
He played guitar
We used to sit on the steps at school
And dream of being stars
We started a band
We played all night

Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied

Oh Canada
We played all night
I really hate to leave you now
But to stay just wouldn’t be right
Down in Hollywood
We played so good

The businessmen crowded around
They came to hear the golden sound
There we were on the Sunset Strip
Playing our songs for the highest bid
We played all night
The price was right

Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied
Don’t be denied, don’t be denied

Well, all that glitters isn’t gold
I know you’ve heard that story told
And I’m a pauper in a naked disguise
A millionaire through a business man’s eyes
Oh friend of mine
Don’t be denied

 * * *

I am the most hormonal person on Earth.

Just ask my husband.

(But, for his safety, not while I’m PMSing.)

My hormones dictate everything.

My reaction to things.

My coping skills.

My dietary choices.

My energy.

My parenting.

My intelligence.

My confidence.

My wife skills. I mean, skillz.

EVERYTHING.

Depending on where I am in my cycle, I either love myself, feel meh about myself, or loathe myself.

One week, I’ll feel like the most capable, funny, and skillful writer ever. I feel like my words are meaningful, and add something positive to the world.

But, once PMS kicks in it’s the polar opposite. Rather than funny, witty, or skillful, I feel completely incapable, like my words might actually make someone dumber just by reading them.

Wait. What’s that? You need a visual?

That’s funny, because I happen to have some.

This is an average month for me, depicting how hormones affect every facet of my life. The red indicates the most dangerous time of the month for myself, and those in my immediate vicinity.

For example, let’s take a look at the same scenario – my husband eating my last burrito without asking – at two different times of the month.

Days 6-20, when I’m feeling my best…

Days 25-31, in the throes of PMS…

And, while my husband has learned to identify the danger signs, and has become quite adept at navigating the minefield known as me, others have not.

So, a word to the wise – if you have even the slightest suspicion that I might be under the influence of hormones, please tread lightly.

And, whatever you do, do not eat my fucking burrito.

graphs – graphjam.com
comics – ragebuilder.com

I think I’ll file this one under none of your business.

Among her many supporters there are, of course, the critics and naysayers. Some are worried that her post-surgery body may not fill out the ol’ bikini as well. Others are calling BS all together, accusing her of faking it to make herself more “media-friendly.”

Really?

I’m left wondering why this is anyone’s decision but her own? Do these critics have any idea what it’s like for her? Do they know how it feels to be living…literally…inside what many consider to be a ticking time-bomb?

And, the truth is, I don’t either.

But, unfortunately, one of my dear friends knows it all too well.

On February 14, 2008, at only thirty years old, Stephanie was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. Soon after, she underwent a bilateral mastectomy, followed by reconstructive surgery, then chemotherapy.

And, although it’s been several years since she kicked cancer’s ass (and had her miracle baby Jonah), it’s still something she lives with every single day. Due to the fact that Stephanie’s cancer was estrogen positive, meaning the cancer cells are fueled by the hormone, it’s necessary she take Tamoxifen (a hormone blocker) on a daily basis; a regimen she’ll continue for the next seven years. In laymen terms, she is a 35 year old woman in a state of drug-induced menopause.

After reading about Allyn, I really wanted to know Stephanie’s thoughts on it.

Here’s what she had to say…

I think the fear of Breast Cancer is what makes the majority of women follow through with prophylactic mastectomies. Sadly, this doesn’t guarantee the person won’t get it, because it’s impossible to remove all breast tissue cells from your body; Breast Cancer needs only one cell to invade.

After I had Jonah my oncologist asked if I’d experienced an achy feeling in my chest, or a feeling of milk let down, even though I had no real boobs or milk ducts. What? She was relieved when I said no, because it meant my breast tissue was successfully removed, all that was possible anyway (they scrape your chest wall).

In the case of the pageant queen, although she doesn’t have BRCA1 or BRCA2 (the genetic gene mutations which curse carriers with up to an 80% chance of developing breast cancer in their lifetime), she obviously has some clinical indications, the biggest one being her strong family history of the disease. I would be terrified of the same diagnosis that my mother, grandmother and aunt died from.

Bravo to her for taking charge of her health and seeing past having the perfect body.  Our world today has a warped, superficial idea of beauty. Women feel pressured (by each other!) to be perfect and to look perfect, and to be the perfect mother, wife and friend. The brave choice she’s made rebels against all of that.

But, I am sorry to say that she has no idea what’s coming for her, after she loses her breasts. The sadness, the loss of sexuality, seeing a monster in the reflection in the mirror. Thankfully, those feelings eventually fade (to a certain degree- every woman is different). With that said,  I’d still choose to look like Frankenstein naked, with a road map of scars on my chest, than go through cancer ever again…let alone, lose my life.

I have so much respect for Stephanie, and all the women (and men) like her, that I would never be so bold as to criticize or question the decisions they make regarding their health.

Unless one has been diagnosed, or has a genetically higher chance of being diagnosed, I think it’s absurd to even have an opinion, much less cast judgement, on Allyn’s decision.

feature image credit Cindy Ord/Getty Images

There’s a sign at the entrance of the club:

You must be at least three years old to enter this establishment.

But, Leo?

He just wants to dance.

Unfortunately for him, the bouncer doesn’t mess around. He takes his job very seriously, even when he’s not wearing pants.

Me removing an elephant off my chest: I need to let you know (because it’s a weird feeling when people start sending you money) that my intention in writing these posts isn’t to ask you guys to give me money. Because, that seems icky to me, even if it’s for a good cause. Like, I’m not a put a Paypal link on my blog kind of gal (not that there’s anything wrong with that…people need help sometimes, and, shit, more power to them).

I think it’ll feel less weird when I get a non-profit approval? Will I put a Paypal link on the official Project: We See You webpage? YES!

These posts are merely my attempt to plant a seed in your mind, to nudge you on the shoulder, and to whisper psst! psst! in your ear; a reminder that you (and ME) can do a better job seeing people and their problems, instead of avoiding them because they make you (ME) feel so sad and helpless and guilty.

Put your hand out and help someone up.

With that said, I’m obviously not going to turn donations away…because I know how much of an impact they make. You are helping real people, in real time, in a very real way, and that’s real awesome.

Thank you.

Anyway, this is a learning process for me, but I’ve hired someone to help make sure I’m doing it right. Numbers and math make me panicky and sweaty and nauseous and, man, it’s a good thing I married a numbers guy.

* * *

Now, on to the main course…

I had previously designated January as Metro Pass Month for Project: We See You! And, while I’d still like to collect some of these, I’ve now shifted my focus towards collecting coupons and $5 gift cards from McDonald’s.

You see, January is when the 2012 Houston Homeless Count takes place.

What’s that?

It’s just as it sounds. They send people out, four to a car, all across the city to literally COUNT the homeless population of Houston and surrounding counties.

Teams are assigned to different areas throughout the city, and are deployed by 5:30 P.M., remaining out until the assigned territory is completed or until 11:30 P.M.

Why 5:30? Because, that’s when the homeless shelters in the city close their doors for the night. The shelters hand in their numbers, which are added to the Count.

I just signed up to participate!

Why do they need a count?

Per the Coalition for the Homeless:

“The point-in-time count is a requirement of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) for the local Continuum of Care funding process which brought over $23,000,000 to the Houston, Harris County and Fort Bend County homeless assistance programs in the FY2011 application process. This funding provides transitional housing, permanent supportive housing and supportive services to our communities to assist homeless persons and families toward housing stability and self-sufficiency and provides homeless person with greater self-determination.

Each staging area will have highly trained volunteer Captains and Co-Captains who will be available throughout the night for questions and assistance during the count. There will be at least four people per team: one driver, one navigator and two counters. A map, with grid, will be provided to each team to follow along with a lighting devise, clipboard and all necessary forms.

Each team will have at least one homeless services person or formerly homeless person who is familiar with the population being counted and to ensure the safety of the team.”

This is amazing to me.

I hadn’t a clue it even existed.

I’m hoping to go out on count night and maybe chat with those willing, about the things they need the most…for our next round of bags.

So, back to the goal. The Coalition is interested in handing out 400 $5 McDonald’s gift cards on Count Night. I’m making it my mission to collect at least this many. I’m also going to try and get in touch with McDonald’s to see if they’d be willing to contribute a few coffee/breakfast coupons.

I will beg and say pretty please and put the biggest cherry you’ve ever seen on top. If they end up sparing some, even a few, to help Houston’s homeless, I’ll be forever grateful.

Because everyone deserves a sausage biscuit.

(I should make a t-shirt.)

* * *

Today, I dropped the remaining toiletries off at the Star of Hope Mission – For Houston’s Homeless, Transitional Living Facility.

I played peek-a-boo with a baby and my heart ached.

The baby, of course, has no idea about financial status, homelessness, or where he’s temporarily living. And, evident by his happy face, sweet smile, and the way his parents interacted with him, he is loved. But, still, it killed me, because who knows what his future holds.

I’m just grateful that services like this exist for him and his family…and for all the families who have no place else to go.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone.

And, p.s., you can totally still bitch about stuff, just remember to also be grateful you have a place to call home.

xo

A conversation with Luca, 4.

Luca: Mommy, I don’t like this painting.

Why, honey?

Luca: Because the faces are ugly and they scare me.

Hmm… but, you know the way someone looks has nothing to do with the kind of person they are, right? There are people that others have decided are pretty on the outside, but on the inside they are ugly. And, other people that have been labeled as ugly, who have insides more beautiful than you can imagine.

Do you understand this, buddy?

Buddy…

Luca?

LUCA!

Are you listening to anything I’m saying?

Luca: No.

Gah. Well, I was just explaining that you can’t know what kind of person someone is simply by the way they look. There’s this saying, sweetheart, “Never judge a book by it’s cover.” Do you understand what that means?

Luca: Mommy, I’m still not listening. Can you just stop saying all those words?

End scene.

* * *

I live in a house with three pairs of testicles.

If you suck at math like I do, what I’m saying is that I live with five males – three of the human variety and two of the fur.

The two male dogs used to have testicles, but they don’t anymore, so the math can be confusing.

Anyway, the only other girl in our house is my dog Chelsea (Chi-Chi Boom Boom is her street name).

Chi-Chi is the best listener, but she sort of clams up when it comes to dishing advice. Also, it’s hard for us to share clothes, and especially shoes, because she’s always like, “Mama, I need two more heels to complete my outfit.” LIKE IT’S SOMEHOW MY FAULT SHE HAS TWO MORE FEET THAN I DO.

Anyway, back to my testicles…

My first born, Luca, got most of my personality, bless his heart. But, there is one thing he did get from his dad – the inability to hear any of the words that come out of my mouth.

I mean, I could go on and on to my husband, confessing to him that I’m really a Russian spy hooker, and he’d stare back at me and maybe blink once or twice.

Same with my oldest son, minus the Russian spy hooker part, because he’s far too young to know every single detail about his mommy.

Finally, there’s my youngest, Leo, who’s only one and has yet to get a grip on anything in life besides his penis.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being the mom of boys. But, despite how much I love hearing myself talk, there are times I crave actual back and forth conversations.

So, I finally reached my tipping point of the month, last night.

I was going on and on about something super important! to my husband, while he was making a salad.

He was replying with the obligatory grunts and nods, but I could tell he wasn’t really giving my butt-boil the attention it deserved.

So, I blew up…all over him.

You know what? Sometimes, like RIGHT NOW, I imagine that the old lady who narrates Caillou…narrates your life, too.

“He really wanted her to shut the fuck up, he just didn’t know how to tell her, so he thought it was best to keep slicing the cucumber and smiling.”

After cocking his head back and forth, like a dog who doesn’t speak English, he said, “Babe, I’m sorry, it’s just that Luca’s right about all those words. You say a lot of them…and I love that…but, sometimes I just have a hard time keeping up.”

(Not to be confused with a hard time keeping it up – I thought I should add this on his behalf, since I’m no longer angry at him.)

A lot of words?? A LOT OF WORDS! I’ll show you a lot of words. Wait, you know what? Never mind. Whatever. I have work to do and also I’m not even hungry for a stupid salad. And, in case you care, my boil is the size of a dime and I may need to have my right buttock amputated. So, just prepare yourself for the possibility of lopsided doggy-style sex for the rest of your life, okay?

“What, babe?”

Exactly!

I wonder if when my doctor is in his last days, and looking back on his life, if his biggest regret will be giving me his email address.

I’m gonna go with yes.

What?

If Al Roker is getting things off his chest, why can’t I?

I was asked to submit a testimonial for a campaign called Unstoppable Moms.

They want to shine a light on the day in the life of a mom, and all the things we do that so often go unnoticed.

I thought I’d share it with you guys…

I AM A…

Happy Tuesday, sweet friends.

xo