Becoming Phoebe (WWPD)

I know that fireworks and firecrackers are fun and patriotic, but when people begin setting them off at sundown on July 3rd, and they continue lighting them nonstop throughout the night and all day on July 4th, it's friggin' rude. Shug and I have barely slept, and her heart rate has been at an all-time high. I'm quite irritated by the senseless escapades, too, and my irritability index has reached a record high. However, Phoebe had the right answer. She was in a Zen state, not paying any mind to the infinite spectacle. Of course it helps that she's grown rather deaf over the last few years. The only sounds that matter to her are the sounds of her cries for food and attention. She briefly watched the official show out of the big living room window. Within a few minutes, though, she'd had enough, directing her gaze to fly that landed on the coffee table. Wouldn't it be nice to only hear what you wanted to hear and see what you wanted to see. I think I am going to practice becoming Phoebe. To remind myself of my devotion to her way of life, I'm going to have a rubber wrist band made, purple, Phoebe's favorite color. And I'll have the initials WWPD encased in the rubber.

My only venture out of the apartment today was a trip to The Casbah Cafe and Coffeehouse. I thought getting Shug outside was a good idea. Wrong. Her nerves were shot worse than my mama's nerves, which from years of drama, real and unreal, are in terminal disrepair. The pops and booms subsided for a few minutes, long enough for us to get to the coffeehouse, but not long enough for me to drink my decaf americano. Before we had to rush back up the street, I sat at an outdoor table with Shug, panting and trembling, at my feet. A substantial short woman attempted to peddle her ice cream bicycle/cart across the street in front of us. Not coordinated enough to try to sell to the pedestrians and peddle at the same time, she braked in the middle of the street and clumsily climbed off the seat. An irate Hispanic woman, who was probably irritated from lack of sleep, too, honked at the ice cream lady. I couldn't make out all the Spanish, but I clearly heard the words "loca" and "puta." The woman recklessly drug the bike/cart to the corner of the street. After a rest, she unsuccessfully tried to push the bike/cart out of the dip in the sidewalk. The first time that she pushed forward, the bike/cart rolled back toward her. With a harder, unsuccessful push, the bike/cart rolled back and almost knocked her over. The thought to get up and help went through my head, just as an ancient, flamboyant gay man, wearing a straw hat and a rainbow scarf around his neck, who was walking his two ancient, flamboyant Lhasa Apsos, both wearing pink tutus, decided to assist the distressed woman. Together, they managed to get the bike/cart out of the dip in the the sidewalk and into the street. Without regard to grace and the fact that she was a lady, the woman managed to position herself on the seat. As she haphazardly peddled, she massaged her right breast, proclaiming, "It's bruised." She looked toward me and the two men who were at the other outdoor tables and said, "The least you could have done was to get off your ass and help me." No sooner had she chastised us than another irate Hispanic woman came driving down the hill. The honking began and so did the Spanish. Maybe she was becoming Phoebe, too, but the ice cream bicycle/cart woman pretended not to notice the screams and honks. She simply peddled on, struggling to get up the hill, tapping her bell.