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She was standing on the corner at the bottom of the exit ramp - 101 North and Coldwater Canyon. Torn blue jeans, ratted red hair, and a plain green t-shirt that was clearly sewn to fit a child rather than an adult. She held a sign bearing one simple word - Homeless.

I had just come from the bank where I had taken care of a financial matter that, if left unattended, could have left me in an awful situation. My parents were the sole reason I was able to attend to the matter. If not for their generosity, I could have... well, who knows.

And that's exactly what I was thinking when I saw her standing there with her sign.

The word was simple - Homeless - but her message was terribly complex. More severe than I could likely imagine. How did she get there? Did she have no one to whom she could turn? Where did she go at night for safety, for warmth?

The redlight at the bottom of the ramp allowed me more time to consider these things than I would normally prefer.

Generally, I see a homeless person and think, "What a shame."

But I keep on driving, keep on moving, turn the other way when they stare at me from the street corner. Assume that their own foolish mistakes landed them there, perhaps their pride. And I tell myself that the alcohol they buy with handout-money will keep them there.

So, why did this lady and her sign make me think differently, even if for the briefest of moments?

I looked into my passenger's seat at the small white box that contained my leftovers from lunch out with a friend. My intention was to put the box into my refrigerator, likely stare at it with disinterest each time I opened the fridge door for a week, and eventually throw it into the dumpster in the parking garage when it began to smell or grow... things.

One more look at the lady on the corner.

The light turned green.

I rolled down my window and pressed the accelerator. As I grew closer to the lady, I extended the box out the window.

She approached my truck running with wide eyes as if I were offering her much more than just a stupid white box of chicken.

"Some chicken?" I asked, somehow unsure if she would even want it. Perhaps she preferred cash? I don't know.

"God bless you!" she practically shouted as she took the box from my hand. "God bless you," she said again and stepped back away from the traffic.

I proceeded on through the light and turned left onto Coldwater Canyon.

The way she said it... I believed she meant it.

It was just a stupid box of chicken - barely a snack.

Likely her day's meal.

My point? Just try it once and see how you feel. Then you'll know my point.

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My college roommate, Julie, called me last night. As soon as she said my name, I knew who it was.

We were roommates for only one quarter, but what a grand quarter it was. Within minutes of meeting her, I knew I loved her! (no, not like that, you lesbo-obsessed nuts).

We reminisced for hours and then she shared her news. Julie's getting married in June! To her prince charming in Virginia Beach. Then they are honeymooning to Lake Tahoe.

In all the nostalgia, I decided to pull out an old piece I wrote a while back and put it up here on the journal. This is totally true. We really did this... along with many other crazy acts. We even have picture to prove it. One such picture is on my fun pics page and shows me and Julie roasting marshmallows over cinnamon candles in out dorm room... or as we called it - "Breaking the law!!"

Here's the piece I call "Morsels of Motivation."

I refused to allow the infamous "freshman fifteen" to catch up with me. So my high-speed walk turned into a slow jog. I tactfully opted to foot the mile between my speech communications class and my fifth-floor dormitory room.

Every prospective freshman that went through summer orientation was warned by the all-knowing upperclassmen about the "freshman fifteen." The wise juniors and seniors told use the dreaded weight is the average gained when new college students realize the dining and munching freedom that accompanies their new parent-free style of living.

My roommate, Julie, and I vowed to outsmart the uninvited curse. When the weather was nice, we passed up the campus bus and hiked from class to class. We hauled our tennis racquets to the university's courts as often as the team would tolerate our countless stray balls. We did sit-ups every afternoon while watching syndicated reruns of our favorite television show.

As I entered Langdale Hall and trudged through the lobby towards the lonesome stairwell, my eyes were involuntarily drawn to the attractive shiny doors of the elevator. I hastened my pace towards the stairwell and smirked knowingly as the malevolent contraption opened its jaws to devour yet another small group of freshman girls.

Julie had our makeshift gym prepared when I arrived. The beds were pushed flush with the walls and the exercise pads were stretched out before the television. "Come on! 'Friends' is about to start," Julie announced in a panic. "Can you get the rewards?"

"Sure," I said as I dropped my backpack and headed for the closet. I reached for a bag behind a large storage box on the top shelf in the back corner. I retrieved the bag of rewards from its dark hiding place and positioned it at the foot of our exercise pads.

We had good intentions. Really, we did. But sit-ups were hard work for college students who hadn't faced the grueling likes of a headstrong, high school gym coach in over a year. Since the threat of running laps in the hot sun was no longer a factor, we required a little extra motivation to get in the sit-up mood.

"Commence exercise," Julie directed as she and I began our daily routine. I placed my hands behind my head and leaned forward. I strained and pulled and moaned and released cries of utter determination. Finally, my left elbow brushed my left knee and my right hand reached for a reward.

Success! I popped the bite-sized chocolate chip cookie into my mouth, released my stomach muscles, flopped backward onto the pad, and prepared for the next strenuous round.