When you work or live in the city, it means two things:

a) you are sometimes going to have parking issues

b) people are going to ask you for money

I’ve learned to say No. Not to the PPA. Those f-ers just add on more fines. But to the people who ask for money, I’ve learned to say No for the most part.

Still, sometimes you don’t say no. You had a really good day. Or a really sad day. Or the guy’s hand-scrawled sign is particularly clever. His girlfriend is seemingly pregnant. He plays an old guitar, and she sings a lovely song about hope in a hopeless place, and they have an emaciated matted-hair little dog with wide brown eyes and a stubby tail just on the verge of happy. And maybe, thanks to a few bucks from me, they will beat the heroin thing, and rock out on Jimmy Kimmel, and write a memoir, where they talk about the woman who bought them coffee and gave them ten bucks and it was the jump start they needed to get back on their feet.

Other times you don’t say no, and you’re not sure why. Like the day when Daniel, who is probably 49, with a long beard and a big belly full of beer and cheese steaks, is sitting in the light rain outside the Chinese buffet, where I am going into to buy a bottle of seltzer and a homemade fig bar.

Daniel (whom I recognize, because I’ve bought him coffee, and he frequents this 19th-and-Market-Streets part of town) says “hello young lady, I am just looking for a little something to eat.”

I don’t know what makes me say what I say next. I’m not having a particular sad or good day. It’s a non-descript day, to say the most. He doesn’t have a dog.

I say: “I can get you something to eat.”

And Daniel jumps up, grabs his canvas backpack, and follows me inside the Chinese Buffet, where you pay by the ounce.

He asks, “What can I get?”

I look at the seemingly-small Styrofoam container in his hand and say, “whatever you want.”

I get my seltzer (they are out of fig bars), and wait by the register. And wait. While Daniel peruses the buffet deliberately. And eventually begins to pack the styrofoam box like a physicist exploring space and density.

It is 1:45. I have a 2 p.m. meeting. I go to the buffet and ask him quietly (the store is getting crowded), “what’s your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Hi Daniel, I’m Michelle.” I put my hand out.

He shakes it cordially. “Hi Michelle. Thank you. I’m going to sit up at Rittenhouse Square and eat this.”

“Great! I think the rain has stopped for now. Umm, Daniel?”

“Yes?” he asks politely, pausing from positioning an avocado wedge alongside a chunk of imitation crab meat.

“I have to go back to work. So I need you to finish. Okay?”

“Okay. Okay, I’m so sorry.” And Daniel quickly adds seafood cocktail, meatballs, sausage and peppers, a slice of kiwi, and a pineapple wedge.

When he puts the Styrofoam meal on the scale, I am surprised to see it weigh in at 2.5 lbs, in that tiny box, for a total cost of $19.86.

Daniel, at that cost, I could have taken you to a nice restaurant for lunch, like Parc or Zama. Or the Whole Foods, where you could have bought a day’s worth for you and some friends. Or the Giant Supermarket where you could possibly feed a small army.

*******

I used to see Daniel around, outside the same Chinese Buffet. Or across from the Brooks Brothers, by the lot where men and women making purchases can park their cars for free. He didn’t ask for food there, just money. I’m a little embarrassed that I’d usually cross the street to avoid him. Sometimes I’d feel brazen and walk by and say, “Hi Daniel,” and he’d say hello, a little perplexed.

I hadn’t given or bought him anything since the Chinese Buffet day, though.

The thing about Daniel is he didn’t smell like body odor or old alcohol. He didn’t dress nicely, but he could blend in at any family barbecue I attend. He was mannerly. I got the feeling he read historical fiction. My brain is pretty sure he fathered at least one child, now grown. I don’t think he was homeless. About a month ago, I made a decision to find out more about Daniel, but I haven’t seen him since then.

Confucius say: do not be surprised by weight of Styrofoam box at Chinese buffet.

Huffington Post had this article today about this guy who killed his wife and posted photos of the body and his confession on Facebook.

I keep having these murder dreams. And they are generally the same theme, where in my dream, I am the murderer, and I’m not so concerned that I kill people, I’m mostly concerned about the evidence I left behind and that I will be caught.

A few months ago, I had two dreams within a few days, like a Law and Order to-be-continued series. In episode 1, I murder a woman in her late 40’s/early 50’s. She has wavy blonde hair, and she is about 5-6, maybe a few pounds heavy, but not fat. She is wearing what I think to be Old Navy shorts and a Banana Republic navy top with white print little anchors.

I murder her by stabbing her with a 10-inch chef knife from Williams Sonoma. Then she falls onto a 4’ x 8’ piece of particle board that I bought from Home Depot (which you can get in a multitude of sizes! Mine was 4′ x 8′ x 1/4″). I fold her into the particle board by making a sandwich with another piece of board. And then I shatter the particle board (and her) into multiple pieces with a sledge hammer, also from Home Depot. And then I leave the scene of the crime.

In episode 2, the problem is this: I have apparently left the shopping bags from Williams Sonoma and Home Depot, with my receipts, where I used my debit card, at the Scene of the Crime. And by the time I remember I left my receipts there, I had already heard the news report about the murder on KYW, so I CAN’T GO BACK because people are gathering around the Scene of the Crime!

*******************************************************

Last week I had another Murder Dream. This time, I murder a woman and a man. I can’t remember what they look like, or anything about them. But the woman, in my dream, somehow I turn her to dust, and I place her remains inside a bottle of Essie purple nail polish. The man, the way I kill him is I buy him a Wawa hoagie with some kind of device inside that he bites into and kills him.

In both cases again I leave a bag at the scene of the crime for the nail polish purchase and the hoagie purchase, and I hear about the murders on KYW, so I can’t return to the scene of the crime to get rid of the evidence.

I am so worried about getting caught in these dreams. I can’t imagine a person committing murder and posting it to Facebook. But then again, my security settings only allow my Friends to see my posts. So if I did commit murder, and post it to Facebook, maybe my Facebook Friends wouldn’t tell anyone?

If you ask my nationality, my answer is “pretty much all the whitest ones.” SPF aside, sitting in the sun was never a favorite pastime. So even though I am part of a beach house every summer, I never had a beach chair. For the most part, I went to the beach around 3 or 3:30 p.m., told the tag girl (I usually didn’t have a beach tag either) that my tag was on my (non-existent) chair on the beach, and sat in someone else’s chair, while they played volleyball or rinsed off, or otherwise moved about the 38th street beach vicinity.

This year, though, I vowed to get better at beach volleyball. Which requires me to play more. Which requires me to be on the beach more. Which requires a beach tag and, realistically, my own beach chair. So for the first time, I bought one.

After days and days of research, including a shopping trip to Hoy’s in Avalon, NJ, I got my new beach chair straight from the Tommy Bahama website, where I saved $8 from the list price (paid more than that for shipping, but I didn’t have to leave my great parking spot). Without further adieu, as summer is half over, here are the 10 Best Things about My New Beach Chair!

10. My New Beach Chair offers a unique embroidered design featuring a marlin, a lovely cursive style font, and a very good tagline in all-caps that stands out nicely but not obnoxiously.

9. My New Beach Chair has a removable headrest, so the choice to be comfortable or uncomfortable in your head and neck area is a decision you make of your own free will.

8. My New Beach Chair has a strap to hold in somebody’s baby.

7. With My New Beach Chair, you can completely recline, and there’s a bar underneath your head so you don’t tilt back headfirst into the sand like a seesaw. Oh yeah, and check out the hot summer beach colors and pattern.

6. My New Beach Chair has wooden armrests so as not to burn your arms in the blazing sun, and a safety handle so you can hold on tight in case of a tsunami.

5. My New Beach Chair says you should exercise near an open flame and with burning cigarettes. No, wait.

4. My New Beach Chair has a spacious zip pocket in back to hold essential beach appliances.

3. My New Beach Chair has convenient side pockets to hold both your beer and your banana

3 a. Or your banana and your cucumber, if you put your beer down on the ground

3 b. Or your banana and your friend’s peach. But your beer ends up on the ground again.

2. The insulated compartment in My New Beach Chair allows you to bring an assortment of snacks that you otherwise may never consider for the beach.

1. And last but not least, you can easily carry My New Beach Chair almost anywhere — like a back pack by using the padded orange straps, or like a purse or suitcase by using the comfy rubber handle up top.