The first thing she said was, "I'm homeless." She bounced her baby on her hip. A book spewed from her missing front tooth. In 5 minutes, i knew her life story. A recovering addict, abused by her "baby's father", unemployed and living at a homeless shelter. Did I mention she was 24?

"I can go to City Hall right now and get my first months rent." In the next breath, "I can pay u whatever you need for a security deposit." Something didn't add up. My self-righteous attitude got lost in the giggle of her little girl. The distraction kept my tongue from wagging the injustice of tax dollars being spent on someone who wouldn't make a good decision if it came with step by step directions.

My judgement was suppressed by the revelation that sitting on her hip was an unplanned baby, a baby who wasn't picked because she raised her hand. So how do you make a "Little House On The Prairie"decision when a cup of sugar is now called Medicaid and the decision to lend it is no longer yours?

I took her number and acknowledged her plight with the enthusiasm felt each time Michael Jackson gets memorialized. I don't deny the importance but at some point, life needs to forge ahead.

I didn't rent the apartment to her. For now, the right to decide who"hangs their hat in my barn" is still mine.