Project Runaway

Last week, as I am typically forced to do by the Monday morning sleepies, I went to Starbucks. I would do this every day, if I had money to burn and calories not to. (It's not as if I have so many other vices that I really need to limit my crazy lifestyle, but everything in moderation, I guess.) So a couple times a week, I do indulge in my sweet, sweet mocha.

On this particular morning, I ordered and handed the guy my gift card. He swiped it, handed it back, I said "Thank you," and walked down to the pick-up counter. The guy working the espresso machine then leaned over and said something to the effect of, "I like the colors you're rocking today," meaning he dug the graphic design on my shirt.

I thanked him, and he went on to say that the shirt I was wearing underneath really made it pop.

Let me just say this. While I do make the occasional effort to color coordinate, my wardrobe is typically super repetitive and boring. Beyond my clothing being comfortable, clean, not tattered, and age/work appropriate, I just really don't care. I never have. I probably should, but there are so many other things more worthy of my time and attention in this world.

Not surprisingly, I can't even tell you the last time I received a genuine compliment on my clothes from (essentially) a stranger. So I was pretty thrilled! What a great way to start my week, let alone my day. It was quite the little ego boost, and I prepared to leave with my cup of goodness and a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart.

It was at this point, when I was about to make my triumphant exit, compliment tucked securely in that part of my brain reserved exclusively for happy thoughts, that the guy who took my order loudly informed me (and the rest of the patrons standing in line) that I still owed him $1.92.

I get it, Starbucks. Just trying to keep me humble. Heaven forbid I'd let my over-inflated fashion sense run rampant in downtown Minneapolis for two seconds. You never know the kind of damage that might cause.

Coo Coo Ca Choo

Tonight I saw a production of Sweeney Todd performed by high school students. In itself, that's pretty cool, not to mention that it was fantastic. But what I really want to tell you about is my close encounter with one of the actors.

And by "close encounter" I mean "intimate moment." And by "intimate moment" I mean "I almost went to jail."  Let me explain.

As part of the opening number, the chorus lined up at the feet of the audience members in the front row (which is where I was sitting, courtesy of the restaurant serving me super slow prior to the show and a little hiccup in finding the address of the theater ... which led to the only available seats being literally ON the stage). I should have known I was in for an interesting production when the announcer said, "Please remember to turn off your phones, there will be gunshots during the show, and for those of you sitting in the front row ... good luck."

Anyway, the cast started singing at our feet and then slowly worked their way closer and closer, while trying to be dramatic and creepy, until they were practically in our laps. This would have made me only slightly uncomfortable, if it weren't for the fact that the guy who'd singled me out was probably the cutest thing this side of the Mississip who probably still has a learner's permit.

By the time the song was almost finished, this guy ... strike that, kid, he's just a kid, a lovely lovely kid ... was inches from my face. My first thought was "Oh my god, he's going to kiss me."  My second?  "Oh my god, I could be his mother."

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending on how you feel about Mrs. Robinson) the singing ended before what appeared to be an increasingly inevitable underage lip-lock. But this beautiful boy evidently got such a kick out of the encounter that he found me AGAIN later in the show and sang directly to me. In my head, I'm thinking, "He's sixteen, he's sixteen, he's sixteen ..." and in my heart I'm thinking, "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

Don't think I didn't appreciate the irony of having a mini-crush on someone in a play about a demon barber who may or may not have actually been shaving yet. And don't think for a minute that I'd ever be a Statutory Sally. 

I'm just saying that, if I had to choose between being repeatedly spit on by a recklessly emphatic lead actor (which the lead actress did and took it like a trooper) or being lovingly gazed upon and serenaded by someone who doesn't remember typewriters or cassette tapes ... I'll choose the latter any day.

Rap It Up

I was riding home tonight, and this thought crossed my mind: What if this bus crashes, and by some miracle my iPod survives but I don't, and what if some police detective happens to turn it on (because that's what good detectives do, work all the angles), and what if he sees that the very last thing I was listening to, the voice that was in my head at the exact moment that my life ended, was Lionel Richie? And worse ... what if this detective then looks down at my body and says, "It figures."  

I realize those are a lot of what if's, but still ... horrifying. Not the fact that "Do It To Me One More Time" came up on shuffle, but the idea that someone would probably look at me and assume that, yes, she seems like the kind of person who enjoys easy listening. This would be my luck. That bus wouldn't crash when I was grooving to my customary gangsta rap. No. We would careen off an overpass when Linda Ronstadt or Carly Simon was wailing into my ear.

Listen up, people. I am the whitest-looking white girl on the planet. I probably seem super straight-laced to anyone who doesn't know me. On the outside, I appear boring, serious, humorless. And yes, I possess an eclectic array of music. But I hate being a foregone conclusion. I'd hate to live up to my own stereotype.  I got weirded out enough last week when the dude at Zen Box started making my order before I asked for the C2 with white rice.

Does everyone fancy themselves a mystery? Or are we really more predictable than we could ever imagine?

I recently asked a friend of mine what he would buy me if he won the lottery. It was an intriguing question, since I so rarely mention wanting anything that people complain they never know what to get me for birthdays and Christmases. I usually end up just telling them what they can buy me, and it's usually pretty boring (example: an Amazon or eBay gift card tickles me pink), but at least it's something that I really need.

Good gift-giving is an art. A fantastic gift should be unexpected, but something that the person has previously talked about. It doesn't need to be extravagant or even overly sentimental, but it should be something they probably wouldn't purchase themselves. It should be personal and creative, and not simply a gift for gift's sake. It should say, "I know you, and I thought about what you would enjoy, and here it is." I'm not saying it's easy, I'm just saying you have to listen.

So I was curious to know what this friend thought I would like ... a big-screen TV? An iPhone? I tend to lust after gadgets, though I can never justify buying them. He didn't even think about it. He said, "I'd buy you one of those little houses you're always looking at."

Note to self: Keep this friend. Not only is he unbelievably generous with imaginary money, but he pays attention. In cases like this, I wouldn't mind being predictable one bit.

Choose Your Weapon. Carefully.

Last night I entered my bedroom to find an enormous, hairy centipede hanging on the wall next to my bed.  

It's amazing how you notice these things, even though it's 1 a.m. and you're absolutely fuzzy with the desire to fall between your cool sheets and bid adieu to the world for at least six hours .... but you do. You walk in and stop so short in your tracks that, in an appropriately sound-mixed world, there would be a record scratch to accompany it.

So I did what any normal person would.  I thought, "Guess I'm not sleeping in here tonight!"

Then I re-grouped, because I'm 31 and have lived alone long enough to know that nobody's coming to my rescue for anything, least of all bugs. And I'm not about to give up my pillow-top queen to anything that's not making me breakfast in the morning.

The plan of attack was this: spray it, but have a shoe in hand just in case. What I always forget is to also have a wad of toilet paper handy (or a whole roll, depending on the size and general ickyness of the bug). Because you shouldn't take your eyes off the thing, even for an instant, even if it appears to be dying or dead. They're like killers in slasher movies, coming to life as soon as your back is turned and crawling off to nurse their wounds before the next sneak attack.

Let me say this, though. I hate picking up dead centipedes. Why? Because they've usually kicked off a leg or two or fifty, and I just can't handle it. Tonight I killed a smaller one, and on the way to flush it, I just kept shouting, "WHY!? Oh, really, WHY?!"

As soon as I sprayed the one in my bedroom, it promptly jumped off the wall, landed with a soft thunk on my nightstand, and disappeared. It was like a gross David Blaine. Strike that -- it was like David Blaine.

I dropped a couple effen-heimers and began spraying the nightstand liberally, trying to flush it out or finish it off, whatever meant I could sleep soundly. That's when I realized that the whole endeavor would probably be going better if I'd actually grabbed the insecticide and not the foaming bathroom cleanser.

Back to the drawing board, jackass. I did kill a cockroach once with shoe spray in Japan, but in my defense, I had no way of reading what was on the can in that situation. No such excuses here. It's these kind of tactical errors that can make or break a wartime campaign, and I wasn't sure I'd get a second shot.

After a quick switcheroo I returned, this time brandishing something that would destroy the bug rather than leave it squeaky clean. The damn thing was clinging to the wall again, which I was surprisingly happy about. If there's one thing I don't need, it's a lurker.

Long story short, I finished the dirty deed, put on my pajamas, and slept like a baby. I actually dropped off amazingly fast. But I'm thinking the fumes might have had something to do with that.

But Do You Do Drywall?

There's a humongous, professionally printed banner hanging on the side of a construction/design business on my bus ride home. It lists the "handyman services" that the business provides, and the list goes as follows (with one task they seem particularly emphatic about including): Carpentry, painting, drywall, framing, fences, tile, decks, and drywall.

Maybe they put it on there twice because they're REALLY good at it, but it has taken nearly every ounce of restraint in my body NOT to call them up and ask if they do drywall.

It reminds me of the "5 D's" of dodgeball: Dodge, dip, duck, dive, and ... dodge. 

Once again, a big thank you to the lazy editors of the world. You do amuse me so!

Can I Get a What What?

Last week, my afternoon bus failed to show up. At all. Not just late, just ... non-existent. While this circumstance is one of the few things in life that get me worked up enough to be super pissed off, my transportation abandonment did leave me stranded on Hennepin and 7th with the hands-down craziest man I've ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on if you're a glass half empty person) to meet.

If you can call it "meet."

I call it "bombardment," since he joined me in the bus shelter and simply began spewing forth a stream of words that lasted the next ten minutes, without any reply from me. I don't know how to fully convey how weird it was to have someone talking AT me that long WITHOUT PAUSE and not have uttered a single word in response.

His rant was largely unintelligible, mainly due to poor enunciation. From what I could gather, he was (or used to be) a musician of some sort, who used to (or still does, in his head) live down South, and who was 50 years old (although, according to him, nobody ever believes that.)

My problem was twofold. First, nobody else was around, either to rescue me from the situation or to witness the one-sided conversation.  

Second, I didn't have a tape recorder. I have never wished so hard in my life that I had a discreet recording device stashed somewhere on my person. Because as soon as he said something completely awesome and hilarious, and I would think, "I'm going to remember that!" ... he would continue on to say something even more fantastical and splendiferous, and I would immediately forget what he just uttered.  

But two phrases in particular stuck, and I'm going to write them now, without explanation (because I'm still not totally sure what the context was) for your eternal enjoyment.

1.  "I'm bout to lay down something so cold, they ain't even put it on the market yet!"

2.  (while pointing at his eyeball) "They ain't invented anyone blacker than me!"

In the end, though he wasn't threatening in any way, he had been invading my personal space for far too long. I hopped on the next bus that happened by, but not before he asked me for my number.

At least that's what I think he said. I can't be sure.

Shut Up, Fran!

The other day, I found myself trash-talking my GPS unit.

Well, not trash-talking exactly, but at least being unnecessarily belligerent. 

I call her Fran, largely because I think this is a pretty good name for the British voice that I chose to say, more than any other word in her vocabulary, "Recalculating." She tells me where to turn, of course, and where to exit, and tells me when we've reached the destination that I punched in earlier. But because I'm stubborn, and because I've already spent several years navigating on my own, thank you, with the help of Google Maps and an almost desperate exercise of my memorization skills, Fran spends most of her time alerting me to the fact that I have NOT taken the route she recommended.

For some reason, I'm unable to rebel politely. When she tells me to drive in a direction that I know is just a little bit longer or could potentially be more difficult than my tried-and-true alternate route, I typically respond with "Make me!" When she continues to calmly repeat her troubleshooting phrase "Recalculating," I bite back with "Go to hell, Fran!"

The thing is, I love Fran. I've only had her for about two months, and I deeply regret not buying her years ago. I feel about her the same way I do about my insulated snow pants: if only we'd met each other earlier, life would have been so much more delightful. I don't want to overstate the significance of the confidence that comes with this tiny device, but let's just say if I'd had one when I first moved here, I might be running this city by now.

I have noticed, however, that I'm becoming lazier. Mentally, I mean. I no longer have to pore over and print out maps online, rehearsing the route and return route in my head, before leaving the house. I don't even have to remember street names or addresses, or guess what time I'll be arriving, or run internet searches for the nearest Chinese buffet to whatever road I'm currently on.  

Fran tells me all this, sometimes on the fly. It's her job. It's what I pay her for. And my anxiety at finding new places has nose-dived to the point where I don't really need the details of the trip until just moments before I step into my car. Yet I feel a little less sharp and capable because of it.

Maybe that's why I'm occasionally annoyed with Fran. I don't want to depend on her. But am I willing to be a bit less self-sufficient in exchange for the freedom of driving into Uptown, a place which (for no discernible reason) has previously been my own personal Bermuda Triangle of navigational screwups, with reckless abandon? Yes, I am. 

Thank you, Fran. It's a good trade. When I think about snapping at you in the future, perhaps I'll recalculate.

WTF, Tuesday?

So I had a bit of a weird day yesterday, as in, I saw some pretty weird things.

First, there was a young man on my bus in the morning who had just gotten his heart stomped on by some girl. He was so broken up about it that he was relating his tale to the bus driver. I wasn't paying too much attention until this older lady piped up and started basically witnessing to him, telling him never to give up his faith and to keep praying, and that God would send him a soul mate, because that's what happened to her.

While I'm not sure the whole prayer thing works as easily as she made it sound (one lifelong companion .... order up!), I was sad that she got off the bus only a few blocks into her sermon. I haven't been so disappointed to see someone leave since this guy started telling me about how he got robbed at knifepoint just before my stop.

Second, there was a lady at a stoplight who had all four windows of her car rolled down. She had her head sticking out one, and hanging out the others were three enormous dogs, each with their own private porthole to the highway. The weird part was that while they waited, she apparently dipped her hand into a bucket of ice water and rubbed it all over the dogs' faces, which made them go wild with joy. It looked like they were attacking her in the front seat amid a spray of saliva.

Third, there was a guy doing jumping jacks outside a pub in NE. He wasn't just doing a few for fun -- he was committed and appeared to be in pain.

Fourth, there was a guy in the elevator at work with an old-fashioned Walkman. He had the volume turned up so loud that it sounded like legitimate Muzak. It was literally everything I could do not to sing along with "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough," since I could hear every word.

Fifth, somebody sent me a message on my phone that was simply a picture of a wall-mounted air conditioning unit. I don't know why, and I don't recognize the number. Is it a sign of some sort? A warning? A threat? A taunt?

I don't really have explanations for any of this stuff. I just thought it was odd that I'd encounter Park n' Preach, The Human Fire Hydrant, The Oddest Loser, Deafy McMJ, and Chilly Stalker all on the same day. I just had to tell somebody.

I feel better now.