I'll Be [expletive deleted] Home for Christmas

There was a girl on her cell phone the other morning as we waited for the bus, and it sounded like she was working through some pre-holiday stress. I'm sure many people can identify, though we probably use less profanity when discussing our family angst.  Maybe. 

Her end of the conversation went like this:

"I can't DO her for no three days. I can do her for 'bout half a day. WORD.  I mean, somethin's gotta give."

"Erry time I say no, she gotta call erry-muthafuckin'-body in Chicago!" 

"Sure, I could move to Atlanta. The rent's cheaper, but you make less, and errybody sound STUPID, can't put two and two together."

Oh, please don't go. Invite your mom for an extended stay. Then tell somebody all about it within earshot.

Wherein I Make Santa's Naughty List

The other night I was on Amazon's website, looking for a Christmas gift for my dad. I swear, that's all I was doing. Where I might have gone wrong was typing "nonfiction for men" in the search bar.

Did you know that Amazon has a pretty extensive selection of books on sexuality? I do. Now. Because one of the search results was "The Ultimate Guide to Strap-On Sex."

So of course I clicked on it.

A short synopsis, and then (miracle of miracles) the always excellent "Look Inside!" feature. So of course I clicked on it.

I had to! You don't just throw a gem like that onto my screen and expect me to ignore it. That's like leaving your diary open on the kitchen table or creating a folder on your desktop labeled "Dirty Secrets."

Unfortunately, only the first ten pages or so were available, but let me tell you, I learned quite a bit. I'm not going to repeat any of it here, because I believe I've made it through 70 posts without using the word "dildo," and I don't intend to start now. Oops.

In the interest of full disclosure (but not TMI), I'm extremely liberal when it comes to views on human sexuality. I find it fascinating what people think up to do with each other, and as long as they do it in the privacy of their own homes, more power to 'em. And seriously, if you can't manage to find new ideas to spice up your sex life in this day and age, you're not very bright. Or you don't have the internet.

So I have absolutely no objection to books being written on every crazy sex-related subject imaginable. I think if you're curious about something, it might be helpful to read up on it before you give it a whirl. You might decide it's not for you. Alternatively, you might be inspired to do further research and end up at a website designed exclusively for the hundreds of other people who are also into that very same thing.

This did not happen to me. Not because I wasn't curious, but because it was late, and I didn't have time. Instead, I checked out the other related books, of which (you might not be surprised to know at this point) there were several. Perhaps the best part of this adventure was the consumer reviews, my favorite of which was titled "Nothing New."

My evening had taken an informative and hilarious turn, and I was thoroughly delighted. Until a terrible thought occurred to me: Oh, my god. I'm on Amazon.com.

Why would this be a troubling realization? Because, thanks to the wonders of technology, there's a helpful little section called "Inspired by Your Browsing History." That's right -- those sneaky bastards keep track of what you look at and then suggest similar items. This is meant to be a personalized sales advantage, but as illustrated here, it can backfire.

I had a brief moment of panic, during which I imagined someone logging onto my computer and being shocked at my explicit recently viewed items (likely contained in my "Dirty Secrets" folder). Or, worse, checking my e-mail at work and finding advertisements for the latest and greatest strap-on harness. In this second scenario, I try to quickly close out of the window, but my stupid laptop freezes, and my boss walks in, and I lose my job and am penniless, and therefore can't afford to buy the nonfiction gift I was looking for in the first place. [fist shake] Amazon!!!

Naturally, both ideas are ridiculous. I click on nothing even remotely suspect at work, and I don't know who would be snooping around on my home computer. My panic was prompted by a small, repressed Midwestern voice in my head that sometimes warns me not to color outside the lines and projects unreasonable yet horrific consequences if I should dare to disobey.

It was this same voice (which I'm pretty sure is Lutheran) that guided me to find the "edit" function for my browsing history. It's comforting to know it's there, but I didn't actually delete anything. No, I'll stand by my healthy curiosity, and to hell with anyone who stumbles upon my liberal queries and can't handle it. If we've learned anything, it's that it's always the quiet ones.

Wait . . . oh my god. What if I accidentally put something on my Amazon Wish List?

Merry Christmas to me.

As American As Apple

A few months ago, a woman sat down next to me on the bus and began a conversation. Not necessarily with me, because at the time I had my headphones in. But, because it's the polite thing to do, I removed the earbuds and replied, just in case she had a legitimate question.

Soon I was engaged in what can only be termed as intermittent chit-chat, as she wandered from one topic to another. That is, until she zeroed in on the fact that most of the people who ride the bus are attached to their MP3 players and don't talk to each other anymore.

I commented that it's sometimes nice to relax with music after a long, stressful day at work. (Hint, hint, lady.)  What I didn't say was that digital music is probably the single best thing to happen to public transportation since air conditioning. Few things make me happier than being in a moving vehicle that I don't have to steer with some tunes and plenty of time to just think. I'm content for hours doing this. It's like meditation.

I also didn't tell her that I rode the bus for two years before getting my iPod, and I had approximately four interesting conversations during that period, none of which resulted in a new BFF. I have a 30-minute ride each way. In the morning, I'm tired. In the afternoon, I'm more tired. I don't want to have a gab session with anyone, least of all a recent immigrant who's a bit preachy about Apple's ill effects on the general populace.

The woman then launched into a mini-lecture about how small towns are superior because people actually talk to each other, and how American cities have no sense of community. At this point, my customary Zen-like state had been permanently shattered by her yapping, so I responded that I originally come from a small town, and having some anonymity in the city is actually a nice thing. I didn't remind her that people in tiny communities don't just know each other -- they know each other's business. And unless things are drastically different elsewhere, everybody's always up in that business, whether you like it or not.

She disagreed, of course, and insisted on passive-aggressively scolding me for giving in to the temptation of anti-social technology. Ironically, all I wanted to do during her speech was stick my headphones back in my ears. I probably should have, just to prove a point.

Thankfully, I didn't see her again for several weeks. And, when I did, no further rebuttal was necessary ... for she had succumbed to the sweet siren song of an undisturbed commute and had in her possession an MP3 player.

Welcome to America.

Chilled to the Bone

This morning I had to take a cold shower, and sadly, it wasn't because I needed to douse the flames of passion in order to get to work on time.  It was because, off and on for three days now, the new boiler in my apartment building has been malfunctioning.

It first happened on Sunday, when my parents were visiting. Of course. After a "reset," I had nice steamy water that evening and Monday ... until 7:30 this morning, when I nearly bruised my ribs gasping for air while enduring an icy deluge. 

On the plus side, it made for a VERY quick shower. And I was VERY awake when it was over. Pissed off, and clean, but awake.

So I called the maintenance line to report the problem as I waited, still shivering somewhat, for my bus. I gave my information and explained the situation, and then the woman asked, "Is this an emergency?"

I wasn't entirely sure how to respond, because emergencies can be relative. Personally, I would categorize an emergency as a matter of life and death. Or, in the case of apartment problems, as something that would cause irreparable harm to either me or the property itself. 

For instance, if I woke to find my freezer leaking all over my kitchen (which has happened) that's an emergency. If my garbage disposal broke and backed up my sink and flooded all the cabinets (which has also happened) that's an emergency. If there's a large bubble of water building up beneath the ceiling in my bathroom and threatening to burst at any moment (been there, done that) that's an emergency.

All these things need to be dealt with ASAP. But no hot water? I wouldn't necessarily lump it into the same category as a burnt out light bulb or a drippy faucet, but it does seem essential. So, to be reasonable, I replied, "Well, if you could fix it sometime today, that would be good." Because I didn't need it immediately, although I worry that bathing will be a crapshoot for the next few days.

But really, should the lady on the other end of the phone have had to ASK whether this issue should be a priority? I would hope that anyone manning that maintenance line would have a list, or some kind of quick reference tool, that ranks problems in order of importance. A Cliffs Notes of Apartment Disasters, if you will. At the top would be "no heat or water," and at the bottom would be "freakishly large spider."

You know what wouldn't be on that list? Ghosts. There is just no readily available help for that, other than dialing your nearest old and young priests. This is bad news for a friend of mine who thinks she's being haunted. Nobody's going to come out to her place sometime between 9:00 and 3:00 to tinker around with the spiritual balance in her home. So until renter's insurance includes a clause for paranormal activity, she's stuck periodically waking to find ethereal amorphous blobs hovering over her bed.

Now THAT's an emergency.

Belated and Inebriated

So I'm a year older now, and I'm already much wiser. Here's what I've learned: sometimes, you get your birthday present a day late. And sometimes, that birthday present comes in the form of three very drunk people, all in their 50s (or wearing the equivalent amount of life on their faces) who get on your bus.

Not that there's necessarily an appropriate time to be in this condition when the sun's out, but keep in mind this is 8:30 a.m.

The woman boarded first and decided to sit in the very front because, as she was not shy of announcing, the bus driver was wearing a fantastic cologne.  "Ain't nothin' like a good-smellin' man, I don't care what you are!"

The two drunken men then got on. One of them seemed to be her boyfriend, so I'll refer to him as such, though "common-law idiot" might be more appropriate. I'll refer to the other man simply as "friend." They decided to sit in the very back. In case you're not following, we now have a hammered and amorous lady shamelessly hitting on the driver, while her two companions, about five sheets to the wind, have sprawled across the back seat.

You'd think that being separated by an entire bus-length of space would prevent these people from trying to have a "conversation" (in quotes, because I can only loosely define it as such) with each other. Doing so would require literally shouting everything just to be heard, with no regard for the rest of the passengers in between.

You'd think, but you'd be wrong. Here are the highlights.

BOYFRIEND (walking halfway up the aisle with a pack of cigarettes): "Six bucks for these damn things. Damn! I gotta quit smokin."

WOMAN: "You can't smoke those on the bus!"

BOYFRIEND: "I'd rather smoke marijuana. It's cheaper."

WOMAN: "Come over here and let me smell you!"

BOYFRIEND: "Devil woman!"

WOMAN (inexplicably): "Semper fi!"

BOYFRIEND (singing, because the Bee Gees seemed appropriate at this point): "Lonely days, lonely nights . . . where would I be without my woman . . ."

FRIEND: "I gotta take a piss!"

BOYFRIEND: "We'll pull over at the next stop with a shelter."

Author's note: I'm not sure what disturbs me more ... that he considered a bus shelter to be the equivalent of a bathroom, or that he assumed an enormous vehicle designed exclusively for public transportation would veer off-schedule and pull in for a quick pit stop at the urging of his friend's bladder.

FRIEND: (mumbles something unintelligible)

BOYFRIEND: "Hey. Hey! Does a bear shit in the woods? . . . . . . (wait for it, because this revelation is genius) . . . . . . Well, that's what we gotta do."

And that, my friends, is how you get an enormous vehicle designed exclusively for public transportation to screech immediately to a random curb along your bus route just to let you stumble off.

Take that little piece of useful information and wrap it in a bow, why don't you? Happy birthday to me.

Whippersnapped

Last week this very elderly woman sat next to me on the bus. I have a soft spot for the oldies, probably because I have no grandparents left and my mom has worked in a nursing home for the past 20 years.

So I spent the greater part of my ride wondering two things:

1.  Should I offer to pull the stop cord for her as a courtesy?

2.  Does she think my iPod is a magical piece of moden witchcraft?

The second thought is obviously cruel, since it assumes this woman is not only helplessly out of touch but also incapable of embracing technology. Then again, I remember trying to teach my grandmother to play Super Mario Bros. once.  It did not go well.

But back to the first thought.  I went back and forth on this one.  Would offering to perform such a basic task make me seem like a respectful young lady, or would it imply that I feared that the simple act of reaching up would snap her brittle bones? 

Before I could make up my mind on this contentious issue, the woman stretched her arm behind me, yanked that cord like a mofo, and then managed to accidentally whap me upside the back of the head on the return trip.

At least I think it was accidental.  Maybe she was a mind reader.

Pulling My Hair Out

Let me begin by saying that this blog in no way intends to target specific people and make fun of them, at least by name. Most subjects are (and thankfully remain) anonymous. However, in this particular case, I can't help it.

Every day, my bus passes a house with a large canvas flag out front advertising an at-home beauty shop. In itself, this is a fine idea. What has bothered me for the last three years, and what continues to bother me (to the point that I feel the irrepressible need to rant about it) is the name of the business. The sign reads: "What The Hair Is Going On With Deana?"

This isn't a cute tagline. It's the actual name of the shop. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin, but here are the two biggest problems.

First, the length. How many people find it necessary to use an entire sentence, complete with punctuation, to describe their trade? I'm a small business owner. I didn't name my company "Courtney and Jen Make the Best Greeting Cards Ever!" No, my good readers, I did not. I named it Green Couch Cards. It's simple, it has personal meaning, and it lends itself to a charming graphic.

Second, the "play on words." I have to put this in quotes, because I don't think it can accurately be described as such. Presumably, "hair" is standing in for "heck," or for those of us with potty mouths, "hell." Nowhere in the English language does "hair" even remotely sound like "hell." I've tried it in several different accents. Now, if she had gone with "What the Gel?" we're getting closer to clever. How about "I Don't Give a Snip" or "Tress to Kill" or "Comb Sweet Comb?"

Now, I checked out the website, and the woman actually seems pretty cool, despite her lack of marketing technique. She mentions she's a huge movie fan. So how about "Curl, Interrupted" or "Eyes Wide Cut" or "My Hair Lady?" Even "Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby Pin" would be an improvement at this point.

Of course, some names could be taken the wrong way. "Dirty Hairy" might not work, nor would "Scissor Me." And you'd want to steer clear of anything with the word "blow" in it, unless your goal is to receive numerous phone calls with nothing but heavy breathing on the other end.

The bottom line is this: I'm not saying it's not a good place to get your hair done. I'm just saying a little more thought could have been put into it. I spent ten minutes on it, and (copyright limitations aside) I came up with several options. I can think of three actual salons with great names, if you're into legitimate wordplay: "Shape, Wrap & Roll," "Curl Up & Dye" and another one on the same street, "Foiled Again."

Deana, it's not too late. I have faith in you. Your business is dyeing for a name change. 'Do it now. Make it permanent.

Hey, You Kids! Get Off My Lawn!

Last weekend I helped my sister celebrate her (first annual) 29th birthday. It was a tasteful affair, about 30 people lounging in the reserved section of a restaurant, munching on appetizers, indulging in cake, drinking moderately, and chatting for about four hours. 

Afterward, I went out with my sister and four of her friends to a local downtown bar. It was packed to the brim with hordes of drunken twenty-somethings gyrating to conversation-drowning club music. Oh, and smoking. Did I mention I was in South Dakota?

Long story short . . . I have never felt older in my life.

There is a very limited window in which a person can happily stand (because there is no place to sit) in a crowd of scantily-clad girls selling suckers and draped in penis paraphernalia (because that bachelorette is getting MARRIED, bitches, so whooooo-hooooo let's get a few more shots in before we have to help her paint her new house and throw a baby shower and then support her through the divorce). 

This is the window in which young men, in varying states of boredom and over-zealousness, either brood or swagger their way between potential conquests while shouting about sports stats and calling each other gay.

This window has firmly shut for me. Not that I ever stared through it for too long -- I may have peeked over the sill once or twice, but I can't remember the last time I "partied" that wasn't beers at happy hour or cocktails after the theater.

I know what you're thinking ... "What is she, 80?" No, but the careless expenditure of energy I witnessed last Saturday just exhausted me entirely. My first thought: "I want to give every girl in here a jacket and a ride home." My second thought: "The only guy who's going to hit on me will probably be picking up his daughter."

I think it was about the time when I looked out on the dance floor and saw the blow-up doll hoisted in the air and bobbing to the techno beat that I realized I was officially done. My inner 80-year-old was yelling, "Close that window, you're letting in a draft!" 

Indeed, grandma. Indeed.