Small Humiliations: Part VI

One fine autumn evening, my sister and a friend attended an outdoor dance with a Halloween theme. Upon spying someone familiar in the crowd who was dressed as Satan, my sister's friend ran up and proceeded to talk, joke, and good-naturedly harrass the person. That is, until a very unfamiliar voice came from within the mask.

"Do you know who I am?" the person asked.

My sister's friend paused, now unsure of her visual ID. "Uh, yeah."

"Who am I, then?" the person insisted.

Realizing her mistake, my sister's friend replied matter-of-factly, "Duh . . . you're the devil."

And then she ran away.

Small Humiliations: Part V

My phone debacle from the last entry in this series reminded me of a similar gaffe made by someone near and dear to me, my lovely sister. I hope she doesn't mind my retelling it here. And if she does ... well, too late.

A few years ago, we were both home for Easter, and we were dyeing eggs together one evening. As usual, we were having a good time and getting sillier by the minute. When the phone at our parents' house rang at about 10:00, she assumed it was a friend of hers from high school who was also home for the holiday.

So, when she picked up the call, she said in her sexiest, sultriest, breathiest voice, "Peter Rabbit speaking."

And then, I wish I had video of the shock on her face when she realized it was not her friend, but someone from my mother's office calling with a work question.

It runs in the family, I guess.

Small Humiliations: Part IV

When I first moved to the Twin Cities, I worked retail for about a year. As part of my job, I answered the phone. This is in addition to dusting, straightening, restocking, gift wrapping, counting out the tills, and taking out the trash (I didn't have a job where I wasn't responsible for the garbage until I was 26). Oh, and I also got to call 911 after the occasional skateboarding punk tossed a lit firecracker into the store, since I was a supervisor who made 50 cents more than the other clerks.

But I digress. The crux of this little story is the phone. One afternoon, I received a call for another employee, whom I knew was on break. I told the caller this and put her on hold.

The phone rang again. This time, it was an employee I was good friends with who wanted someone to check the work schedule for her. I put her on hold as well. And then, because I couldn't resist making a joke, I picked up the receiver and proceeded to sing my own rendition of call-waiting music to my friend.

The song I chose? "The Girl from Ipanema."

I don't know why this was my go-to tune, other than it seems appropriately Muzak-ish. But I wasn't really singing, just "doot-doot"-ing.  As in "Doot doot doot doot, doot doo-doot doo-doot ..."

I think I got almost to the chorus before the person on the other end, the first person I'd put on hold, the person on LINE ONE and not LINE TWO, said, very confused, "Uhhhhhh ... so is Chris there or not?"

Realizing I'd just made a complete ass of myself by humming sweetly and happily into a complete stranger's ear, I was at a loss for an adequate explanation. I think I simply replied, "Um, yep" and gingerly placed the receiver back in its cradle.

But that's the kind of employee I am. Always willing to go the extra mile. Even if it means digging into my limited repertoire of 1960s bossa nova music for random people's entertainment.

Small Humiliations: Part III

When I was a kid, this magical event occurred about every four weeks.  A man would pull up to our house in a big truck marked "Schwan's" and proceed to deliver boxes of various frozen meats and the occasional ice cream treat. This was just a small supplement to my mom's usual grocery trips, which was what made it so special.

Now, the Schwan's man would stop by on the appointed day, but not necessarily at a pre-determined hour. Kind of like the cable guy, but he could get away with it, because you can't really stay mad at someone when you have an orange sherbet "pushup" in your mouth.

One day, when I was about 14, the doorbell rang. Because it was immediately after school, I naturally expected my friend Nathan to have moseyed the block between our houses, in order that we might lounge about listening to hardcore gangsta rap that was banned by our mothers. And, because we were typically goofy and juvenile together ... like I said, 14 ... I decided to greet him appropriately at the door.

Our front door was wooden, with a window at the top covered by a sheer yellow curtain. Can you picture it? So, after hearing the doorbell, I crept (crept, mind you, stealthy as your average rhinoceros no doubt, for a surprise attack) up to the door, whipped the curtain open, and pressed my face violently against the glass.

It was mid-monster-mug, eyes crossed, nose smashed, that I noticed the man standing in our garage was not, as I expected, my friend Nathan, but Bob, our friendly neighborhood Schwan's man.

I can't say for certain what types of things a frozen food deliveryman sees on his rounds, but they must have been more shocking than a teenage girl drooling at the window, because Bob merely looked perplexed.

Realizing my mistake, I carefully peeled my lips off the glass, opened the door, and said, "Uh, we don't need anything today, thanks," and shut it again.

And here's a reason to love small towns. Because Bob had serviced our area for years before this incident, he continued to periodically show up at our door for years afterward. So I got to relive the embarrassment many, many times over. But I did learn the precautionary measure of checking the calendar in the kitchen for a tiny little swan-shaped sticker before greeting any future guests with a gruesome slobber face.

Small Humiliations: Part II

I honestly intended this series to be focused on my own embarrassing moments, but I also honestly intended not to go to Starbucks and buy a coffee this morning, which is where I overheard the following conversation between two men who appeared to have met for something business-related.

Man #1 (bustling in from outside, obviously cold):  "I just did something really stupid."

Man #2:  "Oh yeah?"

Man #1:  "I just put my change in the wrong meter."

Man #2:  "How'd you do that?"

Man #1:  "It was a black car that looked just like mine.  I didn't even notice until I locked my car with my remote, and the lights flashed on a car a couple spots down the street."

Man #2 (laughing now):  "How much change did you put in?"

Man #1:  "All of it. It was completely empty."  (walking up to the counter)  "I'm gonna need a couple more dollars' worth. I fed the wrong meter, if you can believe that."

The guy behind the counter then cracked up, as did several other people in line. Although this mistake registers about a 1.5 on the humil-o-meter, what struck me funniest was that the man seemed unable to stop himself from admitting what he'd done. It was like he couldn't believe it and needed someone else to verify it. It made me wish I had the very same story to share, just so he wouldn't feel so alone.

I also couldn't stop thinking about how happy and perplexed the person whose meter he topped off would be upon returning to that identical black car later on. One man's misspent cash is another man's pleasure, perhaps.

Small Humiliations: Part I

In the interest of overcoming my apparent hibernatory tendencies this winter (I currently arrive home from work, curl up under my heated throw, sleep for a couple hours, rouse myself for some food and television, and then ... exhausted ... retire to bed), I'm starting a new series detailing some of my more embarrassing moments.

A couple years ago I went to get my hair cut at a discount chain, which shall remain nameless. I typically cheap out on haircuts, mainly because I keep mine very short and can't justify $40 a month in upkeep. The adventurous part of this strategy is that I might get a different stylist each time, which is also the downside in certain situations.

In this particular instance, it was not only a new stylist, but also a new establishment. The girl was quite young and eager to make a good impression. She washed my hair and then stood behind me asking me questions to get a feel for what I wanted.  In the course of the questioning, we had the following exchange:

STYLIST:  "Have you ever had your hair long?"

ME:  "Not since high school."

STYLIST:  "Do you ever think about growing it out again?"

ME:  "Well, sometimes I toy with the idea, but you know you have to go through that ugly stage."

STYLIST:  (very sympathetically, with her hand on my shoulder)  "Awwwww ......"

LONG PAUSE

STYLIST:  "Oh!  You mean the hair!"

I haven't been back since.

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.