Turn the Other Cheeks

I think it's a pretty well-established unwritten rule that, as an adult, you shouldn't be making any verbal noises when you're in a public restroom stall.  

This includes both sounds and words -- with the notable exceptions of "Would you please hand me some toilet paper?" or "Do you have a tampon?" Because a) those are necessities, b) asking takes guts, and c) you're morally obligated to help a sister out in a crisis.

I would also include talking on the phone, which happens less now with texting. In the past, I've been privy (pun intended) to several conversations. One time I heard a woman put shoes on layaway. Another time I heard instructions for how to bake a ham. Once a lady took a call from a prospective employer. I don't know if she panicked or just didn't think they'd notice, but I held off flushing till after the phone interview.

I'm hoping that good karma will make up for my faux pas in the bathroom stall at work last week, when I unintentionally broke not one but two cardinal rules. First, I typically don't use my phone in public restrooms, largely because (germs aside) it tempts you to lose track of time. Get in, get out. There are people waiting, and it's weird to post statuses from the toilet.

But that day, I reached into my sweater pocket for some Kleenex and forgot my phone was in there. So naturally, I was compelled to check my email, which led to breaking the second rule.

I read a message from the local film society announcing that they'd be showing the new Macbeth movie. And, as I suddenly remembered that oh, right, wow that's coming out soon and Michael Fassbender's in it and I do love that play and I do love him and it looks amazing, I forgot that I wasn't geeking out over Shakespeare alone and I said out loud:

"Ahhhhhh . . . . yesssssss." 

Which, when you think about it, is maybe one of the worst things someone could hear coming from behind a stall door. 

Because the other person in the bathroom with me did not know I was on my phone. So I can't imagine how she interpreted this anonymous statement -- followed, as it were, by complete silence. Cryptic? Creepy? Disturbingly happy? Just plain relieved? I'll never know.

All I know for sure is that I had to wait until she finished washing her hands and left, and then another few minutes for good measure, in order to protect my identity (and avoid a harassment charge).

And much like the woman on the interview call, I found myself hoping only to be gainfully employed after relying on the kindness of peeing strangers.

Throw Another Jump on the Batt'ry

One morning last week, I was flagged down in the parking lot of my building by a guy whose car wouldn't start. He was late for work and quite desperate for any help, so when he asked if I'd be willing to give him a jump start, I said sure, as long as he had the cables and knew what he was doing.

While he hooked everything up, we chatted about the recent snowfall and he gave me some tips about parking, since I'm new to the neighborhood. He even told me about an email list I could sign up for with plowing alerts from the management.

I only relay these details to establish that, by the time his Honda revved back into action, we'd been talking together for a good five minutes in a very normal way.

As he put everything away and thanked me again, he asked which unit I lived in. I answered and then introduced myself, because somehow we hadn't exchanged names.  "I'm Dave," he said, reaching for my outstretched hand.

Right at that moment, there was a malfunction in my brain. I wanted to repeat his name so I'd have a snowball's chance of remembering it, but I also wanted to say "Hi." These two ideas wrestled for a nanosecond before deciding to reconcile and morph into what came out of my mouth, which was a combination of the two.

"Diiiiive," I confirmed, inexplicably turning Australian.

His head cocked just a bit.  "Dave," he repeated, perhaps more slowly this time, though I could be imagining that. Unable to explain why I briefly had a foreign accent and could not accurately pronounce a four-letter name, I simply nodded and smiled. 

So that's how I met my neighbor, and why he thinks I'm a dumbass.

Snake Eyes

A friend once told me how concerned she was that her kids adjusted well to their move from the city to the country. She and her husband had purchased a house with some land attached, and while they were enjoying the space and the quiet, they thought it equally important that their young children learn to embrace this new wilder, freer lifestyle.

So when my friend unexpectedly ran over a snake with her lawnmower one afternoon and ended up covered in guts, she was torn.

Would she set a good example of adventurousness and go-with-the-flow, girl-power gumption, or would she give in to her instincts and run screaming into the house?

When she burst through the door and saw her daughter's wide eyes on the verge of panic, my friend managed to keep her shit together. She continued brushing the reptile chunks off her shirt, while squeaking reassuringly, "It's just a bit of snake, honey, that's all. Just a little bit of snake."

Baby Longlegs

My sister recently dreamed that one of her best friends had a baby. In theory, this is nothing exciting. However, when her friend introduced this baby to the world, it turned out that she had birthed not a human child, but a tiny giraffe. Not like a hybrid, but a straight-up giraffe. And this seemed not to bother her or her husband one bit.  They were thrilled with their little spotted bundle, lengthy neck and all.

My sister, on the other hand, found herself worrying about the baby's future.

"It's a giraffe.  All right.  But this isn't always going to be okay, is it?"

Her concern had more to do with practicality than interspecies prejudice, because her next thought was, "I mean, I know their house has high ceilings, but . . ."

She had just decided to research animal sanctuaries when she woke up.

She laughed about it all morning and then shared the dream during a group lunch at work -- and then laughed even harder. Because after hearing the scenario of a woman giving birth to a baby giraffe, one of her coworkers simply said,

"Well, as long as it's healthy."

Big Shoes?

This week, I feel the need to share with you a brilliant drawing that a friend posted recently. Her creative and hilarious daughter decided to depict Ye Olde Sasquatch with a twist. I honestly don't know what I like more -- the fact that he's wearing an ironic T-shirt, or her thoughtful censorship of certain areas that aren't covered by the T-shirt. Because you know what they say about big feet . . . 

Para-rental Activity

A friend recently told me that her daughter started sleepwalking again. How did she find this out? Only in the most terrifying way possible.

My friend woke up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. On her way back to bed, something in her home office caught her eye. Just a small movement in the shadows, but enough to make her pause.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw her desk chair slowly spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . . until her trance-like child rotated into view.

"What are you doing in there?" my friend asked. In response, her daughter stood up and walked calmly back to her bedroom.

What amazes me about this story is that my friend is, as of this writing, still alive (i.e., did not suffer a fatal heart attack because of this encounter). 

I think this is because, even though you have to be prepared for anything when you have kids, you can also chalk a lot of creepy-ass stuff up to the fact that they're children. They're going to say crazy shit, and do freaky things (because they aren't yet old enough to know they're freaky), and they're not always able to distinguish dreams from reality.

But parents have an advantage, because if they hear a noise or see an apparition during the midnight hours, they can rest assured it's probably just their offspring being weirdos.

I, on the other hand, have no such handy explanation to comfort me. If I had wandered into a room and seen a chair spinning in the dark, the scene would have played out very differently.

COURTNEY: (Sees rotating piece of office furniture. Knows for a fact no other living beings are in her apartment. Says nothing. Soils self.)  

End Scene.

That Sinking Feeling

Last winter, I went with a friend to visit his sister. Even though she lives in the same city, I'd never been to her house, so I wanted to be on my best behavior.

I asked for the grand tour, which included fascinating stories about all the artwork and renovations. Later, when I wanted a quick bathroom break, I felt like I knew my way around enough to duck in without asking where it was. I left my friend and his sister to their conversation and briefly disappeared.

When I went to wash my hands, I noticed there were several items sitting in the sink, like a hair dryer and curling iron. "Hmmm . . . that's a bit dangerous," I thought. But I moved them and lathered and rinsed and went about my evening. 

We had a lovely dinner and were ready to start some games when my friend got up from the table and headed toward the bathroom.

"Did you tell Courtney about the sink?" his sister called from the kitchen.

"Oh, no. But she hasn't used it."

I had to meekly pipe up, "Yeah, I did. Earlier. Why?"

"The sink's broken."

I was really puzzled at that point.  "But ... I washed my hands."

His sister hurried past me.  "The pipe's not connected! It doesn't go anywhere." 

Oh. Shit.

Luckily for her, she'd placed a small container inside the cabinet and nothing was damaged. 

Luckily for me, I'd just done a quick splish splash, rather than letting the water run while I stared at my own dumb face in the mirror or fussed with my hair or what have you. On the other hand, I hadn't made sure to sing the whole alphabet song while I scrubbed my hands. While this may not speak volumes for my personal hygiene, it saved me the embarrassment of my first impression being "destruction of property." And that's always a win in my book.

Bust a Move

I recently spent an evening with a friend whose sister just got engaged, and our conversation naturally turned to his own wedding several years ago.  I recalled how great their reception was, especially the small band they'd hired to play at the dance.  It consisted of a couple excellent dudes on instruments and a very talented and enthusiastic woman on vocals.

At one point that evening, one of my best friends from childhood sidled up next to me and asked me what I thought of the music.

Noticing how animated the voluptuous lead singer was becoming in her beautiful but low-cut outfit, I replied, "They're fantastic!  But I'm honestly a little worried that if she bounces around any more, she's going to come right out of that dress."

He shot me a sly glance and a smile.  "Then let's hope they continue to play songs that are up-tempo."