Butthead

I was reminded last week of one of my most embarrassing slips of the tongue to date. 

Every Monday morning, my team at work meets to discuss our plan for the week. I typically arrive about 20 minutes before the meeting starts, but on this particular day I was running late. When I got to my building, I rushed to the conference room (wearing jacket, sneakers, backpack) without stopping at my desk.

Thankfully, there was only one other person there (who wasn't my boss). She asked why I was so frazzled. I told her my bus had taken forever, and I didn't know why.

Then, what I MEANT to say was, "Usually by 9:30 my butt's in my seat."

However, in my hurry, something got scrambled between my brain and my lips.

So what I ACTUALLY said was, "Usually by 9:30 I'm in my butt."

At that exact moment, one of my other coworkers sailed into the room, just in time to catch the last bit of the sentence. She sort of looked at me, looked at my other startled coworker, and in one swift movement turned and walked out. Like "I saw nothing, I heard nothing."

I was left in tearful laughter, trying to explain myself but failing. I just can't account for everything that comes out of my mouth. And in the end, I think we're all better for it.

And Eat It, Too

My sister's coworkers are a tight-knit group of people with a collectively wicked sense of humor. A couple weeks ago, they threw a farewell party for a woman who *dared* to leave the team.  This is the cake they ordered, emblazoned with their best wishes for her new endeavor.

Deviled Eggs

For Easter this year, my mom got me something very appropriate to a kid's basket: a coloring book. But, you know, an "adult" coloring book, which is (sadly) not as dirty as it sounds and is currently all the rage among people who want to unplug and unwind while doing something vaguely artistic.

And I have to admit, breaking in those amazing, brand new colored pencils while watching NCAA basketball was a supremely pleasant way to spend an afternoon. When the game was over, I had a bright and lovely page suitable to hang on anyone's refrigerator.

But I recalled an article my mom had sent me in jest several weeks before. Obviously written by a legit crazy person, it was all about how adult coloring books were dangerous to Christians because they often included mandalas as designs.

If you're unfamiliar with mandalas, they are beautiful geometric symbols that represent the universe, and they're typically used in Hindu or Buddhist religions. This ludicrous article claimed that concentrating on these images while coloring them could open Christians up to evil.

My mom sent it to me like, "Can you even believe this junk?"

So when I finished my first coloring page, which happened to be one of these instruments of Beelzebub, I tore out the sheet and addressed an envelope to her. On the back of the mandala, I simply wrote this:

Dear Margaret,  Join me.  Satan

My mom said it made her week.

Dial M for Mortified

First, let me say that I HATE talking on the phone to people I don't know. I'll go out of my way to avoid placing an order or making an inquiry or scheduling an appointment if it means cold-calling a stranger. 

On the rare occasion that this unpleasant task can't be circumvented via the magic of the internet, I tend to overcompensate for my unease by being extra polite and enthusiastic to whoever is on the other end of the telephone line. Usually, this approach helps the conversation go quite smoothly.

But sometimes, it ends in complete embarrassment.

Last week, I had to make an appointment for a yearly physical. I dialed a local clinic I've never visited before, and the scheduler was very nice as she ran through her list of questions.

HER: "Is there a particular physician you'd like to see?"

ME: (extra polite) "No, I don't have a preference, thank you."

HER: "Would you like a man or a woman?"

ME: (extra enthusiasm) "A woman would be great."

HER: "Oh, do you want a Pap then, too?"

ME: (extra extra enthusiasm) "Yes, I'd love that!"

[it suddenly occurs to me how creepy that response was]

ME: (very quickly) "I mean . . . I wouldn't LOVE it . . . I just . . . I know it's . . . something I need to do."

Through her laughter, she managed to reassure me that she understood completely. And for that, I remain enthusiastically grateful.

Conscientious Uncoupling

I've always been impressed with the way my sister handles breakups. Over the years, she's dated more than her fair share of dudes who started out promising but turned out to be real jerks. 

Yet each time a relationship ended, she managed to conduct herself with a staggering degree of civility. You know, like a grown-ass adult. There were tears, of course -- but no shouting, no jewelry throwing, no nasty phone calls, no keying of cars or shit-talk at work, and certainly no heap of personal belongings tossed into the front yard.

I asked her once how she could avoid the temptation to be angry and vindictive, and she said her method was actually easier because she never had to look back and regret any of her actions. Which is admirable and makes a lot of sense, really.

I don't think I'm cut from quite the same cloth. Because the one time she let me get involved in picking up the pieces, I picked up everything her ex had left at her apartment and sold it on eBay. We used the money to buy our mom the biggest Mother's Day bouquet we've ever given her, compliments of Dickhead Jones.

But that's how I roll.

Getting to Know You

I've discovered how you know for sure that you've never stuck with your workout routine long enough to see real results before. Here's how:

You're changing into your pajamas, and you glance in the full-length mirror, and your very first panicked thought is, "Oh my god, there's something wrong with my leg! What the hell is that on my leg?!"

And then it dawns on you.  That -- my dear dumb darling -- is a muscle.

I wonder if there are more of them under there? The search continues.

Nailed It!

My dad is pretty damn handy around the house. Once, when he was building a set of deck stairs, I asked him how he acquired his various skills in carpentry and painting and general maintenance. He simply attributed it to being a homeowner for 40 years.

So I guess all the endless tinkering required to keep things running smoothly went largely unnoticed while I was growing up. But that all changed when my sister bought a house, and he set about amazing us with constant repairs and improvements.

However, when a mysterious leak sprung in her bathroom, he suggested she call a professional. The plumber cut away a chunk of her wall and found a problem, though not as complicated or expensive as she'd feared. It seems a tiny hole had been punched into a pipe . . . a direct result of my dad hanging a new mirror above the sink a few days before.

My sister called my mom to give her the update, which was equal parts relief at the easy fix and amazement at an uncharacteristically careless error.

Now, my mom has been happily married to this handyman for over four decades, but I can imagine her occasional frustration with his sometimes maddening attention to detail.

Her response:  "Can I be the one to tell your father?"

Centipede My Pants

I've always gotten along pretty well with my sister. We never really fought over anything serious, and we generally enjoyed playing together most of the time. 

But she's three years younger than me, so there was some room for practical jokes.

Or so I'm told. I don't recall messing with her very often, but evidently I convincingly sold her some untruths. She remembers three big lies: 1) That if she honked the car horn, the cops would come. 2) That if she pressed the red button on the VCR, it would blow up. 3) That if she got water on the bathroom tiles, they would crash down.

All in all, pretty benign . . . unless you were intent on avoiding a panic attack when getting clean or recording your favorite TV show. But nothing lastingly damaging or very clever.

We both still talk about the one time I managed to pull a truly great prank on her. When we were in high school, we got a small allowance for cleaning the house every week. Of course we would wait until the very last minute before our parents got home to dust and vacuum and tidy up, so it usually involved rushing around in a frenzy with Windex and Pledge.

Now, I also worked at a drugstore at the time, and I'd happened across a new product in the toy section: super realistic-looking rubber insects. So I bought an enormous fake centipede.

The next week, as we started our chores, I snuck into the basement bathroom and carefully placed the rubber bug in the shower. As we hurried to finish on time, I shouted a reminder that it was her turn to clean that room.

After she entered the bathroom, I heard general spritzing and clattering. I heard the shower curtain being pulled back. There was a short pause, and then a bloodcurdling scream.

When she came racing into the living room, I acted very concerned about what had spooked her.

"What?!" I said. "Hang on, I'll check it out."

I disappeared into the bathroom and gave an appropriate exclamation of horror. I suppose I could have stopped there, or emerged simply holding the bug, or chased her around the house with it. But I did not stop there.

I reappeared with the centipede hanging out of my mouth. For added effect, I growled ferociously and shook it back and forth.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the look of horror on her face, or how wide her eyes were. She nearly soiled herself out of shock, and I nearly did the same laughing.

It's amazing what you can do with a dollar and a little ingenuity. She might say a little evil, but I'm going with ingenuity.