Overheard a couple in their 60s joking at a restaurant. The husband handed some money to the wife to chip in for dinner.
WIFE: "Don't give me cash in public. People might think it's for sexual favors."
HUSBAND: [considers for a minute] "Um, then I'm going to need some change."
Years before a handheld, one-bit Space Invaders game found its way into my possession, the most amazing piece of mobile technology my tiny brain could imagine was a walkie talkie.
I suppose I was about six when I got a pair of them. They were grey with an orange tip on the antennae, and the entire Morse Code alphabet was printed on the front. My sister and I beeped messages to each other constantly . . . until we were kicked outside, where (joy of joys) we discovered that OUR walkie talkies worked with all our FRIENDS' walkie talkies.
We quickly set about creating a communications network. It wasn't overly sophisticated, but it kept the neighborhood informed when someone sneakily won "kick the can."
One afternoon, as a group of us gathered by the swings to plan our next game, there was a sudden crackling on our handsets. Then a very stern, authoritative voice broke through:
"ATTENTION!"
Static.
"THIS IS THE NATIONAL GUARD."
More static.
"YOU ARE ON A RESTRICTED CHANNEL."
Our eyes grew wide.
"STOP BROADCASTING IMMEDIATELY, OR WE WILL NOTIFY THE POLICE."
We were frozen in terror. Nobody had the guts to reply, but we all clearly saw that our futures included prison bars.
And then I happened to see something else. Across the backyard, my father's eyes peering over the windowsill, alongside the orange tip of an antenna.
So many things happened in the sandbox in that moment -- relief, outrage, maybe a little bit of pee -- but looking back, I feel like we all should have applauded. Because he saw his chance, and he took it. And he got us good.
Well played, sir. Well played.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.