Christmas in July

There are days when adulting is hard. We have to vote, and floss, and mow the lawn, and exchange pleasantries with awful people. Jobs must be kept. Bills must be paid. Responsible things must be purchased, like healthy food, insurance, and toilet paper. 

But then there are days when adulting is awesome. Drinks can be taken. Bedtimes ignored. Serious money spent on not-so-serious things. 

A friend once told me that he was waiting at a big-box electronics store counter to pick up Christmas gifts he'd ordered online. He was silently hating the drudgery of checking things off his list of tasks when the salesperson handed him his packages: video game systems for his wife's father and brother.

As he walked out the door, a brand new Xbox casually tucked under each arm, he saw a young boy's jaw drop open in sheer jealous wonder. And he thought to himself, "Yeah. That's right, kid. Being a grown-up is the best."

Shake a Leg

I'm now going to tell you a story that's as short as it is horrifying.

Walked into my bathroom today and found about a 4-inch long hairy centipede on the floor. Uttered a very choice curse word. Sprayed it with insecticide. Was waiting for it to stop moving when suddenly about half its legs popped off and wriggled across my floor.

[I'm adding just a line while I shudder during this recollection].

You guys, those legs were moving independently. Like it jettisoned them and they were individually making 15 separate breaks for it.

As with many things, I'm less upset that it happened and more upset that I can never UNSEE it. 

Even after psyching myself up to clean up this crime scene, I felt there might not be enough toilet paper in my apartment to transfer this gruesome little Voltron-esque abomination to its final resting place.

I know two things for sure. 1) There is not enough toilet paper on the face of the earth to cleanse my haunted memory. 2) I'm going to stop using bug spray and just start using fire.

Look Who's Talking

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I enjoy a good eavesdrop. I can't tell you how many entertaining tales are the direct result of this sometimes unavoidable activity. When eavesdropping is good, it's great. But when it's bad . . . well, read on.

On a recent flight to Seattle, I was seated by the window when a man and woman joined my row. He was 36, she was 24. They had never met before, but they quickly began to severely overshare details of their personal lives. I had overheard a full backstory on each of them within five minutes. Okay.

But then they JUST. KEPT. TALKING. And it wasn't a normal exchange. The man in particular had an insufferable life philosophy he wanted to impart. He was an "artist" and "entrepreneur" who was trying to be "authentic." He especially loved the word "embrace." He was trying to embrace everything, including his "darkness" (and, I think, the girl next to him). 

He was deeply "spiritual." He kept using phrases like, "This world is so awesome," and talking about his "intentions on this earth." He also weirdly humble bragged about all the wonderful things he'd done for other people, which in my opinion is just a brag.

I can't quite say how I survived four-and-a-half hours straight of hearing about his juice bar and t-shirt designs. There was never a break -- not even when we all had to disembark just before takeoff and board a different airplane.

I kept hoping the woman would shut him down, but no. They had drinks. They shared a snack. They paged through a magazine together. I wanted to punch them both in the throat.

When we finally landed, they made plans to take the light rail into downtown together. That was exactly my plan, but I literally ran in the other direction once we hit the terminal. I grabbed a snack and dawdled in the bathroom until it was safe to make my way to the transit station. I breathed a sigh of relief as the train filled to capacity and pulled away. At last, glorious silence.

And then I realized, to my absolute horror, that the chatty couple was sitting two rows behind me. There was nowhere to move. I had another 40 minutes of these assholes. Through the screaming in my brain, I heard them strike up a conversation with a random stranger, and they shared their personal "journeys" all over again.

I could only sit and seethe and wonder what was wrong with them. They were Minnesotans. They should have understood the concept of being polite but not friendly. We will tolerate strangers, even be cordial, but we don't want your life story. 

When I flew home a few days later, I was seated next to a man who also wanted to chat, this time to me. He was showing me pictures of his Alaska vacation on his phone before we even took off. And that's when I knew I had to shut that shit down. Small talk is too big a commitment on a three-hour flight.

So the second he turned away, I stuck my headphones in my ears. Then I smiled. Politely. Because I'm Minnesota nice.

Friend Zone

Have you ever thought about how weird it is to make new friends as an adult? Like a full-fledged adult, in your 30s, with a well-established life and career and pre-existing social circle. 

I think some would argue that you should already be set by then, "full up" in the friend department, especially if you're also in a serious romantic relationship. Who has the time or the energy to spend on new people? 

But sometimes, you interact with someone awesome and can't help thinking, "This person is cool. I want us to be buds."  And suddenly it's absurdly complicated. 

You're not a kid -- you can't invite them over after school.  You're not a college student -- no study groups or campus activities.  You're not coworkers -- you can't chat in the break room or bond over happy hour. There's no natural way for a friendship to evolve, and there's always the super awkward possibility that they'll mistakenly think you're hitting on them.

I pondered this problem about a year ago, with a woman I regularly saw in a professional capacity (outside of my regular job). We always chatted and laughed and got along famously, but I couldn't find the right non-creepy way to say, "Wanna be my friend?"

I consulted another friend, who has the very rare ability to set her sights on someone new -- a neighbor, another mom, someone she met at the park -- and determinedly work them into her fold. She likes the chase, I think, and also enjoys a bit of light cyberstalking. But more importantly, she's willing to take a chance, and I believe that's what she advised me to do.

I was gearing up to make my pitch when I learned my would-be friend would-actually-be moving out of state. At our last appointment, I wished her all the best but was silently kicking myself. You idiot! You should have just said, "We should hang out." 

And then, right before I left, she asked, "Can I find you on Facebook?

[insert angelic choir] Yes! It was just that simple, and we've been "official" friends ever since. When I told my cyberstalker pal about this unexpected triumph, she just smiled.

"It feels good when they come to you, doesn't it."

Watch Your Step

Of all the things to love about the Fitbit craze, the ability to challenge other users has to be the most entertaining. 

If you're unfamiliar with this device, it's an electronic wristband that measures various aspects of a person's health: heart rate, sleep patterns, and perhaps most importantly, steps per day. 10,000+ steps is the ultimate healthy benchmark, so a little friendly competition is a great motivator.

A friend of mine recently became obsessed with beating her 7-year-old niece in a race to the 10,000 goal. When I told her this seemed like an impossible feat, given the fact that the little girl had the significant advantage of youth, my friend simply gave me a knowing look.

"Yes, but she also has a bedtime."

So that's how determination and craftiness beat boundless energy and enthusiasm. Play to your strengths, lady! And step to it.

When Good Words Go Bad

I run across loads of interesting typos in my editing job. Some of them make sense; I can see how they might easily happen. Others are such freaks of nature that I can only assume the writer suffered an episode of some sort while typing. 

Still others are the amusing results of the perfect storm: a cut-and-paste error, a blatant disregard for spellcheck, and the rock-solid faith that someone like me will catch any mistakes before we're all horribly embarrassed.

I've taken the liberty of providing new definitions for two of my favorite examples:

possibilititties (noun, plural)

1. the contents of an A-cup bra: I hope he's not a boob man, because I'm only rocking possibilititties.

pooportunity (noun, singular)

1. a chance to use a restroom where a person will be completely undisturbed and/or undiscoverable: A private basement bathroom provided the perfect pooportunity.

It's glorious errors like these that pay my salary. And sometimes get me through the day with a super nerdy smile.

Feeling Fruity

I don't know how many of you live alone, or how many of you talk out loud to yourselves, but in my experience, I've generally found that the two go hand in hand.

I'm not talking about incessant mumbling -- just random comments that you don't think twice about uttering because no one will care that you sound a little crazy. Most of the phrases that float around my apartment are reactions to TV shows or reminders of things I should be doing.

But last weekend I punctuated the silence with something new. I heard myself say the following sentence, quite angrily, and it was directed at a bowl of watermelon:

"You're supposed to be seedless, you son of a bitch."

That's right. I trash-talked fruit. So if you're ever wondering what kind of lunacy escapes my brain when there's no reason to filter it, there you go. I'm off to shame an avocado.

Double Vision

My sister's friend Laura was nice enough to drive her to a recent eye doctor appointment, since it involved minor surgery. As they flipped through magazines in the waiting area, Laura kept sneaking glances at two men sitting across from them.

Finally, she leaned over to my sister and whispered, "Meghan . . . those two guys over there . . . they're twins, right?"

She simply wanted confirmation that she wasn't imagining the resemblance. But my sister, seeing such an easy setup, couldn't help herself.  

She turned to her friend with a deadly serious/scared face and replied, "Laura . . . there's only ONE guy sitting there."