The Perks of Positivity

I went to the drive-thru window at a coffee shop a few days ago.

Guy on intercom: "Hi, can I start you off with [whatever they're currently promoting]?"

Me: "No, thank you."

Him: "Awesome. What can I get you?"

Me: "Just a medium mocha, please."

Him: "Awesome. Would you like any of our breakfast sandwiches?"

Me: "No, thank you."

Him: "Awesome. Do you have a rewards number?"

Me: "Nope."

Him: "Awesome. Please pull forward."

Like the song says, everything truly was awesome for this guy. I told him no three times, and he seemed thrilled. So I couldn't help wondering if that was his standard response in life, regardless of the news.

"You're being evicted."

"Awesome."

"Your girlfriend ran off with your brother."

"Awesome."

"Aliens just invaded and they're only enslaving baristas."

"Awesome."

I think I'll try to adjust my attitude in kind this week. It seems to be working out awesome for him.

The Finnish Line

The Olympics are finally over, which brings to mind a story of athleticism and glory from my high school days.

This naturally means that the story does not involve me.

A friend of mine went to the first day of cross-country practice, and he found himself jogging along next to the foreign exchange student from our class that year. He was on loan from a Nordic country and was a bit of an odd duck. I don't think it was just the language barrier, either. I think maybe his home country just wanted him off their hands for awhile.

Anyway, they were about halfway through that day's exercise, when the exchange student turned to my friend and said, "Is this all we do, is run?"

My friend replied, "Well, yeah. It's cross-country."

And without breaking his stride, the exchange student simply veered away and ran off the course, straight back to his host family's house and into cross-country quitters lore forever.

But I have to admire him. It wasn't what he thought it was, it wasn't what he wanted, so he made the immediate decision not to waste his time on it. 

So to the weird, decisive, and therefore kind of wonderful student who shall remain anonymous -- I salute you. You've inspired me to go swifter, higher, stronger in my delivery of straight-up "nope"s.

Cracking Up

A while back, I was on a real graham cracker kick. They just make such a great nighttime snack -- sweet and crunchy and oh so comforting. They're essentially cookies, which is why they go so great with milk, and for several weeks I indulged like a greedy child before bed.

One morning, I came out of my bedroom to find my plate and glass on the living room floor, which was covered with crumbs, as was my sofa. And I said out loud, "That's IT! No more graham crackers!"

But I said it with the same vehemence and disgust one would expect from someone finding heroin needles, or lines of coke, or empty bottles of gin, or sleepy hookers scattered about after a bender. The level of disappointment and newfound resolve was the same.

All I'm saying is this: Maybe just this week, we could try not to be so hard on ourselves. I know it's all relative, and everyone is fighting their own private battles, but let's try to keep our vices in perspective, shall we?

(A Pinterest intervention is probably inevitable, though.)

Fun with Wrong Numbers

Here's the random text message I got last week:

Even though I didn't recognize the number, for a split second I wondered whether I had blacked out and hired a therapist and then been callous enough to miss an appointment. In any case, I didn't think it warranted a response. But a few minutes later I got this:

Now, this seemed like important information. So I texted back a polite reply:

This, I was sure, would end our little conversation. But then came the follow-up:

I mean, seriously, WTF. What difference would that make? I still don't know you. So I replied:

That was a bit saucy, I'll admit, but I couldn't help myself. Yet even that didn't shut it down, because apparently this doctor thought he or she was dealing with a real trickster. We finished out the exchange like this:

I hope that doc eventually found the right digits. I hope the intended recipient is getting the help they need. But most of all, I hope those children got some new folders and notebooks. Because that's the best part of going back to school -- which, incidentally, also begins with S.

Parents Beware

Of my many shortcomings, perhaps the most entertaining is that I don't quite know how to answer children's questions appropriately. Maybe it's because I don't have to deal with the aftermath of what comes out of my mouth, but I tend not to sugarcoat things. I kind of talk to kids like they're small adults. 

Exhibit A: I recently took a friend's two boys out for a movie night, and we stopped for dinner at a burger place. When the youngest, who's about 8, started climbing a stone wall in the restaurant, I told him he couldn't do that. He asked why not.

What I should have said:  "Because it's not built for climbing, and it's not safe."

What I actually said: "Because you might crack your head open, and people will think the blood is ketchup and start dipping their fries in it."

Exhibit B: I was recently watching a Harry Potter movie with another friend and her two kids, and one of them asked if magic was real. 

What my friend said: "Well, not in the sense that you see it in the movie, but there are moments in your life that can feel magical."

This is, arguably, the best damn answer in the history of motherhood, especially off the cuff. 

What I would have said: "No."

The Boxer Rebellion

Last week, as I was making plans for a friend to visit my place, I jokingly mentioned that I'd be sure to clean up all the underwear that's normally strewn about my apartment.

And that reminded me of a story.

When I was about 13, I went to a friend's house one afternoon. He and another friend and I were walking down the hallway to hang out in his bedroom when he suddenly stopped me.

"Hang on a sec, I need to clean up in there."

He and his friend disappeared into the room for what seemed like AGES, as I impatiently wondered what those guys could possibly be tidying up for so long. 

"Okay, you can go in now," he finally said, throwing the door open wide.

And there, draped over every single thing in his bedroom, was every single pair of underwear he owned. He and his friend had pulled them from his dresser and decorated the place to welcome me. And make me laugh, which of course I did.

Remembering this made me miss my middle-school friend terribly. I hadn't seen him for years. So I randomly called him on a Thursday night. He picked up the phone, incredulous and happy. "Puddin'?!" (the story behind that nickname will have to wait).

I said, "I had to call because I just told the story about that time I came over to your house, and you said you had to clean up your bedroom before I could go in . . ."

But he was already laughing so hard I didn't need to finish.

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.