Shaken, Not Stirred

Apologies for the recent lack of posts. My mom has been hospitalized since the end of September.  But I'm jumping back online to share one of the few moments of levity I've experienced during the last two months.

I decided to stop for fast food on my way to the hospital one afternoon. I ordered a sandwich for me, a sandwich for my sister, and a chocolate shake for us to share.

When I pulled ahead to the window, the guy working the drive-thru took my money.

"Here's your food," he said, handing me a bag.

"And your chocolate shake," but he was holding nothing. He simply had his hand extended.

I just looked at him, confused. 

"Here's your chocolate shake," he said slyly, moving his hand up and down. And then the joke clicked. He was black, and he was offering me a shake.

Laughing together, we clasped hands in a hearty hello.  I didn't get a chance to tell him what it meant to have such a cheerful exchange right at that moment, or how many giggles the story brought to worried, exhausted friends and family. But kudos to the dude in Sioux Falls who served me ice cream in the cleverest way possible and brightened a small corner of my day.

A Streetcar Named Revenge

On my drive to work a couple weeks ago, I was stopped at a light. I watched a huge group of pedestrians amble across the street in front of me. When the signal turned green, there were still a few stragglers making their way through the crosswalk, so naturally I just waited.

The guy in the car next to me, however, jerked forward and literally gunned his engine, seemingly as a warning to the people blocking the street ahead.

The question I would have loved to ask him is this: What were you threatening to do, exactly? Run them down in cold blood? Because you realize that, even if they happened to be crossing against a light, it's still MURDER, right? Like, there are general traffic laws, and then there's deliberate vehicular homicide.

A friend of mine touched on this topic recently, albeit much less seriously. We were talking about his daughter's ne'er-do-well ex-husband, and I asked if he really hated the guy.

"Well, no. I don't hate him. I mean, he's a person."

I thought this a very considerate, measured, even magnanimous response. Then he added,

"But I could easily hit him with my car."

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.