I Do-nate

My sister is getting married this spring. Last weekend, her future husband went out with a few of his buddies for a bachelor party. He returned home happy and tipsy, but the next morning he wanted to have a serious discussion.

"I have to tell you about something I did last night," he said.

My sister's heart dropped, her mind raced. He's generally a trustworthy guy, but maybe a final celebration of freedom brought out a monster.

"At one of the bars we went to, they were having a benefit for some kid. And I gave them the $100 I won in fantasy football."

Not fighting or gambling or hookers and blow. Just misplaced guilt over the idea that he maybe should have done something "fun" with that much money.

We think he's a keeper.

Aw, Nuts!

When I was in high school, I worked at a drug/variety store that carried everything from medicine and cosmetics to fabric and household goods. It truly was such a wide spectrum of items that it was easy to get confused.

Hence, this story that I hope is still being handed down as drugstore lore.

One of my coworkers passed a young boy, maybe in his tweens, standing mystified in the aisle that held all the cake decorating and party supplies. When she asked if she could help him find anything, he was suddenly quite embarrassed. He turned three shades of red and mumbled under his breath that another employee had directed him there in pursuit of a particular item.

"What are you looking for?" my coworker inquired, unaware that frostings and candles could require such a hushed tone of voice.

"Ummmmm . . . well . . . nut cups," the boy confessed.

And in an instant, my coworker realized the error, a slang term misinterpreted. What he wanted was an athletic supporter with a protective cup. What he was staring at on the shelf were tiny paper cups intended to hold nuts and candy as a complement to a festive table setting.

"But these seem kind of small," he said.

Somehow, in that moment, my coworker maintained her composure. She sent him, with reassurances and apologies, to the sports equipment section.

But I still think about that kid. How relieved he ultimately was, and how confused he must have been, wondering A) how everything was supposed to fit, and B) how such thin paper could possibly shield his testicles from harm.

He must have thought the initial advice was absolute bollocks.

Wondering Woman

On my way to work, I walk through an area of the Minneapolis skyway that's currently undergoing significant construction. So I'm used to seeing signs about what the workers are doing that day, and how it might be dangerous.

Yesterday, I saw a new warning.  It read "Caution: Lasers in Use."

And it gave me pause. Because I know how to protect myself in case of "Hard Hat Area" or "Earplugs/Goggles Required" or "Respirator Use Beyond This Point." But . . . lasers? 

They can come out of nowhere, man, and I'm just not equipped to deal with that kind of threat.

The best defense I could come up with was this:

We're gonna need more than hard hats this time, people.

BYOB

I was reminded recently of something crazy that happened to a friend several years ago.

He was driving in a residential neighborhood when another car ran a stop sign from the side. Unable to hit the brakes quickly enough, he clipped the vehicle that had popped out in front of him.

After taking a moment to recover from the impact, the other driver emerged from his car . . . holding a beer. Just stepped out with his open can, arms wide, to have a casual conversation with a fellow motorist. Like, "Hey, buddy. You get it. These things happen when you're hammered and operating heavy machinery."

The man was adamant that nobody needed to call the police, no damage had been done, and no insurance information should be exchanged. Imagine that.

Recognizing that he was dealing with a heavily intoxicated person who might be unpredictable, my friend assured him that all was well. He returned to his car, took down the man's license plate, and called the cops as soon as the dude swerved off down the road again.

This wasn't exactly your run-of-the-mill accident story, but it didn't seem like anything too extraordinary until my friend pointed out one incredible thing.

"Cotonee," he said. "I hit a drunk driver!"

He had somehow reversed the heartbreakingly opposite trend and landed someone in police custody by plowing into them before they could hit anyone else. 

And how many people can say that?

You're Shittin' Me

Just before Christmas, my dad asked me what I'd gotten my sister for a gift.  I told him she'd requested a Squatty Potty.

"A what?"

I explained that it's a plastic platform you use to prop your feet higher when you sit on the toilet, and it angles your body more correctly for easier elimination. 

"Oh," he said. 

We didn't talk about it again until I was rearranging the presents in the living room the next day. He pointed at the biggest box.

"What's in that one? Is that your sister's . . ."

I watched him search for the right answer, and I was not disappointed.

" . . . Shittin' Buddy?"

This, I think, is a far better product name, and I intend to wage an aggressive social media campaign to change it.  I can't wait to see the advertising.

Pumped Up

A couple weeks ago, I stopped at a gas station to fill my car. As I stood at the pump watching my money slip away, I caught a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked to the right and saw a large, muscular man barreling toward me. Just running full steam in my direction. 

I was about a second from crouching down defensively when he pulled up short at the trash can next to me. And that's when I realized: He wasn't running at me. He decided he needed to throw something away so desperately that he was willing to brave 5-degree Fahrenheit temperatures wearing nothing but a teeny tiny tank top and shorts. He slammed his garbage into the bin, whirled around, and dashed madly back to his car. 

Turns out enormous biceps and numerous tattoos (no matter how badass) do not protect against Mother Nature's icy wrath. Only coats do that. And common sense. 

Titanic Shoutdown

A movie theater is not your living room.

I'll never understand why this concept is so hard to grasp, but it seems incomprehensible to many moviegoers that 100 other people did not pay good money to hear a stranger's running commentary on whatever they're watching.

Now, if I'm at a theatre seeing a live play, I will not hesitate to shush a bitch. Because that's a costly, one-time experience where the actors on stage are also affected by rude patrons. And if you're sitting close to a talker, other people are counting on you to save their night from ruin.

A friend of mine takes this responsibility seriously, even at the movies. "You WILL NOT talk during this show!" she once preemptively commanded a group of rowdy teenage boys during the previews.

And she does it with flair. She once shut down a guy who was chronically thinking aloud by calling him a "gaping windbag."

But one of the funniest movie exchanges I can remember (aside from the time I heard a theater employee kick the broken projector and call it a "fucking slut"), was when I saw Titanic with my sister and her friend in high school.

This may or may not have been the time someone snuck a pizza-sized dessert cookie into the theater in the waistband of their pants. Who can say.

There had been several outbursts from a woman behind us during this film. But when the epic scene arrived where Kate Winslet is lying, cold and blueish, on the board in the ocean, the commentary kicked up a notch.

"Oh my god, do you think she's dead? She looks dead. Is Rose dead? Did she die?"

My sister's friend just snapped. She whirled around and yelled, "Of COURSE she's not dead, she's TELLING THE STORY! Now SHUT UP!"

It pays to follow the narrative. Sometimes it will even answer your questions before you need to ask them.

Delight in Delay

In honor of the many (possibly frustrated) Thanksgiving travelers, I share this story. 

Last spring, I took a trip to the Grand Canyon with my sister. We flew into Phoenix and then rented a car for the drive to the rim. 

After grabbing a shuttle from the airport, we found the lobby of our rental company absolutely overflowing with people. There was a "take a number" station at the entrance, and my small slip of paper said 52.

The number displayed on the digital sign above the clerk's counter was 11.

It was a disheartening gap, but luckily my sister and I share the same roll-with-it attitude about travel. We nabbed a couple seats and pulled out books and phones for the wait.

However, I soon found a much more entertaining way to pass the time. I started watching newcomers pull their own terrible numbers from the machine.

I honestly wish I had a video of all the reactions to those little tickets. They ranged from shock and disbelief to utter dismay and defeat to outright anger. One guy simply glanced up at the service counter sign, threw his number to the ground, and walked away.

Is it schadenfreude if you're in the same predicament? I don't know. But it was great. If I learned one thing, it's that it's physically impossible to hurl a 2-inch piece of paper downward with a force equal to the amount of anger a person is feeling.

An hour later we had our vehicle, and I had run the full gamut of human emotion with my fellow grumbling customers. And although none of them seemed to realize that we'd shared something special, I was truly thankful that everyone takes low-stakes bad news differently.