Character Study

A couple weeks ago, I attended a play at a local theater. Part of the story revolved around a man and a woman who had had a love affair many years ago but ended up going their separate ways.

In one of the later scenes, the couple reunites, and a very passionate kiss ensues. During this frenzied embrace, for comedic effect, the male actor grabbed the woman's rear end.

It was at this point in the show that an older lady sitting in front of me turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "Ha ha! . . . TRUMP."

While she may have missed the mark a bit in terms of consent, I couldn't have agreed more with the general sentiment about a man who puts the "ass" in harassment. 

Comfortably Numb

When I was about 12 years old, I had to have four teeth removed in preparation for getting braces.

After the dentist unceremoniously yanked my molars, my mom put a slightly groggy Cotonee into the car and headed home. She made one quick stop at a convenience store, leaving me to wait.

I was lolling heavy-lidded in the passenger seat when two younger kids walked by the car. I turned slowly to look at them. They stopped, stared, appeared fairly horrified, and promptly ran in the other direction.

Even in my addled state, I knew this was a weird reaction. So I pulled down the visor and checked the mirror.

And that's when I saw that, unbeknownst to me due to novocaine, two rivulets of blood were running slowly out of the corners of my mouth and down my chin. Like the scariest, most gauze-packed vampire ever to venture out in broad daylight.

When my mom returned, I had to assure her it wasn't residual nitrous oxide that had me giggling.

Blonde Ambition

I was talking with a friend this weekend about how we met while working together many years ago, and I remembered the absolute craziest story about inappropriate workplace comments.

During a particularly busy season, our department hired several temporary workers to help with the overload. They were all in their early 20s, very capable, and perfectly nice for the most part.

We'd been working with them for a few weeks, but we hadn't socialized as a group beyond maybe a quick lunch or two, when one young guy approached my coworker in her office. He made some chit chat and then suggested that the two of them should spend more time together one on one.

My coworker was a bit baffled by his chummy attitude, because everyone was well aware that she was gay, and she hadn't said more than polite hellos to this guy. When she asked why he thought they should hang out, this is what he said. (Remember that this is at work, to a senior team member of the opposite sex, and someone he doesn't know well. I've also cleaned it up a bit.)

"We have a lot in common," he insisted.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well," he said, very matter-of-factly. "We're both blonde. We're both effed up. And we both like p***y."

My coworker was, understandably, stunned. But to her credit, she gathered her wits and simply shot back, "What makes you think I'm effed up?"

He wasn't around long after that. And I don't know if it was bravado, naiveté, or just plain stupidity, but about a month later, this same guy emailed me asking for a recommendation. 

Now that's effed up.

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.