Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

About this time last year, I was in Canada visiting some friends. On the last day of my trip, I had to get up around 5:00 a.m. to catch the train. This would have been hard enough for a late sleeper like me, but add the fact that I’d been up most of the night with terrible cramps, and it was a very rough morning indeed.

Out of sheer desperation for some pain relief, I stopped at a Shell station about halfway through my rainy slog toward the Amtrak depot. No sooner did the guy open the door for business than I made a beeline for the lone bottle of ibuprofen on the shelf.

I was haggard from no sleep and Lamaze breathing through gritted teeth, plus dripping wet. So I must have looked like death warmed over when I slammed a water and medication onto the counter.

The sales clerk, a dude in his early 20s, gave me a knowing stare.

“Wild weekend?”

I may have glared back at him. There’s no way to be sure. I wanted to say, “No, buddy. It just feels like my uterus is being ripped apart by wolves. Now give me the pills.”

But if he actually thought I might have indulged in some bacchanalian craziness instead of touring art galleries, taking ferry rides, and eating ice cream . . . well, who was I to disabuse him of this much more interesting fantasy?

“Sure,” I said, fishing out my remaining Canadian coins. “Thanks.”

And I walked away feeling sort of unjustifiably badass, courtesy of angry ovaries. Work it to your advantage, ladies. Work it.

What More Could You Need?

This sign has been up at my office for well over a year. I know it's supposed to say "lock," but every time I walk by, I do a little double-take. It could be a tragic failure of penmanship or a bold yet anonymous cry for some lovin'. Either way, mistakes have been made.

Operation: Prankster

When my mother was in the hospital this past fall, I spent several intense afternoons in the surgical waiting area while she underwent various procedures. It was a nice enough place to silently freak out -- comfy chairs, outdated magazines, free scalding coffee, a few TVs.

The feature that got the most attention was a humongous screen that took up much of one wall. It had every patient's name on a grid that was color coded and updated in real time so you could follow your loved one's progress. 

One day I found myself sitting next to a table of older ladies, probably in their 70s, at least one of whom was trying to track her sister's procedure. I'm not sure if the surgery was serious, but these ladies certainly weren't. They started by debating the color codes.

"It's the purple one."

"No, that's TEAL! See? On the bottom there."

"Oh, I can't see that from here."

They were quiet for a bit, or I was distracted, because the next thing I knew, one of the women walked right up to the display and started poking at the color blocks with her finger, like it was a giant iPad. The other ladies began laughing hysterically. In between their cackles, I caught the following comments:

" And then we made her touch the screen!"

" I couldn't help myself."

"You were in on it, too!"

"You could've said DON'T DO IT!"

More hysterical laughter.

I forgot my anxiety for just a moment and laughed along with these jokesters, thankful that punking your girls never goes out of style, solemn situations be damned.

Special Delivery

This past Sunday, I was reminded of a Mother's Day several years ago, when my sister and I sent our mom a bouquet of beautiful flowers with a particularly heartfelt and rhyming note. 

It read, simply:

"To our mother, our friend, our very best pal . . . thanks for shooting us out your birth canal."

Feel free to use this sentiment in the future if it accurately captures your hilarious relationship with your mother as well.

I'd have given anything to see the workers at the florist write it on the card.

Great White Nope

Sometimes, the best nuggets of wisdom come from unexpected places.

I was talking with a friend about the movie "Jaws," specifically about the character of Quint. He's the grizzled shark hunter who sets out with the police chief and a marine biologist to dispatch the titular menace.

In a memorable scene, he recounts his tale of surviving the sinking of the USS Indianapolis in shark-infested waters, and the subsequent sailor feeding frenzy that has haunted him ever since.

At the end of the movie (and I don't think this is a spoiler, since you've had 42 years to see it), Quint winds up in the mouth of the Great White he was hunting, horrifically killed in the very manner he'd escaped decades before.

I said to my friend, "You know, the tragedy isn't that Quint died. It was that he was eaten by a shark."

My friend considered this for just a moment. Then he said matter-of-factly, "Well, he kept them in his life."

And I thought, how true. How many times do we choose to make dangerous things a part of our lives, when avoiding them would be so obvious and easy? Just stay on land, man! It's a foolproof way to avoid being fish food. If you venture out into the open ocean, which is essentially the living room of nature's most perfect killing machine, and you don't make it back . . . well, that's on you.

That's all on you.

Fashion Plate

I had lunch a couple weeks ago with my great aunt, a thin, sprightly 86-year-old lady who is just a delight. We started talking about the Marshall Field's department store closing in downtown Minneapolis, and she reminisced about the grand old days when it was still Dayton's.

"Just after the war . . ." she said, and I decided everyone should be lucky enough to know someone who can say that phrase and mean "WWII." 

" . . . my aunt took me there and bought me a pair of nylons. And that was a really big deal."

She then described the absolute necessity of keeping those seams straight, and how women were always stealing quick glances at their calves to check on this issue.

"You know, back in those days, we wore hats and suits and gloves, and everything had to match."

Sitting across from me at the restaurant, she was rocking a very smart turtleneck sweater set and coordinated jewelry. She was, as always, flawlessly on point. 

"Well, you must look around now and think everyone is a total slob," I said.

A peal of laughter escaped her lips, and she said with amused disgust:

"Oh HEAVENS! Just LOOK at me. I'm wearing Reeboks and DENIM!"

T and Sympathy

I was at Target the other day, just picking up a few odds and ends and hoping I could get out of the store for less than $50.

When I was ready to check out, a cashier in her early 20s waved me over to her lane. As I placed my items on the counter, she asked how I was. I replied that I was fine (because that's what you say, regardless of how you're actually feeling) and then asked how she was doing.

"I've had better days," she said.

It was kind of refreshing to hear a different response, so I asked if it was just feeling like a Monday.

"Not really. My girlfriend just broke up with me."

Oh no, I thought. She really is being honest. And she really does look upset. And the fact that she's sharing this information with a random customer means she's truly having a tough time. It's the kind of scenario that strikes fear in the heart of any introvert, but I was already in too deep.

"That sucks," I said.

"Yeah," she continued, bagging my things in the slowest, saddest way imaginable. "The worst part is that she said being with me made her realize how much she missed her ex. So now they're back together."

That bitch, I thought, but settled for something more innocuous. "Oh, man. That's the worst."

"Yeah."

When she handed me the receipt, there were tears in her eyes. I thought about every embarrassing time I've tried not to cry at work and failed. And I heard myself say something kind of hokey but something I've found to be true nonetheless.

"Well, I know it doesn't feel like it now, but that hole in your heart is just making room for someone better."

That prompted a small, sniffly smile.

"Hang in there, okay?"

She nodded, and I took my toothpaste and decongestant and gum and left. I felt a little silly, but maybe I brought her a tiny bit of comfort. Sometimes the transaction isn't over until you've been forced into a rare moment of spontaneous stranger engagement.

Declaration of Inebriation

A few months ago, I took a train trip from Seattle to Vancouver, and on the return journey, I learned a little something about how seriously the United States takes its border checks.

Pretty seriously, as it turns out. As soon as we crossed some invisible line of demarcation, a voice on the loudspeaker informed us that the dining car would be temporarily closed. It also instructed us to remain seated and not to use the restrooms until after the customs agents finished their sweep of the cars.

Immediately following this announcement, a man two rows ahead of me ran into the bathroom.

Well, I thought, when you gotta go, you gotta go. But he did not return.

His empty seat did not go unnoticed by the agents, who quickly discovered the locked lavatory and began inquiring within. When that wasn't successful, they enlisted the help of the man's teenage son, who grudgingly pounded and pleaded.

Still nothing. As we all sat in uncomfortable silence, I wondered many things. Mainly, what the hell was he doing in there? Being sick? Flushing drugs? Was the jig up? Would he come out guns blazing? Should I preemptively duck and cover?

Finally, the door opened. A very annoyed border agent asked if the man had anything to declare. To everyone's surprise, he replied, "Yes!"

At this point, I was made of questions.

"What do you have to declare, sir?"

"Oh . . . nothing." And the idiot just sat down.

To be honest, I was more disappointed than relieved. All that suspense and zero payoff. Fortunately, the group of rowdy, loopy, 20-something girls next to me provided a punchline. They'd been loudly talking about how they'd partied through the night, were still half drunk and starving, and hadn't been to sleep yet. 

Just as things were wrapping up and the agents were out of earshot, one of them shouted, "Yeah, I got something to declare!"

We all waited for it.

" . . . I feel like SHIT!"