Cruze Snooze

A few weeks ago, I started a four-hour drive back from South Dakota on very little sleep after my sister’s wedding. I was feeling drowsy after about an hour on the road, so I stopped to grab some food, which perked me up for about 45 minutes before my eyelids got heavy again.

Knowing I was truly running out of steam, I decided to pull in at a gas station and take a quick nap in my car. This turned out to be a very smart decision, because I had barely reclined my seat before I dropped off into dreamland.

However, when I finally snored myself awake, I had no idea how much time had passed. I wandered groggily into the station, used the restroom, grabbed a drink and a snack, and was starting to feel more refreshed when I got to the counter.

“Hello,” the clerk said.

“Hi,” I replied.

“Will this be all for you?”

“Yep.”

There was a long pause.

“Did you catch a little snooze out there?”

Another pause, while I realized that he must have been peering out the window for quite some time at a seemingly unconscious woman tipped back gracelessly in a Chevy Cruze.

“Yeaaaaah . . .” I admitted. “But I don’t know for how long.”

“Oh, it was only about 15 or 20 minutes,” he assured me with a smile.

I couldn’t decide whether it felt creepy or extra safe to have someone watching over me and clocking the time as I slept in public. I’m going to go with extra safe, because that’s really the only feeling you should hope to have toward random men at gas stations. 

I guess after a weekend of partying, you could end up with worse things than an unleaded guardian angel. 

Critter Titters

I have to share a couple of recent animal-related comments that cracked me up.

COMMENT ONE

I told a friend that I ordered a Cuban sandwich at a new restaurant over the weekend. He immediately asked whether it was pressed adequately, since we both agree the thinness can make or break a great Cuban. I replied no, sadly, and he shook his head. Then he said, "I hate it when that happens. I ordered one once, and they served it on bread that was so fluffy, it looked like, at best, a kitten might have just gently rested a paw on top for a moment."

COMMENT TWO

I was talking with my sister about why her husband hates bees so much, especially fuzzy, lovable bumble bees. She summed it up succinctly and hilariously, and the issue is apparently the deception: "He doesn't like how they seem friendly, but then it turns out that their asses are knives." 

It's the betrayal that stings.

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!"