Mature Content by Courtney Mehlhaff

Here's how I know I'm officially old.

And no, I'm not talking about the moment when I realized that, from this point forward, any time I have a dessert, there better be coffee with it. Although that did happen. And if you serve me something sweet at an event without also providing a cuppa joe, I'm gonna be pissed.

I'm talking about the time when I finally watched the movie "Basic Instinct," (only 26 years late) which was supposed to be quite sexy -- and, truth be told, probably is, although Michael Douglas kind of killed the vibe for me. Turns out he's a dude I just want to see solving crimes, not getting naked.

Anyway, there's a moment in the movie when he takes Jeanne Tripplehorn home after a long day at the office, and in a moment of unchecked desire, he rips off her clothes to reveal some slinky undergarments.

It was at this point that I heard myself shout loudly and sarcastically, "Oh, like she wore those stockings to WORK!"

Are your wild days behind you when practicality pre-empts passion? Time will tell.

Cat Nap by Courtney Mehlhaff

There were several city workers milling about my street today, courtesy of a construction project in my neighborhood. It reminded me of last year around this time, when I looked out my front window to see a group of guys from the utility company gathered around a pickup.

See, they'd sent out a crew to move my gas meter from the inside of my house to the outside. And it was taking a LONG time. I watched this burly round-table through my blinds until one of the men broke off and approached the front door.

"Hey, what's going on?" I asked.

In reply, he muttered something about an animal. I immediately conjured some long-dead critter they'd unearthed in my basement. He must have seen the panic flash across my face, because he quickly said, "It's the foreman's cat. He didn't know it was under the hood of his truck this morning when he left."

My brief moment of relief was replaced by horror, as I'd heard similar stories about squirrels that had nested on a warm engine, never to scamper again.

"Oh no!" I said, and then proceeded to watch a group of grown men huddle together, retching, to deal with the grisly business at hand. From what I could glean, they sent in the newbie, wearing an air filtration mask and goggles, ostensibly because he had the smallest hands.

When the task was completed, they turned their attention back to my house, and before they took off, I asked the man if everything was ok.

"Yeah," he said. "We got it cleaned up. But now the foreman's gotta go home and tell his kids what happened."

And I thought, NOOOOOO. He most certainly does NOT have to tell this gruesome tale to his children. In fact, he should probably tell them anything BUT this story. There has never been a better opportunity to reveal the existence of a lovely "farm" where that cat now resides.

My hairdresser was recently telling me about a beloved dog she'd had in childhood that "went to live on a farm." She said she was well into her 20s before it dawned on her that her pet had, in fact, died.

"All that time I thought that dog was running happily through rolling green fields in front of a charming little farmhouse with a picket fence."

At that point, one of the other hairdressers started laughing.

"What's so funny about that?!" my hairdresser demanded.

"She already knows what it looks like." The other woman shook her head a few times and continued chuckling to herself. "She's got a whole picture in her head of what that farm looks like."

I can only hope that foreman painted a similarly comforting picture for his kiddos to take into adulthood.

Captive Audience by Courtney Mehlhaff

Some friends of mine live about four blocks away from me, and tonight they dropped off a set of keys so I can watch their house while they're on vacation. These friends have had a copy of my keys since last year, when I proved I was not trustworthy enough to be left alone in my own home. Here's what happened.

I was cleaning out the basement, which had been left fully stocked by the previous owners with all manner of junk -- wobbly shelving, used paint cans, old lamps and mirrors, carpet and linoleum scraps, and about 100 ft. of coaxial cable for some reason. But they'd also left a wardrobe-sized storage cabinet that was in decent shape, and I decided it would serve me well in the laundry room, which was on the opposite side of the basement.

I also decided it would be a good idea to move this large piece of furniture all by myself. After all, I'd been manhandling everything else on my own, and if I waited around for someone to help me, it might never get done.

So I did what all foolishly ambitious people who live alone do. I rocked that bad boy back and forth on its bottom edges all the way across the basement. But when I got to the laundry room doorway, I made a fateful decision: I went in first, intending to pull the cabinet in after me.

You know what they say about the road to hell.

In a few short seconds, the cabinet was hung up on the baseboard lip, with about an inch of clearance on all sides. It was really wedged in there. And I was stuck. I'd purchased my first home and then immediately trapped myself in my own basement. Like an asshole. With a mortgage.

I'd like to think I get marginally smarter with each passing year, but sadly that's not always the case. Self-administered booby trap notwithstanding, I was bright enough to take a thoughtful pause to reevaluate my situation and regroup. I sat down and assessed my options.

There were no windows I could use for escape, but there was a utility sink, so I had water. My phone was also in my back pocket, although all my doors were locked and/or security-barred, so any rescue attempt would involve a B&E. 

There was only one thing to do. I attacked that furniture with renewed vigor and all the desperation of someone who fears having to explain themselves to first responders. Did I get the cabinet out? Yes. Did I break it? Of course. Did I pull an insane number of muscles in my chest and back in the process? No surprises here.

It's one of those stories you debate not telling anyone. But I'm glad I did. Because after I related it to my friend from the neighborhood, she said, "Yeeeeeeaaaahhhhhh . . . we're gonna need a set of house keys from you."  It was a nice way of volunteering to save my dumb ass the next time I miscalculate, which is a very neighborly thing to do.

Cap and Pwn by Courtney Mehlhaff

Last night I was sitting around a backyard fire roasting marshmallows with some friends and their kids. They were kicking off their summer vacation by throwing all their homework from the past year into the flames. This is what I asked an 11-year-old, and the conversation that followed.

ME:  "Hey! I heard you gave a speech at your school. What did you say? Something inspirational?"

BOY: "Yeah."

BOY'S FRIEND: "I thought you were going to talk about different stuff."

BOY: "Like what?"

BOY'S FRIEND: "I don't know, like video games."

BOY: "It was a fifth grade graduation ceremony. Why the heck would I talk about video games?"

BOY'S FRIEND: (thoughtful for a second) "I guess maybe that would be a way not to graduate."

Blown Out of Proportion by Courtney Mehlhaff

When I was in high school, I worked at a drugstore. Part of my job was delivering prescription medication and other supplies to people who weren't able to leave their homes. This frequently included transporting full oxygen tanks and returning with empty ones.

Now, the only thing my boss ever told me about O2 tanks was, "Don't bang them together or they'll blow up," which, as you can imagine, made quite an impression. But even though it felt like I was piloting a load of active bombs, I didn't have any good way to secure them in the delivery van other than seatbelting them into individual seats.

One day, I must have stopped a bit short at an intersection, and one of the tanks slipped out of its straps. I heard it hit the floor, followed by a loud hiss, and my 16-year-old brain immediately thought, "This is it. This is how I go." And I fucking bailed out of that van right in the middle of the street. Luckily I threw it in park before diving for safety.

I don't know how long I stood there cowering before it dawned on me that I had not been consumed by an apocalyptic ball of fire. I also don't know how long it took me to realize that nothing had actually exploded -- the valve at the top of the tank had simply twisted open, and air was shooting out. 

I do remember looking around to see if anyone had witnessed my vehicular panic attack. As luck would have it, there were no bystanders to tell the tale of a delivery run that ended not with a bang but with a whimper.

Duct and Cover by Courtney Mehlhaff

There's a piece of gray tape haphazardly slapped over the camera on my work laptop. Here's how it got there.

I had to call into an online meeting one morning, and since I was the first person to log on, the web service somehow recognized me as the current host. It took this recognition literally by activating my camera and projecting video of my face onto the screen.

Did I mention I was working from home that day? And had literally rolled out of bed and switched on my computer? So the image staring back was my disheveled self, complete with bed head and in full pajamas, like a real sleepy weirdo just slouched on my couch.

The instant that feed from my living room went live, I hit the deck as if shots had been fired. I couldn't get back onto my keyboard to remedy the situation, so I crawled across the floor army-style and fetched the quickest fix I could think of -- and indeed, the best fix for many of life's problems -- duct tape.

But in order to apply it, I had to sneak up on my computer from behind like a frickin' assassin and stick it over the camera before I could safely sit down again, in all my groggy glory. 

Fool me once, WebEx, shame on me. And tape on you.

Someone to Watch Over Me by Courtney Mehlhaff

Last night, I met a friend for dinner to discuss taking a vacation together. After we finished eating, we decided to meet back at my house to continue the planning.

I arrived before she did, and set about doing some outdoor chores while I waited. I was watering flowers when I peered around the corner and saw her pull up. She stopped the car and started scrolling through her phone, and I decided this would be the perfect time to send the following text:

"Hi. I'm looking at you."

And it might have been mildly funny . . . if I'd sent it to my friend in the car, and not accidentally to another friend, who was minding her own business in the privacy of her own home, and understandably confused and alarmed by the message. 

To make matters worse, I didn't know I'd effed up the recipient for a full five to ten minutes, during which I received the following replies but was unresponsive:

"What?"

"From where?"

When I realized what I'd done, I apologized profusely. Five misplaced words made her question her personal safety, and made me an unintentional creep. Which is a new one for me -- here's lookin' at you, kid.

Ant Misbehavin' by Courtney Mehlhaff

Well, against all odds, and following a late April snowstorm that buried us one last time just to show us who's boss, it's finally spring here in Minnesota.

Which means I spent part of last weekend spraying my house for bugs. It took me so long to dismantle the Spider Kingdom when I moved in last year that I don't want to open the door for a surprise coup now that the weather's nice.

But my real concern this season is another creature. Because last year I went down to do laundry and saw what I thought was a pile of dirt in the far corner of my basement . . . it turned out to be a huge mound of ants. Hundreds and hundreds of them, thankfully all dead, though that fact was also a bit disconcerting. It looked like a tiny insect Jonestown, minus miniature cups of Kool-Aid scattered about.

As I stood there horrified, I noticed one little ant still wriggling slightly. And I couldn't help leaning over to whisper, "Buddy . . . what HAPPENED here?"

Alas, there was no answer, and thus no explanation for the massacre, so it remains a creepy crawly mystery that I quickly hoovered up. Then I fought the urge to burn my vacuum cleaner.

Somehow "kill it with fire" doesn't seem the most practical go-to solution now that I own this pile of bricks.