Pickup Lines 101

So here's the rule, crazy men on the street. If you want to charm strange women, keep your comments specific.

Example #1:  A man once approached me and told me I had nice teeth. He then asked whether I was married. When I said no, he replied, "That's a SHAME!" Survey says? Compliment.

Example #2:  A man once approached me and told me I had nice dimples. OK. He then told me I had a nice mouth. Survey says? Creepy! Having "a nice mouth" is much too vague a statement. (Nice why? And for what?) Comments like these make people hear banjo music and run in the opposite direction.

Do you see the fundamental difference between complimentary and creepy, crazy men on the street? No, I didn't think you would.

Shoe Fly, Don't Bother Me

Last week I was (as always) waiting patiently for my bus, when a man approached me with the following offer: "I'd sure like to shine up your shoes."

The fact that he was indeed carrying a shoe-shine kit assured me that this was not a pick-up line, although I can think of several appropriately dirty responses that I won't repeat here.

As it was raining and I was a bit pressed for time, I responded with, "No thanks."  His reply?

"So you're okay with them lookin' all messed up like that?"

To be fair, I was wearing my 9-year-old Eastlands, which have traveled with me worldwide and been the victim of numerous slips on the ice here at home. So, needless to say, they are rather scuffed and beginning to leak in wet weather. (Now that I'm actually typing this out, I begin to realize it might be time to buy some new footwear.)  But that's why I was wearing them ... they're great for kicking around in and shuffling to and from work. I leave them with their scars intact, because A. I just don't care,  B. They aren't Jimmy Choos, and C. They still feel like slippers. So suck it, Shoe-Shine Man!

I did have to admire his sales tactics, however. He offered a service nicely, was turned down, and resorted to insulting his potential customer, presumably with the goal of shaming me in public into accepting the aforementioned service. 

It reminded me of the time I foolishly answered my apartment door to find a man asking me to buy magazines. When I politely declined, he proceeded to stand there and angrily demand to know why I didn't want to support his continuing education, while I gripped the spatula I'd carried to the door (mid-dinner preparation) ever tighter. Maybe you catch more flies with confrontation than honey. I've never tried.

But what if other businesses took this approach?

"I'd sure like to put braces on your kid ....  No?  So you're okay with those jacked-up teeth?"

"I'd sure like to be your personal trainer ... No?  So you're okay with being a fat-ass then?"

"I'd sure like to cut your hair ... No?  So you're okay with that outdated rat's nest on your head?

Just think of the possibilities! Would we be more inclined to accept services if we knew an insult (and most likely a terrible truth) were to follow, loudly and publicly? I don't know. What I do know is this: rather than inciting the mob around me to urge me to take care of my battered shoes, Shoe-Shine Man merely drew a few incredulous and annoyed tsks and laughs as he moved on down the street ... with no takers.

Be My Baby Tonight

My sister is flying to St. Louis this week to visit a friend who recently had a baby, and she came up with the following list.  I had to share because it's hilarious.

THE TOP TEN REASONS HAVING ME AS A HOUSEGUEST WILL BE JUST LIKE TAKING CARE OF A NEWBORN:

10. I cry when I want something.
9. I feed every two hours.
8. Filling my pants is cause for me to rejoice.
7. If I'm up at 2 a.m. I'll make sure you are too.
6. I smile when I'm gassy.
5. I grow out of clothes before I can even wear them.
4. I'm fascinated with your breasts.
3. If I drink too much I might spit up on you.
2. When I wake up my bed is covered in drool.

1. NAPS!!!!!!!

All Is Vanity

Today I saw perhaps the most intriguing license plate yet.  It read as follows:  OUT NOW.  I was immediately struck by the possibilities for interpretation on this one, so here are six hidden messages I think might be lurking beneath those six letters.

The person driving . . .

1.  Really wants us to bring the troops home.

2.  Is no longer in the closet.

3.  Was recently released from prison.

4.  Is no longer popular.

5.  Would like to announce that they're not cooped up with the kids.

6.  Wants to car-jack you.

Any other suggestions are welcome.

Just Say Neigh

I was just reading through an old journal, and I came across an entry that simply listed a headline I'd seen that day on Yahoo News.  It may only have appeared briefly, but I was lucky enough to catch it:

"Girl Kicked By Horse in Stable Condition"

Thank you, lazy editors of the world.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Swifter, Higher, More Nerve-Wracking

So I'm pretty sure I should never be allowed to watch the Olympics.

I don't mean that I should only be granted access to the highlights to prevent me from wasting entire days and nights watching the full coverage (which I do). I mean there should be a media blackout every two years, and only in my apartment. You may be thinking, "Why would Courtney need a Costas-free zone?  She's not athletic in the least!" Well, here it is: When it comes to the Olympics, I just get too invested.

It's those damn inspirational featurettes on all the athletes that does me in. Really, in the end, I'd rather not know what hardship or disease or injury or tragedy that ski jumper overcame to get to this point ... this twenty seconds that cost him the last twenty years of his life ... this split second that will define his entire career. It's too much pressure, for him and for me. But now I'm in it with him. Curse you, NBC!  You made me care.

Figure skating and gymnastics are almost unbearable for me, although of course I watch them, sometimes through my fingers. It's just too much heartbreak, people. Too much drama. Last night I heard myself say on more than one occasion, "I think I'm gonna throw up." This is a phrase that should never be associated with something as innocuous as a triple salchow.

These are the two things that come out of my mouth most often while watching Olympic coverage (other than outrageous bursts of profanity; much like when I play video games, I simply cannot be held responsible for my language during sporting events):

1.  "GO-GO-GO-GO-GO!"  I shout this without even knowing it, at an insane volume, and it apparently applies to all situations in all sports.

2.  "Oh, look how happy they are!" Invariably I find myself weeping along with the competitors and their families, even if I'd previously been rooting against them.

And I do root against them, because for some reason, I'm all about that effing medal count. I'm not proud of it, and I'm not typically uber-nationalistic, but I watch that tally like a hawk ... or an eagle, as the case may be.

I don't know where this competitive streak comes from, because I don't rabidly follow sports on a regular basis (with the exception of World Cup Soccer, but that's only every four years, so some spectacular enthusiasm is practically mandated). I loves me some Roger Federer, and I'm a fair-weather Twins fan, but you won't find me painted up in the stands somewhere, waving a flag like a crazy person.

Here's the thing about me, though. Maybe it's because I'm a bit ambivalent, but I can really get invested in any sport. Even if I have no idea what's going on, I just have to pick a side and go with it. When I was in Ireland, I was enthralled with cricket. In Japan, I was glued to those sumo tournaments. I can even sit with my dad and watch NASCAR for an afternoon. So maybe my mania is purely situational.

I'll end with Exhibit A for why my Olympic viewing privileges should be revoked, and I hate to admit it, but this is true. In 2004, I was watching the Athens games, and the US men's relay swimming team was battling Australia for the gold. (This was the precursor to the Phelps fever that hit Beijing in 2008, during which my friends and I cheered so loudly that we blatantly woke up a baby.)

I'm standing in my living room, crouched slightly, very intent on the action unfolding on the TV, and suddenly the US wins, and I, in some random burst of childlike joy, decide that an appropriate spontaneous celebration would be to yelp and leap into the air. With my fists stretched straight up in victory. Which, combined with my freakishly long monkey arms and my jump, made me roughly 8' 3".  I had 8' ceilings. Covered in popcorn finish.

Here's what happened: I managed not only to take a chunk out of the ceiling, but also to take most of the skin off all my knuckles. So as Michael Phelps was climbing out of the pool, I was standing amid a shower of bloody plaster. But you know what? I was still happy.

Plus, in the days that followed, when people asked me what the hell happened to my hands, I could shrug and say matter-of-factly, "Bar room brawl." And that, my friends, was as good as gold.

eM hsaW

I saw a car the other day with a fresh coating of snow on its back window (not a shocker in MN). What was interesting is that someone had taken time out of their day to carefully scrawl "Fuck Dave" in the pristine white powder. 

This wasn't a hasty scribble.  It was printed in all caps, thoughtful and neat and deliberate.

I was immediately intrigued by this for several reasons. First, who's Dave?  Is he the driver of the car?  If so, the epithet must be quite personal. Whoever wrote it has to either know which car Dave drives (a disgruntled neighbor or coworker perhaps) or, in an even better scenario, ride in that car with him often enough to think he's an asshole (a carpool buddy, perhaps a girlfriend).

Then again, the message wasn't "Fuck you, Dave," so maybe that car is just an unwitting bearer of a larger message, much as a graffitied bus bench can be.  *See my posting from September 2008, titled "Dylan, What Did You Do?"

Next question: How long do you think Dave drove around that day before noticing that he was viewing all the vehicles behind him through a smear on his good name? If the message's author had really been thinking, and if the sentiment was indeed personal, it should have been written backward, so that it was clearly readable in the rear view. It's not like the rest of us wouldn't have figured it out. Plus, it really would have packed a wallop as soon as Dave threw that car in reverse.

My point is this: If you're going to use nature as a dry erase board of profanity, make it count. Be inventive. Have a sense of humor, like the person who wrote "SLUR" on the back of a bus seat. 

I'll give this particulr vandal props, though. Because we use snow for many things ... we make angels with it, we build men out of it, but I've never before seen the F-bomb rendered so perfectly in it.

Today's Lesson: Hot Things Are Dangerous

I'm telling the following story for only one purpose:  I'd like you to conjure this image whenever you're feeling a little down or uncoordinated, because I guarantee you'll feel better about yourself afterward.

So tonight I got home from work and decided to make supper.  Something easy, something that I could split up into individual portions and take to work for the rest of the week.  I settled on goulash and spaghetti, both lovely midwestern dishes whose recipes start (as every good dinner should) with 1 lb. of hamburger.

I was cooking away quite successfully, using three of four burners.  I'm not bragging.  On the back burner I had my goulash noodles, hamburger, onions, and tomato soup simmering, and on the front I had my spaghetti sauce warming up.  I reached over the sauce to add some cheese to the goulash, and right as my arm passed over the front pot, the molten blob of Prego inside decided to bubble up and explode.

Now, I'm not sure what went through my mind in that split second when the sauce hit my skin, but I think I may have assumed I'd been rudely assaulted in some fashion, or perhaps that an invisible cowboy ninja had stabbed me with a tiny branding iron.  The point is this -- whatever fired between my synapses, it directed my body to spasm violently backward, my outstretched and sizzling arm jerking up, hand contracting.

It's important to note that in that hand was an open bag of shredded cheese.

What resulted was a veritable downpour of monterey jack.  No, more like a snowstorm.  Except instead of the 10" currently falling outside, this one was in my kitchen, and there was no way my landlord was going to come shovel it for me.

After the explosion, I pulled myself together enough to realize what had happened, turned down the burner, and stuck my arm under the faucet.  When I looked up to find a wall covered in sauce and a floor covered in cheese, I wished as I have never wished before that, like an updated Nixon, I secretly videotaped my apartment, so that I could review the previous two minutes in slow motion. Oh, Rose Mary Woods, what treasures slipped through your fingers back in the day?

We'll never know.  All I know is that I now have a dime-sized burn glowing on my wrist, courtesy of nobody but me.  And Prego.  And that invisible cowboy ninja.