Whippersnapped

Last week this very elderly woman sat next to me on the bus. I have a soft spot for the oldies, probably because I have no grandparents left and my mom has worked in a nursing home for the past 20 years.

So I spent the greater part of my ride wondering two things:

1.  Should I offer to pull the stop cord for her as a courtesy?

2.  Does she think my iPod is a magical piece of moden witchcraft?

The second thought is obviously cruel, since it assumes this woman is not only helplessly out of touch but also incapable of embracing technology. Then again, I remember trying to teach my grandmother to play Super Mario Bros. once.  It did not go well.

But back to the first thought.  I went back and forth on this one.  Would offering to perform such a basic task make me seem like a respectful young lady, or would it imply that I feared that the simple act of reaching up would snap her brittle bones? 

Before I could make up my mind on this contentious issue, the woman stretched her arm behind me, yanked that cord like a mofo, and then managed to accidentally whap me upside the back of the head on the return trip.

At least I think it was accidental.  Maybe she was a mind reader.

Pulling My Hair Out

Let me begin by saying that this blog in no way intends to target specific people and make fun of them, at least by name. Most subjects are (and thankfully remain) anonymous. However, in this particular case, I can't help it.

Every day, my bus passes a house with a large canvas flag out front advertising an at-home beauty shop. In itself, this is a fine idea. What has bothered me for the last three years, and what continues to bother me (to the point that I feel the irrepressible need to rant about it) is the name of the business. The sign reads: "What The Hair Is Going On With Deana?"

This isn't a cute tagline. It's the actual name of the shop. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin, but here are the two biggest problems.

First, the length. How many people find it necessary to use an entire sentence, complete with punctuation, to describe their trade? I'm a small business owner. I didn't name my company "Courtney and Jen Make the Best Greeting Cards Ever!" No, my good readers, I did not. I named it Green Couch Cards. It's simple, it has personal meaning, and it lends itself to a charming graphic.

Second, the "play on words." I have to put this in quotes, because I don't think it can accurately be described as such. Presumably, "hair" is standing in for "heck," or for those of us with potty mouths, "hell." Nowhere in the English language does "hair" even remotely sound like "hell." I've tried it in several different accents. Now, if she had gone with "What the Gel?" we're getting closer to clever. How about "I Don't Give a Snip" or "Tress to Kill" or "Comb Sweet Comb?"

Now, I checked out the website, and the woman actually seems pretty cool, despite her lack of marketing technique. She mentions she's a huge movie fan. So how about "Curl, Interrupted" or "Eyes Wide Cut" or "My Hair Lady?" Even "Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby Pin" would be an improvement at this point.

Of course, some names could be taken the wrong way. "Dirty Hairy" might not work, nor would "Scissor Me." And you'd want to steer clear of anything with the word "blow" in it, unless your goal is to receive numerous phone calls with nothing but heavy breathing on the other end.

The bottom line is this: I'm not saying it's not a good place to get your hair done. I'm just saying a little more thought could have been put into it. I spent ten minutes on it, and (copyright limitations aside) I came up with several options. I can think of three actual salons with great names, if you're into legitimate wordplay: "Shape, Wrap & Roll," "Curl Up & Dye" and another one on the same street, "Foiled Again."

Deana, it's not too late. I have faith in you. Your business is dyeing for a name change. 'Do it now. Make it permanent.

Hey, You Kids! Get Off My Lawn!

Last weekend I helped my sister celebrate her (first annual) 29th birthday. It was a tasteful affair, about 30 people lounging in the reserved section of a restaurant, munching on appetizers, indulging in cake, drinking moderately, and chatting for about four hours. 

Afterward, I went out with my sister and four of her friends to a local downtown bar. It was packed to the brim with hordes of drunken twenty-somethings gyrating to conversation-drowning club music. Oh, and smoking. Did I mention I was in South Dakota?

Long story short . . . I have never felt older in my life.

There is a very limited window in which a person can happily stand (because there is no place to sit) in a crowd of scantily-clad girls selling suckers and draped in penis paraphernalia (because that bachelorette is getting MARRIED, bitches, so whooooo-hooooo let's get a few more shots in before we have to help her paint her new house and throw a baby shower and then support her through the divorce). 

This is the window in which young men, in varying states of boredom and over-zealousness, either brood or swagger their way between potential conquests while shouting about sports stats and calling each other gay.

This window has firmly shut for me. Not that I ever stared through it for too long -- I may have peeked over the sill once or twice, but I can't remember the last time I "partied" that wasn't beers at happy hour or cocktails after the theater.

I know what you're thinking ... "What is she, 80?" No, but the careless expenditure of energy I witnessed last Saturday just exhausted me entirely. My first thought: "I want to give every girl in here a jacket and a ride home." My second thought: "The only guy who's going to hit on me will probably be picking up his daughter."

I think it was about the time when I looked out on the dance floor and saw the blow-up doll hoisted in the air and bobbing to the techno beat that I realized I was officially done. My inner 80-year-old was yelling, "Close that window, you're letting in a draft!" 

Indeed, grandma. Indeed.

Project Runaway

Last week, as I am typically forced to do by the Monday morning sleepies, I went to Starbucks. I would do this every day, if I had money to burn and calories not to. (It's not as if I have so many other vices that I really need to limit my crazy lifestyle, but everything in moderation, I guess.) So a couple times a week, I do indulge in my sweet, sweet mocha.

On this particular morning, I ordered and handed the guy my gift card. He swiped it, handed it back, I said "Thank you," and walked down to the pick-up counter. The guy working the espresso machine then leaned over and said something to the effect of, "I like the colors you're rocking today," meaning he dug the graphic design on my shirt.

I thanked him, and he went on to say that the shirt I was wearing underneath really made it pop.

Let me just say this. While I do make the occasional effort to color coordinate, my wardrobe is typically super repetitive and boring. Beyond my clothing being comfortable, clean, not tattered, and age/work appropriate, I just really don't care. I never have. I probably should, but there are so many other things more worthy of my time and attention in this world.

Not surprisingly, I can't even tell you the last time I received a genuine compliment on my clothes from (essentially) a stranger. So I was pretty thrilled! What a great way to start my week, let alone my day. It was quite the little ego boost, and I prepared to leave with my cup of goodness and a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart.

It was at this point, when I was about to make my triumphant exit, compliment tucked securely in that part of my brain reserved exclusively for happy thoughts, that the guy who took my order loudly informed me (and the rest of the patrons standing in line) that I still owed him $1.92.

I get it, Starbucks. Just trying to keep me humble. Heaven forbid I'd let my over-inflated fashion sense run rampant in downtown Minneapolis for two seconds. You never know the kind of damage that might cause.

Coo Coo Ca Choo

Tonight I saw a production of Sweeney Todd performed by high school students. In itself, that's pretty cool, not to mention that it was fantastic. But what I really want to tell you about is my close encounter with one of the actors.

And by "close encounter" I mean "intimate moment." And by "intimate moment" I mean "I almost went to jail."  Let me explain.

As part of the opening number, the chorus lined up at the feet of the audience members in the front row (which is where I was sitting, courtesy of the restaurant serving me super slow prior to the show and a little hiccup in finding the address of the theater ... which led to the only available seats being literally ON the stage). I should have known I was in for an interesting production when the announcer said, "Please remember to turn off your phones, there will be gunshots during the show, and for those of you sitting in the front row ... good luck."

Anyway, the cast started singing at our feet and then slowly worked their way closer and closer, while trying to be dramatic and creepy, until they were practically in our laps. This would have made me only slightly uncomfortable, if it weren't for the fact that the guy who'd singled me out was probably the cutest thing this side of the Mississip who probably still has a learner's permit.

By the time the song was almost finished, this guy ... strike that, kid, he's just a kid, a lovely lovely kid ... was inches from my face. My first thought was "Oh my god, he's going to kiss me."  My second?  "Oh my god, I could be his mother."

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending on how you feel about Mrs. Robinson) the singing ended before what appeared to be an increasingly inevitable underage lip-lock. But this beautiful boy evidently got such a kick out of the encounter that he found me AGAIN later in the show and sang directly to me. In my head, I'm thinking, "He's sixteen, he's sixteen, he's sixteen ..." and in my heart I'm thinking, "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

Don't think I didn't appreciate the irony of having a mini-crush on someone in a play about a demon barber who may or may not have actually been shaving yet. And don't think for a minute that I'd ever be a Statutory Sally. 

I'm just saying that, if I had to choose between being repeatedly spit on by a recklessly emphatic lead actor (which the lead actress did and took it like a trooper) or being lovingly gazed upon and serenaded by someone who doesn't remember typewriters or cassette tapes ... I'll choose the latter any day.

Rap It Up

I was riding home tonight, and this thought crossed my mind: What if this bus crashes, and by some miracle my iPod survives but I don't, and what if some police detective happens to turn it on (because that's what good detectives do, work all the angles), and what if he sees that the very last thing I was listening to, the voice that was in my head at the exact moment that my life ended, was Lionel Richie? And worse ... what if this detective then looks down at my body and says, "It figures."  

I realize those are a lot of what if's, but still ... horrifying. Not the fact that "Do It To Me One More Time" came up on shuffle, but the idea that someone would probably look at me and assume that, yes, she seems like the kind of person who enjoys easy listening. This would be my luck. That bus wouldn't crash when I was grooving to my customary gangsta rap. No. We would careen off an overpass when Linda Ronstadt or Carly Simon was wailing into my ear.

Listen up, people. I am the whitest-looking white girl on the planet. I probably seem super straight-laced to anyone who doesn't know me. On the outside, I appear boring, serious, humorless. And yes, I possess an eclectic array of music. But I hate being a foregone conclusion. I'd hate to live up to my own stereotype.  I got weirded out enough last week when the dude at Zen Box started making my order before I asked for the C2 with white rice.

Does everyone fancy themselves a mystery? Or are we really more predictable than we could ever imagine?

I recently asked a friend of mine what he would buy me if he won the lottery. It was an intriguing question, since I so rarely mention wanting anything that people complain they never know what to get me for birthdays and Christmases. I usually end up just telling them what they can buy me, and it's usually pretty boring (example: an Amazon or eBay gift card tickles me pink), but at least it's something that I really need.

Good gift-giving is an art. A fantastic gift should be unexpected, but something that the person has previously talked about. It doesn't need to be extravagant or even overly sentimental, but it should be something they probably wouldn't purchase themselves. It should be personal and creative, and not simply a gift for gift's sake. It should say, "I know you, and I thought about what you would enjoy, and here it is." I'm not saying it's easy, I'm just saying you have to listen.

So I was curious to know what this friend thought I would like ... a big-screen TV? An iPhone? I tend to lust after gadgets, though I can never justify buying them. He didn't even think about it. He said, "I'd buy you one of those little houses you're always looking at."

Note to self: Keep this friend. Not only is he unbelievably generous with imaginary money, but he pays attention. In cases like this, I wouldn't mind being predictable one bit.

Choose Your Weapon. Carefully.

Last night I entered my bedroom to find an enormous, hairy centipede hanging on the wall next to my bed.  

It's amazing how you notice these things, even though it's 1 a.m. and you're absolutely fuzzy with the desire to fall between your cool sheets and bid adieu to the world for at least six hours .... but you do. You walk in and stop so short in your tracks that, in an appropriately sound-mixed world, there would be a record scratch to accompany it.

So I did what any normal person would.  I thought, "Guess I'm not sleeping in here tonight!"

Then I re-grouped, because I'm 31 and have lived alone long enough to know that nobody's coming to my rescue for anything, least of all bugs. And I'm not about to give up my pillow-top queen to anything that's not making me breakfast in the morning.

The plan of attack was this: spray it, but have a shoe in hand just in case. What I always forget is to also have a wad of toilet paper handy (or a whole roll, depending on the size and general ickyness of the bug). Because you shouldn't take your eyes off the thing, even for an instant, even if it appears to be dying or dead. They're like killers in slasher movies, coming to life as soon as your back is turned and crawling off to nurse their wounds before the next sneak attack.

Let me say this, though. I hate picking up dead centipedes. Why? Because they've usually kicked off a leg or two or fifty, and I just can't handle it. Tonight I killed a smaller one, and on the way to flush it, I just kept shouting, "WHY!? Oh, really, WHY?!"

As soon as I sprayed the one in my bedroom, it promptly jumped off the wall, landed with a soft thunk on my nightstand, and disappeared. It was like a gross David Blaine. Strike that -- it was like David Blaine.

I dropped a couple effen-heimers and began spraying the nightstand liberally, trying to flush it out or finish it off, whatever meant I could sleep soundly. That's when I realized that the whole endeavor would probably be going better if I'd actually grabbed the insecticide and not the foaming bathroom cleanser.

Back to the drawing board, jackass. I did kill a cockroach once with shoe spray in Japan, but in my defense, I had no way of reading what was on the can in that situation. No such excuses here. It's these kind of tactical errors that can make or break a wartime campaign, and I wasn't sure I'd get a second shot.

After a quick switcheroo I returned, this time brandishing something that would destroy the bug rather than leave it squeaky clean. The damn thing was clinging to the wall again, which I was surprisingly happy about. If there's one thing I don't need, it's a lurker.

Long story short, I finished the dirty deed, put on my pajamas, and slept like a baby. I actually dropped off amazingly fast. But I'm thinking the fumes might have had something to do with that.

But Do You Do Drywall?

There's a humongous, professionally printed banner hanging on the side of a construction/design business on my bus ride home. It lists the "handyman services" that the business provides, and the list goes as follows (with one task they seem particularly emphatic about including): Carpentry, painting, drywall, framing, fences, tile, decks, and drywall.

Maybe they put it on there twice because they're REALLY good at it, but it has taken nearly every ounce of restraint in my body NOT to call them up and ask if they do drywall.

It reminds me of the "5 D's" of dodgeball: Dodge, dip, duck, dive, and ... dodge. 

Once again, a big thank you to the lazy editors of the world. You do amuse me so!