Small Humiliations: Part XIV

Several years ago, when I worked at Marshall Field's HQ (before it began its sad, deranged, Hulk-like morph into Macy's), my coworkers and I often traveled the 12 floors down to the lower-level food court to partake in the frosted delight that is Fruigurt. What's Fruigurt, you ask? Why, only frozen yogurt that comes with multiple fruit and nut toppings of your choosing and is the perfect afternoon snack, especially with an employee discount.

One day, we all piled into line and placed our various orders. I got what I always do, a chocolate and vanilla twist cone, while another coworker finally emerged holding a tall smoothie cup with a straw.

"What did you get?" I asked him.

"A Triple Berry Threat," he said.

I scanned the menu board.  "A what?"

"Triple Berry Threat."

I checked the menu again. Finally I found the item description and began giggling so hard I could barely get the next sentence out.

"Treat . . . not threat. . . it's Triple Berry Treat."

By that time he was laughing, too. But I liked the new name so much that I decided to pay tribute to his hasty (or slightly myopic) reading of the Fruigurt choices by using my extremely limited photo-shopping skills to create the following poster, which I sent to him via email later that day:

It still makes me laugh.

Nice Ride II

Last weekend, I went to Perkins for lunch with my parents. It's one of my very favorite places, largely because it produces the "chicken crisp melt," formerly the "chicken tender melt," otherwise known as the CTM. If you haven't tried it, you must. But I digress.

My dad parked his car (in the shade of course) right next to a bright yellow Mazda Miata convertible. He immediately leaned over to check it out and starting waxing poetic about how nice it would be to have such a sporty vehicle to zip around in during the summer months. Just as we were heading into the restaurant, a couple in their mid-80s emerged and happened to overhear his comments.

"It's not for sale," the man said, adjusting his Navy veteran cap and smiling broadly.

"That's yours?" asked my dad.

"Yep. Bought it last year. Only 19,000 miles on it."

"Well, good for you for getting a snappy little car like that!" said my mom.

I looked back at the Miata, a vehicular manifestation of well-earned discretionary income. These oldsters had the moxie to pump as many RPMs as would fit into their remaining years, and I had to admire that. I hope when I'm 80 I'm moving under my own power, much less driving, much less driving something awesome.

Maybe I better back off those CTMs.

Nice Ride

When I was in Atlanta recently, I was sitting in traffic in the backseat of a friend's car. I happened to look over and see an older guy patiently idling a super sweet, well-maintained, tricked-out motorcycle. I recognized the make on the shiny beast simply because another friend's husband drooled over that particular kind for years before he finally bought one.

So I said, "Hey! That's a Harley Davidson Heritage Softtail!"

I said this aloud for the benefit of my carmates, but I didn't turn my head away from the window, not realizing that I was blatantly staring directly at the guy on the bike, and he was staring back.

Evidently he could read lips, because he flashed me a huge smile and a thumbs up.

And evidently I could read lips, too, because I saw him mouth, "That's right!"

Drumsticks Be Damned

This morning I saw two wild turkeys standing on the front step of a local beauty salon, as if waiting patiently for it to open.

It wasn't quite as worrisome as when I saw them standing in the parking lot of "Ready Meats."

Perhaps they realized their narrow escape from death and are now seeking self-improvement. They want to live, dammit! LIVE!!

And that starts with some highlights.

Move Over, California Raisins

Random text from my sister the other day:  If you had a band of Mr. Potato Heads, what would you call it?

My text back:  It would either be a religious revival group called the Idaholy Rollers whose hit single is "Out of the Dirt," or a reggae band called Baked and Fried.

I then asked my mom the same question. Evidently her secret love of hip-hop also applies to imaginary food-based music, because she went with Spuds N' Thugs.

Either way, I think we'd sell out the garden.

Quotes of the Week

#1.  Wailed by a gangsta on his cell phone in City Center:  "I ain't gonna get all gooey an' fuckin' sentimental . . . nah . . . nah . . . Mom! . . . She just talks too much shit!"

(He's got 99 problems but his moms ain't one.)

#2.  Wailed by a crusty old man on Hennepin who was ogling young girls:  "Where were all you beautiful ladies when I had hair?!" 

(Sir, I'm no mathematician, but I'm going to go with: in utero.)

A Passage From India

A few years ago, my friend Linnea traveled in India and treated us all to a hilarious blog. What follows is one of her posts that I specifically saved for future enjoyment. And now, because she is brilliant and because I think this account deserves the widest audience possible, I pass it along to you.

I went to a movie in McLoud Ganj Friday night. I saw the DaVinci Code. Perhaps you are imagining your own experience at your local cinema? Perhaps you also saw the DaVinci Code? Though we may have seen the same movie, it is unlikely that there are any additional similarities in our experience. First, the theater had the look and feel of the inside of a bus - most likely because the theater’s seats came from a bus. I believe there were still seat belts attached to some. There were only about 30 seats in the theater and no screen. The movie was shown on a large television. Barb – not exaggerating – it was half the size of yours. If you could haul that thing to India, you could set up shop. It might not be the most lucrative endeavor however as I only paid 30 rupees for my ticket (less than a dollar). You may be shocked to learn that the version of the film I saw was a bootleg – it was grainy, a bit off center and the opening credits were in Russian. Though the film is in English it was shown with English subtitles displayed. It was clear that the subtitles were written by someone for whom English was a second or possibly fifth language. I don’t think a single line of dialog was correctly represented in the subtitles. When Tom Hanks exclaims “it can’t be, a fleur de lis” the subtitles read, “it can’t be, flute is bleeding!” I found myself wishing I couldn’t hear the dialog because it would have been fascinating trying to decode the plot from the subtitles. Knowing the magical “holding grill” people kept talking about was actually the holy grail would have been key. At least, perhaps sensing its importance, they actually attempted to translate that. Unusual words and those with more than two syllables were frequently spelled “….”

I have heard the movie is not good. I can’t really say whether it was good or bad but I can say the version I saw was the funniest movie I have seen in a while.

Saturday evening ended with an encounter with the largest spider I have ever seen. The spider was perched on Sherry’s ceiling. The spider had fangs. The spider had biceps. The spider was flashing gang signs and waving a stick at us. We had encountered the spider earlier that morning and had attempted to capture it but, when poked with a broom, it spewed a bunch of tiny spiders and ran for cover. Oh, the humanity.

There was a fair amount of high pitched squealing and some scurrying in and out of the room (people scurrying, not the spider – the spider was frozen in place on the ceiling) as we discussed a plan to rid our flat of the menace. A vote was taken as to whether this would be a catch and release operation or if the solution to our spider problem would be final. It’s a do-gooder lot, the volunteers, and we’re surrounded by Buddhists monks everywhere we go. Given this it was surprising how narrow the victory was for catch and release. The plan involved a bucket, Elliot, a fellow flatmate, on a chair with aforementioned bucket pressed against the ceiling over the spider and me sliding the cardboard from a board game along the ceiling. Thankfully the plan worked. The spider plopped into the bucket and was rushed outside. It was deposited a safe distance from the house and order was restored.

Small Humiliations: Part XIII

One morning, a friend of mine took her two boys (let's call them Frick and Frack ... names have been changed to protect the innocent) to the coffee shop with her. It so happened that Frick was potty training at the time.

Shortly after arriving, he approached his mom and told her that he had had an accident. More specifically, that he had dropped a deuce. He didn't exactly put it that way, but it works well for the purpose of this story. She quickly hustled the kids to the bathroom, pulled off her son's pants, and was immediately puzzled. There was nothing there.

It should also be mentioned that, because of the heavy toll on underwear taken by the potty training, my friend had thrown pants on the kid that morning without anything underneath. Was this a bit cavalier, desperate, or just outrageously hopeful? These are the kinds of decisions you make more effectively after coffee.

Anyway, circumstances had combined to beg the question that she then whispered in horror:

"Frick, where's the poop?"

Did she dare to dream that, from this point onward, it would simply evaporate? His reply snapped her back to reality.

"It fell out in the coffee shop."

So she did what any good mother would do, and went looking for it. Midway into her surreptitious investigation, she spied a lonely turd on the floor. And to make matters worse, it already had a footprint in it.

Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, how can this situation take yet another embarrassing turn? I'll leave you with one last sentence:  The footprint belonged to Frack.