Hugs Not Drugs

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit for your review the poster I designed in second grade for an anti-drug campaign. You can tell this was an important artistic work, because it's laminated.

Let's break this down, shall we?

So it looks like we have a little kid clinging to his father in the upper left-hand corner, and he's recounting a crazy-ass dream he had. Or maybe he just doesn't want to get back into that nightmare of a bed with what appears to be giant claws on either end.

What's happening in the dream?

In the center we have Mr. Milk lassoing Mr. Cigarette in a bizarre cowboy vs. Indian tableau. They actually don't look terribly unhappy. However, things get more serious on the outskirts. On the left we have Mr. Apple stabbing Mr. Asprin (who evidently is already wounded, since he's missing an I) in the mouth. I'm not sure why aspirin makes the cut of dangerous illegal substances, but there you have it.

On the right, we have the young fruits and vegetables engaged in a Lord of the Flies situation, armed to the teeth and out for blood. At the top, Baby Orange is poking Baby Drug (must be a generic) in the ass with a dagger. Below that, Baby Carrot is dueling with Baby Wine (though shouldn't he really be just a grape?)

But the best part is that, above all this violence and chaos, is the overarching message of "Hugs Not Drugs." Because clearly Mr. Milk and his associates are winning the day with love. Did anyone, at any point during the creation of this elementary school propaganda masterpiece, think to point out that perhaps I shouldn't illustrate my thesis with a crying child and a group of slightly racist characters locked in mortal combat? No. No, they did not.

Or maybe they did, and I ignored them. What matters is that I won second place, as evidenced by the red ribbon on the top left. So suck it, logic and good taste. You've never been key players in the war on drugs, anyway.

Monumental Issues

I recently watched a commercial for Cialis that featured men and their ladies having various little encounters that triggered spontaneous romantic moments. In one scenario, they accidentally brushed hands while setting up a campsite, and from what I could gather, the dude was super happy he could pitch a whole different kind of tent on the spur of the moment.

What confuses me is that, at the end of the commercial, all the couples are lounging naked in his-and-her claw-foot bathtubs, sometimes in the middle of nowhere, staring out at the horizon. WHY, Cialis, WHY? Why have they dragged bathroom fixtures into a field where there is no plumbing? Why aren't they in the tub together? Is this before or after a bit of hanky panky? Was it that dirty? Or do men with ED really just want a good long soak?

It makes even less sense than the Hoveround commercial that features elderly people riding motorized scooters at the Grand Canyon. That I can actually believe. Not that they rode the scooter all the way there, but that a person could, indeed, putter around in one to sight-see.

And while I'm on the topic, remember that Lunesta ad where the animated butterfly flew around, and everything it flew past fell asleep? Did anyone else think it was odd that the butterfly flitted past Mount Rushmore and all the presidents nodded off? Why did they feel the need to feature a historic landmark? Did they really believe someone out there was thinking, "Wow, if that stuff can knock out Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt AND Lincoln, think what it can do for me!" Tune in next week when Crazy Horse has psoriasis and the Statue of Liberty has a yeast infection.

A Mo-Rockin' Meal

Marrakech Moroccan Cafe and Grill

1839 Central Avenue NE, Minneapolis

Dining Date:  May 2011

On My Plate:  Bistella, a dish described by the waitress as "dinner and dessert in one," and which I have been unable to convey adequately to anyone since tasting it. It's layers of phyllo dough with chicken and all manner of spices (cinnamon, ginger, cilantro, saffron) plus almonds, topped with powdered sugar. So it's a mishmash of savory and spicy and sweet and nutty . . . kind of mysterious and overwhelming all at once. My dining companion had the kefta, which was a tasty concoction of meatballs and eggs in a tomato sauce.

Servers Rate:  Friendly and willing to help out the novice. Knowing nothing about Moroccan cuisine, we went with recommendations from our waitress and got a good overall sampling.

Fun Fact:  This place is old school but clean and inviting. There's a charming, brightly painted patio out front where you could sit and sip your tea. A quick two-block walk from the new Nimbus theater, it makes a perfect hangout after a show.

The Damage:  Minimal, especially considering the large portions. Under $15.

The Verdict:  Definitely an adventure! Would like to go back and give their couscous a try.

21 More (Old) Questions

Do you have a webcam?
Yes, tune in at midnite CST for a hell of a show.

Have you ever been forced to take a bath with one of your siblings? 

Of course! But I drew the line last year.

When showering, do you start the water and get in or get in and start the water? 

I have to start the water before I brush my teeth, b/c it takes 4 minutes to get it hot.  (Just like me.)

Do you have more enemies or more friends?  

All my enemies have been eliminated, or so my sources tell me.

Have you ever sent an anonymous letter?  

Letter, no.  Envelope filled with naked pictures of me, yes.

Do you follow your horoscope? 

No, but I do read fortune cookies. My last fortune said, "Plan your graduation party with Leeann Chin Catering and Delivery." Profound.

Have you ever stolen anything from your friends?  

Their souls. Perhaps I've said too much.

Would you kill a dog for $1000?   

Depends. Is the dog an asshole?

Are you impatient? 

Next question.

Do you consider yourself nice?  

Go to hell.

Have you ever smoked heroin? 

You're supposed to SMOKE it?! I put it under my pillow and got a grand from the heroin fairy.

What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?

I suppose I could work the dimples, but my milkshake is what brings all the boys to the yard.

Are you crazy? 
Stop looking at me, swan!

Is conversate a word? 

Absaloofaliciously.

Do you like Paris Hilton?  

I'd shove her sparkly sunglasses up her ass but I'm afraid she'd like it.

Do you have A.D.D.? 

No, unless that stands for A Delicious Derriere.

Do you love chocolate? 

If you don't like chocolate, you might as well go join Al-Qaeda.

Are you a superstar? 

Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby . . .  said you'd be coming back this way again baby . . . baby baby baby baby oh baby . . .

What do you smell like right now?
Polo Ralph Lauren Blue. And success.

Do you have a hickey on your neck right now? 

Why do you ask that, just because I'm wearing a turtleneck in May?

Can you name the seven dwarfs?  

Pride, Greed, Sloth, Gluttony, Envy, Lust, and Wrath.

21 (Old) Questions

Remember when, back in the early days of MySpace, you could kill the better part of an afternoon just filling out random, ridiculous surveys that people forwarded to you? Before finally deleting my old account, I decided to copy some of my more bizarre and/or hilarious responses. Naturally, I've posted them for your enjoyment.

Name?

You should know, you were screaming it all last night.

Who do you trust with your life?
That's a very short list. If you're on it, you probably know it. If you're not on it but would like to be, press 1. If you're not sure you're on it, press 2. If you're on it but would like to be removed, go to hell.

 

If you could change your name to anything, what would it be?
Maybe Candy, because then I wouldn't have to lie when I dance.

What would you do if someone told you that you were the most beautiful person in the world and they would do anything to wake up to your face each and every morning?
I would say, "Thanks, but I'm still not giving you change for the bus."

Who is the nicest person you know?
Whoever doesn't try to monopolize my corner.

Have you ever snuck out of your house/someone in your house?
Have I ever snuck out of someone in my house? That's so dirty! And difficult to do without waking them.

How did you get the idea for your MySpace name?
It was a very long, drawn-out process that involved a peg-legged gypsy woman and my star chart. 

What does your dad do for a living?
He says he's in auto insurance, but I don't think that explains the multiple passports and semiautomatic in his bottom desk drawer.

What did you dream last night?
I can't remember, but last Friday night I dreamed I was in a gun battle in a Korean parking garage.  Figure that out, Freud!

Have you ever done something to make trouble?
Some called it an "international incident" . . . I just called it a brief but torrid affair with a certain young man third in line from the throne of England.  Big whoop.

Are you mad at anyone at the moment?
Mitt Romney.  Because what kind of a name is Mitt, anyway?

If you had to be reincarnated as a sea dwelling creature, what would you be?
A giant squid, because I would be universally feared and admired for my powers of suction. Wait . . . 

Of all people, with whom would you want to be stuck in a well?
Anybody with a flotation device and survival skills.

Do you like to spoon? 

I like to fork.

What do you wanna name your kids? 

Oh come on. Women don't share that. What if some bitch steals your idea?

How many houses have you lived in?
Two with my family, one in Japan, and one while those people were on vacation.  Shhhh!

How many watches do you own?
One. And it's always peanut butter jelly time.

Have you ever been to Kentucky?
I don't think so, but I notice my cousin's name is on this marriage certificate, so you do the math.

How many lamps are in your bedroom?
Only one. Any more and there's too much glare off the mirror on the ceiling.

Easiest person to talk to? 

Rob Lowe. He hasn't done anything worthwhile since The West Wing, and he's not doing anything right now. Go ahead. Call him. He'll be there.

Have you ever stripped?
For money, no. For the sheer joy of the pasties, yes.

 

Stretch of the Imagination

A few years ago, when my sister was dating a guy who was 6'6", we decided to have a tall joke contest. These were my submissions.

He is so tall that . . .

17. When you talk to him, there's a two-second delay.
16. If you want to hug him, you have to hire a sherpa.
15. His first toy was the world's largest ball of twine.
14. He had to upgrade to Verizon's stratosphere plan.
13. For show and tell he brought Babe the Blue Ox.
12. When he failed his driver's test, he blamed cloud interference.
11. He instructs his barber to "just trim it to 40,000 feet."
10. When he pees in Grand Forks, they start filling sandbags.
9. He's the only person to join the Mile High Club without a plane.
8. When he wants to change the channel, he just taps the satellite.
7. His parents had to record his growth chart on the Washington Monument.
6. He was the only kid in Little League to catch a comet in right field.
5. When he says he sees dead people, you know they're in heaven.
4. When he moons someone, the tides change.
3. Birds worry about him pooping on them.
2. He had to take the Statue of Liberty to the prom.
1. Other kids had lice . . . he had aliens.

You Quack Me Up

The other night I was texting back and forth with a friend, trying to decide where we were going to eat before seeing a movie. There were several minutes' lag time between messages, since she was also trying to coordinate with her husband. By the time she finally proposed a restaurant, I checked the clock and told her we might be cutting it too close to make the show. Her reply:

Okay that's good. Sorry ... can't get our dicks in a row fast enough.

I think I read it twice before busting out laughing, which I was then doing so hard that I couldn't get a text back to her before she realized what she'd written. The next message:

And wow, I meant ducks!!

Auto-complete epic fail.

Going Wilde

www.wilderoastcafe.com

Dining Date:  March 2011

On My Plate:  The Trinity College Tuna Melt and an Orange Crush. Hands down the best tuna melt I've ever had, unless you count my mom's, which is in a class by itself.

Servers Rate:  Not entirely applicable in this case, since you order and pay in advance at the front counter.

Fun Fact:  The last time I was here, it was to meet up with a childhood friend I hadn't seen in 20 years over a cup of coffee.

The Damage:  The food is little pricey but totally worth it. Sandwiches start at about $10.

The Verdict:  Not sure you can go wrong at Wilde Roast. It's a fantastic place to meet a friend and lounge about for a nice long chat. Looking forward to seeing their new location in Riverplace this June.

Fire It Up

www.flamerosedale.com

Dining Date:  January 2011

On My Plate:  A juicy rotisserie chicken quesadilla that rocked my world. My dining companion had the aloha burger.

Servers Rate:  Splendid, mainly because our waiter was named Willy.

Fun Fact:  The bathrooms are super cool, as evidenced by the picture above. Also, you can view a photo of every single dish on their website.

The Damage:  Very reasonable prices. I took a friend out for a birthday dinner and spent less than $40 total. They also seem to have a pretty decent rewards program if you're a regular, and they have a late-night happy hour from 9pm to close, which would be perfect after catching a movie at the Rosedale AMC.

The Verdict:  Because of the fire theme, this was a great place to eat on a blustery winter night. The staff was really friendly. Plus the high-walled booths offer plenty of privacy and lend themselves well to good conversation. Definitely going back.

Down Home in NE

 

www.hazelsnortheast.com

Dining Date:  December 2010 (we're going back just a tad for this one, a fond reminiscence as the weather heats up)

On My Plate:  The turkey commercial, perfect comfort food for a bone-chilling evening. Finished up with possibly one of the best desserts I've ever had -- the brownie barge. Picture a brownie with an oatmeal bar base perched on vanilla ice cream and doused in caramel sauce. Now picture how happy it made me.

Servers Rate:  Pleasant.

Overall Vibe:  Similar to Pop!, the previous inhabitant of the space on Johnson and 29th. The food is a little pricey, good but not spectacular. However, Hazel's menu makes more sense, and it works with the restaurant's revamped decor. It feels like home, but with a bit more style.

Fun Fact:  Although they tried their best to prevent the cold from seeping in by hanging a heavy curtain across the front door, it was still quite uncomfortable sitting near the entrance. I wore my coat through the meal. Finally, just as we were about to leave, they turned a small heater our direction.

The Damage:  Under $20, including tip.

The Verdict:  Keeping in mind that we visited only a week after they opened, I'd be willing to give this place another try, maybe for breakfast, which I hear is really something. It's also a great addition to the neighborhood, which is filled with homey little shops and eateries, like Sarah Jane's bakery and The Coffee Shop NE.

Lack of Love in an Elevator

I was recently on the elevator heading to work along with three other people. A bubbly young woman was chatting with a man who was obviously a coworker, and another woman was standing behind me. Bubbles, as we'll call her, since she was FAR too energetic for a Monday morning, started talking about her daughter.

Bubbles:  "Oh, my baby's never going to leave me. She's going to live with us forever."
Me: How old is this kid?
Bubbles:  "Have I shown you the double pacifier picture?"
Me: Oh, crap. It's an actual baby.

At this point, Bubbles whips out her cellphone, and I make a concerted effort to avoid looking in her direction. She shows the picture to her coworker, who offers an appropriate adoring response, and then shows it to the woman behind me.

Meanwhile, I'm watching the floors tick by and hoping against hope that I stay off her radar. No such luck.

"Here," she says, literally shoving the phone in my face.  "I think you're missing out."

Parents, we know you think your kids are precious. And, most of the time, we're willing to give you the obligatory oohs and ahhs that are somehow your reward for procreating. Hell, we even lie and say your offspring are the most adorable things we've ever seen, even if they look like scrunchy little aliens.

But here's a general guideline: No matter how proud you are, do not force ridiculous pictures of your child on complete strangers and demand validation. Especially if they've shown absolutely no interest, and especially if they appear tired and/or generally surly.

What bothered me more than Bubbles' audacity (besides the invasion of my personal space) was that she gave no thought to why I might not be ogling her kid. Maybe I'd just lost a baby. Maybe I was having trouble getting pregnant. Whatever the reason, I wasn't interested. But she insisted.

So, when she said, "I think you're missing out," I wanted to reply, "Nope, I don't think I am." 

What I actually said was, "Cute." But I said it through gritted teeth and without smiling, and my lack of enthusiasm seemed to deflate her a bit, which was highly satisfying.

In any case, I managed to get my point across without explicitly telling her where she could shove her phone next. Because hey, I'm a bit of a grouch before 9 a.m., but I'm not a monster.

Tiny and Tipsy

My sister, mom, and I once found ourselves discussing the best possible title for a television show about a drunk and a midget who fight crime.

Hey, it could work.

After a couple minutes, I suggested "Shorty and the Barfly."  I thought this was a pretty good off-the-cuff idea ... until my mom topped me in the very next second.

Without even thinking, she said, "How about Shrimp Cocktail?"

Hollywood, here we come!

Chewing the Fat ... and Loving It

www.barlagrassa.com 

 Dining Date:  March 2011

On My Plate:  The portions here are sizable and perfect for a family-style meal. My dining companion and I split a marinated pork shoulder bruschetta and a red onion with goat cheese bruschetta. We then each had the gnocchi with cauliflower and orange. The small version was enough to fill us to bursting! Delicious.

Servers Rate:  Excellent. I was treated very well from the moment I got there, and our waiter was good about explaining the menu and making recommendations.

Fun Fact: While I waited for my friend to arrive, the front door to the restaurant literally broke, causing mass confusion among the valets. Also, the small complimentary cinnamon cookies we received after dinner are perfect for wiping out post-dinner breath ... and tastebuds. They're a bit hot.

The Damage:  Surprisingly minimal, although we didn't order drinks, so that helped. Under $30, including tip.

The Verdict:  A great first experience. Fantastic food, really cool location on Washington Ave, and kind of a hot spot at the moment (make reservations). The only thing that might keep me from returning is the noise level. We felt lucky we were seated toward the back, so we could at least have a conversation.

Babblin' Crude

Best bus quote of the day, from a guy talking to someone very loudly on his phone about hooking a friend up with a job on an oil rig:

"Well, hopefully he'd be willing to give up the pot. I mean, I like to smoke a little weed, too, but for eighty grand a year with no education and a bad criminal record? That's a blessing. I gotta go. I got anger management today."

Cluck Yeah!

http://www.brasa.us/

Dining Date:  February 2011, at the Minneapolis location.

On My Plate:  An amazing pulled chicken sandwich that had just a hint of a spicy kick, served with unbelievably good chips. Also split a side of cheesy grits and warm, sweet cornbread. I don't say this very often, but every bite was a delight.

Servers Rate:  Good. It was a Thursday night, but the place was packed, so there was plenty to keep our waiter busy.

Overall Vibe:  Pleasant. It's a cozy fit in the winter, but when the weather warms, the side garage doors of the restaurant open onto a large, festive patio.

Fun Fact:  Brasa was featured on an episode of "Man vs. Food." Also, I understand that the guy who runs it is not only super hot but also has a twin brother.

The Damage:  Minimal, considering how much I enjoyed it. Under $20, including tip.

The Verdict:  A do-not-miss establishment that lives up to the hype. Plus it's mostly organic and local.

Now That's Love

A certain friend of mine tends to have hilarious conversations with her husband about ridiculous hypothetical situations. For example, after making the bed recently, one of them commented that leaving a pillow underneath the covers made it look like someone was still sleeping in it. They then imagined how horrified they would be if someone wasn't just sleeping there, but had actually died. After discussing it further, the scenario eventually evolved into this conversation.

WIFE:  "What would you do if we came home and found a dead hobo in our bed?"
HUSBAND:  [thinks for a minute] "Well, first of all, I'd never let you see it."
WIFE:  "How would keep me out of the bedroom?"
HUSBAND:  "I'd send you to the grocery store. I'd say we needed eggs."
WIFE:  "And what would you do while I was gone?"
HUSBAND:  "I'd call the cops and get everything taken care of. And then when you got back, I'd say, 'Guess what? We're staying at the Hampton Inn tonight!'"

I don't know about you, but I think this one's a keeper.

Not-So-Open Forum

www.forumrestaurantmn.com

So this post is a tad moot, since I just learned that Forum closed on April 17. It's a shame, really, not only because I had a delightful dinner there with a friend just a few weeks ago, but because it was a great addition to downtown Minneapolis. Anyway, on the off-chance that the closure isn't permanent, here's the review.

Dining Date:  March 2011

On My Plate:  A fantastic beef stroganoff, delectable "ghost cosmo," and chocolate cake. My dining companion had the duck, a citrus salad, a dragonberry mojito (lip-smacking), and a smores dessert.

Servers Rate:  Super friendly. Our waiter was great.

Overall Vibe:  Classy yet comfortable. The art deco design alone is a treat -- it lends a sense of history without being overbearing.

Fun Fact:  There's still a sign in the window reading "Forum: Now Open!" right next to the closure notice. Also, its logo looks a bit like a razor blade.

The Damage:  Will run $30-$40 a person easily. Luckily we had a gift certificate to apply toward our bill.

The Verdict:  Sad that I may not be able to visit again.

OMG, Where was the Second Needle?!?!

The last sentence is really the kicker.

April 14 (AP) A woman in Pittsburgh who said she'd been stabbed with a knitting needle is in critical condition following emergency surgery. Police spokeswoman Diane Richard says the 27-year-old woman walked into UPMC Presbyterian hospital about 9:35 p.m. Wednesday and told security guards she had been stabbed before she collapsed. Richard says doctors treated the woman for a knitting needle lodged in her abdomen and later found another knitting needle inside her body, though police aren't releasing details about the second needle.

Get Your Gorkha On

In the interest of keeping some spice in my life, in this blog, and (in this case) my diet, a friend and I have decided to set a standing date each month to try a restaurant that neither of us has ever been to. As I start this Twin Cities Eats series, please keep in mind that I'm by no means a foodie. I will have the occasional culinary adventure and will try just about anything once (see: eating sea urchin and manta ray in Japan ... then see: I hate seafood even more now). However, my tastes are pretty simple, and my pocketbook is pretty light. So, while you might not get reviews of the trendiest spots, you might learn a bit about a restaurant where you won't regret spending some of your time and money. First up:

www.gorkhapalace.com

I go by this place every day on my bus. It's just north of downtown Minneapolis on the corner of 1st Avenue and 4th Street, right behind The Bulldog NE. They share their parking lot with two other establishments, but it's free if you can grab a spot!

Dining Date:  April 2011

On My Plate:  The chicken mo:mo appetizers were delicious little potstickers. I could have eaten a dozen of them. My chicken sekuwa entree arrived still smoking in a cast iron skillet. It was flavorful and an ample portion, but not as good as my dining companion's chicken tikka masala, which rocked my world, especially when soaked up with naan.

Servers Rate:  Personable and attentive but laid-back. They almost gave us too much space. However, they were very helpful with the menu for first-timers and johnny-on-the-spot with drink refills.

Overall Vibe:  Quiet and relaxed. This place is all about fresh, organic, locally grown and raised food. They have a ton of vegetarian and vegan options, including several menu items marked as halal.

Fun Fact:  You get to choose the spice level on every dish you order. They even have a "mild plus" option for extra safety. Also, they serve goat and yak. Yak, people.

The Damage:  Less than $20 (before tip). 

The Verdict:  Will definitely be going back, perhaps to try their lunchtime buffet. And maybe some yak.

I Got the DTs in my 2Ts

One of the greatest news stories ever. From April 11th.

(Reuters) On Friday, Taylor Dill-Reese went to an Applebee's in Madison Heights, Michigan, where -- among other things -- she ordered her 15-month-old son Dominick an apple juice. What the little boy apparently got instead was a margarita.

Why doesn't this kind of stuff ever happen to adults? How super duper would it be to say, "I'll have a Coke," and then, when you take your first drink . . . surprise, there's rum in there!

His mom told WDIV-TV that she only realized something was wrong when Dominick "kind of laid his head on the table and dozed off a little bit and woke up and got real happy."

OK, first, the kid drank it without complaint. Which was smart, if you think about it, because it seems like he enjoyed it. I certainly wouldn't grimace at my free rum and Coke, immediately call over a waiter, and demand plain ol' soda.

Second, the kid napped and rallied, which I love. But not as much as this:

The little boy reportedly began hailing strangers, too.

Ah, a lovable, gregarious drunk in diapers. The best kind. Entertaining and no messy cleanup. I can only imagine what the baby-slur translated as:

"Hey! You! . . Yeah, you! Commeer! Yer not gonna believe this. This joooose . . . apple . . . I always get apple, and it tastes like apple, ya know? But this . . . this shit is CRAZY, man! Am I right? Shhhhhhhhhh! What I gotta do to get a refill? Recognize myself in a mirror? Done! That's me, there I am, and I'm lovin' this sippy cup today, man! LOVIN' it!"

The company said it would change the way it serves juice to youngsters to eliminate the chance of any mixups that could result in any more toddlers receiving mixed drinks.

Oh, but then how would we get news bulletins like this in the future? Don't rain on my parade, Applebee's. Keep up the good work.

The Grass is Always Greener

This is my 100th post, and yes, it's about weed.

Was reminded of this little chestnut tonight. A friend of mine has a pal in her apartment complex who spends a great deal of time with Mary Jane. Theirs is the kind of relationship most strive for: intense yet non-committal, centered around Doritos and feelin' groovy.

Returning home from work one day, my friend noted a very distinct aroma emanating not from her pal's apartment, but from somewhere down the hall. Knowing that this was information her pal would want, she immediately sent him a text announcing that someone else in the building definitely had weed.

Except, instead of sending the message to her ganja-puffing pal, she accidentally sent the text to another friend whose name was just one letter off. It was a friend from high school whom she hadn't spoken to in months.

The reply?

"SWEET! Get me some!"

Some friends are just keepers.

Small Humiliations: Part XI

The recent onset of "spring" has me thinking about sneezes.

I put "spring" in quotes because, though the hometown baseball season started today and I haven't scraped my windshield in a couple weeks, I remain skeptical. We've been burned by you before, Old Man Winter! You lull us into complacency with the sight of grass and the euphoria of shedding heavy down coats. And in the joyous fog of walking to work in actual shoes ... yes, the very same shoes we'll wear all day long ... we start believing we can do crazy things like plan road trips and park on both sides of the street. We dare to dream!

And if you don't hit us with a final, random, soul-crushing snowfall, and instead retire to what I can only assume would be an icy, icy bed ... well, there's still allergy season.

Which brings me back to the sneezes.

I can think of one truly epic sneeze that still makes me laugh every time I recall it. Naturally, it occurred on the bus and was made even funnier because of that particular locale.

One morning, I felt a tickle begin in my nose. Even though I quickly realized it was probably going to be a full-blown (pun intended) event, I tried my best to stifle it. Because let's be honest, nobody is ever thrilled when someone really honks one on public transportation. You can aim that sneeze into a tissue or into your sleeve, but all anyone is thinking about are those little germy particles floating around in a confined space.

So I pinched my mouth shut and closed my eyes and fought it back. It looked like I was having a mini-seizure, but it worked. Or so I thought. In the brief moment that I relaxed with relief, the sneeze came back. With a vengeance. It now caught me completely off-guard, and I had even less control than usual.

I don't think I can do justice in print to the sound that came out of my mouth, but the closest approximation is probably a very loud, very high-pitched "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Despite my good intentions, I was now the girl who suffered a mini-seizure and then screamed at my fellow riders for no apparent reason.

The scream even scared me. And then, because I was so embarrassed, I closed my eyes immediately and pretended that nothing had happened. As if the people around me wouldn't notice that I was red in the face and giggling uncontrollably.

So, to sum it up: seizure, frightening verbal outburst in public, laughing to myself while "sleeping." It's a wonder I'm still single.

He's Just Not My Typo

And now it's time to play one of my favorite games of all time . . . type the beginning of a question into a web browser and see what's tippity-top on the minds of people searching for answers.

Today's initial phrase: Why can't I have

The first result: Why can't I have an organism

This was followed by a link with the title "Why can't some women have an organism? And what is the cause?"

Ah, yes, the elusive organism. Never around when you need one. Unless, of course, you're blessed with multiple organisms, in which case you may need to get a bigger apartment.

I was going to respond to this astute query on Yahoo Answers, but I was laughing too hard.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: spelling matters. Sometimes it matters BIG. Sometimes it's the difference between a moment of exquisite pleasure and mitochondria. I'm just sayin'.

Small Humiliations: Part X

When my sister was in her teens, she and a friend decided to hit the library one afternoon. On their way, they stopped to buy some snacks. This was especially daring, since there was no food or drink allowed in the building, but being the rebels they were, they decided to risk it. 

They settled in at a table and felt like downright villains as they snuck clandestine treats from their backpacks while reading. It was a small town ... you took your thrills where you could find them. I'm still shocked and amazed at a friend of mine who once stuck a piece of used chewing gum between the pages of a book. Shocked because she'd dare to do it, and amazed because nobody hauled her away in handcuffs. She left that library unshackled and continues to walk among us a free woman to this day.

Anyway, my sister's friend had chosen for one of her treats a pack of candy cigarettes, and sometime between The Babysitter's Club and the latest Sweet Valley High volume, she decided to bust those bad boys out. Still trying to be secretive, she slipped her hand into her bag, located the small box, brought a thin stick quickly to her lips and bit into it with a satisfying crunch.

A pause, then a horrified whisper.

"Meghan! . . . . . I just ate chalk!"

What's the lesson here? Maybe that cigarettes are bad in all forms. Or maybe that you shouldn't break the rules. Or maybe that you should just look before you bite, lest you ingest your own school supplies. Take your pick, America.

Crying Fowl

As I walked to the bus this morning, I couldn't help noticing a duck waddling across the icy surface of the nursing home pond. He was walking back and forth quacking angrily, like, "What the ... when we left, this was water, right? Yeah, I took a quick dip right before takeoff. Shit! Well, now what am I supposed to do?"

I don't blame him. I'd be pissed, too, if I flew back from vacation and my home was frozen over. But, since I doubted I could adequately explain the concept of water having three forms and the related effects of temperature, I simply urged him to do as the Romans (and especially Minnesotans) do at this time of year:  "Have patience, my friend. Patience."

In response, I'm pretty sure he did as the ducks do (and many frustrated Minnesotans). He flipped me the bird.

Minor Details

Woman to her friend on the bus:

"We was crazy for each other. And my aunt, she was like, you ain't even known each other that long, but boy, I tell you, I prolly woulda married him. But we fell out. I can't even remember why, exactly, but somethin' happened, and we fell out."

Ten minutes later, during a lull in their conversation about an unrelated topic:

"You know what . . . I think he mighta went to prison or something!"

MPAA Anonymous

Last Saturday, at 10:52 a.m., I received the following text from an unknown number:

"Hey its olivia can I watch let me in? Kelsys mom says its not scary n she thinks its ok?"

Now, I don't know an Olivia, but I do happen to know that "Let Me In" is a remake of "Let the Right One In," which is a fantastic movie about a child vampire that contains several pretty horrifying scenes involving murder, bullying, and various supernatural phenomena. And though there's no way of telling how old Olivia is, the fact that she's asking for permission suggests that she might not be ready for such a viewing experience. So it was everything I could do not to text back:

"Sure. Just put Kelsy's mom on speed dial for when you wake up with nightmares. Love, Mom."

On second thought, maybe I should have written back. She probably took the lack of response as permission and may be traumatized because I was reluctant to virtually parent a stranger. Nah ... Kelsy's mom seems like she's got everything under control.

Small Humiliations: Part IX

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine embarked on a quest to find some new jeans. She walked into the department store dressing room with an armful of items and proceeded to the first available empty stall. Once inside, she went to lock the door behind her, not realizing that there was a full-length mirror attached to the back. As she turned, she mistook herself for another person, thinking that she'd mistakenly entered a dressing room that was already occupied and ... this is the best part ... apologized to her own reflection.

Let me just say that again, in case you missed it. This friend glanced at herself in a mirror, didn't recognize her reflection, frightened herself, and said to her image, "Oh! I'm sorry!"

It should come as no surprise that the person staring back at her simply stood there bewildered for a moment before bursting into embarrassed laughter.

Drop Me a Note II (or Halls Well that Ends Well)

Okay, how about these for motivational blurbs:

1.  Call in sick.  Unlike "Keep your chin up," hearing this advice might actually make you smile.

2.  Just get through today.  Far more realistic a goal than "conquering" the day.

3.  Puke and rally!  Let's be honest, it's the best you can hope for.

4.  Cover your mouth, jackass.  Because nobody wants to envy you ... they just don't want to catch whatever knocked you on your ass.

5.  Fuck you, flu!  I realize this one comes with a host of censorship problems, but it expresses everything so completely.

6.  Feeling sucky? Suck on this. This could also be dirty, even dirtier than "You got it in you." But it's more relevant to the product in particular. In fact, I think it should be the company's new slogan. I would buy cough drops with an attitude.

Your move, Halls.

Drop Me a Note

Today I bought a pack of Halls cough drops, due to the fact that my body just finished doing battle with a flu bug the likes of which it had never before seen. I'm pretty sure that its legend will be passed down through generations of white blood cells, whispered in a tone of reverence and awe. In short, I spent the entire weekend splayed out on my couch, aching to the tips of my eyelashes and grateful (as always) for the invention of Imodium and ibuprofen.

However, now that I'm fully rehydrated and have once again graduated to solid foods, I have a lingering head cold and cough that demand soothing. As I opened my pack of honey/lemon-flavored drops, I noticed a peculiar branding effort. On the wrapper, in addition to the Halls logo, were printed several short messages, presumably intended to be inspirational.

I've seen this trend on individually wrapped items before, most notably on Dove chocolates. I find the little notes a tad redundant for that product. I don't need a pep talk, Dove. I already have your chocolate. In fact, if a pep talk was enough, I wouldn't even need the chocolate. But for the moment, I feel just peachy with this slab of fat melting in my mouth.

Anyway, here's what the Halls wrapper said, with my reactions:

1.  Keep your chin up. This I understand. It's motivating, and it implies that you feel my pain.
2.  Conquer today.  A little more vague, but generally uplifting.
3.  Dust off and get up.  All right, already. We get it. You're not taking any excuses. You're our middle school gym teacher. So quit yer hackin' and climb that effin' rope already!
4.  Inspire envy.  I'm not so sure about this one. What exactly are people supposed to envy? My inflamed nostrils?  My watery eyes?  My general lack of focus due to sinus pressure?
5.  Don't try harder, do harder!  Yoda-esque this is. And maybe kind of dirty.
6.  You got it in you.  I don't know what "it" means. The cough drop? Courage? Mucus? Plus, in addition to being grammatically incorrect, it's way dirtier than #5.

Halls, I see what you're going for here. You've got so much wrapper space, and you're using it to try to make me feel even better than your lovely mentholyptus has already accomplished. But I think you could improve.

Tune in to the next entry for phrases that might actually ring truer with someone who's ill.

Small Humiliations: Part VIII

When he was in college, a friend of mine once found himself in urgent need of a bathroom. He rushed to the nearest men's room, which he was delighted to find empty. Once in a stall, chaos ensued, but he naturally felt better. It wasn't until he reached for toilet paper that he truly felt sick.

Empty. Horror of horrors, considering the explosive episode that had just occurred. There was no one to ask for assistance, and to make matters worse, he couldn't do a quick, pants-less shuffle to another stall without exposing his naked rear to the open doorway and countless potential passersby. Plus, he didn't have time to simply air-dry. In his despair, he put his head in his hands.

And that's when he saw it. His checkbook (remember when people wrote checks?) hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans. In a flash of inspiration, he did what any man with limited options would: tore out his carbon checks and proceeded to wipe his ass with them.

Talk about flushing your money down the toilet.

Small Humiliations: Part VII

A few years ago, my sister was dating this guy who was a runner. Actually, he was the first of two runners that we would both come to regret ... her for wasting time caring about jerks, and me for wasting several perfectly good Saturdays standing on the side of marathon routes.

However, if one (and only one) good thing came of this first relationship, it was the following story. If you've ever had any in-depth conversations with runners, you'll know that you hear super disgusting things about how people's digestive tracts react to 26.2 miles and the various ways that competitors deal with their particular situations. This one's not too graphic, just embarrassing, which makes it perfect.

Evidently this guy was out training one day, and as he ran, his stomach started to feel a little iffy. He was alone on a stretch of road. Another mile passed, and he felt worse, so he thought he could just pass some gas. What happened instead was that a solitary turd popped out the bottom of his running shorts and fell on the highway behind him.

At this point in telling the story, he said, and I quote, "So I laid a road apple. I was like, what am I, a parade pony?"

But sometimes, when things have suddenly turned to crap, there's no fixing it. You have to keep running forward. Just ask my sister.

Small Humiliations: Part VI

One fine autumn evening, my sister and a friend attended an outdoor dance with a Halloween theme. Upon spying someone familiar in the crowd who was dressed as Satan, my sister's friend ran up and proceeded to talk, joke, and good-naturedly harrass the person. That is, until a very unfamiliar voice came from within the mask.

"Do you know who I am?" the person asked.

My sister's friend paused, now unsure of her visual ID. "Uh, yeah."

"Who am I, then?" the person persisted.

Realizing her mistake, my sister's friend replied matter-of-factly, "Duh, you're the devil."

And then she ran away.

Small Humiliations: Part V

My phone debacle from the last entry in this series reminded me of a similar gaffe made by someone near and dear to me, my lovely sister. I hope she doesn't mind my retelling it here. And if she does ... well, too late.

A few years ago, we were both home for Easter, and we were dyeing eggs together one evening. As usual, we were having a good time and getting sillier by the minute. When the phone at our parents' house rang at about 10:00, she assumed it was a friend of hers from high school who was also home for the holiday.

So, when she picked up the call, she said in her sexiest, sultriest, breathiest voice, "Peter Rabbit speaking."

And then, I wish I had video of the shock on her face when she realized it was not her friend, but someone from my mother's office calling with a work question.

It runs in the family, I guess.

Small Humiliations: Part IV

When I first moved to the Twin Cities, I worked retail for about a year. As part of my job, I answered the phone. This is in addition to dusting, straightening, restocking, gift wrapping, counting out the tills, and taking out the trash (I didn't have a job where I wasn't responsible for the garbage until I was 26). Oh, and I also got to call 911 after the occasional skateboarding punk tossed a lit firecracker into the store, since I was a supervisor who made 50 cents more than the other clerks.

But I digress. The crux of this little story is the phone. One afternoon, I received a call for another employee, whom I knew was on break. I told the caller this and put her on hold.

The phone rang again. This time, it was an employee I was good friends with who wanted someone to check the work schedule for her. I put her on hold as well. And then, because I couldn't resist making a joke, I picked up the receiver and proceeded to sing my own rendition of call-waiting music to my friend.

The song I chose? "The Girl from Ipanema."

I don't know why this was my go-to tune, other than it seems appropriately Muzak-ish. But I wasn't really singing, just "doot-doot"-ing.  As in "Doot doot doot doot, doot doo-doot doo-doot ..."

I think I got almost to the chorus before the person on the other end, the first person I'd put on hold, the person on LINE ONE and not LINE TWO, said, very confused, "Uhhhhhh ... so is Chris there or not?"

Realizing I'd just made a complete ass of myself by humming sweetly and happily into a complete stranger's ear, I was at a loss for an adequate explanation. I think I simply replied, "Um, yep" and gingerly placed the receiver back in its cradle.

But that's the kind of employee I am. Always willing to go the extra mile. Even if it means digging into my limited repertoire of 1960s bossa nova music for random people's entertainment.

PG-13 + XXX = XOXO

At about 6:00 p.m. yesterday, I ducked into a doorway downtown to wait for a bus. A couple, about my age, ducked in soon after to wait while "that clown brings the car around." They had just seen "Little Fockers," which neither of them enjoyed, but they were in good spirits and seemed open about their plans for the rest of the evening.

The woman kept teasing the man about how he couldn't handle the cold, and he kept trying to convince her to eat at a nearby restaurant (presumably so he didn't have to go back outside again). Then their conversation took an interesting turn:

MAN: "Well where you wanna go, then?"
WOMAN:  "I don't know. Gimme your thoughts."
MAN: "Sex World."
WOMAN: "What? I just asked for your thoughts."
MAN: "And I gave 'em. We goin' to Sex World!"
WOMAN:  [laughing] "We're not going to Sex World."
MAN: "Oh, I see, cuz you can't handle any more than this."

At this point, they were cuddling and kissing. I knew I couldn't bolt, however, because they'd think they scared the uptight white girl away. Finally their car arrived, and I exited shortly after they did. But it left me wondering . . . would they go to Sex World?  Before or after dinner? Was he really too much to handle? And, most importantly, how the hell did Ben Stiller and Robert DeNiro get this guy so randy?

Small Humiliations: Part III

When I was a kid, this magical event occurred about every four weeks.  A man would pull up to our house in a big truck marked "Schwan's" and proceed to deliver boxes of various frozen meats and the occasional ice cream treat. This was just a small supplement to my mom's usual grocery trips, which was what made it so special.

Now, the Schwan's man would stop by on the appointed day, but not necessarily at a pre-determined hour. Kind of like the cable guy, but he could get away with it, because you can't really stay mad at someone when you have an orange sherbet "pushup" in your mouth.

One day, when I was about 14, the doorbell rang. Because it was immediately after school, I naturally expected my friend Nathan to have moseyed the block between our houses, in order that we might lounge about listening to hardcore gangsta rap that was banned by our mothers. And, because we were typically goofy and juvenile together ... like I said, 14 ... I decided to greet him appropriately at the door.

Our front door was wooden, with a window at the top covered by a sheer yellow curtain. Can you picture it? So, after hearing the doorbell, I crept (crept, mind you, stealthy as your average rhinoceros no doubt, for a surprise attack) up to the door, whipped the curtain open, and pressed my face violently against the glass.

It was mid-monster-mug, eyes crossed, nose smashed, that I noticed the man standing in our garage was not, as I expected, my friend Nathan, but Bob, our friendly neighborhood Schwan's man.

I can't say for certain what types of things a frozen food deliveryman sees on his rounds, but they must have been more shocking than a teenage girl drooling at the window, because Bob merely looked perplexed.

Realizing my mistake, I carefully peeled my lips off the glass, opened the door, and said, "Uh, we don't need anything today, thanks," and shut it again.

And here's a reason to love small towns. Because Bob had serviced our area for years before this incident, he continued to periodically show up at our door for years afterward. So I got to relive the embarrassment many, many times over. But I did learn the precautionary measure of checking the calendar in the kitchen for a tiny little swan-shaped sticker before greeting any future guests with a gruesome-faced slobber.

Small Humiliations: Part II

I honestly intended this series to be focused on my own embarrassing moments, but I also honestly intended not to go to Starbucks and buy a coffee this morning, which is where I overheard the following conversation between two men who appeared to have met for something business-related.

Man #1 (bustling in from outside, obviously cold):  "I just did something really stupid."
Man #2:  "Oh yeah?"
Man #1:  "I just put my change in the wrong meter."
Man #2:  "How'd you do that?"
Man #1:  "It was a black car that looked just like mine.  I didn't even notice until I locked my car with my remote, and the lights flashed on a car a couple spots down the street."
Man #2 (laughing now):  "How much change did you put in?"
Man #1:  "All of it. It was completely empty."  (walking up to the counter)  "I'm gonna need a couple more dollars' worth. I fed the wrong meter, if you can believe that."

The guy behind the counter then cracked up, as did several other people in line. Although this mistake registers about a 1.5 on the humil-o-meter, what struck me funniest was that the man seemed unable to stop himself from admitting what he'd done. It was like he couldn't believe it and needed someone else to verify it. It made me wish I had the very same story to share, just so he wouldn't feel so alone.

I also couldn't stop thinking about how happy and perplexed the person whose meter he topped off would be upon returning to that identical black car later on. One man's misspent cash is another man's pleasure, perhaps.

Small Humiliations: Part I

In the interest of overcoming my apparent hibernatory tendencies this winter (I currently arrive home from work, curl up under my heated throw, sleep for a couple hours, rouse myself for some food and television, and then ... exhausted ... retire to bed), I'm starting a new series detailing some of my more embarrassing moments.

A couple years ago I went to get my hair cut at a discount chain, which shall remain nameless. I typically cheap out on haircuts, mainly because I keep mine very short and can't justify $40 a month in upkeep. The adventurous part of this strategy is that I might get a different stylist each time, which is also the downside in certain situations.

In this particular instance, it was not only a new stylist, but also a new establishment. The girl was quite young and eager to make a good impression. She washed my hair and then stood behind me asking me questions to get a feel for what I wanted.  In the course of the questioning, we had the following exchange:

STYLIST:  "Have you ever had your hair long?"
ME:  "Not since high school."
STYLIST:  "Do you ever think about growing it out again?"
ME:  "Well, sometimes I toy with the idea, but you know you have to go through that ugly stage."
STYLIST:  (very sympathetically, with her hand on my shoulder)  "Awwwww ......"

LONG PAUSE 

STYLIST:  "Oh!  You mean the hair!"

I haven't been back since.

I'll Be [expletive deleted] Home for Christmas

There was a girl on her cell phone the other morning as we waited for the bus, and it sounded like she was working through some pre-holiday stress. I'm sure many people can identify, though we probably use less profanity when discussing our family angst.  Maybe. 

Her end of the conversation went like this:

"I can't DO her for no three days. I can do her for 'bout half a day. WORD.  I mean, somethin's gotta give."

"Erry time I say no, she gotta call erry-muthafuckin'-body in Chicago!" 

"Sure, I could move to Atlanta. The rent's cheaper, but you make less, and errybody sound STUPID, can't put two and two together."

Oh, please don't go. Invite your mom for an extended stay. Then tell somebody all about it within earshot.

Wherein I Make Santa's Naughty List

The other night I was on Amazon's website, looking for a Christmas gift for my dad. I swear, that's all I was doing. Where I might have gone wrong was typing "nonfiction for men" in the search bar.

Did you know that Amazon has a pretty extensive selection of books on sexuality? I do. Now. Because one of the search results was "The Ultimate Guide to Strap-On Sex."

So of course I clicked on it.

A short synopsis, and then (miracle of miracles) the always excellent "Look Inside!" feature. So of course I clicked on it.

I had to! You don't just throw a gem like that onto my screen and expect me to ignore it. That's like leaving your diary open on the kitchen table or creating a folder on your desktop labeled "Dirty Secrets."

Unfortunately, only the first ten pages or so were available, but let me tell you, I learned quite a bit. I'm not going to repeat any of it here, because I believe I've made it through 70 posts without using the word "dildo," and I don't intend to start now. Oops.

In the interest of full disclosure (but not TMI), I'm extremely liberal when it comes to views on human sexuality. I find it fascinating what people think up to do with each other, and as long as they do it in the privacy of their own homes, more power to 'em. And seriously, if you can't manage to find new ideas to spice up your sex life in this day and age, you're just short of retarded. Or you don't have the internet.

So I have absolutely no objection to books being written on every crazy sex-related subject imaginable. I think if you're curious about something, it might be helpful to read up on it before you give it a whirl. You might decide it's not for you. Alternatively, you might be inspired to do further research and end up at a website designed exclusively for the hundreds of other people who are also into that very same thing.

This did not happen to me. Not because I wasn't curious, but because it was late, and I didn't have time. Instead, I checked out the other related books, of which (you might not be surprised to know at this point) there were several. Perhaps the best part of this adventure was the consumer reviews, my favorite of which was titled "Nothing New."

My evening had taken an informative and hilarious turn, and I was thoroughly delighted. Until a terrible thought occurred to me: Oh, my god. I'm on Amazon.com.

Why would this be a troubling realization? Because, thanks to the wonders of technology, there's a helpful little section called "Inspired by Your Browsing History." That's right -- those sneaky bastards keep track of what you look at and then suggest similar items. This is meant to be a personalized sales advantage, but as illustrated here, it can backfire.

I had a brief moment of panic, during which I imagined someone logging onto my computer and being shocked at my explicit recently viewed items (likely contained in my "Dirty Secrets" folder). Or, worse, checking my e-mail at work and finding advertisements for the latest and greatest strap-on harness. In this second scenario, I try to quickly close out of the window, but my stupid laptop freezes, and my boss walks in, and I lose my job and am penniless, and therefore can't afford to buy the nonfiction gift I was looking for in the first place. [fist shake] Amazon!!!

Naturally, both ideas are ridiculous. I click on nothing even remotely suspect at work, and I don't know who would be snooping around on my home computer. My panic was prompted by a small, repressed Midwestern voice in my head that sometimes warns me not to color outside the lines and projects unreasonable yet horrific consequences if I should dare to disobey.

It was this same voice (which I'm pretty sure is Lutheran) that guided me to find the "edit" function for my browsing history. It's comforting to know it's there, but I didn't actually delete anything. No, I'll stand by my healthy curiosity, and to hell with anyone who stumbles upon my liberal queries and can't handle it. If we've learned anything, it's that it's always the quiet ones.

Wait . . . oh my god. What if I accidentally put something on my Amazon Wish List?

Merry Christmas to me.

As American as Apple

A few months ago, a woman sat down next to me on the bus and began a conversation. Not necessarily with me, because at the time I had my headphones in. But, because it's the polite thing to do, I removed the earbuds and replied, just in case she had a legitimate question.

Soon I was engaged in what can only be termed as intermittent chit-chat, as she wandered from one topic to another. That is, until she zeroed in on the fact that most of the people who ride the bus are attached to their MP3 players and don't talk to each other anymore.

I commented that it's sometimes nice to relax with music after a long, stressful day at work. (Hint, hint, lady.)  What I didn't say was that digital music is probably the single best thing to happen to public transportation since air conditioning. Few things make me happier than being in a moving vehicle that I don't have to steer with some tunes and plenty of time to just think. I'm content for hours doing this. It's like meditation.

I also didn't tell her that I rode the bus for two years before getting my iPod, and I had approximately four interesting conversations during that period, none of which resulted in a new BFF. I have a 30-minute ride each way. In the morning, I'm tired. In the afternoon, I'm more tired. I don't want to have a gab session with anyone, least of all a recent immigrant from an African nation who's a bit preachy about Apple's ill effects on the general populace.

The woman then launched into a mini-lecture about how small towns are superior because people actually talk to each other, and how American cities have no sense of community. At this point, my customary Zen-like state had been permanently shattered by her yapping, so I responded that I originally come from a small town, and having some anonymity in the city is actually a nice thing. I didn't remind her that people in tiny communities don't just know each other -- they know each other's business. And unless things are drastically different on the Dark Continent, everybody's always up in that business, whether you like it or not.

She disagreed, of course, and insisted on passive-aggressively scolding me for giving in to the temptation of anti-social technology. Ironically, all I wanted to do during her speech was stick my headphones back in my ears. I probably should have, just to prove a point.

Thankfully, I didn't see her again for several weeks. And, when I did, no further rebuttal was necessary ... for she had succumbed to the sweet siren song of an undisturbed commute and had in her possession an MP3 player.

Welcome to America.

A Dirty Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Let's review a couple commercials currently running on cable TV, shall we?

First, there's the spot advertising the Trojan Vibrating Touch fingertip massager. It features a group of women at a bridal shower. The bride-to-be unwraps the gift and expresses her delight at receiving one of these lovely toys. She then finds out that she's received multiples (no pun intended) of them, because her friends think they're so fantastic. Cut to her at home with her man. She says something like, "Honey, remember that massager I wanted? Well, we got THREE of them!" And he replies, for no discernible reason, "Sweet!"  What's wrong here:

A.  Why is a woman getting married receiving sex toys? It seems a slightly outdated idea that, until those vows are said, there has been no action between the sheets ... so WOW, here's something that's going to really knock your socks off in this new world of experimentation. Or maybe the message is "Prepare yourself for a lifetime of sexual stagnation ... here's a weapon in defense of ho-hum monogamy." I don't know. What I do know is that perhaps it would be more appropriate to give sex toys to people who really need them. Like your single friends.

B.  Is it weird to have someone wrap up a sex toy and give it to you with their glowing (pun intended) recommendation? Can you help thinking about that person every time you take it out of that drawer, or box under your bed, or hidden panel in your wall? I don't know. I've never gotten one as a gift. True friends, see A. Or maybe not. I can't decide.

C.  Why does the husband-to-be seem thrilled at the vote of no confidence that his wife's friends have given him?  He might as well have said, "Sweet! Now that my inadequacy has been addressed, I can quit worrying about pleasing you. Obviously I've never been even remotely close to satisfying you, since you think you need several battery-powered devices to do the job."

Second, let's talk about the commercial for the men's Shake Weight. If you aren't familiar with this product, it's basically a dumbbell with a kind of piston action that shakes the weight in your hand and (ostensibly) tones your arms through the process of "dynamic inertia."

So the TV spot features several shirtless, oiled up, very muscular men gripping a pumping rod in their fists and wearing an expression of pain (because it's so HARD!) mixed with pleasure (but it hurts so GOOD!)

In short, this is the gayest commercial I've ever seen in my life. And I don't use the term in a derogatory way. I mean literally fodder for endless homoerotic fantasies. Really gay. Like "Top Gun" volleyball-on-the-beach gay.

But here's the kicker. Toward the end of the commercial, the ripped guy in the little shorts is really having quite the intense experience with his Shake Weight. He's sweating, he's got a death grip on this thing, and when he finally can't take it anymore, he groans and exhales, "Ahhh ... that's it!"

Maybe the girl excited about the massager should just light some candles and watch the Shake Weight ad. And, judging by her future husband's enthusiasm for being relieved of duty (so to speak), maybe he should, too.

Chilled to the Bone

This morning I had to take a cold shower, and sadly, it wasn't because I needed to douse the flames of passion in order to get to work on time.  It was because, off and on for three days now, the new boiler in my apartment building has been malfunctioning.

It first happened on Sunday, when my parents were visiting. Of course. After a "reset," I had nice steamy water that evening and Monday ... until 7:30 this morning, when I nearly bruised my ribs gasping for air while enduring an icy deluge. 

On the plus side, it made for a VERY quick shower. And I was VERY awake when it was over. Pissed, and clean, but awake.

So I called the maintenance line to report the problem as I waited, still shivering somewhat, for my bus. I gave my information and explained the situation, and then the woman asked, "Is this an emergency?"

I wasn't entirely sure how to respond, because emergencies can be relative. Personally, I would categorize an emergency as a matter of life and death. Or, in the case of apartment problems, as something that would cause irreparable harm to either me or the property itself. 

For instance, if I woke to find my freezer leaking all over my kitchen (which has happened) that's an emergency. If my garbage disposal broke and backed up my sink and flooded all the cabinets (which has also happened) that's an emergency. If there's a large bubble of water building up beneath the ceiling in my bathroom and threatening to burst at any moment (been there, done that) that's an emergency.

All these things need to be dealt with ASAP. But no hot water? I wouldn't necessarily lump it into the same category as a burnt out light bulb or a drippy faucet, but it does seem essential. So, to be reasonable, I replied, "Well, if you could fix it sometime today, that would be good." Because I didn't need it immediately, although I worry that bathing will be a crapshoot for the next few days.

But really, should the lady on the other end of the phone have had to ASK whether this issue should be a priority? I would hope that anyone manning that maintenance line would have a list, or some kind of quick reference tool, that ranks problems in order of importance. A Cliffs Notes of Apartment Disasters, if you will. At the top would be "no heat or water," and at the bottom would be "freakishly large spider."

You know what wouldn't be on that list? Ghosts. There is just no readily available help for that, other than dialing your nearest old and young priests. This is bad news for a friend of mine who thinks she's being haunted. Nobody's going to come out to her place sometime between 9:00 and 3:00 to tinker around with the spiritual balance in her home. So until renter's insurance includes a clause for paranormal activity, she's stuck periodically waking to find ethereal amorphous blobs hovering over her bed.

Now THAT's an emergency.

Belated and Inebriated

So I'm a year older now, and I'm already much wiser. Here's what I've learned: sometimes, you get your birthday present a day late. And sometimes, that birthday present comes in the form of three very drunk people, all in their 50s (or wearing the equivalent amount of life on their faces) who get on your bus.

Not that there's necessarily an appropriate time to be in this condition when the sun's out, but keep in mind this is 8:30 a.m.

The woman boarded first and decided to sit in the very front because, as she was not shy of announcing, the bus driver was wearing a fantastic cologne.  "Ain't nothin' like a good-smellin' man, I don't care what you are!"

The two drunken men then got on. One of them seemed to be her boyfriend, so I'll refer to him as such, though "common-law idiot" might be more appropriate. I'll refer to the other man simply as "friend." They decided to sit in the very back. In case you're not following, we now have a hammered and amorous lady shamelessly hitting on the driver, while her two companions, about five sheets to the wind, have sprawled across the back seat.

You'd think that being separated by an entire bus-length of space would prevent these people from trying to have a "conversation" (in quotes, because I can only loosely define it as such) with each other. Doing so would require literally shouting everything just to be heard, with no regard for the rest of the passengers in between.

You'd think, but you'd be wrong. Here are the highlights.

BOYFRIEND (walking halfway up the aisle with a pack of cigarettes): "Six bucks for these damn things. Damn! I gotta quit smokin."

WOMAN: "You can't smoke those on the bus!"

BOYFRIEND: "I'd rather smoke marijuana. It's cheaper."

WOMAN: "Come over here and let me smell you!"

BOYFRIEND: "Devil woman!"

WOMAN (inexplicably): "Semper fi!"

BOYFRIEND (singing, because the Bee Gees seemed appropriate at this point): "Lonely days, lonely nights . . . where would I be without my woman . . ."

FRIEND: "I gotta take a piss!"

BOYFRIEND: "We'll pull over at the next stop with a shelter."

Author's note: I'm not sure what disturbs me more ... that he considered a bus shelter to be the equivalent of a bathroom, or that he assumed an enormous vehicle designed exclusively for public transportation would veer off-schedule and pull in for a quick pit stop at the urging of his friend's bladder.

FRIEND: (mumbles something unintelligible)

BOYFRIEND: "Hey. Hey! Does a bear shit in the woods? . . . . . . (wait for it, because this revelation is genius) . . . . . . Well, that's what we gotta do."

And that, my friends, is how you get an enormous vehicle designed exclusively for public transportation to screech immediately to a random curb along your bus route just to let you stumble off.

Take that little piece of useful information and wrap it in a bow, why don't you? Happy birthday to me.