Speak Into My Good Ear

Sometimes, an eavesdropping opportunity comes along that you couldn't have designed better if you'd tried. When I went to catch my bus today, it was drizzling, so I ducked into the bus stop shelter. Just outside, on a bench, was an arguing couple. Not so shockingly, they had some serious issues. But miracle of miracles, they weren't shy about expressing their opinions. What I overheard was this . . .

Woman:  "I'm in school, I got my own shit. I'm doin' just fine. I take care of myself, I pay my own motherfucking bills!"

Man:  "But I still want you."

Woman:  "Why?!"

Man:  "Cuz I LOVE you!"

Woman:  "At least you ain't gotta deal with my mama no more. All that fussin'."

Man:  "Can't you just listen to me?  Just listen.  I seen you out on Nicollet with a nigga who looked like he wanted to find another nigga to pay you!  You puttin' it all out there, and you 53 years old!"

Woman:  "An you LOUD!  You ain't think everybody just heard that?!"

Cut to me, trying so hard to look disinterested and itching for a notebook so badly that my hands were shaking. Because yes, you ARE loud, and everybody DID hear that, and now even more people can enjoy it.

Dear Diary: Love Hurts

What a day! Not sure if the grounding was related to the piano. Also not sure why I was allowed to see a movie when I was grounded. Pretty sure Evan getting maimed had nothing to do with me.

Again, don't think the two are related. Evidently my relationship with Evan changed drastically the day after the head injury. And now a tooth! This boy seems to be falling apart.

 

We're together now, just in case you forgot. Perhaps I needed to remind myself that I was taken ...

... because five days later I'm cheating on him like crazy. What a slut!

Outfoxed

This spring, I had the great misfortune to see a mother duck lead her ten chicks across a parking lot and into a picturesque little pond not far from my apartment.

I say misfortune because, as I watched their tiny, fuzzy bodies plunk one by one into the water, I knew I would have to closely monitor this family all summer long. They had adopted me, and they didn't even realize it.

So every week I would pause briefly on a bench after work and watch them paddle around, cheep-cheeping and sticking their little butts in the air as they dove and splashed. And I would conduct a head count, just to make sure there were still ten, none of them having been nabbed by a predator or squashed by a passing car.

When I mentioned this compulsion to keep tabs on the ducks to one of my coworkers, he demanded to know why these animals were so irresistible. But you can't really explain that level of cuteness. So he posed a Sophie's choice question purely out of deviousness.  "Okay then, would you rather lose one of the ducklings, or have a baby fox starve to death?"

After some horrified thought, I finally had to admit, "Well, I guess ten is kind of an embarrassment of riches."

I felt a bit guilty about that answer. Until a few nights later when, driving home from this same coworker's house, I almost hit a fox that darted across the road. But I didn't. I spared him. So I believe I earned the right to keep my fine-feathered family intact.

They're so grown up now that I can't tell which are my original ducklings and which are just your run-of-the-mill Mallards. But sometimes I wonder if they recognize me, ever watchful. #11.

Dear Diary: Checkers

Item one: I referred to markers as "neat" and went ga-ga over high-tops. Nerd alert!

Item two: Where the hell did we find a Chinese restaurant in 1985 South Dakota?

Item three: I referred to movies as "movie films" for no discernible reason.

Item four: Jesus, Dad! Give me a break. I've only been playing checkers for two days!

My Monster II

So I guess I'll keep him around . . . but away from the lentils.

Unintentionally Bootylicious

So this random dude walked by and complimented my ass while I waited at the bus stop yesterday.

"How you doin', you fine, booty (untelligible) thang?"

I'm not quite sure what the specifics were, but it was definitely something booty-related. As I've mentioned before, I'll never understand why my attractiveness demographic is:
A. Middle-aged
B. African-American
C. Typically crazy passersby/panhandlers

But that's the trend. And I'll take it where I can get it, I guess.

When I finally turned around and realized he was talking to me, I immediately started laughing.

"I'm fine," replied.

"Yeah, that's right, you sexy young woman."

And then, as I stepped on the bus, he shouted, "You just made my day!"

Ditto, sir.  Ditto.

Two-Bit Problem

I feel the need to share this, because I'm pretty sure very few people have actually seen what I saw last week on the bus. Toward the end of my ride, a 47-year-old man got on. How do I know his age? Why, because he announced it, of course.

He stood in the aisle, not taking a seat (something that drives me absolutely crazy, when seats are readily available) and instead simply brushing his close-cropped head of hair over and over and over and over. I tend to be unconcerned with people attending to their personal hygiene in transit. Typically, I'm just glad they're attending to it at all. Except for the lady who applied her deodorant en route and then sprayed her perfume, which then drifted directly into my face.

But I digress.

What amazed me about this man was that, when he turned his head, I noticed that he had a quarter in his ear.

Let me just repeat that, to make sure it's clear. In the dude's ear, where you would normally see a hearing aid, let's say, was instead a 25 cent piece, jammed flat across his ear-hole and wedged between the outer edges of said ear.

I didn't know what to make of this, and I still don't. Was it an ingenious way to store his change for the bus? Is it an anti-American statement if you cover George Washington with wax? Or does it simply keep the voices at bay? I was mystified. But kind of intrigued. Because I wasn't sure that just anyone could even pull off such a feat.

For the record, I can. In case you're wondering. Naturally, I had to give it a shot in honor of my new spare change hero. But again, I'm not sure how special this makes me, because I haven't yet inspired anyone else to try it.

Perhaps you'll experiment and let me know?

My Monster

As some of you may know, about 10 years ago I spent some time teaching English in Japan. It was without a doubt the weirdest, most hilarious year of my life.

Naturally, I tried to be as creative as possible with my lessons in order to engage the kids. Below is an example that I just unearthed. As I recall, I had each kid draw a monster and then pass the paper to the student behind them, who wrote details about the picture. This is one of my favorites:

Friday Horoscope

You will attempt to read a book tonight, but the words will refuse to come into focus. Then you will reach up and remove the blindfold you forgot to untie after your latest game of Erotic Marco Polo.

Jacque Jose Pepkeer

 

The assignment may have been to write a tall tale, and it may have been around third grade. Whatever my age, I think it's pretty clear that I was on crack at the time.

I'm not sure what I like more: that a spiteful international terrorist murdered a sweet little librarian, or that her ex-NFL player son vengefully hunted down the killer on the back of a white tiger. Take your pick. It's all comedy gold.

Friday Horoscope

Go out and take on the world!  There is nothing holding you back!  Except for the restraining straps, which are still attached from the last time you went out, mistakenly trying to take OVER the world.

Open to Suggestions

 

Any ideas about what's going on in this picture? Anyone? All interpretations welcome.

I've stared at it now for about ten minutes, and I still don't know what's in that dude's hand. Or why his neck is yellow. Or exactly what kind of exchange is taking place. 

Whatever it is, they both seem happy about it.

Seriously. Your thoughts?

Dear Diary: A Way With Word

 

Pretty much says it all. Well put, 7-year-old me, well put.

Friday Horoscope

You will have a very good night or a very bad night. 
Either way, it will involve handcuffs.

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.

Dear Diary: Modest AND Good at Math

I'd only like to point out that Ortonville is a whole 12 miles from my hometown. Oh, and I just happened across my old sticker books the other day. I noted that, in addition to the standard sticker fare, I had also slapped in some thin sheets featuring the days of the week in a line: Sat Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri. In my current adult state, these were instantly recognizable as belonging to birth control pills. So that's how much of a sticker freak I was. I lifted the daily reminder strip off my mom's oral contraceptives. No wonder I have a sister.

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.

Courtney and the Bandit

I don't really have an explanation for this one. I guess in second grade I already had a thing for swarthy men? Although, since the story is about Jack, I suppose it's a bit homoerotic. I'd also like to note that, in the intervening years, I have learned how to spell "surprised" and how to use a semicolon properly. Thank you.