Dear Diary: Captain Obvious

For more examples of my highly developed powers of observation, see below:

Evidently I was writing to a dumber version of my future self.

Just Drop It

Every so often, I'm an unwilling participant in the phenomenon that I refer to as the Unisex Name Drop. What is this intriguingly named yet undeniably real event? Here's an example:

I'm ready to pay for something at a store or a restaurant, and the cashier looks down at my credit card and cannot resist commenting that he or she has a family member or a friend or an ex named Courtney. Of course, the Courtney they know is a guy, which makes them chuckle good-naturedly while they relate this story.

I realize that the person is probably just trying to make small talk while waiting for me to sign a receipt, but I'm absolutely baffled regarding how I'm expected to respond. There's nowhere to go from "I know a man with that name." I usually end up forcing a polite smile and saying something like, "Yeah? That's interesting."

But you know what? It's really not. People who have unisex names (even rarely used ones like mine) are fully aware that there are human beings of the opposite gender running around with the same moniker. And when you bring it up, it's awkward. There's nothing relevant to say because it's a completely irrelevant comment.

Unless, like me, they're sometimes mistaken for the opposite gender by myopic people who can't understand that some women have short hair and are 5'10". In that case, it's a bit of an insult, since you seem to be comparing us to your nephew or your male cousin or your brother's best friend.

If you're ever tempted to broach this topic with a complete stranger, may I suggest using any one of the following phrases instead: 1) "That's a nice name." 2) "Have a nice day." 3) Nothing at all.

I once asked a friend what he thought I should say in these scenarios, and he gave me the most hilarious quip I could have wished for. I have it in reserve as my standard response.

CLERK:  "Huh. I have a nephew named Courtney."

ME:  "Yeah, I know. I'm named after him."

Take that, name droppers.

WTF Asshole

A couple weeks ago, I met some friends (a husband and wife) for dinner and a movie at a local mall. As I was walking in from the parking lot, I saw the following scrap of paper lying on the sidewalk. Since it featured profanity, of course I picked it up.

It made me laugh, but the content was a bit mystifying. When I got inside, the wife was standing outside the restaurant, saying we had just a short wait and her husband had gone to buy the movie tickets. I pulled out the note to get her assessment, and she immediately commented that perhaps someone had stuck it on a car windshield as a rebuke for bad parking.

She then told me that she'd given her husband a hard time for a haphazard parking job that very evening.

I don't know which of us had the brainstorm, since it's hard to pinpoint the origin of evil schemes when this much serendipity is involved. Suffice it to say that, when we sat down to eat, I presented the note to her husband, telling him I had parked near them and found it on their car.

I don't regret it. What I do regret is not having my phone out to capture his reaction on video. He stared first at the note, then at me, then back at the note, then at his wife, mouth agape, completely and utterly flabbergasted.

I think his wife might have kept him going all night with tongue-in-cheek variations on "I told you so," but I burst out laughing and quickly confessed. I couldn't let the poor guy think that retribution was so impossibly swift, or quite so aligned with his wife's views. That would have made me the asshole.

Dinodon

I wrote this story in third or fourth grade. It's fairly self-explanatory, but I would like to say three things. 1) Yes, I'm a super huge nerd. 2) Trischoolatops High would make a great band name. 3) I think I drew some pretty kickass punk dinosaurs toward the end. Thank you.

Message in a Bottle

Or: I Left My Heart at Francisco's

So I went to the movies on Saturday night, and naturally I had my phone silenced during the film. This puts me in stark contrast to the guy next to me, who started getting an alert about 20 minutes from the end of the picture that kept repeating about every three minutes. I'm not sure how long I let this continue before I turned and whispered, "COULD YOU PUT THAT AWAY?!" But I digress.

What I really want to talk about is the voicemail I had waiting for me when I came out of the theater. It was from a St. Paul number that I didn't recognize, and it went like this . . .

INEBRIATED MAN:  Hey, Steve, give me a call.

OK, first of all, my outgoing message clearly says, "Hi, this is Courtney. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." But again, inebriated.

INEBRIATED MAN:  I'm extremely drunk.

Duly noted.

INEBRIATED MAN:  I went to Francisco's house, and he tried to get me drunk. You won't believe it.

Excuse me, tried? He seems to have been wildly successful. And yes, we do believe it.

INEBRIATED MAN:  He's really [mumbles] for me.

I've listened to this message about 20 times, and the best I can make out is "He's really got a thing for me." Which might explain the next sentence.

INEBRIATED MAN:  Oh, I will never go again to his house. Believe me.

Dude, we believe you. (How incredulous is Steve, typically?)

INEBRIATED MAN:  Never . . . never . . . never.

Probably a good idea. Though the emphatic repetition leads me to believe some things may have happened that you're not particularly proud of.

INEBRIATED MAN:  Okay. Call me later, okay?

I do want to call this guy later. Just to check up on him. Just to let him know that his intoxicated ramblings reached across time and space (or across Verizon's network, which is equally complicated) to find me, and that I will cherish this random message long after Francisco has lost interest. It's the least I can do.

Spellcheck Shmellcheck

Sometimes, I'm forced to ask myself serious questions. It's not something I particularly enjoy, but I often find it cannot be avoided. Recently, I had to ask a question that, if you're over 30, may also have occurred to you: "Am I just getting old, or is the casual nature of electronic conversation reaching a level that simply spits in the face of common decency?"

Even if you've never considered it in quite those terms, you know what I'm talking about. And if not, here's an example of an email exchange I had with a representative at a large financial institution. It's verbatim.

ME:  Hi there. I talked briefly with [teller name] last week when depositing a check into my business account, and she mentioned that my business could upgrade to an account that would not charge a monthly service fee. Is there a minimum balance we would need to maintain? Please let me know. Thanks!

This, I feel, was an appropriately crafted query with one basic question.

REP:  Hi I just get your email let me know when you wan come and set down whit me  so we can see what options we have for u

I'd just like to point out that this was an official employee of the bank, and not some teenager who wandered in off the street and mistakenly assumed she was tweeting. This person was, for all intents and purposes, the face of the company, which presumably wanted to entice me to put even more of my hard-earned money into its hands.

ME:  I don't have a lot of time during work hours, but I could do 15-20 minutes on Friday if you're available.

REP:  What time so I can ready for u

What I should have done at this point was call "game over" after the refusal to spell out three-letter words or to use punctuation of any kind. But I gave her one more shot, partly because I kind of wanted to meet her face-to-face out of sheer curiosity.

ME:  How about 11:00?

REP:  Hi can you meet me at 12:00pm I have

And that was the end of the message. No joke. Strike three. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never know exactly what her problem was. Instead, I shot a message to the online customer rep and had my issue resolved within 24 hours. Two emails, complete with real sentences!

To the rep, I sent one final reply, in which I delicately explained that I would not be meeting with her, largely due to the confusing and incomplete nature of her communication and suggesting that she strive to be more professional in the future. I wasn't mean, but I think some constructive feedback was needed. The next person might not be so accommodating.

Then again, the next person might have been a teenager who wandered in out of the Twitterverse and was delighted by the refreshingly down-to-earth "communication." If you can call it that.

Dear Diary: Aspirin Espionage

It somehow comforts me to know that, at about this time 26 years ago, my mother was attempting to trick me into taking medication. It may interest you to know that she did not abandon these attempts, as I distinctly recall a similar betrayal involving a bowl of icky-tasting "applesauce." Mom, if our poodle could lick off all the peanut butter and spit out the heartworm pill, I'm pretty sure your 7-year-old could detect acetaminophen in her favorite foods.

Cutting In

One one of my recent visits to get my hair cut, there was a young guy in the chair behind me who came in with a special request. He was going to be starring in a play, and he needed his hair cut appropriately for the role. His stylist was the most earnest and possibly most oblivious woman I've ever heard try to carry on a conversation. She desperately wanted to participate in a meaningful dialogue, but she jumped to conclusions so quickly that it sounded like this:

MAN:  "I'm in this play . . ."

STYLIST:  "Ohhhhh, so like Shakespeare."

MAN:  "No, this production is set in the Old West, and  . . ."

STYLIST:  "So you're looking for like a 1920s thing."

MAN:  "I think more like the 1890s, but  . . ."

STYLIST:  "Ohhhhh, okay. Can you imagine how gross and dirty people's hair was back then? I suppose it doesn't matter much cuz you'll be wearing a cowboy hat."

MAN:  "Well, actually, my character's from the city. The Ricochet Kid."

STYLIST:  "What?"

MAN:  "I'm known for being able to shoot people by bouncing bullets off of things."

STYLIST: "Ohhhhhhhhhh. So like The Matrix."

MAN: (sigh) "Not exactly."

At this point my stylist stopped snipping away because we both had the giggles. I'm lucky I didn't lose an ear.

Resolution Retooled

Here we are at the start of a new year, and I've already broken my first resolution: to cease blog posting in favor of spending time on a more substantial writing project. (Which is good news if you're a regular reader and bad news if you're my as-yet-imaginary future novel). 

I initially thought it would be a great idea to take a break, partly because, even though I didn't quite manage 100 posts last year, it sometimes felt like a bit of a chore to put my storytelling muscles to work without knowing who exactly (if anyone) was reading and/or appreciating it. I know that sounds lame. I should be writing simply for writing's sake, yes? Putting myself out there, throwing words together with reckless abandon for the sheer joy of communication, sustained only by my personal pride in a job well done (or so I hope).

And yet, no matter what we do, we like to have some way to measure our progress. Not necessarily to determine whether we've been "successful," but at least to know that our efforts are worthwhile. I don't think it's too awfully self-centered to admit that everyone needs a little validation here and there. But how much is enough? Ay, there's the rub. Is it enough if even one person's day is brightened by something ridiculous I decide to type into this glowing box? After all, isn't it a little bit of a miracle that anyone is even remotely interested in something I have to say in the first place?

Yes. Yes, it is. So, I decided to compromise, and I made two new resolutions. First, to get over myself. Second, to post once a week. That way, my storytelling muscles still get a workout, but I can focus the other days on the as-yet-unnamed literary experiment. Sounds simple enough. But then again, so did setting up the wireless printer that I bought my parents for Christmas. And we all know how that turned out.

Unreasonable

On my way to work the other morning, my bus driver stopped and waited through a couple traffic lights. Normally I find it quite annoying to just sit stalled while the rest of the metro passes us by, but I understand the reason for it. Unfortunately, the lady in front of me did not.

"What's the holdup?" she snapped.

"I'm ahead of schedule," the driver replied.

"Well, I'M not!"

"Sorry, we just have to wait."

"Unbelievable!"

She then proceeded to whip out her phone and loudly declare to the person who answered (and all of us) that she was GOING TO BE LATE THIS MORNING because her bus was RUNNING BEHIND.

Now, I've been riding metro transit daily for 7 years, and 98% of the time I'm in my desk chair at 8:55 on the dot. However, riding the bus does not guarantee you arrive at your destination on time, any more than taking a taxi or driving your own car. And I include the train in this, because no mass transit system is immune from obstacles that can crop up to complicate your commute.

I don't understand why some bus riders have such unreasonable expectations. You just paid $2 to essentially have a personal chauffeur drive your ass to work while you sleep, chat, or text rather than fighting through rush hour, paying for gas and parking, and putting excess miles on your vehicle. Granted, that chauffeur cares nothing about your personal comfort and will leave you behind if you're 10 seconds late, but still, it's a bit magical, on par with being able to mail a letter to literally anyone in America for around 40 cents.

I especially don't understand it when people suddenly stand up mid-ride and are shocked to learn that the bus they boarded isn't going exactly where they want it to. They're typically real bastards about it, too, as if the driver just changed his mind and chose a destination that wasn't clearly indicated in lights above his windshield. I'm utterly baffled by this. You can't just leap on a random mode of transport and assume it's headed in your general direction. It would be the equivalent of me running to the airport, boarding the first plane I saw, and then being irate that it wasn't, in fact, going to France.

Because then I'd have to whip out my phone and loudly declare that I COULDN'T TAKE TWO SECONDS TO READ A SCHEDULE and the pilot could not READ MY MIND OR CHANGE COURSE, which I find highly UNREASONABLE.

I bet complaints like that sound even better in French.

Cluck You

This story comes to me by way of a friend of a friend, so I can't take credit for much more than just repeating it ... but I think it's worth repeating.

So this person goes into a certain fast food establishment and is waiting in line. The rather large woman ahead of her orders two buckets of chicken. Without thinking, the cashier asks, "For here or to go?"

The woman, shocked, berates the employee, asking whether the cashier actually thinks she's going to sit down in the restaurant and eat two whole buckets of fried chicken by herself.

In response, the cashier simply yells, "Bitch, I don't know your life!"

Not Sponge-worthy

I just read the following one-star review for a memory foam bath pillow on Amazon.com. I officially love this reviewer:

Want to know what the secret to the "memory foam" this project boasts? Some of the "wicking" technology so prevalent in sports gear, perhaps? Or the stuff that makes the liquid disappear in diapers? Or the magic of those special "wings" in maxipads, for crap sake? Nope. It's a big ole sponge. It's a big ole sponge in a terry cloth cover. Terry cloth - which is commonly understood to be the sponge of the fabric world - wrapped around a big ole sponge. This thing soaks up about 5 pounds of bath water immediately and then drags those two desperate little suction cups that were supposed to hold it perched in place down to their watery grave. The poor little suckers didn't have a chance. And even if one of them does manage to hang on, the big ole sponge-wrapped-in-pseudosponge just slips off of it like a family-sized loaf of so much wet bread.

That was Sunday. Now it's Tuesday night and the loaf of bread slumped in my empty bathtub is just as wet, but really, really cold. Cold and wet and slumpy in the bottom of the tub. A real "Calgon, take me away" kind of allure... Want to know the secret to the "dry" in the "Microdry" this project boasts? Yeah. Me, too. 

Holy Lola

www.pizzerialola.com

Dining Date:  November 2011

On My Plate:  Fantastic house-made meatball starter, then "The Boise" pizza: thinly sliced potato, gruyere, caramelized onion, olive oil, and rosemary. Delish! Dessert was vanilla soft serve ice cream drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. Sounds crazy, tastes great.

Servers Rate:  Very friendly. The manager stepped out from behind the bar to chat with several patrons throughout the evening.

Fun Fact:  They have a photo booth in the back and an entire wall covered with strips to keep you entertained if you have to wait for a table . . . which you might, because this place is hopping. Plus, the mismatched, kitschy dinnerware is hand-picked from second-hand stores and estate sales.

The Damage:  Beware. You will probably want to try everything on the menu, not to mention the great selection of tap beer and wine. But at $10-$15 for a 1-2 person pizza and $8-$12 for apps, it could add up fast. Pace yourself.

The Verdict:  Pizzeria Lola is just too fun, warm, inviting, and inventive not to visit again. A lot of care has gone into crafting this tasty menu and laid-back ambiance. What a treat.

Earning My Interest

www.bankmpls.com

Dining Date:  November 2011

On My Plate:  This was a happy hour excursion, so I can't speak to the main dinner menu, but the pulled pork sliders (three of them for $4) were scrumptious. I also gave the Jamaican jerk chicken wings a try, though they were too spicy for my liking. Also on tap, a $4 Summit.

Servers Rate:  I've read some bad reviews slamming the service here, but our waitress was attentive. Granted, it was a Monday night and not exactly busy, but she was friendly and checked in with us repeatedly.

Fun Fact:  This place is built in the old Farmers and Merchants Bank (hence the name) in downtown Minneapolis on 6th and Marquette. And honestly, aside from being gorgeous, it's straight-up cool. The old bank offices are now private dining areas, the teller area is now the kitchen, and the vault is now stocked with wine. Somehow, they managed to incorporate the historical elements with beautiful modern design quite seamlessly.

The Damage:  Minimal, largely due to a good happy hour menu. The dinner prices more clearly reflect the swank atmosphere.

The Verdict:  Though its posh vibe was a bit intimidating at first, I would definitely pop in for after-work drinks with friends again. The couches in the lounge area are comfy, and it's quiet enough to have a conversation. Plus, since it's in the Westin Hotel lobby, the people-watching opportunities are endless.

Gimme Five

www.fiveguys.com

Dining Date:  October 2011 (Edina location)

On My Plate:  The most glorious cheeseburger known to man. Plus some fries and a Coke. Oh, and some complimentary unshelled peanuts.

Servers Rate:  Everyone is too busy crafting deliciousness on the grill to serve you. Humbly wait your turn at the end of the counter like everyone else. It's worth it.

Fun Fact:  Unless you absolutely love onion, beware ordering it at this establishment. It's not diced or chopped as usual, but rather a huge, thick slice. Otherwise, go crazy on the toppings and condiments! Also, seating is minimal and it's usually busy, so maybe grab it to go.

The Damage:  Average. My burger, small fry, and soda cost me about $11. My advice would be to skip the fries, since they always throw a handful in the burger bag anyway.

The Verdict:  This wasn't my first time here, and it won't be my last. Not that I think this place needs any more good press, because they're going like gangbusters, but they do one thing and do it well: making a burger that melts in your mouth. I think my sister put it best when she said, simply, "I don't want it to end."

Encore!

www.guthrietheater.org

Dining Date:  September 2011

On My Plate:  The grilled cheese sandwich and creamy tomato soup. 

Servers Rate:  Excellent.

Fun Fact:  This restaurant is located on Level Five of the Guthrie Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. It's the sit-down alternative to Level Five Express, which is essentially a sandwich and drink counter. You can relax and enjoy your meal at the Cafe until the seating call for your show. For this reason, they stop taking reservations after 6:00 p.m.

The Damage:  Fairly minimal, depending on what you order. Entrees range between $10 and $20. It's primarily high-end comfort food, and they periodically offer three-course packages that correspond with current productions. 

The Verdict:  Although there are plenty of dining options near the Guthrie, having your meal at the Cafe is the perfect one-stop shop. It's a great start to (and really completes) the whole theater experience, without breaking the bank. However, if you want to have a fancy post-show drink in what feels like a spa, I would recommend Sea Change on the lower level.

Ecuadorable

www.chimborazorestaurant.com

Dining Date:  August 2011

On My Plate:  Hornado con papas, which is actually the picture shown above. Two big pieces of roast pork served with llapingachos (little potato pancakes with cheese). I thought mine came with fried plantains, but I could have just stolen one off someone else's plate.

Servers Rate:  I may be biased, because our waiter was very cute. He patiently explained that the mysterious white, relatively flavorless starch on my plate was hominy.

Fun Fact:  This cute little place is in a boxy building right on the corner of Central and 28th. Keep your eyes peeled or you'll blow right by it.

The Damage:  Under $20, if you don't go crazy on drinks or apps.

The Verdict:  Everybody I ate with ordered something different, and they all came away with a "decent, and definitely an experience" rating. Perhaps Ecuadorian just isn't for me. My meal was a tad salty, and I probably wouldn't order it again. I would like to try their empanadas, though.

Soulless

This is one of my all-time favorite instances of bizarre English use from Japan. It was printed on a merchandise bag at a department store, and it made me laugh so hard I cut it out and pasted it in my journal. As it turns out, it's just as funny ten years later.

I don't know why the speech bubble is directed at the character who doesn't appear to be speaking. I also don't know if that smiling cloudlike figure at the top is supposed to be the charater's "lost" soul, or why it appears to be trying to catch an airplane. Simply the fact that this is a topic of normal conversation (and that everyone involved seems super happy about it) is confusing enough.

But there were a lot of confusing things about Japan. Wonderful, hilarious, ultimately baffling things. Like the hooded sweatshirt I bought that reads "It's a You Make" on the front, and then on the side says "Don't tell anyone about this." Oh, don't worry. I couldn't explain it if I tried.

Fill in the Blanks

In the spirit of being back to regular, non-vacationey, everyday amusements, I heard a lady on my bus tonight say the following:

"It's the one with Mariska Hargitay. You know. Something, something, SUV."

So ... it's a vague show about sport utility vehicles?

Tales from the Rails: Final FAQs

So, after chugging around the country for two weeks, what did I learn (besides the fact that you can't pump your own gas in Oregon)? Here are a few Frequent Amtrak Questions:

Would I do it again?
Yes. But I'd like to experience the relative luxury of a sleeper on trips that span more than one night.

Knowing what I know now, what would I have done differently?
1.  Brought along a full-size blanket. My coat didn't quite cut it some nights.
2.  Brought along something to knock me out.
3.  Brought along something to knock that crying kid out.
4.  Not brought along a book about trains because I thought it'd be interesting. Turns out, once you're actually on one ... not so much.
5.  Loaded up an electronic device with movies. Once that sun goes down, and you can't see anything but your own reflection in the window, and they kill all the cabin lights so people can sleep, there are still several long hours to fill until daylight. Although this could have been avoided by #2.
6.  Spent more time at the beginning hanging out in the lounge car. It's the best way to break up a long stretch of track and meet new people.
7.  Taken more video at the beginning of the trip. This bright idea didn't dawn on me until after CA.
8.  Brought some cans of soda with me, since the cafe attendant will give you a glass with ice.
9.  Opted for more breakfasts in the dining car and never eaten anything from the cafe.
10.  Not said that hot dogs were "okay."

What were the best things you took with you?
A slim notebook, my iPod, my camera, a book light, granola bars, a travel pillow, PURELL, and a "roll with it" attitude.

Were things mostly the same on every train?
Nothing about Amtrak is standard, except for the super wet bathrooms and the semi-crappy food. Procedures vary widely, depending on where you are (and on the quality of the crew). Sometimes they check your ticket at the station, sometimes on the platform, sometimes on the train. Sometimes you get assigned a seat, sometimes not. Sometimes the car attendant comes by to place your destination ticket above your seat, sometimes you do it yourself. Sometimes the conductor tells you where you are or whether you're running on time ... most of the time not. Bottom line: you're pretty much on your own as far as information. Nobody's going to give it to you, you just have to go in search of it.

What surprised you the most?
The train was quieter than I expected, but bumpier. I can't tell you the number of people who made jokes about being drunk as they pitched to one side and staggered from car to car. Of course, some of these people were actually drunk.

Conclusion?
Traveling on Amtrak is a bit old school. There's nothing high-tech about it. You're not riding on a bullet train, you're riding on a motel with wheels. But, if you have the time, it's usually cheaper than flying, you can check a ton of luggage for free, there's room to move around, and you certainly see a lot of America and meet (ahem) interesting people.

The most accurate comparison I can offer is that train travel is a bipolar experience. When it's bad (especially if you're tired or cranky or ... trapped) you feel like you're in hell. When it's good, you feel like you're the smartest person in the world for re-discovering this fantastic mode of transportation. At its best, it feels like a real adventure. But medication probably wouldn't hurt.