Minority Retort

I just read an article about the 2003 film "The Last Samurai," and I was reminded of a story one of my good friends told me.

If you're unfamiliar with the plot of this movie, Tom Cruise plays an American military officer who is training Japanese soldiers in the 1870s and eventually embraces the samurai culture. It's basically Dances With Wolves, but with katanas instead of tatonkas. 

Anyhoo, my friend went to this movie in the theatre. During the first scene in which our hero dons traditional samurai garb, there was a startled outburst from several rows back. 

"What the -- I didn't know Tom Cruise was Chinese!"

Secret Service With a Smile

I went to see a play the other night at a local theatre. My friend and I arrived quite early, and there were very few people around. So when one of the ushers offered to take us to our seat level in the elevator, we agreed.

It was just the three of us on the way down, and we started joking that it felt like such special treatment, as if the usher were escorting us to safety. When I remarked that he even had an earpiece like a secret service agent, he joined in the game mock-seriously.

ME: "Do I have a code name?"

HIM: (totally straight-faced)  "I'm not allowed to reveal that information."

ME: "Why not?"

HIM: "It's a liability issue.  In case I have to take extreme measures for your protection."

ME:  "Ah. Plausible deniability."

HIM: "Exactly."

When the elevator reached the main floor, he insisted on going out first to check the hallway, then led us to our seats.  I, however, decided that a pre-show trip to the restroom might be advisable. As I re-entered the theatre, my bodyguard happened to be standing outside the door.

"It's all clear," he whispered conspiratorially. 

After an excellent show, my friend and I lounged quite awhile at the theatre bar . . . long enough that a couple staff members joined us. One of them was the secret service usher.

HIM: "I see you made it out safely."

ME: "Yes, thanks for your excellent protection."

There was a long silence, during which we all sipped our drinks.  Then he added, "Your code name was Hootenanny, by the way."

I laughed so hard I almost spit out my wine.

Aging Like a Fine Whine

I was unintentionally rude the other day. I was standing in the liquor store, pondering which bottle of wine to buy, when I suddenly became aware that someone was speaking to me. I looked up to see a woman standing at a small table, evidently handing out samples of some promotional cocktail. And evidently, she had said the same thing to me several times:

"I see you don't yet have a drink in your hand, young lady."

It wasn't that I didn't want to sample the signature cocktail. It was just that hearing the words "young lady" automatically made me assume she couldn't possibly be talking to me.

You see, I have officially accepted that I'm well out of "young lady" range and deep into "ma'am" territory. It's not ideal, but it's certainly a vast improvement on "sir," which I was called at the grocery store immediately following the liquor store incident.

The woman brandishing booze was likely using the phrase to sweeten her pitch. However, I will take even insincere flattery with the same delight as when I get carded. Any time a server asks to see my ID, I simply think, "You're adorable."

Or perhaps she was being super ironic, like calling a fat guy "Slim," or a tall guy "Shorty," or a woman on the wrong side of 30 "young lady." I don't know! I didn't detect any sarcasm, just the faint whiff of alcohol and ginger ale.

I turned her down as politely as I could, and then made my wine selection. The guy working the register was not fooled. I didn't even get carded.

That's Nuts

I have a friend whose child is attending daycare for the first time. Since he's nearly three and this is all new, he's understandably had a little trouble adjusting to the change. After a particularly rough day that required an early pick-up, I asked my friend what his son had done that caused the daycare to text him in a panic.

DAD:  "He was just crying a lot."

ME:  "But kids cry sometimes. Your daycare provider can't handle that?"

DAD:  "Apparently not. She said she's never seen a child do that before. But I think, since you work with kids all day, surely you can imagine a child doing that. It's conceivable."

And then he gave the greatest, most bizarre example ever.

DAD:  "I mean, it's a kid crying.  It's not like you saw a squirrel pick up a tire."

Indeed.

Tricks are for Kids

I'm going to go out on a limb here, since I'm not a mom, and say this: Kids can be assholes. I think many of my friends with children would agree with this statement in general, and some of the best parents will even apply it to their own offspring.

But I'm thinking of a specific case that happened a couple weeks ago. I showed up at my local grocery store, ready to restock my oft-bare kitchen cupboards. As I wheeled my cart through the produce section, I noticed a woman and her daughter, maybe four or five years old, strolling ahead of me.

Let me be clear on this. At no point did I antagonize this kid. I didn't make eye contact or wave at her or smile or mouth a greeting of any kind. I certainly didn't make a face.

However, for some reason, this kid decided to act super scared of me. I say "act," because when her mother wasn't looking, she was fine. But as soon as her mother turned in her direction, this girl looked in my direction and cowered behind the cart.

You know how you cross paths with the same people over and over again when you're shopping? Unfortunately, that was the case here.

It was quite the performance, so I don't blame the mother for starting to cast wary, confused, and/or pissed off glances at me. I didn't know what to do. Protesting might make me look even guiltier, as would suddenly veering off into a different aisle.

And what reason would she have to doubt her daughter? I'm a potentially harmful stranger who might be doing all manner of things behind her back, and such an angel would never lie. Except that kids do lie. All the time. Because they're assholes.

So there I was. A creepy, childless woman trailing well behind a mischievous little thespian. She might have been having a blast, but she was making me look like a real weirdo. I desperately wanted to draw my index finger slowly across my neck while giving that kid crazy eyes the next time she shot a trembling lip at me.

But I didn't. Because I left my apartment to get food, not arrested.

These are the kinds of moral victories you sometimes have to sacrifice when you're dealing with assholes of any age.  You win this time, little girl. This time.

Attack of the Killer Vac

The woman who lives next door to me likes to keep a clean apartment. A very clean apartment. I know this because she vacuums every day for at least an hour, usually between 11:00 and noon. This seems just a bit excessive, even though she does have a potentially messy little tornado of a two-year-old (and possibly some OCD?) But it never really bothered me  . . . until she got a different vacuum cleaner.

This new machine does not emit a low, white-noise-like drone. It sounds, for lack of a better comparison, like a swarm of very angry bees. And it's SO LOUD. You can hear it throughout the entire building, including from the parking lot. It's the kind of high-pitched, whiny tone that worms its way so deeply into your brain that you can't remember a time when you weren't hearing it.

I should probably mention that I'm not good with repetitive noises. There would be no surer way to drive me insane than making a recurring annoying sound, especially one that I couldn't identify. There you go, future torturers. I handed you that one on a silver platter.

For example, not long ago I was enjoying a lovely afternoon when an animal (I'm assuming a bird) started screeching outside. It was piercing and unrelenting, and paced at regular intervals.

SCREEEECH!  Roughly a minute would pass.  SCREEEECH!  Another minute.  SCREEEECH! This went on for hours.  Hours.

It got to the point where I considered going out to track it down. But what would I do if I found it? If it was injured, I couldn't nurse it back to health. Alternatively, I couldn't bring myself to put a hand over its beak and choke it out while whispering, "Shhhhhh . . .  shhhhh!"

I decided that soft-hearted people with no restorative skills should probably let nature take its course, and I resigned myself to hoping that something would just eat it. Or have sex with it. Maybe it was calling for a mate. In any case, I could offer no relief.

Eventually, the screeching stopped, as the vacuuming does -- as most noises do. Except my other neighbor's overly abundant cacophony of wind chimes. [shakes fist] Wind chimes!!! Soothing in a mild breeze, absolutely maddening in a winter storm. They should be sold with a warning label: May cause pleasant drowsiness or fits of rage, depending on weather. I like the sound of that.

Oh, Snapshot!

So apparently it's senior picture time. On every recent visit to the riverfront on a semi-clear day, I've been surrounded by youngsters in their hippest threads looking for the perfect light.

I don't blame them. It's a beautiful location and an even more beautiful season to capture what will likely be the best their thighs will ever look. 

The equally young, hip, freelance photographers trailing behind them are a far cry from the stuffy, traditional studio I visited back in the day for my pics. I brought with me three outfits and an extra pair of glasses, minus the lenses, so I wouldn't have to dip my head forward. That flash glare was a real problem. Every previous school picture made me look like I either had a severe neck injury or was silently plotting someone's death.  

The only drawback of this empty frame workaround was that I'm pretty much helpless without my prescription. So the photo shoot went like this:

Photographer: "Ok, now stand next to the window."

Me: (squinting) "There's a window?"

It turned out fine, my somewhat bewildered poses on cheesy sets. There was a window.  There was also a ladder and a chair where I sat with my guitar. That last one cements my nerdiness, but honestly (and inexplicably) was the most popular selection among my classmates.

I know my parents were happy with them, unlike the mom I observed from a riverside park bench a couple weeks ago. To get that special angle, she goaded her daughter into wedging herself in the crook of a rather tall tree. The girl awkwardly got a leg up but couldn't quite make it the rest of the way. As she begged for help getting down, her mother apologized ... to the photographer. 

"I'm really sorry about this. She can't do it. If it was my other daughter, it would be no problem."

EXCUSE me, madam. She just gamely attempted to climb a tree for you without complaint. Do not publicly shame her for not having the agility of a spider monkey, while implying that you love her sister more. 

These are things I should say out loud sometimes. Picture that. 

Bros Before "Boo!"s

Sometimes I think I'm at a distinct disadvantage because I didn't grow up with a brother.

If you haven't noticed, dudes really like to mess with people. And I find that I'm ill-equipped to deal with their teasing and hijinks, simply because I haven't had a chance to develop a thick skin against these good-natured deceptions.  

Case in point:  Recently I returned home with a friend after lunch and a movie.  My apartment door is set to lock automatically behind me, which is awesome when rushing to the bus in the morning but more troublesome if I dare to step outside without keys.  (Once I literally whirled around and karate-kicked the door open at the last minute while signing a pizza delivery receipt, but that's another story).

On this particular day, I discovered that the deadbolt-only mechanism had somehow been disengaged, and my apartment had been easily accessible the whole time I'd been gone.  I remarked worriedly on this subject and stayed behind to fiddle with the lock while my friend stepped inside ahead of me.  It was at this point that he decided to say loudly, "Oh! . . . Hello."    As if he'd encountered someone lurking in my apartment.

Just to reiterate, he thought it would be hilarious to pretend to greet the person who'd broken into my home while I was out.  Me.  The woman who lives alone and frequently checks all her closets before bedtime because, hey, I don't have the only key out there.  Me.  Who accidentally locks herself out on her balcony because a security bar will prevent pervy Spider-Men from scaling the wall to the second floor.  Me.  Who automatically jumps to the worst-case scenario every time.

If your stomach has never plummeted directly into your feet, I can't quite describe the sensation. But after hearing those words, for a split second everything stopped.  I was already in fight or flight mode, and he was smirking at me from the living room.  When I finally breathed, words came with the exhale: "I'm going to kill you."

Of course he laughed, and I laughed (eventually).  I'd made the same threat only a few months before, after we'd seen a horror movie. I'd confessed that the scariest part was when something mysterious had yanked on a girl's leg in the dark.  As a preemptive measure, I quickly followed this admission with, "If you sneak into my bedroom tonight and pull on my leg, I will kill you."

There was a long silence while he considered feigning innocence. He then shouted, disappointedly, "But that's what brothers DO!"

Yes, I am learning this, sir.  I am learning.

Hi, My Name Is

A couple weeks ago, I boarded a bus home from work, as I am wont to do.  It was crowded, and I ended up crammed into the very back. Across from me sat a guy in his mid-20s who had just returned from a year serving in Afghanistan and was severely disappointed in everyone who dared look at a smart phone during this ride.  If you're wondering how I could possibly know that much personal information about a stranger, it's because he told me.

Sipping what I can only assume was liquor from an obscured can, he started his tirade with a Malcolm X-like "Look at yourselves!" before going on a loud public shaming spree.  We shouldn't be on our phones!  We should be having conversations!  This isn't what society's about!  We gotta have community! We gotta talk to each other!  We gotta make connections!

Ironically, his outbursts prompted me to do exactly what he was railing against.  I averted my eyes and tried to disappear.  Nobody engage him, please nobody engage him . . . . nope.  Idiot next to me chimed in with an argument that people used to read newspapers on public transit, and how was that any different?

"Come on, man!  We ain't talkin' bout newspapers.  You know that's just propaganda!"

I had to admire his conviction.  He was like an overly aggressive, anti-establishment motivational speaker who was dropping knowledge on us.

"You should talk to people!  Say hello!"  He then started gesturing at random people sitting around him.  "See this guy?  Introduce yourself!  Maybe he knows something you don't!  Maybe that lady over there marched during Civil Rights!  Maybe that dude's been through something that you don't understand!  Like this lady over here . . ."

And he pointed squarely in my direction.

"She might be a fuckin' . . . nuclear . . . geophysicist!  You don't fuckin' know!"

I was torn.  On one hand, I'd been singled out, and I hate attention.  But on the other hand, he thought I looked smart enough to be a nuclear geophysicist.  So . . . I called it a wash and simply smiled back.  Hey, man.  Let's find some answers.

Fight It!

I found this on the back of an envelope at my parents' house recently.

I don't have a good chronological reference for this piece of ... let's call it "art." Whatever my grandfather's malady, it appears that I wanted to send him my best wishes, along with some very wise advice that I felt the need to repeat three times.

I also drew an example (or maybe a continuum) of wellness and what seems to be a mountain range with people falling into chasms. I have no explanation for this illustration, but I welcome any and all suggestions for what it might be. 

Fair Play

Oh!  Hello there.  Fancy meeting you here.  I can't believe you're even on this site, especially after I abandoned you without so much as a fond farewell.  My apologies.  Well, it's good to have you back, and it's good to be back.  I'll do my best to make sure returning was worth your while.

We begin with a story inspired by the recent conclusion of the State Fair (if you're a close friend, there's a strong chance you've heard this one . . . nearly two years of archived information will naturally result in some recycled tales).

I've now lived here for 11 years, and I've been to the Great Minnesota Get Together five times. The first was a very quick trip with my first roommate, who basically bought me cheese curds and then took me home.

The second was the day after I'd moved into my first solo apartment, when I severely underestimated how sore I'd be from hauling boxes up and down four flights of stairs. I spent the day wishing I could curl up in a fetal position in the Miracle of Birth barn. Who would notice? The 4-H kids. They'd rat me out, those savvy rural bastards.

The third time was so packed and hot that I didn't last more than a couple of hours. My friend and I, soaked in sweat and absolutely fried, toasted with 1919 root beer: "To a great State Fair.  (glug) Now let's get the fuck out of here!" 

By the fourth time, I'd learned some important lessons. I was rested. I was ready. I was wearing proper shoes and plenty of deodorant.  This was the year I discovered, to my surprise, that the Fair was actually bearable -- nay, magical -- on a weekday in the evening.  It was still quite hot, but the crowds bore less resemblance to an impenetrable, red rover-esque wall of death.  

Maybe it was the extra personal space, or the calming night air, or the fact that I'd been strolling about with a delicious beer, but apparently I felt that life was good enough to risk on the midway.

I know what you're thinking. "Cotonee, why on earth would you voluntarily board a contraption that was cobbled together by carnies just days before?" And to that I say, I didn't just volunteer.  I PAID to do it.

I'm blaming it on the lights.  They were so colorful and delightful.  I'd just been whisked across the lovely, glowing fairgrounds by the Sky Ride cable car, and I was still in one piece.  So when my friend said "roller coaster," I thought it was a brilliant suggestion.

The ride we chose sat four people to a car.  When it was our turn to board, there were two kids, a boy and a girl, roughly 10 years old, already seated.  My friend slid in first and was promptly shouted at by the ride operator until we switched places. (Evidently strange men aren't allowed to sit next to children, but strange women are just dandy.)

Crammed into the tiny car, we took off.  It wasn't particularly fast or high, or even alarmingly rickety. The kids were in good spirits, and I was having a great time. What I didn't realize, however, was that the coaster cars swiveled.  So when we hit the first big turn in the track, we whipped around, hard, about 180 degrees.

At that moment, in my terror, I forgot that I was supposed to be the adult in the situation.  I yelled, at the top of my lungs and with total conviction, "Ahhhhhhhh . . . we're gonna die!"

That's right.  Instead of calmly reassuring the kids next to me that everything was going to be fine, I not only confirmed their mortality but announced their imminent demise.

Everything was NOT going to be fine.  Their giggling and chattering quickly turned into high-pitched screams that didn't stop until the ride did. And even then, as we rattled to a standstill, their expressions told me that this park was no longer amusing -- the experience had been both a literal and figurative eye-opener.

So that's how I unintentionally traumatized two innocent children during what still remains my best State Fair experience to date.  Suck it, seed art.  I'm out there changing lives.

The Envelope, Please . . .

While helping my parents decorate their house over the Thanksgiving holiday, I came across some Christmas artwork from my elementary school days. I now present them with the following awards.

Shiftiest Santa Ever:

Shiftiest Reindeer/Most Misspelled:

Creepiest Santa Ever:

Oversight

My bus pulled up to a stop this morning and, as happens about 75% of the time on this route, a person in a wheelchair was waiting to board. However, on this particular day, there was already someone in a motorized chair strapped into the available space, and a visually impaired gentleman occupied another seat up front.

"I'm sorry! I can't take you right now," the driver yelled to the person waiting. He then attempted to elaborate.

"I've already got a wheelchair and a guy . . .a guy here who's . . . who's . . . . . . ."

The entire bus fell awkwardly silent as he searched for the word.

Until the visually impaired man simply yelled, "BLIND!"

Amid a burst of laughter from the passengers, the driver apologized. "Right. Sorry, I was looking for something more politically correct."

"That's okay, I don't care. It is what it is."

What a cool guy. He'd named it and owned it, and in the process rescued us all.

Gone with the Wind

Sometimes I think to myself, "Cotonee, life is not like a movie. Movies, in general, are kind of bullshit. You will never bump into a handsome architect on the street and fall in love while you awkwardly pick up the papers you've dropped. You will never encounter a medical examiner who is so obviously bored with his job that he eats snacks around dead bodies. You will never do anything heroic in slow motion." And all this is true. Most days.

But last Friday, I truly had a movie moment, and it occurred in a parking lot downtown. I had just swiped my credit card and purchased an evening's space. As I reached down to retrieve my receipt from the machine, a gust of wind caught it and swept it onto the pavement.

If you're thinking, "What's the big deal?" I would normally agree with you. Except that I needed to display the receipt on my dash to prove I had paid.

I made another grab, but too late. The little slip of paper fluttered onto the trunk of a nearby car. But just as I lunged again, it jumped up on a current of chilly air and began floating above my head.

I don't think I can emphasize this enough. It floated above my head, just out of arm's reach, dancing its way higher and higher in a mischievous October wind vortex that I think was simultaneously giving me the finger and laughing at me.

So there I was, standing alone in a parking lot, staring hopelessly skyward at my receipt, which was seemingly suspended in time. This went on long enough for me to look around for someone, anyone, to verify that this was actually happening.

Finally, the tiny piece of paper caught another current and floated lazily back to the ground. In the middle of the street. Where a truck ran over it. I'm not kidding. A huge truck ran it over, and then the receipt took off again, as though miraculously resurrected by the blustery day.

At this point, I was laughing so hard that I literally had to sit down. The ridiculousness of the whole situation was undeniable (and likely entertaining for anyone driving by). When I could stand again, I briefly contemplated writing a note explaining my predicament and leaving it on my dash. But it seemed a likely story.

In the end, I purchased another evening's worth of parking time. Because okay, Universe, you got me. I guess I owed you that extra $4. If that's the highest price I pay for being an idiot, I'll consider myself lucky.

And . . . scene.

Special Delivery

Replacements arrived just in time at the nursing home where my mom works.

Suck My BIC

I was recently made aware of a product called "BIC for Her," which is essentially a pack of thinner ballpoint pens in girly colors that are inexplicably marketed to those of us with ovaries. I would normally attempt to say something funny about this, but it's already been done for me ... many times over. Here are some of my favorite sarcastic reviews from the Amazon website:

FROM THE WOMEN

Finally! For years I've had to rely on pencils, or at worst, a twig and some drops of my feminine blood to write down recipes (the only thing a lady should be writing ever). I had despaired of ever being able to write down said recipes in a permanent manner, though my men-folk assured me that I "shouldn't worry yer pretty little head". But, AT LAST! Bic, the great liberator, has released a womanly pen that my gentle baby hands can use without fear of unlady-like callouses and bruises. Thank you, Bic!

I don't know why they didn't put a clearer warning on the label, they really should have because if you are a boy and use this pen you put yourself at great risk. My little brother turned into a unicorn after I lent him one, and my friend told me that a boy in her class grew fairy wings in the middle of a test.

You can imagine my joy when I found this pen, made specifically to suit the charming physical frailty and diminished mental capacity that are the hallmarks of my sex. However, the packaging is quite unclear and I can't figure out how this pen should be used. Can I grasp it in my dainty fingers, or do I actually have to hold it in my vagina?

I cain't hardly believe you'd sell this product. It ain't proper! It's a abomination! Wimmen ain't supposed to write. (My husband done wrote this fer me.)

The ink in my new Bic Lady-Pen is made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and somehow when I write, my 'i's are automatically dotted with little hearts. FINALLY a pen that gets me!!!

I was elated to find this product, but I think it should cost 24% less than Bic for Men to adjust to my delicate feminine salary. 

I will say I was a little disappointed the first time I used one. They are just a little bit...smaller than I was expecting? Not that the size of the pen matters. Seriously. BIC shouldn't feel bad.

If I can't be trusted with my own uterus, how on earth can I be trusted with a glittery pen?

If I could count that high, I'd give this product SIX stars.

These pens are the biggest unicorn assault on unicorn feminism ever!!! I accidentally came across some of these unicorn pens at a friend's place and tried to write the next section of my feminist manifesto. I realized these unicorn pens unicorn censored each time I tried to write a swear word and replaced it with 'unicorn'. Unicorn this!!!! This is the biggest unicorn assault on women ever! Unicorn unicorn unicorn!

Some days my creative juices flow heavier than others. You should therefor consider `light, medium` and 'heavy' ink flow options.

A recent study showed women using the Bic for Her pens were actually faking their writing 80% of the time. 

AND NOW, THE MEN WEIGH IN 

This make me mad How come you not make pen, too, for me, me man, me? Me man! MAN! No pen, no man pen for man! Ugh! Me can make, work pen, pen work make letter TOO. Not lady alone! You make inaccessible, neutered pen, for eunuchs and androids, and lady pen, make lady-parts pen for princess, princess, but you, why you, no make pen for UGHH YOU NO MAKE MAN PEN! MAKE ME MAD INSTEAD! WHEN DAWN OF MAN TO COME!!!

I bought these pens for my wife. I assumed they would be safe for her since they are specifically for ladies but she used these for no more than two days before she sprained her uterus.

As a guy I like this pen for 28 letters, but then it puts in a period and I can't touch it for a week.

I am so amazed that BIC is making this. The last thing we need are women writers. Pens were made for men. Hell, we're the ones with a PENis. If a woman has something to say, tell a man, if its important enough to remember, we will write it down for you. That's the way its always been, and that's the way it should stay.

I purchased a set of Bic LadyPens for one of my wives (the one who knows how to write), using my own funds. (This should not come as a surprise, as women should not be allowed to come into contact with currency; their menstrual cycles will curse it and make it lose value.) However, I found that, when given these pens, she began writing more frequently and more fervently. Soon, she was corresponding with other women (via the Postal Service, which, unbeknownst to me, now also accepts pieces of mail from women). Gradually, more and more radical ideas entered her mind. Sure, it started with her asking for simple things like a mortar and pestle (until now, my wives had ground spices with their knuckles), but before I knew it she was demanding to be shod! I blame the pens - clearly they were the catalyst for her awakening! I am currently away on business (I will be delivering an address to a large convention in Tampa this week), and I am honestly quite vexed about the state of my homestead upon returning!

HULK NEED PEN WRITE NOTE. HULK ONLY FIND BIC FOR HER. HULK SMASH PEN! HULK SAD. HULK DEMAND BIC FOR HIM.

Coach Class

A few months ago, my sister finally purchased something she'd been saving for: a Coach purse. She got a good deal on it but was dismayed when it got slightly dirtied on its first outing. When telling me this over the phone, she concluded that perhaps it was something to be used only on special occasions.

ME: "You could lock it up in a hermetically sealed vault and only bring it out once a year."

HER: "Or I could build a shrine to it."

ME:  "Maybe an altar."

HER:  "Yes! And I could offer up lesser-quality purses to it. Like Nine West."

She May Bite

Something in this horse's eye leads me to believe this State Fair sign was not posted in jest.

Say Hello to My Tasty Friend

I had the pleasure of going to the DMV last week to renew my driver's license. I'm pretty sure I took a picture that makes me look even more stoned than I looked four years ago, but at least this time I wasn't drawn into a fruitless argument with the woman behind the counter about which county I live in. For the record, lady, it's Ramsey, according to the laws of maps. But you go ahead and put Anoka on there if you wish. Also for the record, I was not actually stoned.

But it reminded me of a story from one of my friends, who found herself waiting at the DMV several months ago. One of her kids occupied the time by playing games with another little boy whose parents were also waiting in line.

At one point, my friend's son ran up to her and asked what the other boy's name was.

"I don't know, honey. Why don't you ask him?" she responded.

Her son ran back over to the boy, who happened to be black, and they appeared to exchange introductions.

Her son then turned, beaming, and yelled across the room for everyone to hear, "Chocolate Alex! His name is Chocolate Alex!"

Outside the Lines

Last night I went to Culver's to get dessert with a friend. While waiting in line for my frozen custard, I happened to look over at some coloring contest entries hanging on the wall. It struck me that there was a considerable amount of attitude on display in addition to mad Crayola skills. Check out how the "Age" blank was filled in on three of them:

Fair enough, Lauren.

  

You know what happens when you assume, don't you, Sydney?

Nicki, I'm calling your parents.