There were a number of places I went this weekend that were against my better judgment. Among them was the Dairy Queen, with Brad and Rachel on Friday night. After considering all of my options, I ordered a Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard from the girl behind the counter.
"Oh, this is great," I told her. "It might even be better than the Pumpkin Pie Blizzard."
She was excited. "I was wondering if you were going to have the Pumpkin Pie again, " she said, with a twinkle in her eye. "I was going to ask if you wanted it...but I didn't want your friends to know that you had been here by yourself."
I think the Dairy Queen girl and I understand each other.
10.09.2008
Donut Rumors
If you've heard any rumors that I have memorized the PLU (price look-up) codes for jumbo donuts and other bakery items at the grocery store, I want it to be clear that I have done no such thing. Okay, I admit that I occasionally go to the store and buy a few donuts or brownies or even cakes. But it's not like I'm there every day. And when I buy a cake for twelve, it's not like I'm going to eat the whole thing. I'm going to share it. Obviously. So if Bob from the self check-out station tells you that he saw me at City Market last week purchasing four jumbo donuts, one chocolate coconut cake, a liter of coke, and knew the PLU codes for it all just tell him that him that you know he's a liar. And if the people at my work tell you that it was no one's birthday and that I shared none of this fine food with the office, tell them that they are liars too.
Never Underestimate the Power of a Conehead
My dad convinced me to take a class on typing my freshman year in high school. This and many other things have proven to me that my dad is a genius. The class was, as you might imagine, all about typing. We learned how to use the keyboard correctly and which fingers are used to press which keys, etc. Our teacher (I'll call him Mr. Brady) was really enthusiastic about our learning. He observed us as we completed different typing exercises. If he felt that we were making too many errors, he made us wear a giant foam hat shaped like a crab. There was even a "lounge" in the classroom where he would send us if he felt like we weren't focusing and needed a break.
It was apparent that Mr. Brady was somewhat crazy. But on the day of our first timed exam he out crazied himself. He took out an overhead projector, and held up a conehead doll. He then announced to the class that he was going to put the conehead on the projector so that we would have "conehead power" during the test. The conehead shaped silhouette on the wall would be emanating this power. He also had a bee man doll, and occasionally put that on the overhead projector as well.
I'm thinking that based on how my career has been going lately, it's only a matter of time before I walk into court with a conehead doll and overhead projector.
It was apparent that Mr. Brady was somewhat crazy. But on the day of our first timed exam he out crazied himself. He took out an overhead projector, and held up a conehead doll. He then announced to the class that he was going to put the conehead on the projector so that we would have "conehead power" during the test. The conehead shaped silhouette on the wall would be emanating this power. He also had a bee man doll, and occasionally put that on the overhead projector as well.
I'm thinking that based on how my career has been going lately, it's only a matter of time before I walk into court with a conehead doll and overhead projector.
10.07.2008
Don't look down.
Some shoes have pretty names.
I imagine it's someone's job to name them after girls. It's cute, I suppose, to have shoes named Sonja or Ingrid...as if they're your friends.
It's been quite some time since I've had shoes with a name.
I knew my chances were bleak back in high school when my mother asked a local shoe repairman (in hushed tones) for a favor. She slid a pair of my too-small shoes across the counter, looked at him desperately, and asked if there was anything he could do to help us. He sliced them in half, added a couple inches in the middle, and put them back together again. The modified shoes were still no Trixie or Nicolette...but they fit. (My mother is industrious. She also has a keener sense of humility than I, and was not nearly as tickled when the anecdote found its way into in the local newspaper.)
Since then, I have purchased shoes from specialty catalogs, custom manufacturers, and drag queen websites. Still, my 'specialty' shoes have always lacked something: a name. I don't have a pair of Susana's or Sadie's waiting for me at home.
Recently recommended to me for the winter was a pair of shoes from Dansko. The men's professional clog would reportedly be comfortable, appropriate for work, and (most importantly) identical to the women's version. My hopes soared. I ordered the largest size available and patiently waited for them to arrive.
Their name is Karl. And they do not fit.
I imagine it's someone's job to name them after girls. It's cute, I suppose, to have shoes named Sonja or Ingrid...as if they're your friends.
It's been quite some time since I've had shoes with a name.
I knew my chances were bleak back in high school when my mother asked a local shoe repairman (in hushed tones) for a favor. She slid a pair of my too-small shoes across the counter, looked at him desperately, and asked if there was anything he could do to help us. He sliced them in half, added a couple inches in the middle, and put them back together again. The modified shoes were still no Trixie or Nicolette...but they fit. (My mother is industrious. She also has a keener sense of humility than I, and was not nearly as tickled when the anecdote found its way into in the local newspaper.)
Since then, I have purchased shoes from specialty catalogs, custom manufacturers, and drag queen websites. Still, my 'specialty' shoes have always lacked something: a name. I don't have a pair of Susana's or Sadie's waiting for me at home.
Recently recommended to me for the winter was a pair of shoes from Dansko. The men's professional clog would reportedly be comfortable, appropriate for work, and (most importantly) identical to the women's version. My hopes soared. I ordered the largest size available and patiently waited for them to arrive.
Their name is Karl. And they do not fit.
9.22.2008
Russ, Interrupted
Troy and I took a quick roadtrip over the weekend to go to a friend's wedding. A few hours into the trip, we swung through Troy's hometown to say hi to his parents. We walked in the back door and Troy yelled down the stairs to the basement.
Troy: Hi Dad!
Troy's Dad: Hey there!
Me: Hi Russ!
Troy's Dad: Uh-oh.
The situation became immediately clear.
Interrupted: Naked Saturday.
Troy: Hi Dad!
Troy's Dad: Hey there!
Me: Hi Russ!
Troy's Dad: Uh-oh.
The situation became immediately clear.
Interrupted: Naked Saturday.
9.14.2008
I threw away that picture of your baby.
I don't mean to sound insensitive, but you can stop sending me pictures of your baby.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
9.04.2008
Because we're No Nonsense
Yesterday, the weather started to change. I walked outside in the morning and went back in to get a sweater. It felt like fall, and I smiled. Not just because it’s my favorite time of year, or because it means Halloween is right around the corner, or because Penelope is coming to visit in 7 weeks.
I smiled because this summer has been riddled with Nonsense, and September feels like the start of something better.
It’s been a rough summer by any standard. The people I love have lost jobs, lost parents, and lost friends. Three ended relationships. Two attended funerals under unimaginable circumstances. One drove ten hours each weekend to visit his mom in the hospital. At some point, our problems shifted from kid problems to real problems, and there’s no end in sight.
All of this means that there’s no time, no energy, and no heartache left for Nonsense. So let me say this:
When you invent a story about how my friend, the substance abuse counselor, is using drugs – that is Nonsense.
When you spread a false rumor that This Boy is cheating on That Boy – that is Nonsense.
When you cycle through your friends at your convenience and intentionally hurt Travis’s feelings – that is Nonsense.
When you throw a tantrum and storm out for no reason – that is Nonsense.
When you break up with Brad and then kiss the new person that he’s dating – that is Nonsense.
All of it. Nonsense. And I know we can all do a little better.
Welcome, September.
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