Special Delivery

This past Sunday, I was reminded of a Mother's Day several years ago, when my sister and I sent our mom a bouquet of beautiful flowers with a particularly heartfelt and rhyming note. 

It read, simply:

"To our mother, our friend, our very best pal . . . thanks for shooting us out your birth canal."

Feel free to use this sentiment in the future if it accurately captures your hilarious relationship with your mother as well.

I'd have given anything to see the workers at the florist write it on the card.

Great White Nope

Sometimes, the best nuggets of wisdom come from unexpected places.

I was talking with a friend about the movie "Jaws," specifically about the character of Quint. He's the grizzled shark hunter who sets out with the police chief and a marine biologist to dispatch the titular menace.

In a memorable scene, he recounts his tale of surviving the sinking of the USS Indianapolis in shark-infested waters, and the subsequent sailor feeding frenzy that has haunted him ever since.

At the end of the movie (and I don't think this is a spoiler, since you've had 42 years to see it), Quint winds up in the mouth of the Great White he was hunting, horrifically killed in the very manner he'd escaped decades before.

I said to my friend, "You know, the tragedy isn't that Quint died. It was that he was eaten by a shark."

My friend considered this for just a moment. Then he said matter-of-factly, "Well, he kept them in his life."

And I thought, how true. How many times do we choose to make dangerous things a part of our lives, when avoiding them would be so obvious and easy? Just stay on land, man! It's a foolproof way to avoid being fish food. If you venture out into the open ocean, which is essentially the living room of nature's most perfect killing machine, and you don't make it back . . . well, that's on you.

That's all on you.

Fashion Plate

I had lunch a couple weeks ago with my great aunt, a thin, sprightly 86-year-old lady who is just a delight. We started talking about the Marshall Field's department store closing in downtown Minneapolis, and she reminisced about the grand old days when it was still Dayton's.

"Just after the war . . ." she said, and I decided everyone should be lucky enough to know someone who can say that phrase and mean "WWII." 

" . . . my aunt took me there and bought me a pair of nylons. And that was a really big deal."

She then described the absolute necessity of keeping those seams straight, and how women were always stealing quick glances at their calves to check on this issue.

"You know, back in those days, we wore hats and suits and gloves, and everything had to match."

Sitting across from me at the restaurant, she was rocking a very smart turtleneck sweater set and coordinated jewelry. She was, as always, flawlessly on point. 

"Well, you must look around now and think everyone is a total slob," I said.

A peal of laughter escaped her lips, and she said with amused disgust:

"Oh HEAVENS! Just LOOK at me. I'm wearing Reeboks and DENIM!"

T and Sympathy

I was at Target the other day, just picking up a few odds and ends and hoping I could get out of the store for less than $50.

When I was ready to check out, a cashier in her early 20s waved me over to her lane. As I placed my items on the counter, she asked how I was. I replied that I was fine (because that's what you say, regardless of how you're actually feeling) and then asked how she was doing.

"I've had better days," she said.

It was kind of refreshing to hear a different response, so I asked if it was just feeling like a Monday.

"Not really. My girlfriend just broke up with me."

Oh no, I thought. She really is being honest. And she really does look upset. And the fact that she's sharing this information with a random customer means she's truly having a tough time. It's the kind of scenario that strikes fear in the heart of any introvert, but I was already in too deep.

"That sucks," I said.

"Yeah," she continued, bagging my things in the slowest, saddest way imaginable. "The worst part is that she said being with me made her realize how much she missed her ex. So now they're back together."

That bitch, I thought, but settled for something more innocuous. "Oh, man. That's the worst."

"Yeah."

When she handed me the receipt, there were tears in her eyes. I thought about every embarrassing time I've tried not to cry at work and failed. And I heard myself say something kind of hokey but something I've found to be true nonetheless.

"Well, I know it doesn't feel like it now, but that hole in your heart is just making room for someone better."

That prompted a small, sniffly smile.

"Hang in there, okay?"

She nodded, and I took my toothpaste and decongestant and gum and left. I felt a little silly, but maybe I brought her a tiny bit of comfort. Sometimes the transaction isn't over until you've been forced into a rare moment of spontaneous stranger engagement.

Declaration of Inebriation

A few months ago, I took a train trip from Seattle to Vancouver, and on the return journey, I learned a little something about how seriously the United States takes its border checks.

Pretty seriously, as it turns out. As soon as we crossed some invisible line of demarcation, a voice on the loudspeaker informed us that the dining car would be temporarily closed. It also instructed us to remain seated and not to use the restrooms until after the customs agents finished their sweep of the cars.

Immediately following this announcement, a man two rows ahead of me ran into the bathroom.

Well, I thought, when you gotta go, you gotta go. But he did not return.

His empty seat did not go unnoticed by the agents, who quickly discovered the locked lavatory and began inquiring within. When that wasn't successful, they enlisted the help of the man's teenage son, who grudgingly pounded and pleaded.

Still nothing. As we all sat in uncomfortable silence, I wondered many things. Mainly, what the hell was he doing in there? Being sick? Flushing drugs? Was the jig up? Would he come out guns blazing? Should I preemptively duck and cover?

Finally, the door opened. A very annoyed border agent asked if the man had anything to declare. To everyone's surprise, he replied, "Yes!"

At this point, I was made of questions.

"What do you have to declare, sir?"

"Oh . . . nothing." And the idiot just sat down.

To be honest, I was more disappointed than relieved. All that suspense and zero payoff. Fortunately, the group of rowdy, loopy, 20-something girls next to me provided a punchline. They'd been loudly talking about how they'd partied through the night, were still half drunk and starving, and hadn't been to sleep yet. 

Just as things were wrapping up and the agents were out of earshot, one of them shouted, "Yeah, I got something to declare!"

We all waited for it.

" . . . I feel like SHIT!"

Hey, Mama

My condo unit has an assigned, numbered parking space in a surface lot, which is naturally where I tried to put my car when I got home late the other night.

As I got closer, however, I saw that it was already occupied. And not only had this SUV blocked my spot, but it had also pulled halfway into the spot across from me.

"What a dick!" I thought, assuming it was a drunken mistake. I drove back out to park on the street, which wasn't the biggest deal in the world, but it did require me to walk alone to the safety of my building. So I decided to alert the driver to their error.

I did not immediately call a tow truck, and I especially did not (as was once done to me) park my car directly behind the person for several hours, in addition to writing a nasty note on an impossible-to-remove window sticker. Because I'm not an asshole.

I simply stopped in the lobby and grabbed a handy, pre-printed warning notice. I went back out to the lot and was just slipping the paper under a windshield wiper when the driver's side window rolled down.

Ladies and gentlemen, there was almost pee.

I had no idea anyone was in the car, but I suddenly heard, "Hey mama, what you want?"

What I wanted was to not hear a disembodied voice coming from the darkness of a strange vehicle, although if it was going to say anything, I can't imagine a better question.

"AHHH!" I said, after restarting my heart. "You're in my spot."

"I just pulled in here to talk to my mom . . . Yo! What'd you put on my car?"

"It's just a courtesy notice that you're parked in an assigned space."

"Oh, I can move. You want me to move?"

"Yes, that'd be great," I said, and he assured me it was no problem.

And weirdly, I kind of felt like I should wave at him as he left. Because I think we shared a real moment of mild terror together that night -- him of being ticketed, me of being murdered -- and that can only bring two people closer, right?

Bad Grammar Makes Me Sic

My sister texted me the other morning for help. With grammar, of course. It's really the only professional situation where it's beneficial to be my sibling.

She was drafting a client letter and wanted to know whether she should use "who" or "whom."

I did a little figuring and confidently proclaimed the winner. And then, out of sheer hubris, I explained the trick for turning the statement into a question to determine which word was correct.

But this text arrived at an uncharacteristically early hour, and I'd typed my response in my PJs in bed. By the time I'd washed my face, brushed my teeth, and shuffled out into the kitchen, the synapses were firing with a bit more precision, and I realized I'd given her the wrong answer entirely.

I quickly texted, "Wait! You're catching me before coffee. It should be whom." I then explained where I'd gone wrong in my sleepy calculations.

She texted back, "THE LETTER IS IN THE MAIL ALREADY!!!!"

Keep in mind that literally eight minutes had passed since our original exchange. I cursed her for being so efficient. She said it was probably fine. I told her it's one of those grammar things that 5% of people understand, but most of them are dicks about it, so the other 95% have decided not to care. 

But still, I felt that I'd failed her, and told her so.

She simply responded, "May God have mercy on your soul."

And that's why I love her.

Camp WhataWhata?

I was walking through the skyway yesterday when I caught one of the weirdest snippets of conversation I've ever heard.

Two middle-aged guys were passing me in the opposite direction. One guy clapped his hand on the other one's back and said, " . . . but how did you end up naked, at camp, and on fire?"

If it wouldn't have been so painfully obvious, I would have whipped a 180 right there and followed them just to hear his reply.

A few seconds later, faintly and in the distance, I heard the same guy say, "That's crazy, man."

This was, in my opinion, an unnecessary comment, given the setup of the story previously established. By definition, the answer to the initial question was going to be next-level bonkers.

But it made me laugh all the way to work, so I'm happy you're now clothed and extinguished, sir.