Author: maggeh

Saks it Ain’t

Every Sunday this month, everything at the Goodwill thrift store is 50 percent off. I wait about fifteen minutes for a dressing room. Before I get in, the clerk clears everything out. Everything, that is, except for a single boot. That boot is in the corner, soaking in a puddle of urine. I notice it a few minutes into trying on clothes, and come out of the dressing room horrified. A woman with a baby stroller tries to push in after me.

“I’d wait for the next one,” I say. “There’s pee in the corner.”

She considers this, peeks in, waits until she thinks I’m far enough away to have forgotten about her, then enters anyway. With her baby. I approach the sales clerk.

“Someone peed in the dressing room,” I say. “You should call someone to come and clean it up.”

“Huh,” he says. “Yeah.”

Then he goes back to hanging clothes.

I go home and shower twice.

Overheard

Scenario: The Starbucks near Bryan’s office features Overzealous Counter Guy.

OCG: How’s your weekend? Not long enough, huh?

Woman: No, I guess not.

OCG: Yeah, me too. What can I get ya?

W: Do you have any lowfat muffins?

OCG: Aw. We’re out… Why not an apple fritter?

(Woman shakes her head.)

OCG: Awww, come on.

(Woman shakes her head.)

OCG: You sure? You can do it!

W: No. I’m afraid I can’t.

Mr. President

I remember sitting in class as a child and thinking to myself, “It’s 1981, I’m in kindergarten, and Ronald Reagan is president.”

I didn’t know then what being president meant, and President Reagan was a symbol to me, like our flag. I associate him with the part of me that still tears up when I hear the national anthem, and the part of me that knows I am fortunate to have been born here–even as I cringe at how our actions as a country have alienated much of the world.

President Reagan was the first president I remember, and I thought of him as a five year old thinks of her parents: benevolent, wise, infallible. I now know that isn’t completely true, of him or my parents, but it’s the memory of that feeling I miss, as much as the man.

Ronald Reagan was my president, and I adored him. I’m sorry he’s gone.

Free Time

Best headlines from this month’s Martha Stewart Living:

  • Frosting Like a Pro
  • Mum Pillow Covers
  • Setting a Course By the Homemaker’s Star
  • Embellish Envelopes

A Blessing

My computer done broke. Broke as in, “I sure hope you backed up your hard drive. Your computer’s done broke.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even though I’m working on a book. For the record, not backing up when you’re working on a book is the stupidest kind of not-backing-up you can do. Fortunately, Lane Becker–who is wise beyond all measure–figured out how to get the information from my hard drive before I had to give the laptop back to Apple. Therefore, my lovelies, please back up, as you may not have a Lane Becker in your life.

I went to the candy store, because Lane is a man who deserves some chocolate. The woman behind me in line was excited because it’s Friday. Tonight is the night when her husband brings home a bottle of champagne, she brings home a box of chocolate, and they spend some time on the porch.

Friends, may your Friday be so sweet, and your computer perpetually hummming.

Bad Signs

Bryan calls information and asks for “the John Kerry for President National Headquarters.” There is a pause. The operator says something. Bryan responds, “No. With a ‘K.’ John Kerry… No… It’s K-E-R-R-Y.”

Butts of Doom

My five-year-old nephew thinks butts are scary. I know this because, when asked to tell a scary story around the campfire, his stories are always about butts. These butts are massive; they darken the night sky. They produce thunderous foreboding flatulence, warning unsuspecting campers that giant feces are about to rain down upon their flimsy dome tents. Actually, according to Trevor, they don’t rain down so much as “plop.” But, still.

Home Again, Home Again

Hotel 71 in Chicago has three TV screens at the front desk, and several more in the bar. These screens play repeat-loop performance art of two guys in various positions in various boxes. (Now I’m standing in a box! Now I’m upside down in a box! Now the box is filling with water!) It was like a series of David Blaine tricks, without any of the discomfort or peril, or like sad little mimes who haven’t yet graduated to imaginary boxes.

Other amusing aspects of the hotel include the purple ribbon that says “NOURISH” hanging from the door of the mini bar, and the rockin’ electronic music piped into the elevators–in case guests feel like having a tiny little rave after they’ve nourished themselves with six or seven miniature bottles of booze.

In Quincy, we drove around the old neighborhoods playing How Much is that Mansion in the Midwest? This is a fun game where you guess how much the mansion would cost in San Francisco, California (about $6 million), then you guess how much it costs in Quincy, Illinois (about $300,00?), then you get the flyer out of the little box to find out how much it actually costs ($180,000!?!), then you weep silently and go for lunch at the nearest Applebees.

All in all, it was a good trip.

Bat to Breakers

This year, we did Bay to Breakers as the Marching Schneiders a la “One Day at a Time“. We drew on mustaches, wore men’s undershirts, and carried plungers, and yet still the women drew attention. My favorite unsavory remark was from the guy who wanted a blow job:

Bottomfeeder: Hi.

Me: Hi.

Bottomfeeder’s friend: Where’s the booze at?

BF: Where’s the head at?

Me: What?

BF: Where’s my head at?

Me: Excuse me, did you just ask for some of our booze, then request oral sex?

BF: I’m just sayin’, I could use a little head.

Me: You don’t get laid a lot, do you.

BF: I’m just sayin’.

Me: Yeah, I heard you. And I’m just sayin’ that you need to work on your opener if you’d like to have sex one day.

Bryan: What’d he say?

Me: He wants a blowjob.

Bryan (to BF): Did you just ask my wife for a blowjob?

BF: Yeah. Huh.

(Whereupon, Bryan poured a glass of sangria on the gentleman’s crotch.)

Now, you might think this is where the fisticuffs come in. Fortunately, the gentleman in question was so inebriated that it took him awhile to realize that his crotch was dripping with wine. He walked on ahead of us, and about five minutes later, he realized there was a problem. He grabbed at himself, attempting to locate the source of the liquid, he held his hands up to his face to more properly ascertain the nature of the liquid, he questioned his friends (who shrugged), then he walked bowlegged for a block or so. Spectacular.