Some of you stop strangers to ask for the time. Others of you may query them in hopes of getting directions to the restaurant you can’t seem to find. Me? I say all kinds of stuff to people I don’t know. And now that I ride the bus instead of taking the train, well. let’s just say that the shit is getting real.
Real nuts. Please read this list of 5 things I have said to strangers (i.e., people I do not know) in the past 7 days, then send me links to filters on Amazon.com. The general public will thank you, as will I.
- Can I have a bite of your sandwich? Ya’ll, it looked so good. It was one of those breakfast thingys on a fluffy biscuit. I could see cheese and crispy-edged bacon poking out of it. What can I say? The bus lurched and I fell forward, practically in the lap of this nice old woman with killer taste in breakfast sandwiches. Everyone’s always complaining about how socially isolated we are as a society. Nothing says let’s connect like asking a stranger for a bite of her breakfast. Come on– it’s the most important meal of the day.
- Why is everyone so tense? In another place and time, this statement would not make the list. But let me set the scene: the date was Monday, September 30 and I’d just walked into the gym at my office, which happens to be a federal building. Crowded around the flat screen mounted on the wall was a group of bad-ass US Marshals, all of whom were staring at the Doomsday clock on CNN. I was trying to make conversation; they were trying to stave off the panic about a government shut down. NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ask why federal workers are “being such a bummer” hours before their jobs are suspended.
- Publishing a book is my ultimate wet dream. Did I say this? Out loud? Believe me, I’m still asking myself the same question. While attending the Chicago Writer’s Conference last weekend, I attended a session about how to write believable sex scenes. I guess it shook something loose in me because 10 minutes later, I found myself talking to a distinguished partner at a downtown law firm and when he asked me if I wanted to publish my book, I answered like a twelve-year-old boy (who has no filter and endured an early puberty). I’m guessing he’s thinking of how he can lure me away from my current position and have me come work for his firm. Because discussing nocturnal emissions with strangers is professional.
- I loved my old gym because that’s where I lost my mucus plug. Let me say this by way of feeble defense: when I had a C-section with Sadie, I mourned the “malfunctioning” of my body and my crushed dreams of having a vaginal birth. So, when my body started doing what it was supposed to with Simon, I felt faith returning to me like the prodigal daughter. The morning that I lost my mucus plug was glorious– picture how the people who went to find Jesus in the tomb felt when they’d discovered he’d risen from the dead. Except instead of finding a loin cloth from the savior of Christian world, I found a mucus plug. Subsequently, I was very attached to the second stall in the ladies locker room. It was hard to leave. It seemed important to tell my new gym membership director that story. The look of horror on his face has led me to think otherwise.
- Don’t mind me; I’m just getting jiggy back here. In a crowded, urban drug store I announced to all present that it was OK with me if the cashier took her sweet time (4.5 minutes) to open a roll of quarters, because I was “getting jiggy.” There’s so much to be ashamed of here. First of all, it’s not 1998. Second, the song playing in the store was Basia. Fucking Basia. Remember her? Time and Tide. Anyone? Think smooth jazz meets vocal annoyingness. How I have I not been stabbed in the solar plexus for being such a doosh?