Schoolin

You don't have to be in school—or even employed, for that matter—to learn things. For example, within the last 48 hours I have learned the following:

1. Salad dressing is not a proper substitute for marinara sauce.

2. St. Elmo's Fire is an electrical weather phenomenon in which the ionization of air molecules during a thunderstorm causes a faint blue or violet glow to materialize around tall, sharply pointed objects—most notably ships' masts. That, and an 80's movie starring Emilio Estevez.

3. Eating an entire box of cookies my self does not make me feel bad at all.

4. Despite being aware of learned thing #1, I will continue to do learned thing #1.

5. It's harder to run 3 miles at 7 am than 7 pm.

6. The attractiveness of a man plummets the instant you notice the kanji tattoo on his ankle surrounded by flames.

7. There is no such thing as "one quick nightcap at the Slammer"

Plungers, hammers, and nuts

This afternoon I was unexpectedly reminded (for reasons we will not be exploring here today) that our household does not have a plunger. Too embarrassed to ask the neighbors, and sorely disappointed that one did not magically appear when I closed my eyes and quickly swung open the broom closet door, I was forced to walk down to the local hardware store—wishing to complete this errand with as little fanfare as possible. 

 As soon as I enter the small store (a tidy, compact space with no windows, giving one the impression of being inside an anal retentive man's toolbox), I hear "...and if you put nuts on Mama, then that makes her Papa", followed by the type of laughter reserved only for men who have just said something vulgar while their wives aren't around. I immediately feel an odd sense of guilt for having overheard this men's-only-club-banter, but press on through the broom and rake aisle. While waiting for help and idly browsing their vast hammer selection (I need to get one for a secret-Santa gift), a lumberjack of a man slides up beside me and asks what type of hammer I'm looking for. I can tell he's not an employee and this makes me squint my eyes ever so slightly in suspicion. This "volunteer salesman" continues to discuss hammer features with me, but, since I'm not that well versed in tool-speak, I'm not sure if his conversation is laden with sexual innuendo, or if he's genuinely trying to help me find the right mallet. Finally, I'm approached by an actual clerk, find my plunger, and am at the checkout counter. Just when I think I'm home free, a Channel 2 News team walks in, video camera in hand. Instantly, nightmarish scenarios play out in my head: 

"Excuse me miss [microphone thrust in my face], what's that there you're buying? Oh, a plunger?—Hey, Tim, get a shot of the blond with the plunger!... So ma'am, what brings you in here for this today?" 

Mercifully, it turns out the news team was there to talk to the store owner about which supplies people may need to prepare for the alleged snowstorm this weekend, NOT to interview me, my plunger, and my hammer. 

Two seats down, but worlds away

I'm at a coffee shop sitting next to possibly the most attractive man I've ever encountered: His hair living its life independently in currents of light brown faintly bleached in hidden tucks and folds—not by vanity, but by an active (surf-filled?) lifestyle I presume. His face is angular and confident, suggesting a hint of Aryan architecture, but with a more Scandinavian gentleness, and what I can only imagine is an architect's sense of simple, efficient style with undertones of originality and rebellion concealed for those who care to look. He's wearing two watches—one on his right wrist, one on his left. Perhaps one is set to Swede time? Or perhaps he's just waiting to scoot next to me, strap one onto me wrist and tell me "Here, now you won't be late..." "Late for what?" I'll coo, barely able to see his tall, lean form through my hummingbird lashes. "For our date, silly."  Alas, my daydreams are dissolved by the sighting of the dreaded wedding ring. Though, truthfully I should have known the instant he pulled up outside riding a tandem bike—the second half being built for a child. But, I just naturally assumed he was late for work, and with his single-man's bike having a flat, was forced to borrow his procreating neighbor's bike. I think I'll just default to my usual theory—the wedding ring's a fake, used only to stave off the throngs of female admirers he's surely accustomed to; This mock matrimony will dissolve and the "ring" will slip off like melted butter as soon as we make eye contact. What?! What's this? He keeps looking my way... Ok, be cool, control your reactionary underarms... oh, wait. He's just looking at his bike out the window. Probably doesn't want it to be stolen. His neighbor would be pissed.