The Book of Awesome, Page 4

  Yes, I'd say it was a nice, quiet way to end an evening, a relaxing and peaceful drive home on those late nights.

  But then they came.

  The big-box stores gobbled up that cheap farmer land and dropped in a concrete paradise full of parking lots, neon signs, and a never-ending series of traffic lights that completely clogged up the roads. The cold farm air was replaced by a new smell, a thick, heady mix of car exhaust and fried chicken.

  And, you know, I understand.

  Every massive parking lot really does need its own traffic light. I mean, without them, you'd be stuck trying to make a left turn out of Home Depot for half an hour. You buy those two-by-fours, you want to go build that deck, am I right? No really, I get it. I've been there too, and I get the lights.

  But let's be honest: The resulting gauntlet is no good either.

  On that old drive home from Mike's basement apartment they built up more than ten traffic lights in a row, each only about a couple hundred feet apart. There was traffic light after traffic light after traffic light, a sort of slow death march through the jungle of progress.

  And the lights never lined up. You'd hit two greens, then two reds. You'd race through a couple of last-second yellows and then get your comeuppance with five reds in a row. Yes, it was a frustratingly, fuel-wastingly, stop-and-go-to-slow ordeal.

  Now, one night I was driving home from Mike's place a little later than usual. We started a movie when we should've called it a night, and I was trucking home at three in the morning on a Tuesday. I approached The Gauntlet groggily and hit the first few green lights in a row, no problem. Nothing special, I figured, probably just a tease. After all, The Gauntlet had never lost.

  But then, before I knew it, I had made a couple more.

  Then a couple more.

  Then a couple more.

  Suddenly I was two lights away from the finish line and I couldn't believe my luck. Looking ahead I could see that both lights were green, tempting me, showing me what might be possible.

  So I gunned it.

  I blew through the second-to-last green and saw that final one turn to yellow. There was no way I was going to get that close without making it through, so I punched the gas and barely squeezed by as the light turned red.

  Although almost running a red wasn't the smartest move in the book, making it through The Gauntlet was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. I was buzzing huge that night and smiling ear to ear. And really, just tell me the truth--if you've ever blown through a string of green lights in a row, how does it make you feel?

  I've got just one guess.

  AWESOME!

  When you push the button for the elevator and it's already there

  Ding!

  AWESOME!

  Bakery air

  Bakery air is that steaming hot front of thick, buttery fumes waiting for you just inside the door of a bakery. And I am just going to tell you straight up: That is some fine air.

  Bakery air immediately fills you up with the sickly sweet smell of rising cupcakes, crisping croissants, and the distinct aroma of globby oatmeal turning into a delicious tray of sugary-brown cookies.

  It's a powerful and intoxicating smell that rivals some of the best smells out there: late night summer barbecue, new car smell, gasoline, fresh baby, or even, dare I say it, campfire in the woods. Yes, I went there.

  Now, is it just me, or do you ever feel sorry for the people working in the bakery? You know, because they might just get used to the smell and stop enjoying those hot bakery whiffs all the time? I really hope it's not like that. I really hope working in a bakery never turns into a regular job full of early mornings, oven-scorched eyebrows, varicose veins, and floury underwear. No, bakery air is just too good for that. It can't become another day at the office, it just can't. So let's make sure we all enjoy it.

  Catch some of those sugary vapors next time you're running past a cinnamon bun place at the train station. Suck back a noseful of hot fumes when you walk the dog by an open bakery door on Saturday morning. And make sure when you stop to smell the roses, you stop to smell the croissants and cookies too.

  AWESOME!

  Tripping and realizing no one saw you

  Babies take a while to walk.

  If you've seen it happen, you know there is plenty of falling, crawling, and bawling. Hey, there's a reason most two-year-olds are covered in fat lips, skinned knees, and coffee-table-dented foreheads.

  Learning to walk ain't easy.

  Sure, you did it and I did it but we probably couldn't do it again. Like learning anything tough and life-altering, learning to walk is a messy process that takes time and patience.

  First, there is rolling. That cute little baby-powder ball of flabby arms and puffy diapers twists and shimmies on the cold linoleum with a big smile on her face. This marks a major step as baby is learning to move on her own. Don't laugh because you were once a flabby, wiggling diaper ball too.

  Once that's nailed, it's time to sit up and start crawling. This turns the house into a carpeted jungle full of discovery and adventure. Curiosity helps little ones discover pantry shelves, cat litter trays, and toilets. Some people have an adorable Crab Baby at this stage, also known as a one-year-old who crawls backward or sideways instead of forward. Watch out for pinchy claws grabbing at your hair and glasses.

  Next up: teetering! White-knuckled, apricot-sized hands grip staircase railings and kitchen table legs with furrowed brows and steely determination. The side benefit of diapers comes into play here, as handy ass-padding for the vast number of harrowing, thunderous falls. Eventually, with immense focus and concentration, most of them manage to find their center of gravity and balance the baby chub on their two teeny-tiny tootsies.

  After this point, it's just a matter of time. There's some nervous balancing without the railing and then lopsided running with occasional face-plants in the front hallway. But soon baby nails it, and after that she's probably flying pretty high.

  Unfortunately, the bad news is that practice doesn't always make perfect. Even though we've been mastering the art of standing tall for years and years and years, everyone slips and falls now and then. Just ask your local small-claims court.

  So next time your shoe catches on the top step at work, you trip stepping off the airport's moving sidewalk, or you bail on a patch of ice outside your front door, remember that not too long ago you couldn't walk at all.

  So your wipeout is really no big deal.

  As long as nobody saw you.

  AWESOME!

  The Universal Fry-Sharing Policy

  The Universal Fry-Sharing Policy states that if you are eating a meal with someone who ordered fries, and you didn't order fries, you're entitled to grab one of their fries as it's landing on the table as long as a) you ask first, b) you make eye contact and raise your eyebrows until they nod, or c) you just know them really well.

  Also, since you're getting first dibs on their sizzling stick-pile of delicious hot, oily fries, it's only fair that you purposefully avoid any obviously amazing fry in the pile. You know that really, really long McDonald's fry sticking out of the box? Probably shouldn't touch that. But the thin, crispy short ones, the oversalted ones, and the regular limp n' floppy ones? Those are all fair game, my friend, all fair game.

  But be careful out there because this policy can be abused. Some people might start pecking away at the fry-pile, then just start gaining momentum, unable to stop gorging themselves on your plate once they get started. They just keep testing the waters, pushing the envelope, snacking away until you move your plate out of reach or ask them politely how their food tastes. I'm serious--you need to watch out for these people because they'll dent your fry-pile if you're not careful.

  Secondly, keep your eyes peeled for greasy diner plates that come with only a dozen or so baked-potato-tasting fries. You know what I'm talking about. Those piles are off-limits! Sorry, but the Universal Fry-Sharing Policy simply does not cover extremely small piles of chunky-s
tyle fries. It would be too much to take one of those fries. The percentages just don't work.

  Finally, there is one appendix to The Universal Fry-Sharing Policy. Conveniently it is called Appendix One, and it simply states that after somebody who ordered fries finishes their meal and pushes their leftover pile of dry, cold, ketchup-smeared fries into the center of the table, first dibs go to people who didn't get fries. Second dibs go to those who already demolished a stack of them but just want more. And third dibs go to the guy washing dishes in the kitchen.

  So thanks, Universal Fry-Sharing Policy. Your existence is a win-win, balancing the tables by helping us fry guys trim down the calories and helping the "Can I sub salad for fries?" folks enjoy some guilty pleasure while still meeting their eatin' healthy goals.

  AWESOME!

  Sleeping in new bedsheets

  You know the feeling: You just spent five minutes chasing all the corners of the elastic form-fitting bottom sheet around your bed and then laid and tucked the top sheet tightly into the mattress. You found some pillow covers in the linen closet, squeezed and shook your pillows in there, put your blanket over all of it, took a deep breath, and then dove right into the fresh, cold, mothball-smelling sheets.

  New sheets are great because they don't smell like The Sleeping You, with your armpit hair all squishing around in there all night, your drool leaking all over the pillows, and your crusty old feet flaking off into little piles of dead skin shavings at the foot of the bed. And let's not forget the hot farts you pop out when you're sleeping too. Don't deny it! We're all disgusting when we're asleep, and new bed sheets are great for letting us temporarily escape our own filth.

  Really, only one thing can add to that new bedsheet feeling and that's when it's your first seasonal sleep in thin cotton summer sheets or thick linen winter sheets. As you close your eyes softly, crickets chirping outside your window, moonlight and tree branches shadowdancing on the walls, you know right then and there: It's going to be a good night.

  AWESOME!

  Using hotel lobby bathrooms when you're out walking around

  Anyone else out there have a bladder the size of a walnut? One that fills up after a few spoons of soup and is at attention, ready to drain any time of the day? If you're afraid of getting a drink before the movie or having a glass of water anytime after 6 p.m., then you're with me. My small and weak-bladdered brothers and sisters of the world, unite!

  See, we got issues, me and you. We're terrible on airplanes. We never get to experience the 7-Eleven Super Big Gulp. And maybe worst of all, we're always forcing our friends to help us find public washrooms when we're walking or driving anywhere, which really drives them crazy. Sorry, friends.

  If you're with me on this one, then you know these searches for decent public washrooms really are a fine art. Those perfect places are always out there, but you really need to be careful. With that warning let's discuss the Top Five Places to Pee When You're Out:

  5. Gas stations. Easy prey for the worst kind of fly-by urinators--those who don't live nearby or plan on coming back. These people do not respect bathroom facilities. We know this from racist scrawls on bathroom walls and the mistaking of floors for toilets. Bad ones smell rancid. Good ones smell like a flatbed truck full of urinal pucks sitting on a garbage dump. But hey, sometimes they appear like mirages on the horizon, and at least you know they're almost always open and have a toilet. So we give you Number 5, gas stations. Thanks for coming out.

  4. Bus or train stations. Bus or train station bathrooms are just like gas stations but with one major difference: maintenance. Whereas gas stations are run by individual owner-operators or a couple of teenagers working the midnight shift, bus or train stations are generally run by formal transit authorities or governments who employ people just to clean the place up, because otherwise they'd look bad or get kicked off the board of transportation or something. The other plus to bus or train stations is size. They usually have rows of stalls or urinals instead of one. Very little chance of having to wait. So thanks, bus or train station bathroom. You're there when we need you.

  3. Restaurants or coffee shops. Okay, we're starting to get into decent territory now. Maybe an extra ply on the toilet paper or perhaps a comic strip pinned up over the urinal. Restaurant and coffee shop bathrooms are much better, but they are a little hard to get at--you've either got to buy something or pretend you're looking for someone before running to the back of the place and then taking off. Care and delicacy is required. Not for the faint of heart.

  2. Somebody's nearby house. This is where you make the mid-trip pit stop at a local friend's apartment or house. They don't necessarily have to be hanging out with you at the time. Just buzzing their place and asking if you can use the facilities is acceptable. Once you get in you'll be living large with thick toilet paper, fancy cream soap, and occasionally a stack of dog-eared magazines. Try not to judge the hair in the sink, bath towel on the floor, or bright, glowing toilet bowl ring staring up at you like the Eye of Sauron. Just enjoy and get out.

  1. Hotel lobby bathrooms. Now we finally reach the cream of the crop, the cherry on the sundae, the top of the roller coaster. Yes, the spacious, luxurious, over-the-top hotel lobby bathrooms really are magical when you've been walking around all day, sweating under the blazing sun, just searching for somewhere to lighten your load. Hotel bathrooms are great because they are so sinful. Really, nothing in there is necessary, but you become the Emperor of Toilets, commander over a vast plumbing kingdom, ruler of all faucets and mirrors for miles around. Hotel lobby bathrooms treat us streetwalkers like uppity business-class travelers. I mean, who likes to dry their hands with face cloths anyway? Who needs chairs in the bathroom? And who really wants one of those bathroom butlers sneakily wedged into a corner wearing a tux and holding out cologne and towels for you? Who needs this?

  Well us, that's who! We thimble-bladdered folk need this once in a while. I'm sorry but we need it. A little pampering and comforting for our terrible genetic sins. So thank you, hotel lobby bathrooms for treating us with grace and dignity amongst a world of people who don't like to hang out with us.

  AWESOME!

  Taking your bra off after wearing it for hours

  It just feels like freedom.

  Or so I've heard.

  AWESOME!

  The sound of scissors cutting construction paper

  When you hear scissors cutting through a sheet of construction paper, you just know fun is about to happen. The table is covered with glue sticks, glitter, pipe cleaners, and googly eyes, and everything is set for a day full of crafts with the camp counselor.

  In some ways, this is essentially the kid equivalent of spreading tools out across the basement workbench before building a shelf, or taping windows and opening paint cans before you coat the kitchen walls in a new shade.

  Yes, the sound of scissors cutting construction paper is the sound of important work about to happen. It's the sound of creativity bubbling. It's the sound of ideas blossoming. And it's the sound of some decent fun on a rainy afternoon.

  AWESOME!

  Waking up before your alarm clock and realizing you've got lots of sleep time left

  Dark windows, dead silence, dim moonlight dancing on the walls. The night is calm and quiet and peaceful.

  And then BOOM.

  Your eyes burst open and you bust out of bed in an adrenaline-gushing, brain-rushing state of emergency. Dizzy and blind, you urgently stumble over to the clock as thoughts zoom through your head--am I late for work, did I miss the buzzer, do I have time for a shower?

  You swipe the clock, zoom it up to your squinty eyeballs, and get a good look.

  "4:56 a.m.," it screams in its trademark bright-red fluorescent silence.

  "4:56 a.m."

  Your hazy half-asleep brain slowly clicks into gear. "Much early than morning," you piece together slowly. "Time more sleep now."

  And then a slow, thin smile curls on your lips as you turn to stare at your crumpled cocoon
and dive back into Bedhead Paradise. Oh, you know that second dip into Dreamland will be a doozy for a few big reasons:

  * Ready to rock. The bed is pre-warmed, the mattress pre-dented, and the other side of the pillow is just waiting to hug your hot, salty head. Detangle the sheets and you're good to go.

  * Dare to dream. If that rocking dream you're having is still fresh in your head, you might be able to clench your eyes, squeeze your brain, and pop right back into it.

  * Take a break. Your body woke up early because it felt pretty rested, so the extra sleep is just its way of saying "Go ahead, take a long lunch." People, this is like a snow day without the shoveling--just a big puddle of free time to soak up guilt-free.

  Yes, waking up before your alarm clock and realizing you've got lots of sleep time left is a great thing. Sure, your heart pulses and your brain convulses, but you quickly realize there's a long time to go before morning.

  So snore on and snooze strong, my friends.

  AWESOME!

  When the socks from the dryer all match up perfectly

  Peeling apart that static-covered clump of socks is tense.

  First you yank them from the dryer and dump the hot haystack on the bed. Then you start pairing up the easy ones--reconnecting brown argyle husbands with brown argyle wives and red-striped brothers with red-striped sisters. It's free and easy love all around.

  But then it happens.