Dirty, Double-Pranking Rat

When I was little, my dad and I used to play a little prank on one another. I had one of those little plastic spider rings that kids get on Halloween, one with the really long legs that almost looks like a spider if you glance at it from afar. I don't remember who started it, but my dad and I used to take turns hiding it in various places in the house: under coffee cups, blankets, pillows, even ...inside the medicine cabinet. We were gleeful when we could get the other to yelp or squeal, though we were seasoned pranksters by now, and so a true scare was rare but priceless.

This continued on into my college years. On my last day of spring break, I had left it behind hidden underneath my dad's comforter, even forgetting I had done so. When I called him after my plane landed, he recounted how he had been so certain it was an actual spider this time, that he had approached the bed with a rolled up newspaper. These were tame pranks, certainly, much more vanilla than those that I have been a party to throughout my life, but there was something so satisfying about genuinely startling someone over something so small.

While I would like to say maturity had made me leave such behaviors behind, I'm not going to lie, so I won't. I will instead say that when I saw a lifelike plastic rat at a thrift shop down the street, I was particularly gleeful. Though I was shopping for supplies for an art project, I saw it and thought instantly of my husband who had what he described as a "phobia of all vermin, but rats especially, having grown up on a farm." I purchased it and began plotting my prank on the drive to the house.

At home, I was a human tornado as I threw open drawers and cupboards trying to find the best place for it. I placed it under pillows and blankets, and practiced pulling off the blanket as he would if he were getting ready for bed. The rat was bulky, however, and did not have the same covert abilities as the spider, so finding the right spot was proving difficult.

Perplexed, I turned to the kitchen. Looking from cabinet to cabinet, my eyes rested on the microwave. Suddenly, it hit me... The microwave! It was perfect! The first thing my husband does when he gets up in the morning is brew coffee. While he's waiting, he would grab his travel mug from the fridge with his Starbucks that he saved and would heat it in the microwave. Because it is so early when he gets up, he does this all in the dark.

Placing the rat in the microwave, I shut the door. The rat disappeared. Then, I turned off the lights, walked back over to the microwave and opened it. The door swung open, the light turned on, and there the rat was, in all its terrifying ugliness. "Mwahahahaha!" I thought.

I opened and closed the microwave a few more times, giggling to myself. Satisfied, I finally shut the microwave door, and returned to my art project. He wouldn't be home until late, and I wouldn't have to worry about the plan being discovered.

As I worked a little longer, however, I started to worry. What if he has an actual phobia? What if he gets angry? What if I start a prank war that he takes too far and he puts actual spiders in my bed? The more I thought about it, the more I thought I should call it off, but a little voice reminded me of how it was all in good fun between my dad and I, and Chris would feel the same. Shaking out the worried thoughts, I remained determined.

A few hours later, it was late, and Chris had still not arrived home. Wanting to wait up a little longer, I decided to make some tea. With a mug of water in hand, I popped open the microwave. Instantly, I dropped the mug as I screamed a bloodcurdling scream with the cup shattering everywhere and water splashing across the floor.

I had forgotten about the rat.

I had pranked myself.

Needless to say, I called it off.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

July 2011, I got tickets from a vendor for a Twins game. Bragging to the chef at work, I showed him the seats.

"You're taking me, right?" He said. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Actually, I don't know who I'm taking yet, I--" He cut me off.

"It's settled then. You're taking me. It will be a good bonding experience for us." I looked at him incredulously since he had literally just invited himself to the game. I'd only started working with him for two months, and was surprised he was so bold.

"Fine..." I muttered, snatching back the tickets. This should be interesting, I thought.

The day of the game, I was nervous. What would I even talk to this guy about? Plus, he is bossy... Is he going to boss me the whole day? What happened next ended up being not the awkward experience I thought, but the world's longest date in history.

We started as normal: hotdogs, nachos and soda. He showed me Kramarczuk's polish sausages and explained their local story to me. From there, we went to the organ player and took a picture with her.

Then, I ran into Dan Edwards, a media producer who I used to intern with, who let us sing "Take me out to the ball game" on the jumbotrom during the 7th inning stretch. We ran into our boss who was oddly suspicious we had just been singing on said jumbotrom, but he had had some adult beverages, so we made our escape.

After the game, we ran into an old friend of mine on Hennepin by the 508 bar. They were doing a Bombay Sapphire Bartender Mixology competition. We got a set of cool knives that Chris still carries in his chef set at work.

Then, we went out to dinner at one of my old hotels, and one of the chefs made an awesome 6 course meal for us with scallops and pork belly. Finally, 10 hours later, he dropped me off at home.

As I got out of the car, I laughed, "I'm glad you invited yourself to the game." He laughed too. Little did we know we would be married two and a half years later.

So, today we celebrate our 6 month anniversary by again getting some tickets from a vendor, pigging out on polish sausage and singing during the 7th inning stretch (no jumbotrom today, though). Joining us was his daughter, and we celebrated being a family as well.

No Pasa Nada

Ten years ago I had to get across Paris in the middle of the night from one airport to a hotel across town so I could fly out early the next morning for my grandmother's funeral. I spoke no French, was beyond lost, likely looked like a terrified American college student, and had to rely on the kindness of the surprisingly hospitable passerby in a foreign land. I was passed from stranger to cab... driver to family to conductor to student, all without paying a cent, and all without question to help me get to my destination safely.

Tonight, I got to pay forward a little of the debt owed for my safety that night. A man from South America was at the front desk trying to check in who spoke no English. He was with a large group, another had booked the reservation for him, he had clearly been traveling for quite awhile and was at his wits end. The front desk agents were helplessly trying to explain to him they needed a credit card, even by pulling up Google Translate. I walked up, and with the little college Spanish left in my brain (that did not include sophisticated words such as "credit card" and "incidentals", so I too employed Google Translate) helped to explain the situation. Though it meant he would have to wait until someone with the card that booked the room arrived, he seemed satisfied, and was able to check in with a cash deposit.

An hour later, with my coat on and keys in hand, I saw him sitting by our fireplace, looking forlorn. I asked the front desk agents what was happening. They explained that someone had arrived, but it was only a translator and they had left and that the person with the credit card still needed to come. I looked at him, and looked at my phone to check the time, seeing it was pretty late and my husband was waiting with dinner. I sighed and walked over.

Speaking conversational Spanish, I asked him, "are you okay, sir?" He explained what the front desk agents had just told me. Then he paused and said, "I need to wait, but I'm really hungry." He patted his stomach sadly.

"You're hungry? THAT I can help you with!" I walked over to the front desk and told them I would be bringing him to my restaurant if his translator came back. I led him in, sat him down and brought over one of my servers.

"What do you like to eat?"
"Todo," he laughed.
"Hamburguesas?"
"Si!"
"Con queso?"
"Si!"
"Y papas fritas?"
"Si, si!"

He looked at me with a smile that made me have to turn away because he was so grateful, it embarrassed me. When he asked how much, I told him, "no pasa nada" or "don't worry about it."

I'd rather he pay it forward.