Hindsight

Our thoughts have two directions: backward and forward. We're either looking behind us or looking ahead of us. Even when we assume we're thinking about the current moment, the moment we're thinking about already happened and is now in the past by the time we're thinking about it, even if by only a couple nanoseconds. Deep, I know.

Additionally, these backward and forward thoughts can be broken down into two sub-directions: if we're looking ahead, we're either planning or worrying; conversely, if we're looking behind, we're either reflecting or regretting.

There's nothing really comical about looking ahead. Foresight hasn't occurred yet, so there's nothing to laugh about or shake your ahead in disgrace over. Hindsight, however, provides all the entertainment your mind can handle.

Here is what's so hilarious about hindsight: Whatever you're doing now, whatever you're wearing now, whatever you're saying now, whatever you're listening to now... it's all going to be humorous or just plain embarrassing somewhere down the road when looking back at this moment (well, that moment a couple nanoseconds ago) –- most likely embarrassing. One day I'll look back at my "Takes on Life" and my checkered, button-down shirt and my expressions I've subconsciously extracted from various media in pop culture and my headphones’ audio emissions, and I'll think, "Claude, what was going on in your head, buddy?"

See, I already know this. I know that what I'm doing with myself everyday will be laughable in the foreseeable future. Around the clock, I'm sporting hairstyles and picking hobbies and parading idiosyncrasies that I'll only be able to recall and discuss with a self-deprecating chuckle, despite how seriously I do these things right now. All that we consider "cool" now will inevitably be "uncool" upon some future regard. That goes for you, too. We're writing our own comedy, if I may momentarily be profound. Unfortunately, by the time we've aged enough to have a full life of funnies and bloopers upon which to both reflect and regret, our brains are too old to remember half of them.

But it's all about living in the moment. The one that happened a couple nanoseconds ago. And that one. And that one. And that one.

Hand Washing

It shames me to even have to write this, as plain sense as it is now, but, for the love of God, can everyone just make it a habit to stop by the sink and scrub a little soap on the hands before leaving the restroom? Honestly, nothing blows my mind like seeing people -- good God-fearing people -- still forgo this quick, simplistic, and decent ritual.

I don't know what it is, but some people despise this. Some folks just effin' loathe pausing by the faucet and soap dispenser and doing their duty after their doody. Listen to me, please -- it couldn't be any easier now. Science has been blasting away with enhancing technology that fights the spreading of germs while hastening and elementaryschoolifying the act of washing hands. Stand in the general vicinity of the faucet now and it turns on. Stand in the general vicinity of the paper towel dispenser now and it unrolls. The soap even pumps out in a pre-lathered foam for you! You have no excuse anymore -- other than you're just repulsive.

And if you don't do it for your health and your self-respect, then do it for me and my health. And my peace of mind. I deserve that.

Truly, I can’t help but wonder if you don’t wash your hands after using the restroom, do you ever wash your hands for any reason? Is there a circumstance in which you'll wash your hands? I'd think visiting the toilet would constitute as plenty reason to introduce yourself to the ol' soap and water.

So, here's what I'm asking of you, Mr./Ms. I-Just-Touched-Myself: Next time you’re vacating the bathroom stall or your similar friendly confines at home, take a good, hard look at that sink. Gaze into that ovular, sculpted recess in the counter just below the mirror and think that this -- this -- could be the moment, the seized opportunity, in which you prove to yourself and to everyone whom you hug, shake hands with, pat on the back, high-five, or touch the face of that you have not only embraced the germ-free life but chosen dignity and courtesy over sharing your last encounter with your unmentionables.

You may now go back to licking that snack's salt and grease from your fingers.

Bug Spray

Well, I've got ants (and, no, not in my pants, but thanks for asking). It seems colder weather has compelled them to find warmer locations, like various corners of my home, which in turn has compelled me to load up on various chemicals and mechanisms for exterminating these millimeter nomads.

It was as I scavenged through my own random, forgotten bottles of poisonous compounds and then fervently yet meticulously read the labels of each product Wal-Mart offered in its bug extermination aisle that I realized how surprisingly vicious and bitter we've become with unwanted pests. If you haven't ventured down this aisle in some time, allow me to share some taglines and guarantees proudly displayed on the products found there:

"Kills on contact!"

"Destroy the entire colony!"

"They enter to eat, they leave to die!"

Kill. Destroy. Die. Man, are we pissed or what? I felt suddenly enraged at these ants for daring to set their little appendages on my bathroom floor. I mean, literally, it's not enough that we disable the insect -- God no, we want to bring them death. And not just them but their whole family -- sister ant, brother ant, mother ant, father ant, aunt ant (pardon the pun) -- and their friends and their neighbors and their mayor and their whole colony. This isn't simply getting rid of the pest, folks; this is delivering an insect holocaust -- with a smile, no less.

And then my inward cheers to "kill, kill, kill" transitioned to wonderings of why it's socially acceptable for us to instantly and vilely annihilate a whole clan of creatures with a spray, but it's criminal to kick a dog. ...I guess this is where I'm supposed to give a disclaimer that I don't promote cruel treatment of animals -- but maybe I do. I mean, I am massacring an entire population within my household and wherever else they drag the chemical disease as they "leave to die."

Not that I decided against spraying the holy crap out of my plumbing and moulding...

E-mail

Life without e-mail is hard to imagine. Modern society absolutely would crumble without it. This doesn't mean, though, that e-mail is without its pain points and just plain silliness.

For example, I think we all have moments where slapping a red-painted exclamation point to denote immediate, urgent review on our outgoing e-mail is a substantiated action. (It should be noted, however, that this "high importance" e-mail selection should substitute the 17 exclamation points and caps lock in the subject line otherwise used. No need to use all of the above.) I just can't quite wrap my head around this "low importance" option in my Outlook.

What situation calls for a low importance signifier? I mean, aren't regular e-mails -- those with no selected level of importance -- basically of low importance? Or is there an even lower level of importance than that? If it's not flagged by a red exclamation point, I figure it's not hostage-situation important, so I'll get to it when I get to it. But an e-mail with "low importance"... I mean, I'm throwing that sucker so far on the backburner, I might read that this calendar year, might not. Essentially, I guess it doesn't really even matter if I ever read it, does it? You, the messenger of this information, regard this data as so low of importance that you've intentionally gone out of your way to connote it as such. Think of it this way: If I were to sort my inbox by levels of importance, your e-mail would be listed lower on the electronic message totem pole than forwarded chain e-mails with jokes degrading blondes, rednecks, lawyers, and anyone of an orientation not of the forwarder's and attempted phishing scams from pseudo financial corporations.

Since we've now brought up forwarded chain e-mails... how about omitting these blessings and curses at the conclusion of the e-mail that outline my fate depending upon whether or not I forward this Laffy Taffy joke or inspirational story to seven people I know? I'm tired of reading e-mails that come with blackmail demands and unexpected repercussions. You know, here I am taking the time to open your e-mail and read it, and suddenly I have an assignment to send it on to avoid a drastic pitfall ranging anywhere from unhappiness in life to the death of my first born. I don't recall signing up for eWitchcraft.

Old Woman Perfume

Anyone who knows me knows I love old people. Senior citizens are to be respected, commended even, for living so long and enduring so much. They have defied death over the years to get to their age and left their footprints behind in history in some fashion, magnificently or otherwise. It's a remarkable feat to reach that golden age. Go ahead, be kooky, act crazy, say what you want, hold back for no one -- you deserve it.

It's just that old woman perfume that I question. It's a curious, pungent potion these mature ladies choose to mist or pat on themselves. It borderlines intolerable. But what's comical is that they all wear it. There's some age -- I guess upon your first $1.50 age-related movie ticket discount -- that a woman's cooking skyrockets into greatness and perfume preference is solely and unapologetically "that old woman perfume."

Old woman perfume wouldn't be so bad if it didn't smell like old woman perfume. Not really sure what sort of floral, berry, and antiseptic concoction comprises that liquid scent, but it just smells old. It's about two moth balls and a filled bedpan away from smelling like a "Matlock" night in the den of a retirement home.

These ladies sure don't mind dabbing a few extra drops here and a few extra drops there -- and, heck, just turning that princess-cut, glass perfume vase upside down over their muumuu-garnished bodies. As they walk by, you can be literally overcome with the trail of scent. You can feel your lungs reaching for the panic button as they're trying to make sense of this sudden inhalation of epidermal potpourri and somehow find and absorb any sparse molecules of oxygen.

Makes you wonder how the young key grips and light technicians daily handled being on the set for "Golden Girls" all those years. I guess putting a human being's olfaction in a full nelson for an entire season would build the proper immunity.

B-sides, vol. 1

Various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• If you want to know how dumb of a human race we're becoming, go buy a magazine now. I used to purchase magazines to read articles. What happened? Where'd the words go? Magazines are now 85% pictures, advertisements, and scents. The reading is gone. Full in-depth articles have been whittled down to paragraph synopses or just fragmented captions underneath pictures. I guess all that reading required too much effort. The plus side here is I can now know what Angelina Jolie has been up to this month in a matter of six words.


• What's up with every cosmetologist looking like a freak of nature? Is turning yourself into a science experiment really a good marketing tool for your business? Probably not. Nothing could be more ironic than seeking to achieve personal beautification from someone who looks as if she drove to work from a Barnum & Bailey tent in a clown car.


• What are Pixie Sticks? Sugar-flavored sugar?


• Can't believe parents are still buying their kids trampolines. As much fun as they are, they're death traps. I grew up playing on a neighbor's trampoline against my parents' wishes. But you're just asking for it, really. We all know of a trampoline horror story, whether it's a biographical or autobiographical one. Injuries abound by (1) bouncing into someone else, (2) getting your foot caught in or between the springs, (3) falling off or unintentionally jumping off, (4) landing awkwardly, or (5) bouncing into someone, causing you to fall off or unintentionally jump off and then landing awkwardly with one foot somehow caught in or between the springs. "Quit playing video games, Jimmy, and go outside and challenge gravity head-on!"


• Can TV stations please stop airing Viagra and Vagisil commercials during the hours of dinner time? Seriously.


• There are a few grocery items I feel uncomfortable buying purely because of the large doses of estrogen injected into the products' packaging and advertisement. Their commercials will show a woman sensually consuming the product naked in a tub surrounded by candles. Their packaging displays a woman in '80s leotards and a headband who seems to be working out to an Olivia Newton-John mix. And, though philanthropic, apparently the only disease whose cure is worth donating a portion of the products' sales to is breast cancer. Well, sorry that I occasionally yearn for a cup of Yoplait, or I routinely like to start my day with a bowl of Special K, or I periodically need a Dove chocolate fix, or I enjoy the lasting comfort and assurance of an Always maxi pad with wings. ...Wait, scratch that last one.

Tip Jars

Man, are the tip jars getting out of hand or what?

Look, tips are fine and dandy and, in the right situation, much deserved. I was a server at Applebee's for a few months in college, so I get it. Some employees' sole income is reliant on customer gratuity. Cool, I can hang. And when I tip, I tip well. But nearly all businesses have taken the idea of tipping way too far. Tipping used to be a gracious gesture; now, it's not just expected, it's demanded. Putting a tip jar in your face proves it. The tip jar is now separating you the customer from them the service providers.

I'm just not going to throw tips around. I'm not a supporter of giving a tip to someone for doing the job expected, especially when you've paid for the job -- unless the service is given on a gold platter, in which case I might throw a couple Washingtons your way. We need to think about the outlandish placements of these tip jars, seriously.

Here's what I mean:

Fast food: Suddenly, a great wave of tip jars have landed on the cash register counters of fast food joints all over. No, no tip. It's fast food, folks, who are you kidding? You get no tip from me for reaching around and grabbing the burger someone else made. Besides, there's a reason you have a 99-cent menu -- your customers are cheap. And I'm one of them.

Bathroom attendants: So, let me get this straight: you want a dollar or two for wearing a suit and handing me a paper towel? Okay. Wipe my butt for me, and we'll talk. In the mean time, I believe I can handle the arduous task of grabbing my own paper towel to dry my hands, thanks. Kind of creepy that you're there in the bathroom with me just staring and waiting to assist. Please leave.

Car washes: There might not be a tip jar, but those folks wiping down the car sure deliver all the body language that scream "Tip me!" as you get in your car. Well, thank you, car-wiper-downer, for doing your portion of the service for which I paid your manager. Your tip is somewhere in that $29.95.

Anywhere there's beer: Please take care of your bartenders. They work hard dealing with specific drink orders, open tabs, and loud, annoying drunk people. But I'm not asking for a shaken martini with two olives and a shot of love -- I just want a beer. A beer they're not brewing. A beer they're merely grabbing and opening. That action doesn't warrant a dollar from me. Tell you what, just give me the beer, and I'll open it. That'll free you up enough to clean up that girl's vomit.

Checkout Lanes

Since grocery shopping isn't frustrating enough, between weaving and drifting around other shoppers' carts and trying to hunt down that new product you saw on TV, grocery stores have taken the liberty of upgrading your levels of aggravation to maximum capacity just upon your exit, ensuring the rolling of your eyes, the pulling of your hair, and the cursing of your mouth before you go on with your merry life.

They accomplish this extraordinary feat via the checkout lanes. Here you'll find some of the most outrageous, thoughtless, inexperienced-in-societal-habitation human beings on the planet.

Sadly, as we undergo an economic recession, we simultaneously face a second recession: a recession in common sense. (Perhaps the two correlate somewhere down the line of cause of their existence?) Look at the customer with an overflowing shopping cart in the express lane for evidence. Or observe your cashier's handiwork -- now, I very well could be overestimating the inclusiveness of the definition of "common sense," but apparently today's definition does not include not bagging raw meat and dishwasher detergent together. (This happened to me recently.) Either that or the cashier's an idiot. My money's on the latter.

And how about that "express lane"? That's a hoax, isn't it? Even though the lane clearly states "20 items or less" [grammatical side note: it should state "fewer"], the cashiers will reject no one. I love the people who come up there asking, "I have 20 items, plus 30 -- do I qualify?" Sure, come on through.

I do applaud the "U-Scan" express lanes, as Kroger calls them, where you're basically entrusted to scan your own items, bag your own items, pay for your own items, and not steal anything. This seems like an ingenious means to expedite the checkout experience; unfortunately, through my innumerable hours waiting in these lanes, I can safely say that more than half of the "U-Scan" users cannot text message, much less independently work a touch-screen computer with a dozen pair of eyes watching and waiting.

There's also an extraordinary amount of closeness in customer proximity in checkout lanes. Frequently I'm feeling mounting pressure from the customer behind me in line. If her stack of shopping selections isn't toppling over onto mine without the appropriate space between our piles, then her shopping cart is on my heels with each progression I make up the lane. I think we all need to take a deep breath in the checkout lane and step back about two paces. I mean, really, we're not getting any closer to checking out by dry-humping each other in line.

Expiration Dates

As Kryptonite is to Superman, so is an expiration date to us common folk. An expiration date can determine your limits, weaken your intent, and stymie your actions. It's that powerful. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure Superman himself is insusceptible to the effects of an expiration date. I'll bet even the Man of Steel would have to hold up his hands in refusal on a glass of one-day-expired milk.

You can find expiration dates on virtually any product sold nowadays. Food, medicine, cleaning supplies, water (water, for crying out loud!) -- you name it. We're a society obsessed with expiration dates. We want it on everything now. We demand it because we don't like guessing games. We want an expiration date established for our driver's license, club membership, elevator inspection, and military conflict. Even if it's a made-up date, just say it so that we can live according to it.

I struggle with the expiration date. Admittedly, I have no earthly idea what it means. All I know is that someone who was trusted enough to assign expiration dates to products for a living calculated and officially declared this product "invalid" as of this given date. Talk about a powerful position... And it's a very specific date. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. This is the day. This is when it happens. Heed this date. Someone is confident in that particular date enough to sear it on the product, right in your face. You know what, you got me -- I'm heeding.

The ambiguity of that expiration date deepens, however, when you try to understand just what that date signifies -- does this product's world come crashing down on this date, or is this product's final day of credibility this date? Do I have this date's 24-hour period, or should I trash it prior to this date? Some expiration dates will give you a very hazy preposition before the date, like "expired on March 26" or "expired by March 26." These could be translated either way. But what's worse is what most products do: Here's the date, no preposition, figure it out yourself. Good luck.

To play it safe, I usually toss the product a couple days before the expiration date. I can't take chances. I don't know what happens on that date, and I am certainly not interested in finding out.

Quite honestly, I'm surprised that they haven't nailed it down to the expiration hour yet. That would help immensely. There goes any doubt or reservations I have with your blue ink timestamp.

Starch

I like to think I'm not a complete moron. But in 26 years of wonderment and critical thinking, I have still failed to understand why anyone would voluntarily use starch in their clothes. Makes zero sense to me.

I'll confess that I like clean clothes. A lot. I'll also confess that I despise wrinkled clothes, probably more than I like clean clothes. And throwing all my cards of honesty out on the table here, I'll confess that I'm an avid ironer. I like my clothes fresh and ironed. They don't have to be pressed necessarily, just tolerably clean and wrinkle-free. No big deal.

Perhaps this further muddies my perplexity with the usage of starch. Spraying starch on your clothes inevitably results in wrinkles, usually within 10 minutes after getting dressed. This especially pertains to a morning commute. Why starch your shirt when you're about to sit in your car and drive to work? Open door, get in, sit back, buckle up, wrinkle shirt. And not just sort of wrinkled -- terrain-map-of-the-Appalachians wrinkled.

"Ironing your shirt and then getting in your car is the same thing. So, why iron?" Not exactly the same thing, dude. Wearing clothes for any given length of time is going to result in some wrinkles. Just the way it is. Ironing removes ungodly, unnatural wrinkles and gives you a fresh look throughout the day. Starching stiffens your clothes and exacerbates any natural wrinkling, guaranteeing you a messy, wadded ensemble by lunch. Not to mention that it feels like wearing a pizza box.

Much to my chagrin, there are some real dedicated shirt-starchers out there. My dad is one of them. Starches every buttoned shirt, no questions asked. It astounds me. Where's the advantage? What are you gaining? You're morphing your shirt into construction paper, only to ultimately maximize the wrinkling capability of every woven thread in that shirt. Come on, Dad...