When you're a kid, "gifts" is a very single-minded, one-way word, as it refers only to things you receive. There is zero stress around this narrow concept of gifts, as it merely requires you to sit with your eager hands out awaiting something to unwrap. Matter of fact, during those early years, neither Christmases nor birthdays nor any other gift days bring about any forethought or level of burden outside of having to wait out the dreadfully lagging, comparatively tepid days weeks months leading up to those glorious days.
Age changes that. The specific age it changes seems to be different with everyone, but in us all is some particular age when the giving of the gift becomes the more satisfying side of the exchange. But with that satisfying, but fleeting, gift-giving moment tends to come days weeks months of monumental amounts of self-inflicted anxiety. We want the gift to be creative, we expect the gift to exude thought and care, we need the gift to be affordable -- and, let's face it, we prefer the gift to be something we like and in our size in case the recipient doesn't want it or already has it.
Also, there's the added task of gift wrapping.
As a heterosexual male, my skill in and tolerance of gift wrapping lacks much depth. ...Actually, it lacks existence altogether. While I can appreciate one's aptitude for turning any gift, good or bad, into a piece of art that should be guarded and cared for by a museum curator, I view gift wrapping as simply homework. I'm not good, nor do I have any remote desire to be good, at gift wrapping. It almost sours the thought of giving someone something knowing that, in order for me to do it right, I have to wrap it up, tape it up, and generally suck it up.
Women see gift wrapping in an entirely different light. To them, the presentation is almost as important as -- maybe even more so than -- the present itself. The wrapping paper must radiate elegance, and no gift should dare be bestowed without a ribbon -- nay, a curled ribbon -- and a bow. And not some pre-made bow with an adhesive underside but rather an authentic, hand-crafted, ostentatious bow -- a bow that has some body and sass to it. Think Aretha-Franklin's-hat-during-the-2009-presidential-inauguration kind of bow. A bow that is in your face and just won't apologize.
Me? I buy whatever wrapping paper is on sale that day. And my ribbon is Scotch tape. Lots of it. The wrapping is loose, the corners bubble, and the edging is crooked. But, see, I don't care. I just don't. Why? Because gift wrapping is garbage. It doesn't matter how pretty, pristine, and perfect the wrapping job appears, the recipient is just going to rip it apart in seconds and toss it in the trash next to old lemon rinds and coffee grinds. Unless he/she is one of those weird people who actually carefully open it in hopes of retaining and reusing the wrapping later (does it ever honestly get reused?).
In college, partially because I was a poor college kid but mainly because I simply couldn't care less, I used my graded-and-returned college tests and papers as wrapping paper. And you know what, it worked. It covered the gift and thus created suspense as to what the gift was just as well as anything coming out of Neiman Marcus's customer service counter. And if someone actually did keep those tests and papers for future wrapping, they also had a lot of answers to general biology and philosophy questions on hand (granted, the answers were mostly wrong).
I think we could all lessen the effort placed in wrapping up gifts and still enjoy giving and receiving the gifts all the same. Unless the gifts suck and, well, make sure you wrap up the receipt, too.
Is there anything more inconvenient than a common cold? Half the time you have one, you don't even feel that badly -- you're just annoyed at its seemingly endless list of symptoms. For give or take a week, you (1) can't taste food, (2) sleep terribly, (3) have to actually think about breathing, (4) disturb everyone's peace wherever you go with disgusting throat and nasal sound effects, (5) battle a nose that seamlessly and inexplicably fluctuates between runny and stopped-up, (6) can't find a comfortable room temperature, (7) sound like Ben Stein, and, maybe worst of all, (8) kind of look like Ben Stein.
And so, for give or take a week, you have to carry around tissues as if you're on the fringe of an emotional breakdown around the clock. Or you can be a guy with a handkerchief.
Never a handkerchief-type of dude myself, on the surface the idea makes sense to carry that cloth backup in your pocket. And in the breast pocket of a blazer, it can be quite dapper (a word that doesn't get enough play if I do say so myself). But all the allure of a handkerchief is lost when you weigh its deliberate, functional purpose, which is to capture and store your discharged snot.
Yes, that square stitching of 100% cotton was woven with your mucus in mind, covering your sneezes and coughs and batting literal cleanup to your face's many obscene, uncongealed emissions. And, I agree, that is repulsive, which is why I don't keep a snot rag fabric in my pocket. No, no, I'm not blowing my nose and wrapping up the surprise in something that I'll stuff and conceal in my pants, only to reach for it and reuse it later. Once that textile touches my nose or mouth, into the trash it goes. I'm not keen to revisit that released respiratory residue.
With that in mind, handkerchiefs in my world would be used once and then permanently tossed. ASAP. They don't need to linger around, rubbing against and smearing across your clothes, even if only on the inside.
Obviously that approach is not ideal, nor might it be cost efficient. So, I say just stick to a tissue -- and only one use per tissue. We're potentially talking about a lot of tissue here, true, but under these circumstances, I propose wastefulness over distastefulness.
Ditch the handkerchiefs for any reason other than cranking up your dapper factor. Close calls in sports, beautiful women in skin-tight leggings, and your poker hand after the flop all deserve a second look; your phlegm and mucus, however, do not.
There was a time when I relied on the telephone book. It was a time when I also relied on Saturday morning cartoons, Fruit by the Foot, blanket forts, and my imagination. Beyond a few friends and the time & temperature line, I knew no phone numbers by heart and instead flipped the pages of the phone book in a kitchen drawer religiously.
And then the mid '90s came around, and Al Gore single-handedly built the internets in a garage using duct tape, dental floss, and pixie dust, per an article posted on Wikipedia that I wrote earlier today. Suddenly, dial-up service and its fax-machine-suffering-a-seizure sound effects took residence across the globe, as did online chat rooms, thousands of free AOL trial hours on individual discs, and a new breed of textual, sexual predators.
Oh, and every phone number within a few mouse clicks.
The phone book turned obsolete overnight.
So, why do I still once or twice a year come home to a stack -- a stack -- of various phone books outside my door? And how many phone books does a single home need? You have a city phone book, then you have a greater metro phone book, then you have some yellow pages only, then you have what appears to be an entire phone book devoted to an exorbitance of clean-cut, family-owned insurance companies juxtaposed with action hero-nicknamed attorneys. What am I supposed to do with all these phone books -- even if there was no world wide web? Yes, I'm only 5'9", but I don't think I need 14 booster seats around the apartment.
I'm not much for tree-hugging, but I also don't support the needless waste of a natural resource, primarily when maybe 3% of the recipients of that processed resource actually use it for its intended purpose (so, not as a spanking tool for children, a lopsided table corrector, or a massive paperweight for all those gusts of wind blowing through your kitchen).
Yes, I get it, senior citizens and/or those without internet connectivity will be more inclined to welcome these free, alphabetical indices of phone numbers, but does that truly warrant a delivery to everyone with a door? The ratio of phone book users vs. non-users has to be heavily skewed toward the latter. So, why not only deliver phone books to those who express interest? Perhaps instead of dropping off phone books, flyers with a lone phone number to call to get a free phone book can be left at doors ("Like phone numbers and paper? Call the phone number on this paper to receive a whole book of more phone numbers and more paper!").
Ironically, the only phone number of use but not listed in these delivered phone books is one that you can call to request the ceasing and desisting of their delivery.
As previously divulged, I'm not so good at running laundry; you might say it's not my strongest suit.
[Pausing for groans]
There is, of course, my uncanny ability to shrink the perceivably unshrinkable -- but it's more than that. I don't have the patience to run laundry like a normal person should, centralizing all focus on the minute details of how long articles of clothing should run in this and with that. And I feel enslaved indoors, locally repressed to sprinting distance of the washer and dryer for the two hours or so required for a full cycle. To me, it's simply annoying.
But it ain't like doing laundry in a laundromat. God, no. Now that's miserable.
Talk about enslavement, at laundromats you are bound and confined within three feet at most of your most precious, cotton-threaded commodities on spin cycle. Bring a book or a smartphone that's not a Droid Eris because it's about to get boring, folks.
While studying abroad in London for a semester in college, the hotel in which I slept, discovered Facebook, and gambled away entirely too much of a friend's monetary credits on an online poker site (sorry again, Tanner) had a laundry room, but a predetermined pink soap automatically fed into the machines without the launderer's objection. So, because I have hypersensitive skin (as if regular skin layered beneath my natural red hair wouldn't be faint and feeble enough), I have to use that "free and clear," a.k.a. raise-a-white-flag-to-eighty-five-percent-of-the-periodic-table-of-elements, formula with which to wash my clothes, which also meant I had to weekly travel by bus to a laundromat and pay higher costs while guarding my clothes like they were the crown jewels a river away. Needless to say, I had a tremendous amount of time on my hands to ogle Londoners, practice my British dialect by calling the most ordinary things "smashing" and "brilliant," and stare deeply into the tumbling clothes while wondering why I crossed an ocean to sit and guard laundry for several hours each week.
Similar feelings of valuelessness, discontent, and general banality followed me to my first apartment out of college, which had no washer or dryer connections -- an amenity you think I'd have nailed down by then as a must-have. So, I spent each Sunday afternoon in the communal laundromat. I didn't just memorize the number of ceiling tiles (86 1/4); I knew the ceiling's every imperfection and splotch of mold by heart. Those hours of the week sucked. Probably the worst way to come off my Jesus high from church that morning.
And so with these and other less-than-pleasant visits in pocket, I am convinced that you cannot have fun in a laundromat. It harbors a constant state of mental and emotional anguish. Seriously, have you seen the people waiting on their laundry in one of these places? They're frowning with facial muscles they didn't know they had. It's about as much fun as a dry county.
I guess it could be worse -- we could be scrubbing our clothes with a bar of soap against a washboard in the middle of a creek. Then again, that's probably free of detergent perfumes and dyes, isn't it? Hmm...
Although no holy scripture explicitly states it, every day should end with a toasty, bubbly seat in a hot tub. I think that's the way God designed us. How do I know? Because it feels too darn good for that to not be true.
Hot tubs are proof that we humans, to a certain extent, were created to periodically be pampered. We require an occasional wallow in a lethargic, carefree salute to the bodily senses. Hence the congenital need for hot tubs. (Doesn't "Jacuzzi" just sound like an onomatopoeia for the sound of a body relaxing?)
Unfortunately, I don't own a hot tub. Double-unfortunately, I don't have access to one either. So, in order for me to submerge myself in the warm effervescence of a hot tub, I either have to befriend the right people and invite myself over or be on vacation at a destination with such a convenient amenity.
Now, the friends' hot tubs I trust. I have virtually zero problem with the friends' hot tubs -- so long as they are good, clean people and understand the delicate nuances of properly treating and caring for a hot tub.
It's the vacation destinations' hot tubs that make me cringe.
Why? They're public. Any Joe Shmoe can jump in there, suitably swimsuited or Adam-and-Eved, and blend his carnal chemicals with the foamy hot tub's, forming a more imperfect union of dirt, grime, and dare I say fecal matter floating and merging and boiling together into an unknown, vile layer of film atop the water that resembles Mickey Rourke's complexion.
If that was disgusting to read, then I've painted a very accurate portrayal of the thoughts behind my sour facial contortions upon approaching one of these public hot tubs. Hey, I don't know the history of that hot tub. I don't know the rigor with which the staff custodian cleans the impurities of that hot, germ-friendly water. Maybe it's because I've gone to beaches, hotels, and resorts with less-than-constrained friends too many times, but my immediate thoughts when nearing a public hot tub, like when I first enter my hotel room, scream, "What just happened here? What is the story of this tub? What do I not know about and don't want to know about but am nevertheless wondering about? What were its previous occupants wearing? Anything? Were they just talking? Were they a romantic couple? Or just a couple of friends? Or a couple of friends who were getting romantic -- with complete strangers??"
This is what races through my head when the hot tub is vacant. It takes all of three seconds. And if the hot tub actually has people -- total strangers -- in it, whoa... forget about it, buddy.
That's about the time I turn around and dive in the swimming pool instead. Only to emerge for air with a floating clump of leaves and tangled strands of a stranger's long, detached hair on my face.
I like going out and I like having fun. If you were to ask me my top three favorite things to do, going out and having fun would probably take two of those positions, with the third likely being a "going out AND having fun" hybrid of the two. And if the going-out-AND-having-fun situation is for a special occasion, a great way to do it is via transportation with someone else behind the wheel.
Now, by default most people would think, "Oh, a limo is the way to go then." Okay, why? Isn't a taxi cheaper? Yes. And if you want to incorporate a party environment into the transportation, isn't a party bus more conducive to partying? Yes.
So, where does the limo fit?
Aren't limousines just pretentious taxis? Sure they are. Because when you're in a limo, it's like, hey, I need a ride somewhere -- as well as the attention of total strangers driving or walking by. There's absolutely no other reason to take a ride in a limousine. It's stretched-out, tinted showmanship -- typically, and ironically, for people who can barely afford it for three hours.
The only remotely justifiable situations for riding in a limo are if you're arriving to (A) an awards show as a star, (B) a movie premiere as a star, or (C) prom as a misinformed teen who is about to find out that limos don't actually make people feel that much like a star. And I say "justifiable" quite liberally as even these come across to some extent as inane reasons.
I think limos give people that temporary sense of wealth, class, and regality that they've heard about on "Access Hollywood" or seen in a paparazzi photo of your given underwear-less celebrity, as if the presence of a limo conveys affluence beyond the need to drive oneself around. But when a limousine drives you, your date, and your pimply friends to a lamely themed school dance, just who are you fooling? You're wearing a wilting corsage over a rented tuxedo that includes a clip-on bowtie. Everyone knows you don't own that limo and that driver isn't your 24/7 chauffeur. It's a one-time ride somewhere for which you paid far too much and likely reaped zero benefits.
Every occasion in which I know I'm getting into a limousine is preceded with a feeling of mild but unsure excitement, only to find myself thinking once in the limo, "Well... this is overrated. Whoopty crap." This rush of disappointment usually overcomes me around the time I look over at the perpendicular backseats where popped champagne and scantily clad blondes should be flowing and flirting respectively but instead are replaced by empty cocktail glasses on display and overdressed male buddies awkwardly looking at one another, inaudibly wondering, "So, what do we do now?"
Even worse is when the limousine falls under a whole other dimension of impracticality, like the stretch Hummers. I mean, unless you're going on a classy excursion through wild, rugged terrain or to an Ed Hardy outlet store, let's just drive these right into the scrap yard and throw the keys and fuzzy dice into a lake somewhere.
No, I'll just catch a cab driven by a guy whose name has seven consecutive consonants and spend the majority of my money at the destination rather than on the transportation to it.
What makes you proud right now? What is it in your life in this very moment that burgeons forth a rush of pride, a feeling of personal satisfaction?
Here, I'll take a stab: It's your job, right? You dig your job, you feel like you got a great career on your hands. Or, no, it's something tangible -- your car, or your closet of clothes, or your vast collection of whatever oddball artifact that's keeping you perpetually single. ...Wait, I've got it, there's some talent or physical trait that you love about yourself, like your face. It's your face. Nailed it, didn't I? Knew it. (Look, I don't mean to disappoint, but that face of yours... it's only, eh, okay.)
Now tack 30-50 years on to that, throw in some grandchildren -- heck, sprinkle in a dash of great-grandchildren if you so desire -- and forget whatever the source of pride that came to mind a few moments ago because it doesn't matter anymore. Boom, you're now a grandparent.
Unfortunately my grandfathers nearly entirely survive in my mind through series of storytelling and not from a wealth of firsthand experiences. One died before my worldly arrival and the other died when I was of a young age where I could only focus on his dentures. But from what I understand, these guys were two workhorses full of virtue, savvy, respect, and raw, unadulterated manliness (I'm actually not sure if that last one applies, but it sounds good, doesn't it?).
Therefore, "grandparents" for me has almost exclusively referred to grandmothers, as they were seemingly always around, spoiling me at Christmas; keeping their candy dishes full; stuffing cash in my pockets; profiting Hallmark by sending cards on nearly every holiday, save for maybe Canada Boxing Day; letting tons of mysterious refrigerated beverages and condiments expire; and granting me all the wishes to which my parents otherwise objected.
And then there was the cooking. Man, oh man... What age is it when a woman's cooking goes from pretty good to everything she touches in the kitchen turns to succulent, salty gold? Meats, rolls, side dishes, desserts -- you name it, grandmothers universally can whip it up beyond your taste buds' wildest dreams. Maybe it comes with cooking for children and then their children and then their children's children. I don't know, and quite frankly I don't care. The fact remains that grandmothers always unfailingly churn out the tasty delights in the kitchen. You see someone's grandmother standing over a stove and you just know good things are happening. Mine were no different.
Above all, though, my grandmothers laid it all out when it came to showing loads of love and imparting equal loads of wisdom.
This was all until the passing of both within a two-and-a-half-year span. Sure, it's not ideal, but, man, they lived astoundingly full lives at 90+ years each. You can't be mad at that. If I make it to 50, I'll wonder how; as stated in a previous "take," it's just too darn easy to die.
But what grandparents leave behind is the legacy they created in the branches stemming out of the family tree. And, as I've recently learned to appreciate, these branches are the source of their pride. All that other crap from 30-50 years ago faded away, and now it's all about the direct and indirect offspring. It's gotta be a good life to sit on a patio, soak in the rays of retirement, and watch your family carry out everything you instilled.
Maybe that's not exactly how it plays out in your tree, and if not, I hate that for you. But I'm blessed that the collective trunk of my tree was strong, was sturdy, was very giving, and, as a result, bore happily intertwining branches and some really beautiful fruit.
Cheers to grandparents.
People who know me know I don't typically subject myself to filth on any level. I keep a relatively clean home, a relatively clean car, and a relatively clean demeanor. Which is why I hate visiting most restrooms.
Whatever happened to restrooms being a room of rest? Shouldn't each visit to a restroom be relaxing, stress-free, and comfortable? If I'm in a state of rest, I have to be positioned in a means where all three of those descriptors depict my current condition. The presence of filth tends to serve as a rest blockade.
My second crap job out of college was working in a lumber yard, and since I didn't know jack squat about lumber other than it floats and burns (c'mon, people, I was out of college with an English degree and just needed a job), I opted to daily clean the two poor excuses for restrooms in the warehouse that otherwise probably wouldn't have ever seen a bottle of Comet in its life span. Now, I didn't daily clean the restrooms because I have some sort of restroom-cleaning fetish; rather, I couldn't stand knowing that there was bound to be a day where I, while on the clock, would need a true closed-door restroom session while also knowing there would be a very strong likelihood that both restrooms would be coated with grime, mold, urine, and tobacco spit, unless someone intervened beforehand. So, there stood I everyday with a sponge, a brush, and a bottle of chemicals. It also served as a convenient escape from having to answer inquiries about what size of galvanized nails someone should buy.
And while we're on the topic of restroom aesthetics and the general environment therein, why do restrooms have to be so darn loud? The echoic reverb bouncing off those porcelain commodes and ceramic tiles is unsettling. Shouldn't restrooms be engineered to yield the least amount of noise of any other room? But, no, rather than suppress the usual sound waves commencing from stalls, the room amplifies them for the adjacent world to hear. That's comforting. And by "comforting" I mean quite contrary to its "restroom" name.
I love how Britons cut to the chase and call it a toilet. "I need to go to the toilet." There's no beating around the bush there. To us Americans that somehow comes off as a bit crass and unrefined, as if we know what's in there but would daintily prefer to call it something prettier and much more polite. But Britons understand that acknowledging the room encasing the commode isn't what's important. There's one goal of everyone going into the restroom and it's finding that toilet, so why call it anything else? It is what it is. Thankfully they stop just short of calling it by its bodily purpose.
You know, the pooproom.
For your leisurely pleasure, some "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:
- If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, where are hermaphrodites from?
- I feel sorry for bagels. They so badly want to be a doughnut but end up falling immensely short. They're round, they have a hole, and they even don that fresh tan, all exactly like their enviable breakfast counterpart, the doughnut. But they know good and well that if they're sitting on a table within an arm's reach of a doughnut, they're going to be ignored, shunned, and counted as a shamefully inadequate plan B -- or a plan C if an apple fritter is in the vicinity.
- Anyone who has ever sent an e-mail has sent one with a typo or bad information or the wrong attachment. It's bound to happen. But the worst next course of action you can take is to try recalling that e-mail because, buddy, I'm all over it now. There's a good chance I wouldn't have noticed whatever typographical error or nonsensical ClipArt image you mistakenly included, but with your self-admittance of fault and simple plea to cover it up, you've just sparked my full curiosity in your initial, doomed e-mail. Requesting a message recall is like having a pimple on prom night that may drive you crazy but is likely unnoticeable to most people and yet insisting on wearing a gigantic sandwich board sign that reads, "I HAVE A ZIT ON MY NOSE BUT PLEASE DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO IT." I've actually deleted an e-mail without reading it, received a request to recall, and sifted through my Deleted Items e-mail folder to peruse the credibility-damaging evidence. If it's a small error, let it ride -- most people probably aren't reading it anyway. If it's a major error, follow it up with a self-deprecating joke about how stupid you are and, hey, here's what you meant to send. But don't request to take it back, because, hahaha... no.
- Is it just me or do you find yourself thinking every time you see a person with a turtleneck that there's probably a hickey hidden under there?
- A word we for far too long have taken for granted is landlord. Isn't "landlord" a bit of a pompous title? I mean, lord of the land, really? What are they, a bunch of hobbits on an adventure? Most of the landlords I've had are barely lord of their own grooming, much less a piece of property. So, what, simply owning something and allowing someone else to use it for a period of time grants you lordship? In that case, any future visitors to my apartment can refer to me as "couchlord." And, no, that's not an option.
- Do airlines consider fanny packs as carry-on items? If so, that's ridiculous -- how many valuable things can a person actually stow away in a fanny pack? But if not, I intend on finding out the answer to that last question. Looks like I might be shopping for a leather-bound executive edition.
Every single one of the few times I check baggage at the airport, I quickly remember why I seldom check baggage at the airport. It's a nerve-racking part of air travel to hand over your precious cargo to some uniformed stranger, who in turn passes it down a conveyor belt to some merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers, who stuff it into a given (hopefully your) plane so that more merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers in a different geographical location can unload the luggage and send it on another conveyor belt that, God willing, leads to the slow-rotating, lifeless carousel called baggage claim.
You're really putting a lot of faith in voluntarily surrendering -- and after paying, no less! -- your packed possessions and travel essentials over to the hands of total strangers in hopes they'll actually give them back to you -- and in the correct city. I typically struggle with putting a fraction of that level of faith in just handing my camera to an unknown passerby to take my picture -- much less a week's worth of necessities and a dresser drawer's worth of clothes. So, in that luggage transaction with the check-in attendant, I always give it away with the inkling that I just saw my bag and belongings for the last time. It's a scary moment realizing right then that you may currently be wearing your only underwear for the entire trip.
Of course the real scare is awaiting in baggage claim for any sign of your luggage rearing its loose straps, half-zipped pockets, and monotone shell from the baggage chute -- and seeing nothing but a sea of indistinct, homogeneous, black and navy luggage landing on top of each other and purposelessly circumvolving a rounded square, at which point you promise yourself a seventeenth time that you're going to finally replace that black bag with something a little more distinguishable.
Ah, baggage claim... Is there a sadder, more depressive place on Earth? I've been in libraries louder and funerals peppier than the air of utter disenchantment you invariably find in baggage claim. Everyone stands restlessly, having just come off a flight, encircling and waiting with arms folded, faces blank, and overall demeanor sullen, as if they're all mentally drafting their suicide notes. There are no opportunities to cheer, no wonderful surprises -- either you get exactly what you expect from a service whose sole purpose is to deliver your luggage, or you leave disappointed and bagless. Baggage claim is the lamest game of roulette you'll ever play.
And should your luggage actually arrive, you can guarantee there will always be a new defect added to its costly exterior thanks to the slapdash handling of the baggage. A black blotch of blatant blunder. A small, smeared smidgen of smudge. Or a rip torn -- you know, a gash of some sort, not the actor.
If I never checked baggage again, I'd be a happy man. But it's just so darn hard to fit 20 folded pairs of Zubaz pants in the overhead compartment.
