AWESOME!
The sound of rain from inside the tent
Okay, straight up: You know those big kettle drums you see in the symphony? The ones being pounded with padded drumsticks by a bald guy in a tuxedo? Well, the sound of rain from inside the tent is like living in a kettle drum.
Now, let's be honest. The best thing about the sound of rain from inside the tent is that it means you're inside the tent, not outside in a wet T-shirt on your mud-splattered hands and knees, trying to hammer some plastic stakes into the mushy ground. Yes, putting up a tent in the rain is pretty high up there in The Book of Annoying, a nonexistent netherlist that also features: Walking into spiderwebs, When you realize you're out of deodorant as you're putting it on, When someone says the punch line to the joke you're telling, and Forgetting your umbrella at the restaurant.
The sound of rain from inside the tent feels safe, secure, and comforting. After all, you're out in the elements, safe from the elements. You'll get the marshmallow roasting sticks later, you'll build a fire tomorrow, but for now it's time to lie on the bumpy sleeping bag, put your hands behind your head, and just enjoy the noise.
AWESOME!
When you arrive at the bus stop just as the bus is coming around the corner
Thin, flimsy plastic sheets propped up on wobbly rods shudder in the wind as the sleet shoots sideways and you shiver and shake in the dark and lonely bus shelter.
Wrapped in thin gloves and a thick, wet scarf, you stand patiently as your book-filled backpack silently jabs your spine and strains your shoulders. Fingers freezing, knees shaking, you wince and hug yourself as you keep looking way up the street, wishing, hoping, praying that you'll please, please see the bus heading right for you.
We've all been there and it's not a pretty scene.
But hey, that's what makes it so great when you hit one of those magic moments where you arrive at the bus stop just as the bus peels out from around the corner.
Pupils dilate, eyebrows rise, and a clown-faced smile curls onto your face as you realize you just hit the Public Transportation Jackpot.
Yes, in those perfect scenes you're suddenly a Bus Fleet Fat Cat, swimming in tickets and tokens, commanding your private army of Sugar Rollers around town to pick you up and drop you off as you see fit. Baby, if you're feeling this buzz, then there's no reason you can't get right into it too--whistling with both pinkies just before it stops or clapping your hands beside your ear twice as if you're hailing it for real.
And how perfect is it when this dream scene ends with the bus stopping right in front of you, the door swinging open, and the bright round-faced driver flashing you a big toothy smile, a tip of the cap, and a wink as you walk in the door.
AWESOME!
That last crumby triangle in a bag of potato chips
Kick-starting a bag of potato chips is pretty much standard--you open with the double-pincer squeeze-and-pop technique, start fishing out the prime, full-bodied chips at the top of the heap, and then work your way down to the half-broken chips in the middle of the bag. A few minutes in you've chomped your way down to the bottom and you might think you're pretty much done. But wait, that's just the beginning.
That's when you get to the best part, that's when you get to the last crumby triangle of potato chips wedged right in the corner of the bag. You know what I'm talking about. Usually at this point your lips and face are covered in grease crumbs and your fingers are neon orange, coated in a thin film of salty saliva.
That delicious patch of potato powder is all yours, but to get it you have to get a bit dirty:
* First of all, you won't be able to see your fingers down that crinkly, mirrory well, so you have to tilt the bag sideways and size up that crumby triangle for what it's worth. See what you're dealing with here. Commit to a game plan.
* Next, even though your fingers might already be wet at this point, it's best to be safe with the ol' Thumb & Index Finger Pre-Lick. Come on, slide them right in and out of your mouth, don't be shy. Remember: The crumbs are in there deep, and your slightly sticky spit-glue will help mine the greasy plunder.
* Next--attack! Wedge your wet thumb and forefinger in there hard, and squeeze until you feel like you've got most of it. Then pull out quick, and in one swift move sweep and drop that last, crumby triangle right onto your tongue, making sure to lick the stubborn remains off your fingers while saying Mmmm a lot.
Now, while the Thumb & Index Corner Pinch move is gritty and explosive, there is a backup technique that will still get the job done if you don't like to get your hands dirty. Those in the biz know what I'm talking about: the Dump-Truck Bag-Tilt Maneuver. This one requires two hands, a gaping mouth, and a 45-degree angle to turn the trick. You can use it alone or in tandem.
But either way, almost entirely composed of salt and artificial flavor, that last crumby triangle packs a full-flavor finishing move, unlike the watered down sip at the end of a soft drink cup, the stump at the bottom of a muffin, or the toothbreaking kernels hiding in that last handful of popcorn.
AWESOME!
Bowling celebrations
Because let's be honest: Most people are pretty stinking awful at rolling a ball the size and weight of a human head perfectly straight down a sixty-foot lane. There are gutters on both sides, you're slipping in torn-up shoes that have been through a war and a washing machine, and every time you go up for a toss you're up onstage with critical eyes piercing holes in your back, watching your every move.
It's pressure, all right.
But that's what makes it so great when you finally pick up a perfect spare or nail a ten-pin knockdown in the final frame. That's when it's time for a bowling celebration--ideally featuring several of the following:
1. The Stage Dance. Hey, you're up onstage, so why not throw out a couple of moves? Perhaps the famous Hulk Hogan ear cup, the invisible hula hoop, or the fist pump? If all else fails, you can moonwalk back down to your seat. The shoes should help.
2. The Celebrity. The paparazzi loves you and you love them back, only without the paparazzi. Smile, wink, and pose for the invisible cameras on your way back to the orange plastic seats.
3. The All-Business Around-the-World High Five. This can happen when you have around ten hands to slap. There are just too many hands, so your eyes narrow, your eyebrows crunch, and your tongue fixes itself on your top lip as you focus on nailing every single high five offered to you. You don't miss a slap. Yes, you're all business around the world.
4. The Overly Exaggerated Jump. Always a fan favorite. Just watch out for that greasy floor and those skiddy shoes.
5. The Friendly Stranger. This is where a casual stranger who has been keeping a passive eye on your game suddenly leaves his lane and jumps into your bowling celebration. The Friendly Stranger can be awkward, but it gives your sweet roll some extra lane cred.
Now, whatever your style, it's important to remember that once you hit down some pins, it's all about the bowling celebration. You can do no wrong at this point, so just relax and do a little dance.
Make a little love.
And get down tonight.
AWESOME!
Slicing open a taped-up box with a set of keys or a pen
Don't worry about finding a knife or pair of scissors, because MacGyver's in the house.
AWESOME!
Sitting next to someone good-looking on a plane
Sure, you know how it goes.
Belly gets rounder, head gets balder, and that hunch starts poking out the top of your coat. If you're young, don't worry, because those years in the sun and those years having fun might hurt your beauty but they can't hurt your pride.
Take it from us.
We're all going to get old one day. So let's just love the age we've got and let's not crave the age we're not. Amen, sing it to your mama.
And while we're all smiling and climbing that slow stairway to heaven, golf, and grandkids, I say there's nothing wrong with crossing our fingers and hoping for a cute seat-mate on tha
t next flight to Florida.
Because Grandpa's got a sideways stare. And Grandma doesn't mind peeking either.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. When we get old, we're the mature, refined, wise old sages of society. We're above enjoying the company of some pleasant eye candy with a sweet smile for a few hours up in the sky, right?
Speak for yourself, chump.
AWESOME!
When you manage to squeeze out enough toothpaste for one last brush
Say you wake up Monday morning and realize you forgot to set your alarm clock. Now not only did you miss some quality snoozetime, but you're late for work to boot. You jump out of bed, jump on the toilet, jump in the shower, jump into some clothes, and run to the bathroom to brush your teeth before running out the door.
But then you see it.
That thin rolled-up toothpaste tube lying completely empty on your counter, the life squeezed out of it over the past few weeks. Your jaw drops and your memory shoots back . . . . . . you vividly recall making the first dent in the tube's soft cylindrical purity, back when the paste was flowing like water, just itching to flood out. It seemed like it would never end. Over the next few weeks, there were some great moments, like:
* The time you forgot to put the lid on and had to squeeze real hard through a tiny pinprick hole in the center of the congealed toothpaste wall the next day.
* The first time you had to roll it up, coiling the thick, once-mighty toothpaste anaconda into a tightly wound fraction of itself. This was foreshadowing, but the paste kept flowing so you thought nothing of it.
* The time you actually thought you were out of toothpaste but managed to unroll it and slide it real hard across the edge of your bathroom counter, completely coaxing all the minty green molecules up to the front door.
You smile slightly at foggy memories of better days, before your brain quickly jerks you forward to the present.
Which is right now.
When you're late for work.
You stare into your empty tube of toothpaste, glance quickly at your watch, and decide to just go for it, one last time.
You grab your brush, grit your teeth, and squeeze your thumb and forefinger together as hard as you can, right on the head of the tube. You squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, your thumb pounding, your brow pulsing, your brush pleading . . .
. . . until it finally comes: that very last, very weak, very small dot of toothpaste, peeking its head out the toothpaste tube tip just in time for you to swipe it with your brush, swish it around your mouth, and spit it out.
AWESOME!
Using Q-tips the way you're not supposed to use them
Yes, I'm talking about rubbing and twisting that cottony Q-tip tip right inside your ear canal. Get it in there deep, where it doesn't belong, because it's like an amazing, satisfying inner-ear massage.
Also, the more dark, waxy, and disgusting the Q-tip is when you're done, the more satisfying it is, am I right? Because then on top of the inner-ear massage, you get a killer "Whoa, that just came out of me . . ." high too. For those keeping track at home, that's two highs for the price of one. Not a bad deal!
Now, I know what you're thinking: How could we possibly advocate doing something so terribly dangerous like pushing a hard, pointy object against your fragile ear drum? I mean, the box itself says right on it: "Do not insert swab into ear canal. Entering the ear canal could cause injury."
But come on, we all do it. And we know we probably shouldn't. It's dangerous and unnecessary and risky and illegal and against all common sense.
But it feels so good.
AWESOME!
Watching The Price Is Right when you're at home sick
At an early age, it is possible to learn the price of life through The Price Is Right.
How many eight-year-olds know a can of chickpeas costs eighty-nine cents? How many twelve-year-olds can rattle off the features of a new solid oak armoire? And how many fourteen-year-olds can estimate the value of an ice cream maker, new speedboat, set of maracas, and trip to Puerto Rico?
Well, I'll you who, man: any kid with the flu.
See, The Price Is Right is great when you're sick because it comes on at 11:00 a.m., which is about the time your enthusiasm for missing school is sort of deflating into a boring day on the couch with a stomachache. By midmorning, whoever is taking care of you has either headed upstairs or thrown a blanket on you and gone grocery shopping. You feel too sick to do much of anything, so you just lie on the couch and flip channels endlessly, trying to understand why there's nothing good on TV.
Then finally, as you've finished counting cracks in the ceiling, tried and failed to legally nap several times, and mindlessly gobbled down a pack of saltines, the clock strikes 11:00 a.m. and it's time for the show.
That's when the music starts kicking, the lights start flashing , and it's time to come on down. Because it's The Price Is Right, baby. So sing it with me and let's get in the game. It's just such a great time.
And, you know, I think it really helps that everybody on The Price Is Right is just so happy--people are running and jumping, laughing and screaming, and they're all wearing homemade T-shirts to boot. Basically, they feel the exact opposite of how you feel and it's sort of contagious.
The Price Is Right is one massive climax of games, prizes, and tuna fish ads. But you find yourself cheering along and guessing the price of that leather ottoman, yelling for the big wheel to stop on $1.00, and crossing your fingers for the announcer to unveil a game of Plinko or, yes . . . a new car!
And yeah, I know it's different now, but come on, for how many years did The Price Is Right represent some solid, rock-like consistency in this mad, mad, mad, mad world? There was Rod Roddy's sequined blazer, the wildly panning camera looking for the next contestant, Bob Barker's skinny microphone , and shots of the family in the audience madly screaming advice to help our hapless contestant win a four-piece bedroom set.
It just never changed.
And so whether you were six with the chicken pox, nine with the flu, twelve with a broken arm, or fifteen with menstrual cramps, you could count on sixty solid minutes with the company of that old seventies set, lots of one-dollar bets, and advice to neuter your pet, all crunched into the best sick-day game show yet!
AWESOME!
That one square in the waffle that's the most loaded with butter and syrup
Oh, you know the one.
It's full to the brim with a melty smear of butter and drenched in a puddle of thick syrup.
Good move saving it for last.
AWESOME!
Rain hair
You know when you get caught in the rain and your fabulous hairdo turns into a wet, frizzy mess? Well, I say that's a good thing. Because hear me out.
Let's talk about how much time, money, and effort we put into the managing and upkeep of our golden locks of dead skin cells. How about a lot? Now, don't get me wrong, I play the game too. I wash my hair, condition it up, gel it up, shake it up. I prepare it for the day and check in periodically to see how it's doing. Any rogue locks, fallen bangs? What's new in the slowly-going-bald corners? How's that back-of-the-neck beard coming in this month? I spend too much time on it and my hair still looks like a squirrel that's been run over on the highway for a few weeks.
Our pals over at Wikipedia make hair sound like the sun or fresh water, saying in their snooty tone that head hair has "gained an important significance in nearly all present societies as well as any given historical period throughout the world." But then again, those lovable eggheads can make anything sound pretty serious. It's just hair, after all.
I say maybe the army got it right when they instituted crew cuts after World War I trench warfare gave everyone lice and fleas. Maybe there's something to be said about the no-maintenance plan, the low-maintenance plan, or the no plan at all. Because whenever I walk by someone with hair just flying everywhere, all unkempt and full of knots, dirty dreads, and dead leaves, I get jealous for a second. Think
of the free time they have! I mean sure, they stick out, but what if we all got in the game? Then maybe everyone's garden would look immaculate, gyms would get really crowded, and libraries would run out of books. We'd just have to put up with all these shaggy, scraggly Sasquatches walking around, that's all.
And that's what I kind of like about rain hair. It's a temporary escape from the Hair Prison we live in. When everyone shows up at the movies or mall with wet and frizzy flyaways, hair matted to their foreheads, and hair spray dripping and stinging their eyes, it's like, yeah, we all look like a mess.
But that rain sure does wash away expectations too.
AWESOME!
Neighbors with pools
Hey there, neighbor. Thanks a lot for paying for that massive, expensive pool! Great job installing it, heating it, chlorinating it, vacuuming it, and skimming it. You sure it's cool if I take you up on that offer to swing by for a quick dip?
AWESOME!
When you actually remember the name of someone you met earlier at the party
I have a problem.
Within seconds of meeting somebody I completely forget their name.
Sure, I introduce myself, shake hands, and jump right into conversation, but I can't fully concentrate because I realize their name has immediately disappeared from my memory. Cursing myself, I silently scan my frontal lobe, but my pink and lumpy mush is bright white and empty.