Really, really old Tupperware is mostly found in three colors: Stovetop Green, Traffic Cone Orange, or The Core Of The Sun Yellow. Optional features include novelty 1950s floral patterns or deep tomato stains from that time someone put chili in there and shoved it in the back of the freezer for two years.
One thing I enjoy doing is thinking about all the different kinds of food a particular piece of Tupperware has Tupperwared shut over the years. Apparently Tupperware has been around since 1946, so we're talking about the full tastebud time line--from lard burgers, creamed-corn casseroles, and Jell-O salads to hemp brownies, parsley soup, and tofu cookies to pizza pockets, TV dinner leftovers, and astronaut ice cream pellets.
Really, really old Tupperware has been there, sealed that, and lived to tell the tale. It's a throwback to the simpler life, when things like airtight seals meant something. Something real. Something honest.
Something worth believing in.
AWESOME!
Getting gas just before the price goes up
Here's how it all goes down.
Well-dressed fat cats sit around a dark, mahogany table in the boardroom of a nondescript high-rise deep in a dense metropolis on the coast of an exotic country. Anonymous and alone, they sip scotch, share pictures of new yachts, and make plans to jack gas prices for the long weekend.
Cuff links clinking on crystal glasses, celebratory cigar smoke filling the room, the gas execs laugh deep belly laughs, high ten each other, and then file into limos to take them back to the airport. And of course, just before they leave, everyone does a shot of high-octane gasoline to keep the memory fresh and the evil juices flowing.
At least that's how I imagine it.
After all, gas prices seemingly rise whenever you need to fill up for the weekend. It's a constant game and a constant battle.
But that's why there's something fun about watching those prices drip and drop ever so slowly throughout the week and then pulling in to fill your tank just before they zoom sky-high again.
Honestly, when you nail it just right you walk away laughing, patting the extra three dollars in your pocket and daydreaming of how you might spend it this time. Lottery ticket, windshield washer fluid, maybe some beef jerky for the ride home. Either way, you'll be sitting pretty when you cruise by the station on a full tank tomorrow and notice the prices are hiked back up.
You came out to play the Gas Game this week.
And you won.
AWESOME!
The pushoff
Dad's holding you steady as you pedal, pedal, pedal. Then you suddenly realize you're still going, so you look over your shoulder and he's way back there, waving and cheering you on.
You're riding your bike for the first time.
AWESOME!
Wearing sandals when you shouldn't be wearing sandals
I went to college in a small town that got hit hard by weather extremes.
In the fall, the summer winds would quickly cool and sharpen, ripping into your cheeks on the way home from class, leaving them red and finely shredded like you'd just applied blush with sandpaper.
In the winter, the roads and sidewalks would be covered in piles of wet slush--little bombs of slippery ice-dirt and road salt that would explode onto your pants and shoes and leave nasty stains when they dried.
In the spring, the snow would melt away, leaving soggy grass everywhere. You would see that grass and think it was solid, but your foot would sink into it, cold little mud bubbles rising around your shoe from all directions and soaking right into your sock. It was like walking on a peat bog covered in smushed worms and last year's dog poo.
It was not pretty. And so my roommates and I were left with just two options:
1. Try to predict and adjust for the weather. You know, wear lots of layers, carry umbrellas on sunny days, build a collection of waterproof boots, and start using phrases like "bunker in" and "venture out."
2. Ignore it completely.
Well, we chose Option 2.
And we faced the consequences.
We got windburn and had sleet slip down the back of our T-shirts. We got dirt soakers and then permanently stretched our socks while peeling them off at the front door. We got dry legs, we got bone chill, and, brother, we got rain hair bad.
But eventually we got good at ignoring it all.
My roommate Dee was the master of ignoring the weather, the biggest proof being that he wore sandals year-round . Wind, snow, rain, it didn't matter. "The toes need to breathe," he'd say sternly, "breathe." And he'd emphasize the point with a sturdy lip and a firm strapping of the Velcro. Then he'd slap on his heavy backpack, take a deep breath, give you a wink, and trudge out into a blizzard, navigating ice patches and slush piles like a pro.
Sure, there was the occasional Bad Day that came with being chronically unprepared for Mother Nature's worst blows, generally involving a dirty-puddle splashing all over you from a passing truck or being unable to feel your toes until you put them on the radiator for twenty minutes. But you made it through.
And come on, there is something great about wearing sandals when you shouldn't be wearing sandals. It's liberation from shoe shackles, freedom from the oppressing sock, and a violent rebellion against those frostbite warnings on the weather channel.
People of the world, let's face it: If we can come together to take down the shoe, then really, nothing can stop us.
AWESOME!
Getting off an airplane after a long flight
B.O. clouds dissipate and float away, wailing babies quit wailing at the luggage bay, your cell phone works, so you call friends up, say hey, and all your scrunched-up, bunched-up, hunched-up muscles just relax as you stretch them out now, feeling A-OK. You're out of the window seat, out of the aisle, you're back on two feet, so just walk away and smile.
AWESOME!
Picking up a q and u at the same time in Scrabble
I'm the world's worst Scrabble player.
Every time it's my turn I see other players lose interest as they get ready for a long wait. I feel bad, so I stare at my pieces, trying desperately to conjure up a word longer than three letters or else suffer their complaints that I'm "really clogging up the board." A couple minutes will pass before somebody says, "Hey, you know what this game should have? A time limit, ha ha ha ha ha!!!" And everybody laughs and smiles at me, and I look up to grin and then stare back down at my letters quickly. I stare at those letters and stare hard. A few more minutes of silence will pass, and then I look up, grimace slowly, and offer one of my two classic lines:
1. "Sorry guys, I've got like all vowels over here," or
2. "It's like Consonant Central here, guys. I'll be just another minute unless jgrfqll is a word."
A couple people nod and smile at my lame joke, someone idly turns on the TV and starts flipping channels, and another will generally grab a section of the newspaper and head to the can. I frantically rearrange my letters over and over again, silently praying rebuke, jinxed, or fibula will appear on my little wooden tray by accident.
My nerves fraying, my heart drum-thumping, I'll eventually put down a lame four-letter word like bill or lamp in an act of desperation. "Eight points," I'll whisper to the score-keeper, while turning the board and nodding to the other players to move along.
See, part of my problem is that I draw letters like j, z, or q at the beginning of the game and they end up haunting me all the way through. That big q is the worst of all. It holds its powerful 10 points over my head, just daring me to draw one of the four u's in the game so I can lay it down. I spell my letters out in arrangements like q_ick, q_ote, and q_iet, ready and waiting for a u at any time, but generally no dice, or at least no dice for a while. I got qat or I got nothing.
And so you see that's why, in my books, there are very few better Things to Happen to You in a Board Game than picking a q and a u at the same time in Scrabble. I say it beats building two hotels on Boardwalk in Monopoly or drawing a perfect brontosaurus in Pictionary during an All P
lay.
If I get that q and u together in Scrabble, then it's all me all the time, baby. Doors open, and I quite quietly and quickly quash all quibbling questions and quack queries from my competitors.
And you know how that makes me feel.
AWESOME!
Old folks who sit on their porch and wave at you when you walk by
What do you picture doing when you retire?
Lounging amongst big umbrellas on sunny beaches, taking the grandkids to the zoo, cropping a serious vegetable garden, or turning your woodcarving hobby into a lucrative craft fair business?
Well, whatever you choose, can I recommend that you also make time to just sit on your porch, sip some lemonade, and look up to smile and wave at people when they walk by?
Because other than cutting the little wedge of your neighbor's lawn, lending out your snowblower, or collecting someone's mail while they're away, I tell you: Nothing says friendly neighbor more than a couple old folks sitting on their rockers and just flashing those gums and waving those palms when you walk on by.
AWESOME!
The first scoop out of a jar of peanut butter
When I peel the top off a new jar of peanut butter I like to pretend I'm a scientist peering through the world's most powerful telescope, catching Earth's first glimpse of a new, strange and distant planet. "It's got a smooth surface," I exclaim to the lab of giddy professors standing breathlessly beside me. "Yes, it's a beautiful airless landscape, untouched, undisturbed, and brown."
Because seriously, that's what a just-opened jar of peanut butter looks like to me. I almost feel bad thinking about what I'm about to do, because it's just so perfect, smooth, and dense. But I put some bread in the toaster anyway, grab a spoon from the drawer, and then go right ahead and dig that spoon in there deep, catching a heavy glob of thick PB when I pull up, a loud, wet, satisfying schthlop plopping out of the jar.
It's a great feeling.
After that, I'm an artist. I can leave a big, gaping hole right in the middle of the jar, I can do it up fancy and twirl and swirl the PB around a little, or I can painstakingly carve a moat around the outside, leaving a perfect, flat island in the center that becomes more and more unstable with every passing day.
The options are unlimited.
Really, I think getting the first dig in a jar of peanut butter is the kitchen equivalent of stabbing a flag into the moon and claiming it as your own. I mean, you mark that peanut butter. You brand it. You add your little stamp and you put it back in the pantry, ready and waiting for the next big schthlop.
AWESOME!
Hearing a stranger fart in public
What's funnier than hearing a stranger fart in public?
Well sure, it can happen in a bank lineup, hotel lobby, or subway car. It can happen in a restaurant, movie theater, or local bar. But the funniest of all has got to be the Elevator Fart. That's the king of public farts, for two main reasons:
1. Acoustics. It's almost always dead silent in an elevator. People usually keep quiet, stare firmly at the front door, and wait for their floor. Any whisper or laugh echoes around the box with full force, reverberating loudly for all to hear. So a giant rippling fart popped out by a bald businessman in a suit holding a briefcase in front of him? That's like a 21-gun salute.
2. Time. If you're climbing a high-rise, you're spending maybe a minute or two with these people. It's you and them, locked together. Hearing a stranger fart on the sidewalk is one thing. Hearing a stranger fart in a tiny enclosed room is another. Nobody can escape the full experience, from big bang to first whiff to total elevator saturation.
Hearing a stranger fart in public is great partly because of everybody's reaction. There are really four main types of fart reactions you see:
Concealed Laughers. These folks purse their lips tightly, pop open their eyes, and try not to laugh. If they're with friends, then the sight of their friend also trying to hold in a laugh can be too much, and they suddenly explode into full-blown belly laughs.
* The Business Class. Folks in suits often try to pretend that nothing happened. "Nope, everything's just chipper here, I don't smell anything at all." Their only tells might be a very subtle step away from the culprit and a few extra looks at their watches.
* Deep-Sea Divers. These folks try to hold their breath as long as possible. They hear the fart and it's "Come on, lungs, don't fail me now." They're the ones with the chipmunk cheeks who eventually pop and gasp desperately for air when the door opens.
* Innocent Children. Little kids are always the funniest. I once heard a child in an elevator say, "Mommy, that man just farted," with a full-on finger point right into the well-dressed ass in front of his face. But hey, I guess if you're going to fart in a kid's face, you deserve to be called out.
Yes, hearing a stranger fart in public can be a tiny, hilarious moment in the middle of any day. If you're the farter, I say be loud and be proud! We've all been there, so no need to be embarrassed. If you're in the audience, I say enjoy the hilarious social faux pas and resulting reaction in the room.
So thank you, strangers farting in public, for adding a great bit of comic relief to the middle of our day.
AWESOME!
Perfectly toasted toast
A bad burn and you've got black crumbs and a dry middle. A lukewarm bake and you've got a gummy center and soft crusts. So push the button down, twiddle the knob, and dial up some perfection.
AWESOME!
When someone unjams the photocopier for you
A jammed photocopier at the office is a terrible scene.
Toner fumes fill the air, plastic doors are swung open, and crumpled papers lie wedged tightly in the machine's Plinko board torso of hot springs and bright green clasps.
And there you stand at the scene of the crime in your pleated pants and button-down shirt. Yeah, I'm guessing the last thing you feel like doing right now is dropping to your hands and knees and poking your fingers into that steaming engine of paper trays and twirly knobs.
That's what makes it so great when a bugle blares softly in the background and out pops the King of the Office from around the cubicle wall. Yes, it's Unjammer Man, that young techie kid from the IT department who declogs the photocopier in no time flat and is happy to lend a hand.
Your lips curl into a big smile and you hug your expense report, while knobs are twiddled, clasps are fiddled, and the copier quickly starts humming like brand new.
Now that someone's unjammed it for you, you're back in business, baby.
And you're loving it.
AWESOME!
Reading the nutritional label and eating it anyway
Sometimes you just gotta peek.
As you unwrap the chocolate bar, peel open the cheeseburger, or scoop up that second bowl of ice cream, you can't help but turn the package around to glance at the nutritional label on the back.
And guess what's waiting for you over there? You got it, baby: 64 percent of your daily saturated fat intake, 76 percent of your cholesterol, and a couple big buckets of carbs.
Then there's the quick pause, involuntary eye twitch, or ashamed look at the person munching salad beside you. But I hope after that brief moment of self-doubt, you just keep going, you just keep scooping it in. Sure, you might have to turn the label away, avoid sodium for the rest of the day, or give a shrug and say, "Hey, it's okay," but I hope you keep going, hope you savor it slowly, and hope you enjoy every last bite.
Sometimes you just gotta read the nutritional label and eat it anyway.
Sometimes . . . you just gotta live.
AWESOME!
When you're watching one of your favorite movies and you realize you don't remember how it ends
You know the feeling.
Your favorite characters are introduced, the story kicks off, a couple plot twists and turns seem a bit unfamiliar, and it suddenly dawns on you: You have no clue how the movie wraps up. No, you can't remember who the killer is, who dies, or if the cats ever get married. You
can't remember the ending at all, and you're loving every minute of it.
So you dim the lights, snuggle under the blanket, shush up your chatty husband, and stay glued to that screen.
Because it's like, hey, guaranteed blockbuster.
AWESOME!
The smell of the coffee aisle in the grocery store
Harsh fluorescent lighting, slushy wet floors, and the cloudy stench of raw fish welcome you into your friendly neighborhood grocery store. After circling tables of green bananas, wobbly paper towel towers, and piles of day-old bagels, it's kind of nice to stumble upon the coffee aisle and just take a big sniff.
AWESOME!
That pile of assorted beers left in your fridge after a party
My friend Mike has rules for hosting parties. They go like this:
* Under 25 years old: Party is BYOB. You can tell people if you want, but they should know. Bring your own beer. Bring your own mix. Bring your own bulk-pack cheesy puffs.
* 25-30 years old: Host should have wine and beer stocked and there should be snacks available. You're an old fart now, so there's a bit more party responsibility. Try to squeeze a trip in to pick up some booze between renewing your mortgage and seeing the doctor about your kidney stones.
* 30-40 years old: All of the above plus an open bar. If you follow Mike's rules, this decade is going to hit the pocketbook a little bit.