But seriously, your eyes have their own plumbing system, so they're pretty self-sufficient. Technically they're called tear ducts, but they may as well be called Eye Toilets because they just flush your eye out. Nope, no need for any assistance folks, because your Eye Toilets have it all under control. Dust, dirt, tiny little microscopic bugs, flush, flush, flush away.
Your Eye Toilets are great at their job unless, of course, a rogue eyelash gets in there. When a rebel lash quietly unhinges itself from the confines of your eyelid and attempts a poorly planned escape to freedom, it's not good. If you're like me and are cursed with poorly attached eyelashes, then your lashes just give up and die all the time, flipping down into your eyeball and scratching you right in the cornea. Your Eye Toilets start flushing madly, but to no avail: That lash is sticking in there tight and it's not budging.
I don't care how many bar fights you've been in or how many times you've been shot, you know as well as I do that having an eyelash in your eye is incredibly painful, incredibly annoying, and requires intense focus to get through. You might even have to try one of these eyelash-removing methods:
* The Pinch and Squeeze Method. This is where you close your eye tight and pinch n' squeeze all your lashes outward, hoping to grab a tiny piece of the rogue lash and pull it out. I recommend doing this one first to see what happens. You miss here and you still have plenty of options.
* The Eye Blower Method. Sometimes you need the help of a friend. They can either perform a Surprise Blow to prevent you from defensively closing your eye or they can perform the surgical technique, where you lie down on a bed and hold your eye open while they blow right at the eyelash. That last one takes trust and a very dry, stiff blow. Think birthday candle blowout, not warming your hands at the bus stop.
* The Hard Winker Method. A solo sport, this is where you just keep winking your eye really, really hard and hope the lash will eventually pop out. Not a bad technique, though sometimes the act of hard winking just forces that eyelash in there deeper. This one's a gamble.
* The Eyelid Flapper. My friend Scott taught me this method when we were kids. You pinch the skin of your eyelid with your fingers and keep popping it in and out real fast until the lash gives up and lets go. This method is gross to look at and comes complete with a marvelously wet and disgusting suction sound.
* The Wash. If nothing else works, you can always just splash some water in there. Or, if possible, use one of those dusty eyewash stations hanging out in the back of the wood shop. I've always wanted to see someone use one of those things. They look like they're from a 1950s version of the future.
Look, whatever your strategy, one thing's for sure: You aren't doing anything until that eyelash comes out. You might get the job done in five seconds, you might work at it for ten painful minutes, but whatever the case, whatever your style, it sure does feel good when it finally drops out of your eye. Suddenly the sun rises again, the weight is lifted, and your life can get back on the road and just keep on trucking.
AWESOME!
Finally figuring out how your hotel shower faucet works
The hotel shower faucet is a 7:00 a.m. Brain Teaser.
You strip down and peel back the flimsy white curtain to size up the challenger and you find it staring back at you--a clump of shiny dials and spouts with made-up marketing names like Temprol, Relaxa Shower, or Aquasomething.
Sometimes that shower faucet goes clockwise, sometimes counterclockwise, sometimes you have to turn it past cold to get hot, sometimes you pull it toward you to get it going.
And once you eventually get it flowing, you face another challenge: getting it to stop coming out of the bathtub tap and start shooting out of the shower faucet. Your reward for solving this mystery a few minutes later is an ice-cold spray down your naked, shivering body.
Finally figuring out how your hotel shower works is like jumping into the cockpit during an emergency and landing the plane with no lessons. You were just woken up and thrown into a tough situation with no instructions, but you managed to figure it out and save the day.
Yes, you're a clean, freshly scrubbed hero.
Later on, when you leave the steamy bathroom in your scratchy white hotel towel, be sure to pause for a few moments in the hallway and give detailed advice and directions to all the future showerers of the morning.
They'll thank you for it.
AWESOME!
Talking about how much the meal you're eating at home would cost in a restaurant
There's the new item on the shopping list, the big soup pot or roasting pan you haven't used in a while, and a couple hours of commotion in the kitchen.
But then everyone takes a seat and out pops a puffy quiche or simmering curry complete with exotic side dishes. And as drinks are poured, plates are filled, and everyone starts digging into the meal, somebody lobs up the big question.
"Hey, what do you think this would cost in a restaurant?"
And it's a great conversation starter, because now in addition to the feeling of eating good food with friends or family, you get a nice little bonus Cheapskate High too.
AWESOME!
When you arrive at your destination just as a great song ends on the radio
There's really nothing like pulling up in the driveway and shutting off the engine just as that final cymbal crashes or that wailing guitar solo slowly fades into perfect silence. If you time it just right, you'll miss the start of the commercials, and you'll be rewarded with the song replaying itself in your head all day.
AWESOME!
Saying the same thing a sports commentator says just before they say it
Because at that moment you go from being a lazy potato chips n' naps fan lying on the couch in a crumb-covered pile of sweatpants, bedhead, and B.O. to an insightful sports critic with a sharp eye, quick tongue, and backup second career.
AWESOME!
Having really, good eyesight
AWESOME!
Orange slices at halftime
When I was six years old, my math skills suddenly took a steep tumble, so my parents whisked me off to the eye doctor, who twiddled a bunch of knobs and eventually concluded that this L'il Squinter couldn't see the blackboard. Unfortunately, instead of asking me to drink a glass of carrot juice every morning or just sit closer to the front of the class, he wrote me a prescription for some thick Coke-bottle glasses and sent me on my way.
Being the only kid in first grade who wore glasses was no fun. I was Four Eyes, Dr. Spectacles, and Blindy, all in one recess.
To make matters worse, they didn't make many glasses frames for kids in those days. At the time, the store had only one pair that fit me--a thick, red plastic set that had to be held around my head with a black elastic band. Yeah, it's true: Not only was I cursed with Blurry Eyes, but I had a side case of Pin Head too. It was embarrassing arriving at school looking like Steve Urkel, only without the spunk or sassiness.
Anyway, it didn't take long for those glasses to become the bane of my existence.
I broke them about once a week.
I fell off someone's back in the school yard, crashed into my sister running around the basement, and got pegged with snowballs on the way home from school. I ran into a fire pole on some old, dangerous playground equipment, stepped on them getting out of bed, and left them sitting on couches and chairs around the house. Once I even broke them two days in a row. And it was the same story every time: I sheepishly appeared at dinner with my busted glasses on my face, thick wads of masking tape holding them together, and sat through dinner until my parents very patiently took me back to the same glasses store later that night to buy the same set of red plastic frames again and again and again.
Now, my most painful memory of busting my specs came during a little league soccer game. Almost everyone I knew played soccer as a kid--getting some exercise by joining historical local franchises such as Chesko's Produce and A&R Auto Body, Est. 1956.
It was in my first and only season, in the middle of a big
playoff game, when I unceremoniously took a well-booted ball to the middle of my face. My glasses cracked in two. I fell to the ground and started crying, and as the play raced on without a whistle, I slowly got my drippy self together and blindly crawled off the field. I held half my glasses in each hand and wore a big red circle on my face from the ball, like someone had set a frying pan on me, accidentally mistaking my round childlike features for a tightly coiled stove burner.
Well, I got to the sidelines and was met with bad news. Basically, the coach wouldn't let me off the field. See, the problem was that our team was already short players and if I went off we'd be disqualified. Remember--this was the playoffs here. A free pizza party and a round of root beer floats were on the line. Nobody wanted the game to end.
So--completely blind, tears in my eyes, my bright red well-smacked face on display for all to see, I stood in the corner of the field for the rest of the game, somehow helping our team avoid disqualification as well as victory.
It was tough.
I remember the only thing that got me through that terrible ordeal was my mom coming over and setting up a lawn chair beside me, popping open a really, really old Tupperware container, and giving me all the orange slices I wanted from the halftime stash.
And let me tell you, I loved me some halftime orange slices. They were like sweet liquid energy, filling me with sugar and pep and turbocharging me for the second half.
Now, my showing that day was pathetic and humiliating, I don't deny that. And I'm sad to report that it finally forced me to hang up the cleats for good, retiring forever from the game I knew mildly.
But I still remember those orange slices, and my mom generously thiefing the entire container so I could make it through the game. So thanks, Mom.
And thanks, halftime orange slices.
You're both completely . . .
AWESOME!
Putting potato chips on a sandwich
Ever had a friend start buzzing with The Dating Glow?
You know, they start seeing someone new and suddenly start walking with a new pep in their step, a new trot in their walk? Maybe they lose five pounds, show up with a new haircut, or start wearing tight pants. Or maybe they just smile wider, laugh louder, and blast out a new confidence about themselves.
Being with someone new makes them look and feel better and that's a great thing. That's The Dating Glow.
Now, if you don't mind, let's sharply switch gears and talk about sandwiches--soggy, squashed, Saran-Wrapped sandwiches from the bowels of your book bag. Those warm and tired messes look pathetic with sweaty cheese, slimy tomatoes, and warm turkey. Yes, it's a sandwich down on its luck, lacking a bit of confidence, and in desperate need of a glow of some sort.
That's where potato chips come in.
When you crunch up your sandwich with some carefully inserted potato chips, you inject a spicy vial of Grade A Oomph. Suddenly that pasty gob of bread and meat transforms into a rainbow of crunches and flavors. It's the sandwich equivalent of getting a new hairdo, wearing something scandalous, or buzzing with a new vibe.
Now, before we call it a day here, let's chat about something funny about putting chips on a sandwich. Basically, here it is: Everybody thinks they invented it. Honestly, I'll be grabbing a quick lunch with a friend from work and he'll just sort of raise his eyebrows at me mysteriously. "Know what I like to do?" he'll ask, squinting a bit and cracking a wry smile. "Put chips on my sandwich, that's what," he'll unveil, a stiff bottom lip, some scrunched eyebrows, and a firm nod echoing the big reveal.
So that's it, ladies and gentleman. Putting potato chips on a sandwich.
You invented it.
We all love it.
AWESOME!
When you didn't play the lottery and your numbers didn't come up
I don't play the lottery very often, but when I do I'm pretty sure I'm going to win. I take pains to ensure all my family's birthdays are evenly covered as I carefully color in all the bubbles and then hand my sheet to the convenience store cashier.
Kicking cigarette butts and sucking on a Popsicle while I walk home, my mind wanders off and begins wrestling with difficult questions I assume plague the rich: Pool or tennis court? Private jet or yacht? Tall, snooty butler with a thin mustache or fat, clumsy one with a heart of gold?
And I think about whether I'd donate massive chunks of my riches to people who've done small, simple things for me when I was down on my luck. You know, a million dollar tip for the coffee shop waitress who calls me Hon, a new mansion for the guy who slices my cold cuts nice and thin. I toy with the idea of stashing my cash in a vault and swimming in it like Scrooge McDuck, traveling around the world by unicorn, or possibly just buying the Internet.
My mind entertains these wild dreams because being a dreamer is great fun. The thoughts are free, so I enjoy them on my way home, squeezing the ticket in my pocket and then posting it on the fridge so I don't forget the big day.
Yes, this little Jackpot Fantasy continues until the numbers are announced. And I don't win. No, I don't even have one number right. I'm not even close. I shouldn't have played. I just threw three bucks away for no reason.
But I guess that's why it's great when I don't play and I check my numbers and sure enough they didn't come up. Now who's laughing?
Me, the three-bucks-richer guy.
AWESOME!
The smell of frying onions and garlic
The onion has a long and glorious past. For instance, get this:
* Ancient Egyptians used to worship onions. That's right--they believed their spherical shape and concentric rings symbolized eternal life. They also buried their dead with onions, figuring the strong smell might eventually wake them up again.
* In Ancient Greece athletes munched on onions because they thought it would lighten the weight of their blood. Remember, this was before no-carb diets.
* Roman gladiators were rubbed down with onions to firm up their muscles. Probably helped them slip out of tough bear hugs and sleeper holds too.
* In the Middle Ages onions were more valuable than a new jousting sword or decent moat subcontractor. People paid rent with onions and gave them as presents. Doctors prescribed them to move bowels, stifle coughs, and kill headaches. Seriously, imagine a big bag of onions wedged between the eye drops and skin cream at the drugstore. That's what it was most definitely like back then, I imagine.
Anyway, given the illustrious past of the almighty onion, don't you feel like they don't score enough credit these days? We don't worship them like we used to, but maybe we should. After all, they're still cheap, healthy, and easy to store. Plus they smell delicious frying in a sizzling glob of butter with minced garlic on top.
Seriously, when you walk into a house and smell onions and garlic frying, it's a beautiful moment. Partly because they smell great, partly because it means someone's cooking dinner, and partly because now you have to solve the mystery of what's cooking. It could be anything, really: pierogies, sausages , curry, maybe a stir-fry? The point is that the house smells great and you can't stop salivating.
So next time you're sniffing up that delicious aroma, just remember to stop for a second and think about the onion's proud and noble heritage. Because they've come a long way to be part of your dinner tonight.
And they're happy to be here.
AWESOME!
Nailing a parallel parking attempt on the first try
Have you ever driven down a two-lane road with cars parallel parked on both sides and a long line driving in front of you and behind you? I have, and let me tell you: It's a terrible feeling.
Most of the time I'd rather drive right by a good parking spot than face The Audience, that group of cars driving behind me and strangers beside me that stop to briefly witness the awkward reality show known as Anyone Else's Parallel Parking Attempt.
Yeah, my stomach knots up and I lose confidence in my abilities to pull it off. I know the drivers behind me aren't just watching me either. No, they're judging me to
o, since the quality of my parking has a direct effect on the length of their drive. If I'm terrible, they wait, and they know it. They stare at me coldly, locking glances tightly with mine through the rearview mirror, daring me to pull it off.
Then finally I give it a go in one of two ways:
1. The Driving School Method. This is where you really don't pay much attention to your car or the space you have to fit into. You just follow the book--pull up beside the car in front of the spot, put it in reverse, and spin the wheel until you're 45 degrees out into the intersection, and then keep backing up while quickly spinning the wheel the other way really fast. If all went well, you should end up in the spot perfectly. Then again, this method is equivalent to building a bookshelf using the instructions only, without pausing to evaluate your work throughout the process. You might just finish and then stare up at the crooked, unbalanced pile of plywood you just nailed together and wonder what went wrong.
2. The Advanced Spatial Skills Method. There's no rhyme or reason to this one. You don't do anything except size up the space and then fiddle and turn your wheel until you fit in. You're just really good at aiming a big piece of metal into a small square hole. You'll go in any which way and then presto magico, finished, simple as that. People who can do this amaze me. I cannot do this.
No, for me it's the Driving School Method all the way. I have no choice. Of course, I usually do something wrong, like drive onto the sidewalk or end up a good three feet away from the curb. If I'm three feet away, I try frantically to "drive in" to the spot with an awkward twelve-point turn, failing to properly understand the impossibility of this move each time. Eventually I just give up and speed off, fleeing the scene and distancing myself from this horrible embarrassment as quickly as possible.