A Short Walk Through The Absolutely Random

I recently received an email that cracked me up. It was a long list of observations by an anonymous author, little things this person found ridiculous. The gamut had pretty much been covered, but it started me considering a few ridiculous things myself.

Such as:

I’ve never understood those ubiquitous instructions on the shampoo bottle, “lather, rinse, and repeat”. If the stuff was any good, shouldn’t it have gotten my hair clean on the first try? Conditioner only needs to be applied once, so I say whoever’s making the conditioner should take over making the shampoo, too.

I can understand a child proof cap on a bottle of aspirin. What I can’t understand are the lids on glass jars in general, and particularly on those little jars of crushed garlic I absolutely can’t make a decent spaghetti sauce without. I couldn’t get one of those off with a pipe wrench (I know, I’ve tried) and I find them discriminatory against females who live alone because unless you’re willing to traipse over to your neighbor’s and ask her husband to pry it off in the way he only can because he goes to the gym to actually work out, not just to ogle the Women Only Advanced Yoga class in progress, you’re pretty much out of luck when it comes to ever getting that jar open.

Why is it that men get such a bad rap for staring at women, ‘objectifying’ them, when women are, if not just as bad, actually worse? I was sitting outside with Lainie last night when the new tenant in the condo across from mine came strolling through the courtyard. Not strolling, exactly, more like --- displaying himself for the enjoyment of the female portion of the world – and we openly ogled, absolutely ‘objectified’, certainly enjoyed, and never once did it cross either of our minds that, “I’m sure there’s so much more to him than his looks!” or, “We should be ashamed of ourselves for being so shallow.” Yet we think for some reason men should think these things and we get all bent out of shape at them when they don’t.

There should be an immediate and eternal ban on television commercials for any kind of feminine hygiene product. There’s just no way to discuss them, present them, or explain them that’s not intrinsically stupid and vaguely offending. We all know what they are, what they’re for, and where to find them when we need them. We don’t need fields of flowers/classical music/volleyball games on the beach/candlelight/moonlit rides in a gondola, etc. to illustrate the need.

Ditto the above for birth control. No matter how cinematic the ad, the fact remains that birth control isn’t going to change your life. It’s just going to prevent you from creating one.

If it was a requirement for membership in Match.com that you possess the ability to exchange ten literate emails before requesting a personal meeting, Match.com would have no members at all. If it was a violation of Match.com policies to use the word ‘cuddle’, about half of all profiles for men over forty would disappear. If you were ineligible for membership if you used the phrase, “I prefer meeting face to face, it’s so much more personal” in an email, there would be no profiles for men over fifty.

It’s unjust that a broken heart will kill your appetite but when you’re happy you can’t seem to get enough pasta, popcorn, ice cream and French fries. The only way to stay thin when you fall in love is to give up lunch completely and convince yourself that solitary Triscuit is honestly all you wanted for breakfast.

I try not to think too much about what on earth ‘chicken by-products’ might be every time I refill my cats’ food dish.

I once went through a four month phase where I would eat a frosted cinnamon Pop Tart every morning for breakfast, and actually looked forward to it. I can’t imagine eating a Pop Tart today. Not even if I was really, really hungry.

The biggest reason I don’t buy a new television is that I can’t figure out how to unhook the cable/stereo sound and reconnect it to a new set without having to ask someone else to do it for me, and I’d rather not have to ask for help with something that should be so basic.

I don’t understand where that universal ‘dog smell’ comes from, creeping up about two weeks after the last trip to the self-service dog wash, especially on an indoor dog. She should smell like cinnamon-pumpkin candles and Clean Linen Airwick spray, not like the inside of an old tennis shoe, but that’s not the way it works.

I regularly pull so much hair from my brushes I am amazed I have so much hair on my head, and am convinced it either regenerates itself every night when I’m sleeping, or someone is secretly entering my bathroom and using my brush when I’m not around.

I’m perfectly aware that my $28 eye cream is no more effective in the long run than a $4 bottle of Oil of Olay, but somehow the fact that it’s more expensive makes me feel like it’s also more effective.

I still prefer my sandwiches without the crust but have resigned myself to not cutting them off any more because at some point you have to become an adult about lunch.

I have never seen the need to care one way or another whether my purse matches my shoes. What I care about in a purse is whether or not the strap works and does it have a pocket where I can throw my wallet so I don’t have to let it share space with a lipstick that will, inevitably, come open and get rose colored streaks all over it.

About a year ago someone left an anonymous white basket of pink flowers on my doorstep. I never found out who it was, but it was one of the nicest things that’s ever happened to me.

I’m terrible with names. I don’t like to admit it but I remember most of my neighbor’s dogs names and very seldom their names and sometimes I feel really bad when they call me by my first name because it reminds me I should pay more attention.

I have never understood why it matters so much what picture goes on a postage stamp. I don’t look at postage stamps. Postmarks, yes. I think we should have a picture on a postmark, if it’s so important to put a picture on something.

Yesterday I received a special email offer from my bank to ‘personalize’ my debit card by uploading my favorite photo. I deleted it. It would seem wrong to me on many levels to want to show someone a picture of my dog and have to pull out my Visa to do it.

I always say I would like to learn to change a tire, but that’s not true. What I really want is never to find myself in a situation where I would have to.

It’s supremely unjust that the only cures for PMS are pregnancy and menopause.

I miss the sound of a typewriter, but I could never miss changing the ribbon.

I think everyone in a crosswalk should move faster than they do. Those three seconds I have to wait for them to cross far enough that I can make my turn feel like hours.

The last time I got a speeding ticket I had to fight back tears. The one time I got a ticket for letting my dogs off leash, I did cry. It seems I’ve been through an awful lot bigger things in my life, but somehow those were the ones that made me feel the most that I’d failed at something I really didn’t ever want to fail at.

And finally:

Few things make me happier than the feeling I get when I’ve just finished an absolutely incredible book and realize I have three more by the same author I haven’t read yet sitting in my bookcase.

One of the nicest things about growing up and leaving home was knowing I would never have to eat another poached egg unless I chose to. I’ve never chosen to.