But whatever the case, whatever your background, whatever your taste, I think we can all agree that it sure is nice getting a little something special for lunch now and then.
AWESOME!
Paying for something with exact change
Feel this pain: You're a cashier in a busy store at holiday season.
Now, say you're good at your job and you've been there a while. You've long memorized the produce codes and you bag like a champion. You're keeping up with the traffic, whipping customer after customer through the till in no time flat. You're rocking the credit cards, you're rocking the debit cards, and your line is the most sought-after line at the store.
Yes, it seems like nothing can stop you. You are Cashatron, a top-secret beta-version prototype of the world's most highly efficient cashier.
And if you've been there before, if you've ever cashed and cashed hard, if you've lived the cash life and have the varicose veins to prove it, then you know what I'm talking about. And you also know the one thing that can trip you up. Yes, you know the stick in the bike spokes for a veteran cashier is simply . . .
. . . running out of change.
It happens all of a sudden too. One moment you're whipping through the line, and then suddenly you stare up at a customer and apologize profusely as you awkwardly dump two handfuls of sweaty coins in their hands. You look back at the long line and just hope somebody else opens up a new lane while you wait for change to arrive. It's a terrible feeling. And it makes us ol' cashing veterans shudder just thinking about it.
And that's why it's so great for cashiers when someone pays with exact change. As an added bonus, customers get to empty their pockets and lighten their loads. Yes, it's a win-win situation.
Plus, there's a Bonus Round too! That's when you pay for something with exact change . . . with every single coin you have in your pocket. I'm talking about when you have eight coins in your pocket that add up to 74 cents and the bill comes to $5.74. Nope, no breaking a ten for you, because you just won the Bonus Round jackpot.
Paying for something with exact change, folks.
AWESOME!
Absolute perfect silence
AWESOME!
The first shower you take after not showering for a really long time
Sure, the first couple days of not showering have a bit of a dirty-cool hippieish roughing-it feel to them. You come into your own, letting the deodorant wash away, your hair get full of scraggly knots, and the sweat dry into your clothes. If you're camping, you're at one with nature. If you're at home, you're at one with a lazy weekend. If you're traveling, you're at one with delayed multiple-stopover international flight.
Either way, you're at one in your dirty Zen moment. And that's cool.
But whether it's a day, two days, or even a week later, it eventually hits you: You need a shower, bad. And you ain't gonna get one till you get home. Suddenly, you don't want to be a hippie no more.
Then you start thinking about it. And you keep thinking about it. You start to notice dirt stains building up on your arms and legs. You smell the thin film of leftover bug spray and sunblock on your skin. You comb a dead earwig out of your hair while collecting sticks for the campfire. Your scalp gets really, really itchy. And let's be honest: Your groin region isn't in the best shape either.
Yeah, that's why the first shower you take after not showering for a while feels so good. You can actually feel the dirt washing off you. The white bar of soap turns a bit darker, and you use a week's worth of shampoo to work your hair into a massive Lather Afro. The shampoo gets in your ears, but you don't mind. There's sand in there anyway. Your sunburns and scrapes get washed out. Your tightly wrenched neck gets massaged by the warm water. Your nose gets a good blowing. And you wash all the bits of spiderweb, campfire ash, and lake algae off your face.
Then you're finally back.
Fresh, sparkly, and squeaky clean, you've completed your soapy metamorphosis back into the old Clean You we remember. Yes, your hair is shining, your skin's soft and streak-free, and your scalp is rehydrated and ready to rock. Plus, let's be honest: That groin region is now totally . . .
AWESOME!
The smell of gasoline
Tell me something: Have you ever rolled down your window at a gas station to catch some hot whiffs? While pumping gas, have you ever spilled a few drops on your shirt for some free take-out smell? Baby, I know you're with me. Because you know that the smell of gasoline is one of life's simplest pleasures.
Now, I know a lot of people out there seem to think the smell of gasoline ain't great for your brain. They insist you're fritzing out all your head circuitry with these evil airborne hydrocarbons, the equivalent of releasing a sack of rats into a restaurant kitchen or pouring a can of Coke into your laptop air vent. And you know what? Maybe they're right. I do fully agree that huffing gas fumes is really bad for you. That's really not debatable. But the regular ol' smell of gasoline just lingering around the fill-up station? I say the jury's still out on that one.
Don't get me wrong: I have no idea why, when my dad pulled our old wood-paneled station wagon up to the Shell pumps, I loved to get out and take a giant sniff of that hot, gassy air. But I know I did. Maybe I felt a bit like a woods-man stepping out of his cabin holding a cup of coffee, a baker pulling a tray of hot buttery croissants from the oven, or a wine taster swirling a fat glass of merlot before the big sniff.
Maybe for a kid growing up in the suburbs, the smell of gasoline at the local pumps was the same sort of deal. Just one of those great smells of life. A smell that says something about who you are. Something about where you come from.
Something . . . about what you believe in.
AWESOME!
Your pillow
Back one day on a long road trip, I sat in the driver's seat, Ty sat shotgun, and Chris sat in the back. We were trucking down a long stretch of red rocky highway in New Mexico in silence when out of nowhere Ty suddenly turned to me and said, "Hey, how long have you had your pillow?"
You kind of roll with the random questions on road trips, because if you don't you'll get mighty sick of I Spy and the four mix tapes you brought along pretty quick. So I thought about it for a moment, then said earnestly, "You know, I can't remember ever not having my pillow. I think I've had it for like twenty years or something. It's completely old, worn-out, flat, and stained, but I've had it forever and I can't find another good flat pillow like this, so I'll probably keep it until it disintegrates or until I lose it or something."
I continued to stare straight ahead and fiddle with the radio, but Ty stared back at me completely horrified. His jaw dropped, his brain boggled, and he was silent for a minute. "You know," he started eventually, his eyebrows furrowed in real concern and his head bobbing in little nods, as if convincing himself that despite the severity of the news he was about to deliver, it was important to just get it out, "you're not supposed to keep any pillow for longer than a year. It's actually really, really bad for you."
"Whatever," I countered, eventually settling on a radio station,"It's just a pillow."
"Yeah, that's the thing," Ty counter-countered. "It's not just a pillow at that point. It's a really dense collection of years of dandruff, dead skin, dust mites, and drool. Seriously, it's less 'pillow' and more 'your disgusting head' at that point. It's full of years of bacteria. Bacteria that's had a chance to grow and build cities! I swear, I saw it on the news."
There was a pause, before I eventually dismissed Ty's claim with finality. "Pshhhhhh," I concluded, putting on my sunglasses and turning up the volume on the radio.
Defeated, Ty let it go, preferring to let me suffer the nightmarish consequences of sleeping on my pillow rather than waste any more effort trying to convince me that I needed an upgrade. So we drove on in silence, watching the world go by on that long stretch of highway.
I let it drift away then, let it disappear, but really--the truth is that I just didn't want to think about it.
No, I didn't want to cont
emplate the possibility that I might need to replace my pillow. Because there's really nothing like the comfort provided by your pillow, is there? I'm talking about the one you sleep on every night. The one that has bent and shaped itself around your head, has been fluffed and squished and packed and flipped. It's a bit yellow, there's some hair on it, but it just . . . knows you. It loves you. And it's been loving you eight hours a day since you can remember.
I once heard a stand-up comic describe his pillow as looking like a bandage from the Civil War. And mine's probably at that level too. I even think of it as a bandage, cradling and caressing my worn-weary head, providing a gentle escape from reality every night from dusk till dawn.
I mean, that's why I can't get a good night's sleep anywhere unless I take my pillow along. I admit it looks funny walking in the door with a pillow under my arm, but oh well. See, what if I sleep over at your place and you toss me one of those flimsy sack pillows that feel like they're stuffed with fifty ripped-up handfuls of industrial-grade Styrofoam? And I'm not taking any chances with the hotel's puffy cloud pillows either, or those wacked-out ergonomic jobs that make your head feel like it's sitting on a wheelchair ramp.
No, it's all about your pillow, yours, your pillow. I mean, have you ever tried to switch pillows with someone else one night? It cannot work.
Your pillow's been there through the highs, the lows, the nightmares, the tears. You've gone through a lot together and you know each other so well. So next time you're planning to crash somewhere? Take your pillow. In exchange for a little less packing space, you'll get a lot more hours of late-night comfort and moonlit, subconscious bliss.
And hey, if you don't believe me?
Sleep on it.
AWESOME!
Getting something with actual handwriting on it in the mail
Checking the mail can be a bit depressing.
Sometimes there isn't anything in there. Nope, nothing at all. Just one big, empty mailbox telling the world that everyone forgot about you today.
Then again, the alternative is typically a fistful of bills and flyers. Someone's selling air conditioners, your car payment's due, and the pizza place down the street has a new crust. All nice to know, of course. Just kind of boring, kind of bland, kind of blah.
But that's what makes it so great when something with actual handwriting on it turns up in the mailbox. Those little endangered parcels have something very special about them. For instance:
* Feel that ink. If you're lucky enough to score a full-on letter, you know how good it feels to hold that pen-scratched masterpiece. Both sides of the paper are carved up and it sort of crisps and crinkles in your hand. That certain texture to it feels very real and honest--like the person who wrote it put a bit of themselves in that envelope and sent it over. If I were a tree, I like to think I'd be proud if my slaughtered, pulpy remains were used for a letter like that. Seriously, it would bring a tear to my leaf.
* It smells. Sure, it may not smell too strong, but the occasional letter has a whiff of hand cream or perfume on it. And really, anything's better than the smell of mass-ironed flyer ink, especially if the ink's real cheap and powdery and flakes off in the paper folds. Then you get it on your pants and under your fingernails, and for what? So Visa could tell you about their new interest rate?
* The Complete Package. When you get a handwritten letter in the mail, it has a whole different look and feel to it. It's a complete package. It's a wedding thank-you card in a small red envelope, with a perfectly placed stamp, on translucent tissue paper. Or it's the letter from your kid at camp with the smeared ink and mud stains on it. It's licked shut real tight, there's a spelling mistake in your address, and the letter is folded thick, causing the envelope to puff out at the seams.
* There's nothing like it. Because no two handwritten letters are the same. You know whoever wrote it spent a lot more time scrawling it out than you did reading it. And they wrote it just for you, in their personal handwriting, with their pen and paper, and they paid to mail it to you. Lady, I don't care how small or cold your heart might be, you have to admit that's pretty cool.
Of course, the biggest reason why getting something handwritten is fantastic is because it's so darned rare. For most of us, we're more likely to see Halley's Comet crash into Bigfoot while he's riding the Loch Ness Monster than to actually get a full-blown note from a friend.
So I say treasure those handwritten notes when you get 'em, if you get 'em. And if you don't, there's an easy way to start.
Man, just send a couple.
AWESOME!
Building an amazing couch-cushion fort
Building a family room stronghold is no joke.
No, it's a kindergarten lesson in teamwork, trust, and the art of war. Follow these six steps to construct your domestic defense:
* Step 1: Clear and collect. Get the coffee table, throw rugs, and plastic toys out of the way and begin hunting for materials. Couch cushions are your obvious first targets, but pillows, sheets, and sleeping bags will be needed too. And I don't have to tell you that if your family just got a new fridge delivered, grab that giant cardboard box because your fort just got a den.
* Step 2: Main construction. Some people opt for the sleeping bag carpeting technique. Others move directly into building sturdy walls and laying down a roof. Wall possibilities include turning chairs and couches around, tipping coffee tables sideways, or just piling up cushions. As for the roof, carefully toss a few sheets over your castle walls and hold the corners down firmly with Trivial Pursuit boxes, barbells, or an iron.
* Step 3: Add-ons. Now it's time to ammo up. Your fort needs windows to spot your enemies, a secret backdoor getaway in case of surprise attacks, and plenty of flashlights to navigate this harsh carpetburny terrain. Plus, don't forget a TV with Nintendo in the barracks for those long, lonely nights.
* Step 4: Hiding spaces. All forts should include several hiding spaces in case of surprise enemy break-ins. Plan a couple behind false wall cushions or underneath a pile of dirty blankets. These also serve as excellent jail cells, where you can trap your victims, give them noogies, and force them to watch you play video games for three hours.
* Step 5: Rations. You will need a hidden pile of snacks to get through the day. See if you can make do with a pile of saltines, open cereal boxes, and warm cans of soda. Hey, we're at war here, people.
* Step 6: Finishing touches. Finally, it's time to add extra perks like a talking doll doorbell, cardboard periscope, or wide strip of Bubble Wrap under the welcome mat for your Intruder Alert System.
After that, you're pretty much done. Your family room fortress is a tall, plush tower of strength, and you can just crawl in to defend your cozy new confines.
Cushion forts sure do give us a burst of creative energy on rainy days. We get to plan, design, build, and ultimately relax deep in the bowels of our secret sanctuaries. After all, it's nearly impossible for kids to get away from it all. Parents watch us in the backyard, take us on family trips, and leave us with the babysitter. Those amazing couch-cushion forts serve as so much more--they're bat caves, weekends at the cottage, trips down South, and quiet alone time, all rolled up in a pile of stained cushions, old blankets, and big ideas in the middle of the room.
AWESOME!
Gym pain
Believe it, folks: I went to the gym last year. Yes, flabby belly, spaghetti-thin arms, bright white sneakers and all.
Though it may surprise you, I am not a walking, talking hulk of a man. No, I'm a scrawny knee-pushups kind of guy who spends more time taking sips of water, talking to the maintenance folks, and figuring out how the machines work than actually working out. I don't tone my pecs, blast my quads, or crush my delts. If my trip to the gym was a short film it would be called Stretching in Sweatpants.
But anyway, my trip to the gym.
It was 8:45 a.m. and I was sipping some water, trying to figure out how the bench press worked, when a steady stream of spandex-clad seniors suddenly brisked by
me with stern brows and folded towels draped over their shoulders. Honestly, you might have thought there was a sale on oatmeal or a Wheel of Fortune marathon about to start at the back of the gym, because these grannies and grampies were on a mission. When I asked a couple maintenance guys what was going on, they told me Boot Camp was about to start.
My mind immediately flashed to visions of crawling through muddy trenches in baggy camo, swinging over frothy rapids on jungle vines, and standing on the roof of a rusty beat-up car firing a machine gun into the sky with one hand. I can't explain these images, but they compelled me to follow the Wrinkle March into the aerobics room.
And I know I don't need to tell you what happened next.
Large, adult-sized Fisher-Price plastic and foam bits were strewn all over the floor, thumping dance music started bumping over the speakers, and a headband-clad Drill Sergeant screamed the sweat out of us. Adrenaline racing, I stepped up, stepped down, and moved barbells all around. I kicked up, swung back, and prayed softly. After about fifteen minutes, most of the old folks were barely sweating, while I was keeled over, my mouth sucking back dry, sweaty air, a sharp knifelike pain quietly stabbing my gut. And the whole time Sergeant Purple Leg Warmers was barking at me to keep going, don't stop, two more minutes, one more minute, and rotate!
It was intense.
By the end, I was a Jell-O blob of hot muscles and shin splints. I felt like I'd fallen down a hundred flights of stairs and landed in a construction site. I was in pain and agony . . . but you know what?