Sometimes I Feel Like I'm in a Seinfeld Episode

You know, like this is a blog "about nothing."

Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer on my last post, but I had to get that off my chest/heart.

Now for something completely different. My latest potpourri of observations.

FYI: If an item of clothing has the word "vintage" printed on it, it isn't.

I just got Mike a new T-shirt that says "Feminist chicks dig me." I dare him to wear it to a Hillary Clinton rally. This shirt is a nice supplement to one I got him a few years ago from Comedy Central's "The Man Show." It says, "Men. We're just better." As if putting it on a T-shirt can make it true.

Has anyone else noticed the hand gestures people use when relating an e-mail conversation? According to my personal, unscientific study, over 93% of those I have observed, including myself, must do "air typing" as they speak. I talk with my hands a lot anyway. Not in broad, artistic, sweeping gestures like an Italian. I tend to keep my hands and arms inside my immediate personal space so as not to whack my bony wrist against doorframes, grocery store displays, or errant children. I have noticed I do this odd looking, brisk, angry nun handclap or sometimes "jazz hands" to add emphasis to or distraction from the no doubt salient point I am trying to make. For those who do not normally talk with their hands, I have found that they still cannot resist air typing. I must confess I have never seen anyone actually air type the shift key, the tab key, or the number pad, but I do see some of them thumbing an imaginary spacebar, and once I even saw an air-typed version of ctrl-alt-delete. And these imaginary keyboards are not the least bit ergonomic. I saw a woman in Target the other day yammering into her Bluetooth and typing away on her grocery cart handle. This is progress for you. Twenty years ago, if a suburban mom had been found talking to herself and pretending to type on a grocery cart, she would have endured some uneasy stares at a minimum, and at most, a police escort back to the mental ward to make sure she took her Thorazine that day.

Speaking of grocery stores, the one I usually go to has a plastic shield covering the selection of razor cartridges. When you lift the shield, a little alarm goes off, I assume to alert any nearby store personnel to give you the evil eye and to set the store's security cameras on you to make sure you don't shoplift these outrageously overpriced items. So now that I actually have to pay for these high-tech, quadruple-bladed, moisturizer-infused hygiene products, I'll have to go back to wearing my big, pocket-lined overcoat to the store where I can discreetly stock up on some steaks, a rack of ribs, and maybe a chicken or two.

Another interesting thing I ran across in the grocery store, this time with the kids, was a clever display for Axe (that men's body spray that I think they use the way women use Febreze on curtains and carpet to neutralize and cover up stink). Now don't get me wrong. I like a nice-smelling man, but the anecdotal evidence I have gathered tells me that young men (and a lot of car salesmen) believe that when it comes to cheap cologne, more is better. Especially if you're a construction worker, mechanic, or dope smoker. So anyway, I'm in the cosmetics department, minding my own business, and just as I bend over to consider a $12 eyeliner, I hear the sound of what has recently become the universal phrase for, let's just say, getting some action. This Axe display has a button on it, which the kids of course cannot resist pressing. Over and over and over. It blares a musical tune Axe calls "Bom Chicka Wah Wah." So my kids are cracking up as they play with this, oblivious to the fact that they are listening to today's version of 1970s porn music.

So I bought some spray paint at Home Depot the other day. Of course, they keep it locked up in a cage and you always have to track down someone in an orange apron (which is almost like trying to spot and catch the mythical chupacabra), who must then track down another orange-aproned person who might have the key and who is not busy on a break chit-chatting with another orange-aproned person about when their next break is. So, I employed my skinny son's arms to reach through the gap in the paint fortress gates so he could grab the can of primer I needed. I couldn't wait to sniff it when I got home, and then go tag some overpasses. So I take my few items to the self-checkout machine. I like doing it that way because it minimizes human contact and small talk with a real live orange-aproned clerk who may be in danger of catching a snide remark from me when she asks, with her pierced lip, if I found everything I needed. I may have said something like, "Yes, but no thanks to any of you employees." (This is not a general slam on all Home Depot stores, just a general slam on the one I usually go to.) By the way, Katy wants to know why they call every store THE Home Depot when there are more than one. I told her it's just one of those mysteries of life that she should be prepared to encounter more regularly as she grows up. So anyway, I'm at the self-checkout machine, and I scan my can of paint. I can't tell you how flattered I was when the machine suggested that a clerk check my ID. I looked over at the 20-ish checkout monitor, who was a good 12 feet away. She pushed a button that must've told the computer I looked plenty old enough from 12 feet away that to actually card me would be an exercise in lunacy.

New topic: Why do I keep my kids' lost teeth? Where do I put them? When I was a kid, the tooth fairy would fly away with them after leaving me a quarter. Now these teeth go for about a buck, at least in our house. And there have been times that the tooth fairy forgot to make a visit. That's when I have to scramble and grab a ten from my purse, then rush in and pretend to find it on the floor under the head of the bed. "Look! It was here all along, you just must have pushed it out from under your pillow." "Wow!" they say, "I got ten bucks for that one!" Then I have to make up a story that molars are worth more because she pays by weight. Then they ask why the tooth is still there. "Maybe her toothbag was full, or maybe she knew it was special to me, so she left it as a souvenir of the day you pulled it out yourself after getting hit in the jaw with a soccer ball." You know, I tell my kids enough white lies almost daily as it is. When tradition forces me to deceive them further with all these imaginary gift-bearing creatures, I can't help but wonder when the kids are going to sit me down and ask, "So what else have you been lying to us about? What about that Jesus story?" Anyway, I have all these little snack-sized Ziploc bags with a tooth in each one of them. The earlier bags are Sharpie-marked with the name and a date. The more recent ones are unmarked. I'll have to take those to the dentist for identification.

I guess keeping teeth isn't quite as bad as something else I've heard about. I know of a mother who somehow preserved her infant son's umbilical "stump" after it fell off. What a lovely display to run across in an otherwise pastel-colored baby book. My sister had a lot of trouble dealing with that when her kids were babies. She called me one day, almost frantic, saying "It came off! It came off! So now what do I do with this little piece of 'jerky'?" Jerky. Now that's funny stuff.

I have a few more tidbits, but they kind of deserve a post of their own. Then I have another, more serious one to hit you with at some point, probably next time one of my dark moods hits.

I consider this a successful purge. I'm going out of town for a long weekend, so I hope this drivel spillage will hold you for a while.