The Home Decor Store Phenomenon

A few days ago I went to a local store that specializes in home décor. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. My wife convinced me that it was in my best interest to go. It’s easy to act enthusiastic about anything when your wife’s happiness is at stake – and your right to sleep in your own bed.

It was an interesting experience to say the least. I have never seen so much raffia, so much fake greenery, so much fluff. And I have never seen so many ceramic roosters in one place. Let me amend that: ever. And I don’t even want to know who is buying the fake rocks. Why would you buy fake rocks when the authentic stuff is literally as cheap as dirt? I know I may never fully understand the principles of proper home decorating, but things like that make me not want to even try.

But while my wife was perusing the piles of cheap stuff sold at designer prices (discount store my eye), I couldn’t help but observe a few interesting things about my fellow customers. Almost everyone who walked through the front door was in pairs, man and woman, presumably husband and wife.

Every couple began to follow a very specific pattern. The woman’s eyes would immediately light up; the man’s would blink in utter astonishment that there were that many types of squirrel statues in the world. Then the woman would set off eagerly into the maze of aisles with the man tagging along reluctantly.

Since the women were often buzzing around from display to display the men were left to push the shopping cart along. Often they were clutching the handle in a white-knuckle grip that suggested they were afraid of getting swept away in a sea of sphagnum moss and fake tulips, becoming lost to the masculine world forever. It was probably mixed with a distinct panic that somebody from work would see them there.

The astonishment and apprehension would eventually subside as they spent more and more time trying to follow their wives through the aisles. Many men took to parking their carts at the end of an aisle and waiting for their wives to deposit things as they went by in a blur of glassware- and wall clock-inspired excitement.

Some men began to congregate at certain points and strike up conversations about football and monster trucks in order to repel the overwhelming waves of estrogen that were swirling among the bamboo shoots and angel figurines. They would only look away long enough to ask why in the world their wives were loading the cart with fake rocks when they came free outside the confines of the store.

“Poor guys,” I said to myself as the sound of fake rocks being dumped into my cart brought me out of observation mode. “Honey, I think I’m just gonna wait over there while you get your stuff.”

“No, I can’t be running back and forth. I need you to follow me. And try to keep up better; you’ve been falling behind. I had to carry that porcelain dolphin down three aisles just to find you.”

“Sorry, the cart got caught on some fake rhododendron leaves that were sticking out of the topiary display. Let’s hurry and get out of here before somebody I know spots us.”

“Then you’ll have to do a better job of keeping up to me. And don’t forget, we still have to go to the fabric store after this.”

“Yes dear.”

An unwanted assignment

A few weeks ago I read a very interesting article that reported the FBI was searching the warehouse of world-renowned magician David Copperfield. You can see the article here.

That sounds like one of the most daunting tasks you could ever have as a policeman. Not only are you trying to confront a master of deception about a crime, but you also have to go traipsing through his personal playground of magical devices. I can just see it going something like this. Some understandably nervous FBI agents approach the warehouse and say:

Officer 1: Hello, Mr. Copperfield. We have here a warrant to search your premises.

Copperfield: Come right in, officers. Take a look around. I assure you that I have nothing up my sleeves...er, metaphorically speaking, of course.

Officer 2: Maybe we should check his sleeves. You know, just to be sure.

Officer 1: Larry, how many times do I have to remind you that I am in charge of this investigation?

Officer 2: Sorry Sarge. It’s just that my uncle was killed by a... well, you know.

Officer 1: Okay. Um, Mr. Copperfield, would you please roll up your sleeves for us. Slowly. It’s, er, standard procedure.

At least that’s what I would be doing. The reasons for searching the warehouse were extremely vague in the article, which only sounds appropriate when searching the property of a man who uses smoke and mirrors himself, metaphorically speaking, of course.

I don’t care what the charges are; what makes them think that a man who can make an entire building disappear couldn’t hide some blood or a little dirty money. And what if he was a criminal overlord? What would keep him from winking you right out of existence along with the evidence? I think if I were the police, I would be having nightmares about going in there.

Copperfield: Step through this doorway, officer.

Officer: Wh-where does it go?

Copperfield: Where does it go? Ummm...why it leads to the dressing room for all my scantily-clad female assistants.

Officer: Oh, well yes, I certainly think we should search there as well. Wait a minute, why did you close the door behind me? It’s dark in here.

Copperfield: Oh, my mistake, officer. It appears that I accidentally led you into my Mysterious Box of Death. I’ll have you out in a jiffy. In the meantime, if you feel any sharp objects, don’t panic. Those are just the dozen or so swords that I’ll be inserting into the box from every angle.

And aside from seeing the inner workings of his magic tricks, I’d be just as worried about finding something to get really concerned about. Like finding the remains of a dozen failed attempts to saw a woman in half. You can’t tell me he does it the right way every time.

No, I think I’ll stay on the outside of his little fun farm, thank you very much. He can continue his criminal activity as long as I don’t find doves in my ear and my bottom half stays firmly attached to my top half.

Nothing like a show of affection...

One of the most awkward things that happens in life is running into an old friend that you haven't seen for a few years. Sounds crazy, I know. Who doesn't want to see an old friend? But it's an opportunity for instant embarrassment. And I'm not even talking about admitting that you're unemployed and living with your mother-in-law, although that would do it too.

The most embarrassing part about meeting an old friend is the greeting. You're both inclined to be enthusiastic but unsure how to approach. Do you just shake hands? Do you go for the half hug, full hug, or maybe one of those firm shakes with a half hug tacked on? And that's not to mention meeting people that do that kiss-on-the-cheek stuff. We're not in France, for heaven's sake.

Naturally, the level of intimacy should be directly related to how friendly you were in the past. Best friends would want to hug. On the other hand, business acquaintances should stick to a handshake. Sounds simple enough, but when I meet an old friend I find myself searching my memory, frantically seeking evidence for or against a hug. I end up not listening to them because I'm too busy psychoanalyzing them in my head. I doubt it's very rewarding for my friends to see me after such a long time only to find that my eyes are glossed over and I have a reluctant smile on my face. It tends to ruin the moment.

Then after deciding if a friend is indeed hug-worthy, there's the whole issue of masculinity. Some guys don't want a hug even if you saved their life, payed off their credit card debt, and pulled their ailing grandmother out of some quicksand. These are the kind of guys that get suspicious the moment your eyes gloss over. They can smell a hug coming. Then there are the guys that want a hug just because you told them they left their headlights on at a concert once. These guys never gloss over; they know they're going for the hug no matter what. I don't mind that; everybody needs a hug once in a while. But these people tend to make hugs into an emasculating sideshow of sentimentality. Nobody wants other people to see them embracing another man for any amount of time. Quick pat on the shoulder blade and let it go, buddy. No waist hugs, and none of this putting your arm around me when we're done.

But the most awkward part, by far, is misreading the signals. I did this with a friend once. He raised his arms and I thought he was going for the hug. I went for it, only to realize too late that he had dropped his hand into an the unmistakable shake position. We both paused, hesitated, looked at each other expectantly, all the while with hands frozen like we were in some drunken mime show. He decided to go for the hug after all just as I tried to smoothly transition into a shake. We went back and forth like two people on the sidewalk. Both go one way, then the other, then the other again, stop, look at each other in awkward apology, wobble back and forth, head fake, spin move with a cartwheel, and still bump into each other. My friend ended up jabbing me in the ribs with his shake hand, and I poked him in the eye while hurriedly bringing my hug hand down to waist height. We wiped the blood away, exchanged hellos and turned away, grateful that we hadn't been spending much time together over the past three years after all.

Nothing like a show of affection to ruin a relationship.

The crime of being skinny

It’s uncommon in today’s society to hear complaints about food from a skinny guy. Everybody is big on fad diets, glycemic indexes, magic powders and miracle supplements for losing weight.

There’s even a new supplement called hoodia, which is supposed to make the pounds “fall off.” First of all, weight falling off doesn’t sound very appealing. Nobody wants pieces of their beer gut sloughing off at inconvenient moments. Plus, the name “hoodia” just sounds shady. No self-respecting supplement would let itself be called something so unmedical-sounding. It should probably be called “hoodwinked.”

But no one ever addresses the needs of us perpetually-skinny folks. We may not struggle with our weight, but we have our own problems. For instance, we have to live with all the people who despise our very core just for being thin without trying. All that animosity can really give a skinny person an anxiety attack–or an eating disorder.

First, let’s identify the kind of person we’re talking about. The skinny-haters, or people offended by our lack of weight, are not necessarily fat. They are just people who are incessantly concerned about keeping their weight down and are a little bitter about all the crazy diets and strange exercises they’ve gone through to do it.

Since the skinny-haters already have a chip on their shoulder, we need to keep them appeased. Let me share a few steps to better eating relations with those who hate our high metabolism.

The first trick is a hard one because most truly-skinny people don’t watch what they eat; they just eat a lot of it. But when eating with a skinny-hater you really do have to watch what you eat. If you eat like a starving grizzly bear the skinny-haters will become so offended that they will immediately start making loud comments about how they wish they could eat like a pig. Nobody wants that; it brings up too many funny mental pictures.

The best policy is to eat miniscule amounts of food. The rule of thumb is generally to eat less than the skinny-hater. Then the conversation will turn to, “No wonder you’re so skinny! You hardly eat anything!” They will feel sorry for you and start worrying about anorexia and the like. They’ll demand that you eat more, and when you do they will feel like they’ve averted a disaster.

Another important tactic is the “conversation changer.” Whenever the conversation turns to calories or nutritional value of the food, warning flags should be going off in your head. Any talk of fat, calories, or carbs will eventually lead back to the way we burn through them like a marathon runner on fire. The only recourse is to change the subject of the conversation to something benign.

Conversation changers need to be carefully chosen. It would be disastrous to avoid talking about carbs, only to bring up the TV show “The Biggest Loser.” If you work in any kind of food-related industry, be careful not to bring work up either. Even seemingly innocuous hobbies like stamp collecting can cause problems because you can gain calories by licking stamps. Yeah, they’re that extreme about it.

And make sure that you provide yourself some opportunities to eat alone because if the skinny-haters don’t kill you, eating like them will.

Where it all begins...

This isn't meant to be a place for profound punditry. It's simply a way to laugh at the world.

Because the best things in life are those that make you squirt milk out your nose.* Especially when somebody else has to clean it up. And double especially when you are wearing an old shirt that's already stained from a previous blow-out.

*The author does not claim the ability to make people squirt milk out their nose. Neither does he promote the use of milk as a nasal decongestant, analgesic, prophylactic, lactic acid, lactose allergy inducer or rust remover. Any and all uses of milk in the reader's nasal passages are done at the reader's own risk. The author will take no responsibility for milk-related accidents.**

**The author retains the right to cause readers to blow Kool-aid out their noses.