The last six weeks have been a flurry of celebrations, which, as most of us know, is both wonderful and, let's be honest, burdensome. With celebrations come the socially necessary cards, gifts, swooning. Don't get me wrong, when it's my turn to be celebrated, I eagerly lap up as much hoopla as possible. I love me a good celebration. I also sincerely enjoy celebrating others, but the nitty-gritty of it all can be time and money consuming.
But I'm not here to discuss that, really. No, I have a different idea in mind: harass my husband (and, by proxy, all other significant others). This should just always be the goal.
In the last six weeks, Rob and I have attended or celebrated the following:
4 Birthdays
1 Mother's Day
1 Wedding
3 Graduations
1 Birth
These are all wonderful things worth celebrating, lest you think me a horrid hag. However, each one requires a card and a gift.
And who buys these cards and gifts? 9 times out of a 10, I'm willing to bet it's one half of the couple equation- *coughfemalecough*.
Have you ever seen a lady in the card aisle? Have you ever BEEN a lady in the card aisle? I could spend hours there, just picking up card after card evaluating it's usefulness. Well, says my inner self, this one's too sparkly, she's not a sparkly kind of girl. I'd really like one with a dog on it. This message is too long. This message is HILARIOUS, but I think it might offend him. Wait, this could be perfect, but it's $5.99 (pause for my outrage over the price gouging of greeting cards...what the!!?? Seriously? For some sappy words and about 5 cents of materials we have all agreed to pay up to SIX dollars! That's at least two, possible three frozen yogurts with a coupon). Awwww...I love this card! I should buy it for the next time I need a housewarming card (I will promptly lose this card). I'll get this card as a happy surprise for Rob (which he'll open, read, and then toss aside after a polite "thanks babe." Worth six dollars? No. But something happens in my female brain in the card aisle that suspends all common sense).
So after some serious inner-monologing, and being shoved aside by at least three eager card readers, I have grabbed the ten cards I don't need and the one that I do and head to the check out line. Thirty dollars later and I'm ready to start considering the gift.
Is this a gift card occasion? Could be. What kind of gift card does this guy like? Hmm. Well, I think he likes this restaurant, but I'm not sure. Oh dang, that restaurant isn't even an option. Is a visa gift card with money on it too gouache? What about Home Depot? Most guys like home depot, right? But this isn't the right occasion for Home Depot--I should buy a gift card to go with that house warming card I bought at Target (never mind that nobody I know is currently even considering buying a new home). So I do this for a solid 20 minutes, decide to buy the Home Depot gift card and nothing else, and head to my car to try another idea.
Of course at this point there is traffic and I'm cut off by a harried mini van driver, an oblivious trash truck, and some douche in a mustang who thinks that turning out of his apartment complex at top speed (while squealing tires) makes him awesome. I absent-mindedly putt along to my next destination, and accidentally end up beating him there. THAT is awesome.
But you get the point. For one gift I've invested quite a bit of time and thought, hazarded douche bags, bad drivers, pushy card readers and my own lack of common sense. After ALL this, I return home with my prizes and show Rob. His reaction? "Uh Huh."
When it comes time to sign the carefully selected card, I write a thoughtful message and offer it to Rob to sign. He says "Just sign it for me."
Mmm hmm. Right. So I sign it for him, "Rob and Rachel Abijay" lovingly written on the card with my heartfelt message of happiness. But it's all a lie. A big farce that we all BUY into!!? Why do we do this to each other? We ALL know that a gift from "Girl and Boy" really means a gift from girl. That a card from "girl and boy" really means a gift from girl. And all those Christmas presents under your tree? That was girl. All those easter baskets? Also girl (or, to be fair, in gay relationships it means person X because I bet there's one member of that couple who is in charge of gifts and cards, even if it's unspoken).
Last weekend, as we left a graduation gathering, the fella we were celebrating stops Rob and THANKS HIM for the present. What does Rob say back, "oh no problem."
No problem at all Rob. No problem at all.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Hypothesizing Hipsterdom
I was sitting here tonight watching the ten billionth episode of House Hunters, and I thought to myself, "I should write something!" These two things are naturally connected, clearly.
House Hunters got me thinking about Hipsters. Perhaps it's the alliteration of it all, or perhaps the home buyers reminded me a hipster's mother, but either way, I set to musing.
It seems to me that everyone's a hipster these days, which begs the question the rest of us non-iY generationers wonder: if everyone's different, then everyone's the same, right? If everyone's special, then nobody's special?
Being hipster, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept, involves a rather snobbish enjoyment of "the other." Clothing that's not mainstream, music that's not mainstream, writings that aren't mainstream...you see where I'm going here?
Non-hipsters, in my experience, tend to be rather hostile toward hipsters. It's rather amusing. I saw myself outside of all of this nonsense, since I'm 32 and refined. But when a student mentioned that someone had labeled ME a hipster, I just about choked. Me? A hipster? I think I'm more inclined to agree with my husband's definition of me: a frumpsters (Rob, my husband, will likely be featured in my writings--I will directly quote him, but you'll miss his mischievous looks and you will therefore be forced to view him as shocking! Outlandish! Downright foolish! He's actually wonderful, hilarious and endearing, but let's not get too caught up in that; let us focus on his outlandishness). Where was I? Oh yes. Frumpsters.
I'm not the most fashionable of people. I know this. 99% of the time this doesn't even cross my mind as something worth worrying about, except when Rob mentions that I look like Mrs. Garret from Facts of Life, or the Gorn from Star Trek (google it). It is in those moments that I remember my lack of sartorial sense. Eh. And life moves on to more important things, like cats. If this is considered unmainstream, perhaps I AM a hipster? After all, I wore skinny-leg jeans when they were just called "tapered," neon clothing when it was called "the 80s," and I still secretly long to regularly wear the sweaters I once purchased for an ugly christmas sweater party. They're so comfortable! I see these clothing items paraded around in my classroom, in magazine and on TV, only the people wearing them somehow seem "cool," whereas I just look sweaty. THAT'S hipster. So maybe there is something to my student's proclamation after all...
Speaking of cats, I love them. I loved them before it was "cool" to do so (wait--it became "cool" to like cats because it was decidedly "uncool" to like cats, so is it now hipster to like cats or mainstream? Who can remember all of these arbitrary rules!?). As I was saying. I love cats. I have one currently curled up in my lap--Archimedes. And I'm dying to adopt another (Rob would like to name him Steve--I prefer Copernicus). But at the moment, no more cats for us. My friend Julia is trying to find a home for her kitty bobby (so named due to her missing tail and subsequent "bob" of a tail). She is a sweet, sweet kitty, and seeing her tonight launched me into a panicked call first to my husband and then to my parents. I begged to keep her. Rob said no. Then I attempted to coerce my parents into taking her. They said no. So I called Julia and begged her not to put Bobby in a shelter where she would no doubt become, at minimum, depressed, and at worst, dead. Most people snarl their upper lips at cats, claiming the superiority of dogs with a near, dare I say it, haughtiness. Let's get down to it people: they both lick their poopy butts. Neither is more refined.
So I love cats. I'd have a whole harem if I could. I can't do this because I'd either be A) Crazy or B) Smelly or C) both A and C or D) friendless, husbandless and barren. But I'd do it! And I'm admitting it. I think this makes me hipster.
Finally, I'm horrible with small children. If this isn't hipster, I don't know what is. I might get stoned for publicly confessing both my love of cats and my distaste for small children, but that's just the price of being cool. Small children immediately paralyze me. I see them and I know they won't like me. I think this is because of two things 1. I have no idea how to speak to a small child. Example (this is an actual conversation I had yesterday):
Small Child: Hi.
Me: Hi!
Small Child:.......
Me: So....how are you?! (I decided long ago that if I just sound excited about anything I say or ask, kids will eagerly respond).
Small Child: Where's Uncle Rob?
Me: He's at the fire station, saving lives! Do you know the fire station!? What does Uncle Rob drive!!!?
Small Child:..........
Me: ............!
Small Child: Want to race cars?
Me: How?!
Small Child: We push them.
Me: How do we push them?! Which car is your favorite!? Did you play with cars on the beach!? What's this car's name?!!
Small Child:........Maybe Uncle Rob can play with me.
I think the problem is that kids require an imagination--whereas I require conversation (that's problem number 2). Kids don't really want to talk, they want to do. I want to talk ABOUT the doing. This is why I speak teenage, specifically teenage girl. Teenage girls (and actually quite a few boys as well) are all about talking. I haven't met a teenager yet that I don't instantly feel comfortable around. Nearly all of my friends and my husband feel that way about small children. But when I see someone under the age of 13 approaching, internal Rachel curls up into the fetal position and waits for the feeling of terror to pass. This MUST be hipster. How many people genuinely like teenage girls? How many are genuinely uncomfortable around small children? So you see! I'm in the minority here, which makes me cool, which makes me hipster. Consider yourself educated.
House Hunters got me thinking about Hipsters. Perhaps it's the alliteration of it all, or perhaps the home buyers reminded me a hipster's mother, but either way, I set to musing.
It seems to me that everyone's a hipster these days, which begs the question the rest of us non-iY generationers wonder: if everyone's different, then everyone's the same, right? If everyone's special, then nobody's special?
Being hipster, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept, involves a rather snobbish enjoyment of "the other." Clothing that's not mainstream, music that's not mainstream, writings that aren't mainstream...you see where I'm going here?
Non-hipsters, in my experience, tend to be rather hostile toward hipsters. It's rather amusing. I saw myself outside of all of this nonsense, since I'm 32 and refined. But when a student mentioned that someone had labeled ME a hipster, I just about choked. Me? A hipster? I think I'm more inclined to agree with my husband's definition of me: a frumpsters (Rob, my husband, will likely be featured in my writings--I will directly quote him, but you'll miss his mischievous looks and you will therefore be forced to view him as shocking! Outlandish! Downright foolish! He's actually wonderful, hilarious and endearing, but let's not get too caught up in that; let us focus on his outlandishness). Where was I? Oh yes. Frumpsters.
I'm not the most fashionable of people. I know this. 99% of the time this doesn't even cross my mind as something worth worrying about, except when Rob mentions that I look like Mrs. Garret from Facts of Life, or the Gorn from Star Trek (google it). It is in those moments that I remember my lack of sartorial sense. Eh. And life moves on to more important things, like cats. If this is considered unmainstream, perhaps I AM a hipster? After all, I wore skinny-leg jeans when they were just called "tapered," neon clothing when it was called "the 80s," and I still secretly long to regularly wear the sweaters I once purchased for an ugly christmas sweater party. They're so comfortable! I see these clothing items paraded around in my classroom, in magazine and on TV, only the people wearing them somehow seem "cool," whereas I just look sweaty. THAT'S hipster. So maybe there is something to my student's proclamation after all...
Speaking of cats, I love them. I loved them before it was "cool" to do so (wait--it became "cool" to like cats because it was decidedly "uncool" to like cats, so is it now hipster to like cats or mainstream? Who can remember all of these arbitrary rules!?). As I was saying. I love cats. I have one currently curled up in my lap--Archimedes. And I'm dying to adopt another (Rob would like to name him Steve--I prefer Copernicus). But at the moment, no more cats for us. My friend Julia is trying to find a home for her kitty bobby (so named due to her missing tail and subsequent "bob" of a tail). She is a sweet, sweet kitty, and seeing her tonight launched me into a panicked call first to my husband and then to my parents. I begged to keep her. Rob said no. Then I attempted to coerce my parents into taking her. They said no. So I called Julia and begged her not to put Bobby in a shelter where she would no doubt become, at minimum, depressed, and at worst, dead. Most people snarl their upper lips at cats, claiming the superiority of dogs with a near, dare I say it, haughtiness. Let's get down to it people: they both lick their poopy butts. Neither is more refined.
So I love cats. I'd have a whole harem if I could. I can't do this because I'd either be A) Crazy or B) Smelly or C) both A and C or D) friendless, husbandless and barren. But I'd do it! And I'm admitting it. I think this makes me hipster.
Finally, I'm horrible with small children. If this isn't hipster, I don't know what is. I might get stoned for publicly confessing both my love of cats and my distaste for small children, but that's just the price of being cool. Small children immediately paralyze me. I see them and I know they won't like me. I think this is because of two things 1. I have no idea how to speak to a small child. Example (this is an actual conversation I had yesterday):
Small Child: Hi.
Me: Hi!
Small Child:.......
Me: So....how are you?! (I decided long ago that if I just sound excited about anything I say or ask, kids will eagerly respond).
Small Child: Where's Uncle Rob?
Me: He's at the fire station, saving lives! Do you know the fire station!? What does Uncle Rob drive!!!?
Small Child:..........
Me: ............!
Small Child: Want to race cars?
Me: How?!
Small Child: We push them.
Me: How do we push them?! Which car is your favorite!? Did you play with cars on the beach!? What's this car's name?!!
Small Child:........Maybe Uncle Rob can play with me.
I think the problem is that kids require an imagination--whereas I require conversation (that's problem number 2). Kids don't really want to talk, they want to do. I want to talk ABOUT the doing. This is why I speak teenage, specifically teenage girl. Teenage girls (and actually quite a few boys as well) are all about talking. I haven't met a teenager yet that I don't instantly feel comfortable around. Nearly all of my friends and my husband feel that way about small children. But when I see someone under the age of 13 approaching, internal Rachel curls up into the fetal position and waits for the feeling of terror to pass. This MUST be hipster. How many people genuinely like teenage girls? How many are genuinely uncomfortable around small children? So you see! I'm in the minority here, which makes me cool, which makes me hipster. Consider yourself educated.
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