(There are days where such lists are important. Today is such a day.)
The woman in the Lucky Charms commercial. She walks into what appears to be a staff break room in an office, sees a bowl of Lucky Charms, poured, with milk, and proceeds to just… help herself. It’s clear that this isn’t her bowl of cereal. That racially stereotyped little leprechaun even removed the bowl from her hands in a surprisingly non-judgmental way, clearly showing that this was not meant for her. But she looks so darn smug when she declares, “I forgot how good these taste!” Clearly no lesson was learned about stealing food or the plight of the Irish.
The cold. Yes, it’s winter. Yes, this is Canada. But enough is enough. My gym is my garage, and my garage is not heated, so at a certain point it become physically dangerous for me to lift out there; I can’t get my muscles warm enough to lift heavy and my hands start to stick to the bar. My wife has made it clear that the living room is not an appropriate place to do deadlifts. My one trip to the local gym reminded me why I don’t go to the gym, ever. The jerk-hole ratio in the strength section was way too high, and I can only see so many people doing “squats” with less than 6″ of vertical travel before I can’t control my eye rolling anymore. The cold caused me to deal with this. The cold.
My daughter’s completely irrational new reliance on cat-like wordless wails to show her displeasure with everything and anything. She used to be reasonable (or at least as reasonable as a sub-four-year-old child can be), but lately she has pulled a page from The Exorcist and has started to scream like the priests are on their way over. There is nothing to do when she hits that point but throw her into her room and hope that she doesn’t come down the stairs upside down and on all fours. My wife and I keep throwing the statement, “It’s just a phase,” back and forth like we’re playing a pathetically hopeful game of emotional hot-potato. Neither of us are buying it.
Bruce Jenner’s hair. It’s dyed auburn in the weird, low-quality way that equally old Paul McCartney’s hair is dyed brown, and it’s even more disconcerting since it morphed from a bob to a tightly cinched ponytail that just makes his facial surgery look even more like an experiment in silly putty and fear. (This had to be included because my wife watches enough of the various Kardashian iterations (Chloe and Kim Take Milwaukee, Kendall and Lamar Take Newark, Kris Loves Scott But Not Kylie, etc.) that I get peripherally Bruced on a daily basis.)