The Gift of Giving Crap

How is it that virtually no human being receives a gift they actually like beyond the age of 12?

It's astonishing. We grow up, we make money we can spend. The realm of gifts expands beyond trading cards and cuddly toys. Yet all we seem to give and get is crap.

I know what you're thinking: "Hey, that's not true, I got a really cool ____ from my wife."

No you didn't. You got a breadmaker didn't you? And it sits in the garage. And one day if you dust it off, and you rub it really hard (not too hard there cowboy) and you put some yeast in it it might bake you a new, better gift giving wife. Or at least a tasty gingerbread one so you can bite her little bad gift giving hands off.

Gifts inherently are supposed to make you feel happy. Overjoyed. Especially the unexpected ones, because who likes getting free shit they didn't ask for? Everyone. Gifts which you're expecting are the worst. Especially if they're not the usual panties from your Granny. So my mom tells me she has posted me a present for my upcoming birthday. It arrives and I think 'Oh that's nice. I could leave it until my birthday or I could open it now. I shall open it now. I could use a nice pick-me-up. It's like an overseas hug.'

And then I opened it. It was a pleather, diamante studded faux- Burbury belt. WTF?

Perhaps the most depressing thing about getting bad gifts from someone you know and love is the realisation that they don't know you at all. And perhaps they never will. No one other than a chihuahua turning tricks on Hollywood boulevard would wear this belt. I wanted to hang myself with it.

When you think about it, why bother giving great gifts anyway? Leather fades. Ipods break in about a day. Flowers die. Give 'em crap. Because depression? That's the gift that lasts a lifetime.

It's Me Or The Sprinkler

Stand up. Just do it. I'm getting all 'interactive' on your ass and conducting a little survey. Now move your hips back and forth, ever so slightly. Juuuuust back and forth like you ain't go nothing else on your mind, just swinging your hips. Whistle a little bit.

Now - was that hard? I didn't think so.

Sorry I just needed you to go through that little excercise with me to prove that the act of making love on the part of a man isn't that physically demanding. So my last bed-time buddy starts weezing and sweating like a banshee all over me when we're gettin' it on. We're talking mega-weezing, mega buckets of sweat. And the last thing a gal wants to feel when she's in bed with a guy is that it's like, work for him you know?

Yeah I guess we girls have it easy. All I basically have to do is lay prostrate for about a minute and a half. Oh yeah, I'm fantastic in bed.

No maybe I'm being harsh. Sweaty weezing-sex is still sex. And at least I'm getting some. But come guys - what happend to the art of performance here? Maybe it was me (although I'd like to think not as I looked hot). No I know what the problem is: Men and Priortizing. You've GOT to put your knob first.

How come I get sweating and weezing, when four hours earlier you're at a club on the dance floor, arms akimbo and you're giving your best Running Man and The Sprinkler? And with gusto no less! The worst is you've got that squinty look in your eyes biting your lower lip calling out to everyone as if to say 'check ME out, yo.' I'm standing there watching, at first laughing because yes, you do look like an idiot, and then my smile slowly fades as I realise that I'm going to get the worst sex of my life later on. And now all of my friends have seen your sex face.

Come on guys, for the love of St.Peter - prioritise.

GPS'd Off

I don't normally discount statistics. When somone quotes something to me in numbers, hands up to you my friend that statement must be correct.But I really distrust the number of reported infidelities amongst couples these days.

Why? Well for one, to have an affair requires a certain amount of privacy and anonymity during the day. And I get the feeling that your 'better half' knows where you are at every single fucking minute of every single day. They've got you tracked better than the last dough ball on the plate at Pizza Express.

How do I know this? Well in my last office job we were in cubicles or 'pod formations' where you're invariably forced to listen to your co-workers' conversations. And usually, they are about Jack. Shit. My boss would call his HIS partner at timed intervals during the day to track her progress.

"So have you planted those bulbs in the garden yet? How was that? How did that make you feel? Mmm hmmm. Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm."
And hour later "So what are you making for dinner? No we had fish last night. And? And? And?"
An hour later,"So where are you now? Do you need me to pick up anything on the way home? I'm leaving at 5:30 is that good for you?"

It's the conversations like these that suck your soul out - are couples TRYING to drain any possible remaining element of surprise and delight out of their relationships?

And just when you've left the office and find yourself on a dreary train ride home, with all of the other monkeys that have left at their aforementioned times,you are forced to listen to this coversation:
"Hi honey it's Greg 'no balls' here, the train has just left the station."

I mean come on, your partner, Greg, knows when you are leaving every, single, day.

Then twenty minutes later you get "Hi honey, yes we're pulling up to the station. Yup we're allllllmost there. Here we are. We're getting there. Yes we are, yes we are!" I mean what is with the constant tracking? And doesn't the phone call at the station negate the demand for the approach phone call? And couples, do you know how fucking irritating it is to have your progress narrated to you?
"Weeeeeeeeee're just pulling in. Annnnnnnnnnd we're stepping off the train onto the platform. Annnnnnnnnnnnnd I'm just being pushed off the track to my untimely death by a very attractive blonde here honey. Honey, I gotta go."

I've digressed a little but let me tell you why I don't trust the stats on known infidelity. Known infidelity means that eventually, you get caught out. When the hell is a woman ever going to catch her husband cheating when she can track the micro-second his dick has hit the porcelain for a post-lunch Ribena piss?

It is unlikely you will ever hear this side of a phone call: "Mmmmm hmmm. Yup, no I'm just coming up the street. I'm checking some chick's ass out. Uh huh. I've just hit the driveway. I'm looking at the car. I'm looking at the trash - they didn't take the trash away- and I'm looking in the window. And I see you. Fucking the trash guy. Yup, no that's me. Hi honey, I'm home!"