There are questions that have been boggling the minds of humankind since we crawled out of the primordial ooze.
This isn’t about them.
But there are some things I just can’t figure out, and I was wondering if someone could explain them to me.
Swiffers. You know, sort of like a very flat plastic mop with a paper towel wrapped around it. The paper towel-ish bit was supposed to grab onto and pick up any sort of dirt on your floor. Except it doesn’t pick up anything heavier than dust motes. Is this product meant for obsessive-compulsives who must dust their floor three times a day? Because the thing can’t pick up to cat hair, tracked in sand, odd bits torn off the scratching post, scraps of paper, gnarled twist ties, bits of yarn, desiccated houseplant leaves or peppercorns. It glides easily over the hardwood, yes, but so do the cats when I spray them with furniture polish.
Long shorts on male teenagers. The really long ones, below the knee and often made of satiny fabrics. We have a name for that article of clothing, fellas. They’re called culottes.
Real estate. I’ll probably never understand why people have to completely redo their houses to sell them. My neighbors were told by their realtor to rip out their xeriscaping, which translates to a lower water bill, and replace it with water-sucking grass. Because nobody would look at a house without a verdant lawn, despite the fact we live in a semi-arid climate. Other friends replaced appliances and counter tops that weren’t old or damaged, at the insistence of their realtor. I don’t get it.
Guys wearing pants or shorts so low that half their butt cheeks are hanging out. Every single one of these guys looks like a two-year-old walking around with a full diaper. Nothing brings sexy back like a young man waddling around, clutching his waistband, looking like he dropped a load in his pants. Not a woman alive finds it attractive. I’m pretty sure other men don’t find it attractive, either.
Tip jars at self-service counters. I’m schlepping my own food and drink, bussing my own table, and I’m supposed to tip because you managed to smile while taking my money? I don’t think so.
Miracle Whip. To me, it’s like sweet mayonnaise, a phrase so heinous and intrinsically wrong I can barely type the words without throwing up in my mouth a little.
What are the unanswered questions in YOUR life?