Airing My Grievance

It’s that time, friends. Emily at The Waiting has reminded me that we are coming up on Festivus. As an observer of all Seinfeld holidays, I feel bound to honor tradition. Since I’m too lazy for any feats of strength, I’m here to air my grievances.

One of my biggest grievances was an inability to actually choose one. I debated. At first I thought my biggest grievance would be with Amazon for that email suggesting that a Kindle Fire, with all its free books, would be the perfect gift for the kiddies. Even though the vast majority of those free books are erotica, and there’s no way to actually filter that crap out in a search, I have bigger grievances to air.

Then I thought the biggest complaint might be Target and their crummy website with its limited products and lack of free shipping. I cannot order the sink strainer of my dreams, nor will they ship it to me gratis unless I agree to let them track my spending habits forever and ever amen. But I have bigger annoyances.

Was it the notice that the 50 Shades series was voted Romance of the Year on Goodreads? Though I am not sure how I can live in a world where such drivel becomes a best seller, surprisingly, I have bigger complaints.

Maybe my biggest grievance is that I am not the party animal that Squish is. He turned four yesterday, and though my special day is a mere four days away, I’ll never be able to celebrate with the same reckless abandon. He knows what he wants, and he just goes for it, let the chips (and the mustard) fall where they may. See what I mean?

What can I say? The kid knows how to party.

His birthday wish. What can I say? The kid knows how to party.

On my birthday, it is doubtful that I will even find a box I can fit into, much less get someone to make me lunch. Squish lives the good life. No, I will admit, I am a wee jealous, but that’s still not my biggest grievance to air.

Today I am airing my underwear. I was perfectly content with my choice of undergarment until yesterday, when I visited a new store in my town. If we had gone right but an aisle sooner, I would still be happy with my bloomers, but alas, we went to the left, straight into the hunting department. I saw it, and I covet it more than free shipping and lunch in a box. I want Scent Away, the underwear that promises to make me smell invisible.

I don’t know why no one has thought of it before. It’s such an obvious pairing. Smell and invisibility go together  like peas and nuclear warheads, chocolate sauce and gym socks,  Play-doh and woodwind instruments. Someone put two and two together and came up with this fabulous product. And I don’t own any. It’s not fair.

How can anyone now be satisfied with mere Underoos? Sure, it’s underwear that’s fun to wear, but while we may be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or sling a web from skyscraper to high-rise, those villains have noses. All that leaping and slinging works up quite a sweat, you know. They’ll smell us coming from a mile away.

I could buy a pair of Scent Aways, I suppose. If they made them for women. THEY DON’T! . Stupid, sexist pigs odorless animals! Again, unfair.

Getting dressed is not any fun anymore. Who wants to be a superhero? Superheroes stink. Thanks, Scent Away, for making the unmentionables not worth mentioning. I don’t want to fight pretend crime. I want to smell invisible.

Are there any earmuffs out there that will make me sound weightless?