Wednesday, December 2, 2009

On Televisions, Trees, and the Joy of 30

So because I am now married, I am also now by law mandated to blog about banal husband/wife exchanges that occur in the household. Behold:

Me: "So I ordered a TV online the other day through one of those Cyber-Monday deals."

Her: "Nice, was it pricey?"

Me: "Well for a Sharp 47” display that boasts 1080p and a 120hz refresh rate, I think I did pretty damned well. This is my last hurrah. A powerful crescendo to wrap up the chapter of my life when I still had meaningful disposable income and wasn’t chained to a mortgage like Prometheus to his rock." [editor’s note—perhaps I’m taking a bit of creative license here: my domestic conversations typically do not involve Greek mythical figures]

Her: "Uh huh, good. So you’re going to leave it in the box until we move into our new house, right?"

[sudden sound of a record needle scratching]

Now let me explain to you why this is ten wild flavors of unacceptable. A hulking behemoth like this is not to be contained within a box. This electronic monster has been engineered with one purpose and one purpose only: massive ocular assault. To bombard one’s rods and cones with an image so vivid that it leaves them a stuttering mess, sitting in a pool of their own flop sweat. Will I keep this in a box? Would Michelangelo have dared to leave “David” sitting in a crate somewhere while he waited to close on his new Italian villa? Methinks not.

Meanwhile, it bothers the wifey that I am reluctant to put up a Christmas tree this year due to the upcoming move. The reason for this is easy to understand really: compared to setting up a TV, decorating a Christmas tree takes multiple hours, and I’m sorry, but no matter how good the Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas album is, once you hear it the seventh time while hanging glittery ornaments, the urge to stab things becomes rather strong.

In other news, I turn 30 next week. 30, people. 30. It sucks. And don’t bother telling me it doesn’t and that I should be glad that at least I’m not [insert whatever age you are here] because when I am, it’ll most certainly suck even more. Ugh.

Today, I received bedsheets yesterday for my birthday. Bedsheets. The only thing more depressing than getting bedsheets for your birthday is the fact that I ACTUALLY REQUESTED THEM. Because presumably, once you hit 30, this is the sort of thing you're supposed to ask for instead of mammoth TVs or fun stuff like this.

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Adam said...

Old Dirty Rickey! Welcome to the over-30 club. Our benefits package includes a slower metabolism, weakening eyesight, a desire to wear sensible slacks and a growing obsession with fiber. Welcome!

HC said...

You know how much I love the melancholic stupor of Vince Guaraldi -- there might be a little glittery snowflake-ornament cutting, but no real stabbing...

Happy Birthday, boychick! Don't worry, I'm aging faster.

Mrs. Smitty said...

Happy Birthday Rickey - and don't worry, just because you are now in your 30s doesn't mean you can't get fun gifts. Smitty got Bacon of the Month Club for his bday this year. He was so excited you'd think he was in his twenties.

George said...

Tell me, were they these bedsheets?

And I turned 30 before we (and by we I mean Monica Lewinsky) even knew Bill Clinton had a penis. Now that's old.

steves said...

Ah, to be 30 again. I totally agree with you about the TV. I ordered one and had the old entertainment center dismantled and the new one put together before it came. The TV sat in the box for all of 2 minutes while I signed the UPS forms. It was up and running before my wife even got home.

Smitty said...

30 was fun. I was so hammered on my 30th birthday, I can't even recall what I thought was fun that day. I remember stating, when asked what I wanted for my 30th birthday, that I wanted "strippers and cocaine."

There were, at my 30th party, 2 naked barbie dolls and a pile of powdered sugar. Nice.

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