Author: scottspinelli

Those of you following this closely will inevitably ask… Why is this feeling not either part of #249 or simply one below at #248? Is he fucking with us? Why #247? My answer to all those questions is… if you don’t know by now, you just don’t get it.

But, back to the point at hand… the new toothbrush is a sneaky feeling for a few reasons. First, unless you’re a dental hygienist, getting a new one typically isn’t a top priority. No one exactly knows when to do it (though, these guys have a good suggestion). Second, and I don’t know about you, but I never remember how great a new toothbrush feels until I’m experiencing it. For whatever reason, the feeling sort of fades until it reappears once every (insert normal time to replace a toothbrush).

One day you just notice, “Hey, these bristles are dull as a mother fucker, I think I should get a new toothbrush.” Then, three weeks later, after many trips to the supermarket where you return only to think, “Shit, I knew I forgot something”, you finally pick up a new one. There’s also those ones that have the thing where the color of the bristles might also be your giveaway… I maintain that whole bit is a scam.

There’s the fun of picking out the brush… Do you go for the plain, boring one that looks like it was the first one ever made? How about the one with six different rubber grips and those plastic bristles? Did you get a raise recently? Because if so, I have some battery powered models to show you…

But most important is the first brush with the new guy. I’ve actually (no joke) taken mine out of its packaging and started brushing on my walk back to my apartment from the supermarket. Just wanted my mouth and the new brush to get acquainted, figured toothpaste didn’t need to get involved just yet. Either way, it’s a clean unlike any you’ve felt in months. Instantly, you’re now thinking the dentist will be impressed with your level of commitment next time you go in. Naturally, this enthusiasm fades, but that doesn’t mean the feeling wasn’t great while it lasted.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Running out of floss when you KNOW you have something stuck in your teeth and can’t get it the hell out of there.

If ever there’s been a question, the fact that this feeling ranks on this list is ultimate proof that I am, in fact, my father’s son.

There was a time—back when we were younger and could actually stomach one another—when my family would go on vacation together. Truth be told, they were amazing (Big ups to Mom Dukes, the architect). However, there were always elements of them (frankly, elements of traveling in general, as I’ve figured out now that I’m older) that would inevitably drive my father fucking insane.

Leaving on time, leaving late, packing properly, fitting everything in to the car, making good time, making sure not to stop unless a urinary tract infection was imminent… These were the things that could set him off.

Now that I’m older and have been traveling on my own for a while, I’ve noticed I’ve inherited his joy for packing properly. Now, I would never be so brazen as to assert that I’m as good—or, even close to as good—as he is but the point is, I enjoy a job well done. When I was younger, I never understood what made him so happy about a well-packed suitcase… or, what my mom loved about it so much.

But now, even when I’m going somewhere for a weekend, it really makes me feel good. I think the key to it is this: there’s always more room. You think you’ve maximized every cubic inch, but you haven’t. You’ve forgotten about the compartment on the outside or the fact that you can just wear a sweatshirt you planned to pack or that socks can get rolled into the shoes.

What starts as a heap of crap you have slim hopes for making fit turns, in only a short time, into a neatly zipped up (sometimes reluctantly) suitcase with everything you’ll need.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? When you’re trying to close your bag and the zipper gets caught on something inside and the metal teeth refuse  to let go. Either the item or the bag is going to be ruined, you know it, I know it, the bag knows it. That’s the opposite.

I’ve joked about this before. That doesn’t diminish how good of a feeling it truly is. Over time, the frequency with which it has occurred has become more and more rare as I’m not typically leaving money unattended in pockets as much as I did in my pre-wallet days of yesteryear.

Still, every so often, it does happen. Typically we’re talking about the change of a season… maybe the first time you decide to head to the beach, or the first time (if you live in the northeast) it’s over 50 degrees out and you decide to wear shorts. Or it could be as simple as digging out a pair of old jeans. Point is, your mind is typically elsewhere, focused more on decidedly trivial things up to an including:

• Does this count as a bathing suit if it doesn’t have that mesh/net thing on the inside? Or is it just a board short? What is a board short? Is there such thing as a board sock?
• Do people still wear jean shorts? Can I get away with wearing these for the day because my other pairs are at my parent’s house?
• Is it cold enough to wear jeans? I’m going to look stupid, I’m going to be hot and I’ll be the only one wearing pants.

So, while you’re focusing on shit like this, you typically don’t notice what should be plainly obvious: there’s something in your pocket. For a few moments, it goes undetected until a couple steps later when you’ve finally dug into said pocket.

Holy shit, there’s something in here!

It feels like money… it’s probably money… yes, it’s definitely money… But now, for those few seconds until you produce the bill(s) from your pocket, you can’t help but guess what denominations we’re dealing with. Is it going to be something disappointing like a dollar bill? Maybe a five? That’s probably the best you can hope for.  No way it’s a hundred dollar bill. Who are you, a bank robber?

And then, boom… you look and see a wrinkled (probably through the washing machine at least once) twenty dollar bill staring right back up at you.

I don’t care if you’re unemployed or an NBA player, that’s a great feeling. It was always your money and you obviously didn’t seem to care much that you’d lost it in the first place, but now that it’s back… it’s better than ever.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Finding out it’s actually just a receipt, a wrapper or lint.

Don’t even ask what I was doing playing Minesweeper in this century. I could give you the reason, but besides the embarrassment of the explanation, I’m not sure you’d even believe me.

The point is this… the game is an incredible way to kill time, when you have it to murder. I don’t know about you, but I like to free ball for my first few clicks. I won’t start a game in earnest until I’ve unearthed a few open fields, a place for my soldiers to spread out and start sweeping.

Once I’m in, I then do the normal routine. Find your two’s, locate the one’s… god help you if you run into anything 6 or higher. Typically, I find it best to go into battle with a superior ranking officer. A friend of mine who will remain nameless in this space usually serves as my high command, signing off on most moves of serious import and generally taking charge when the most elementary moves have been cleared off the board.

However, even the most rookie sweeper knows that there comes a point where you’re just going to have to say, “FUCK IT, I’M GOING ROGUE!”*

We all know how most of these suicide missions wind up—with an X’d out Frown Face, that’s how. But, every so often, in the crucible of justice and minesweeping, there is that lucky selection, the one that unlocks the rest of the game. All of your hard work was up in the air, literally hanging in the balance, and a correct selection is a thrill unlike many other.

Guess right, you keep playing. Guess wrong, you lose a lot of good men.

It’s a lot of pressure, but that’s why it’s such a good feeling when you get it right.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? I could go with “guessing wrong”, but that would be too obvious. I think the better answer is, “Reading this post, deciding you want to play minesweeper, then realizing you don’t have a proper mouse and have to wait til you get to work the next day.”

*Of course, if you actually either shout this or say it at all, you’re a lunatic.

I don’t keep my phone on anything but vibrate or silent any more. It’s been that way for about, honestly, four years. So, with that said, I miss a decent amount of phone calls, e-mails and texts. Which, if you know me, is sort of pathetic because not that many people are calling, e-mailing or texting.

Still, when the phone is on vibrate, there isn’t much better than getting a text message. You might argue that a call is more significant, but frankly, that’s why it’s worse. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these new-age hipsters that only communicates via textual message. I enjoy a good phone call every so often and even prefer it at times when I know it’ll save me time.

But, the text is always a nice feeling. For me, it’s a longer buzz than the e-mail and shorter than the ones in the ringtone. Twitter gives off two shots, voicemails are one longer one. But the text is quick, distinguishable. From the depths of my pocket, I know based on vibration when I’ve received one.

Of course, my first hope is that it’s a girl. She wants to meet up as soon as I’m free, she found my number and had to reach out to me. Naturally, this is a ridiculous premise—it’s typically a family member or friend—but a boy can dream.

And, you see, that’s what this feeling is about. It’s the excitement of not knowing who it is at first. It’s the fun of knowing that someone actually wanted to reach out to you. Of all the people in their phone book, they chose you.

Polar Opposite of This Feeling? Getting a phone call from a random number, getting excited it might be someone or something fun and having it be one of those recorded voices telling you that you’ve just won a vacation.

Unless you’re like my friend Rob, most clothes don’t fit you like they do the mannequins*. The large is just a little too long in the arms or baggy in the waste while the medium looks like you’re wearing your little brother’s clothes… from the 6th grade. The XL used to be cool in high school and the small said bye-bye about 15 years back. You’re in no-man’s land.

Then, one day, you come across a store that some how has a size for you. Of course, they still go by the traditional norms of large, medium, etc… but it’s as if this store made these measurements with you in mind.

For me, that store is Express. For whatever reason, their 1X Modern Fit shirt in medium fits me like no shirt ever has. For years, I’ve been trying to find a shirt/sweater/polo that doesn’t look ridiculous on me. I’ve either had it appear as if I’ve got a tarp stuffed into the back of my khakis or as if I’m wearing a marionette’s outfit. Nothing in between.

Until now, that is.

The funniest thing about all of this, to me, is that I’m not even much of a shopper. I do it maybe twice a year with any real earnest. Both are generally in the company of my mom and one is always around my birthday (and that’s only because it’s not socially acceptable to ask for toys any longer).

But, now that I’m at least attempting to play an adult in real life, I’ve found that at times I need to look the part. Until this store goes out of business, I can.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Forgetting what size you are in that store, buying the wrong size and coming home to realize your tragic mistake.

*Side note about this kid: He’s in good shape and stands at least 6 feet tall, but there’s nothing Olympian about his physique. Yet, somehow, clothes fit him like he’s had everything from t-shirts to sweaters to suit jackets tailored. It’s fabulous.

Younger generations won’t even understand this one. When this list goes to the Smithsonian in a few years time, young children from an era unaware of a time without DVRs will simply be unable to understand the joy of this feeling. Lucky us.

Of course, people my age always had the ability to fast forward through commercials, whether it was through a DVR or VHS tape. I guess, for me, I specify DVR in this feeling because I wasn’t a crazy VHS-taper. Every so often I’d tape a show or sporting event, but nothing with incredibly frequency.

Nowadays I have my DVR on the hunt for Seinfeld, making sure at least 5 are always in stock at all times. My roommate tapes Anthony Bourdain and The League. Not that any of that matters. What matters is that whatever you’re watching is pure show.

Jeopardy! goes from a half hour to about 14 minutes. Saturday Night Live goes from an hour and a half to anywhere from 15 to 40 minutes depending on the week.

There’s something nice about being able to skip out on the commercials and it’s not just being able to watch only the content of the show. For me, it’s about control. For once, with regards to television, I’m in control. I don’t need to budget a full half hour or hour any longer… unless I want to.

Oh who are we kidding. It’s all about not watching commercials. They’re largely awful and now we can avoid them. I’m sure DVR boxes will get smarter and force us to watch certain amounts of commercials, but until then, long live the >>.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? When you are watching something on delay, skipping all the commercials and eventually catch up to live. It’s great to be caught up… but sucks that you can’t fast forward any longer.

This is clearly a male-dominated feeling. I’m not even sure all men agree with me on this, but there’s something enjoyable about the occasional seated urination.

Before you say anything, I’m talking about the times when you’re already seated for other reasons on the toilet and remember you have to pee. I’ve never just randomly sat down to pee… that would just be strange.

And, I don’t think there’s a female equivalent to this. I’m nearly certain that, for a woman, peeing standing up is neither relaxing or a welcome change in routine. It’s simply a mess.

Either way, it’s not like aiming at a porcelain bowl the size of your torso is difficult, but it’s nice to be on cruise control. To know that you can simply take a load off. Hell, you’re already seated, why not?

Hopefully this explains it best: These situations typically don’t arise purposely. Instead, for me at least, they come after I’m done doing other business on the toilet and realize, “Hey there fella, you’ve gotta urinate…. And guess what, you’re already in here! And even better, you’re already sitting down! Let ‘er rip!”

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Trying to pee with an erection. It’s just the pits.