Rebel Yell Part Two: “A tall is a small?"

I’m continuing my post about the art of exposing the rebel inside you.

For me, I chose to rebel against a company that I’m quite fond of – Starbuck’s. Most Americans are familiar with this coffee company extraordinaire and its quirky beverage sizing jargon: tall, grande and venti, corresponding to the traditional small, medium and large terminology adopted by most other businesses.

I typically arrive at Starbuck’s about 6:20 a.m. to jolt my body with a caffeine wakeup call. When it’s my turn to order, I could adopt a subservient role and use Starbuck’s posted nomenclature. But should I? The morning after, could I wink at myself in the bathroom mirror and celebrate another brand new day, knowing that a corporate coffee marketing executive tricked me into following the “establishment”? Not likely, not a wink today, or tomorrow. My options are severely limited – either hide in shame, or “rebel.”

I choose to rebel!

Rebel Yell

“I’m sick and tired of snot-nosed, sticky-fingered rug rats soiling my red velvet shorts. They can’t keep their hands off me!”

“Honey, there’s not much you can do about it. The company pays you a decent wage and we’ve got good benefits like dental insurance and funeral leave.”

He looks at his girlfriend like she’s rock stupid. “I don’t have any teeth! And our friends and relatives can’t die. They can only be cancelled!”  

“Oh, who’s a grumpy old rodent today?” she chides and pinches him lovingly on his bulbous cheek.

His face turns red, like a freshly waxed fire engine. “I bet that forest bear from Hanna-Barbera gets more respect than me. Do you know that he walks around wearing nothing but a hat and bowtie?  That’s disgusting! Did you ever notice that? Did you? How come the TV censors never noticed, but I did? Kids watch our shows, for god’s sake. Some corporate jack-wad is going to get a piece of my mind on hump day!”

She stares at him like he’s a great big chunk of perfectly aged Cheddar cheese. “I love it when you get all riled up. Take me, big boy!”

Aren’t You Elle Macpherson Conclusion: Brent & Bridgette’s Boondoggle

potato saladSometimes your actions and body language communicate a compliment better than any words or phrases. Try tipping your baseball cap as an expression of appreciation. Configure your thumb and index finger into the basic shape of a pistol and shoot your wife as an acknowledgement of her thoughtfulness. Offer a sip of your triple stout beer to toast her success in matters of importance.

Don’t use words, just the nuances and subtleties of your physical assets. A raised bushy eyebrow. A curled corner of your mouth. A slightly dropped shoulder. The thrusting, jutting motion of your hips.

But do not, and I forcefully repeat, do not purse your lips and pucker a fictitious kiss in her direction. Have you ever witnessed a husband utilizing this technique? It’s pathetic, equivalent to asking an orthopedic surgeon to remove your spine and transplant a long, cooked spaghetti noodle in its place. Fake kissing expressions are not very becoming and, even more importantly, your wife will wince every time she imagines that look on your face. Leave puckering to goldfish – they look cute when they do it. You’ll just look queer.

Aren’t You Elle Macpherson, Part Two: "The Compliment Curve Ball"

I’m continuing my chat about compliments. Here’s another ruby from my treasure chest of verbal antiquities.

“Sweetie Pie, will you do that again?”

“What?” she asked, confused by my request.

“Put the trash bag back inside the can and lift it out again so I can watch and learn.”

She obliged, in slow motion, while she stared at me the exact same way someone might study a peculiar abstract painting.

“Your form is perfect,” I complimented. “Every time I try that, the plastic handle rips off and I spill coffee grounds on the carpet.”

“Sure, I can teach you my method,” she offers. It’s really not that complicated.”

“Thanks, Cupcake, but some people’s talents can’t be duplicated – they’re like fingerprints. Michael Jordan and you have a lot in common. Mike could devote his entire life to instructing me on how to windmill dunk from the free-throw line, but I’d fail miserably and probably tear my ACL.”

She smiled and took out the trash while I stuffed a wedge of freshly baked pecan pie in my mouth.