One of my favourite things about Christmas is the mystery of what's under the tree. Reusing cardboard boxes is not only good for the environment, it keeps that Christmas mystery going 'til the very last possible second - like, did I just get 1.5kg of chicken burgers for Christmas? Nooo - it's something else, wrapped in a chicken burgers box! Amazing!
With the exception of people who become slightly confused by the box decoy and thank you politely for the carton of low-fat microwave popcorn, I generally find gifts are percieved as being even better when wrapped up as something crappy. This is due to the recipient's expectations being momentarily lowered by the prospect of someone sending them the message that they needed more fibre in their diet (Raisin Bran box), or that they have a bat in the cave (Kleenex box), or some horribly cryptic and frightening message that may cause them to become gay or leprous or something (Tampax box - particularly effective when used on older male relatives).
In fact, you probably could send a message to someone using just such a technique. If you were dating someone with ear wax buildup you could use a Q-Tips box, for instance. Totally subversive! Actually, DH used to date a gal who reportedly had a bit of a wax problem. Just think - if I had started this blog several years ago, he could have stumbled upon my Christmas box trick, and she could have started cleaning her ears, and they could have lived happily ever after, and I would have no one to complain about so wouldn't be writing this blog.
Man, that is so chock full of back-to-the-futureness that my brains just imploded a little.
I stored that tidbit of ex-girlfriend trivia way back when DH and I first started dating, so naturally had it on instant recall seven years later when I read about the gene that determines whether one's ear wax is wet or dry. OK, so maybe it does more than just that, but the point of the story is that I immediately wondered, "Did she have stalactites or slime molds?"
The fourth thought that entered my mind (in rapid succession after, 'Who the hell cares?' and 'Why the hell do you still remember that?') was that, when I one day donate my shriveled corpse to science (more reusing!), they will surely discover I have the gene for wet anger.
You probably haven't heard of the Wet Anger Gene before, and that's probably because it hasn't actually been discovered yet. I can't possibly guess at the evolutionary basis behind such a trait, but you'd only have to know me for about one week* to be assured that baby, I've got it. If I actually ever experienced Dry Anger it would probably end violently. As it is, I generally just weep a lot. Like, a lot. And did I mention lots of weeping when I'm angry?
I don't know how he did it, but DH managed to cram every single Christmas gift of mine this year into waterproof mascara boxes. You'd almost think he was trying to tell me something.
* per month