Whenever I buy a new sweater or pair of pants, I safely store away the little envelope of buttons and thread that is optimistically tucked behind the sales label. I’ve got over 20 of these in my underwear drawer. I guess I’m holding out for a day when I live with someone who would know what to do with them.

The volume dial on old Sony stereos that spins itself automatically when you press the volume up and down button on the remote is one of the most unnecessary and awesome inventions of the 1990s.

Whenever I fly, I usually leave my magazine in the seat pocket. I do this because once I forgot a book and I learned the capacity for ironic enjoyment of SkyMall tops out at about 15 minutes (which is probably why Family Guy episodes feel too long).

One time I found a used air sickness bag, but in all my years of flying, I’ve never found a non-airline-sanctioned magazine in my seat pocket. Part of the plane cleaner’s job must be to throw out all foreign reading material. Sort of like in Tehran after the election, but with less media hype about Twitter.

There is no good way to type the common abbreviation for “situation.” Sitch? Sitsh? Sit?

Recent reality TV developments have really called attention to this problem.

Once you’ve taken the step of putting your phone into “airplane mode” to prevent incoming emails from affecting the frame rate of BrickBreaker for Blackberry, you can never get that part of your dignity back.

After watching a truly terrible movie, the credits are like a slap in the face. It’s basically a list of hundreds of professionals that are personally responsible for your boredom. And these are the ones that are so talented that they beat out tens of thousands of other people who are desperate to work on movies.

Then again, thinking of all the people I know who moved to LA “to try and make it,” I guess getting to the top in Hollywood isn’t exactly like becoming Valedictorian.

There’s always a strange buzz at the start of the State of the Union, sort of like a significant portion of the congressmen are totally drunk. Or maybe that’s what Congress is always like and we only notice once per year when we watch the president on TV.

A common complaint about blogs, Twitter and Facebook status updates is that “nobody cares what you did last night.” That’s usually true, except when “nobody” is your new ex and “what you did last night” is go on a first date. In these situations, social networks become weapons of emotional warfare and the rest of us get to watch the destruction.

There was something oddly unsettling about those online ads for mortgages that featured dancing silhouettes or girls screaming and jumping in front of their webcams. You’d be reading coverage of Iraq on some struggling newspaper’s website when a popup flashing rainbow would try to get you to refinance your house.

In retrospect, this recession seems inevitable.

I don’t plan on being too involved with planning my future wedding. But the one request I do have is for the invitation RSVP card to have the following selections: “Sorry, can’t make it” and “Maybe I’m in, AND MAYBE I’M IN!”