Do you remember O. Henry’s short story of young love, “The Gift of the Magi?” In it a poor couple barely in their twenties and madly in love secretly sell their most prized possessions for the money to buy the other a Christmas gift. The man, played by John Ritter, sells his watch to buy a set of combs for his wife’s gorgeous hair, and his wife, played by Suzanne Somers, sells her hair to buy a chain for his watch. Just add Mr. Furly and oh, what a mess we have here!

In washingtonpost.com this morning I read an article about the US Olympic Committee’s mandatory cultural etiquette course for all of its Olympic athletes in preparation for their trip to China. This time around the Americans want to avoid any national embarrassments like Bode Miller in 2006. By teaching them how to use chopsticks (hint: one hand holds both), learn basic vocabulary (”xie xie” means “thank you”) and show tolerance of foreign customs, such as a culinary preference for dog, the Committee hopes their athletes will become stellar ambassadors of their country for the next two weeks. After all, have you ever tried dog before?

Meanwhile, Saxony’s own award-lacking Sächsische Zeitung (yes, I still glance at it now and again) ran a piece entitled “Dog meat and nose picking forbidden: Rules of etiquette” focusing on the Chinese authorities’ lengthy efforts to purge their citizens of habits and customs considered rude or vulgar by many international visitors. In a classic example of political correctness gone mad, the Chinese government has spent nearly 2 years training its 1.3 billion people how to speak about approved topics in English, how to stand in lines, how to dress, not to spit, pick one’s nose or dig in one’s ear in public, and, finally, to remove chopsticks and canine cuisine from all restaurants. Infractions of many of these rules come with a fine.

Enter the athletes, armed with cultural sensitivity, chopsticks and a newly cultivated yen for chow chow.

This would be the part of the show where Chrissy’s looking for her poodle while Janet praises an ‘exotic’ meal prepared by Jack, who is rolling his eyes and smirking like a rascal.

Now Chrissy, don’t be angry.

I thought you said wok the dog!

There are some things couples do which the rest of us just don’t need to know about. I’m not talking about THOSE things - that bottom drawer filled with sordid depravities. I’m referring to another kind of intimacy performed between consenting adults - softer, gentler and not requiring an external power source. It’s called “the cutsies”, and though the name sounds harmless, innocent observers of these acts will be overcome by the same compulsion to take a long shower with gasoline and a wire brush as if they’d just stumbled upon a bondage starter kit tucked away in their parents’ basement. Eeeewwww-yuck!

Exactly what is a cutsie? no one asks. Well, let me tell you anyway. Cutsies can be just about anything: secret code pet names, lovers conducting a “No, I love you more” duel in a park on a warm spring day, refusing to be the first to hang up on your partner on a business trip, wearing the other’s underwear while cleaning the house. The vomit-inducing list is endless.

And that’s okay. It really is. As far as we here at The Typing Chimps can tell, winning an overstuffed pink unicorn at the county fair, expressing yourself in sonnets or making love-song compilation CDs for that someone special in your life are not crimes. Yet. But our high-priced team of barrister baboons has determined that getting caught doing these things is. And the penalty, dear reader, is anything but cute.

One of the defining characteristics of a cutsie is its habitual nature. It is a sign of affection which, through repetition and mutation, has evolved into a peculiar ritual completely detached from its original meaning. One warm Monday morning long ago, Katrin and I said goodbye to each other for the day at our apartment door. “Have a good day,” I stated. “Thanks. You too,” she responded. I closed the door behind her and decided to water the balcony plants before the sun reduced them to ashes. While watering, I saw Katrin walking across the courtyard below. “So long, baby,” I called. She turned around and looked up. “Bye!” She smiled, waved and was gone.

Behold! A cutsie was born. What started off as a single chance opportunity on the balcony became a regularly kept engagement within a short amount of time. Naturally I assured myself in the beginning that I was only on the balcony at 7:30 every morning because of my responsibility to the delicate flora and - oh, by the way, there goes your wife, who you just saw 18 seconds earlier. Wave bye-bye again! But even on rainy mornings, no sooner had Katrin left than I went to the kitchen, where I would stand sheltered in the balcony doorway, hoping she would turn around to see my hand fanning the air hidden behind well hydrated plants. She would, and waved back too. Autumn and winter came, and still you’d find me, now devoid of all botanical pretenses, snug in a plush bathrobe and toboggan, furiously waving as much to keep me warm as to bid her farewell. The cutsie lived on.

Until last week. That’s when I discovered I had been committing a very serious crime. To my red-faced shame, I learned I had been observed by our neighbors. It was another warm sunny morning. There’s Chris in position, here comes Katrin. Action! Cue the wave. Go to blow-the-kiss (a relatively new development in the ceremony). And … cut! Suddenly from the balcony across the courtyard I heard a female voice. “It’s the same thing every day with you two!” Caught! We’d been caught! In a most intimate moment. How long had she been watching us? How long had I been embarrassing myself in front of others? Oh the humiliation! I can never show my face on the balcony again.

I am guilty. Guilty of being cute.

So I’m moving back home. Yes, yes, I know. Believe me, whatever you’re thinking or saying or kind of choking on as milk comes through your nose from laughing so hard, I’ve already thought it or said it or choked on it.

BUT the good side of all this is that I finally got RID of a bunch of stuff. The neighborhood had one of those monster “everyone get in on it!” garage saley type things so we took advantage of the opportunity. For weeks we’ve been piling things up in our hallway–things we didn’t want to see or think about but didn’t quite have the energy to actually put in the trash–telling ourselves, “it’s for the garage sale!” as though it were for some great charitable cause. I AM poor enough to qualify for need-based charitable aide, mind you, but that’s not quite the same thing.

So finally the day arrived, though not without some stressful lead-up. All that crap had to be priced and arranged so that our neighbors could thumb through it as they made judgements about our socio-economic placement in the neighborhood hierarchy whilst trying to decide if we would take $5.00 for that handheld massager. It was a success though–ours was the only themed garage sale: Tiki Madness. The Hawaiian music was a hit and we got to use those tropical decorations ONE LAST TIME. Actually, our sale was pretty popular, if I do say so myself (and I do). People seemed to have a good time and we even sold our two tupper-tombs full of costumes and hats (doesn’t everybody have a giant container of costumes/hats in their home?? Well, ours does. Or did).

The best part is that I finally got rid of some of my Duran Duran stuff. Yes, that’s right. I sold some of it and I’m giving the rest to Goodwill. I kept the records, don’t get me wrong, but a lot of the paraphenalia is going away. I’ve learned, though my own self-counseling, medication, and eBay surfing that my fixation wasn’t healthy. Plus, that stuff wasn’t really selling on eBay, so why hold on to it?

One less monkey on my back.