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I don't like to complain.

OK, I do. Just ask my wife. I tend to complain to her (not about her!) regarding all manner of things from never-ending TV commercials to inconsiderate drivers. I don't think she enjoys being a sounding board for my problems with civilization, but she listens politely before sighing yet again at my grumbling about squirrels in the bird feeder and remembers she has something to do in another part of the house.

The temptation to complain is just too great in a world gives that gives us so much to complain about. There are life qualities that keep us happy, of course -- health (hopefully), family (except cousin... well, never mind), friends (ditto), nature (except creepy things) and all the good this country has to offer.

But what can one criticize productively? There is probably no point in grousing about the many nasty goings-on in the world. I won't even enumerate them here because I don't want to bring the mood down by dredging up all that depressing stuff we read about in the paper every day.

Besides, other than sending your check for $20 to your favorite charity there is not a lot an individual can do unless you're another Bill Gates with a foundation.

No -- I prefer to grumble about the personal pokes in the ribs that beset us every day, like the horror of toothpaste tubes designed so that you can't squeeze out all the toothpaste. How annoying is it that when you have dutifully brushed twice every day and you get down to the bottom -- actually the top -- of the tube, and you have flattened the thing as best you can without resorting to the vise in the garage, there remains trapped in it a weeks' worth of fluoridated whitening power that you obviously paid for but can't squeeze out?

A magazine had a recent article about this toss-before-using marketing technique. They cited not only toothpaste, but also other paste-like substances as offenders. The worst were some skin lotions, which they say left up to 25 percent of themselves in the bottle, but the article also listed liquid detergent and condiments like mustard and ketchup. I'm not surprised that ketchup made the list -- it's hard enough to pound any of the stuff out.

Some breakfast cereals also encourage us to toss before using because they crumble progressively from flakes to crumbs to dust as you near the bottom of the box. Try putting milk on that and you end up with a pasty mush suitable for filling cracks in the wall. You could try using the dry crumbs to bread chicken for frying. May be delicious.

To make my complaints actually productive, however, it isn't enough just to annoy my wife with them. I must get back to the manufacturer to inform them of their problem -- they may consider it less a problem than a profit enhancer -- and hope they will do something about it. Take the cereal, for instance. I called the 800 number on the box and went through the various stages of yelling my name and the nature of my problem into the speech-only answering system. Fortunately, the system did not recognize my most heart-felt speech, which I offered after it told me for the third time to repeat the name of my selection.

When I did reach a human, she seemed genuinely interested in understanding my problem so she could inform the marketing department; they would surely want to know. Could I speak directly with the marketing department, please? No. Just her. I went through my critique about flakes and crumbs and dust and paste, oh my. She repeatedly assured me she understood my disappointment, as she had been trained to say as a method of soothing an unhappy customer.

Then she offered to send me a coupon for a replacement box of the cereal I was complaining about. How could I refuse? I gave her my name. She entered it... and recited my address! I was in their database! A chronic complainer! So not only my wife knew -- the whole retail world must know of me! Busted.

On the other side of the scale, I sometimes call a company to tell them they're doing a good job and how much I like their product. That's a fun thing to do. But for the long term, I must find new things to grumble about. Many worthy irritations have already been widely criticized, including plastic blister packages you have to cut open with a laser to get your hands on your new calculator, and the dreaded computerized telephone voice that suggests, "Press 17 for further options."

However, I'm working hard on finding new stuff to complain about. I have to. I kvetch, therefore I am.

Bernard Jacks is a freelance humor writer who lives in Marlboro.