The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Hello and happy 2022! I say this even though we're well into February. It seems like wishing you Happy New Year at this point is like congratulating you on going Clear when really you've been an Operating Thetan for months! *

* Made this mistake while standing next to Tom Cruise at a urinal in 1988.

Right now, we're closing in on both Super Bowl Sunday and Valentine's Day. Blech, it gives me a tummy tornado just to say them both in the same sentence. This year they're perversely falling on back-to-back days, so all those football fans withdrawing hard from the end of another season will now have 24 hours to get their shit together and turn into Mickey Rourke by Monday.

The Super Bowl makes me feel simultaneously hungry and queasy. It's an event that lasts a long time, and there's typically a massive spread from the get-go. People bring enough homemade peach cobbler and Costco Hogs in a Lovesack for 90 people, and, yes, go ahead and open that third box of Chicken in a Biskit on your way to the pulled pork station. All day long, it's:

a spoonful of this
and a forkful of those
and a plateful of pie covered with Oreos.

By the end of the third quarter, I've consumed enough sodium and nitrogen to constitute a live explosive, should I merely opt to eat a smidge of lawn fertilizer. Oh, and while we're on the subject, the other night I was watching the Olympics and two commercials came on. The first was for a colitis medication, followed by an ad for Chipotle. I found this a curious juxtaposition, and if anything, shouldn't the Chipotle spot have been first, based on nature's laws? 

Well, enough of the scatological bullshit. Let's talk about Valentine's Day, an event I'll call VD for simplicity's sake. I don't know about you, but it's one of those holidays that hasn't ever gone very well. I've never been much of a romantic, nothing even approaching such legendary standard bearers as Patrick Swayze in Ghost or the guy with the perm who played Luke in General Hospital. 

During my dating years, VD always caused discomfort, like an itch that was impossible to scratch. I found myself constantly guessing, wondering if I was doing enough or maybe going embarrassingly over the top, seemingly "too committed" to a relationship. And by the time this happened, VD and self-esteem had become nothing more than two shiv-waving cell mates. Ultimately I found a partner who lovingly shares my intolerance and scorn for this holiday. We may disagree on the allure of Wordle, but thank the Lord that we're no Kellyanne and George Conway when it comes to this. 

But please understand, this is my own personal hang-up. Just because I'd rather little spoon with Marjorie Taylor Greene than plan a VD surprise for someone, doesn't mean you're not entitled to your own mental scrapbook of wonderful holiday memories, both mental and physical. Knock yourself out.

Because I'd rather knock myself out than do Valentine's Day.

Your Guide to Finding the Perfect Toilet.

My wife and have been married twenty-four years.

That's kind of a long time, you know? When I really pondered this the other day, I realized the last time I kissed any female other than her or another family member, East German soldiers were still shooting at people trying to escape over the wall in balloons made from pig ears and babushka scraps.

It was an era when I remember defying Nancy Reagan's pleas on a regular basis.

The basketball I watched during this period was still played in shorts constricting enough to render an entire generation of male athletes infertile. To this day, the torso-less specter of a Larry Bird's lower extremities haunts me with a relentless vigor.

It's when my mom and dad were the same age I am now. Ouch.

Throughout my wife's and my storied epoch, situations have arisen which have chipped away at the once pristine asphalt of our relationship's high road.

Okay, that's a little murky, so let me explain.

When you first begin dating someone, you reveal only that  portion of your personality that is charming and alluring, which in my case was a tad under thirty percent. I could hold it together for a good long while, sometimes even an entire weekend, knowing that I'd eventually be free to return home and scarf an entire double cheese pizza, watch The Three Stooges marathon and scratch any itch that needed addressing.

Any itch at all.

Then we moved in together. Suddenly, I had to discreetly unsheathe my most unappealing characteristics while trying to cling to the momentum of that inspired the invitation to her hearth in the first place.

Practical considerations instantly abounded:

Where will I find a spot in the living room for my Rush poster?

What if I can't pee in the back yard?

Was I now expected to do stuff I'd seen my dad do, like taking out the garbage, changing the oil and—the holy grail of "since you're going, would you mind..." errands—buying anything made by either Playtex, Kotex or Tampax?

I remember thinking: Are you there God? It's me, Tim. If you love me like Jimmy Swaggart says you do, please drop a pack of the kind with plastic applicators in my lap right now, because otherwise I know I'll see one of my friends at Safeway shopping for Trojans two feet from my station in the feminine hygiene section.

I know what you're thinking. Grow up, little man.

And I did. In fact, I just got back from the store and guess what was nestled in the bag right next to the fat free Ready Whip, its packaging wispily decorated in pastel blues and pinks?

It wasn't the freaking Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

Yes, humility slowly erodes as we ramble down that freeway with our partner. By the time childbirth rolls around, as the kids say, "Shit gets real." Although guys have usually bared every unsightly aspect of themselves by this point, all remnants of female modesty are quickly shed when a baby is brought into the world.

And the odd thing is, nothing is gross. Everything is surreal and amazing. By the time that veiny, blue little noggin crowns, you've seen a lot, but you've also worked your way slowly up to that moment.

From then on, no subject is sacrosanct or taboo. Feces is everywhere—on your skin, on your clothes, sometimes landing in perilous proximity to your mouth and mucus membranes. You talk about when your kid poos, how frequently, how much and what color. You compare amounts consumed to quantities expelled...

...and you talk about it with each other in the same manner you formerly discussed which appetizer to order or which earrings look better with that top.

The reason I'm bringing all this up is because the other day, my wife and I went toilet shopping. We traipsed down the expansive aisle at Lowe's and stopped at a massive display of the latest in bathroom barcalounger technology.

They had really cool names, like the "Cadet 3" and the"Archer." Needless to say, I was swept up in commode mania, and I'm not going to lie—my bride appeared equally stoked about picking out a new organic matter displacement device.

Ultimately, our crucible emerged. Scrawled on a sign next to the American Standard "Champion" were the words that closed the deal:

"Capable of flushing an entire bucket of golf balls!"

No words were necessary; we looked at each other like we'd just stumbled upon our dream house.

How life has changed.

Cynthia's New Boyfriend

The table vibrated, Cynthia's ceiling flickering from the phone's orange glow.

She rolled onto her side, the digital read-out half a reach away. Good thing it was set to vibrate; her nerves were so frazzled that even a soothing ringtone would have thrown her into cardiac arrest. Is it him? For God's sake it's been three days. 

Nope. Heather. "Hi, Heather."

"Hey, Cyn, Just wondering how you're doing."

"Umm...I'm okay." She clinched the corner of the pillow. "Oh, Heather, I'm trying—I really am, but I can't stop thinking about him. He hasn't called since Sunday. I just keep feeling more and more obsessed." She rolled onto her back. "This is so crazy."

"Come on, Cyn, keep things in perspective. You know he's into you."

"I don't know. I know he's really been busy with work lately. That's what he says, anyway. Then he just shows up in the middle of the night, like he lives here."

"It's just so funny," said Heather. "I could've sworn he was gay when I first met him. He's in such amazing shape and wears those tight clothes. Those belts, the boots...and that young dude he's always hanging with. I'm just sayin'."

Cynthia sighed. "Heather, trust me... if only you knew. He is hardly gay. And he only hangs out with Rob because they're co-workers and Rob's the new guy."

"I know, and I totally trust your instincts, Cyn. I just have a feeling that there's a lot you don't know about him."

"Well, there's a lot that he doesn't know about me either. Like that joker I just broke up with. If he ever catches wind of that, we're as good as over."

Cynthia's call waiting buzzed. Her heart raced as she gazed at the number. It was him. "Hey, I've gotta go. He's on the other line. Thanks for listening, Love. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Okay, just take a deep breath. Bye, Honey."

Cynthia cleared her throat and blew out a quivering breath. Gently, she pressed "Send."

"Batman. How nice to finally hear from you..."