Pre-School Sweethearts

"Don't mind me. I'm just nesting."

“Don’t mind me. I’m just nesting.”

Let the great debate begin. With the arrival date of a very expensive, very noisy long-term houseguest looming, Wife has been on a mission to clear out the junk in our house. She explains that she is “nesting,” but I like to think she is more along the lines of a pot-bellied robot sent back in time to eliminate high priority targets Flotsam & Jetsam, who know her only as The Tidynator. But that’s not what’s up for debate. I’m referring to the photo, circa 1989, that Wife found in a box filled with finger paintings, loose glitter, and what appears to be a lattice of popsicle sticks and glue. The photo features me, aged “This Many” (holds up four fingers), and Wife, aged “This Many” (holds up four and one half fingers), sitting back-to-back at adjacent tables in our pre-kindergarten nursery school. That’s right, Wife and I are Pre-School Sweethearts. Sure, we weren’t so much dating as Avoiding Each Other At All Costs (girls are gross!), but Pre-School Contemporaries doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Here’s where the debate really heats up: in the photo, I can be seen staring intently over my shoulder in the direction of Wife, who is being served a lunch-time hot dog by our teacher, or, as I knew her, The Lady Who Sometimes Gives Us Hot Dogs. The question is, was I unconsciously experiencing True Love, that great cosmic force that binds all beings across time and space? Or was I just really hungry? I would ask The Tidynator to travel back in time for the answer, but she went shopping for storage bins (she said she’d be back).

 

My Furry Valentine

"I want this one--the diamond necklace on page 52."

“I want this one–the diamond necklace on page 52.”

Roses are red, violets are blue, I threw up on the carpet, I’m going to go take a nap. It’s Valentine’s Day, and Cat and New Cat are really pulling out all the stops to show me and Wife just how much they love us. For example, this morning Cat let me feed him without slashing my ankles, and New Cat only vomited on our area rug a little bit. It’s moving gestures like these that remind us why we put up with the midnight maulings, high-speed pursuits that somehow always result in broken glass, and incessant, round-the-clock whining. The only problem is that I have no idea what gifts to get them. Shopping for a human on Valentine’s Day is easy enough, but cats can’t eat chocolate, they tip over flower vases just so they can watch you mop up, and they certainly can’t read sentimental notes on overpriced greeting cards. Come to think of it, they do enjoy sparkly things. Does Jared have a feline tennis bracelet or diamond claw ring? What about a bag of rubies? Would Cat enjoy batting around thousands of dollars worth of catnip-scented, precious gems? Even if he would, where am I going to come up with that kind of dough? I suppose I could steal the gems from a rich person’s house or a museum, which would make me a literal cat burglar. I would be known as Robin Cat – the fearless outlaw who robs from the rich to give jewels to his cats. Let’s just hope that the judge overseeing my sentencing isn’t a dog person.

 

A Tale of Two Toilets

Marital bliss.

Forget everything you’ve ever heard about “communication,” or “respect,” or “loving each other.”  When it comes to marriage, the secret to success is [drumroll] separate toilets. Trust me, I know: I’ve been married for three months. Three magical months of matrimony with my lovely wife, who, for purposes of anonymity, shall be heretofore referred to as “Wife.” Anyway, Wife and I have worked out a fantastic system of bathroom-ing that has simultaneously maximized efficiency and streamlined t.p. distribution. And that system is this: GET THE [expletive deleted] OUT OF MY BATHROOM! You see, in this mutually beneficial system, Wife gets to take relaxing bubble baths and store beauty products in a massive cabinet, a.k.a. “The Hurt Locker,” while I get to take showers in a scum-covered linolium stall with zero ventilation and an overhead fan coil heater that could bake chocolate-chip muffins in about fifteen minutes. Then there’s the issue of toilet usage. Let’s see, how do I put this delicately? If Wife and I were professional bull riders, and our respective toilets were bulls, I would get way, way, way, way, way more endorsement deals. This is partially due to the fact that I’m a dude, and science tells us that dudes (D) spend more time (x) per toilet trip (y) than chicks (C) [graph not pictured], but mostly that I recently figured out how to turn my phone into a six-inch wall-mounted HD television by resting it on two light switches in the “ON” position. Sure, my legs go numb, but I want to keep pretending I’m a wealthy rapper who watches Sportscenter on the john!