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).


Love in a Cash Climate

Exact change.

It’s wedding season. And after seeing some of the price tags on these celebrity circus nuptials, I’ve made up my mind: my daughters are having cash weddings. What’s a cash wedding, you say? Well, it’s sort of like a cash bar, except…it’s a wedding. You want to sit during the ceremony? Twenty bucks. Oops, those are the premium seats, that’ll be an extra thirty five. You want to be able to see the bride as she walks down the aisle? Fifteen dollars or the blindfold goes back on. You want to marry my daughter? One thousand big ones, unless there are any other suitors out there who’d be willing to pay double (hey, what’s wrong with a little capitalist competition?). Some may say that having a cash wedding is “extreme,” or that the father of the bride is “insane.” You want to know what’s really insane? FORTY DOLLARS A BOTTLE for twelve dollar wine! FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS AN HOUR to rent silverware! THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS to pay a human to play digital music! You think I’m cheap because I charge four dollars per handshake. You think it’s unspeakable that I should turn a sacred tradition into a money making scheme. But I am merely beating the system at it’s own game. That system being the wedding industry, of course. Far too long have the fat cat wedding planners, caterers, and hotel ballroom janitors sat back and watched a bunch of sillies do the Electric Slide while they quietly count their millions and mouth the lyrics. Well, guess what, you corporate wedding swine? Not on my watch! Granted, none of this has any bearing whatsoever if I don’t wind up having daughters (I hope I do), but I’d like to think you enjoyed reading nonetheless. Because you now owe me seven dollars.

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!