Potty Humor

I work in what amounts to an office building with several departments sharing the second floor. I have a ridiculous addiction to Diet CokeÔ so I find myself vagabonding to the facilities several times a day. I cannot speak for girls but for men, there is a certain code of ethics one must follow when in our porcelain utopia. There are the well known ones: if applicable, ALWAYS put at least one urinal between yourself and the other gentleman. Nothing screws up my chi like when a guy comes in and stands right next to me when there are two or three other places for him to stand. This is especially aggravating at stadiums and arenas where there are 40 urinals. Perhaps it is my animal magnetism or my striking blue eyes that pop when I’m wearing a blue shirt, or other unmentionables.

Men should not speak past a polite “hello” or my personal calling card, “sup dude.” Anything further disrupts my comfort level and concentration. Unless I’ve had asparagus and I feel compelled to apologize because nobody really needs to be subjected to that. I actually apologize to myself in this case. Ick.

While the above two are important, they are not the pinnacles of the bathroom dude code. Nay. Together, those are but the penultimate to my number one rule: When you are going number two or otherwise involved with a bathroom stall and you hear the bathroom door open, it is a moral imperative that you give some sort of signal alerting others that the space is occupied. Normally this is achieved through a clearing of the throat or a sniffing of the nose. It behooves me to illustrate this with a story.

Most times when I walk into the rest room and I hear the signal, I think, “Oh heavens, I have intruded on someone’s happy time. I shall be silent, finish quickly, and exit expeditiously.” This time though, there was no signal. There was nothing at all but complete, utter silence. And for that, I learned something new about myself; a new, deep, dark secret. I sing when I pee. I did not hum, I did not mumble incoherent lyrics under my breath. I straight made that toilet my own personal Broadway stage. I wish I could say I at least sang something manly, Eye of the Tiger, Welcome to the Jungle, Enter Sandman. No dice. Gaga. Opening stanza. Bad Romance. I put such a tongue roll on the first two “ RAH RAH’s” that I almost did a little salsa dance. That could cause splash and dribble though. Splash and dribble are unacceptable so I held strong.

I completed my five-second self-concert and was pretty proud of myself when I heard the unmistakable rattle of keys from one of the stalls. Privacy foiled. He gave no signal. I saw no feet beneath the door. At first I thought perhaps he had them pressed against the door, you know, for leverage. But then, I heard no squeaks nor squirts, and smelled no funk. Who was this ninja? I had no time to find out. I had to get the heck out of dodge lest my identity be discovered and I be outed as the surefire pop icon I know I can be. I zipped, washed, dried, and made it out the door in less than three seconds, albeit not real clean and not real dry. Adrenaline, what can I say?

So let that serve as a lesson to you. If you are in the stall and you hear the door open. You best sigh heavily or you could find yourself witness to amazing vocals and possible choreography.

Dad Stories

Getting older makes Christmas lists harder. Now, when we want something, we just go buy it. This year I mainly asked for books and clothes. These are lame gifts when you are young but surprisingly satisfying once 30 rolls around. I also asked for the new Legend of Zelda game to play on my Wii. It will surely remind me of college when I would play the new Zelda game on the N64 sitting in my roommate Luke’s recliner taking shots of Iron City beer every 60 seconds. Now though, I will sit on the edge of my couch taking sips of water while praying to God that the authentic sword sounds emanating from my controller don’t wake my wife up. That happened once. That won’t happen again.

My dad is irritatingly hard to shop for. He tells you that he doesn’t want anything and he absolutely means it. One Christmas, I bought him the book Friday Night Lights before it was ever a movie or TV show. He re-gifted it to me later that evening. He seemed really excited to give me the book so I in turn was excited to receive it. He can just get inside your head like that. Consummate salesman, my dad.

One time in middle school, I had to take a Home Economics class. I like to be well rounded. I can’t always be about sports and girls. Sometimes a guy needs to sew himself some pants to feel good about himself. In my mission to manufacture these dungarees of doom, I needed to procure a pattern. Unfortunately for me and my dad, my mother was working at a local arts festival and would not be able to escort me to the pattern store. Against every ounce of his being, my dad was forced to step in and deliver me to Hancock Fabrics. Dude was not happy and I was not to forget it. We walked in and he proceeded to make a scene. First, he proclaimed that his son was there to purchase a pattern and then he made the sales lady search through each and every pattern book making sure we left no stone unturned before picking out my pants. He enthusiastically bought me an entire sewing kit complete with thimbles and a pin cushion. He made the sales lady look for one that could go on my wrist but they were out of stock. He honestly still brings that up 20 years later. Again, that’s my dad.

Moving along several years, I was out of the house and on my own and I moved into the stage of life where the father-son lunch meeting becomes a regular occurrence. I find two specific experiences indicative of lunch with dad. One time, he asked me to meet him at Subway for lunch and to talk about finances or other responsibilities that I do not excel at. I pulled up next to his Silverado pickup truck and we walked in the store. We make small talk as I place my order and watch my sandwich artist attempt perfection and I realize that my dad never ordered his sandwich. I ask him what he’s going to get and he points to the register. This sub shop already had it made and rung up when they saw him walk in. I first assume that I’ve walked into the most special, wonderful subway that ever was. Turns out that dad is now old and habitual. He eats there every single day. He at least had the damned decency to look a little embarrassed about it though.

My sister and I used to have an old stand-by for Christmas presents for dad. He has an undying passion for cafeteria food and Luby’s was his Camelot. He absolutely loved getting gift cards from there. At one point he convinced them to give him their recipe for fresh, cooked green beans. Dad and I had another lunch date and we were going to do this one Luby’s style. We grabbed our trays at the head of the line and proceeded down the bar grabbing food. I was introduced to each and every single line worker. We get to the drink station and I grab a soda and I look at my dad to see what he wants. He tells me he’s good and we pay and walk to the table. Sitting on our table is a napkin with the word “RESERVED” written in ball point pen and a tall glass of iced tea with an extra glass of ice on the side. I’m speechless but this time, dad is proud. He’s arrived. Some men have their country clubs and golf carts but my dad doesn’t need luxury. He has Luby’s, a greasy cafeteria chain with employees who treat him like a deity. Luby’s actually closed so dad really only has Subway...and this Chinese place that he used to go to on Sundays after church. He hasn’t been to a service in a while though so he skips that place because he doesn’t like being judged by the self-righteous old bitty crowd.

I could write an entire book about experiences with my dad, like the time we were at playing in the ocean at Gulf Shores, Alabama and a wave came up and knocked my mom’s bikini top off. Dad took one look and ran the other way up the beach because mom was making a scene. Tim doesn’t do scenes and neither do I.

At The Door Of The Green Dragon

My mother always hoped that I’d one day get my grown up taste buds. I’m a picky eater and this causes me to be the frequent target of unnecessary ridicule. Actually, it’s pretty necessary and gives others hours of enjoyment. I use to spend the night at my best friend Andy’s house fairly often. I drove his mother nuts because she is quite the gourmet but would have to create a separate meal for me so “that little Noland boy” could eat. This usually consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while they dined on something fancy that involved onions. I cannot stand onions. They will make me scream like a girl. Unless I’ve been drinking. There are two things that I will never eat unless I have two or more adult beverages, or one Zima: Onions and Cool Ranch Doritos. I can’t explain it. Some guys like to show off in a bar by brawling or hitting on women. I eat onions.

Let me digress even further here for a second and then I’ll swing back around and tie everything together. I’m working on a graduate degree in communications. What can I say; I’m aiming for the big bucks. I just finished a class in communication theory. You know you’re starting to really grow up when the professor is only two years older than you. I found the class extremely interesting and more than a little insightful but that’s not the point. We just finished finals. For this class, the final included an oral component. We live in Charleston, SC though so chances are, I’m better than you. That’s actually not true but it makes the next sentence more powerful. We don’t take finals in classrooms, we sound off in juice bars. My professor owns one of those places that specialize in blending wheat grass, exotic fruit juices, and fancy fiberful (not a real word) delectables, most of which are green.

I showed up on a Sunday morning to find my professor conducting an exam with another student. I had a few minutes to kill so I figured I’d pick something up from the bar. Nothing like a little commerce to get in good with the prof. I looked over the menu and settled on something called The Green Dragon, mostly because it just sounded so darn manly. The drink contained a fabulous mix of mango, apple, kale, and cayenne pepper. I don’t eat any of those things by themselves, let alone blended together but again, I’m opening up my palate so I went for it. I don’t really know how to sip anything so I gulped it down rather quickly. Hindsight man, hindsight. As the other student was finishing up the oral exam, my stomach started growling like the lion at the beginning of MGM movies. At first it tickled and then it didn’t tickle anymore. My stomach got angry and decided to be a jerk. My time had come and I did what can only really be described as an extended sashay to the back of the restaurant while trying to keep my integrity in tact. I sat down at the table across from my professor and had the following exchange: “Look, I need you to understand that it is a MORAL IMPERATIVE this exam be concluded within the next 15 minutes. I just drank your unholy firewater and I’m doing my absolute best not to conduct a sacrilegious b-hole dance right here in this establishment.”

I think she got the gist of the situation but I’m pretty sure part of her wanted to extend it just to mess with me. If that were the case, I would be forced to respect her and hold her in high regard for a well-played battle. Fortunately, I feel like I passed the oral portion of the exam with flying colors. I drove home very quickly to take care of things. My wife and I still do not speak and the dogs look at me funny. Strangely enough, I find myself craving another Green Dragon. Much like my Zimas though, I need to build a tolerance. I get the best of both worlds though. Total nutrition followed by a total cleanse.

Negotiating My Dignity

One thing I’ve learned in my almost three years of marriage is the art of compromise. That’s actually the politically correct and clichéd way of putting it. What I’ve actually learned is the skill of bartering, or man time negotiation.

Last weekend, my wife went with me to watch Rise of the Planet of the Apes. As most men are no doubt aware, this isn’t the type of thing that a woman does voluntarily. As a rule, girls don’t dig talking primates and battles. I think it should be a mandate that there is ALWAYS room for battles. Since she sacrificed much of what she stands for to see that movie, I would soon have to do the same. Today I paid the piper when I accompanied her to see The Help.

This is a story that involves societal women in the south and their treatment of their maids. The movie is based on a novel of the same name that every single girl over the age of seven owns. We walked into the sold out theater and I immediately saw the three other males in the audience. We stand out at events such as these. I made eye contact with each of them and we formed an unspoken bond as they too were there to pay their penance. I think I’d seen one of them earlier in the summer at Zookeeper. We were both making it up to our wives for making them go see Captain America. You do what you’ve got to do.

I really don’t like going to these movies with my wife because I feel so much pressure to act sensitive. I had to whip up some fake tears when the main character in the movie realized a woman who helped raise her passed away. I cannot stand having to fake cry at movies. I haven’t seen a Disney movie since 1986 when Feivel sang Somewhere Out There. Even as an eight year old I felt pressure and “fake” cried for three hours after we got home from the theater because of that Godforsaken song.

The fall months are approaching and they bring with them cooler temperatures, changing leaves, college football, and a new season of TLC. For those of you still single, TLC is a channel that wives love to watch because of their shows about fashion, any baking fad, and stupid southern people. I’m not proud of it, but I no longer view TLC as a bargaining chip. I have been sucked into this world of extreme couponing and hoarding. I got rid of all of my baseball cards and filled the plastic sheets with coupons. Kristen asked me the other night what we were going to fix for dinner. I told her I wasn’t sure but it would probably involve mustard. Why, you ask? I don’t like it and I don’t need it but I had a super saver coupon. We now have 27 bottles and we are going to use every one of them. Thanks Extreme Couponing.

If you have not done so already, please do yourself a favor and catch Toddlers and Tiaras. It is absolutely must see TV. Where else can you find overweight redneck women forcing their three-year-olds to get botox and weaves? I watch it so that I can learn about sass.

Please don’t get me wrong, boundaries do exist. I will sacrifice football before I ever watch one of the Housewives of… shows but that’s fine and dandy because I can usually just substitute it with Teen Mom.

So yes, three years of marriage has trained me well. I’ve accepted the fact that man cards do not exist within the context of holy matrimony. I’m also aware that like everything else in life, all things are negotiable.

So long as dignity is not involved.

His Body, His Choice

Marrying a veterinarian no doubt leads to many animal debacles. There is never a dearth of source material when you have a dog like Jeffrey. Jeffrey is our Pomeranian that refuses to weigh more than four pounds no matter how much we feed him. He is not the manliest of dogs but I remain comfortable around him since I grew up with several dogs that would rather ride shotgun in a purse or a basket in front of a bicycle than the back of a pickup truck.

A little personal animal history: as a toddler, we had two bigger dogs at the house. One night, in an early display of my infinite wisdom, I tried to grab a ball out of one of their mouths.

That did not end well.

I was pounced and mauled and left 1mm away from losing my left eye. That was the end of the big dogs for me. I graduated to a more sophisticated type of canine, that of the toy variety. I’ve grown up with two poodles, a lhasa ahpso, and now I’m breaking in my second Pomeranian. There have been other animals in the mix like birds, fish, and a hamster named George, but the dogs remain the sticks by which I am measured.

We should probably get back to Jeffrey though, because you do not keep Jeffrey waiting. That’s free advice if you ever come to my house. He is not the most masculine of dogs and I am not the most masculine of men when I’m around him. We had a repairman come to our house to replace the surface of our shower. Kristen wasn’t able to take Jeffrey with her to her clinic so I was stuck with him. I opened the front door with our little cotton ball of indomitable fury tucked neatly under my arm, a place where he stayed for five solid hours. I couldn’t just let him roam free because the repairman was using some fairly potent chemicals and sealants. What kind of parent would I be? Jeffrey was my right hand man for most of the day. Manly.

I tried to walk Jeffrey once. I made sure to leave my man card on the kitchen counter next to the Wusthofs and top shelf tequila where I knew it would be safe and proceeded out the front door with my little rascal. Two things happened to me when I slipped the leash over the head of this little animal that is smaller than my shoe. I immediately clinched my butt and stuck my nose in the air. There might have even been prancing. This euphoria lasted for a second and a half because of a metamorphosis not seen since John Landis and Michael Jackson hooked up on Thriller. There stood before me on two legs a snarling maw of slobber and teeth. That dog does not like to wear a leash. This veritable werewolf made me forget he was less than six inches tall and I let out what can only be described as a very loud squeak. Walk finished. We made it to the mailbox.

I mention these things to illustrate that with the exception of his aversion to leashes, Jeffrey does not stand out as a pinnacle of masculinity. The most glaring of examples, thus far at least, happened two weeks ago. Our morning routine is fairly set. Kristen leaves the house while I’m still in the shower. I get out and pick up whatever the dogs have destroyed in the interim. This particular Friday, Jeffrey decided to throw me a curveball. I got out of the shower expecting the dogs to be dragging an old pair of socks or a t-shirt from the dirty clothes. If only that were the case.

As I opened the door and alighted from the bathroom shrouded in steam, I beheld Jeffrey in all his glory. He was lying down with paws perfectly crossed, head tilted ever so slightly, and tongue agape. With that pose, he could be in Westminster or on magazine covers were it not for the little silver package held between those perfectly crossed paws. For that package once held Yaz, the latest and greatest in contraception science. Two thoughts immediately flooded my mind. Number one, had my mother put him up to this as some stealthy way of securing a grandchild? Number two, was my already less than manly boy dog going to grow ninnies? OD, our big mutt, evidently thought so because he kept giving Jeffrey his best, “hey baby, wanna wrestle?” look.

A man should never have to witness his son, no matter the species, ingest birth control pills. Déjà vu because I made a sound that can only be described as a very loud squeak. I grabbed the package and lunged for my phone to call my wife. She wouldn’t stop laughing. I’m glad she was taking this so seriously. Not to worry, she tells me, he should be fine. Yeah, except for the fact that he just ate birth control and my other dog is looking at him lustfully. I had to trust her though because she is a doctor. We’ve kept an eye on Jeffrey for the last couple of weeks and he’s showing no adverse effects though he’s not allowed to talk to my mother anymore. You can’t be too careful.

House of Mouse

On October 18, my lovely betrothed and I will celebrate three years of marital bliss. I like to think that we chose to get married in October because the changing of the leaves each fall reminds us of our special day and the vows that we spoke. The reality of the situation is that we were really super psyched about our Caribbean honeymoon and October means no kids, fewer tourists, and cheap rates. Granted, we were catching the tail end of hurricane season but what’s the point of spending thousands of dollars if you’re not willing to take a little risk now and then.

We debated returning to the Caribbean for our three-year anniversary but fiscal responsibility got the best of us. The cost of plane tickets always seems to throw a wrench into travel plans. However, thanks in equal parts to geographical proximity and extreme parental neglect by the Nolands, our new destination became a fairly easy choice. Everyone I talk to seems appalled that I’ve never been to Disney World so hold onto your hats because the mouse drought will come to an end in October.

My wife and I are both excited about the trip to Orlando. Growing up, I received regular reports from friends who made the journey to Walt’s place and reconnoitered Space Mountain and Epcot. Now it’s my turn to let my imagination run wild. Even though I’m 32 years old, I don’t think I’ll be able to leave without donning a pair of mouse ears and riding Dumbo and the tea-cups. I will do my best to make it look only sad and pathetic rather than utterly creepy. Grown men and kiddie rides don’t normally mix but this is the happiest place on earth and I fully plan on getting my money’s worth.

I called my dad to tell him about our plans and the conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hey dad, Kristen and I are going on vacation in October, we’re headed to Disney World.”

Dad: “Why are you going there again?”

Me: “I’ve never been before dad.”

Dad: “You mean you didn’t go with us?”

Me: “No.”

Dad: “Oh. That must have been before you were born.”

Me: “Wow, okay cool.”

Dad: “Wait, we didn’t take you when we took your sister?”

Me: “No, I didn’t realize you ever took her.”

Dad: “Yep. That might have been the most fun I’ve ever had on a vacation and we even took your mother.”

Me: click.

Imagine my surprise to learn that my sister had already visited the magic kingdom. That harkens back to the time I got two pastel t-shirts from my parents for my 21^st birthday that made me look like I’d just returned from Jazzercize. My sister just barely beat me out with her 21^st birthday gift. She got a Camry. But I’m not bitter. *

Kristen and I will spend part of our week at Universal Studios. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter will most likely get the lion’s share of our time there. Not because there’s a great deal to see but because apparently there’s a two-hour line just to get into “Honeydukes” to get a butterbeer. I’m not even sure if there are rides at this place. That’s okay because my focus, apparently, will be on procuring an authentic wizarding wand and an overpriced cream soda. Shamelessly though, I’m okay with that.

Since we don’t have kids yet, we’re doing our best to travel as much as possible. From what I’ve always been told, the notion of not having a good time at Disney World is inconceivable. I’m excited to see if these icons that I’ve grown up hearing about and watching on TV meet or exceed my expectations. I certainly hope so because in our quest to save money and skip the Caribbean, we’ve discovered that this magical kingdom in Florida is fairly over priced but nonetheless, I remain excited.

Granted, I’ll probably not be screaming in the midway with Mickey and Minnie like other little kids of yore, or dancing with Cinderella in front of her castle. After all, I have my own Cinderella that I get to spend time with every day. Although sometimes, when Jeffrey goes poop on the floor, my Cinderella can be equal parts wicked stepmother and Cruella Deville. Fortunately for our animals, I’m able to step in and act like Princes Charming and Valiant.

One day, sometime after we return from our trip, I want to sit down with our nephews and compare notes. They went as kids and I went as an adult. I’m curious to see how we differ in our experiences. I wonder if there will be any differences at all. This is Disney after all. It makes no difference who you are.

Right?

* I’m actually not bitter at all. We were both spoiled rotten. Sometimes I have to take liberties though.

Fido Play-Doh

I've come to a point in my life where I believe I'm on the cusp of middle age. Inevitably, I start to reflect on time spent growing up. Friends and I sometimes get together and talk about how things were when we were kids and we always come to the conclusion that kids today are really missing out on some things. I'm not naive enough to think that my generation is the only one that does this. I think its just a part of growing up.

A whole new generation is hearing about Michael Jordan now that he's constantly contrasted with Lebron James. High school seniors were three years old when Jordan won his last NBA championship so for them, he only exists on highlight reels while we got to actually witness the greatest basketball player to ever play the game. Also, kids today don't have Saturday morning cartoons to watch like we did. I remember waking up at 6am on a Saturday morning to watch shows like the Gummy Bears, Slimer and the Real Ghostbusters, and the Smurfs. As I matured, I preferred the deeper messages offered by the sages of Saved By The Bell and California Dreams. Who can forget Jessie Spano's addiction to speed and her inspiring rendition of the Pointer Sister's "I'm So Excited"? Crack is whack Jessie. It leads to Showgirls.

Not only was my generation exposed to these half-hour gems of episodic bliss, but we also got to reap the joys of the action figure tie-ins. Oh the hours we would spend memorizing the combination of twists and turns it would take to transform a mack truck into Optimus Prime. Do you remember the imagination it took to pretend your parents weren't just cheap and that GO-BOTS really were as good as Transformers? GI-JOE, Thundercats, Voltron, M.A.S.K, Jem and the Holograms all had an impact on me one way or another. Kids today just don't have the same opportunities to watch cool tv shows and play with cool toys.

Oh sure, now that Transformers is a movie franchise, HASBRO released a new line of toys but these are low quality, plastic junk. The Transformers we played with were solid metal. It seems like the main shows that little kids watch today are of the Spongebob and Dora the Explorer variety. Are the toys from these shows robots that turn into something useful like a tape deck or realistic gun? I bet not but Dora sure has a nifty backpack. That screams fun.

My wife is floating the Edisto River tomorrow and she needed an innertube. So we did what every other red blooded American does when such a need arises and headed straight to Wal Mart. While she was checking out the pool section, I was hanging out with the toys. This was around 9pm so I needn't worry about looking creepy since most kids should be in bed. I flipped through stacks and stacks of new Transformer and GI JOE figures. While I think they're junk, I can still find the time to appreciate them. Heck, I still head straight for the toy isle every time I visit Walgreens. Sad but true.

While searching for the ultimate inner tube, Kristen found something I had to behold. She dragged me two isles away and to feast my eyes upon this. Yes, it is a game called Doggie Doo and the object is to feed the dog and watch him go doo doo. I almost cried. If ever there was a game in line with my sense of humor and maturity level, this was it. Doggie Doo is a complete rip off of the Play-Doh Fun Factory Set but if you're going to rip off a classic, this is the way to do it. Scatalogical canines are fun no matter what the context. Because of this find, I've had to rethink my entire view of kids today. I no longer feel sorry for them, I envy them. I got to play with the HE-MAN slime pit and kids today get to play with turds. Sure, they don't have Zach Morris or AC Slater. They don't understand that "knowing is half the battle" or the gravitas of the "power of grayskull". But just like any kid in the history of time, they understand feces.

And that is good.