The Super Bowl revisited

I had two thoughts about a blogpost on Super Bowl Sunday.

First was sit down and create an entirely new post that would have humor, pathos, and speak to sportsmanship and the game as a metaphor for life.

Second, I thought I could just recycle a post I'd already written and crack open a cold one.

Guess which one I chose?

I've written a few times about the Super Bowl, here and here for example. But there's another post I had about it, one that expresses a universality we can all relate to. That speaks to an experience we've all had and continue to have on a daily basis.

And most importantly, again, means I don't have to come up with a new one.

So have a seat and take a read. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wonder where I came up with the phrase "toilet envy."

Please to enjoy.

Own a home, and you'll find yourself shopping for things you never shopped for before.

Like a new toilet.

Now, I've never been a toilet connoisseur. More of a journeyman really, just using whichever one happened to be available at the moment. You know, "the moment."

But my house has three bathrooms and four people, so the law of averages had to catch up eventually. Since the toilet in our master bathroom has decided to take a leak of it's own all over the floor every time it's flushed, it was time to aquaint myself with the plumbing section at Lowe's.

After some serious research, including what I'll call "faux test drives", this is the one that bowled me over. Yeah, I said it.

It's the Kohler Memoirs Comfort Height Toilet with Stately Design.

And why shouldn't a toilet be stately?

Now that I'm forced to actually give thought to it, turns out there are some things I don't like about the toilet I have, and some features I want in a new one.

For starters, I want one that feels like a La-Z-Boy recliner. Something comfortable. Something I can spend a lot of time on. After all, it's not just a toilet. It's also a reading chair.

One of the many reviews I've read said, "Looks good and flushes well." If only we could all say that about ourselves.

I also like the comfort height. I'm not potty training anymore, I've got it down pretty good. So I don't want to feel like I'm sitting on a trainer. And sometimes, those few seconds you save not having to situate yourself so far down make the difference between, well, they make the difference.

The only thing I don't like about this big, tall, comfortable crapper is the price. It's anywhere between $750. and $1000. depending where I buy it. Not including what it'll cost me to have it installed.

I feel a bit embarrassed about being so excited about this purchase. However that embarrassment is trumped by the cases of toilet envy I know I'll be creating once everyone who visits our house spends a little quality time with the new Kohler.

Toilet envy. Yeah, I said it.

Boxing lessons

What you're looking at here isn't actually my garage. It's a representative picture, you know, to give you an idea of what my actual garage looks like. In the same way, for example, a picture of Chris Hemsworth would be a representative picture of me.

You know I can hear you laughing, right?

When we started our kitchen/bathroom/living room remodel almost a year ago, the first thing on our to-do list was pack up everything and get it out of the house before the contractors came in to demo the place. After several runs to Box Bros., daily struggles with the tape dispenser and inhaling more marker fumes than I care or can remember while we were labeling them, we finally got it done.

That was then, and this is now. The remodel is complete, and looks fabulous.

But while the remodel proper is finished, we still have sixteen boxes sitting in the garage that have yet to be unpacked and moved back into the new kitchen.

So what's in the boxes? Who the hell knows.

We labeled them with the main items (Did I mention the markers? I can't remember), but there are lots of little gems also packed into each one just waiting to be rediscovered. The box marked "Mixing bowls" might also have clay sculptures the kids made in second grade. The "dishtowels" box could also have a stack of unpaid bills from last January waiting for us. The "Cups and saucers" box is probably filled with....well, that one is likely cups and saucers.

The thinking is one thing at a time, and do everything in the right order. First, we have to clear some room in our new kitchen cabinets so we can put away whatever is hiding in those sixteen boxes. We have yet to do this. And with the holidays upon us, it's a safe bet the boxes in the garage holding Christmas decorations are going to be unpacked way before the remodel ones. Right after we clear some room for the Christmas tree. Don't get me started.

I imagine we'll hit the year mark—January 26 to be exact—before we even start on the remodel boxes. But we'll get to unpacking them just as soon as we're able. And who knows, once we get motivated and start ripping those suckers open, we may even decide to really surprise ourselves and tackle a box or two that's been there since we moved in.

Twenty years ago.

Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Taking measure

It's been a few days since I've put up a post, but it looks like your luck has just run out. Here we go.

What you're looking at above is the floorplan of my son's new dorm room. It's a standard issue, college dorm floorpan for two. Sadly, the illustration is close to actual size. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Ok, but where's the bathroom?" The answer is down the hall.

Being my son, you'd have thought he'd have chosen a room with a private bathroom. I know it's what I would've done. But here's why he's so much smarter than I am. If you have a private bathroom, you're responsible for keeping it clean and stocked with supplies. However if you share a community bathroom, the school cleans and stocks it twice a day every day.

Plus, by a total luck of the draw, the bathroom is literally ten steps outside his door. His first class doesn't start until eleven, so he misses the bathroom rush hour.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being an only child, the concept of sharing - rooms, food, cars - is completely lost on me. And never having lived in a dorm, so is the concept of a small room with a roommate.

Of course, being the backer of this entire "college thing," I more than anyone appreciate the economy of doing it the way he's chosen to do it. He's already demonstrating a financial savvy, and classes haven't even started yet.

Still, being the pampered poodle I am, if it'd been up to me, I'd have gone in a slightly different direction with the dorm room.

Don't ask: Watching your stuff

Continuing my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such wildly popular and praised installments like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food, comes this timely post dealing with my latest irritation sweeping the nation: Complete strangers who ask me to watch their stuff.

When I work on a freelance gig that doesn't require me to be at the agency (the best kind), I like to get away from the distractions of home and use whatever Starbucks I happen to be near as my local branch office. Inevitably, as you'd expect in an establishment serving coffee in cups bigger than apartments I've had, people will eventually have to make a trip to the restroom.

For some reason, when that time arrives, I'm the guy they always turn to and say, "Excuse me, can you watch my stuff?"

I usually give them a non-committal kind of half-nod that can be taken for a yes, but that I can use for a no if their stuff goes missing and we wind up in court.

I think it's flattering people think I have an honest face (if that's what they think) and feel like they can trust me with their $3500 MacBook Pros, Swiss Army backpacks and iPhone 6's for as long as it takes them to pee. But the fact is with one house, two kids, two dogs, three cars and having to finance all of them, I have enough responsibility in my life without being a security guard for your stuff.

Plus the assumption I'm going to give chase to someone who's made off with your stuff is flattering, but misplaced. The most I'll do, and only because my sense of right and wrong is so finely honed, is try to get a plate number if they're in a getaway car.

It's an odd thing to me how unlike any place else, Starbucks and other coffee houses seem to work on the honor system. You don't leave your car running at the post office and ask the stranger walking by to watch it for a minute while you run in an mail a letter. Alright, maybe not a great analogy but you get my drift.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how nice you ask - I'm not getting shanked just because you couldn't hold it anymore.

Why not just do what I do? Get up, confidently walk to the restroom, quickly do your business and get back to your table. Make the assumption whoever's about to make off with your things doesn't know if you're watching them from the line or locked in the loo.

If your stuff is gone by the time you flush, don't blame me. I told you not to ask.

Flush with embarrassment

Years ago, I went to New York. I don’t remember the reason for the visit, but since when does anybody need a reason to go to New York?

What I do remember is getting to the city around 6:30 a.m. and going to the apartment of my friend Susan, who was from New York but who I’d worked with in L.A.

I think it's safe to say she wasn't amused when, unannounced, I was knocking at the door of her one-and-a-half room apartment, suitcase in hand, at sunrise because my hotel room wasn’t ready.

But in spite of the fact I’d inadvertently gotten to see her without her makeup on, something she was extremely unhappy about, she let me stay a few hours until my room was ready.

The room I was waiting for was at the now long gone Biltmore Hotel on 43rd and Madison. Not only was it one of NY’s architectural landmarks since it opened on New Year’s day in 1913, it also happened to be smack in the center of the NY advertising scene (the show Mad Men gets its name from Madison Avenue), and I’d just started my first job at an agency.

I was still in awe and wonder of the magic, creativity, nice people and fun of it all.

You know, just like I am now.

Anyway, I checked in and went up to my room. What dawned on me as I was in the elevator was that I hadn’t gone to the bathroom since I’d gotten off the plane at Kennedy. So when I got to the room, I dropped my suitcase on the floor, ran to the bathroom, closed the door and then proceeded to pee like a racehorse.

Now, at this point, you might be asking yourself why I bothered to close the bathroom door when I was the only one in the room. Good question, and it’s the one I’d be asking myself in a minute.

When I was done, I washed my hands, grabbed the crystal doorknob not unlike the one you see here, turned it and pulled the door open.

Except the door didn’t open. The doorknob, stem and all, came out of the door.

For a minute I thought it was funny, and the sound of my laughter was echoing off the tile walls. That went on for awhile until I realized I needed to get out of there.

I tried several times to put the doorknob back in, but it wouldn't catch. Did I mention this was July? It was hot and disgusting outside, and getting pretty warm inside.

Since I was on a higher floor, I couldn't yell out the window for help. So I wound up doing the only thing I could do. Banging the doorknob I was holding against the door, and screaming for help like a little girl.

It was not my finest moment.

After what felt like about fifteen minutes, I'd worked up a good sweat because of the heat and humidity. At least I had water and towels to wash off.

Finally hotel security came to the door and set me free. Then they called maintenance to come fix the doorknob.

I thanked him, turned on the air conditioning as high as it would go, then flopped on the bed and slept for three hours.

When I talked to my friend Susan later in the day and told her what had happened, she reacted exactly like any New Yorker would in July.

She said, "You have air conditioning?"

Blade runner

It's not easy being devastatingly handsome. Oh, I know, I make it look easy - and thanks for noticing. But really, it isn't.

The sly smile, the deep, inviting brown eyes you can get lost in. The imperfect nose, that used to be perfect until Eddie Petroff broke it in junior high (whole other post). The distinguished, full and luxurious silver mane. The proudly displayed crow's feet around those knowing brown eyes that say, "Yes, I've lived a life, I know things you don't and I'm ready for more."

When you take all that into consideration, the question really becomes why would I ever want to hide a face like that? The answer would be so I don't have to shave it.

A long time ago, in a life far, far away, I sported a full beard. It was a popular look at the time, and while I thought it made me look serious and intense like Al Pacino in Serpico, or compassionate and magnetic like Jesus, the truth is it was probably closer to Hagrid or Carlos the Jackal.

Still, it served the purpose. I didn't have to drag a razor across my sensitive skin every morning, or afternoon or whenever the hell I woke up. I'm freelance. Sometimes it's all a blur.

Over the years I tried various versions of the beard: A goatee. A mustache. A soul patch. The full Amish. But the problem with all of them was that I had to do some degree of shaving. And not just shaving, precision shaving to keep the lines straight.

I finally settled on a goatee for a number of years.

Fast forward to one of our annual trips to the Hotel Del Coronado. I was out by the pool, and between the Bloody Mary's and banana smoothies (I never was much of a swimmer), I had an epiphany.

An epiphany is three parts tequila and one part pineapple juice.

Then, I had a realization. I couldn't deny the world this face any longer. That, and I didn't want the weird sunburn lines I was getting. So with my rusty seventy-nine cent plastic Bic blade, scalding water and a lot of effort, I was off to the races.

When I got back from the races, I shaved the goatee.

Even though I didn't like the process, I did like what I saw. So for a few years now I've endured the unpleasantness of shaving every morning. Nothing good comes easy.

Then, Father's Day rolled around. And instead of another ten black t-shirts, gift certificates to AMC Theaters and dinner at Walt's Wharf, my son got me one of the best gifts ever: a membership in the Dollar Shave Club.

The initial kit comes with a tube of Dr. Carver's easy Shave Butter, Dr. Carver's magnanimous Post Shave Daily All-In-One Moisturizer and one of three mighty razors - in my case, The Executive, with six stubble-hating stainless steel blades of fury. I get four cartridges a month, so the blades never have the chance to get, how you say, unusable.

For a guy who was used to speed shaving with a Bic in the shower while racing to get to work, taking a little extra time to do it right took some getting used to. But well worth it.

The feeling is extraordinary. It's a closer shave than I ever thought possible, and once you've experienced the silky smoothness of Shave Butter you'll never go back to foam (or hot water) again. I can see my skin glow, and not just from my years at the nuclear plant. I now look forward to shaving every day.

It also doesn't hurt that the DSC website is one of the funniest, best written sites on the interwebs. Here's just a little sample of what you'll find when you click:

I don't usually endorse products or services on this blog. After all, I want to maintain what little integrity I have left. I try to stay impartial. I feel I owe that to my ten readers.

Nonetheless, I'd strongly recommend you give DSC a try. If not for the best shave of your life, then at least for the comic relief.

By the way, DSC also has a product called One Wipe Charlies. I'm still working my way up, er, down to those.

Don't ask: Sharing a hotel room

Remember when you were a kid how exciting it was to have a sleepover at a friend’s house, or have them sleep over at yours? The two of you would stay up way past lights out, smacking each other with the pillows, laughing, telling stories, trying to scare the bejesus out of each other.

I don't know if you've noticed, but as an adult most trips where you have to share a hotel room aren’t like that.

Wait, did I say have to? (laughs hysterically) I never have to. Sharing a hotel room is something I don’t do anymore. It's also the third installment of my wildly popular online series: Don’t Ask.

Just to refresh your memory, first was moving, second was picking people up at the airport. But thanks to a conversation with my friend Michelle, I was reminded about this no less essential life choice. Well, essential if you want your space, privacy, hairbrush, toothpaste, path to the bathroom and shower (don't get me started on the shower) un-invaded by anyone else.

For years I used to go with friends to Las Vegas. We'd split the cost of a hotel room (and by the way, what was the point of that? Vegas hotel rooms cost next to nothing), but then we'd have to actually share the room.

Here's the thing - when I travel, it's one of the few places where I have control over my own environment. I like things orderly. I hang clothes up. I don't let the bathroom counter become a wading pool. I set up my laptop a certain way when I'm working, and have a specific way to lock it down when I'm not.

Then there's also the Garbo factor. I want to be alone.

At this point, hotel rooms are a refuge, not quite a sanctuary, but close. Part of their appeal is I can shut everything out. That includes whomever I'm traveling with.

Listen, if we're traveling together, we'll have a great time. If you know anything about me, and you should by now, you already know I'm not the kind of person who denies myself when it comes to travel. We'll fly in the front of the plane. We'll eat in the best restaurants. We'll see the hit shows. And we'll have the best seats in the house when we see them.

But it's important you know the golden rule going in. If you can't afford your own hotel room, you can't afford to travel with me.

Urine no position to talk

I am a series of contradictions. I’m private by nature, but also a little social butterfly. Outgoing, but guarded. I like good conversation, but have no patience for small talk. I’d never describe myself as chatty, especially in certain places.

Like elevators. Or restrooms.

For some reason, the design of most men’s rooms is far too neighborly for me. At least a lot of them have the good sense to put up a divider between urinals. But even that doesn’t stop these lamebrains with full bladders and empty heads from wanting to strike up a conversation while emptying the tank.

Here’s my question: how starved for conversation are you that you feel the need to talk to a complete stranger while they’re peeing?

It usually starts with a head nod, and the usual, “Hey.” Who the hell knows where it goes from there: sports scores, cars, women. Happy to talk about them all.

Just. Not. Here.

It’s like going to clubs and seeing guys in the men’s room on their cell phones. Is that the best place to make the call? Not that urinals and toilets flushing don't make a lovely backdrop to the conversation.

Fortunately, side-by-side isn’t the only option where I’m currently working. There’s one urinal off by itself, a stall wall on one side, and a tile wall on the other. Conversation proof and private. Or as private as it can be in a public restroom. This is the one I use. If it’s busy, I’ll leave and go to another men’s room on another floor in the building. They’re all the same.

I know what you're thinking: if I want privacy, why not just use a stall? Because if I use a stall I have to close the door and lock it. I'm a bit of a germophobe. I don't want to touch more things than I have to, if you get my drift.

So a little advice when nature calls. Go, do your business, and leave. Don’t strike up a conversation, with me or anybody else.

Because you know what's almost more unbearable than being involved in a bathroom conversation? Listening to one.

What took so long - Part 2

It's been well over a year since I wrote my first installment of what I've decided is going to be an ongoing series of posts, What Took So Long. And let's face it, a year can be a long time.

Like, for example, if you're a dog. Or a Republican presidential candidate. (For a story about a dog and a Republican presidential candidate, go here.)

So today, I'm reigniting the series with a journey into the bathroom. Not the comfortable reading room I sometimes call home at home, but the public restrooms we all must eventually use despite our best efforts to "hold it until we get home".

I don't know about you, but in public restrooms, there's really only one thing I want to touch. And it isn't the toilet.

So when these hands-free, self-flushing, whisper-quiet little bowls started appearing at restaurants and movie theaters (where they were desperately needed, especially if American Pie was playing), it was a huge relief. In every sense of the word. It meant no more one-legged foot flushing, on what was often a rather, um, slippery floor to keep balanced on.

Of course, what would be the point of having a hands-free toilet if you then had to turn the wet, slimy, bacteria infested faucet handle by hand. So to compliment the toilet, hands-free faucets started showing up as well.

The very definition of technology working for you.

A welcome addition to the public restroom repertoire, the only problem with the hands free faucets is that you can't adjust the water temperature. Warm leaning towards hot seems to be the impossible dream. The other control you surrender is the speed at which the water flows out. Somewhere between a trickle and a garden hose, it still seems like a good trade-off for not having to touch it.

Completing the public restroom trifeca is the automated paper towel dispenser. This piece of equipment is the most mixed blessing of all of them. Most come with a sensor where you wave your cold, wet hand past to get it to dispense one - one - paper towel. You then have to wait a long moment for it to reset, while you stand there waving frantically to get more paper towels. Again, still worth the trade-off.

If you have any suggestions for the WTSL posts, let me know.

That's it for today's installment. Signing off for now.

And as always, I know what you're asking yourself.