There is this old Chinese guy sitting in front of me. i don’t know him, but I think he may be the most interesting person in the world. Well, at least for today.
He has a long and bushy mustache that most Chinese guys can only dream of. He is like Lo Pan meets Burt Reynolds. Rugged. Learned. Handsome. He is sipping on a hot cup of coffee and tackling a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. Why is he so interesting? He is taking bites from the tasty dessert with military precision. One bite – 1/8 of a piece. Then again, then again. all the while, his eyes never drift from the paper he is reading. I know Asian people were majestic. But shit, are they even majestic when it comes to eating cheesecake?
The effort and concentration astounds me. Not a single crumb. Is this some sort of wizard cake? In the background, two men who likely turn on Fox News first after they come home from work are talking about Obama’s plan to “oversex” and “overpay” the military. I had to find out about that cake. Was he a wizard, or was it the cake. I went up to the counter and ordered a slice. I paid the try-to-be-hard Mumford reject and sat down. Me and the wizard locked eyes. Could he sense my fear? My hands gripped my plastic weapon, and I dug in.
The cake is a lie. Crumbs everywhere. The old Chinese man folded his paper like origami, smiled, and walked away. That’s how I met the cake wizard.
As a student of the interwebs, I come across a lot of lists. There is no denying the “listmania” revolution is upon us. Do I really want to know ten different things everybody my age can identify with? No. Do I click on it anyway? Yes. Stupid internet.
If you are still reading this now, I hope I have caught you in this web. I wanted to come up with a list that is deeply personal to me as a (man) at the dawn of his thirtieth decade. In honor of national underwear day today, I came up with a list of 5 things I ALWAYS need, yet somehow avoid buying all the time.
1. A Sun Visor for my Car
I work at the Washington Navy Yard in Washington, DC. Unlike most people who work in DC, I have the option of free parking. Such luxury, however, comes at a price. I get up at 4:35am and drive into the yard to get to work at 5:45am. It’s beyond early. A friend of mine who works at the yard calls it “coming in with the vampires.” Anyways, its early. Driving to work has been a genuine pleasure. Although I get to work at the ass-crack of dawn, I have the option to leave in the early afternoon on my own time. Leaving this summer, however, has been more than a bitch. It’s been hot. I park my car in a small lot near the river’s edge in central yard. Needless to say, there is no shade for any of the vehicles there. By the time I get to my car at 2:30, it feels like an oven. It doesn’t help that 2:30 is usually the peak time for temperature. No amount of AC blasting will get it cool. By the time I get the car cool, I am back home in Alexandria. I have resorted to just rolling the windows down all the way home. Ironically, it’s actually cooler than trying to cool down the inside of a car that reaches over a hundred degrees on average each summer day. It’s not so bad, though; I get to smell the sweet air of DC Water everyday.
I park next to the same car every day. It’s a silver Mazda with a sun visor. I am half tempted to break into the car to see just how cool it feels at the end of the day. As much as I bitch and moan about how hot it is, I have yet to purchase a sun visor. I keep telling myself I don’t know where to find one.
I can’t wait until summer is over.
2. A Nice Suit/Nice Ties
I’ve never been one with good tastes in clothes. That doesn’t mean I don’t wouldn’t mind some. Sure, I have some nicer things that I wear (or that my fat ass can still fit into) from time to time, but I generally wear the same thing everyday. True story – I haven’t worn a pear of jeans in almost five years. All corduroy, baby. Every website that lists things a man my age “should have” by the time he reaches 30 is a nice tailored suit. Unfortunately, I deal with the mix and match. I rocked the professional look (brown jacket and slacks) for years, and I still bring it out on special occasions for work. Unless a giant cash flow comes in the near future, I will continue rocking the clothes I wear.
I get a little sad every time I walk by a nice suit in a store. For now, I’ll look like I am in a David Byrne video. Things to work for, though.
As far as the ties are concerned, all but one are hand-me-downs from my father. Why? To be honest, I generally suck at dressing myself and chose the most neutral tie choices to match any outfit. I am a poorly dressed chameleon. Also, nice ties are super expensive, and I don’t think I could pull off a power tie anyway.
Listen, if wearing sweatpants to work was acceptable, I would have one outfit.
3. A Potato Masher
This one is relatively self-explanatory. What the hell do you use to mash something if you don’t have a masher? My wife and I have resorted to using a hand blender. It works fine, but it’s truly not the same. I want to mash things, dammit. I want to reenact Alan Rickman stabbing the table in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves…but with potatoes.
This is really just a silent plea for more mashed potatoes.
4. Nice Underwear
You get me, Garth.
In the history of my adult life, I have never bought underwear that did not come in a 3 pack. That being said, the average shelf life of a Matt Eng pair of underwear is at least 6-7 years. Screw you, Marky Mark. I am the real face of the average underwear user.
By the time I am forced to throw them away, they have a look slightly reminiscent of tree rings. It’s magical. The crotch is all blown out and the elastic of the waistband is barely there. The sagging feeling feels like home to me. Looking back, it’s all I have ever really known.
“You know, if you got a nice pair of underwear, it would feel a lot better.”
I bet it would. The reason I have never bought nice underwear is pretty simple. Everybody always talks about their great pairs of broken in jeans. I don’t wear jeans (see above), but I do wear underwear. Mine are broken in and road tested. They are, as Garth said, a part of me. Do any guys really have nice underwear? Do guys buy nice underwear because they want the ladies to see it? Nah. If you don’t love me when I wake up in my frayed Haynes boxer briefs with two holes in the crotch, you prob. never will. Thankfully, my wife still tolerates it.
5. High Quality Toilet Paper.
This one is actually not for me. I asked Angela (my wife) if she had any suggestions about this blog story before I wrote it. Good toilet paper is the first thing she said to me when asked. It took maybe two seconds for her to think of an answer. When she said it, I could see the look of pain in her eyes, like she was dying for me to ask it for years now. Yet I will never waver on my decision to forgo buying expensive toilet paper. I feel like most readers will side with my significant other on this matter. No matter the price, everyone should have a good BM experience. TP is usually the icing on the cake. For my household, one person in particular loathes the experience, so I guess I have to explain myself. My reasons are pretty simple. And, since this one is about poop, I must go into detail.
A. The Clog Issue
Thick toilet paper that is more than double ply (AKA Charmin, Quilted Northern, etc.) are more likely to clog up a toilet. I would much rather be a “rough rider” than have to pump poo through a clogged system at 3am. Call me crazy. You might ask yourself, “maybe you can wipe less.”
Come on…..come on. I do what I need to do to get the job done. END OF STORY.
B. If I Wanted a Peanut Butter Sandwich, I’d Make One
I don’t like the feeling of soft toilet paper. It’s not a pleasant one. I don’t feel in control. I don’t have a control issue overall, unless I am making food sausages.
Listen. I need to feel it. I need to know what I am doing. In short, my buttocks needs to know I am boss. I am the king of my body functions. And I will wipe away the sins of my food choices in any way I see fit. I don’t want to feel like I am wiping myself with wedding cake. Yes..I went there.
And for God sakes, I will never do the wet wipes thing. The last thing I want to feel on my butt is wetness on wetness. It actually gives me shivers.
C. Until the three seashell method is adopted, I will keep on doing it the same way. Your move, John Spartan.
HONORABLE MENTION: Quality Shaving Cream/Razors.
DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE RAZORS ARE! This one is for all the ladies, as well. I have to shave just my face. Most women shave much, much more. That kind of wear and tear is both tiring and very expensive. Thankfully, a Costco membership helps, but even that goes only so far. Discount or no discount, you are always going to shell out serious dough to make your face silky smooth.
The problem is, my face is never completely smooth because my shaving cream is, according to my wife, “the cheapest shit possible.” She isn’t wrong. You can get a can of Barbasol relatively anywhere for only a few bucks. I prefer the menthol scent. I love that it’s cheap, but I do hate that it almost always leaves me feeling half done when I am finishing up.
…and please don’t tell me about Dollar Shave Club. Those razors are pretty shit. I really do like my Mach 3 razor. It feels amazing for those first two weeks of use. Then it starts getting harder and harder to shave, getting to the point of almost digging into your skin to get the stubble off. If I ever upgrade from the two, it will be the cream and not the razor. For now, I can dream about a simpler time when good shaving cream was abundant and plentiful…
When I first moved up to DC, I was in a meeting at work with several members of our leadership. We were talking about a gentleman who needed to fly up from Florida and visit the museum gallery.
Ok. No problem.
Granted, this was one of my first “big boy” meetings with all of the members of leadership at my new job, and I wanted to give a good impression to all of them. It’s hard to impress people who you feel are already impressive. It’s the same tingling sensation you get when you meet a girl you really like -that nervousness that never leaves. They could have asked me anything and I would have given them the same reaction at that point:
Anyways, back to the story.
We were talking about this guy coming up to DC, and one of our leadership said that he would be “glad to pick him up at National.” As much as I wanted to resist asking, I had no idea what he was talking about. Keep in mind, this was really the first time I had spoken to any of them since my initial welcome back in November. I just said it. Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, it just came out:
To this day, I can’t tell you why I said it. Curiosity perhaps. For damn sure, I knew as the words came out of my mouth that it was a mistake. Little did I know it would be a nice “Welcome to DC” moment for me.
“What,” he said in a tone of bewilderment. “National is what you might call Reagan National today.”
The look on his face can only be described in one word:
“Oh, Okay. Cool. Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say.
oh.
OH.
OHHH.
Damnit. Really? Seriously. I wanted to absorb into the seat. Welcome to DC, indeed…dumbass. Oh well. They like me now (I think).
Why was this such an issue? In the words of Patrick Bateman, I wanted to fit in. I really want to be that guy that knows his way around the area because I really do love it here. I realized back then that I was far away. I won’t tell you what I really wanted to do.
I asked a friend of mine who has lived here for several years if I was overreacting. She had some pretty candid remarks.
“Oh, did you really? Yeah, they definitely know you are new to the area. Don’t let it get you down.”
I could almost feel her do that sympathetic tap on the shoulder through the internet. Damnit. I began to think that, yes, I was new to the area. I get a free pass, right? I felt a bit better when she said she had a similar experience when first moving to the district six years ago. These things take time. This was how I came to know one of the ways that beltway locals throw shade. There are others. Metro Shade. Smithsonian Shade. Traffic Shade. I will get to those later.
Apparently this is not just a ME issue. I went to look for more answers. TO THE INTERNET!
…and one troll.
National. DCA. Get on the planes. Got it. Looking back, it wasn’t such a big deal. Maybe I will just call it Reagan National. I can say it however I want, though Robot Nixon National Airport has a better ring to it. You can call it whatever you want, too. If anybody else tells you different, take it from the Gipper himself.
ONE MONTH LATER.
About a month after that unfortunate (yet somehow inevitable) incident, I was traveling from the Navy Yard to Farragut West. Somebody there asked me if I knew the best way to get to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.
“Oh, well. You have to take the Green line here towards Greenbelt to L’Enfant. Then you can go down one level and hop on the Orange towards Vienna and get off at the Smithsonian stop. Although, you might as well get off at L’Enfant. It’s a shorter walk to Air and Space.”
The gentleman thanked me and walked away. If I wasn’t in public, I would have had to take a cold shower or done a Middle School gym tuck to hide my excitement. It wasn’t shade, it was being helpful. Felt good. Maybe I am getting used to this place. Slow and steady.
Maybe one day, I can throw shade in a similar way. A guy can dream. It’s hot out there right now. I am okay with a little shade every once in a while.
Whether you want to admit it or not, you will have to do the ‘ol straddle and flop in a public restroom in your lifetime. It’s not something you talk about in mixed company. Most people hide their shame. I like to let people know about it, whether you want to or not. If you’re still reading, I assume you do.
Despite my interest in talking about this with people and laughing about it, going to the bathroom for anything more than a quick “numero uno” is a true phobia of mine.My wife alway says she has an irrational fear of spiders. Why can’t mine be sitting on some other man’s oil slick? Gross. It’s IRRATIONAL.
A few months ago, I was on my way back to Virginia Beach after a day of work. I got off a little early, but didn’t have any time for lunch. I wanted to get back home and relax a bit. Either way, the ratio of coffee to food in my system was rather high.
My thoughts and rumbled feelings that day are best described in the Kubler-Ross Model, better known as the 5 Stages of Grief. The commentary going on in my head, based on the aforementioned model, went as follows:
Setting: Interstate 95. Somewhere between Fredericksburg and Ashland.
Our hero: Faint rumbles in my stomach. First a gurgle sensation, growing to sharp pains shooting like a lightning bold down my spine and out of my stomach. uh oh.
The time is 2:00 pm. Exit 140. Stafford.
1. DENIAL
Ooof. My stomach is kind of rumbling.I think I’ll be fine though.Do I have to go to the bathroom?
There’s a Starbucks at the next exit.Maybe I should stop there and see if I really do have to go.
(The mind processes, synapses fire, etc.)
Nah, I’ll be good. Maybe my body knows I am going home.
Where am I anyway? Why am I gripping the steering wheel so tight, and why the hell am I starting to sweat?
For some reason, I have managed to turn off the radio like you do when you are coming up to a destination. Who does that?And why? Where do I think I am going?
(GURRRRRRGLE – FRRP – CSSSSSSST)
Clenches stomach.
Oh, God No.
Denial is not just a river in Africa. The struggle is getting real.
2. ANGER
2:08 pm. Exit 136. Stafford Airport.
AHHHHHHHH. WHY DID I NOT STOP BACK THERE. Now I am going to sit here and keep holding it until I find a better place to go. I could go back around and hit 95 N to the Starbucks, but that is just a waste of time.
Why the hell is this happening to me now? I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to go to work and now have to drive home with what feels like an Armageddon sized boulder waiting for reentry into the atmosphere. Bruce Willis, where are you?
Now I am in the dead zone. There is no good exits here for miles and miles. Well, anything that won’t take me forever to get back on the interstate and moving. I need to get out of the corridor before it gets too crowded. Dropping a D will end up setting me back a half an hour or 45 minutes at least. Why is this happening now!
Our hero presses on. The foot on the gas better gets slightly heavier. The sweat is visible now on the ring of his blue dress shirt.
I think I am in trouble. Damn this phobia.
3. BARGAINING
2:25pm. Exit 118. Thornburg.
Exit 92. I have to make it there. It is my sanctuary. Rick had the CDC in Season 1 of the Walking Dead. Agent Smith had Zion. I have Exit 92.
I am crossing Mudd Tavern Rd. Isn’t that just hilarious.
(GURRRRRRGLE – FRRP – CSSSSSSST)
HNGGGGGGGGGGGG OW OW OW OW OW.
A slow but steady line of traffic appears.
ARE YOU F$%#!NG KIDDING ME. RIGHT NOW.
Taps the steering wheel incessantly.
GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO COME ON.
Oh, great. Look at what I am passing here at this exit. Maybe something good will show up. Let’s see:
McDonalds: I might as well try to go in a trash can.
Wendy’s: It’s just classy McDonald’s. Prob more grease. They never have paper towels, anyway.
Bojangles: Gross.
Gas Station(s): Double Gross.
Maybe Wendy’s won’t be so bad. I bet I could try real quick.
All our hero can think about is the opening lyrics to “Bump ’n Grind:”
“My mind’s telling me no
But my body, my body’s telling me yes”
What do I listen to? My body or mind? I’m a rational guy…I can figure this out.
Our hero envisions the toilet scene from Trainspotting in his head. Any thought of stopping at Wendy’sfor a squat are diminished.
He grips the steering wheel tighter. The music is turned back on as a distraction.
I. MUST. MAKE. IT. TO. ASHLAND. Why am I thinking in a Scottish accent?
4. DEPRESSION
2:47pm. Exit 108. Rest Stop.
That traffic took longer than expected. UGH, I am so sad. There is no way I am stopping at a public rest stop to go. That’s like allowing the guy next to you to double decker while cooking you a meal. No way.
Whenever and wherever I do finally go, it is going to be terrible. I know it. I’ll have to cave and go somewhere disguisting. I don’t even have my set up, right? Pitchers always talk about the “perfect game” or business types are always “in the zone,” but for me – I have the perfect set up – I only have like 6% left on my phone.Unless I seriously dim the son of a bitch, I am looking to get only a few precious moments of good google searching or Facebooking until its lights out and back into the dark ages. I could stop on the side of the road and plug in my charger to my car, but that would take effort. Or unnecessary movement. And If I do go somewhere with no phone, I’ll just be sitting there on some strange toilet that isn’t yours without anything to look at.I’d have to read a magazine or something, but I don’t have a magazine. Better yet, who would take a magazine into the bathroom. Insurance plan? Gross. That would hurt a lot.
I now understand Faust.
Damnit, where is there an acceptable bathroom? I’ve driven down this road for ten miles and the only exits I see are for fast food restaurants. Eat healthy, America. Then nice guys like me could have decent places to poop. That’s all I ask for.
Nice guys finish last, right? I just hope its not in a 2013 Toyota Camry.
The sweat is now pooling onhis neck. The struggle is more real than ever.
5. ACCEPTANCE
3:01pm. Exit 92. Ashland.
A Starbucks! OH LAWS YES! M-O-O-N, that spells poop.
Our hero quickly gets off the exit and speeds into the coffee establishment. You know the rest.
###
For the record, the bathroom wasn’t that great – but at that point, you must accept the hand (or seat) you are given.
Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island 