Hey, kiddies. Looks like it’s the fifteenth again, so it’s time for another low-effort two-in-one post. Low-effort for me, anyway — you people still have to do all of that pesky reading, I’m afraid. So let’s get cracking, and get this party moving.
First, you should know that the new Zoiks! magazine issue is out today. There, you’ll find a handful of giggly, snorty humor pieces that may well make you upsnort your coffee onto the monitor. Oh, and I’ve got a piece there, too. Check that out, if you’re into that sort of thing. ‘Cause I know you are. Perv.
Meanwhile, have a gander at my last Zoiks! piece below. Sure, it’s been up over there for a couple of weeks, but hey — if you haven’t read it, then it’s new to you, right? And if you have… well, the truly new one will still be new to you. And I’m doing zero work here whatsoever, so we’re all getting something out of this. Let’s rock, baby. Happy Sunday.
To Have, and to Hold… and to Sort the Whites, Apparently
So, I’m married. That’s right, ladies — this squeeze bottle of man-sauce is off the table. And I’m very happy — some might even say ‘relieved’ — to be enveloped each day in wedded bliss… but it doesn’t always go smoothly. Marriage is fantastic, but nobody ever said it was ‘easy’.
First of all, there are the rules. In my house, these are set by my wife, and there’s an absolutely dizzying array of them to memorize. For instance, dirty laundry apparently goes into something called a ‘basket’. And later, into a ‘washing machine’. I’ve been told that it’s my job now to make these tricky little transfers. I’m not sure where exactly in the wedding vows they covered this material; I didn’t hear it then, but my wife has assured me it’s legit.
(On the other hand, can I really trust her on something so important? I mean, she is in law school, after all — she’s actually training to win arguments and convince people that she’s right. Personally, I think she’s angling for some sort of ‘post-nuptial agreement’. And I’d be a lot more concerned, if I had anything worth splitting in half. Right now, the best she could get is a pair of jeans and half the six-pack in the fridge. Something to keep an eye on, though.)
There are other rules, too. Apparently, once you’re married, there’s no peeing in the shower. Even if you’re alone — I know, I know; it sounds crazy, but those are the rules. And there’s no going in the sink, either. Honestly, where the hell am I supposed to pee? I already know I can’t touch the toilet — some days, I wonder whether the ‘seat down, lid up’ situation there is the only thing standing between me and divorce proceedings. I got that right once; I’m not risking screwing it up by actually using the toilet. That’s what the neighbors’ begonias are for, though, right?
At least the spirit of compromise is still alive in our marriage. I can always skirt around a rule, so long as I’m willing to give a little on some other issue. So, I can get out of laundry one week, but I’ll have to unload the dishwasher. Or I can trade trimming the lawn for vacuuming the floor. In a French maid outfit, while singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’. It’s not pretty, but if it keeps me away from the lawnmower, then it’s worth the humiliation. And it’s not nearly as bad as what I have to do to get out of bathing the dog. The widow down the block still won’t look me in the eye after last time.
On the whole, though, being married is a pretty sweet deal. Sure, it’s not great for my comedy career — apparently, ‘lonely and desperate’ is downright hilarious — but it’s nice to come home to a kiss on the cheek, a night of watching television together, and a warm, snuggly bed. And on those rare occasions when I do manage to mow the lawn, it’s my wife who has to wear the French maid getup. Didn’t I tell you marriage was fantastic?