A Little Have a Disorder

I found myself in the bathroom at work with a friend of mine recently. No funny business, just two guys who happened to be peeing at the same time. [Who am I kidding? We were blowing each other. Because we have a "bromance."] So I pee. He pees. We enjoy a chatty pee together. I'll say "enjoy." I enjoyed it. I usually don't go for social urination, but this time it worked. We clicked. What am I talking about? This is not the point of this story...

The point of the story is that after we finished our business, we went to the sinks and washed our hands. Different sinks. Take it easy. [We totally held hands. I soaped him. He soaped me. Very bromantic.] We wash, we dry, I get to the door first and open it. I hold it for him. [I better, the guy just blew me. Christ.] And that's where we get to the point of the story.

Outside of the bathroom, we have a Purell dispenser. Now, I am firmly of the belief that Purell is causing super bugs that will ultimately be responsible for the apocalpyse. But my friend does not share my belief. He squirts some Purell into his hands.

Let's be clear on this series of events. I got a bit distracted in there for a bit. He peed. He washed his hands. With soap and water. He walked 10 feet. He Purelled his hands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Didn't you just wash your hands? What are you doing?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"You just washed your hands. Now you're hitting the Purell? Was there a dirty cloud of air you walked through?"

"Oh. Yeah." Pause. "I'm a little O.C.D."

A little O.C.D. I hear this phrase a lot. Usually by people who have recently washed their hands at a mildly appropriate time or straightened something out that had previously been crooked. And it makes me wonder if people know the meaning of words. Do you know what the "D" stands for? It means "disorder." Last time I checked, you can't be a little "have a disorder." You either have the disorder you don't. It's either diagnosable or it's not.

I do have O.C.D. I take pills to manage it. They're amazing magic pills that make me less crazy. And I manage my disorder. While my disorder is managed, my mind is able to function. While my mind was functioning recently, I came up with a little test. Ready?

Here's my test:

Have you ever turned the lights on in a room, then turned them off, then turned them back on, then off, and finally on again because you believe with all of your heart and soul that if you didn't flip the switch five times your mother would die of cancer?

No? You haven't? Oh, okay. Interesting.

Have you ever scratched the right side of your face with your left hand, then felt compelled to scratch the left side of your face with your left hand, then the left side of your face with your right hand, then the right side of your face with your right hand, and then repeated the same pattern backwards (got that?) just in case if you didn't it would mean the an omnipotent being would cause a tidal wave in India to punish your insolence?

No? You've never done that. Okay. Fascinating. One more.

Have you ever lost track of a conversation you were having with a friend because s/he said the word "screen door" which caused a synapse in your brain to fire that forced the first line of "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen to play in your head, and then another synapse fired that told you to "finish the song."

And your conscious mind said, "No, I'm not going to."

And the voice in your head screamed, "SING THUNDER ROAD IN YOUR HEAD!"

And still your conscious mind was like, "No fucking way. Fuck you. I'm not doing it."

And then the voice in your head said, "But what if you don't and Satan rapes your wife because of it?"

And your conscious mind says, "That doesn't make any sense at all."

But the voice in your head insists, "Still. What if? What if Satan is going to rape your wife and she's going to give birth to the Antichrist? And Hellfire and terror reign upon the Earth for all eternity! And you could have stopped it! You could have fucking stopped it! And all you had to do was sing "Thunder Road" in your head and all would have been fine. But noooooooooo... your friend telling you that his screen door is torn is more important than the safety and well being of humankind, you selfish fuck."

And then you sang the entirety of "Thunder Road" in your head (in fast forward) and completely lost track of what your friend was telling?

No? You never did that either? Hmmm...

You're not O.C.D. You're quirky. You like clean hands. And there's nothing wrong with clean hands. You may cause a superbug. But you're not O.C.D. You're a little O.C.D. like I'm a little anorexic because I skipped lunch.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to delete and retype this three times on the offchance that a superbug will end life as we know it if I don't.

Fuck Armageddon...This Is Hell

Are you up for an experiment? All you need is a watch, a computer with a working keyboard, and any kind of word processing program.

I'm going to do it with you. Here's how it works. Open Word or Notepad or whatever. And for 10 seconds, type "lol" as many times as you can. Ready?

Go.

lollollollollollollollollollollol

Okay, nice. Now hit enter, get on a new line. 10 seconds again. This time type "ha" as many times as you can. Go!

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahaha

It worked! "lol" is harder to type than "ha." Because it's three letters instead of two. And also because all three letters are typed with the stupidest finger you have. You know, the one you can't really move independent of the rest of your fingers even though you're an adult? Your ring finger. So why? Why "lol"? How did this become a thing?

I'm not just some insane efficiency weirdo either. I mean, you really aren't ever laughing out loud when you type it. God forbid you say it. (Oh man, if you say it, I hate you so much.) Maybe once in a while you laugh out loud. But you're usually not laughing out loud. You might kind of laugh to yourself, or make a very slight breathy noise that sounds kind of like a muffled "ha." In which case, why aren't you typing "ha"?

I don't get it. I have never in my life seen someone roll on the floor laughing. No, that's not true. Once, when my cousin was five or six, he rolled on the floor laughing. He was in stitches. But that's it, just the one time. Yet I've seen "rotfl" on computer screens hundreds of times. No one rolls on the floor laughing in public. Are people secretly saving all of their most impassioned laughs for when they're sitting at their computers? Or for when they're getting text messages while at home alone? If they are, did they type "rotfl" while rolling on the floor laughing? Did they type it first and then roll? Or did they roll, laugh, then type? In which case, shouldn't it be "rolled on the floor laughing"? I have visions now of my now adult cousin laughing hysterically on the floor while reaching up over a desk with one arm to type "R-O-T-F-L" while it's happening. And all because of something on cracked.com. That must have been some list of 10 things.

Look, I don't think people are terrible for typing these things. I just don't get it. But people who say them? Oh fuck you. Oh, big big fuck you. I heard some girl on her cell phone on the red line talking a mile a minute the other day. Which is annoying, because no one wants to hear your conversation. But then I hear her say, "L-O-L. That is too funny." And she said it in that shitty tone. You know the tone I'm talking about. Call it "valley girl," call it "ditz," I call it "bane of my existence." It's the tone of a human caricature. A walking talking parody of a person without a soul. 

"L-O-L" she says.

"Laughing out loud!" But there's a disdainful look on her face and no laughter comes from her mouth. Just three stupid letters that mean nothing. 

When I was in Catholic school (K-8), I was terrified of Hell. At the time, I thought of Hell as your garden variety Hell. Fire. Demons. Torture. Oh my. I'm not terribly concerned with Hell anymore. But I admit my concept of it has changed. Now Hell is a world where nobody laughs. Whenever you tell a joke or something funny happens, everybody just says, "L-O-L." Repeatedly. And every night I have to perform stand-up comic to an auditorium full of people. And at each punch line, 2,000 mindless, thoughtless people drone on, "L-O-L. L-O-L. L-O-L. L-O-L. L-O-L." In that horrible voice.

On the other hand, maybe her idea of Hell is listening to me. Or reading this. But I can be avoided. No one has to read this. In fact, no one does read this. Her on the other hand? She's everywhere I go. People saying "L-O-L" out loud, unironically, spreading like a plague. And what can I do about it? Nothing.

MTTY [Moving to the Yukon]

I Wanna be a Bear

I've come to the realization lately that I am a terrible person. I don't mean morally. Murder? Rape? Inflicting pain on other people? I'm against it. I'm against all of those things. Do no harm. I'm fine in that sense. I mean I'm a terrible person in that I'm terrible at living. I'm just bad at being alive. I'm a terrible human being. I could give you some examples.

I was shaving the other day and as I was soaping up, I got jealous of dogs. Dogs don't have to shave. It's stupid that I have to shave. Why can't we just shed our facial hair? We shed armpit hair. We shed pubic hair. But nooooooo. I need to shave. I was watching some nature show where they're talking about lions. Lions don't have to do shit. Lions hunt once in a while. The rest of the time, they just lie there. And people think they're awesome. They're lazier than me and they're kings! I've got to take the garbage out, do the dishes, brush my teeth, eat right, exercise, shave, laundry, prepare my own meals. 95% of my life is maintenance. Do you know there are people out there who are actually making their beds too? And flossing?! Do snakes have to do any of that? Nope. They just curl up and hang out. Why can't God have made our lives so low maintenance? I'm actually getting mad at God for the fact that I have to do things in order to be alive. I'm terrible.

The other day, I was playing video games and I had to take a shit. And I didn't want to. I could stop there. It's not every person who is so lazy that they find taking a shit to be a chore. But I do. And I had to take a shit, but I was playing a baseball game, and it was the 7th inning, and I wanted to finish. And I really didn't want to be bothered with wiping my ass. So I sit there on the couch for another 15 minutes, clenching my asshole, sweating profusely, stomach contracting because I don't want to poo. Then I've got to waddle down the hallway to the toilet with a sweaty asshole, and take deep breaths before dropping my pants because I'm an idiot. And now I need to shit so bad that I've got to line up my ass with the toilet because I think I'm going to shit on my way down. As soon as I begin to squat, it's going to fall out. I'm terrible. I'm a terrible, terrible human being.

But I'm not so terrible that I've ever said "tots." Can't do it. Will not do it. "Tots?" What is that? "Totally" is stupid enough, but now we're too lazy to say "ally," so we throw an "s" on the end and it's cute? Why must everything be cute? Enough with the cutesy nonsense.

"Tots m'goats." What the fuck is that? You're an adult. You're a Goddamn adult, and you're saying "m'goats?"

My friend Matt had a party this weekend. Ordinarily, I'm not a party guy. I'm a pretty antisocial person. I don't like talking to people I don't know. But at this party, I'm in an outgoing mood. I'm having a drink. I'm playing the part of "friendly guy." Some guy I don't know is standing by me and neither of us is talking to anyone. I strike up a conversation. Me. I do it. I start talking to this guy.

At some point, this exchange happens:

The Guy: Oh man, rough day at school today.

Me: Oh cool, you go to school? What are you studying?

The Guy: No, no. I teach.

Me: Where do you teach?

The Guy: DePaul. I teach philosophy at DePaul.

Me: Wow. That's pretty intense. You're a philosophy PhD, then? That's a lot of schooling.

The Fucking Guy: [nods his head and raises his eyebrows] Tots.

RAAAAAAGGGGGGGEEEE! What? Tots? Fucking tots? You? A PhD? A professor at a major university? Tots? Your job is to create knowledge. Your entire purpose in life is to sit in an ivory tower and think things that have not been thought, to study and consider life, to teach young minds to think critically, to better humanity, to work towards a better tomorrow. And you're telling me TOTS?!

Not only all of those things. But in order to be a PhD, you need to go to pre-school at three or four (I'd guess, let's say four to be generous). You go to pre-school at the age of four. Then Kindergarten through 8th grade. 10 years of school. Four years of high school. Four years of undergrad. 18 years of school. Then at the minimum 5 years of post-graduate work. 23 years of your life you are studying. 23 years of becoming smarter and more knowledgeable. This guy was in his late 20s. Let's say he was 29 years old. 23 of his 29 years of existence were spent studying? Tots. Tots they were.

I have a friend at work who I started talking to about six months ago. We go out to lunch once or twice a week. Since we started going out to lunch, one of my coworkers can't stop telling us she sees a budding "bromance" going on. Yeah, that's it. It's a bromance. Whatever the fuck that means. "You guys are in a serious bromance." "They're going out to lunch again, I guess Lou's got a real mancrush on Joe." Or we're friends. Remember that perfectly descriptive word that wasn't a Frankenstein of two other words that don't really actually describe anything? F-R-I-E-N-D. Tots, I remember that word.

And that's my redemption. I am a terrible person. I've had to take a shit the entire time I've been writing, but I haven't because I'm lazy. It's terrible. Frankly, it's disgusting. But I have not, I cannot, and I will never ever say "tots." And that has made all the difference.

Fat Man Running

The Biggest Loser is starting up again pretty soon. This is very exciting news for my wife. She loves it. She loves that show. Me? I’m not the biggest fan. The show is essentially two hours of fat people crying. They cry tears of joy over emotional breakthroughs and weight loss triumphs. Then they cry tears of self-loathing over poor relationships and poor decisions that have led to them being fat. Fat people crying. Which is why I don’t like it: If I wanted to spend two hours watching fat people cry, I’d go take a long shower. That’s what goes on in there. I look down and the voice in my head chimes in with a, “What have you done.” More a statement than a question. Because we all know the answer.

But my wife insists that it’s more than fat people crying. “It’s inspirational,” she says. “You’re just a cynic.” It’s true, I can be a cynic. But I fail to see anything inspirational about people who are 5’3”, weigh 300 pounds, and can’t get motivated to lose some weight unless someone puts them on T.V. and gives them a chance at $250,000.

It’s like Society is holding out a carrot, “Here fatty! Dance! Dance for our entertainment!”

It may be sponsored by Subway, but my wife (who is not overweight) watches while eating stuffed pizza from Giordano’s. “Very inspiring,” I say as I reach for another slice of stuffed pepperoni.

But it’s true, she does find it inspiring. I don’t know what it is, but something about watching a 340-pound man who’s had his stomach stapled on three different occasions ride a bike to exhaustion while getting yelled at by a nasty little woman really motivates her. It motivates her so much that she comes home from work one day and tells me she’s got a great idea.

“We should go online and enter our heights and weights into a Body Mass Index calculator!”

“Nope. No, we should not. That is not a great idea. It is a terrible idea though.”

“It’ll be fun!”

“Nope. Gonna have to disagree with you again.”

“Come on! We can have our own little challenge,” says the woman who doesn’t need to lose weight to her fat husband.

“Fine.” The things I do…

“Great! I’ll go first.” She goes online, types in her height and weight, and what do you know? She’s “normal weight,” whatever that means.

Now it’s my turn. I go online, type in my height and weight, and…

I have to lose 30 pounds just to be overweight! I’m 30 pounds over overweight! If I bust my ass, change my diet, and drop 30 pounds, I will be fat. I knew it was bad, but Jesus! That takes the wind out of your sails.

“Hey, what the fuck!” I say.

“Oh that’s okay, don’t be dejected,” skinny wife tells me. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

And Hitler just wanted to deport the Jews.[i]

“I don’t feel bad. I’m good. I mean, I’m pretty strong. Muscle weighs three times as much as fat. So it’s mostly because I’m pretty ripped, I’m sure.” It’s because I’m fat.

“I don’t think of you as obese. That’s not what I see when I look at you,” she tells me.

She did it! She used the “o” word. I’m a whale!

“Well, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me. Thirty pounds to being fat.”

“Don’t think of it that way. Just eat right and exercise.”

And there it is. A perfectly simple two step solution to fat people everywhere’s problems. Step one: Eat right. Vegetables. Fruit. Cut out the carbs. Less red meat. Lean protein. Whole grains. That’ll be super easy until I want pizza later tonight.

And step two: Exercise. Jogging. Biking. Who am I kidding? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that. “Let’s start with step one,” I tell myself.

I go to the grocery store, and what’s the first thing you see when you go to the grocery store? The produce aisle. Green everywhere. And I’m looking around, browsing, weaving in and out of the different stands like they’re some foreign labyrinth. I’m weighing my options, taking it all in before I make a decision. It’s like Smokey Robinson said, you better shop around. I do a few laps and settle down in front of the bananas. I like bananas. In the basket. Next it’s on to apples. I ate those when I was a small child. In the basket. Good, fruit is taken care of. Now for some vegetables…

I see spinach. I never liked spinach. Some carrots catch my eye. Bright orange and terrible. Carrots suck. Bugs Bunny was full of shit. I come nose-to-nose with a pile of green beans. Just a giant bin filled with a mound of green beans. A pyramid of vitamins. I kind of remember not hating green beans. I’ve had green beans that aren’t awful. But my hands are feeling heavy. I can’t pick them up. I’m just staring at them. And then the most pathetic thought that’s ever gone through my head pops in there, “Isn’t it enough that I brush my teeth? I’ve got to eat this shit too? I take out the garbage. Come on.” I’m actually getting mad that I have to supply my body with nutrition in order to be alive. It’s then that I realize I’m a terrible person.

Fast forward one week, the bananas are brown, the apples are firm but untouched. I’ve eaten pizza three times in the past seven days, and it occurs to me that I’m really good at buying bananas.  It’s as though I believe that possessing bananas will magically give me potassium. “Honey, the bananas are getting brown. I’m gonna go out and get some fresh ones.” I throw out the brown bananas and the apples, the apples because I don’t trust anything that’s still good after a week.

Skip step one. Step one has defeated me. Step two is now step one. Exercise.

“Hey, you just gotta exercise,” the wife tells me. “It’s fun.”

“What’s that? What’s fun?”

“Exercise. Running. You should come for a run with me. Running is fun.”

My wife is a liar. Running is not fun. And I can actually prove this. If running was fun, we wouldn’t call it “exercise.” We would call it “play.” Remember when you were a little kid, and the phone rang? Your mom told you it was your friend Matt from down the street.

You pick up the phone and Matt says, “Do you want to come over and play?”

And you say, “Yes! That sounds like fun.” PLAY! “What are we gonna play?” you may have asked.

“The Jacksons and the McDermotts want to play kick the can in our alley.”

“Kick the can? That sounds awesome!”

And you go. And you run around like crazy. And in spite of the running, it’s fun. Kids play all the time, and they have a blast. They use their imaginations to distract their mind from the fact that they’re doing wind sprints. Because it’s not wind sprints. It’s not exercise. It’s “ghosts in the graveyard!” Everybody’s a ghost! And if the clock strikes midnight and the ghosts come out of their graves, you can’t let them catch you or you’ll be a ghost! Oh man, that sounds awesome. I’d go play right now.

Or you’re playing “cops and robbers!” My dad’s sprinkler head is actually an invaluable jewel that gets kept on our front porch and I’m Sherriff Lou! I don’t know when the robbers will strike or why something so valuable is being kept out in the open, but they’re coming and I’ve got to be on my guard! If I catch them, I take them to jail, which incidentally is the porch right next to the jewel. Poor planning Sherriff. But it’s great fun!

That was play. Running? Jogging? I don’t have the imagination to make a fat man running slowly for five miles fun.

I’m running from the Russians! Only, the Russians are very slow and don’t possess tanks or cars? Nope. That won’t work. That’s terrible.

Michael Myers is chasing me, and since he only walks in the movie Halloween (the original, Rob Zombie’s Michael Myers might be able to run, but that’s kind of why he sucks), so as long as I’m moving slightly faster than walking, he won’t catch me… But I’m running in a loop, so why would he chase me? He’d just be hanging out at my house waiting for me to come home all tired and shitty, and then he’d strangle me to death when I came through the door.

I need to move in exactly this same loop every other day in under an hour or God will punish me!? Wait, that’s not fun. That’s OCD. Fuck.

There is nothing that can turn running into fun. It’s an inescapable truth. It’s exercise. And the only thing worse than being a fat person exercising is being a fat person watching fat people exercise. And the only thing worse than being a fat person watching fat people exercise is being a fat person eating pizza while watching fat people exercise as a nasty little woman screams at them. And the only thing worse that that is watching fat people cry.

---

[i] Yes, my wife is Hitler in that analogy. And my feelings are Ashkenazi Jews. Whatever, fuck you. It’s a joke.

Marriage--Not Living Together

My wife and I didn't live together before we got married. As we got closer to being married, several of our friends had questions. Usually, their question was something like, "Is it some kind of religious thing?" It wasn't. Since those questions first came up, whenever I mention to someone that we didn't live together before marriage, I feel the need to qualify upfront that, "It wasn't some kind of religious thing." I don't know why I feel the need to qualify that. I don't think it's bad if people don't live together  before marriage because of some kind of religious thing. I don't think it's bad if people do live together before marriage because of, or in spite of, some kind of religious thing. In fact, there are very few things that I think are inherently good or bad that people do in their relationships. Abuse is bad. I'm very firm on that. I am anti-hitting. Or even emotional abuse. Not cool. But I don't think calling someone an "asshole" qualifies as emotional abuse. Other than that though, if the two people involved in the relationship/marriage/whatever are both genuinely good with it, then go for it. Bondage? If it's good for the goose. Not spending every night together? If it makes you both happy. Not ever being apart? Little creepy, but hey, if it works. But in my experience, my responses to friends' questions of "Is it some kind of religious thing?" have really led me to the conclusion that I am very much alone in my views on marriage and relationships.

I can think of, for instance, one set of friends who are married who asked this question of me. I gave them a tongue-in-cheek answer that no it was not a religious thing. It's more just that I am going to live with this woman for the rest of my life. So what's the rush? I enjoy not living with her right now. I'm going to continue not living with her until I can't not live with her anymore, i.e., we get married. This did not please my young couple friends. "Why are you getting married if you don't want to live with her?" they asked disapprovingly.

It's not so complicated, really. I do want to get married. I do want to live with her. I just don't want to live with her now. Not until I get married. This was okay with them. (Side note: They had been married for about one year, so they were experts.)  Then I begin digging a deeper hole.

I explain that I'm an insomniac and I hate sharing a bed with another person. In fact, whenever Ellen stays the night, she falls asleep instantly and it drives me crazy because I become more frustrated and lie there awake. I hate sleeping in the same bed as another person. This drew no audible response from them, but the looks on their faces screamed, "You should NOT be getting married." Because they knew.

Another set of friends who were in a relationship asked, "Why aren't you living together?" Again, what's the rush? "Well, what if you don't like living together but you're already married?" That's kind of the point, I told them. Statistically, more people who live together before marriage end up getting divorced than people who don't. I'm not saying it's a causal relationship. But there's a correlation there. And besides that, I know I'm not going to like living with her. She's a slob. I've never had a roommate that I didn't eventually hate. But when we're married, she'll be my slob. And hate won't be an option.

And again with the judgement. I shouldn't say those things about her. It's terrible. This couple was already living together, though not engaged. And they knew how we should have been living.

When I was doing stand-up comedy, I had a bit about my wife not having sex with me because she was sleeping. But I was not sleeping and I wanted to have sex, so I got into bed and started rubbing her back. (A pretty presumptuous and ridiculous move. Trying to seduce a sleeping woman. This was part of the joke.) And she finally tells me to just masturbate. "Just masturbate," she says while half asleep, "You can play with my boob." And then the routine turns into me comparing this suggestion to giving a starving child a piece of gum. Sure he's chewing, but he's still hungry.

I finish the routine. I walk off stage. A 20-year old girl who attends Columbia College (and who couldn't legally be in the bar), tells me, "You shouldn't make jokes about your marriage like that. I can't imagine marrying you." And I said, "Thanks for the advice 20-year old girl who's never been in a relationship longer than 6 months. I can't imagine marrying you either."

My point is only one person married me. And I married only one person. And we tell each other at least once a week after we make an innocuous complaint about the other, "Hey, you married me." And it's true! And we knew generally what we were doing! And we do and say all kinds of shit that my married friends wouldn't do or say. Which is why they didn't marry us. And they do and say all kinds of shit that we would never do or say. Which is why we didn't marry them. (Or at least I wouldn't do or say. I can't speak for the wife. Who am I kidding, yes I can. My wife would never say, "Don't you just love these potholders?" among other things.)

And they're fine. As far as I know anyway. Their marriages are great. They seem happy. They're definitely not abusive towards one another.

And we're fine. We are happy. Our marriage is amazing. And we're definitely not abusive towards each other. (Unless you count calling your wife an "asshole" on occasion as "abusive." As previously stated, I do not. Everybody's an asshole some of the time.) Granted we've only been married about 2.5 years. And we haven't had any real challenges. But I feel pretty good about where this whole thing is going. I still sleep on the couch a bit. I still tell jokes about personal things that happen and get said during marriage. And it still drives me crazy that at 9 PM, she's out like a light, and I'm tossing and turning for two to four hours in bed. I sit there some nights staring at her, cursing her ability to be asleep. "Oh you little sleeping asshole!"

And we still get unsolicited marriage advice from people of all walks. People who haven't been married. People who haven't been in a relationship. People who have been married for 5 years. People who've been married for 30 years. It strikes me as odd that so many people have an expectation that marriage is more or less the same for everyone. That it means the same thing, or should mean the same thing, to everyone. That there are and should be direct parallels between everyone's experience. That because you would never call your wife an "asshole" anyone who does is inherently bad. It's almost like everyone is trying to fulfill a role and carry out some predetermined prescription of the "good life."

And I wonder if that's why so many people get divorced. Especially today, when our culture seems hyper-individualistic... to a fault. Everybody is sooooo unique. We have blogs. And facebook. And twitter. Our thoughts and personalities are so important! But our marriages must all be the same? It sounds like a recipe for disaster.

What's Your Favorite Thing About Being Married?

As I said before, marriage has been on my mind a lot lately. Lots of people getting married, etc. So aside from how stupid it is that people don't say "Happy Anniversary," what else have I been thinking? I've been thinking about my favorite thing about being married. But in a totally snarky and hateful way. I'll explain.

My wife and I got married in May 2010. The day after our wedding, we were on an airplane for a two week honeymoon in Italy. Pretty fantastic. And in hindsight, super fortunate. I fully understand and appreciate that not everyone can do that. And it was great. We spent five days in Rome going to museums and churches (my idea) and eating and drinking and eating and drinking. Then five days hiking in Cinque Terra (Ellen's idea) and eating and drinking and eating and drinking. And we topped it off with four days in Florence with a stop in Pisa along the way. We won't discuss Florence because I got sick and a bird shit on me. On the other hand, Ellen saw Michaelangelo's David and was impressed. With art. Ten days after she fell asleep in the Sistine Chapel on a guided tour, she was impressed with art. That was pretty neat. And then we came home.

We flew back across the Atlantic, leaving the land of nonstop pizza, pasta, and wine, and we set our course for reality. But we didn't really return to reality. We went back to work, yes. But everyone said things like, "How was your honeymoon?" "Congratulations!" "Tell us all about the wedding!" There's a good week or two of that. Everyone is stoked for us. We're individually and collectively the center of attention. We're the stars. And not just at work. Our friends. Our family. No one else did shit in May compared to us. We got fucking married. Bad. Ass. And somewhere in there, we even found time to go see the Black Swan. To recap: Post-wedding marriage was Italy, eating awesome food with a frequency we can't afford, drinking way more wine than is reasonable, being the center of attention everywhere, watching movies, and generally being totally sweet.

Then we saw my wife's aunt a week after returning from our honeymoon and her very first question is, "So what's your favorite thing about being married?"

"Italy. Italy is my favorite part of being married. We split a bottle of wine at noon over lunch sitting 500 feet from the Trevi Fountain. Then walked down Campo dei Fiori to the Colloseum, stopping along the way for gelato. And then we finished with a $150 dinner that included another bottle of wine and then some. That's my favorite part of being married. That part of being married kicks ass." I toned it down a bit, but a polite version of that was my response.

It's like if her aunt went to see the Black Swan with us, and just as the credits start, she leans over and says, "What's your favorite part of this movie?"

"I don't know. The credits? So far the credits are fucking awesome. Just look at those fonts! And the soundtrack. Sweet. Can I watch the movie? Can I be married? Jesus Christ."

I don't mean to pick on her aunt. Other people asked the same stupid question. And I really don't understand it. They were all people who I have nothing in common with. People with whom I don't have conversations. People who generally seem disinterested in talking to me. The small talkers. And it is a bullshit question. For one, how about, "How was your honeymoon?" I think that's a much more honest question. It shows a genuine open-ended interest in a thing you knew we did. But "what is your favorite thing about being married?" That's not an honest question. You know what answer you're looking for.

"What is your favorite thing about being married?" No matter what answer I give, it is going to be bullshit. Because I'm either going to cave and give you your cheese ball response, "Oh, just being with Ellen all the time. Butterflies and blooming flowers. The stars shine brighter! So wonderful!" In other words: bullshit.

Or I'm going to be fully honest, and give you a response you're not going to like, because it's not going to fit the profile of what you expect me to say. 

At the time, the best thing about being married was going on a honeymoon. Spending exorbitant amounts of money on ourselves in a wholly selfish manner. A few weeks later, the best thing about being married was not having a "fiancee." Oh man. I hated having a fiancee. What a shitty stupid word.  I loved having a girlfriend. "This is my girlfriend." Then we got engaged and I had to say, "This is my fiancee." I hate it! What a pretentious word. I would try and dodge it as much as I could. 

"This is Ellen, we're getting married next May."

"Oh, she's your fiancee?"

"If you insist."

And then you get married, and no more fiancee. And instead you get a "wife." That kicks ass. Not only do I have a "wife," but I also get to blame shit on her.

Some friend would say, "Hey, I'm having some people over to watch a Perfect Strangers marathon. Want to come?"

"Oh man, I'd love to. But I can't... the wife." That's pretty sweet. I loved that about being married. I still do. Hated the fiancee. Love the wife. Best thing about being married, you could say.

After one year of marriage, I was thinking about the stupid question again as I was writing a stand-up routine. The 100% honest answer I could come up with was, "Proximity." It was true. After one year of marriage, my favorite thing about being married was proximity! Because we didn't live together before we got married. Not for religious reasons or anything. We just didn't want to live together. ("Why didn't you live together?" People would ask. "Because I'm going to live with her forever. I want to not live with her for as long as possible." Then people would say, "That's terrible." Or "You shouldn't say that." Or they'd make a face as though to say, "I would never marry you." To which I would say in my head, "I hate you." I digress.) We didn't live together. And my wife didn't own a car. She had this grand idea that she was going to be really green. She wouldn't own a car. She would walk or bike everywhere! Really good goal, right?

But in reality she didn't own a car, but she wouldn't walk or bike ANYWHERE. Instead, she would call Lou.

"Hey Lou, what are you up to?" Saturday afternoon.

"Nothing. I'm just sitting around watching TV with my roommates. Why what are you up to?"
 

"Nothing. Want to do nothing together?"

"Sure, yeah. Do you want to come over here?"

"Sounds good."

"All right. Can't wait."

"Awesome. Oh, and by the way, can you come pick me up? I should mention that you live in Logan Square, a totally residential neighborhood that isn't a pain in the ass to drive around, but I live in Lakeview and it's a Saturday and the Cubs are going to play in a half hour. So you coming to pick me up is going to require you drive through the Hellishness of Cubs traffic and it'll take you an hour to get three miles to where I live and then another hour to get back to your house. And yes I own a bike, or could take two buses and be there in 30 minutes, but I love you..." What the fuck! There I was doing nothing, no chores no anything to do. Just relaxing. And now my nothing is something.

Or she'd be over at my house, and I'd say, "I have to go meet a friend for dinner at 5 PM tonight." 

And she'd say, "Okay, cool. I have to be home at 4:30 anyway, so it works out perfectly." 

Then at 4:15, she'd say, "Can you drive me home?" 

And I'd say, "Sure, but we have to go immediately, because I'm meeting my friend on the other side of the city and it's going to take a half hour to get there." 

And she'd say, "No problem." And then we'd get in the car and I'd begin driving her home. And then a mile from her apartment she'd say...

"Oh, can we just make a quick stop at the grocery store? I just need to pick up a couple things."

And I'd say, "I don't have time. I told you I have to be on the other side of the city in 30 minutes. I'm already going to be late."

And she'd say, "But it'll just take a minute."

And I'd say, "I can drop you off here and you can walk the rest of the way home."

And she'd say, "But I need to get too many things, I won't be able to carry it all."

And I'd say, "What the fuck! Holy shit! You just said a 'couple things.' Now it's so much you can't carry it? I would have taken you to the grocery store an hour ago! Why would you wait until now to tell me this shit! What the fuck! RAAAAGGGGGEEEEEE!!!" And I'd take her to the grocery store and be an hour late in meeting my friend. And he'd give me a hard time. And I'd tell him, "I would have been here sooner, except for the fiancee." And it would have been salt on an open wound because I hate having a fiancee.

So yes. Proximity. Now, if she needs to go to the grocery store, I say, "Here's the keys." She gets where she needs to go, and I don't have to not do nothing. Oh man, it's awesome. I'd go so far as to say it's my favorite thing about being married. And if she's late coming back from the store, and I can't get to where I need to go? I can blame it on the wife. Double whammy awesome sauce.