Man v. loofah

I nervously walked in the store with my head down. I quickly scanned the shelves and grabbed the first thing that looked like it would do the job. Naturally, it had a naked woman on the label. I tried to avoid eye contact with the cashier as I made my purchase and quickly exited the store.

That's right, I recently purchased my first loofah.

Whenever the topic of my shower routine comes up in conversation, many people are surprised when I tell them I use liquid soap and my hands on my skin. It's dirty and inefficient, many people tell me before asking why, once again, I'm talking about my shower routine.

My counter to the dirty argument has always been my hands are covered in soap, so they clean as they get clean. The efficiency argument I had no answer to, however. I regularly see streaks of soap on the shower walls, like someone shot Pop-N-Fresh at close range.

So, at the suggestion of my girlfriend, my grand poobah of the loofah, I decided to change up my bathing routine.

My favorite part is getting the loofah started. I drop the soap right in the heart of the loofah, like the kill-shot on the Death Star. Then, I furiously start scrubbing until the lather appears. Now I know how the cavemen felt when their flints sparked a fire.

Once I was done loofah-ing, I didn't really feel any different. My skin felt a little raw, actually. Maybe you have to break in a loofah like a baseball glove. I also smelled, and therein is my biggest problem with the loofah.

Have you ever been inside Bath and Body Works? I direct this question to guys, because all women are required by law to have at least one item from the store in their bathrooms. I can sum up the store in two words: Dark. Forest. That's one of their scents. Why anyone would want to smell like pine needles and animal droppings is beyond me. Plus, dark forests are scary.

The scents for guys aren't that much better. "Fever." "Snakeskin." "Excite." "Thai Massage." And that's just from Axe. (Incidentally, certain guys will pay a little extra as they finish up the Thai Massage bottle.) Other companies offer "Clean," "Fresh" and "Clean and Fresh" scents.

I know I'm not the first person to say this, but if I want to smell after my shower, I'll put on some cologne. Real men wear unscented deodorant, too.

So I'm going to continue using my loofah, just not everyday. Of course, that could change. I'll be happy to keep you updated.

The Bachelor (Party)

I planned my first bachelor party last month, for my brother, and I'm going to call it a success because he was able to go to work the following Monday. In the process, I learned a few lessons.

I'm so glad I'm a dude. As if I needed more proof of how much easier it is to be a guy - the ability to pee standing up, checkmate - my girlfriend happened to be planning a bridal shower/bachelorette party for the same weekend. My planning essentially involved a few emails, making a dinner reservation and reminding everyone to pay the guy who booked the hotel rooms.

Bachelorette parties and bridal showers, by contrast, seem to require detailed plans along the lines of the raid of bin Laden's compound if the attack included an inflatable penis. (Although, based on what has been discovered in the compound, maybe it did.)

My favorite part of the bridal shower is the games. Why do women feel the need to wrap each other in toilet paper as part of the pre-wedding festivities? I've seen many of you drink before; you typically don't need any encouragement or a running start. The only game I organized for my brother's party was Make Sure Everyone Gets Back to the Hotel Room At the End of the Night. (We won!)

Perhaps nothing summarizes the difference between bachelor and bachelorette parties, and men and women, for that matter, than this: some of the girls at the party my girlfriend planned brought multiple pairs of shoes. My cousin only brought his toothbrush.

Sake bombs are stupid. I'll be the first to admit I'm a lightweight and a novice when it comes to drinking. I'm also terrible at chugging, a fact I attribute to a narrow gullet and that I like to enjoy whatever it is I'm drinking.

But to keep with the spirit of the evening I did my first-ever sake bombs during dinner. OK, my glass was only half-full of beer, but I was definitely in the spirit afterward. What I don't understand is the elaborate ritual leading up to the drinking. Placing the shot glass atop chopsticks on the glass, then banging the table hard enough so the sake falls into the beer - why not just pour the shot in and get on with it? More of the alcohol landed on the table than in people's mouths. We could've used some of those toilet paper dresses.

There's always a strip club involved. My brother had only one request for his party - no strippers. (To the guys at the party who have not yet told their girlfriends or wives about this part of the night: you know she's going to find out eventually.) And I made his wish known in one of my emails to the attendees.

Yet there we were at 1 a.m., standing in line outside a gentleman's club. Girls give the bride-to-be lingerie. Guys give the groom-to-be dollar bills to stick in the lingerie of women with fake breasts.

A bachelor party always seems to find a strip club the way Monarch butterflies always migrate to the same forest in Mexico. No one knows exactly how they know. In our case, we had one guy insistent on going who also knew the neighborhood. He had us at "the strip club is around the corner."

Once we got inside, no one in our party really wanted to be there. In fact, no one in the strip club looked like they really wanted to be there, except for the fat guy standing right in front of the stage. That included the one group of women I saw in the audience. Why they - or any females - would go to a gentleman's club is beyond me. But I'm pretty sure the woman who forgot the inflatable penis for the bachelorette party learned her lesson.

Not very appetizing

Heavy hors d'oeuvres has officially been added to the short list of things I hate, joining Jay Leno, chunky peanut butter, neckbeard and any "Saturday Night Live" skit with Jimmy Fallon. (Except "Cowbell," of course. Everyone was laughing during that one.)

I came to this realization a few weeks ago after attending a pre-graduation reception on the campus of The George Washington University. (Motto: We Cannot Tell A Lie - Tuition Is Pretty Expensive.)

Before I continue, let me state unequivocally that I had a lovely time, the people I met were friendly and the rooftop view of The Mall made a great background for photos that could easily achieve Facebook profile picture-status. That said, I had two main problems with this shindig.

First, the dress code was "business professional." Not be confused with "business casual," of course, or "casual professional" or "Kris Kross," which is when you wear a smoking jacket backward. Even now, I still have no idea what that means. Note to Event Planners: Just tell me on the invitation if I need to wear a coat and tie. I'll take it from there.

The bigger issue, though, was the reception featured heavy hors d'oeuvres, the cocktail hour's annoying cousin.

I like a good cocktail hour. It's a chance to ease your way into a party, scope out the lay of the land, drink and mingle. The night is still full of possibilities, so everyone is in a good mood, and getting another drink is a great excuse to leave a boring conversation. Plus, if you're lucky, there will be pigs in a blanket and/or egg rolls. People would never eat regular-sized hot dogs and egg rolls together, but make them miniature and watch the plates fill up.

Heavy hors d'oeuvres, on the other hand, is French for "you're not getting dinner." That means more focus on eating and less on schmoozing. The actual food also seems bigger, like appetizers on steroids. The food needs a plate that becomes difficult to use once you put even one item on it because there is most likely a drink in your other hand. If you're without a drink, you still have to fully commit to your plate because whatever is on there probably requires a fork or your fingers to consume. Much of the freedom and enjoyment of the cocktail partygoer is thanks to the toothpick.

Put this all together, and there I was at GW, furiously wiping my hand on a napkin to get off the grease from my 18th piece of coconut-breaded chicken to shake hands with the guy I just met while also keeping an eye on the beer I momentarily placed next to the vegetable platter. That it was my 18th piece is a bit of exaggeration, but not by much; heavy hors d'ouevres typically lack the variety of the cocktail hour, forcing you to stick with what's working. If you disguised any type of competitive eating contest as heavy hors d'ouevres, everyone could find their inner-Kobayashi.

I was the bad kind of full by the time we left, the kind where you still feel hungry but the thought of actually eating something else makes you feel a bit queasy. But seeing the graduate-to-be beaming at the start of her big weekend was better medicine than Pepto-Bismol, and, besides, the drinks were free.

Also, I was properly dressed in my coat and tie.

Fine print

I've read newspapers my entire life and have wanted nothing more professionally than to write for one. Beating deadlines, asking the tough questions, wearing a fedora with the "Press" card sticking out from the side - what's not to love about the life of a newspaperman? (That term is no longer politically correct, of course. We in the business prefer "stewardess.")

Sadly, I might be the last of a dying species. More people are getting their news online than from any other source, according to various reports I've read online. The Internet is fundamentally changing journalism, and all of us in the newspaper business are still trying to figure out just how big we need to make Sudoku puzzles in order to turn a profit.

The death of the print newspaper is a matter of "when," not "if." Some people believe the last print editions will roll off the presses by the end of the decade. I already can see myself shedding a tear in my flying car when that day comes.

So I decided recently to begin preparing for the worst. I gave up up reading newspapers for one week. This meant no sports section with breakfast, something else to occupy my time in the bathroom and purchasing wrapping paper for the first time.

My ban included one important exception: I still read the comics every day. I can imagine a world without newspapers, but I choose not to think about a world without Beetle Bailey.

I began my newspaper fast on a Sunday, my big newspaper reading day. Big Newspaper, probably fearing the loss of one of its last young, loyal subscribers, somehow convinced the Obama administration that night was ideal to announce Osama bin Laden had been killed. I sensed this was not going to be easy.

Yet somehow I managed to avoid reading newspapers all week. The hardest part was picking up the newspaper on my doorstep each morning. It practically cried out for my warm embrace, but I quickly threw it in my recycling pile and zeroed in on my Cinnamon Life.

The best part of the week was not dealing with newsprint. There are so many fingerprints on door frames in my house I could hold several sections of a forensics class. (My mom, in her infinite wisdom, always wondered aloud why my dad and I didn't use doorknobs. I'm not sure, but I believe it's related to the fact neither of us can find things we're looking for that are directly in front of our faces.)

Not reading newspapers also cleared my schedule. As a journalist, I find newspapers to be a sort of continuing education resource, so I tend to read every word of most stories to see what works, what doesn't and maybe pick up a story idea or two. Sections of Sunday papers might last me until Friday. Naturally, I spent much of my free time trying to cut down the pile of Esquires I had yet to open.

Interestingly, I didn't read more news online as I thought I would. I wondered if my consumption of print media fed my consumption of Internet news and vice versa, a chicken-and-egg kind of relationship. Or, perhaps more accurately, a dodo bird-and-egg relationship.

That was the sad realization I had at the conclusion of my experiment. There will probably be a point in my lifetime I won't even have the option of giving up a newspaper. It'll just be gone, like Beetle whenever Sarge is in a foul mood. Call me a romantic with blackened fingertips, but I find something very comforting about holding the daily paper in my hands.

So I will keep reading newspapers until the last one rolls off the presses. I just need to figure out what to do with all of this gift wrap.

Winning putts

We were at the miniature golf course in Ocean City and I was dreading what I was about to say, even though I already knew how she would answer.

"Are we keeping score?"

Unlike Charlie Sheen, I have a complicated relationship with winning. (That joke already sounded dated in my head but I still wanted to see how it looked in print. Thanks for the memories, Charlie.) I can be a competitive person, but I'd rather give others a chance to win first before I crush them.

I feel it most when it comes to trivia-related games. Over the years I have retained gobs of information, some of it useful, most of it useless. I like to think I would make a great lifeline on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." (That's two dated references if you're scoring at home.)

I try to walk the fine line between "smart" and "know-it-all" without coming off as a tool. Part of me wants to scream out that James Polk was president during the Mexican-American War, part of me wants to let someone else share the knowledge with the group. My competitive streak is similar when it comes to sports. Well, at least for the one sport where I consider myself an old pro.

I've played miniature golf for as long as I can remember. Summer weekends meant going to Ocean City and playing miniature golf Saturday mornings and many times Sunday on our way home. My brother and I have played every golf course on Coastal Highway dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

And we never kept score, unless our grandfather was with us. He would keep score with his unique system: we shot a 2 on every hole no matter how many strokes we actually took. Mulligans were encouraged, and afterward he bought us sodas. To this day, I can't see orange soda without thinking about golf balls.

That's why scorecard sticklers during a round of miniature golf amaze me as much as the people who bring their own putters or spend minutes standing over and lining up each putt. But I know I'm in the minority, so I simply try not to pay attention when friends want to keep score - even as I secretly want to win.

So when I asked her about keeping score, I already knew I'd have a golf pencil behind my ear for 18 holes. We decided to play one of the newest venues in Ocean City, an indoor track I never played before built where two of my favorite outdoor courses once stood. They paved paradise and put up something slightly less than paradise.

I threw out the score card after we finished, so I don't remember what happened hole-by-hole. (Afterward, however, we did get margaritas with dinner.) What I do remember is around the start of the back-nine she asked me for the score. Hers was probably much higher than mine. At the time I definitely shot more birdies and pars than she did.

What she didn't know was that I was using the Grampa Scoring System. After taking a stroke off here, after honoring her mulligan there but counting mine, I announced she was only down by one shot. The look on her face was a weird mix of anger, shock, irritation and amusement.

"Keep score for real," she said.

So I did. And I won, fair and square. Just like the United States did in the Mexican-American War. Which officially ended in 1848 after the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Duh.

Gas pains

We have early front-runners for Parents of the Year. I followed them into a gas station recently.

Dad was driving a blue, compact car with enough dings to make you want to check the nearest customer service window. Mom sat in the passenger seat, with Junior and Sis in the back seat. Sis sat directly behind Mom on the same side of the car as the gas tank (more on that in a bit).

Anyways, I got out of my car and started filling up. Actually, that's not true: I had to punch in answers to approximately 8,429 questions before I could start pumping gas. No, I don't have a reward card, Yes, I think Christina Aguilera on "The Voice" is looking like a blond Snooki, No, I don't want a car wash, Yes, this is a credit card, No, I really don't want a car wash.

Adding to my misery was the crappy music blaring in my ear from a speaker directly next to the keypad. Because paying $4 a gallon isn't enough, I was stuck listening to "Hotel California." Show me a gas station where paying is simple and there is no music playing, and I'll ask how you built your time machine because we must be in 1957 or 1964.

Once I correctly responded to the pump's final question (No, I don't think those buttons make you look fat), I was ready to go. And that's when I saw Sis, out of the family car. I'm guessing she was in middle school, or one of those girls in elementary school who dwarfs over every boy in her class. She was wearing a pink tutu over black tights and an old T-shirt.

It's been a while since I did a plie, but I don't think you wear a tutu for rehearsal. Maybe she was asserting her independence and wearing whatever she wanted. We've all been there; Jason Segel has told the story of wearing a cape when he was a boy, and, thankfully, I've burned all the pictures from my Kriss Kross phase in 1992. So I wasn't going to blame the parents for Sis' fashion decision.

I will blame them for what Sis was doing outside the family car - filling the tank. Maybe she drew the unlucky seat closest to the gas tank and therefore had to pump the gas. Maybe she insisted on pumping the gas the way she insisted on wearing a tutu. Whatever the reason, pumping gas would seem to scream "direct parental supervision." Yet Mom and Dad remained firmly planted in the car, staring out into space.

Dad was in such a trance, in fact, that he forgot to turn off the engine. The only time I've ever seen gas poured while a car is running is during an auto race, and even then the guy doing it and everyone around him wears a flame-retardant suit.

So, to recap, we have an underage girl in a tutu pumping gas into a running car five feet away from me. I was alternately watching my pump and trying to memorize the license plate on the family's car for a police report or call to child protective services.

Then I noticed Sis watching her pump and nozzle, giving a little extra squeeze when the gas shut off. That's when I realized she's done this before. So, Mom and Dad, for making your daughter your own personal gas attendant, you are slam-dunk finalists for Parents of the Year.

Sis closed the gas tank and hopped back in the car. The family drove away, probably back home so Junior could change the car's oil and rotate the tires.

Stall tactics

I was at a urinal the other day when I discovered something I never noticed before. And it didn't happen while I was looking down.

This bathroom had three stalls next to one urinal. While I was at said urinal, two friends walked in a few seconds apart. Let's call them Nick and Bob, because those are their names. As I was washing my hands, I noticed Nick was in the stall closest to the urinal. Bob, meanwhile, took the stall farthest away from Nick.

It hit me like a ton of stuff you don't want to get hit with in a bathroom. Every guy knows proper urinal etiquette is to take the one farthest away from an occupied one, an instinct documented in the landmark 1981 paper published by Harvard researchers,"Mine's Bigger." But it never dawned on me the same rules apply for stalls as well.

(For the record, Nick and Bob were both standing in the stalls, if you catch my drift. Every guy knows the proper stall to use when someone is sitting is one on an entirely different floor.)

I've asked many male friends and family members in the past few days what they would've done if they were in Bob's position. The answer is unanimous - they would've done what Bob did. Many were surprised I even had to ask the question in the first place.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I usually subconsciously go to the farthest stall. The only time I hesitate is when the farthest stall is the wheelchair-accessible one. I always worry that someone who really needs to use that stall - and really needs to use the bathroom - will be waiting outside. And can you imagine how much revenue police could generate if they started charging people for peeing in a handicapped zone?

Anyways, with my suspicions about male behavior confirmed, I decided to present the same scenario to some women I know, seeing as they have much more experience with stalls. I think I solved one of mankind's longstanding questions about the female species in the process, but more on that in a bit.

I was surprised that many women said they would do just like a man and take the unoccupied stall farthest away from the occupied stall. One said it's a matter of respecting another's personal space and similar principles should be followed when deciding what treadmill to use at the gym, a parallel I had not previously not thought about.

Yet other women told me they didn't pay attention to what stall they used, instead focusing on getting in and out of the bathroom as quick as possible. This strategy has its drawbacks, though; one friend told me that when she is in the first stall, more women than she can count try to get in "without checking to see feet."

The most revealing response I got from women, however, was when I slightly altered the scenario to walking into the bathroom with a friend. Why women travel in packs to public restrooms is a question that has vexed men for generations. My theory is the same theory I have about what women do wherever they gather without men: tickle fight.

Turns out friends apparently will go into adjacent stalls to finish conversations started on the way to the bathroom. But they also sit side-by-side "just in case someone needs to pass the tp or what have you," as one friend put it. So there you have it. Women visit public restrooms together in case there is a toilet paper emergency.

Please don't forget to wash your hands before leaving this column.

Awww nuts

I absolutely despise chunky peanut butter. But I probably wouldn't have started this blog without it.

The story begins in late 1999, when the world was preparing for, as everyone remembers, Sweden's declaring the Church of Sweden no longer the state religion. I had applied for and was selected to be the columnist for my high school newspaper.

My first column examined public displays of affection. I heaped scorn on couples making out in the hallways, the people that "believe that 40 minutes of a period is equivalent to a lifetime before seeing their love again and must sanctify their love by locking lips tighter than spandex on a fat guy." (The sentence probably could have used some polishing, but that analogy remains pure comedic gold.)

I don't quite remember the reaction to the column, but then again most of my high school memories are hazy due to my BoKu addiction. The response must have been mostly positive, however, because I distinctly recall brimming with confidence as I turned in my next column.

The administration had prevented the drama department from putting on a production of "To Kill A Mockingbird" for content reasons. At the same time, the school made a pointed effort to observe World AIDS Day and had sex education classes. I thought the stances were at odds and planned to call out administrators on their hypocrisy. I'll never forget my first sentence:

What do a girl named Scout and gonorrhea have in common?

I almost bought earplugs fearing the loud buzz my column would call when it hit the school's hallways. So it was much to my surprise when I opened the paper the day it came out and saw the following first sentence:

The first thing I think when I see a Hershey's Bar with almonds is "what a waste of chocolate."

Turns out my editors killed my column and instead ran a piece I had submitted with my application, seen in the photo above. It was a creative writing assignment for my English class about why I hated nuts in general and chunky peanut butter in particular:

The biggest thing nuts spoil is peanut butter. ...Putting nuts in peanut butter is kind of like putting a mustache on the Mona Lisa - why ruin a masterpiece?

I also had a spirited riff about Mr. Peanut:

He is the only mascot I would slap if given the chance. ...The idea of a nut aristocracy is ludicrous to begin with. Does he think he's better than me just because he and his monocle are on a can of peanuts?

People really liked the column, even those "people" who liked chunky peanut butter. I learned a valuable lesson in the process: stick to writing about silly things, life's foibles. It's a philosophy that has fueled my creative writing since then, including this blog.

My column on nuts ended this way:

If I could turn just one person away from extra chunky Peter Pan, I would be content. And maybe, just maybe, I would not be as nuts as I am now.

It's a sentiment that sticks with me, like spandex on a... well, you know.

Bagel bit

I remember the day my life changed temporarily forever like it was yesterday. Actually, it was the day before yesterday.

I was in my kitchen, fixing myself a bagel with peanut butter and jelly. The bagel was toasted to a crisp but wasn't burnt. I like my bagels to come out of the toaster colored various shades of brown, so it looks like they have spots that should be checked out by a dermatologist.

(Also, it should be noted, I put my bagels in a toaster, not a toaster oven. One of the single best purchases I made for my home.)

I had my bagel halves on the plate and was beginning to spread on my smooth peanut butter. To all you chunky peanut butter advocates, I'll explain why you're wrong next week. Consider it my "rebutteral," if you will.

Anyways, my left hand was on the bagel as my right hand began to spread the peanut butter. I can't remember if my left hand was moving the bagel in a circular motion or I was repositioning my grip; frankly, my memory is kind of hazy.

Because what happened next is something that has never happened to me in 20-plus years of spreading stuff on bagels: I cut my finger. Specifically, I got a bad paper cut on the tip of my left, middle finger. It took at least a tenth of a paper towel to staunch the bleeding.

My cousin summed up my ordeal nicely when I told him about it: an act of betrayal. Stunned, I proceeded to eat the bagel almost out of spite.

Needless to say, I've been extra careful with bagels since. I've also learned to cope with my injury, and in the process gained a new appreciation for my injured finger. I'm right-handed and never realized how much I use my left hand. Grabbing things is very difficult, especially since the middle finger is usually the first to make contact with an object.

The toughest thing to do? Floss. When I'm exploring the crevasses along my bottom molars, I typically use the left, middle finger to drive the floss between the teeth. Now, I'm forced to use my index finger instead, and I can feel the gum disease developing.

The other difficulty is with typing. It hurts to push down on certain keys on the keyboard, particularly the letter "E." I'm glad I'm not writing about the collection of livestock a former former Buffalo Bills receiver keeps near a river. Because "Don Beebe's sheep by the creek" might have driven me to file a worker's compensation claim.

My point is, you should be thanking me for sucking it up and writing this. But as a token of my appreciation for you all being such loyal readers, I'm going to give a prize to the 1,000th person to view my blog.

I think I have some bagels in my fridge.

Waist management

I received a link the other day to purchase videos and photos from the half-marathon I ran in Washington over the weekend. Because nothing says "I ran 13.1 miles" like your picture on a luggage tag to go along with two days of struggling to climb stairs.

The video from the finish line was pretty depressing. There are people jogging across it, people giving one last burst, even a guy in an Uncle Sam hat triumphantly raising his arms. And then there I am, urgently hobbling like my dinner didn't agree with me.

In other words, I looked and felt like an old man. Thankfully, I regained my youth later that night at dinner, when I saw a Dad sit down at a nearby table with his long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into his jeans.

(POLL UPDATE: Thanks to everyone who voted last week. The majority of you think I look handsome no matter what I wear and believe I will be seeing "Friends with Benefits" this summer if my girlfriend wants to see it. That's probably the least I can do for her, seeing as she would've finished the race more than the five minutes faster than she did had she not "run" beside me for a bit when I was hurting.)

There seem to be a variety of male markers for getting older. I'm OK with the hair growth in strange places; the woman who cuts my hair now trims my eyebrows without my asking. But to me, the clearest sign you're officially old is the unconscious need to tuck in any shirt you're wearing no matter how stupid it might look.

I don't know exactly at what age that happens. Sure, the average working male spends most of his day with his shirt tucked in, but that doesn't mean he has to tuck his T-shirt into his shorts before he works out at the gym. Perhaps it's done to contain a growing belly. In that case, I would argue the tucked-in shirt only accentuates the gut.

Society equates the tuck-in with cleanliness. I say it just creates more surface area for you to spill something onto your pants. And when that happens, there's only one thing to do - untuck your shirt.

That night for dinner, incidentally, I left my chaps at home (thanks again to everyone who voted in my poll!) and was wearing an untucked sweater... with no belt around my jeans. This is a more controversial position: one of my cousins insists that if your pants have belt loops, you must wear a belt.

This makes sense when the shirt is tucked in, or if your pants don't fit. But if the pants fit and the shirt is untucked, why give yourself one more hurdle when it comes time to use the bathroom? Besides, I've noticed women often wear pants with belt loops but no belt. Maybe the belt loops are supposed to be decorative, or maybe they don't want to draw attention to their midsections, not that there's anything to draw attention to because they look fantastic and I'm pretty sure they've lost some weight and let's just continue to the next paragraph.

I know there's a good chance I'll read this 30 years from now wearing my tucked-in T-shirt and laugh at my youthful ignorance. Time has a way of eroding even the strongest feelings. But if, 30 years from now, I'm also reading this while wearing socks with sandals, I give you permission to beat me with my own belt.

Surveys say...

Before we get into today's column, you might want to take this poll.

Now you can't say I didn't warn you.

I was thinking about polls after finding out at work the other day that I'm not as square as I thought I was. More of a rhombus, if you will.

At issue was hearing on TV last week that a girl was "sweating" a guy. I had never heard the term before, but when I excitedly told my girlfriend what I had learned, I could almost feel her patting my head over the phone.

Sweating has been around for a while, she said, long before The Situation used the term on "Jersey Shore." (Since I know you're wondering: "Masterpiece Theatre" was a repeat.)

This led me to poll a handful of co-workers who are about my age. About half knew of sweating and gave me the pat on the head via e-mail, but others had no clue. The lack of consensus was somewhat reassuring, and I achieved my goal of using "sweating" in everyday conversation.


My point is, I'd like to incorporate more polling in my life. It's not that I would call myself indecisive. But I could. So why not let other people make a decision for me if they're willing?

Say, for example, I wake up and don't know what to wear to work. (Actually, that would never happen. I have a system with my pants and shirts. But bear with me, this is just an exercise.) Rather than aimlessly searching in my closet, I could ask people


And then I and my chaps would hop on my horse and gallop to the office.

I think the polling would most come in handy for entertainment choices. Not only could friends and family tell me if a movie or book is good, but knowing me and my tastes gives them insight into whether I would like it even if they didn't.

During that same episode of "Jersey Shore," for example, I saw a trailer for a summer movie where the plot seems to be Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake have trouble keeping on their clothes when they see each other. My Chick Flick Detector went off when I saw the Wisecracking, Gay Best Friend supporting character and heard the chorus of Semisonic's "Closing Time" in the background. On the other hand, Mila Kunis was in her underwear a lot and Justin Timberlake and I share a birthday.

(Strangest part of the trailer: seeing Jenna Elfman as Timberlake's mother. Dharma's old enough to play a mother with a son in his late 20s/early 30s? Man, I'm getting old.)

So, please help me make plans for at least one night this summer.



Thanks. I'll sweat you very much in return.

Open Letters

Dear Deli Counter Workers,

Outside of the wonderful woman who cuts my hair, you are the professionals I've had the longest relationship with. Twice a week I seek you out, dutifully taking my number. Inevitably, it's the number right after the person who is ordering seven meats and four cheeses, but I know it's going to be worth the wait.

I ask for turkey breast to make sandwiches for lunch. You cut the first slice and show it to me, asking if I want it thinner or thicker. Most times I say it's fine because, honestly, I can't tell the difference. Occasionally I'll say, "A little thinner; I'm expecting company," and then laugh to myself. Thanks for not judging me.

I also always appreciate it when you put too much turkey on the scale, take off the extra, print out a receipt and then put the extra back in my pile. Don't worry, that's our little secret.

There's one thing that could make our relationship better, however. When it comes time to put the receipt on the bag, please don't use the receipt like a piece of tape to pin the bag's opening to the body of the bag. Because I always ended up tearing the bag trying to separate the receipt from the plastic. And then there is always a piece of the receipt sticking out from the top of the bag, making it difficult to open and close.

So please, next time, just put the receipt on the bag and hand it over. You can cut the turkey to any thickness you like in return.

Dear Inventor of Foam Hand Soap,

The frustration of the liquid soap-automatic faucet-electric hand dryer triumvirate caused a snowball effect that often left me drying my hands on my pants. I would get too much soap on my hands to rinse off one time through those low-flow and temperamental sinks, followed by not enough heat to dry my drenched hands.

It's a vicious spiral that ends with me using extra paper towels out of spite if they are available. (I don't like bathrooms that offer both the hand dryer and paper towels. I can feel the hand dryer judging me as I reach for the paper towel. Sorry, Captain Planet.)

The foam soap has effectively blown up the equation. One squirt of foam can easily be washed away with just a little bit of water, which in turn means the hand dryer is enough. Plus, foam is fun. I would push the dispenser more than once, but that would probably require me to use more water, which ultimately means more of my pants becoming towels.

So thank you, Foam Soap Inventor, for cutting 4.1 seconds off my time in the bathroom. In this case, the power truly is yours!

Dear Dad Standing in the Gym Locker Room Last Week as His Son Got Dressed,

And "standing" is the key word, because if you were helping him, then I wouldn't be as angry at you as I am.

I seem to get the gym locker room after work around the same time as a swim team practice, so locker and bench space is at a premium. On this night, all of the lockers seemed to be filled until I found one in the back row.

That's where I found you and your son. Junior looked to be somewhere between the ages of 6 and 13, old enough to dress himself. He sat in the middle of the bench, his back facing the locker I wanted to use. His stuff was spread out around him on the bench.

You were leaning against the lockers, watching him get dressed, not really helping him. Now, if I were you, I would have moved some of Junior's stuff on the floor as a courtesy, giving your fellow man some space to change. Or, I would've stopped talking about what Mom's making for dinner and urged Junior to finish getting dressed so the two of us could get home and find out.

Instead, you chose the third option - to continue standing there and wondering, too, what Mom is making for dinner. So I'm forced to change standing in my locker while the two of you try to guess tonight's menu.

You, Dad, might be wondering why I didn't say anything, why I didn't ask Junior (or you) to move his stuff. Because I shouldn't need to, that's why. If someone comes to change near me in the locker room, my first move instinctively is to bring my bag closer to me so we both have some space. It's a little thing called "common courtesy."

Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I should thank you for providing the anger that fueled my subsequent run.

But I still hope your dinner was terrible.

Scenes from a Timonium diner

Nothing's finer than being at your diner.
- Montesquieu. Or Seinfeld. (I always get them confused.)

A rainy Sunday morning and we're meeting her friends for brunch. The cookies in the dessert case are as big as your eyes get when you see giant cookies.

"You make all gone, I'll get you a cookie," I say as I put my hand on her lower back. Her smile can't hide her eye roll. Bless her for putting up with me.

We are walked to our table, the first ones there. She slides into one booth. I pause. To slide on her side means we'd be the people sitting on the same side of the table, even if it's only temporary. To me, there are only two times when that is acceptable:

1. You're at an outdoor cafe in Paris
2. You'd be looking at the dessert case or the chef preparing the food in front of you
   

I admire the blueberry muffins as I sit next to her. I mention my feelings about same-side sitting.

"I think it's OK," she says.

Hmmm, I never thought of it that way. Maybe she's right.

The other couple arrives. She's known the girl since college, and I've never met either of them, so I'm glad to be sitting across from the guy. We can always talk sports when the girl talk breaks out.

Before that can happen, though, it's time to order. The waitress has already circled back twice; another time and I'm probably in for a 30 percent tip. We're ready this time.

If brunch is the best meal of the day (and it is), then a diner is the best place for brunch. So many options, so little time. I waffle between an omelet and French toast but go for the latter. Open-faced turkey and French toast are the true tests of any diner.

I hedge my bet and get a scrambled egg, too.

The whole meal is pleasant, the food delicious. The diner doesn't have the Lazy Susan filled with syrups in various flavors, but the single packets on the table don't leave your hands sticky. Call it a push.

The obligatory Loud, Crying Baby at a Crowded Restaurant is only heard from once. The waitress keeps coming back for refills; I'm in now for a 25 percent tip, minimum.

The slightly hungover, college-age trio leaves the table nearby, replaced by the teenage goths. Forget the chefs; these three should be wearing the hairnets around the food. At least the black clothes are slimming. I'm glad my teenage rebellion phase just was frosted tips.

The girls excuse themselves to go to the bathroom for the girl talk. My new friend guesses they'll be talking about me. I nod in agreement and we talk about the Duke-UNC game.

They get back and it's time to fight over the check. We go for the Solomonic 50-50 split. I like these people even more.

By the cashier are those white mints with the flavors hidden inside. On the off chance I get a licorice-flavored one, I decide not to risk ruining brunch.

We say our goodbyes outside and go to our respective cars.

"That was fun," I say as we drive away. "I like them."

She nods in agreement. She didn't make all gone.

I should've gotten a cookie anyways.

Life in the (kinda) fast lane

I'm a slow driver, although you wouldn't know it from the flurry of speeding tickets I accumulated in Prince George's and Montgomery counties a month ago.

(Note to the City of College Park: Speed cameras on Route 1? Really? The 4,241 people you have giving out parking tickets aren't generating enough revenue? Just set up a tollbooth charging people $25 to enter and exit College Park and get it over with.)

My friends would say a No. 2 pencil has more lead than my foot. I'm not the guy doing 40 on the Beltway, more like 60 to 65. The left lane, like the middle button of a sports coat, is sometimes territory for me.

My driving gene comes from my father, who has never met a speed limit sign he didn't like. One of my mom's favorite and frustrating hobbies is counting the cars that pass my dad when he's driving. You should hear her when the car gets passed by a truck somewhere in Delaware farm country on the way to Ocean City.

Personally, my driving has never bothered me. I still get to where I'm going and get there safely. You don't need one of those driving school, passenger-side breaks if you're riding shotgun with me.

That said, I do have a tendency to tailgate, at least accidentally. For example, say I'm in the right lane of the Beltway less than a mile away from my exit and I'm quickly approaching a slower car.
My first reaction would be to wave to my dad. But then I have a choice: do I stay in the lane because my exit is quickly approaching? Or do I change lanes to pass the slow car?

Most times, I stay in the right lane. Then I start tailgating and getting angry I didn't pass the car. Which makes me tailgate more, as if I can will the car in front of me to get out of the way. It's all I can do not to glare at the person when I finally pass them.

There is one instance, however, when tailgating is wholly appropriate - nay, required. It happened to me the other night as I was driving home on a two-lane road. There were no cars behind or in front of me. As I was coming upon the entrance to a development, a car took a quick right-hand from the side street into my lane, causing me to put my foot on the brake. The car then proceeded to go, and I'm estimating here, -23 mph.

This driver, and his ilk, should be arrested on the spot. It's one thing to make the quick cut-in and floor it; it's a whole other thing to cut someone off and essentially rub it in his face.

I just wish it happened in College Park. That move is worth at least a $50 fine, right?

ID, please

I lost my gym membership card on a recent Sunday. Thought I put it in the pocket of a jacket I stuffed in a gym locker before working out, but couldn't find it when I got home.

My immediate concern was having to identify myself and get a "guest pass" every time I went to the gym until I could get a new card. I understand it's a security measure, and I'm all for keeping track of who is coming and going.

What makes it annoying is I've seen pretty much the same security people every time I enter the gym the last three years. Shouldn't they know my face by now? That I'm not trouble, except for the track that I tear up regularly with my 10-to-11-minute miles?

My job requires me to go into a courthouse almost daily. A few of the guards recognize me and allow me to enter without going through the metal detector. Some of the guards recognize me but still have me put my bag on the X-ray machine, which is fine.

But one guard is different. At least once every few months we'll have this conversation before I have to pass through security.

Guard: Are you a lawyer?

Me [smiling]: No, I'm a reporter.

Guard: Oh, OK. I see you here all the time.

Really? Then why do I feel like I'm starring in Groundhog Day 2? Just let me pass through and we can both go on our way.

Whenever I got a new card, it would be my second one in less than six months. It's one of those small ones designed to fit on a key chain. At this point, you're probably thinking to yourself, "I wonder if Danny is a lawyer?" You might also be wondering why I didn't attach my card to my key chain.

Call me a purist, but I think only keys and remotes related to keys, fobs included. A key chain is a pocket puncture wound waiting to happen without cards on it; let's not add sharp-edged plastic to the equation. Plus, I fear one card will be a gateway drug to a key chain full of cards, photos, a Swiss Army knife, beer opener, and, heaven forbid, another key chain.

That I needed a new card so soon after losing an old one was also a blow to my psyche. To say I'm routine-oriented would be an understatement. Some friends and family could tell you what day of the week it is based on what I ate for dinner. Bedtime is only after I read the funny pages. I always support a point I'm making in writing with three examples.

And I either put my gym card in my jacket or gym bag when I go work out. If my system fails, then I fail, and before you know it, I'm forgetting to eat dinner altogether.

But when I finally got my new card, I realized it was a chance to start a new routine. And keeping this card in my wallet is guaranteed to work for the rest of eternity.

I was all ready to try out my new system tonight. Then, this morning, I put on a jacket and dug my hands into the pockets. My left hand pulled out my old gym card.

See? The system never fails.

Potty talk

A friend came to my house for the first time recently and needed to use the bathroom.

“Did you notice the padded toilet seat?” I asked upon her return.

“My grandmother had them,” she replied.

It’s a response I’m used to hearing. I’m known among certain friends as the guy with the padded toilet seats. (I’m also known as the guy who talks about his toilet seats. Go figure.) People laugh and tease, but never once have I heard a complaint from people who've used my bathroom.

The average person spends roughly four years sitting in the bathroom during the course of a lifetime, according to a study I just made up. I say you might as well be comfortable while you are in there. History shows I’m in select company:

• Prehistoric Times: Man develops first padded toilet seat using woolly mammoth fur. Smell eventually causes glaciers to retreat.
• 410 CE – Visigoths destroy Roman factory that is world’s leading producer of padded toilet seats. Dark Ages begin.
• 1517 – Among Martin Luther’s “Theses”: No more wooden toilet seats in church bathrooms.
  
• 1910 – White House workers add extra padding to President Taft’s Oval Office toilet seat at the same time they widen his bathtub.

So why don't more people embrace the padded toilet seat? (Figuratively, not literally, of course.) I think it's because they are shallow. The padded toilet seat can be fat and bulky, a potential eyesore in a sleek-looking, modern bathroom. It's old-fashioned and decidedly not hip.

But us pad-ites, we look beyond the superficial to what's inside. Specifically, foam. We literally value the support. We imagine that if our butts could talk, they would say, "So this is what a Snuggie feels like!"

Valuing utility over style is the same reason I keep those little bathroom cups by my sink. I want to rinse thoroughly after brushing my teeth, not wash my imaginary goatee. If humans were supposed to drink water out of cupped hands, we'd have a little more webbing between our fingers.

I know I'll probably never win these bathroom battles, but I promise to continue spreading the gospel. Maybe padded toilet seats won't lead to world peace or pare down the national debt, but try it and I guarantee you'll leave the bathroom a happier person.

Stop by my house any time. I'll leave the seat down for you.

That's what (Facebook) friends are for

I made a startling discovery this week: I have exactly 64 friends. At least, that's how many people sent me birthday wishes through Facebook.

"Friends," of course, is a broad term, particularly when it comes to social networks. My birthday greetings came from one of three types of people:

1. FRIENDS - A close friend who called and/or sent me a birthday card trying to cover all the bases
2. Friends - An acquaintance with whom I could carry on a conversation should our paths ever cross but otherwise would not keep in touch with
3. friends - People I have not spoken to in years - if I even remember speaking to them at all

It wasn't always this complicated. Back in elementary school, for example, birthday wishes came primarily from the people in my class. And that was after I brought some sort of dessert for everyone to enjoy. Except my Jehovah's Witness classmates. That's why their recruiting efforts at schools typically fail.

(This was also a time when kids did not have all of these "allergies" they have today. You got in trouble if you didn't bring in something that contained peanuts back when I was in the first grade.)

Anyways, with Facebook, I really appreciate knowing so many people took time out from their day to mark my special day. For about five seconds. Then I get resentful and angry.

The resentment comes almost immediately because I must respond to each Facebook post individually. I know some people blast out a status update thanking everyone at the end of the birthday day. That's fine...if you're lazy. To me, each Facebook message is a exclamation point-filled gift in need of a proper thank you note. So, I respond with a "Thanks!" and occasionally throw in a "Hope all is well." But this can get real old real quick, to the point where by response No. 31 I'm ready to be openly hostile:

Thanks for being so inconsiderate! Writing this is keeping me from eating birthday cake, you jerk.

Hope all is well.

The anger comes later, on February 8th. Or August 11th. Or whatever day a birthday wisher's birthday falls on. Because by wishing me happy birthday, they have without my consent entered me into an unwritten contract whereby I must reciprocate on their birthday. (Note: This is probably why I have few friends born in early January.)

With FRIENDS, I'm not that worried. Chances are, I've called, sent a card or at least a text message on their birthdays. With friends, I'm not that worried either, because my forgetting cannot ruin a birthday, only add to it. It's the Friends that concern me, especially if the next time we talk they ask about my birthday. Then, I really have to remember their birthday or else I'm now two in the hole, and my chances of digging out grow slimmer than Hosni Mubarak's of winning "Egyptian Idol."

Since it appears Facebook is here to stay, I guess this unwritten contract is, too. So I'll have to be a little more diligent in observing birthdays on Facebook.

Or I could become friends with more Jehovah's Witnesses.