Failing the smell test

All of us, I think, are blessed with a gift the average person doesn't have. A human superpower, if you will.

My superpower, for example, is always getting stuck behind the person backing in to a spot in a parking garage. It's almost always a giant car or truck, too. There are only two scenarios where you should be backing in to a parking garage space: you're involved in a stakeout; or you are planning a quick getaway. Otherwise, stop with the 43-point turn and let me go on my way.

If I had to pick one superpower for Belle, I would say it's her sense of smell. She can quickly determine if food has gone bad and detect mold in a room. She knows when it's time to throw out the trash and when it's time for me to wash the shorts I wear around our place. Were we to travel to the French countryside, I'm sure she could find truffles.

Unfortunately for Belle, there are no truffles in our apartment. Just me.

It was either Plutarch or Bluto from "Animal House" who once said, "I am, therefore I fart." When guys live on their own or with other guys, this is not a problem and is, in many cases, a point of pride.

The flatus calculus changes significantly once a woman is brought into the equation. You try to hide it in the bathroom or under the cover of a kitchen appliance. ("That noise? Something must be wrong with the dishwasher.")

I knew Belle was the one for me after only a few months of dating. But I didn't really, really, REALLY feel comfortable until we'd lived together for a few months, if you know what I mean. I still try to keep my distance when my stomach is rumbling but no longer do I blame changes in barometric pressure. If a man can't toot in his castle, where can he toot?

(I just asked Belle about this. "You get gassy at random times," she said. "And every day." So there you have it.)

Belle and women in general have a secret weapon in their fight against farts. Our apartment has scented candles and high-powered air fresheners in every room. There are seasonal soaps next to every sink. And there are hand lotions galore, seemingly one for every day of the week.

I've written before about Bath & Body Works but I get it now. It's as much about helping women smell delightful as it is masking man stench. So keep on coming out with new scents and filling our home with a symphony of pleasant aromas.

Because, suddenly, I feel the barometric pressure rising.

Call you... maybe

I was driving recently and fiddling with the radio when I heard Michael McDonald's version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." And one thing immediately popped into my head: long-distance phone calls.

The song always reminds me of the commercials where McDonald sings and talks about being on the road but still wanting to keep in touch with his daughter, which is why he uses a discount long-distance service. (I believe he also did a follow-up commercial featuring his version of "Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing." He really cornered the market on covering songs with "ain't" in the title.)

Before I started writing this, I thought that commercial was a relic of the '90s, like my bowl haircut. Turns out the commercial was from 2003. If you would've told me then that discount long-distance service would be obsolete in a decade, I probably would've mocked you in an away message on Instant Messenger.

But technology marches on, which leads me to a question: What should I do about the contacts on my phone I'm no longer in contact with?

I've been thinking about deleting some numbers from my phone, numbers I probably saved two phones ago. They are 10-digit time capsules, a reminder of old friends and good times.

I know deep down there's little-to-no chance I would ever call these numbers again. And I know some people probably wouldn't have any issues deleting contacts. (I also know many of you now will spend the rest of the day practicing your Michael McDonald impressions. You're welcome.)

Under most circumstances, I'm anti-clutter. But there is something that makes me wistful about erasing a person from my phone, severing that digital tie. Then, there's a recurring nightmare I have:

Bryton McClure: Danny, the nuclear reactor is about to blow! The only person who can deactivate the self-destruction mode is the ex-boyfriend of your former co-worker who you met at a bar one time, the one who sang harmony on your karaoke duet of "Rich Girl." What is his phone number!

Danny: Wait, you look familiar. Are you Little Richie from Family Matters?

Bryton McClure [annoyed]: Yes, that's me. What's that number?

Danny: Little Richie! I always wondered what happened to you! How's Uncle Carl doing?

Bryton McClure [angry]: He's not my uncle! That was just a TV show. THE NUMBER!

Danny: I love how your hair is still a curly mullet! What's your --

[Explosion]

Obviously, something like that will never happen; I always take harmony on "Rich Girl." What almost certainly will happen is I will see that ex-boyfriend of the former co-worker the day after deleting his number. And I'd feel incredibly guilty if I would need to ask for his number, because he probably still has mine saved in his phone, meaning he would know that I deleted his number after he gave it to me.

Then again, these days anyone is a Facebook search or social media outlet away. I could always blame losing a number on switching phones or accidentally pushing the wrong buttons on my phone.

And, wouldn't you know it, the other day I switched phones AND pushed a combination of buttons on my old phone that all of my data was unrecoverable! So, I'm very, very, VERY sorry I don't have your phone number anymore.

Maybe we can catch up soon on Instant Messenger.