iPod, reshuffled

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

A-ha? Oh yeah!

"Take on Me," A-ha: When you're ranking the best Grammy-nominated Norwegian '80s pop trios, A-ha is definitely in the Top 30. "Take on Me" makes me feel old because a decade ago, I could hit the song's famous high note, even at (or especially at) the end of a night out in college.

Now, most times when I go for "In a day or twoooooo!", I sound like the Gingerbread Man from "Shrek" getting punched in the stomach.

But I'll keep trying, much to the neighbors' dogs' chagrin. Because if Morten Harket taught us anything, it's that it's no better to be safe than sorry.

"Push," Matchbox Twenty: When I was in middle school, there was a girl I liked named Kristen who had cut her hair fairly short. One night, we were at a friends' house and the music video for this song came on TV.

(Yes, kids, there was a time when people watched music videos on TV. It was the Stone Age, or at least the Stone Temple Pilots Age.)

Anyways, as "Push" was playing on TV, I mentioned to someone that Kristen had hair much like Matchbox Twenty lead singer Rob Thomas. Word got to Kristen and she was not amused. And that's how I learned a valuable lesson: If you tell a girl in middle school she has the hair of a twentysomething dude, you better hope the bottle lands on her when you spin it because that's the only way you're going to kiss her.

"I Can Love You Like That," All 4 One: While "I Swear" is the group's best-known song, I always liked "I Can Love You Like That" better. As I was driving with Belle one night when we first started dating, she requested some music. So, of course, I began singing, for some unknown reason choosing this song.

When Belle threatened to jump out of the moving car, I turned on my iPod. The first song? "I Can Love You Like That."

We both sang along to the song about two years later during the first dance at our wedding.

"Go All The Way," The Raspberries: The song my dad says he wanted this to be his first dance at his wedding. My mom rejected the idea but still married him.

"The Rubberband Man," The Spinners: I turned on the TV early one morning a few months ago and stumbled across an infomercial for "Soul of the '70s." It was one of those offers for a 23-disc, 17,000 song collection where they show snippets of live performances of many of the songs, interspersed with gems of dialogue such as:

Host: Platform shoes! Big hair! Crippling inflation! The '70s were a crazy time!

D-List'70s starlet with a face that's only 20 years old: Ha! Ha! You are so right! And speaking of crazy, here's Wild Cherry with "Play That Funky Music."

Naturally, I watched the entire infomercial. One of the video clips was for "The Rubberband Man" and it is amazing. True to their name, The Spinners do a lot of spinning in their shiny, blue suits. The lead singer moves at times as if there is a bee inside his ruffled shirt, and the backup singers don't dance so much as shuffle behind their microphone stands. The group also is backed by what appears to be a 64-piece band.

Then, just when you think the video can't get any better, it happens -- the backup singers bring out giant, elastic bands as props while they dance. That's right, THEY BECOME RUBBERBAND MEN! One guy even ropes an lady onto the stage to play with his rubber band, and that's not a euphemism.

I had to watch this video multiple times just to take in everything. Now I know why The Spinners warn you to prepare yourself.

"Hold My Hand," Hootie and the Blowfish: I thought of a great joke about this song involving a fantastic, late '90s pop culture reference. But it's totally slipped my mind. Perhaps I'll remember it IN A DAY OR TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

iPod shuffle

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

"My Stupid Mouth," John Mayer: A quick synopsis of every awkward date I had between the ages of 18 and 27. 

"Counting Blue Cars," Dishwalla and "Everything Falls Apart," Dog's Eye View: Both minor, '90s one-hit wonders with something else in common -- both songs mention meeting or wanting to meet God.

In "Counting Blue Cars," the singer reminds us of his biblical appointment repeatedly, almost taunting the listener. "Tell me all your thoughts on God," he croons, "because I'm on my way to see her."

I added that emphasis on "her" to point out the casual way the pronoun is dropped. As an impressionable youth, this blew my mind. God is a woman? Why was this never mentioned in all my years of Hebrew school?

In "Everything Falls Apart," by contrast, our protagonist meets God on a train. And, to be honest, our protagonist is kind of a dick:

I said, "Don't you have
Better things to do?"
He said, "If I do my job
What would you complain about?"

You tell him, God!

So who wins in this battle of the Almighty? I prefer our man in "Everything Falls Apart" because at least he does stuff; "Counting Blue Cars" guy, when not, well, counting blue cars, just broods and whines. On the other hand, "Counting Blue Cars" is much more fun to sing in the car.
 
"Hava Nagila Baltimore Breaks,"Joro-Boro: Because if you can only have one club-remixed version of Hava Nagila, this is the one you want.

"Bleeding Love," Leona Lewis: Belle and I heard the song on the radio recently. Then this conversation happened.

Belle: Whatever happened to her?
Me: I guess she bled out.
Belle: [Uncontrollable laughter]
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter because of her uncontrollable laughter]

If keeping each other laughing is the key to a successful marriage, we'll be OK.

"Luck Be A Lady," Frank Sinatra: From "Sinatra at the Sands," it's one killer standard after another backed by Count Basie and His Orchestra. Whether singing or telling jokes on the album, Sinatra sounds like a man in complete in control of the room. Every time I hear this song, I imagine Sinatra at the craps table, Mia Farrow on his arm and yelling "Eleven!" as the dice turn one last time.

The song also reminds me of a framed picture I had on our wall. I first saw it at my grandfather's, at which point I decided I would get one when I had my own place.

For lack of a better word, it's just a cool picture. What is the source of their laughter? (My theory: Someone farted.) Why are they all reacting in different directions? How much less cool would this be if they were not wearing tuxes? It's a great conversation starter and an interesting moment frozen in time.

Frank, Dean and Sammy have lived with me the last five years or so, the first few when I was a bachelor in a bachelor pad. When Belle and I moved in to our apartment, she graciously -- OK, begrudgingly -- allowed me to hang the photo in our living room.

Earlier this summer, as we started planning to buy a house, Belle told me there would be no place for The Rat Pack in our new home. Frankly, I was just glad she decided to take me to the new house, so I nodded in agreement.

I took the photo down from the wall the other week as we prepare to move and truly start our lives together. Like the men it features, the picture is now a symbol of a bygone era.

But the future still feels like nothing but rolls of 11.

Urine trouble

I was sitting on the beach in the Outer Banks earlier this summer when nature called. There was no Garçon de Piss in the vicinity, let alone a public bathroom.

Belle had to go, too, so I followed her into the water (keeping some distance, natch). She was out of the ocean in a few minutes. I remained in the waves.

And I tried.

And I tried.

After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I walked back to our beach chairs, defeated. Belle, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend looked at me with a mix of incredulity and empty bladders.

I like to think of myself as pretty good when it comes to urination: my autobiography could be titled "Wait for the Shake." Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll be in the bathroom for so long I fall asleep standing up. I have had no problems going No. 1 in the woods or on the side of the road if I absolutely had to. But I might be the only person who cannot pee in the ocean.

The irony, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, is that I love the beach. Give me a beach chair and a couple magazines and I'm content for an entire day. Until I have to go to the bathroom, at which point I find the nearest restroom.

I think my issue is how ocean urination is basically peeing your pants. Perhaps I have some repressed memory of feeling embarrassed when I was a wee lad (ha!) who couldn't hold it in. Besides, aren't children taught to wait to use a bathroom and given positive reinforcement for doing so? Maybe, by peeing in the ocean, I would be setting a bad example for the next generation of beachgoers, like Fat Guy in Speedo or Guy Strumming Guitar But Not Actually Playing A Song. (Note to Guitar Guy: You playing a G chord over and over is not going to make bikini-clad groupies come out of nowhere but it will give me a headache.)
 
Yet on some level, I understand that I'm coming out of the ocean with a wet bathing suit no matter what, so I might as well just go. But I physically can't pull the trigger. The act of urinating on my clothing is a mental block I can't overcome. While in the ocean at the Outer Banks, the thought  of pretending I was in front of a urinal crossed my mind, followed by the thought of getting a citation for indecent exposure. 

Instead, I sat down in my beach chair and picked up my magazine. Then a funny thing happened -- my need to pee went away. I was able to enjoy the rest of the day on the beach.

Looking back on it now, I realize my ability to hold it in means I'm living in a golden age of bladder control. That is, when I was a baby, I had no control. Thirty years from now, I'll probably have to go on the hour, every hour. So I'm going to enjoy these years of a regular-sized prostate before it's too late.

And I'm also going to enjoy these years when I can still sprint, because that's exactly what I did when I got back to beach house to reach the bathroom.

In the shower, on the lamb

The following conversation with myself took place in the shower the other day.

Q. You look great.

A. Thanks, so do you.

Q. Is that a tan?

Photo: Eric Stocklin

A. Yes, yes it is. I just came back from my honeymoon in Cancun.

Q. Please share an unusual observation you made about the staff of the resort you stayed at. 

A. All of the men had great, slicked back hair that stayed perfect all day despite any heat or wind. We left Cancun with some ceramics and a few sunburns, but I would have liked to have taken back some of their hair products.

Q. A honeymoon means there must have been a wedding. How'd that go? 

A. If there weren't 53,981,421 photos from the evening, I wouldn't have believed it happened. I recommend everyone get married if only for the food tasting.

Q. I understand the food was a hit.

A. Specifically, a lamb chop appetizer. I insisted at the tasting we needed to serve hunks of meat, so it filled my heart with joy to hear people were stalking the servers carrying the lamb chops.


Q. And by "people," you mean "men", of course.

A. Of course. I know my audience.


Q. So how involved were you with the wedding planning?

A. You know how politicians will vote "present" sometimes to indicate they were there for the vote when they don't want to vote? I was "present" for almost all of our wedding appointments.

That's not to say I wasn't for whatever Belle wanted; I just didn't say much during our meetings. Here's an actual transcript of what I said when we met with the florist the first time:

-- "Yes."
-- "Five."
-- "Purple, nice."
-- "Don't forget my grandfather."
-- "That's right, lamb chops."

A word of advice to all of you guys out there thinking about getting married. First, man up and ask her. It's the best thing you'll ever do. Second, go to all of the appointments. Don't even wait for her to ask. A lot of it is fun.

It's also a win-win. She gets to brag to all her girlfriends about how involved you are in the wedding planning, and you might get the chance to watch that football game you really wanted to see.

Q. There was as an eight-week span in the fall where you were at Kleinfeld in New York more times (three) than Ravens' home games (two).

A. That's a great line.


Q. Thanks. You thought of it.

A. I saw some things in that basement fitting area no man should see. I still have nightmares about ruching.

Q.  Suspenders?

A. Always. There are few times a man feels comfortable in suspenders. His wedding day is one.

Q. You're starting to prune a little bit. Any parting words?

A. I'm usually one of those people never at a loss for words. Twice in 2012 I have been a blubbering, speechless fool: first, when I proposed; second, when I got married. It's an incredibly humbling, awe-inspiring feeling to be in a room filled with love with the love of my life. All things wedding-related took up the majority of my free time last year and I wouldn't change anything.

Q. You're going to be a good husband.

A. I really, really want to watch the Ravens' playoff game this weekend.

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.

Getting a handle(bar) on life

Belle and I were leaving dinner the other night as a mustachioed man was entering. As he held the door for us, I gazed admiringly at his face. He had almost two mustaches in one, handlebars growing from a bushy soup strainer, as if the facial hair of Grover Cleveland and Rollie Fingers were spooning.

"That is a great mustache," I said with a smile and a nod.

"Thanks," he replied with a smile and a nod.

What do you think Belle did as we turned to our car?

a) Smiled and nodded with us
b) Turned back to get another look
c) Hit me in the stomach
d) You foolish, foolish man

If you guessed "c", you're a woman. If you guessed "d", you're probably a married (and clean-shaven) man.

"I can't believe you said that," she said after hitting me. "That's disgusting."

Mustache disagreements aside, my life has been transformed for the way, way, WAY better since I last typed on these pages 11 months ago. It's been a journey of self-discovery and forced discovery with a lot of laughs, some tears and plenty of TLC. As in the television channel. HGTV, too.

I've learned that when it comes to home improvement, I'm more Tim Taylor than Al Borland. I've gone from a bachelor pad to "The Bachelorette."

(Incidentally, as I type this, Belle is in the other room watching Emily go on the "overnight dates" with the remaining guys. Where else can you find stilted dialogue and cooked-up scenarios that lead to an "overnight date"? Oh, right. Any adult movie ever made.)

It's hard to believe that less than six months from now I'll be a married man. I've never been happier. Yet I always thought that finding The One meant I would finally understand women. Instead, I feel like I beat a video game only to discover there are additional, secret levels to conquer.

Lest I get hit in the stomach again, this is not a bad thing. Like an anthropologist living with the local tribe, I feel like I've been able to see Woman up and close and personal, but finding one answer leads to five additional questions.

Case in point: We went to the bathroom during an intermission of a play we were attending earlier this year. The men's line, of course, was moving much faster than the women's. We got to talking about this on the way back to our seats and I learned something that shocked me: where men spread out and get in line behind a urinal/stall, women remain in a single-file line.

This means that, even though there are fewer stalls in a women's bathroom and, with the tickle fights, it obviously takes women a little longer than men, the line snaking out into the hallway is a bit of an exaggeration.

Our conversation led to my breakthrough discovery, however: I finally knew why women go to the bathroom in groups. Two guys might walk to the men's room in a conversation; once inside, each surveys the room and calculates which line will be the fastest.

But two women walk to the bathroom and see a long, single-file line, so what do they do? Continue their conversation as they wait. It's only natural.

Whether the single-file bathroom line led to the conversations or the conversations led to the single-file line is a chicken-and-egg conundrum that we'll never be able to conclusively answer.  

What I do know is, mustaches are disgusting.