SMF (“Special Man Friend”) and I have been living together for over a year. This is fairly remarkable, considering I’m not the easiest person to live with: I force SMF to watch American Idol (although I think he secretly likes it), I fart when I laugh too hard, and (according to SMF) the way I load the dishwasher offends all notions of logic and reason . . . and, uhm, physics. Or something. I’m sure on occasion he’s regretted the decision to cohabitate. One time I caught him trying to secretly move out. He said he was just “cleaning” and “removing clutter” but it sure as hell looked to me like he was packing. So I made him put that clutter right back where it was!
SMF, on the other hand, is easy to live with. Unlike most men, he always puts the toilet seat down after a piss, he carries all the heavy bags of groceries, and he (re)loads the dishwasher the way God intended it. The only thing I had to get used to was the weird stuff he brought in the apartment. For example:
This is called Mt. Tiki Soki. I’m not even making that name up. SMF loves all things tiki, so I didn’t question (too much) why he’d purchase a spraying water toy when we live in a third floor apartment and don’t have a yard. Or a garden hose. While I’d love to frolic in the cool, hydro-volcanic eruption of Mt. Tiki Soki in our living room on a hot summer night, I don’t want to lose my security deposit. So, as far as I have seen, the sole purpose of Mt. Tiki Soki to hold SMF’s hats.
In line with his tiki-obsession, SMF recently purchased this Tiki Time drummer:
I may get bored with this toy eventually, but right now, using it to terrorize ‘Fraidy Cat is highly entertaining. You absolutely must wait for the part where the drummer does his (very brief) solo. It’s the best.
Then there is the whaling spear. Yes, I said whaling spear. SMF acquired this from his fraternity big brother. It doesn’t really go with the vintage Paris theme I had going on in my living room, but I relented (in exchange for sexual favors, of course). I am not sure what use we will get out of a whaling spear, but if a whale manages to make his way inland, scales up to our third floor apartment, and tries to attack us, we are prepared!
One of SMF’s most prized contributions to the household, however, is a fake beard. Because you never know when you’ll need a disguise. And with a beard like this, you’ll blend right in:
When SMF first moved in, we played this game called Hide the Croc Head. And no, that is not a euphemism. We would take turns hiding the crocodile head in various places around the apartment in an attempt to scare each other: under the pillow, on the toilet, in the fridge. We decided to stop the game because we did not want to frighten our houseguests. Except we’ve never had houseguests. I wonder why?
SMF has this habit of buying things simply because it is the only item of its kind left in the store. One time he brought home Hot Six Oil because it was the last one on the shelf. I misread the bottle and thought it said “Hot Sex Oil,” so I was rather upset to learn that this is a product for hair and five other purposes listed on the bottle, none of which sounded remotely sexy. But SMF had to have it because it was THE VERY LAST ONE, which, according to his economist brain, means it is in HIGH DEMAND. So it must be good. Or something. I put a dab of Hot Six Oil on my hand and it burned.
Given SMF’s propensity for purchasing such items, it should have been no surprise when he came home after grocery shopping with this:
I can’t figure out to turn this picture upright, but that’s MSG (a.k.a. monosodium glutamate). According to Wikipedia, the leading authority on Everything Worth Knowing, a 1995 FDA-commissioned report acknowledged that MSG may cause the following symptoms: burning sensation in the back of the neck, forearms and chest, numbness in the back of the neck, radiating to the arms and back, tingling, warmth and weakness in the face, temples, upper back, neck and arms, facial pressure or tightness, chest pain, headache, nausea, rapid heartbeat, bronchospasm, drowsiness and weakness.
But SMF had to buy it because it was THE VERY LAST ONE! And HOW COULD WE LIVE WITH OURSELVES KNOWING THAT MSG WAS IN OUR GRASP BUT WE FAILED TO JUMP AT THE OPPORTUNITY TO ENHANCE THE FLAVOR OF OUR FOOD WITH THIS IN-DEMAND PRODUCT?
Not all of SMF’s purchases are as ill-advised, however. He likes to try out unusual wines – the wines that can only be found on the bottom shelf at the store tucked behind all the Mad Dog. Typically, these wines are from Moldova. Knowing that the Moldovan economy relies heavily upon wine exports, SMF feels morally obligated to support the Eastern European country by boozin’ up. The only problem is Moldovan wine tastes like ass. Not that I know what ass tastes like. Moldovan wine tastes like what I imagine what ass tastes like. Not that I sit around fantasizing about what ass tastes like. You get my point.
One day, however, SMF found this gem in the wine aisle at our local grocery:
Wine in a bull-shaped bottle! And not just any kind of bull, mind you. A WELL-HUNG bull!
I think any guy who is secure enough with his masculinity to keep something like this in the apartment is worth keeping around.
