Thank You For Giving Me The Plague…

Can you feel it? Autumn is in the air. Okay, I know what you’re thinking: “Yes, I can feel it, and I especially love idle chit-chat about seasonal weather. I love weather so much I even got Al Roker on my fantasy meteorology team.” Point taken, you sarcastic stooge.

The bummer about the reappearance of cooler weather is that it spawns a whole new breed of germs and bacteria which in turn leads to people getting sick, which leads to me getting sick. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll be a petulant, whiny baby about my illness, but I’ll deal with it.

All I ask in return is for a bit of help, that those of you who are already sick exhibit just a touch of personal accountability and respect for your fellow human. If you’re sick, don’t shake my hand, cover your mouth when you cough, and keep your kids out of school when something resembling Shrek is dripping from their nose.

If this simple edict isn’t clear, let me share a story of how not to handle yourself when you’re sick. Today I was at the post office – a place I loathe anyway – but this trip was infinitely more maddening than normal. A young woman was in line immediately in front of me, talking on her cell phone (I could go off on that point alone, but I haven’t the energy.) Her eyes were runny, her nose was red and she was sniffling and coughing incessantly in between inane conversation.

Her phone conversation went a little like this:

“… no I can’t today, I’m incredibly sick… no, it’s not the flu, it’s in my head and my chest but I feel worse than I ever have in my life...”

At this point she lets out a bone-rattling and phlegm-filled cough as the rest of us in line exchanged looks, pulled their shirt collars over their mouth, and generally took three steps away. The phone call continued…

“… no, mom, remember when I had that bronchitis thing when I was a senior? Well, this is worse... like pneumonia or something. The doctor told me to stay inside and away from people because it’s so contagious.”

Now I’m wondering who this chick thinks we are, or at least what we are, because clearly, in her estimation, we are not ‘people,’ otherwise she wouldn’t risk infecting us, right? More phone call…

“… no, my roommate has it, too. I have three gallons of orange juice in my fridge to help us recover, so I’m gonna take it easy and get better because I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

So, to be clear, the equation is: “me” < “worst enemy.” About now she goes into a two-minute coughing frenzy. Initially, wheezing into her hand, then, as she buckled over, she muffled the cough in her sleeve, and finally, when she could catch a breath, she quelled it with a refreshing deep sip from her steaming Starbucks vente caramel macchiato. Well played, horrible person. Well played.

As I took in the eyes of my fellow postal patrons, I could see that we were all envisioning our weekend on our respective couches cursing this modern-day leper and her germs. I wanted to leave, but I knew that the odds were high that I was already infected. No, I was out of options and now jones-ing for some Purell. I needed to pour it directly into my nostrils. I needed to gargle it. I decided that if, when I get home, we I was out of Purell, I would douse myself in rubbing alcohol and set a lit match to myself, because I did not want this Ebola.

Anyway, back to this chick… she’s next in line and waved up by the postal clerk. And what do you think could have been so important that she needed to risk infecting the general population? A book of stamps and a money order for $3.00. I kid you not! You could hear the audible groan from everyone in line. I wanted to yell, “Need to catch up on your correspondence before you curl up on your death bed, do ya?” ‘Dear Grandma, just a quick note to let you know that I am patient zero, and also that I was beaten nearly to death at the post office today.’

And what’s with a money order for three dollars? The reason you buy a money order is because you don’t want to send cash in the mail. If three dollars gets lost in the mail, guess what? Its three dollars! We’re doomed folks. Doomed. And I just got a tickle in my throat. Great.

I Need A Shower...

Guess what my wife and I did this weekend. Romantic dinner for two? No. Movie night? (Obviously some of you did not read my “thoughts” on movie nights.) A great concert? Wrong again. Let me help you out because I sincerely doubt that you’ll guess this one. My wife and I went to a friend’s baby shower – a co-ed baby shower. Oh, you read that correctly. It’s a baby shower where both husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend are invited and expected to attend. And, guys, you better get ready because your turn is coming. Co-ed baby showers are all-the-ridiculous rage sweeping L.A. and other metropolitan areas around the country.

It’s bad enough that our wives and girlfriends have hi-jacked the word “co-ed” – a term that used to epitomize light, sexy fun. (Remember “co-ed dorms” or “co-ed pool parties” or “co-ed beach volleyball?” Yeah, well, thanks to co-ed baby showers, the blood is officially out of that penis.) But now the female ‘powers-that-be’ want to include us men in what was always intended to be a female-only tradition.

Prior to attending one myself, all the reports I got from my female friends was that baby showers are events that even they loathe attending, regardless of how close they are to the mom-to-be. The format is always the same… lame guessing games, forced fawning over the mom-to-be, all followed by two-plus hours of gift opening. By the time you get to your fourth set of burping cloths and seventh “Babies ‘R Us” gift certificate, you’re absolutely ready to kill yourself. But because the mom-to-be’s house was baby-proofed six months prior to junior arriving, there’s not a sharp object, mini-blind cord or available electrical outlet available to help ease your pain.

I guess my biggest beef with all of this is that I see it as an affront to manhood. It used to be that when our wife or girlfriend went to a baby shower, it gave us guys complete license to “be a guy” for the day. We’d watch a football game with our hand in our pants, foregoing a shower, drinking beer and loudly and proudly filling the room with our scent. Not anymore. Those glory days are over.

So, how’d we get here? The best I can figure… women finally realized that the tradition of the baby shower was sincerely overrated, and, because they were jealous of their husband’s/boyfriend’s “day off,” they decided to drag us into the fray to share their pain. And it is painful… Unless, of course, you enjoy playing games like “Guess The Baby Food,” where you pass around a half dozen jars of baby food with their labels removed, and whoever correctly guesses the most flavors, wins! (Yay!) Or how about “Pin The Baby On The Mommy” – a very clever twist on “Pin The Tail On The Donkey.” Hell, who needs that USC / UCLA game? I just planted my paper baby right on cardboard mommy’s uterus! (The poor sap next to my thought he won when he stuck his baby on mommy’s vagina. Sorry, numb-nuts that is not where the baby resides… You, sir, are a loser!)

Upon further reflection, I've changed my previous theory. See, guys will bring their competitive nature to everything they do. I believe that this is what our female counterparts are counting on. They know that someday soon, this competitiveness will lead to an all-out co-ed baby shower brawl and ruin someone’s special day. Word will then get out that co-ed baby showers are simply a bad idea. People could get hurt. This will end co-ed baby showers, and presumably – after trying and failing to regain traction – it will also kill ‘women-only’ baby showers.

Society would just go back to the basics… the bare bones. Mom and dad would start a baby registry and let the gifts flow in with no fanfare… but no bloodshed.

The problem is that we guys still lose. No “women-only” baby showers also means no more “Be-A-Guy” day. So, I suggest that we strike a deal, ladies. You promise to continue to sink your teeth into the dirty teething toy that is the women-only baby shower. And we guys promise that – after our ‘guy days,’ we’ll shower, clean up our mess and Fabreeze the living room before you get home. That seems fair.