My domesticity could cost us the next Sistine Chapel

I was stuffing my face with Japanese chicken at the Chinese buffet when the lady walked past my table and told me she likes my column. 

“Mmmph, fmmll rwroolf,” I said. (Loosely translated: thanks.)

I’m insecure, so I’m always happy to hear from someone other than my girlfriend who reads this thing.

“Sounds like you’re getting pretty domesticated,” she said.

My face must have been saying, “Huh?” because she continued: “You and Lori and the cats and the new TV.”

I understood. During the past few years I’ve mentioned a few times in this column that I own no television. I’m not one of those people that demand every media outlet be as edifying as reading Plato’s “The Republic” in the original Greek, say, but I didn’t see the point in cramming a TV into my tiny apartment just so Maury Povich could parade “Single Teenage Mothers and the Fathers/Boyfriends/First Cousins Who Got Them That Way” through my living room.

When shows like that come on TV, I always start getting nervous my brain will crawl out through my ear and try to make it on its own. A strictly defensive move on the part of my brain.

I figured not having a television was the safest way to avoid accidental exposure to this Jerry Springer-ish regurgitative spew that nowadays masquerades as entertainment. (Can you tell I have strong opinions on this topic?)

But somehow, when Lori and I decided to cohabitate, buying a new TV seemed like the most natural thing in the world, just the next brick in the road to domesticity. And that’s a good thing, right?

I thought so at first, but now I’m beginning to wonder. 

For the past five years, I’ve been more or less on my own, without female supervision. I would eat when I felt like it, sleep when I felt like it, fish when I felt like it … it was very much a “when I felt like it” existence.

I was so busy doing all the things I felt like doing that I didn’t really have time for TV. 

So how come I do now?

Honestly, I don’t know. 

Lori is a fiercely independent woman with more interests than she has time for. I’m sure if I felt like fishing, or taking my bicycle on a four-day cross-country jaunt, or doing any of the million other things that used to occupy my days, she’d be totally cool with it.  In fact, she’d probably be happy to get me the heck out of the house so she could take care of her own projects.

But I haven’t been doing any of those things, not as often as I used to, at least. I’ve been just sort of hanging around the house … “puttering,” in the patois of the middle-aged. (I assume I’m middle aged because I plan to live to 120.)

And I’ve been watching too much TV; a couple hours a night. At this rate, by the time I’m 120, I’ll have watched — hold on, lemme grab a calculator — 43,800 hours of television! That’s 1,825 days, or FIVE YEARS!

Five years, man! That’s a year longer than it took Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel! 

It’s unlikely I could accomplish anything so grand as the Sistine Chapel no matter how little TV I watch. But I’m sure I can do better than “Lesbian Nazis Who’ve Been Abducted by Space Aliens and Forced Into Weight Loss Programs” on Springer.

So. For sale: one gently used large-screen HDTV. It’ll be available on Craigslist. 

Right after this one last rerun of “Law & Order.”

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Is it nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of the 16th Century?

Lori & Merlin

This weekend I’ll be rising to a new level of nerdishness. Oh, I suppose I’ve always been a little nerdy; I mean, I know the “T” in James T. Kirk stands for “Tiberius.” I once stayed up all night playing Dungeons and Dragons. I own a T-shirt with Carl Sagan’s face on it.

Nerd stuff, without a doubt.

But this weekend, I’ll be descending a rabbit hole into a world of dorkishness unparalleled by any I’ve visited previously. I’m talking about that touchstone of doofdom, the epitome of geekishness, the holy Mecca of dweebism everywhere and the only thing nerdier than a Star Trek convention: I’m going to a Renaissance fair.

That’s right; grown men in tights rattling off interjections like “Forsooth!” and “Prithee!” and “Wouldst thou holdest mine lance whilst I visit yon Port-o-Potty?”

My teeth hurt just thinking about it.

So why am I going? Let me put this question to you: Why does an otherwise reasonable man do anything he would never, left to his own devices, do? In fact, why does a man do anything other than fish, drink beer and lay around in a hammock?

The answer is obvious and as old as the reason for Adam’s eviction from his cushy pad in the Garden of Eden: a woman.

My new sweetie, it turns out, loves loves loves Renaissance fairs. I’ve tried to put her in touch with various self-help groups that exist to assist people with this problem, but she refuses even to acknowledge her bizarre addiction.

Last night she showed me the many period outfits she has worn to Renaissance fairs in years past. These are not off-the-shelf “hot wench” Halloween costumes. In addition to her many other talents, Lori is a master seamstress and her 16th Century garb is as good or better than anything you’re likely to see on a BBC biopic detailing the life of Leonardo da Vinci.

She takes this Renaissance nonsense seriously, man! I have little doubt that, were time travel available, she’d be living back there right now.

All my rational discourse falls on deaf ears: “They had no cable TV!” I say.  “They had no toothpaste, no toilet paper! No electric sewing machines with which to create Renaissance festival costumes. Come to think of it, they had no Renaissance festivals at all (which may be the best thing you can say about the era).”

But Lori won’t listen.

So we’re going. To make matters worse, last night she took my measurements for a costume of my own. A shirt. Or to stick with Renaissance authenticity and all that, a jerkin. I know I’ll feel like a jerk in it, but as a man, I’m required to do all sorts of ridiculous things in the name of love.

In the words of Shakespeare (who had to endure the Renaissance the first time around), “There’s the rub.”

The Bard was talking about death; all I have to endure is an afternoon with men in tights. Ah, I guess it won’t kill me.

Forsooth.

I’m hoping kitchen knives don’t figure too prominently in my new relationship

It’s been a long time since I was last in any sort of domestic partnership with a member of the fairer sex. For the past five years, I’ve lived a carefree bachelor existence, unhampered by the constraints and responsibilities that accompany a romantic relationship.

In that time, I’ve somehow managed to forget what it’s like to share a household with a woman. In the past week it’s all begun to come back to me. 

Now, if you’re thinking this is going to be a column in which I whine about all that’s now expected of me, think again. Lori’s great; easy on my eyes and easier still on my psyche.

If she has any crazy lurking beneath her warm, loving exterior, she’s keeping it well hidden. That’s fine by me, at least until the morning all that repressed rage bubbles to the surface and she comes at me with a kitchen knife.

Until then, all is good. And there’s alway the chance she’s really as wonderful as she seems. Life’s a crap shoot anyway and the odds this time seem pretty good.

But back to the things I’m now recalling about living with a woman. 

If I’m going to be very late, I should call. If I’m inviting my idiot friends back to the house at 3 a.m. after a gig with the band, a little advance notice to the missus is a good idea. The correct answer to the question, “Do these pants make my behind look big?” is “No!”

Stuff like that. Bothersome stuff guys tend to forget if they’re single for a long time.

Mostly, however, being with a woman again just makes life easier. There are all sorts of things I’ve had to handle myself for the past few years that now happen as if by magic.

Toilet paper, for example; I no longer have to buy it. It simply appears in the cabinet beneath the sink. The dishes, at least half the time, wash themselves. The rest of the time I wash them, but that’s OK, it’s still a reduction in dish-doing of 50-percent. 

In fact, all household chores are reduced by 50-percent.

There’s a washer and dryer here. My old apartment was too small for either. I will miss my friends from the laundromat, but I gotta admit it’s nice to not have to slog my baskets full of dirty socks across town every Saturday afternoon. Detergent, which I always used to forget to buy, is right there by the washer. I don’t even have to think about it!

Also, there’s money again. Two incomes are twice as good as one, it turns out. And since Lori was smart enough to choose a profession other than writing, her income is substantially higher than mine. I like a woman of means.

I’m sure there’s lots of other stuff about being in a relationship I’ll remember as we go along. Hopefully, most of it will continue to be good stuff.

With a little retraining, I’m hoping I’ll be able to get the hang of this relationship deal again. If not, well, it’s probably too soon to think about hiding the sharp kitchen knives, but maybe that’s something to keep in mind.

Just in case.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format from Amazon.com. 

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

With friends like these … you know the rest

I’m going to use my friends’ real names in this column, since there are no innocents to protect. These jerks are all guilty as sin and have it coming.

Don’t get me wrong, the four guys I’m about to write about here are like brothers to me and I love ‘em. I also hope they all develop painful, embarrassing skin eructations moments before meeting the girls of their dreams.

 I play music with these knuckleheads most every weekend in bars, clubs and outdoor festivals across the state. Like most aging rock and roll musicians, they’re emotionally stunted, egocentric, easily offended and frequently childish. In other words, my kind of people.

So why am I trying to curse them with complexion problems? Lemme tell ya.

We played over the Fourth of July weekend at Val du Lakes, up north. It’s a good gig. Big club, good crowds, free drinks.

My new girlfriend, Lori, accompanied me on the trip, kind of a working vacation. For the most part, we had a good time. Except for Friday night. Just before the start of the show, Lori and I had a little quarrel. 

Now, it doesn’t matter who was right (me, definitely ME, more innocent than gently falling snow on Christmas morning or the face of a newborn baby) or who was wrong (Lori, Lori, Lori! Queen of unreasonableness and overtly hostile mannerisms). The point is, we had a minor spat.

And for some reason, my band buds — Rocky, Calvin, George and Bird — seemed very interested in the conflict. I didn’t notice at first, but as the evening progressed and Lori continued to refuse to abjectly prostrate herself before me in supplication for forgiveness, I couldn’t help but notice the guys were all watching our mini-Cold War with more than casual interest.

I noticed the covert glances, the muttered comments shared when they thought I wasn’t looking, the score cards being passed back and forth. It turns out (as I learned after I finally apologized to Lori for addressing her by my ex-wife’s name, that my good, good friends had weeks earlier started a betting pool on how long Lori would last before she grew sick of my nonsense and dumped me.

If that had happened Friday, Calvin would have won; his bet was three months. George was kinder with a guess of six months. Rocky — arguably the only real “adult” in the band — was most charitable; his bet was nine months. Bird (curse his cynical, black heart) opted out of the pool entirely because they wouldn’t let him bet on anything shorter than one month.

You can see why I hate these guys.

Yes, I have had a few relationship “issues” in the past 30 years. Especially if you count all my former wives. But people grow, they get wiser, more mature. I expect Lori and I will last a lifetime. 

But, just to be on the safe side, I’ve placed my bet in the pool at 16 months. I want that jackpot.