The best thing about Costco is that you can buy a humongous vat of mayonnaise for your party and still have enough left over to fill up your entire bathtub. You can then sit in the tub and pretend that you’ve just defeated the StayPuff Marshmallow Man in mortal combat.

Thanks for all the interest in my romantic life.  It’s sweet.  Unfortunately, this isn’t a very confessional blog and it doesn’t delve too deeply into personal matters.  Why?  For one, I’m no good at it.  There’s tons of bloggers--many of whom favor me with visits to this site--who handle that kind of thing much better.  I love reading their stuff and I have no desire to emulate it.

There’s also professional reasons.  I use my real name on this page, and it’s eminently searchable through Google.  Not that I’m afraid of discovery by my peers--on the contrary, almost everyone in my small department keeps a blog.  I’ve occasionally printed out drafts of work-related posts, shoved them in front of my superiors, and asked “Can I publish this?” Every single time they’ve read it, laughed, and said “Sure.” I also once extended this courtesy to a member of my family. 

Still, I go light on the personal stuff and heavy on the snarky comments and interminable drivel.  It’s all fun and games until someone loses a job.  Or offends a real life friend.

Except today.

Because, you know what?  Screw it.  Rules are made to be broken.  I’m taking today’s post to pull back the curtain and shine a bright, probing spotlight on key highlights of my checkered romantic past.  It’s a hard and truthful look at the workings of my soul.  It discusses many things I’m not proud of doing--but I still did them.  And you, my disembodied Internet friend, deserve to know all about them.

But I’m serious.  Go no further if you’re faint of heart or disinclined to truly know what evil lurks in the hearts of men.

Are you ready?

Let’s do this thing.

Birth.
I fell in love for the first time 30 seconds after I was born.  The nurse who delivered me had cascading blonde hair and luminous green eyes.  I looked at her smitten--until she smacked me on the butt.  My illusions shattered, I was immediately saddled with a lifelong phobia of nurses.  Even today, I can’t watch Juliana Margolis on ER or the “Helloooooo Nurse!” character on Animaniacs without experiencing symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress syndrome.

Elementary school.
You may have read about this one on the news.  I organized a cult of girl scouts with a single mission statement: the worship of me.  I was too young to experience any real sexual feelings; it was all about acquiring mass quantities of girl scout cookies.  The situation exploded into violence as the Attorney General ordered in the militia, causing me to experience additional Post Traumatic Stress whenever I see a person who occupies this position.  (Although in the case of John Ashcroft, it turns out that most Americans have the same reaction.)

Junior high.
A three-year crush on my algebra teacher was reciprocated to the point that she was on the verge of leaving her husband and children.  However, the sordid affair ended in tears when I refused to recognize that a number followed by “i” meant an imaginary number.  “That seriously makes no sense,” I said.  She retorted, “Well, ‘i’ means ‘ignoramus’ in your case.” It eventually came to blows and we had to be physically separated by the principal and several members of the school board.

High school.
Unfortunately I don’t remember anything about this period.  I was kidnapped by a gaggle of sex-starved nuns, drugged, and held prisoner.  I suspect this was an eventful four years though, because even today as I receive the usual spam email such as “Invest in Nigeria Pipeline!” and “Mortgage Rates are at All-Time Lows!”, I also see numerous subject headers such as “Are You My Real Daddy?”

College.
No romantic entanglements of any kind.  Too busy founding, organizing, and leading Monty Python Society of America, my life’s crowning achievement.

Graduate school.
Student teacher for several freshman composition courses.  My innovative teaching strategy consisted of forcing selected female students to remove an article of clothing whenever they misuse a semicolon or confuse “that” and “which.” Eventually fired from position--not sure why.  Probably related to my insistence on a neo-historicist reading of Emily Bronte, or my belief that all the works of Shakespeare were actually written by four women and a midget.

Last week.
Temporarily achieved perfection in both professional and personal lives by playing multiple roles of marketing communications guy, web logger, and ex-Felicity heartthrob Scott Foley, married to gorgeous TV actress Jennifer Garner.  Enjoy life of riches, luxury, and Hollywood hot tub parties. Perfect world shattered when Jennifer reads “Geese Aplenty,” sees flattering comments from female bloggers, and forces a separation.  Now spiraling down into vortex of anxiety and despair, I spend nights in my living room with the lights off, opening up can after can of tuna fish and muttering, “You are all my children now.”

Hey, you know what?  It was great getting all that off my chest.  I’m glad you could bear with me, and hopefully you’re not too upset or shocked or anything.  But it was pretty difficult being that serious.  From now on I’m going to keep things light.  Still friends?  Still friends.

Sometimes children can improve a little upon their parents’ behavior.  Take the issue of strangers bearing salvation.  Whenever those young men in suits on top of bicycles came riding up our long, curving driveway, my father would be ready for them.  If he was in a good mood, he would simply suggest that they leave before he called the police.  “This is private property,” he would remark conversationally.  “And I can easily get my gun.”

As an adult, it turns out I don’t have to worry about this.  I live in a building that’s locked up tight.  You need two keys and an elevator code just to get to my floor.  And after that?  You fight a large plant made of snake tendrils, do battle with life-size chess pieces, and solve a deadly riddle.  (You think I’m kidding, but my building association has already filed a suit against J.K. Rowling for ripping off our blueprints.)

But if people started banging on my door Sunday mornings, I wouldn’t handle it the way my father did.  I wouldn’t threaten them.  I’d slip in some red contact lenses, smear some uncooked ground beef on my face, and then swing open the door: “Hello, my brethren!  You’re right on time.  The sacrifice is over, and now begins the ritual of blood.”

I respect my father’s views, but I simply believe in the correct application of people skills.