The best way to learn about a person, aside from hacking into their email, is to live with them.
I wasn’t living with Mavrick for more than a week when I discovered one of his dirty little secrets. We were getting ready to go to a Pirate game. I was primping in our master bathroom, and he was male grooming in our guest bathroom, right down the hall.
I heard a buzzing sound, something like clippers, and I wondered what he was doing. Was he clipping his hair? His sideburns? Was he using my vibrator? I wanted to know. So I ask him, “Sweetie. What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing. I’m not doing anything,” he said, way too fast. Followed by the sound of someone trying to hurriedly put something away. Immediately curious, I walked over to the guest bathroom.
There he stood, blocking the door, red-faced, hair standing up on end. He was clearly trying to prevent me from entering the room.
“Sweetie. What were you doing in here?”
“Nothing. Just some … hair maintenance.” He had a giant, panicky grin stretched across his face, and he was swaying from foot to foot to block my view.
Behind him, I caught a glimpse of a bag, and a hose, and some sort of apparatus. Dear god. Is that…??
Yes. It was a Flowbee.
The love of my life used a Flowbee. Apparently, it helps keep your hair in shape in between hair cuts. It is also guaranteed to get you made fun of, and have your girlfriend write an embarrassing blog post about it.
It’s true, folks. Mavrick uses a Flowbee.
Before you think, ‘Poor mindbling. Look at what she endures.’ I must confess, I am not always a glass of peach tea myself. I have one habit in particular that I know does not endear me to Mavrick.
I have OCD. Not the kind you see on TV, where people have to touch things a certain amount of times, or wash their hands till they crack and bleed. No, I’m not that bad. My OCD takes the form of clutter phobia.
Let me be clear. I am not a clean freak. I am not one of those wackadoodles who gets down on her hands and knees to scrub the corner of the bathroom floors. No offense to the wackadoodles who do.
I am more the kind of OCD crazy that can’t stand to have one thing out of place. Ever. For any reason. For even a second. And I have always been like this. My family would spend hours of fun tossing throw pillows into the middle of the living room, and just wait to see how long it took till I snapped, picked them up, and put them back. Even though I KNEW they were going to do it again. Because my family is a bunch of assholes.
I can walk into a room and notice if Mavrick has moved the lamp a fraction of an inch to the left. I can’t tell if someone gets 8 inches of hair cut off, or loses half an arm, but boy howdy, if you knock my DVD player and cable box out of perfect alignment, I am going to know about.
I have never been drunk at one of my own parties. Okay. That’s a lie. BUT, it was always really, really late before I was able to get drunk, because I spent the entire party walking around with a trash bag. If someone set their red plastic cup down for one second too long, that fucker was gone. To the untrained eye, I looked like hired help. To my friends, they just held on to their cups and laughed.
If there is a phrase that Mavrick dreads on this planet, more than even “Honey, I’m late.”, it’s “Are you done with that?” The poor man can’t even finish a sandwich and I’m already taking his plate, his glass, wiping down the table, and putting his dishes in the dishwasher. And you can forget about snacking. I will ask him if he’s done with the pretzels, and before he can say “No, I’m still eating those,” I have them half way to the kitchen, where I will close them with a Chip Clip and put them on the Chip Shelf in the pantry, next to their Tortilla brothers and Baked Lays sisters.
The other day, during the Baltimore/KC game, he brought a bag of rice chips into the living room. He threw the bag on the table, and crumbs got everywhere. I saw him look at me out of the corner of his eye. He was watching to see how long I would let him eat his chips in peace before I asked him if he was done with those. If it wasn’t for those crumbs mocking me, begging me to wipe them up, I would have lasted longer. I broke.
“Sweetie. Are you done with those?”
“You know what? I’m not. It’s a football game. I am having a snack. Go make yourself a drink and relax, for christ’s sake.”
I could tell that my OCD was passing from “Oh, isn’t mindbling cute, the way she can’t stand stuff laying around?”, to “ If she doesn’t sit down, shut up, and let me eat my chips, I’m going to break something.”
I walked to the kitchen, fixed a drink, walked back into the living room, and he had, ON PURPOSE, scattered rice chips all over my table. Like a little, rice chip Stonehenge. He was laughing and laughing, with his perfectly Flowbeed hair. Very funny.
He actually told me today, just today, that my OCD is getting worse. I don’t know if it’s getting worse or if he is just really starting to notice it now. We have been living together for almost a year. We have a baby together. He watched me give birth. The bloom is off the rose, so to speak.
But this is where it gets good, if you ask me. This is where I know he uses a Flowbee, but I sleep with him anyway. This is where he knows that my OCD and clutter phobia is probably going to prevent him from ever really enjoying a snack ever again, but he isn’t leaving. This is where sexting turns into joint bank accounts. This is where we talk to each other through the bathroom door when we’re using the ol’ facilities.
Living together might not always be sexy, but it’s often funny. And it’s always an education. People actually use Flowbees. Who knew?