It begins with a toothbrush. Fighter of plaque and tooth decay, whitener of teeth, freshener of breath, the toothbrush appears harmlessly in the bathroom drawer sometime after the new girl has begun staying the night. Harmless because who but an Englishman could find horror in this most benign of objects? The toothbrush is just a scout, however. Like a Navy SEAL HALO’ing in a hundred miles behind enemy lines, the toothbrush lands silently in your bathroom drawer, dons its nightvision goggles and sets up a geurilla campaign that is a harbinger of impending onslaught. You can fight it, but the mere presence of the SEAL toothbrush means you’re already fucked.

More toiletry items take up residence as the relationship blossoms. You allow her a drawer, medicine cabinet space, perhaps a cabinet all her own. A bottle of shampoo that costs half of your monthly beer budget pops up like magic in the shower. One, then a handful, then many garments find hanger space in the closet. Eventually, the discussion will be had about moving in together as though the act were not a foregone conclusion. Hell, it’s better than having to buy a ring and you’ll have more beer money every month.

Moving day arrives. Your place is now our place. Which means significant portions of it are her place. Portions like the bathroom.

The following morning, it’s there. Right there. In the corner of the shower. Rising three tiers is a basket thingy whose purpose is the organization of the myriad bath products that now threaten to exceed the tub surround’s weight limit. In that rack, you find all of the following:

Matrix Essentials So Silver Shampoo
Body by Bed Head Papaya Body Wash
Cinnamon Roll Heaven All-Over Wash (All the Lovin’ Without the Oven says the bottle)
Pureology Anti-Fade Complex
Pantene Pro-V Color Revival Conditioner
Garnier Fructis Fortifying Shampoo
Biore Shine Control Clay Mask
Garnier Nutritioniste Nutri-Pure Detoxifying Creme Cleanser
Clean & Clear Advantage Facial Cleanser
Neutrogena Daily Scrub
St. Ives Apricot Scrub
Mary Kay Microdermabrasion Step 1: Refine
Neutrogena Clarifying Facial Cleanser
True Blue Spa Fine and Sandy Beach Pedicure Sudsing Foot Scrub

Son of a bitch, it’s World War III in the shower.

Boxes with Pottery Barn logos arrive almost daily by UPS. Z Gallerie bags peek from the trashcan. Your position is being overrun. Sporting art gets moved around. Stemware racks and buffets go in their place. Wall sconces occupy a bedroom filled with furniture that isn’t yours.

Lamentations are made on your part about hunting season being closed. Were it not so, you’d have more taxidermy in the works. The billfish are in around Cabo, though. Perhaps a sailfish or striped marlin right there over the couch. Something, anything to inject new testosterone into the decorating, even if it means a picture of dogs playing poker or a velvet Elvis. Or dogs playing poker with Elvis… on velvet… with John Wayne.

And all this, of course, because you didn’t want to buy the ring. The massive horror and indignity of getting fucked in a divorce has given way to the small indignations of cohabitation. Granted, these are the same small affrights of marriage, but you justify it as being the middle ground, the doublestuff center of life’s Oreo. You can’t just stay a bachelor all your life, right? Right? So, this cohabitation thing, it’s not that bad, and at least there’s not a prison-style ass fuck at the end with your own tears for lube.

Unless, that is, she’s got a good enough lawyer…

This blog was written by El Supremo

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