I’ve got this nose hair trimmer. I’m not stoked that I have to have it, but I do. I have a big honker and I’m Italian and if I were to let things grow unfettered it would look like someone planted two kudzu plants in my nostrils and then let them reclaim the plains for nature. I can get away without using the trimmer a bit if I have a beard, but when I shave, watch out, boy. I gotta trim them ‘strils! Anyway, this thing is shaped kind of like a really long, skinny egg with an anteater’s nose on the end. The anteater’s nose is flanked with this little electric shaver-esque wall, and basically, you jam that part into your face and rub it around on the tender skin inside your nostrils until you can’t stand it anymore. At that point, your nostrils are as hair-free as they’re gonna get. Also, your eyes are watering and your nose is all red so it looks a lot like (best case scenario) you’ve got terrible allergies or (worst case scenario) you just blew a bunch of lines. This is my relationship with this thing, at least. I don’t know how other dudes do it. Funnily, it’s never come up.
Now, like most men who share a bathroom with a woman, I have limited space allotted for my shit. This is, by and large, fine. I don’t have much shit. I’ve got deodorant, a toothbrush, a razor, some shaving cream, some shampoo…uh…a jar of melatonin. Not much stuff. And that’s fine. I get approximately one third of the medicine cabinet for my stuff, which leaves my wife to have the other two thirds of the medicine cabinet, the two drawers below the sink, the entire cabinet area under the sink, and two shelves in the closet under where we keep the towels. Oh, and she’s got shit lined up all down the side of the tub and a basket of shit between the sink and the tub. That’s the general layout.
See, this is what this hegemony gets you. You put all this emphasis on how a woman looks at the expense of everything else, next thing you know, sure, you’ve got beautiful, soft, made up women all over the place, but you’re fucked when it comes to bathroom storage space real estate. Didn’t think of that when you started dictating our oppressive societal mores, men-who-came-before-me, did you? Thought not. But I’m digressing. That’s not the point. I don’t need that much shit to look as awesome as I do. I need some toilet paper, a toothbrush, some lotion (as so not to get too ashy) a razor and my nostril scraper. And here’s the problem:
Traditionally, I keep this thing on the second shelf of my tiny section of the medicine cabinet. I keep it flanked on the left by a bottle of Aleve and on the right by some shampoo and glue. It’s buffered and out of the way, but it can’t stop falling over. This has a lot to do with its’ egg shaped design that I described up top. The thing is an impossible pain in the dick. At least that’s what I hear. I don’t actually ever knock it over, but apparently, my wife, operating in her space over there in the other side of the medicine cabinet, can’t keep her shit from coming over to my tiny little disputed west bank zone and shoving the Aleve, who bumps into Nostrils and sends him tumbling, time and time again. This has led to some re-zoning and a subtle war of relocation that I’ve just recently determined is unwinnable by me.
About 2 months ago, I went looking for this thing, and it was nowhere to be found. I finally asked my old lady about it and she went and dug it out of the bottom of one of the drawers under the sink. Now, keep in mind these drawers are fucking STUFFED, so it’s no easy task to pull something from the bottom. “Okay,” says I. “This thing is falling down and bugging her. I’m gonna stand it all the way over on the side by the wall of the medicine cabinet to make SURE that it’s as far out of the way as possible.” I did that and then did that thing where I wipe my hands off like some task has been completed, I boarded a plane to Australia and didn’t get home for 3 weeks.
When I did get home, I had a full beard. It was great until I was told by some ladies I work with that I had to shave because I looked ‘gross’ (their words, not mine).
Well, shaving revealed what looked like two upside down Don Kings hanging out of my nose, but when I went for my weed-whacker, whaddaya know? GONE! I went and dug through the drawers, nothing. I went through the closet. Nothing. Finally, I went to my wife and said “where are the nostril clippers?” (which, I’d like to point out, is pretty much the LAST thing I want to bring attention to needing to the only person on this earth I’m still allowed to bang). Her response was something along the lines of “in the drawer, where they should be. I hate that thing.”
When I mentioned I’d checked the drawer, she did that thing that has been happening to me since I was a little kid where I can’t find something, and whatever woman I’m expressing my incompetence to sighs loudly, goes right over and pulls out said item like I’m completely fucking retarded. In this case, she’d relocated my trimmer from the floor of the drawer to one of her many little pouches full of tons of different cylinders of shit that I assume all goes on her face. It was a tiny step up from the bottom of the drawer, and the message was clear: “this is the three by one inch space in this house where this fucking annoyance can live and nowhere else. Do not ask me where it is any more and god help you if you ever try to move it back to the fucking medicine cabinet again.”
I thought about telling her how I’m a pretty big deal and over the weekend we were in LA and had a totally awesome, super packed show at the Viper Room (no, seriously), how we hung out with stars of television, rock and roll and pornography, how I should, in theory, be allowed to keep my nostril machine anywhere I damn well please…but I’m not a fucking moron. Whatever concessions I can make that distract from my actual flaws, I’m gonna make. So yeah…that’s what I did this weekend. What did you guys do?