Nemesis: Genesis



What did I ever do to you?


The universe operates in a predictable pattern. For every good there is an evil. Light must cast a shadow. Every Superman has a Lex Luthor. Every Lion-o has a Mumm-Ra. If you haven't discovered your personal antagonist yet, you will. My nemesis? Shower Curtain.

In our bathroom, a somewhat unassuming shower curtain passively hangs. It is suspended from ten stainless steel rings and possesses a white, quilted cloth exterior, a clear plastic liner, and the soul of an asshole. The curtain rod has two pieces that need to be twisted to extend and maintain proper pressure against the tiled walls for support. The curtain rod is not the issue. The extremely inconspicuous shower curtain is the issue.

My first confrontation with Shower Curtain happened a few years ago after a night of competitive imbibing at a local barre and grille. I entered the bathroom while Kristin Luszcz and Sarah were in the living room practicing their Wii bowling (un)skills, preparing for their eminent defeat because I rule at Wii bowling. I lifted the toilet seat for a standard urinary experience. Suddenly, and without provocation, I was propelled backward and engulfed by Shower Curtain. "My, what on earth is happening?" I eloquently whispered. (The people in the living room claim that I screamed, "BBRRAAAMMMMBBBLLLOOOO YIIIIIIEEEEEEE TOOOOOOORRRRRMMM BBBBBRRRRRBBBBRRRFFFFFF?!" They heard wrong.) My field of vision was filled with nothing but Shower Curtain and I was laying on my back in the bathtub, attempting to free myself from his death grip. The curtain rod, being a pacifist and wishing to remain neutral, lay on the outside of the tub. Overcoming the incredibly unbelievable strength of Shower Curtain was difficult, but after a short struggle, I won. (The unhelpful ladies in the living room claim a sound resembling a man tumbling down a 300-foot aluminum ladder, trying to grasp at the rungs with soup pans taped to his hands remained constant for thirty minutes. They heard wrong.)

It didn't end there.

I cajoled the curtain rod into a brief alliance and spent the next few minutes trying to reestablish Shower Curtain in his original position. (The nosey nuisances in the living room claim that I cursed at Norse gods for 15 minutes, fell completely silent for 5...they didn't seem to worry...and continued with a rant about my distaste for hygiene in general. They heard wrong.)

I was pissed off and ready to bring the Wii-thunder when I exited the bathroom. I couldn't have been in there for more than 3 minutes, but when I exited, I found Sarah asleep on the couch and Kristin cleaning up a wine spill. (They claim I had to have been in the bathroom for at least 45 minutes due to the fact that they watched an entire episode of Gossip Girl in my absence. They are dicks.)

I let Sarah sleep (Sarah claims I sat on her and tried to make her take a tequila shot), helped Kristin clean up the wine spill (Kristin claims I spilt the wine in the first place), took a tequila shot with Kristin (always a good idea) and proceeding to lay down Wiidacious victory at bowling (because I'm a winner).

That night, my nemesis revealed himself. I have had many run-ins with Shower Curtain since our initial struggle and the tales of my confrontations with that piece of shit will continue to be told.

The end of days

"O-M-G. L-O-L. You are so funny."

Maybe Nostradamus predicted this. Maybe the Mayans were right. Maybe the first of the Seven Seals has been broken and the White Horseman is upon us. Maybe the great titan, Atlas, has grown tired and will toss Earth aside like that time you were helping your buddy move and he told you, "Man, I forgot to hit the ATM, would you mind grabbing some beer?" and you unshouldered the box labeled "collectibles" into the hot tub.

Whether the Frenchman's, Mayan's, Christian's, Greek's or any other definition of the apocalypse fits your beliefs, I might have overheard the beginning: "O-M-G. L-O-L. You are so funny."

The flight from Denver to Omaha on a Monday morning is usually filled with frequent business travelers and a few families heading home. It was in this few that I discovered the person that I have feared meeting. As I waited for the gate agent to start boarding the flight, not unexpectedly, several people began crowding the boarding area, assuming their tickets declaring "seating area 4" meant they would board before seating area 1. In the middle of this particular group, seemingly indifferent to her surroundings, was Kate.

Wearing skinny jeans, blue sunglasses and a pink Ramones t-shirt, Kate was the kind of person that owns a Justin Bieber poster and has no idea that Sheena is a punk rocker. She stood, surrounded by her parents and two younger brothers, talking on her bedazzled iphone and shifting her weight from one Ugg to the other. Teenage Kate spoke to her dad with perpetually rolling eyes and focused all of her attention on the person on the other end of her 3G connection. She impatiently stared at the ceiling and flicked her fingernails as the person on the other end told a story. When the tale ended, she responded, "O-M-G. L-O-L. You are so funny."

Kate neither said this ironically nor sarcastically. And I totally get the "O-M-G" thing. I've watched a total of 6 minutes and 23 seconds of Gossip Girl and know that this is sort of normal...infuriatingly annoying, but normal. However, she was genuinely amused by the story. Instead of giving the courtesy laugh ("hahahaha...'working hard or hardly working.' Funny every time, cubicle neighbor"), she said "L-O-L."  Is this necessary?

I understand abbreviation. I abbreviate my own name...awesomely. Many years ago, while working together at Cinco Ranch Golf Course, my friend Jay told me, "Brevity is key." He's right, but Kate is a nimrod. Is she over-abbreviating? Where do we draw the line?

Kate's conversation might just mark the beginning of the end. But maybe not. I think if we start under-abbreviating, it could counteract her atrocities.

Semicolon, close parenthesis.