The house hunting process allows me into many a greasy interior of people’s lives. Most of the time I see houses that are unoccupied, but occasionally I hit pay dirt and get to see a person’s actual house. People have either packed efficiently or have much less stuff than me. Maybe I should have a yard sale. I noticed that there’s always one place left that nobody thinks to pack before the space invaders come to look at the home. The medicine cabinet.
A world of wonders await inside.
Yes, I look in people’s medicine cabinets. The difference between me with my insatiable curiosity and you with your self-righteous yet hypocritical indignation is that unlike you, I admit to looking in the medicine cabinet. We’ve all done it. You can learn a lot about a person with a quick rummage through the old personal pharmacy.
Now, there are some things we expect to find in the medicine cabinet. These things can be dismissed out of hand. That is, unless you only date people who use Glide dental floss and you just happen to open up the golden box of opportunity and find some generic shit cooling its heels in there. In that case, your relationship is doomed. If you have a Glide floss, Colgate, Speed Stick, Oil of Olay thing working for you, don’t hold back. It’s clear your intended is a cheap ass at best; a complete loser with no sense of taste, dignity or personal hygiene at worst.
Is that generic? You cheap piece of shit. I am so outta here. It’s obvious this person won’t be picking up the tab any time soon.
I love to find actual medicines in the medicine cabinets. I read every label carefully, noting the contents of the bottle and the dose. The actual dose doesn’t say much about the individual other than they weigh ten pounds more than they claim to. It’s the quantity that counts. I look at the date and the quantity in the bottle and do a little fast head math. Try it some time when you’re sober (this isn’t a good trick to pull at parties). You can tell immediately who’s taking more than the recommended dose.
You only take one per night. Really, I’m sure you do. Mmmm hmm.
Medicine cabinets are portals to alternate dimensions, namely the dimensions inside people’s minds. It’s no trouble spotting a mental straight jacket or appetite for a long, strange trip.
That’s a Zoloft parody, in case you missed it. Happy pills– keeping Americans complacent and voting Republican since 2000.
Here’s another greasy little favorite find:
I’m sure you just have a little cold. A little cold that takes about 9 tablets to cure.
I’m sure that person just had a cold. A really bad cold. A remarkably bad cold. A cold that needed so much shit to suppress the symptoms, they had to take the whole box.
Wow, check that shit out. That bed is actually pink. Say, is that cookies I smell in the background?
What? Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m back now. What a long, strange trip it’s been. You know, I think I actually got rid of that persistent cough I’ve been having. Now that I’m sobered up, let’s see what else is in here…
What the hell is that doing in here? Shouldn’t that be next to the bed? Seriously, people, pull it together before I have to come over there and tell you how to do your job.
I know what makes you uncomfortable about a total stranger checking out your medicine cabinet. It’s the same thing that makes me a little paranoid and jittery. (Of course, that effect could just be the remains of 9 tablets of Triple C running through the system.) It’s the fact that the sneaky bastard riffling through your personal effects may just bump into something embarrassing.
Ooohhhh, so that’s why you never get laid. I’d bail if I saw somebody pull that shit out of their wallet as well.
No, I’m just kidding. Ain’t no shame in it as long as you put safety first. Although, truth be told, I would seriously question your mental stability. No, the embarrassing shit I’m talking about looks something like this:
No. I have no idea how that got in here. I think somebody must have broken in and left it there.
This leads me to a little story that’s not completely off the subject, but not exactly about exploring the vast reaches of your medicine cabinet. This is about the medicine cabinet we had in the house when I was a child. We had two medicine cabinets, and we tried to keep my father out of both. Unfortunately, we weren’t around 24 hours and day, and it’s kind of an insult to lock a man out of his own medicine cabinet. Anyway, the cabinet contained all the remedies you could possibly need to eliminate embarrassing skin conditions. It also contained the Preparation H. One day my father went into the bathroom late at night, opened the medicine cabinet and took out the first metal tube he encountered. He never looked at the label and proceeded to squeeze out that magical droplet and apply it to his forehead and chin. He noticed it smelled strange. He looked at the label as a little afterthought. Instead of the Clearasil he expected to find was the tube of Preparation H. Now, I don’t know to this day why he never looked at the label or if hemorrhoid cream cures acne. I do know that his bungles in the medicine cabinet were a regular occurrence.
I grew up in a house where people consumed vodka like water. Many a night involved me not even bothering to sneak into the house because I knew my parents were more shitfaced than I was. It was just a matter of not getting so drunk I tripped over the person passed out in the middle of the kitchen. One night I accidentally roused my father from a beer-induced coma. He decided to go to bed, but stopped off at the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth first. He washed his face. He reached into the medicine cabinet and removed the first metal tube he encountered. He proceeded to load up his toothbrush and brush his teeth. He stops half way through and says, “This toothpaste tastes like shit. Tell your mother to never buy this shit again.” I remember thinking that is probably true, considering that it may have been up somebody’s ass. I just agreed with him.
That night I learned the true value of sobriety and rehabilitation. I didn’t take a drink for years following that incident. I also hope that kind jackassery isn’t genetic. I think I’d rather end up with hypertrichosis.
Where was I? Oh, the medicine cabinet. I don’t have anything else of relevance to say about this subject, so I’ll leave you with a cheery song to sing. Remember, follow the recommended dose, and if you have an erection that lasts longer than four hours, insert your own joke here.