Oreo compulsive disorder

My girlfriend diagnosed me as an obsessive-compulsive Oreo dunker. Here is my recommended method.

1. Pour milk into scotch glass, leaving at least a half centimeter at the top for milk displacement on first dunk.

2. Put milk back in refrigerator immediately to enjoy future dunking.

3. Open either end of Oreo package completely, but do not tear sides.

4. Slide cookie tray out of package, exposing two to three cookies in each of the three rows. Do not completely remove tray from package.

5. With thumb and pinkie on the inside corners of exposed tray, push back each row with index, middle and ring fingers.

6. Remove cookie from longest row.

7. Rotate cookie to locate strongest edge of cookie with most cream.

8. Pinch said edge with index finger and thumb.

9. Dunk cookie into milk as far as possible without letting fingers touch surface of milk. Soak for four to six seconds. If fingers touch milk, give milk to girlfriend and pour a new glass.

10. Eat whole cookie in one bite.

11. Repeat steps 5-10 until satisfied.

Hustler

I finished moving into my townhouse yesterday. My girlfriend and I worked on my favorite piece of furniture, a handmade chess table, for 12 difficult hours. I enjoy chess and tried to get her into it one night last week in Chicago. She nearly beat me in the second game of her entire life. I've played countless times in the distant past.

Today we used the finished chess table for the first time. She beat me handily while saying that she "just wanted to finish in the morning" for most of the match.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she said, staring down at my feeble king and four pawns. "What should I do next?"

My girlfriend might be a hustler.

Life instruction

I got back Wednesday from a trip to Chicago and Libertyville, my old stomping grounds. My old bedroom had a stack of books I brought back to Charlotte. One of them is Life's Little Instruction Book. It has about 500 single-sentence instructions to live by. The author forgot one.

Do not apply to a university or organization that refers to its own prestige in the application.

This just in; my sideburns grow into my ears. Tomorrow I will buzz my head.

Boyman

I am a fortunate boy. My girlfriend helped me pack this week. This means that she packed more than I did because I don't know how. You see, I'm just a boy. I still don't feel like a man, but please don't think of this as a psychological inferiority. I keep experiencing new things. As long as that happens, I don't think I can feel like a man.

But I might be getting close. For instance, in recent days I bought cleaning supplies, a vacuum, two chairs and a table, all which amount to more merchandise than I've bought in my life. I think I might run out of things to buy in about a year. After I buy everything that I need - not everything I want - then I might be a man. I think all I have left is a grill, a mower and a watering can. No kidding.

Buying new things and trying new things always come with a blitz of questions.

"Byrd, does the icing go on the strudel before or after the toaster?" I asked, expecting a look of disbelief but knowing that saving my raspberry strudel was worth the look.

"After," he said. With the look.

"I'm glad we had this talk," I offered.

I cleaned with my cleaning supplies today. I did not clean for myself. I'm moving. I only did it so nobody could unnecessarily charge me money, something I would almost equate to losing to Duke. Still, the cleaning made me feel like a grown man. I drank my old college beer and felt more boyish. I think I am at that stage between boyhood and manhood.

But honestly, I think I've been at that stage since I was a freshman in high school. It is an incredible stage that allows me to educate children and ask a peer how to pay an electric bill in the same day.

This stage might last for another decade. I can only hope. I am a boyman.

Patriotic pants

I spent July 4 in Mooresville to water ski and attend a young family cookout. At the cookout I was one of three people who weren't either a parent or a child under 10, but I had a good time.

Just before the fathers unleashed an exorbitant amount of illegal fireworks, the 20 children lit sparklers and wore glow sticks around their wrists and necks. One child drew the attention of a disapproving parent, who sat with the other parents in a wide circle of lawn chairs. The child walked cautiously toward the circle with his head bowed. His dad left the circle for the impending discussion.

"Dad, it's not what you think," the boy said quietly so most of us could not hear. The father listened and nodded to the rest of his son's whispered words.

"OK, go ahead son," he said grudgingly.

"I hope it's what we think," an eavesdropping parent from the circle shouted through chuckles. "If it's not what we think, then something is not right. Keep your son away from my daughter!"

The boy scampered off with a glowing crotch, tens of glow sticks inside.

Swedish fun factory

I went with a few friends to Atlanta last weekend, and my girlfriend persuaded me to go to IKEA for the first time. I don't like to shop. I don't like standing, walking, looking, budgeting nor spending. I knew it was a furniture store. I had no idea it was a culture.

Let me amend my statement. I don't like spending money on stuff that doesn't do stuff. Furniture would be a perfect example. Books can entertain. Music can inspire. Clothes can keep me from getting cold or being naked. Furniture just sits there.

IKEA, however, is an elaborate castle of wonder. I found amazing discounts everywhere I looked. It was so gigantic and impressive that I forgot to buy anything for the first two hours. I needed a pow-wow with my girlfriend over chocolate cake and imported soda at the Swedish food market.

"We've got to buy stuff," I said.

"OK," she said.

And we were off. She added a coffee table, comfort chair and dinnerware to her list. I found a breakfast table, chairs, a Carolina rug and a microwave dish cover for $101.

Then we lost each other. I hadn't had this feeling since I wandered around Disney World alone when I was five years old. I jogged through the entire store twice in 45 minutes without any luck. I saw everyone twice except my girlfriend. Our perfect shopping experience had turned into a five-hour disaster. I had the keys to the car. I imagined my girlfriend sitting by the front-left wheel, dying of starvation.

"A Swedish woman took our cart away," she would say passively. "I want to kill her and die."

I couldn't let this happen. I had to emerge victorious!

We found each other. It was a Braveheart moment.

Go to IKEA. You won't believe it.