I cannot stand stains on my clothes. I absolutely abhor (hate…just trying out a new word) them, especially food stains. Although I have repeatedly tried to resist, if I am dining at a restaurant and even the slightest bit of food grazes my shirt, leaving behind the most minuscule dot (of grease? protein? starch?), it would appear I have a 911 case of diarrhea by the sheer speed with which I can race to the restroom, fully intent on saturating the stain before it has time to permanently set into the fabric.

After my sponge (paper towel, actually) bath and the exchange of a pinhead-sized food stain for a baseball-sized water stain, I return to the table and an exaggerated eye roll from my wife. Naturally defensive anyway, I retort, “Dilution!” (blank stare back). So I try again, “Saturation” (still no reaction or, at the very least, a reverse eye roll).

In Nevada and many of the arid states out west, this shirt will be dry again in about 20 minutes. So by the time we are done eating (assuming I do not repeat the mishap of paragraph one), there will be no remaining evidence. In the southeastern states such as Florida, however, it might not be dry until the next day; thus, calling for Plan B (more about Plan B in a moment).

Staining the shirt is one thing, but when the food lands in my lap, I go into full hazmat mode and can transform the nickel-sized lap stain into what looks like a serious restroom plumbing malfunction in less than 60 seconds. Although it will dry within half-an-hour, my wife would now prefer to crawl under the table when I parade around the restaurant with the Frisbee-sized water stain in my “crotchal” region (overkill?).

When I was younger, I would soak my pants in this manner and then stand in front of the hand dryer for 10 minutes to dry my saturation stain (this is Plan B). At this point in my maturation (using the term quite loosely), however, I really don’t give a rip. So now I just saunter on past the dryer with the sound of Matthew Wilder’s Break My Stride playing in my head.

Hey, if I didn’t address the big egg stain on my chest with minuteman swiftness, I can only imagine how a conversation could fall apart with the organic Big Bird emblem on my shirt. “Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here. Eye contact!” Ladies, I get it!

My favorite thing about Joe’s Crab Shack is not the blackened shrimp, steampot medley or succulent crab claws dipped in hot butter, although those things are all pretty darn good. My favorite thing about Joe’s is the plastic bibs they provide! Masks are now commonly accepted as part of daily wear…thank you Coronavirus. I can only fantasize that someday the bib will be as universally accepted.

Everyone knows how marinara sauce ends up spotting any and all fabric (shirt, blouse, dress, pants, tablecloths) in the vicinity when not-so-elegantly slurping in an oversized spaghetti noodle as it slaps off one’s cheek like an out-of-control fire hose. Thus, Italian restaurants frighten me. If only they would provide bib-suits, like mechanic’s coveralls made from plastic, I would take on even the sauciest of dishes.

And finally, there is the dreaded urinal splatter. The strainers inserted in the bottom of the urinal to help control splatter are frequently counterproductive as they yield even more splatter (there has to be a better word) than if I chose to just pee straight against the wall at a range of 15 inches. At home, my boys marvel at how I rule the bumper pool table given my application of physics and geometry to get the ball to carom at the precise angle to find the hole. I employ a similar strategy by peeing into the porcelain at a glancing angle to minimize any “splashback” (there is my better word). For those who are not so mathematically-inclined, there are always rainboots.