Taking Stock at Christmas

Being Fashionable

I’ve learned that discussing things I find on the internet with my wife Liz is like tossing a match into a pool of gasoline. Liz works in corporate PR. In loyalty to her paycheck, she embraces the corporate establishment’s narrative. When I read the news, I like to take time to figure it out instead of taking it at face value. You might call me an “Internet Dad”. 

I hope to one day find the right moment to talk some common sense into her. Maybe that moment is today.

My computer screen shows 10:59am. I promised Liz I’d be ready for the drive over to Nate and Emily’s at 11am. What is life but a series of compromises? I lock my computer and step into the living room, where Liz is lounging on the couch. Her gaze sweeps over me.

“You look ridiculous without your diaper on,” she says sharply. “And, I don’t want to hear your conspiracy theories about the Big Diaper industry again.”

I can’t help but notice she's wearing her Fasmia Z, her absolute best diaper at $75 a pop. Sleek and stylish, it sticks out in a crowd. It portrays her as someone successful in her mid 30s, someone happening. “Well, you look amazing today.” I smile, attempting to soften things.

“Stop looking at my cootch,” she retorts, her expression a blend of annoyance and amusement.

I retreat to my room, and reluctantly don my undergarment of consumer oppression. 

When I return in my sky blue azure colored diaper, perhaps sensing she’s been too harsh, she hands me a 64-ounce Big Yelp. 

“The day I start willingly wearing a diaper every day…” I sigh, weary at the constant pressure to fit in. “Just be careful what you wish for,” I have a taste of my Big Yelp. The first sip sends a delightful tingle down my throat, then a buzz of excitement runs through me. Amazing things are going to happen today. I can feel it.

The Drive to Bedford

Liz inputs Nate and Emily’s address into the car’s navigation system. Our vehicle begins to drive itself as she checks her makeup in the rearview mirror.

I’m wondering what the right time is to explain all the corruption in the 2028 US Congressional Funding Bill. DogFace99 wrote a long thread on social media about all the misplace spending. All the politicians getting rich off our tax dollars.

“Remember to ask them follow-up questions” she says.

“Who?” I ask, slightly confused at what she's getting at.

“The guests at the Christmas party. Last time, you went on a one-hour monologue about aliens in New Hampshire.”

“I did?” I feign ignorance. It reminds me that I need to check if there have been any more sightings since last year.

“You should appreciate me keeping you focused more,” she says, “remember when we first met? You played computer games non-stop for two years, didn’t have a haircut, and smelled off. And now, you look like this.” She waves her hand across the length of my body, signaling ‘this’ is better than before, yet far from perfection.

“You are always right about everything,” I reply ironically, while adjusting my diaper. Inside, I realize her assessment of my past life is completely accurate.

Arriving at the Party

The drive is fast. It helps that we don't need to stop to the restroom every 15 minutes. We pull up to Nate and Emily’s, and are greeted by a sea of familiar faces. Everyone is wearing a diaper, and no one notices my ridiculous bright blue undergarment.

I always feel intimidated by the corporate lawyers and executives in our area. Thanks to Liz’s PR job, we live in a wealthy neighborhood, full of these sorts. Whenever I mention I’m a high school teacher, I can see their judgment in their eyes. They put me into a box, someone not to be taken seriously. Maybe I should listen to Liz’s advice, try to blend in. Ask questions like a TV show host. After all, I’m not a loser. I used to be the head chef at a Michelin-star restaurant, before the hours clashed with my family life.

Nate sidles up with a sly smirk. “What are the latest conspiracy theories?” he asks.

“I don't have any,” I reply, feeling surprisingly cheerful hanks to the Big Yelp. I hadn’t actually thought about anything sinister since leaving home.

Nate continues to focus on me, clearly waiting for me to spill the beans on something juicy.

“Okay, here’s one. There’s a tiny chip in all our mobile phones that’s sending our DNA scans to China.” 

“Really?” he says, raising a doubting eyebrow.

“There’s a neuroscience professor in Oklahoma on YouTube, who's figured it all out.”

“But why are they doing this?”

I can’t help but chuckle at his naivety. “To replace us, of course. So they can take over and drink all our Big Yelps.”

“If they’re going to replace us, why would they need our DNA? Wouldn’t it be the other way around?”

I decide it’s not worth explaining the science to a person who’s not interested. “Haha, I’m just playing with you.” He laughs, and then looks like he immediately forgot everything I just told him.

“Before they take over, I’m going to need a stronger drink," Dan says loudly. "Whiskey & Yelp, anyone?”

I can’t say no to either. Together, they are a perfect combination.

The Pool House

Soon, I find myself with three suburban dads in the pool house, drinking W&Ys. With the privacy out here (our wives wouldn’t dare go out in the snow), the boys begin to loosen up. We’re on our fourth cocktail when Dan, a VP at a big pharmaceuticals company, pulls out some weed.

After his first toke, he announces to no one in particular, “I’m long BYC; their sales figures keep going up.” 

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about Big Yelp Corporation.

“Big Yelp,” I echo, attempting to be part of the conversation. I know more about cuts of beef, than about stocks and bonds.

“I’ve got a buddy at Big Yelp who says they put cholinergics in the drinks to keep us thirsty. It’s what give you that little buzz. Like how Coke used to contain cocaine.” 

“So, that’s why I need to pee every ten minutes,” I mumble.

Dan nods. “And, BYC owns 20% of Fasmia, so it makes sense, right? Synergy. Vertical Integration.”

Nate grins, “The vertical from here…” he sips his drink, “to down here.” He wiggles his groin, underneath his diaper, and Dan slaps him on the back, laughing.

“Profits going in, and profits going out.”

For the rich, conspiracies are stock tips. Maybe I have something to learn here.

“Tell me more!” I say.

Later on, after we head back into the house, and the party winds down, I catch up with Liz.

“You did well today,” she says, smiling. “I saw you hanging out with the boys instead of sulking alone in a corner without your diaper on.”

Two can play at this game.

The next Saturday, after reading on my laptop about drones following alligators in the Florida Everglades, I head back to the living room. We are going shopping today. Liz isn’t ready yet, and I take a seat on the couch.

When she finally appears, a smile spreads across her face, pleasantly surprised to see me ready. “First time ever!” 

“Honey, you look amazing!” I hand her a Big Yelp. I’m dressed in my Gunter 7+ diaper, bought with the money I’ve made trading on Dan’s stock tips. “I'm in such a good mood, I will make you a fine beef bourguignon tonight.” I add, my smile widening.

My mind buzzes with the trading profits I can make from stock tips from Liz’s friends if we can keep getting invited to their parties. What is life if not a series of compromises? I’m now playing at the big boys table.

I take a long gulp of my Big Yelp. This game is just beginning.