Hand Washing

I'm a little confused by society's requirement that I wash my hands after I pee.

Also, furry people with warts must hold hands.

If you've ever taken a shower with me, you know quite well how ritualistically clean my penis is.  It gets washed 2 or 3 times in the course of a single shower.  I can't really say that I take better care of any other part of my body.  Maybe my teeth.

So, why is it that when I walk into a public restroom, after touching the doors and the light switch and any other medium in my way, do I not immediately wash my hands before pulling lil' ~RoB out to pee?  I mean, I have a perfectly good idea of where my penis has been for the past 45 minutes since I last peed.  I don't, however, have any clue what kind of creepy, diseased crackwhore you finger-banged during lunch before coming in here to wash off your hands.  Or, slightly more realistically, if you dragged your ass out of here after pooping without appropriately anti-bacterializing (word?) yourself.  Shouldn't I be worried about me?

Dirty touches door.  I touch door.  I touch penis.  BAM!  Gonorrhea.  Or poison ivy.  Or something else I'd rather not have my penis infected with.

Things would be different if I was serving food or something.  But the average person should feel privileged to touch the hand that touches my pristine penis.  That being said, I always wash my hands.  Always.  Regardless if I'm doing #1, #2, #3, or some sick combination of all the former with extras.  Well, that is unless I'm naked, but then I usually don't use my hands at all during the process of urinating.

So... who wants to shake my hand?
~RoB

Poison Ivy (DIETY)

I have a few bug bites that I've been scratching lately.  When things itch, I have a bad habit of just scratching them off, until they bleed, and then I'm happy... enough.  It's simultaneously satisfying and masochistic.  I cannot stand something that itches.  It prompted me to post a Facebook status of "I'd rather bleed than itch".  Subsequent conversation reminded me of my worst poison ivy story.  Enjoy.

DIETY...
...about the summer before I got my driver's license.  It's easy to remember, because I distinctly remember taking a driving lesson in a pair of loose sweatpants.  It was the summer of sweatpants/sweatshorts/mesh.  It was the summer of poison ivy on my penis.

It started on a warm, humid afternoon that I spent most of the day helping Granny garden.  Throughout the day, I sporadically ran inside to pee, since that's what humans do.  I'm a regular hand washer, but my hand-washing program concentrates mostly on a post-peeing regiment.  I probably peed 4-5 times throughout the day, but who really keeps track.

Later that day, I may, or may not, have played with it a little.  It's happened too many times in my life to try and think back to that specific day and weigh rather or not it happened.  Anyway, the rest of the day was uneventful.

In the middle of the night, I woke up with a strange burning/itchy sensation down there, specifically along the ridge of the head.  Best idea I had?  Cup cold water in my hand and dip it in.  I definitely had visions of dipping it in other fluids, as well as covering it in anti-itch cream.  I figured a shower in the morning would fix everything, and I managed to go back to sleep.

The next morning, Granny pointed out a rash on the side of my face.  A rash on my face?  What could that be.  I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  I immediately put everything together, and I almost started crying.
♪ BUM...Bum...bummmmmm...... ♪

The best description I've came up with over the years to describe the end of my penis is... a portabello mushroom.  That's what it turned into as it started to swell, a reaction to the poison ivy and maybe even all the stuff I put on it to try and cure it.

Why didn't I wear gloves?

It seemed like months of awkward appointments at the public health center (confirming rather or not I was circumcised via hand motions/drawings in the air by an old Filipino woman), shots in my ass, cremes, baths with all kinds of salts/additives, calamine, no workin' it, and fearing it may never return to the size of an average penis... that I'd never be able to use it again.  Hell, maybe all that swelling helped make it bigger...

I have this really vivid memory of taking a bath and looking down at my poor, blushing, portabello mushroom inflatable-toy as it bounced in the water.  It was so sad, yet extremely entertaining to me now.

So... yeah.... no gloves, no love...
~RoB

Never Settled

I was telling somebody earlier that I'm finally starting to feel settled.  The craziness of my life that inspired me to start a blog has all settled down for the time being.  I'm still not sure when I'll be moving to NY, or if I'll like it, or if I'll ever get a PhD in the future, but for now, things seem regular.  Almost boring.

I started to fear that my blog would have to turn into old stories and witty observations, since the chaos wouldn't continue to spew forth.  So, we went ziplining, but that was a choice, more than things just happening to keep life interesting.

As I've said, my life has always been pretty interesting, as detailed by last night.

Annie: "The water isn't going down the pipe in the sink."
~RoB: "We don't have Drano, so lets add hot water and vinegar."
A: "Do you want to try to use a hanger and unclog it?"
~R: "Sure."
*Sudden whoosh noise and quick drain of the water in the sink.
~R: "That didn't sound good."
*Opens cupboard below.  Hanger poked through the (apparently) rusty pipe and released the water into the cupboard.

Conveniently, we keep our cleaning products stored in a big plastic tub, and it caught all of the water.  We supposedly have plumbers fixing it at our apartment as I write this.  However, it made for an interesting night of washing dishes in the bathroom and dealing with Annie's stressed-out craziness.

I bet we'll do a better job at trapping our bacon/sausage/hamburger grease now,
~RoB

Mosswood Chronicles

These days I regularly play tennis at some very interesting courts.  They are at a park called Mosswood in Oakland.  They don't have grass growing in the cracks like my high school courts, but they are in really, really poor condition.  The reason we keep going back is because they have lights and they are always empty.  I've never once waited for a court.  Heck, I've never seen more than one other court in use.  The other court in use could easily be a soccer player as much as a tennis player.  Anyway, it's near a rougher part of Oakland, and these are some random things that have happened to me (more often the people I was playing) since we've started playing tennis there.

Fat Fan

A thug-looking man with his pants sagging stood next to the fence waiting for the bathroom on a Sunday evening.  I was on the opposite side of the court.  I could see that he was talking smack to my opponent, but it wasn't until he left that I got the scoop.  Apparently, his biggest comment was: "Don't underestimate the fat one.  I used to be fat."  My first thought was, 'does that guy think he's in good shape now?', but it changed to just being happy that he thought I was taking it to my college roommate, who is tall, in good shape, and gorgeous.
 
"He sure is working a lot less than you are," was the other comment he had, apparently.  I don't know whose skills this is a testament to.  Either I'm rocking the corner shots, or I'm firing wildly while he returns everyone right down the center back to me.  Either way, thanks for being the thug-est cheerleader I've ever had.

A Foot in the Grave, A Hand of Bridge

Early one hot Sunday afternoon, my old roommate and I were out there playing.  Slowly, old people started piling into the adjacent rec center.  When I say slowly, I mean that every other senior had a walker.  They cruised by the courts at paces close to a one-legged dog's top speed.  After the first dozen went by, I asked what was going on.  I was informed it was a big bridge tournament.  Not less than 10 minutes later, an ambulance pulled into the parking lot of the facility.  I immediately had a little giggle to myself, wondering what brand of hip it was bringing in for some unlucky senior.

5 minutes later, my friend joked about how the ambulance was going in circles.  I had to notify him that it was actually another ambulance that pulled into the driveway.  The ambulances were apparently just on stand-by. They were still there when we left almost an hour later.  I, of course, assume they were for the seniors playing bridge, but I guess I can't count out the short baseball players running around in the field dressed in capris with tall, striped socks and tshirts.  They were probably going for a 1930's baseball player look, but the guy that ran buy us just looked like a leprechaun with his shaped, ginger beard.

Line Judge

Annie and I were playing once, when a chubby African American kid started climbing all over the fence behind her.  Again, I could see he was saying stuff, but it is impossible to hear on these courts because they are located next to the freeway.  Apparently, he was behind her keeping score.  Annie claimed he had no concept of how tennis actually worked, and he just kept giving me points if I hit it hard and at her, no matter where it actually landed.  The best part was when I initially asked her "What was that little girl saying to you?" and Annie responded with "Actually, it was a little boy."

Beer, Anyone?

One time when we showed up to play, the trash can on the courts was filled with at least 8 broken up cases from 12-packs of beer.  I don't know what kind of crazy, homeless, house party went on in those courts, but it didn't smell like pee or puke, so whatever.

Rapper's Delight

This past sunday, the park was overflowing with loud club music, with a loud, driving bass beat.  In between points I would look over at what was going on, but I could never get a good view of anything.  At one point, a gaggle of random people collected beside the courts.  At some point, one white guy holding the leash of a bichon frise starts freestyling for the little girl on the shoulders of one of the other standers-by.  He went for a while.  I can't attest to the quality, since, as usual, I was on the other side of the court.  Maybe I should start standing by the bathrooms/rec center!  Or maybe I should look less intimidating, like the people I'm playing. ;)

I'd like to return to the Berkeley Rose Garden to play, but those bitches pissed me off when they complained we were playing too long.  We weren't.  No question.  Karma will get you old, crabby bitches.

Tennis in sketchy Oakland, anyone?
~RoB

Geez, Wash Your Hands!

Annie: "Chick? Why do you call all women chicks?  The lady was like 60 years old!"
It was this morning.  I was still making fun of Annie for the story she told me last night.
~RoB: "Wait.  You know who it was?"

...backup...

Annie: "I walked out of the stall and over to the sink, I turned on the water, and I ran my hands under it."  Mimics wiping her hands together.  "Then I walked out.  She was making pretty loud noises... body noises... and I just don't think she heard the sink."
Annie was elaborating on the initial story while we rode BART.
~RoB: "Wait, you didn't use soap?"

...backup...

Annie: "I either can't wear my new rain boots for at least 3 weeks, or I'm going to have to buy everyone in my office a pair of them."
She was finishing off her story, not wanting to be recognized by the only thing the sanitary citizen could see from her stall.

...backup...

Annie: "As I was walking out of the bathroom, someone shouted 'Geez, Wash Your Hands!'"
She told me in front of her coworker, who had stopped by on the way to her volleyball class in Oakland.

...backup...

Annie never washes her hands.  She'd be lying if she said she even did it every time she poops.  (Girls are always sneaking little poops out while they're peeing.)  It took much convincing, and a line of Bath & Body Works Aromatherapy soaps that smell amazing, just to get her to do it sometimes, when I'm watching.  She claims she's made progress at work and regularly washes them.  This anonymous stall-lady disagrees.

Ewww.


Hope you enjoyed the Quentin Tarantino version of the story.

Washes his hands with soap every time he's in the bathroom, and usually looks at his junk in the mirror,
~RoB

Today's Awkward Moments

First of all, let me explain that when I usually refer to my parents, I'm referring to my grandparents.  For most of my life I lived with (and was primarily raised by) my grandmother (by blood), Granny, and her 3rd? husband, Pops.  *Insert Golden Girls / Family Matters / Cosby Show / Walker, Texas Ranger jokes here.*  My mother was always kind of around, but she was super flaky, and it was better that I wasn't left solely in her hands.  Don't worry, when she was around we shared a bedroom (through high school), so we got tons of 1-on-1 time.  Anyway, my grandparents aren't really that old, since Granny had mom at 16 and Mom had me in her early 20s.  My grandparents are probably the same age as your parents.  I digress.

Today, Pops sent me an email, all in bold caps, with the subject: BIRTHDAY.

HAPPY 27TH B'DAY ROB! POPS

Thank you, Pops.  However, I was born in 1985.  This is actually my 26th birthday.  The only father figure I've regularly had throughout my life is apparently a little bad at math, or just doesn't know when I was born.

Other moment, though not birthday related, was during my pre-employment drug screen.
Tech: Sir, you understand this is a urine sample, right?
Me: Yes.
Tech: Are you prepared to donate right now?
Me: Always.

If you've read my blog from the beginning, you'll understand that I likely have some sort of bladder problem, since I pee constantly throughout the day.  My answer was truthful, but it made an already tense situation more awkward.  He just gave me a funny look as if he didn't quite catch what I said but didn't want to ask me to repeat it.  It's like I force these interesting moments in my life now.

Always prepared to pee,
~RoB

Post #10: Finished I-5 Checklist & Last of the Potty Stories

There were 3 things that I had urges to do after driving I-5 from L.A. to S.F. and back so many times:
1) Eat at Andersen's Pea Soup
2) Eat at Taste of India
3) Stop at the Vista Point and see why it's there.

Today, I checked off the last of those.  I stopped at the Vista Point on the way down.  Honestly, not so spectacular.  There's a little plaque there about the aqueduct, but, as I suspected, you can't see much more than you can see while driving.  I think there's one more on the northbound side.  Maybe I'll try it, too, on the way back.  If you've ever driven I-5, you would understand the interest in both Andersen's and the sketch Indian place.  Both were nothing special.  Andersen's kinda sucked; it smelled like a Port-a-Potty.

I received a great comment in my email today referring to the post "Continue to Fall Apart".  I have to share it:

the worst thing about shitting your pants is you never ever get over it.  for the rest of your life you don't trust a single fart or a relaxation of the sphincter.  it's like... oh damn did i just...? no.. ok, that one was safe, phew.  Post Pantsshitting Stress disorder, i think it should be named.

Hopefully, the following can be the last two disgusting stories for a while.  Maybe it helps that they will involve a dog.  First of all, Angel (our dog) took a poop yesterday and commenced to act really weird and bite at his butt.  When I lifted up  his butt fur and looked back there, he had grassy poop hanging out.  I had to use the plastic bag that I would be cleaning the poop up with to pull it out of his ass.  If this were a regular occurrence, I'd probably give him to the humane society.

A related story.  Annie's birthday is just a few days before Christmas.  Her sister just graduated college, so it turned out that only her father, her, and I were together for her actual birthday.  I tried to make her a layered funfetti cake with glass pie plates (all I could find), and it turned out a mess.  Skip forward a few weeks, and I decided to make fancy funfetti cupcakes with cute frosting and candles.  I arranged them all cutesy on our little dining room table.  It was technically for her roommate's birthday, but it was going to be my way of making up for the shitty birthday cake.  While out for her roommate's birthday dinner (sushi!), Angel hopped up on the table and ate everything!  Every single cupcake, all the wrappers, all the frosting, and all the candles.  When we got home, he was laying on the floor moaning.  He was the fattest I've ever seen him.  We commenced to making him throw up (hydrogen peroxide ingestion) until there were huge piles of cake batter all over our lawn.  It was the best smelling puke I'll ever clean up!

Starting to get phone calls about tutoring jobs in the bay.  I'll return those tomorrow.  Also posted a craigslist ad with a bunch of stuff I'd like to get rid of before returning to the Bay this weekend.  If you're interested:
http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/gms/2171654611.html
http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/gms/2171665261.html
http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/gms/2171674167.html
http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/gms/2171679026.html

I managed to make it all the way to L.A. without peeing in a bottle, so let's hope that the potty stories are over for a while.

No promises,
~RoB

Pee & Ugly People

I've apparently started a bad habit.  I promise to stop once I bring this last load up from L.A. Sunday night.  The worst part was Annie got off in about 15 minutes.  She apparently doesn't check her text messages while driving.  Geez, people.  We have this technology to use!  By the way, Bay Area traffic is almost as frustrating as L.A. traffic.  I also memorized that some kid was abducted in a Silver Toyota Corolla license plate 6BHW445; it was all over the freeway during my ridiculous amount of driving today.

Back to pee, whenever I do it in my car, I feel so redneck.  It reminds me when I drove to Chicago with a friend in high school, borrowing my grandpa's truck.  We found a jug of pee in the door.  Upon returning, he explained that when he's driving to work and throwing back a few brewskies (yes, simultaneously), he prefers to pee in a jug as opposed to stopping to pee somewhere.  Awesome.  No big surprise for a guy who has a big detergent tub in our garage for peeing into.  I'm so white trash!  Guess this gets put into the same category as peeing in the shower: weird urinating habits.  Maybe I do have some sort of problem...

On another note, I forgot how funny looking the people were in the bay area.  You get so spoiled in L.A.  Everyone is so hot!  I mean, at least people in the bay are skinny (skinny, not in good shape) unlike the herds of buffalo you find in the Midwest.  They're just funny looking.  I know that I'm plain ugly, and that I'm certainly not sporting a six-pack, but it is us ugly people that end up being the shallowest, since we learn quite young how much physical attractiveness factors into the ease of daily life.

Applied to 8 more jobs today, totaling 31 so far.  Heard back from 3 tutoring places, but I haven't made any commitments.  I'm driving to L.A. tomorrow, so I have some time off from the job search.  We have tickets to the U.S. soccer match, and I'm dying to go to Scarpetta before leaving L.A. permanently.  I'm considering flying back to MI to visit granny (and my cuz) who are both in the hospital now.  I think that's it for my life today.

Funny looking,
~RoB

I'm a Hot Mess

"Those are Gorgeous," says the older, smokey-voiced lady who was walking laps at the rest stop on I-5.  She was referring to my pajama pants.  From afar, they are white with pink and red hearts, with black splotches.  They almost look like I stole my girlfriends pants.  Up close, you realize that the black shapes are silhouettes of naked ladies.  When people comment on them, I always wonder rather or not they actually notice that they are talking about my naked lady pjs.

Today, I woke up on the floor of my living room at 7:45am.  I gave myself just enough time to take a poop before the roach killers showed up to poison my apartment.  I drove the first carload of stuff from L.A. to Oaktown.  I had no clue how scatterbrained the anxiety of having no job or income was going to make me.  I locked my keys in my car the second I stepped out at McDonald's for breakfast.  I was at the In-n-Out stop just north of the Grapevine.  At least I was in a big city... oh wait no.  AAA sent someone nonetheless.

Happy to be done with that, I texted Annie (the gf) 'OTRA' (on the road again) as I was merging back on the freeway.  15 minutes later I was looking on the side of the freeway and realized that I had actually merged onto the wrong freeway.  Going well so far.  I found my way back to the always wonderful I-5.

Just to add a little spice to an already ridiculous drive, I decided that a closed rest stop wouldn't discourage me.  I pee more than a 90-yr-old lady (Annie's convinced I have something wrong with me).  'When you gotta go...'.  I peed in a water bottle while I was driving.  It went rather well.  It be nice to have a ridiculously large penis in those cases, but mine worked well enough.  Heck, it was so fun that I missed the next stop and did the same thing into another bottle.  It turns out that I pee between 9 and 12 oz per each time I pee.  That normal?  Oh well, the things that I-5 teaches you about yourself.

Happy Saturday,
~RoB