Wal*Mart

Last Friday, I was driving a friend to the Oakland Airport in the morning.  I got off at Hegenberger (no clue, but I always pronounce it "HEY-zhen-burr-zhey" like it is some classy french word).  The friend that I was driving, who was in the back seat like Miss Daisy, pointed to the Wal*Mart in East Oakland and noted a marching band parading around in the parking lot.  There was a huge group of people congregating outside in front of the entrance.  It made me laugh, and I assured her that I would come back and check things out after I dropped her off.

And I did.  Turns out it was a Grand Re-Opening of this Wal*mart.  There were tons of great cartoon characters in real-life form.  A preacher was praying.  Some city council people were there talking about how Wal*Mart has done all these great things for East Oakland.  (East Oakland is the rough side of Oakland.)  And a marching band.  My life is so random and awesome.

Then, they cut the ribbon, and we all piled inside.  It was really awkward, since 75% of the people there were employees.  20% were official people in business formal.  4% were in costume.  And then there was me.  As the employees walked in, they lined both sides of the aisle, like cheerleaders greeting football players onto the field for homecoming.  I actually needed something from Walmart:  green makeup and brown tights for my Halloween costume, so I thought this would be a ridiculous atmosphere for doing some mundane shopping.

All throughout the store were these characters, and little booths that each one manned giving away freebies.  Dora the Explorer was cutting Grand Re-opening cake.  The Coca Cola polar bear was making root beer floats.  Cowboy Twinkie was continuing to add to the obesity of our children.  So on and so on...

It actually took me back a decade.  If you knew me in high school, you knew that I was a very dedicated Wal*Mart employee.  Back when Wal*Mart actually had a star in between 'Wal' and 'Mart'.

I primarily pushed carts.  I also carried out big items.  And I emptied the full can return machines.  I actually loved it.  It still remains one of my top jobs ever.  It kept me in good shape, I got great sun, and I got to enjoy the continuous circus that is Wal*Mart employees and clientele.  We had a Grand Re-opening when I worked at the Monroe Wal*Mart on Telegraph in Michigan.  (It's since moved across the street and turned into a Supercenter.  So jealous.)  The Grand Re-opening was planned for a day that you probably remember:

September 11th, 2001.

No joke.  We worked for weeks to prepare.  Everyone was staffed almost like it was Black Friday.  Carts were allowed (for the first time ever) to take over some close parking spots as a holding spot for the mad rush of craziness that we were expecting.  And nobody came.

You saw footage of long lines at gas stations where people were freaking and getting gouged.  But, apparently, nobody was that worried about stocking up for impending doom.  Just gas?  Really?  A few people came, but at no point was there more than 1% customers and 99% employees in our huge, sparkling store.  At one point, I think I fell asleep on top of a row of carts out in the parking lot.  It had been a rough day.  They even sent me home early to 'spend time with my family'.

So, aside from NYC, and the twin towers, and terrorism, and one of my best high school friend's 16th birthday, September 11th will always be the Grand Re-opening of the Monroe Walmart.  I'll take that with me forever, too.  Thanks, East Oakland Wal*Mart Grand Re-opening, for reminding me of that.

Once, just once, I had to clean up poop in a bathroom.  It was everywhere.  It was like explosive peas.  It was not awesome,
~RoB

Spiders

Last week, the How to Do Everything podcast (the one Annie was featured on back in the day alongside Lisa Lampanelli) announced a spider statistic that has been haunting me:  you're never more than 1 meter from a spider.  Or something like that.  1 meter is not very much.  It kind of freaks me out.

Spiders and I have a relationship based on their location in relationship to me:

In a corner or on the ceiling far away from me?  We're cool.
Within hands reach?  Dead.
On me?  Super dead.
Within Annie's peripheral vision?  Probably dead, depending if I'm home or not.

I'm just not a huge fan.  They're either hairy or look spiny.  They have saliva.  They move funny, and they bite.  Some can even kill you, or just cause your tissue to decay.  No biggie.  What scarred me initially?  Arachnophobia, the movie.  I've posted about it before, not sure if it was here or not, probably Facebook.  I've heard I should watch it again to see how ridiculous it is.  I can't bring myself to it, though.  Seriously, seriously psychologically scarred.

I still, more often than not, check around the toilet before I sit down for a little poo time.  Similarly if I'm about to stick my hand inside a lamp shade.

When Google Imaging 'spiders', add the word 'cartoon'.  Trust me.

Now, I'm going to tell you a story about how a spider wrecked my computer room, and almost killed me earlier this week.  I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business.  And by business, I probably mean porn, but maybe not.  I think I had something to do in a few minutes.  I think I have some sort of amnesia.

Anyway, out of nowhere, a very large spider comes out from behind my monitor and starts going straight up in midair on some magic floating device.  Yes, I know they have webs.  Calm down.  Due to the size, the fact that it freaked me out, and it was at hands reach just seconds ago, he fell into the dead category.  I went off to go find a flip flop.

(Side note:  my mom told Annie and I a story about how she killed this giant, hairy spider with a thong.  The mental image was crazy funny.  Her with a G-string, snapping it at this ferocious, hairy beast with pincers.  Turns out that my mom still calls flip flops thongs.)

I walked back into the room with an old flip flop.  By this time, the spider was near the ceiling, over my computer.  The step stool is all the way in the kitchen.  The dining chairs are closer, but still all the way in another room.  So I rolled my computer chair over.  I stood on it, and it didn't feel particularly stable as I was reaching for the spider.  Being the engineer that I am, I got off, shoved it against my computer desk for stability, and climbed back on.  I'm a dancer dammit, I can control my weight on a rolling chair just fine.  Whack!

My first swing was close, but not a direct hit.  The spider started to freak and drop and move its legs around.  I didn't have much time, so I took another swing at him.  Which led to the chair rolling out from under me and smashing against the wall behind me.  I fell down onto the computer desk, bounced off and belly flopped on the hardwood floors.  But not before shoving my hand under my falling (super expensive, HD) monitor.

I laid there, sore, and unsure rather my crushed hand actually saved my monitor or not.  (It did.)  The top of my computer desk was all fucked up, and all I could think was:  the spider's probably still alive and crawling on me somewhere.  I found it alive 2 days later under the top of my computer desk.  I don't think I've ever hit a spider that hard.  There's still a leg sitting there for other spiders to see.

Fucking spiders,
~RoB

Backpacking

It was really cold, and it was flowing much faster than this picture is showing.

Annie did a great job detailing my first experience backpacking.  We went all out for my first time, and I feel very accomplished afterward.  Sweet, darling, innocent Annie was nice enough to leave out some of the details more appropriate for my blog than hers:

We delayed our trip by a day because I didn't feel spectacular.  I was in full-on allergy mode, and my domestic partner's mother decided to poison me with a concoction of over the counter medication.  I've learned not to take dosing advice from her, even though she's half my weight.  She's a professional.

Bugs are damn annoying.  I was covered in 100% Deet which smells lethal.  Almost flammable.  Yet, there were no fires, so I couldn't roast 'mallows like I'd always imagined camping entailed.  I want s'mores if I'm walking my ass that far without a shower.

How's that for a view?

We had a wine platypus.  Yeah, most people hike with these little plastic, flimsy bottles filled with water.  We are not most people.  We poured a petite sirah into one of them before leaving.  This is a level of classiness not seen before in camping.  (Except it was designed specifically for wine, so I imagine it is a top seller in yuppie sporting goods stores.)

I didn't poop for over 24 hours.  This is/was a big deal.  You're asked to pack out any toilet paper you use.  You have no clue how much toilet paper I use to wipe my ass.  I'm not clean down there until you would blow your nose in the tissue after wiping.  You also have to dig a hole for your poop.  Nope, not worth it.

I experienced what it was like to skinny dip while being sober, in the full light of day.  Skinny dipping is way more awkward than I remember it being in the past, but those incidents were always clouded by the alcohol fairy (or at least the extreme blackness of night).

This was the view from my water seat above.

I got a little whiny in the morning.  Big surprise:  a fat guy on a thin mat resting on the ground didn't find himself very comfortable.  I also got really hot.  So, sleeping didn't go as well as planed.  ~RoB minus sleep becomes Dragon Rob!  Food helped a little, so did motion in the direction of the car.

You must separate yourself from your chapstick the entire time that it is dark out.  It is unacceptable.  I need my chapstick more than I need oxygen.  More than I need sex.  (If there was a better advertisement for Chapstick, I'd like to see it.)  Apparently bears like fruity smelling things, and it was the choice between luscious, soft, creamy lips or arm wrestling a grizzly.  My brain won the argument, but just barely.  I could probably take a bear if it had my last Cherry Chapstick.

Found a teddy bear saying "I <3 Chapstick". This was next to it.  WTF?

Apparently, I purchased a fancy, new, inflatable camping mat from Annie's dad's store (30% family discount!), and we're going out for 2 days in Pt. Reyes at the end of this month.  I'll either be really good at this soon, or I'll be craigslisting a fancy, new, inflatable camping mat from Annie's dad's store.  We all know I'm meant more for a fancy hotel downtown than a rustic campsite anyway.

Happy Camping,
~RoB

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

Examine Your Zipper

Move over MacGyver.  Or, is MacGruber a more appropriate reference for my generation?  Anyway...

In my few days of epic manliness, I decided to fix something that has been bothering me for months.  Let me start by saying that I've never been a big fan of jeans.  (I have to emphasize that I mean jean pants, cuz I've always had a soft spot for jean shorts.  Screw you.)  Anyway, Annie convinced me to buy two ridiculously cheap pairs of nice jeans at Old Navy on Black Friday.  (Soon to be called Rebecca Black Friday?)  They were $15, and it was getting cold, and I had been considering buying some nicer/trendier jeans.  I now wear them almost every day.  They work for every occasion.  I trade off between the two pairs for every day at work.  One problem though.

The zippers suck!  They never stay up.  I'm regularly seen zipping up my pants during all kinds of awkward moments.  Here's where my magical fix-it powers (available this week only) come into play.

Though my female roommates never seem to be able to find them, I feel like I live in an endless sea of bobby-pins and hair-ties.  This was a perfect chance to steal one of them and do some good for the world.  (I don't think I'm overestimating the whole-wordly appeal of my fly not being unzipped all day.  I had to give up my lent avoidance of underwear because of it.)  Anyway, here was my fix:

I had to chew a paper clip into the right shape to fasten a tool to pull the hair-tie through.

It works perfectly.  There's just one frustrating thing, which I've never realized before.  Zipping your pants before buttoning them is surprisingly difficult.  I never thought of doing it 'backward' and it made me wonder how many people actually fasten their pants that way.  (I had a friend in college that admitted to always wiping his butt 'backward' [top to bottom] and it blew my mind.)  Anyway, this wonderful mechanism has to be fastened to the button before the button is shoved in the hole to finish the pants-fastening.  That'll do, pig.

You can tell how fast (and how unfiltered) a post is written based on the number of parentheticals,
~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

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

Continue to Fall Apart

First of all, I'm wearing my sexy boxers.  It's not even a special occasion.

I've spent the last hour trying to get Annie started on a blog.  She's jealous of the overnight popularity of mine.  We spent the whole time trying to come up with a name for hers, which led to me damn near falling asleep before getting to write this for you.  (Name was never decided and she's already given up.)

Yesterday, after assembling a MULLIG from IKEA to put in Annie's room for some of my stuff, we packed and drove up to Tahoe.  Along the way, Annie got off at the wrong exit for In-n-Out.  She furiously defended that a Subway had taken the spot of a previous In-n-Out, before getting off at the next exit to find the In-n-Out she had originally been in search of.  If a guy does that, he's a neanderthal that doesn't ask for directions.  A girl does it and it's a simple mistake.  "They have the same curved brick things at the turnaround!"

As of today, I've applied to 15 jobs on Craigslist.  No return emails.  I'm not ready to move to monster.com or anything for serious jobs yet.  They continue to be wine or tutoring related.  Random real jobs and food things have been thrown in, too.  Annie's dad asked me what my plan was at Happy Hour this evening.  I've got nothing... "Mooch off your daughter?"

Those of you following might think I've temporarily lost my mind.  Sometimes I wonder the same thing.  The first few days of this new journey certainly haven't made me more sane.  Today, my body decided to follow my brain off a cliff.  Annie took off to downhill ski all day, and left me home alone.  I had a pounding headache and decided to shovel the driveway to get some much needed physical activity.  When I was hungry enough I came back inside and made myself some fried turkey sandwiches.  I was in my room deciding between a shower and returning to my shoveling duties when it happened.

I shit my pants.  Not a lot; just a dribble.  Nonetheless, I shit my pants.  There's debate rather or not the turkey was bad, or I may have been super dehydrated, but the end result doesn't change the fact that, though I just wanted to relieve a little pressure in my crampy stomach, I shit my pants.  Seriously.  Annie, you check the washer for my wet shorts (I immediately washed them in the sink).

You can only laugh if you've never, ever in your life had it happen to you.
~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