Monday, February 22, 2010

Curry fresh.

I was on my computer in my room when I suddenly realized I could smell Indian food. I couldn’t figure where it was coming from. I hadn’t brought any leftovers to eat at my desk. I had just emptied out my trash the day before, so it couldn’t be coming from the garbage. After some sniffing around, I finally found where it was coming from.

My right armpit.

I was horrified. How could I have gotten such horrible B.O. without even realizing it? Did I forget to swipe my right pit with deodorant that morning? Was my choice in antiperspirant not as powerful as it should be? Was I simply an incredibly smelly person and was finally realizing my true funk?

Then after closer inspection, I found a thick brown streak on the underside of my upper sleeve.

I had somehow gotten some of the samosa I ate earlier in the day smeared in my own armpit.

Turns out it wasn’t an issue of terrible hygiene, just terrible eating skills.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Raw fish is the gift for lovers.

I was shopping by myself this Valentines Day, as single people often do, when I came across this huge sushi roll at my local grocery store made special just for the holiday. It made me feel really sad for the guy who would end up getting it for his girl thinking she might enjoy it more than the standard heart-shaped box of chocolates. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the concept of heart-shaped sushi. It’s a cute idea. But it kind of loses it’s appeal when it’s so large you have to pick it up like a sandwich to eat it. And what was most depressing was the label listing the expiration date as February 15, the day after Valentines Day. Maybe every Valentines Day gift should come with that sticker.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Giving the finger.

Today I became a man. I finally fulfilled that right of passage that changes a guy from a young-adult into an actual adult.

Today I had my first prostate exam.

If there’s any way to strip away a man’s final shred of youth, that’s it.

I was pretty sure that prostate exams were something men started getting in their mid-thirties. Being 28, I thought nothing of it last month when my doctor scheduled me for my physical. That was until he said, “Be prepared. When I do your examination, I’ll be examining everything.”

Unfortunately, I don’t really know how you prepare for that kind of exam. Perhaps there are some special stretches, but I was a little wary to look it up online. That’s not exactly something I’d like to see pop up with a Google image result.

I arrived at my appointment this morning hoping to get it over with as soon as possible. The doctor’s assistant let me into a private examination room, but the doc was still busy with another patient. I waited playing Tetris on my iPhone to pass the time. I had to switch to Solitaire after realizing the unfortunate similarity between my upcoming predicament and trying to fit a four-long piece down a skinny one-column opening.

A half hour later, the doctor finally walked in and started asking me some medical questions. If I had any allergies. What was my family medical history. Was I on any medication. The standard stuff. Pretty much what I expected. He finished filling out his forms and had me sit down on the paper-covered examination table.

He put his stethoscope to my chest. As I breathed in deeply, he asked, “So, are you seeing anyone right now?”

Not quite the medical questions he was asking earlier. It seemed he was trying to make some smalltalk. I guess if barbers do it while cutting your hair, doctors can do it while examining your body.

“No,” I replied as I exhaled. “Not currently seeing anyone.”

He moved the stethoscope down to my abdomen. “How long has it been since you’ve been in a relationship?”

I continued my deep breathing. “It’s been awhile.”

“Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?” he asked as he shifted to my right side.

I was starting to feel a bit awkward. Who knew “examining everything” included a relationship probe?

“She broke up with me,” I answered.

“Don’t worry, you’re a catch,” the doctor said as he moved behind me and put his stethoscope on my back. “You just have to make yourself more appealing to the ladies.”

Things had suddenly shifted from hair stylist small-talk to what a mother says to her son when she’s worried he’s going to die alone.

He pressed his hands around my back and abdomen.

“You’re kind of a casual guy. But you dress too casually. You need to wear clothes that are more stylish.”

He started feeling under my neck.

“Your hair is too short. You need a more sophisticated hairstyle. That’s what girls like.”

He poked at my armpits.

“Don’t go running after the girls. That makes you look desperate. You have to let them chase you.”

All I could do was smile awkwardly and reply with an occasional, “Yeah,” to his out-of-place love life advice.

He had me stand up and pull my pants and underwear down.

“You’re a nice guy, maybe too nice.”

He clutched each of my testicles and examined them.

“The young ladies are more into the bad boys.”

He had me lean over.

“You have to be more confident. Then the women will want you.”

And he stuck his finger in my ass.

I’m sure he was just trying to get me to relax with what he considered harmless conversation, but even my mom doesn’t give me that bad of a relationship barrage. Instead of easing the discomfort, it ended up compounding the pain tenfold.

That finger might as well have been a fist.

When the examination was over and I was getting ready to leave, the doctor said to me, “If you just listen to what I say, I bet you’ll have found that special someone by the time you come back.”

That is of course, if I go back.

I wonder if there are any mute doctors out there.

Monday, January 4, 2010

My neck isn’t stylish.

I’d had my eye on a scarf at Target for quite some time. Whenever I’d walk by the mens’ section during one of my many visits to the store, I’d see it hanging from its hook in the accessories section - striped in silver and white with those little dangly things at the end.

I would have gotten it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of those thick winter scarves. It was what I would call, for lacking of a better term, a fashion scarf. A thin piece of fabric you wear around your neck for no real purpose other than to look good - like a modern, trendy version of the necktie.

Too bad I’m not fashionable or gay enough to pull it off.

So I didn’t buy it. I’d never be brave enough to wear it, and it would have just ended up a waste of $14.99. On its hook it remained.

Then one day, the scarf wasn’t on its hook anymore. I figured someone had finally purchased it. I was slightly disappointed, but mostly glad the temptation to buy it was gone.

But I was wrong. It wasn’t sold. It had been moved to the clearance rack. 30% off. Only $10.49. And do I ever love deals.

I had to remind myself that the scarf just wasn’t me, and that even though it was on clearance, I had better things to spend $10.49 on.

A week later they had marked it down to $7.49. Half off.

But still I held strong. I would never be able to pull off the scarf and $7.49 was worth saving.

Then they marked it down to $3.49.

I said “fuck it” and tossed it in my shopping basket.

I picked up a few other items while I was at the store. Some candy. A bottle of soap. A couple of action figures. When I was done shopping, I brought them to checkout and tossed it all on the conveyor belt. The cashier ringed them up and finally came to the scarf. She swiped it over the scanner, looked up at me and said, “I can print out a gift receipt for this scarf if you need one.”

Not even the cashier thought it could be something I’d ever wear. The toys, those she thought someone like me would buy for himself. But the scarf, no way.

I replied, “Um, yeah, a gift receipt would be fine,” took my bags and embarrassedly walked out of the store.

So does anyone out there want a silver and white striped scarf?

Monday, November 23, 2009

That wasn’t on my wishlist.

It was my birthday on Friday, and I received a very unexpected gift. I got off the train after work and was surprised to find it right on my car.

A dent on the passenger side door. Just what I always wanted.

And whomever decided to leave me such a gracious birthday present didn’t even leave a note saying who it was from. It really is a shame they preferred to give their gift anonymously. Now I can’t thank them in proper fashion.

Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t think my fist would have fit in a thank-you note.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Apologies to the west coast.

Each morning I set my iPod to shuffle and put it in the dock in my bathroom to keep myself entertained while I shower. This morning while scrubbing down, my iPod spit out three California songs in a row. I thought it was a pretty weird coincidence.

I began to wonder if it was a sign. Was the universe trying to tell me to move across the country and settle down on the west coast? Is that where I belong? Does my destiny lie in California?

Then I got out of the shower and realized that my iPod was just playing songs in alphabetical order and was currently in the C’s.

A part of still thought it might have been a sign, though, and not just my inability to properly hit the shuffle button.

Then California Songs by Local H came on and quickly put an end to that notion.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Life and deaf.

I woke up last week and couldn’t hear out of my left ear. It wasn’t totally deaf. It was more like trying to listen to the world with the the left side of your head submerged in two feet of water. It was bearable, but pretty inconvenient.  I toughed it out, hoping it would go away. Just like most of my hopes, it didn’t come true.

After a few days, I couldn’t take the half-hearing anymore and went to see a doctor. My bet was on an infection. Maybe a tumor. Possibly that one thing where you have a parasitic twin growing inside of you and didn’t even know it. But alas, it was nothing so dramatic. It was simply an excessive build up of ear wax. And I actually had it in both ears.

He went after the less-clogged right ear first. In went his tweezers and out came the huge mass of wax. It was a half-inch long. I didn’t even know there was that much room in my ear deeper than the reach of my pinkie. When he moved on to my left ear, he couldn’t even tweeze it out.  He had to spend 30 minutes washing it out with a syringe and hot water. After a half-hour of enjoying a high-pressure stream against my ear drum, he managed to flush it clean. By the end, the wash basin had bits and chunks of ear debris floating in it and reminded me of a finished bowl of oatmeal filled with water and left in the sink to soak.

I guess I probably shouldn’t have waited 27 years to get my ears cleaned.

Now hearing is a totally different experience. I’ve grown so used to having half an inch of crap between me and the world that now nothing sounds the same. Everything is crisper. Fuller. Louder. It’s like I’ve suddenly gained the super-hearing of Superman.

Unfortunately, the invulnerability of Superman didn’t come with it. When everything is five times louder, it fucking hurts.

Air ducts sound like vacuum cleaners. Water faucets sound like fire hoses. That girl who sits behind me at work and laughs all the time sounds like a flock of ducks in a jet engine.

It makes me wish I had earplugs.

Too bad I had my all-natural ones removed.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Love is a two-way street.

We’ve been together for years. Since high school. It’s probably been a decade. I never thought I’d be in this relationship for so long. I should never have even been in this relationship for so long. Sure, we’ve had our good times, and I wouldn’t give those up for anything, but the past few years have been riddled with so many problems. So much struggling through issues, and as soon as it seems everything is fixed, the problems pop right back up again. Everything keeps deteriorating, and I know that if we stay together, we’re both going to end up crashing and burning.

I’ve had enough. I’ve moved on.

Goodbye, Silhouette. There’s a new car in my life.

2007 Volkswagen GTI with United Gray exterior, 2.0L L4 FI Turbo engine and six-speed automatic direct shift gearbox with Tiptronic® and Sport mode (whatever that means).

To say I’m happy is an understatement. The other day I pulled into a parking spot with one quick turn that would have taken a 3-point or even 5-point turn with the horrible turning radius on my old mini-van and was so turned on that i actually said “I love you” out loud.

If lips were one of the GTI’s many features, I would have made out with it on the spot.

But we’ve already had our share of problems. Two days after getting the car, I was driving to the comic shop for Free Comic Book Day when I hit a huge pothole and blew my front tire. And it turns out that new tires for GTIs are mighty pricey. Who would have thought that free comic books would end up costing me a couple of hundred dollars?

And a month later, I finally mounted the new license plates. I backed out the next morning and my dashboard indicator said my tire pressure was low. I checked my tire to find the bit I used to screw in my plates jutting out right between the treads.

Thank God they were able to patch it up for $15 instead of making me get a new tire and shell out a couple hundred dollars again.

But all in all, things are still going well. It hasn’t been the car’s fault at all. If I could have managed to steer better and pick up after myself, this would still be a perfect relationship.

The only thing that is lacking is a good name. Calling my car “GTI” seems a bit bland. I’ve had nicknames for all my previous cars. My old ‘83 Dodge Ram van was “The Tank” or “Rustbucket”. The Oldsmoble Silhouette was “The Shuttlecraft”.

So what do I call my GTI? Do I finally cave into the standard naming convention and give it a girls name? If I go that route, I was thinking on maybe a name that that uses G, T and I in it.

Unfortunately, all that comes to mind is “Gertie”.

And I have no intention of driving around in an 80-year-old woman.

Monday, February 23, 2009

I can be such a dick (and balls).

I was sipping a cup of tea while clicking around Facebook when I realized I hadn’t changed my status in quite some time. Something came to mind as I looked down at my mug. Well aware of the connotations, I typed up an update.

Andrew is tea bagging.

A couple of nights later I was on Facebook again when an instant message from one of my coworkers popped up from the bottom of my window.

Co-worker: Um.. you do know what your saying.. right?
Co-worker: Tea-bagging is the name of a sexual act.

I’m a guy. And I’ve been to high school. So, yes, I knew what I was saying. But I felt like playing along anyways.

Me: oh my!
Co-worker: Yeah.. uh
Me: i’m way too innocent to know that!!
Co-worker:Aw.. that is so insanely cute that I can’t stand it
Co-worker: I don’t mean that in a patronizing way
Co-worker: Seriously, you’re extremely good looking, and if you say you’re ‘tea-bagging” you’re going to get a lot of attention.. uh.. from guys.. taht you don’t want
Me: damn me and my inadvertant puns!
Co-worker: lol
Co-worker: yeah. tea-bagging is uh.. *blush* an oral sex thang in which uh.. the guy is uh.. *blush* standing over a girl and uh..
Me: okay, i better change it then

I went to the top of my profile and typed in a new status.

Andrew is cleveland steamering.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Stopping is essential.

$843. That’s how much it costs to keep my van from trying to kill me.

I was driving down 22nd and steered into the left turn lane to pull into Toys R’ Us. The arrow turned red, so pressed on the breaks.

And they broke.

The break pedal was to the floor, and I was still moving forwards. Into oncoming traffic. I whispered a “shit” as my still-functioning rear breaks screeched in an attempt to stop all 2 tons of my van. 50 feet later, I was a car-length into the intersection, and luckily not nose-deep in the rear of someone else’s vehicle.

Brought it in to the shop and got a bill for the aforementioned $843.

If I can recall correctly, I’ve had to get the breaks fixed three times and the coolant system four times. The suspension, breaks and windows have had to be fixed. And who could forget those three months in which the van kept turning off in the middle of the road for no reason at all. In the past year alone, I’ve paid over $2,000 on repairs to my van.

Kelly Blue Book lists my van’s value at $1,440.

Math says it’s time to get a new car.