I Like Bobbies, But Not Today

Note: This blog was written on Sunday, June 1, 2008.

Sleep... It is one precious little thing that I can't seem to get enough of. Generally, it is the holy grail to which I seek on a daily basis. And when weekends come, I seek refuge from the tiredness of the workweek and steal some sought-after Z's by sleeping in. Like the shitty economy we're in, I try to gain ground on this whole sleep deficit on the weekends by sleeping in as much as possible.

But on this Sunday morning, I got woken up at freaking 0730 in the morning! No, it wasn't because I had forgotten to turn off the alarm clock. And no, it wasn't because I had a nightmare. And definitely no, I didn't have a hung over woman wake up next to me and hurriedly get dressed to bail out. What woke me up from my deep slumber were loud motorcycles revving up their engines. And cars honking. And lots of women cheering and hooting.

Repeatedly.

I looked out the window, and saw a bunch of women wearing pink walking by my building on the sidewalk. Thinking it would end soon, I tried to go back to sleep. But more motorcycles and more honking and more hollering continued. It was so loud that I simply couldn't go back to sleep.

I decided to get online, and guess what? Apparently the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer was happening. Great! I typically support events like this, especially when it is for a great cause, for because I love boobies too. I don't want anybody being forced into cutting such mammary wonders off to save their lives. So yeah, I support such causes.

But dammit! Not today! The damn booby walk woke me up. And it made me cranky. So for 2008, I'll claim to enjoy boobies for 364 days, with June 1st as the exception for the year...

Damn boobies...

A Letter to the High and Mighty

"Seriously?"

"Yes, Seriously!"


Let's take a moment and go further back in time. I woke up later than usual this morning, and I had to go to the gym before going to work. As usual for situations like this, I would browse through my BlackBerry on Nokia to see what's on the docket for the day, and ensure that I have the flexibility to work out and shower. If not, I'd just shower and go straight to work. But this morning, I was all clear.

Throughout my workout, I constantly kept an eye out at my BlackBerry on Nokia, checking it routinely to ensure no new meetings pop up for the day. Everything was fine, so I went to the locker room and showered. As soon as I got out of the shower, as luck would have it, my cell phone and pager rang off the hook! Apparently, the vendor had set up a conference call, and I was a critical person for the call, and the vendor forgot to add me into the invitee list. Great...

As I stood in front of my locker buck naked, another fellow gym user came in from his workout. His locker happened to be next to mine. I paid him little attention, other than to get out of his way so as to provide more room for him, and started dialing into the conference call on my cellular phone's speakerphone.

As the call progressed, I continued to dry myself and put my clothes on. And finally, when I was doing my hair, the last thing of my getting ready for work, the aforementioned guy (henceforth to be called The High and Mighty) returned from the shower and started getting dressed next to me. Throughout the entire time, The High and Mighty kept on giving me the eye, and like a spoiled rotten girl throwing a temper tantrum, did things loudly while using his locker.

When The High and Mighty got dressed and prepared to leave, he slammed his locker as hard as he could, then finally opened his lips to say condescendingly, "Seriously? Speakerphone in a locker room?"

I knew it wasn't the best etiquette I've displayed, but considering the situation, I had no choice. So I responded, "Seriously, yeah. When you get paged for an emergency, I'm sorry. What else should I do?"

The High and Mighty shot back, all the while walking away from me, "You could've gone downstairs."

Just then, I had to unmute the call and respond to some of the discussions, so The High and Mighty left the locker room. But I was nearly done with my routine, so I hurriedly responded to the discussion, muted the call, and then put on my coat jacket. I tried to catch up with The High and Mighty, who was about 15 yards ahead of me, but he had his iPod on. He would look back at me once in a while, but not want to continue the discussion. And judging from the way he was dressed and the heavy backpack filled with leather bound books that he carried, I assumed that he was probably a law student at Northwestern University.

When he stepped out of the gym, The High and Mighty turned east. Alas, my work is westward. So in the interest of getting to work in a timely manner, I gave up on him. Hence this letter to The High and Mighty now.

Dear High and Mighty,

My many apologies for my social faux pas at the locker room. I want you to understand that I normally and typically would frown on people who carry on a phone conversation (or conference call) in the middle of a locker room as well. I knew it wasn't right, and my sincerest apologies.

But mothereffer, what bothered me was the fact that you saw me buck naked, and you heard and saw my phone and pager going off, to which I was frantically trying to respond to. Please don't flatter yourself into thinking that I like to show off my personal package instead of prioritizing putting on my underwear first.

When you returned from your shower, you saw me half naked, but you also clearly saw my badge that clearly stated that I work for a hospital. You of all people know that a majority of the patrons at this gym are employees of this hospital: doctors, nurses and technical staff like myself. It is not like their badges (and pagers) are always hidden from view when entering or leaving the gym. Northwestern University law students come in at a distant second when it comes to patron demographics. You knew that. It was in your gym discount orientation package. In fact, the entire make up of the patrons at our gym are affiliated with either the hospital or your school!

Here's the thing. You have every right to feel offended that I was on a conference call on speakerphone, but seriously, do you have to behave like a little pussy ass girl with a temper tantrum? I gave an honest response, asking what I should've done if I got paged into an emergency. Your response was ill thought out, and without any forethought. How can you expect me to just "go downstairs" when you clearly saw me get paged while I was buck naked and all wet? Your response was so f*cking dumb that I wonder how much your precious daddy had to donate to the school for you to get in.

I know the odds of getting paged in an emergency just as I have stepped out of the shower are pretty slim in the future. But I do know that the odds of this happening to someone in a professional walk of life are higher. So I hope that you will write a project plan on how to deal with this situation when you, The High and Mighty, have become a professional yourself (assuming you graduate some day) and encounter the very same dilemma as I had today. If you can make a better decision and act better than I have given the situation, please do share this with the world. Obviously, just "going downstairs" buck naked cannot be considered a good action plan, because it would involve having the risk of getting arrested for indecent public exposure.

So seriously, I am very interested in how The High and Mighty can act better in this situation.

Sincerely,

John.

PS: I am also sorry that your penis is smaller than mine.

PPS: I hope that when you get old and fat (should you develop some kind of a health problem) that you'll suffer a massive coronary heart attack while your doctor (or the ER doctor) is buck naked in his gym shower, and that he will take his sweet ass time to get dressed and "go downstairs" to respond to his/her nurse's emergency page regarding your health because he/she believed that proper etiquette trumps emergencies.

Grumpier Old Sore Man

Alternate Title: Hidden Nail, Crouching Toe

Alternate Alternate Title: This Ain't No Seattle Grace

Nothing beats fate taking another quick, hard swing at a downed guy. It's almost as if fate is taunting me while I roll on the ground crutching onto my sack of balls in pain before kicking me yet again in the nuts. Yeah, I love this feeling...

As if having to adjust to the new Southwest flight that departs on Sundays at 20:00 after Southwest Airlines discontinued the 15:50 direct flight wasn't enough, I had to accidentally leave my Shure noise-blocking earphones at home, thus making the four and a half hour plane ride for a miserable hell. Well, at least I spent part of the flight writing my previous blog.

And to sweeten the wholesome experience, I ended up visiting the Emergency Room on Monday instead of going to work.

Yippie yay. Give me a cheer...

As I rose out of bed in all of my naked morning glory, I hit the Snooze button for the final time and stumbled around the room. As usual when I stay at the Downtown Seattle Hilton every week, I'd look out the peephole of my door, hold my breath and listen hard for signs of any other hotel guests walking by my room. After all, the last thing I want to do is to accidentally flash some poor fellow patron with a good view of my other moustache.

When I thought things were in the clear, I cracked open the door a good foot apart, took a step forward, and bent down to get my fresh, crisp copy of the USA Today paper while my banana and plums hung out there as if they were ripen to pluck off the bushes. But yesterday, when I took that fateful first step after revealing my naked self to the hallway, I felt a sharp pain. I let out a brief OUCH! before hurriedly grabbing the newspaper and closing the door shut.

What the fuck was that?

I must've stepped on an exposed nail of a carpet tack strip! I bent down and felt the carpet with the palms of my hand, and felt nothing in the area of an inch from the edge of the door edge. Thinking it was just nothing and that I had an overly sensitive feet bottom that morning, I proceeded to the bathroom while I take my leisurely dump while reading my fresh newspaper.

Interesting... The United States is in a rock and hard place with Pervez Musharraf's recent abandonment of the Pakistani Constitution. What will Dubya do?

After I had read a couple more articles and wiped my ass in satisfaction, I prepared to get up from my porcelain throne before I suddenly noticed something in the bathroom rug. A red dot.

What the...?

I moved my right foot away and there was yet another red dot on the rug! Before long, a huge, giant light bulb came on in my head! I flipped my right foot over, and I found my big toe with broken skin and blood oozing out of the little hole.

Great! My suckiness apparently will be continuing into the new day...

While I was still naked (after I had wiped my ass and flushed the toilet), I began to do the whole CSI thing and investigate what had happened. Surely enough, I found a nail sticking out about a quarter of a centimeter from the carpet! Holy moly!!!

Instinctively, my recessive Asian genes became dominant suddenly and I decided to start taking pictures of whatever evidence I could gather. If it wasn't for Erin and her experience this past year with a hotel where it disclaimed any responsibility for the injury she had gotten during her stay, I would not have thought about being a savvy crime scene investigator. I needed all the ammo I could gather to force the hotel into:
A) paying for all my medical bill without making a claim against my health insurance,
B) comp'ing one night of my hotel stay if the whole ordeal was going to take the entire day, thus missing a day of work (which did happen), and
C) providing me with Hilton Hhonors points to compensate for my inconvenience.

As if luck would have it, fate picked the perfect day for me to get injured by my hotel room. All the managers were not available, as there was a board meeting which required all managers to attend. I asked to speak with the secretary of the General Manager, hoping that she could interrupt the meeting to inform some manager that one of their valued guests was injured and needed medical attention. Pronto. But no luck.

Grrr...

I tried to remember from my high school biology class about tetanus, and I knew I had to get a shot of some kind, and that there was a period of time I would be okay before getting lockjaw. In my mind, I thought it was 12 hours, so I told her that I would wait till the meeting concludes. The last thing I want to do is take the General Manager's business card to the hospital and inform the triage person that my bill will be covered by the hotel, and that the business card would be used as, uhm, collateral. Yeah right!

Soon enough, Joe, a controller in accounting decided to take matters into his own hands. He gave me $20 for the cab fare to and from the Swedish Medical Hospital, and gave me his business card so that the triage person could call him directly and obtain the necessary financial and insurance information from the hotel. So off I went.

Of course, after waiting almost an hour in the lobby, I finally got admitted. I couldn't believe it took an hour on a slow day. I'd hate to see how long it will take for me to even tell someone my name, address and date of birth during a busy night! And of course, after getting admitted, I waited and waited for almost another hour before being escorted to a room in the Emergency Department. And the kicker? I waited yet another hour in my room before a nurse even came to check my vitals before an attending could see me.

By the time all was said and done, it was almost 16:00 by the time I returned to my hotel. It was simply wishful thinking that it might be a quick ordeal and still allow me to go to work. So basically, I lugged around my laptop bag in the cab, then the hospital, for nothing! And I returned to my hotel room with a sore arm, because the doctor said that since it was a nail that I stepped on and the last time I had a tetanus shot was eight years ago, it was probably best to give me another shot.

Lucky for me, tetanus shots are one of the most painful vaccines. No, not painful as in when the needle gets inserted into your muscle, but the lingering effects for days afterwards. And I have never been afraid of needles anyway, as I was one of those odd kids who enjoys watching the needle go in.

When I got back, I talked to Joe and reiterated my list of demands. I should have added this to the list:
D) Buy me lunch.
After all, I had spent all day in the freaking hospital without food.

Well, it is now Tuesday, and I can say for sure that the CDC wasn't kidding in their pamphlet when they indicated that tetanus shots were one of the most painful vaccinations. My left are is sore and painful, as if I had been tackled high and hard on the field.

Now, I'm just a grumpy old sore man.

Below are pictures and (yes, I wrote and) videos!!! Enjoy!!!

Mobile Update: Are You Kidding Me?

It is 18:43 central, on October 18, somewhere over Illinois 20 minutes before we are to land at Midway. Needless to say, I'm on my way home from Seattle.

Guess what? A dude fainted and collapsed into the first row in front of me! And he is very disoriented. Without any surprise, the flight attendants rushed to the forward gallery, and the following announcement was made: Is there a medical personnel onboard?

I really feel sorry for the guy, as the flight attendants props his feet up and a doctor assists him, but c'mon! THREE return trips from Seattle with medical emergencies? I must be cursed or something!

Over six years of nearly weekly travels have I ever been on and I have never seen a single medical emergency in-flight! And suddenly I witness three in a row? Is that like a hint fate is telling me that I need to stop flying?

Well, luckily I took a quick video of it before I realized that my N95 phone camera freaking lit up with a bright red light and before any flight attendants noticed me. I'll upload this blog from my mobile phone blogger once I land and upload the video later when I get home.

Update 2007.10.18 21:48: Here is the video...

Mobile Update: Is There a Doctor Onboard?

Seriously. What is up with the 06:35 flight (WN-1397) from Seattle to Chicago on Fridays? Two weeks ago, on the exact same flight, we had to stop in Lincoln, NE because a passenger had a medical emergency in-flight. Well, I'm having a bad case of deja-vu, as I heard an announcement overhead inquiring if there was a doctor onboard, just like in the movies. As I type this draft blog on my N95 midair, I can feel the plane drop in altitude, and a slight change in direction in an otherwise non-eventful direct flight that should keep us in a constant cruising altitude for the majority of the 4 hours and 30 minutes airborne time.



I honestly hope whoever the ill-stricken passenger is not in any immediate danger and can survive long enough to see miles of corn that leads up to the Lincoln, Nebraska airport. It'd be nice to revisit, but I wouldn't be opposed to stopping somewhere else for a 'change in scenery.' I'll be sure to update you once I land and connect to AT&T.



Oh, I should also add that unlike the flight two weeks ago today, today's flight is filled with doctors! I remembere talking to a couple doctors at my hotel in Seattle over the week because there was a medical convention!



I wonder if the commotion a few rows behind me is playing out like a scene in Grey's Anatomy where a bunch of doctors and residents argue over possible diagnosises. :)

Checking My Sanity

I just updated my status on my Facebook, letting my friends know that I am excited and a little bit nervous because it was nine hours and 59 minutes till the gun goes off for the 30th Anniversary Chicago Marathon. To celebrate this, I decided to run it. My very first home marathon. And technically, my first marathon ever, considering I didn’t train for the 2006 Arizona Rock ‘n Roll Marathon which resulted in injury at mile 17.

To my credit, I did finish the marathon in Arizona, but instead of the 4:30 goal, I ended up with a 6:00 finish time. Well, this time I have been diligent as well as sacrificed myself in the quest of completing the marathon with a goal. After months of training and going to bed early every Friday (almost), I hope to reap the fruit from the seeds I sowed. Uhm, I didn’t mean I’ve been wanking it every Saturday morning for the last several months. It was a metaphor. Uhm, forget it.

Well, this is a short entry to let you know that tomorrow, I’ll be asking myself constantly for the entire length of 26.2 miles this million dollar question: “What was I thinking for signing up to run 26.2 miles? Why did I pay $100 to run 26.2 miles when I’ll end up exactly where I started after the fact? I should have looked into whether my I B M insurance will pay for sanity checkups.”

Stay tuned! =)

Mobile Update: Corns Galore!

It's a little past 12:30, and I just landed in Lincoln, Nebraska. I was supposed to land at Midway at 13:00, but instead had to take a break because we had a medical emergency about half hour into the Seattle-Chicago flight. We got four medics onboard, and we're not allowed to get out of our seats to pee or what not.



This is my first experience with something like this. And the first time I've ever flown over acres and acres of corn for more than 10 minutes before landing! Weird!

Swamp Ass

Since it is the start of the fall season premieres, I spent some time watching television. [More on the fall season in a later blog.] I wasn't too excited about the Titans/Saints game on Monday Night Football, especially after watching the first half at Gold's Gym while running my six miles on the treadmill. C'mon! The Saints were embarrassing!

Anyway, the show I really wanted to watch was The Big Bang Theory, or at least the only one I could catch after getting dinner. I made it a point to avoid the television while How I Met Your Mother was showing, because I got back to the hotel 15 minutes after the show had started. Besides, I have that scheduled on my DVR.

Just wanting to kill some time, I decided to watch Two and a Half Men. I have seen a few episodes in the past, but although it was kind of funny at times, it never captured my desire, thus never earning a spot in my precious DVR space. But tonight's season premiere episode was really clever and funny. Not to mention corny at times, but that is how it is with most situation comedies.

Somewhere in the middle, there was a reference to "swamp ass." Of course, being the foreigner-turned-citizen that I am, I had no idea what the hell the joke was all about. I quickly looked up my trusty Urban Dictionary, and oh my goodness! My precious virgin eyes and mind!!!

It didn't take much for me to realize what it meant, and despite being utterly disgusted, I was immediately put to rolling on the floor laughing out loud (a.k.a. rotf lol) when I read the third entry in the definition of swamp ass:
A common condition in which the ass crack and crotch becomes overly moist, sweaty, and stinky from one or all of the following:
- sweating on a hot day
- not bathing enough
- long day of work, sports, play
- incomplete wipe due to rush or laziness
The crack will often feel squishy, wet, unpleasant, and itchy. It is recommended to take a bath with soap to sanitize the condition.

Man, what was really funny to me was the last reason: "incomplete wipe due to rush or laziness! Holy smokes!!!

As a person who is germaphobe, I have never been rushed nor lazy in my ass wiping activity. If anything, I am quite guilty for killing trees when wiping after taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. I just cannot imagine anybody would feel like they are rushed to avoid completely cleaning him/herself up!

Unimaginable!!!

Thank goodness that I rarely had any swamp ass... And I'd like to keep it that way.

Uh, Is This Good or Bad?!?

I have finally spent the time to unbox my space-age Tanita BC-534 Body Composition Monitor. It's nothing more than a weight scale with extra monitors and indicators. [Side note: Did you know that despite the fact that these things are always called weight scales, they truly are mass scales? I think the general populace are more comfortable with asking, "What is my weight?" than "What is my mass?" I believe improperly educated people just associate mass with being fat, hence the mistake of using the word weight. End of side note.]

After reading up two different handouts included with the product, I have finally set the proper settings for me.

Age of 29? Set.
Gender of male? Set.
Athletic level of 2? Set.
Height of 5'11.5"? Set.

Another quick look at the instruction manual showed me how to start using it. Press this button, wait for this and that to blink, make sure you step on the scale like so, and wait a few seconds. Finally, I see this: ERROR. Damn!

A second glance at the instruction manual through the Warning and Notes sections revealed several prerequisites that must be met before using the product. Holy shit, this is more complicated than turning a woman on in bed!

Finally, after about a half hour tinkering with this futuristic device that could potentially foretell your future and fate, I am finally given the following information:

Mass: 172.6 lbs
Body fat percentage: 16.9%
Total body water percentage: 56.7%
Bone mass: 7.2 lbs
Daily calorie intake: 3389
Metabolic age: 24

Uh, okay... Considering that I bought the lowest model in the Tanita line-up of products, this is all quite a lot of information to digest. So is this all good or bad? One thing is for certain though... My bone mass is below the norm for someone my age, gender and mass. Shit! I may have osteoporosis!

But as for the rest of the information? Maybe I'll Google them tomorrow. Either that, or I'll just go back to Bed, Bath & Beyond and exchange it for a regular $20 scale instead. =)

Germaphobe And Prairie Dogs

Being a runner is no easy task. Running is not exactly an easy sport, unless you run for just a couple blocks. For me, when my weekly mileage can easy hit 30 miles or more, running becomes somewhat difficult. Unless, of course, you're a crazy marathoner who during non-training cycles simply enjoy running over 50 miles a week.

One may venture to think that running is a piece of cake; just lace up your trainers and go. But it's not all that simple. A smart runner will have to warm-up first, stretch properly before a run, run the grueling miles, be cognizant to remain hydrated, cool down, and stretch one last time. And on top of that, avoid bumps on the path or getting run over by unruly cyclists and automobiles. Sounds pretty hard, right?

And if you're like Danny Tanner* or me, then you will have at least one factor simply making a typical run harder.

You see, yours truly is a germaphobe. As a germaphobe, I do a lot of things differently. Whenever I need to wipe off the sweat from my face, especially around the eyes, nose or mouth, I get wary, because I know that I had touched the soles of my shoes during stretching. I can just imagine what other interesting things my soles have touched along the path. Remnants of dog poo is the least of my worries, especially when I have a very active and imaginative mind.

To this day, I have never, ever taken a dump in one of those porta-pots. The only way I have ever used one of them plastic porta-pots is when I have to pee. For some odd reason, fecal matter simply gives me the shivers. [Side note: This is why I am behooved to wonder why the practice of scat in the bedroom is even pleasurable at all.] And with almost 30 years of my life passed, I don't intend on ever dropping the kids off at the porta-pot pool in the next 30 years. Or the 30 years after that. The only exception, of course, is if the porta-pot was just delivered freshly cleaned, and I am graced as the first person to soil it. Then yes, I wouldn't mind one bit.

Sometimes, no matter how much preparation you have ensured to take, it is quite possible that shit just happens. Literally. It is my common practice that before each and every run lasting more than five miles, I will spend a lot of time on the porcelain throne to empty myself, all in the hopes of never having to sit in the porta-pots. And I've always sympathized with the girls, because big or small, or number one or two, they have to sit when using the porta-pot.

It's a vicious cycle, you see, because some girl afflicted with the same phobia as me will hover and pee all over the seat, causing the next girl to feel compelled to do the same, and before long, some girl needing to take a dump will be forced to hover and carpet bomb the entire seat. Now, I'm not saying girls are to blame here, but it is quite possible that boys may accidentally pee on the seat instead of using the wall urinal to the side, thus causing a very similar snowball effect.

Because of this very disturbing fact, I will at all cost not use the porta-pot for taking a dump. I have vowed since adopting my OCD complex at a young age that my smooth-skinned butt will never touch such nastiness. And to hell if I have to hover, because unlike girls, I have two little boys hanging out there, and the last thing I want to do is to soil my boys.

Unfortunately for me, no matter how much preparation I had spent before my past Monday 10 mile run, my large colon began complaining at mile 7.4. I knew there were at least several porta-pots around the 2.4 mile Green Lake loop, but I was so stubborn that I thought I could tough it out.

I thought things were going well, until of course my final mile. Instead of expending all my energy in maintaining a 10:30 minute mile pace, I was struggling to keep my shit in. Instead of motivating myself in the mind, One more mile; just one more mile, I was suddenly forced into motivating myself differently: Only another half hour before returning to the hotel; just another half hour! Surprisingly, I ran a faster pace during that final mile despite the fact that I was getting sore.

Maybe I should look into carrying several packets of alcohol swabs whenever I go run in public, because as an adamant germaphobe, there is absolutely nothing worse in the world than prairie dogging it while running.

* Tell me why I named Danny Tanner along with me, and I'll give you a nickel. =)

Will No Longer Be Careful...

For the most part, about 99.99% of the time, I have always practiced safe sex. I routinely get myself tested, just to make sure that I continue to stay clean and healthy. It is the fear of a sexually transmitted disease that drives me to be careful and not be the victim of some girl’s “oops, did I forget to mention that I have...” syndrome.

Well, today I think I may have a renewed fear that will actually drive me to be completely opposite of my longstanding way of life. From now on, I’ll make sure I won’t wear protection in the hope of contracting herpes. Why? Turns out herpes can kill cancer cells. And I’m more afraid of cancer than some stupid herpes!!! Lucky for Paris Hilton, she definitely will never get cancer! ;-)

Okay, I’m totally kidding. At least about purposely increasing my risk of contracting herpes. But news from the cancer research community brought some promising future in the fight against cancer. A German biotech company based in Munich, MediGene, reported on Saturday at the annual European Society for Medical Oncology meeting in Switzerland that a modified version of the herpes simplex virus will kill cancer cells (of colorectal and liver) while they grow on them, at the same time leaving healthy tissue alone. Colorectal cancer is the second leading cancer killer in the United States.

Obviously, this is good news!

Aliens!

Alternative Title: Why I'm glad I don't have a womb!

Please don't ask me why, but I woke up this morning and decided to watch some YouTube to kill some time. Then I came across some aliens...





This mother is getting her ass kicked; and she's in pain! Yuck! I think the baby is trying to say, "Don't f**k with me!"

The Most Legal Porn at Work?

Once in a while, I'll scan the headlines at Google News. And today, I saw something new that is interesting: It is quite possible the gene responsible for breast cancer may come from the paternal parent as well, not just maternal. Interesting.

But then, the report on this subject matter on eCanadaNow.com had a rather revealing graphic to go along with it. The image is more revealing than any US news outlet will allow. But since this is news, it cannot be censored at work right? So does this mean this is the most legal form of porn that we corporate American citizens will get to see without reprimand? You decide; click here for the article, or scroll down below for the image:

What da...?!?

As usual, I went downstairs to the atrium of my client building where I work to buy a big bottle of water for the day. I was sort of in a hurry, but in the little bit of time I had at the little store in the atrium, I managed to persuade myself into buying a box of Junior Mints as well.

All was well when I came up to the seventh floor. By now I had drank a few sips of water, as well as wolfed down the entire contents of the Junior Mints in record time. I was just going about my business at work, until a client came over to the desk where I sat. He wanted to ask about something, but inquired instead: “What is that?”

I looked at where he was pointing, and quickly exclaimed: “What da...?!?” Below is a picture of what we both were referring to.


At first I was hesitant to physically investigate it, for my mind was running wild about all the possible disgusting things the stocking boy at the store would do to the products in the middle of the night while refreshing the inventory. Finally I used my pencil to take a poke at it, which I then suspected that these bottled water probably came in a box, and the white stuff at the top was probably the excess glue used in sealing the boxes.

After my sudden relief from such a potentially horrible situation, it quickly turned funny. So I sent the picture over to my friend/coworker, to which he responded, “Is that lotion on the bottle?” After telling him of my suspicion, he added, “Seamen brand all natural glue?”

I suppose from now on I have to be more careful in what I pick out of the fridge before I pay for it, huh?

Go get some Midol™!

Friday... What a day! I was at work till 23:30. By choice? No freaking way! You can thank the Evil Project Manager for that! Let's see... EPM had scheduled a downtime of a server migration for April 27 at 18:00 Central. EPM notified me of this downtime on Wednesday April 25, which gave me just a two-day notice. At first I thought it was no big deal, as I wasn't particularly in the mood of doing whatever it was that I had planned that Friday evening. What was infuriating was that I later found out that the EPM had known of the April 27 downtime since April 19! Bastard!!!

But even with the EPM cramping my style, it did little to deter me from having an awesome weekend. After a brief nap upon returning home on Friday night, I woke up at 07:15 and ran eight miles with my friend who was training for a half marathon. At first I thought I would only run four miles of it, and then hop on a CTA bus, because I have not run in a long time. Before I knew it, the whole eight miles were completed. I even asked, "Was that it? I could go for more!"

On the way home, we stopped for some real breakfast at a real American diner, complete with a center counter and fixed stools. I whined like a little kid when they sat us at a regular booth, because where else can you experience a true diner a la Americana in its purest form? Obviously I don't count Johnny Rockets a true diner, because they are modern establishments dressed specifically for the old feel. No, no, no. The diner we went to had old style electric plugs under the counter, and regular coffee pot warmers attached to it. Hell, even the pepper shaker was so old and yellow that I thought it was mustard! Ah... That's the way I like it! {With a little dash of hope that I wouldn't get some gastrointestinal problems afterwards.}

I started out with a large glass of orange juice, with a scrambled egg with spinach sandwich, while my friend had two eggs, hash brown, and a hunky slice of ham. I was starving so much that I couldn't help but stare at her plate of food when I was done in just a couple minutes flat. So I ordered another breakfast. Yesireebob! I felt it was justified, seeing how I ran eight miles just within the hour. So I got myself a pancake special: two pancakes, chopped ham, and two eggs sunny side up. Yum yum yum!!!

After I got home, I relaxed for a little bit before another friend and his wife swung by and picked me up. Destination? DePaul Ray Meyer Sports Center. I know this sounds really crazy, but I had a basketball game to play, because about a month ago I joined a basketball league. As our game wasn't starting till 14:00, some of my teammates and I practiced and played two on two because most of us have not played basketball in a long time. After screwing around for an hour plus the first half of our actual competition, I went and got water and started to just putz around on the court during half time.

After shooting around from the top of the paint, I went in for an easy lay up. But as soon as I jumped up on my left foot, a sharp pain struck me out of nowhere. Before long, I found myself crashing to the floor and rolled over like a piece of log someone had just tossed up. I let out a loud scream and looked at my left leg. Holy molly! My left calf was huge and well-defined, just as you would find in a body builder while flexing his muscle. But the problem was that I wasn't flexing my calf muscle at all. I had a cramp! Really, really bad!

My teammates rushed over and asked what was wrong. In between my grimacing, I mustered out, "Cramp!" Then I asked my teammate who arrived on the scene first to push, thinking that calf cramp is a common basketball injury that he would know what to do. As I laid on my back wailing my arms around with phantom tears rolling down my cheeks, he bent my knee and lifted my left leg. "No, no! Push! Push my foot!" Then he straightened my leg, lifted it up, and started pushing my leg past 90 degrees! What the hell is he doing? He better not be trying to catch a glimpse of my underwear, that perv! By this time, my other teammates came and realized what to do. Hold my heel with one hand, and push my foot by the toes towards me to stretch out the calf muscle. Ah... The pain went down, but not by much.

Damn, it hurt so bad that I actually still felt some residual pain long after the cramp attack. Walking on my left leg was painful, as my left calf was still sore and tender. So I sat out of the game for the first sixteen minutes of the second half. We were up by almost fourteen points at the half, but by the time I got back into the game, the other team had cut down our lead by just four points! Talk about pressure. But in the end, we still won the game. By a single point! Of course, I'm not saying that my absence on the court made all the difference, but it does make you think, huh? ;-)

After I showered and started to towel dry myself in the bathtub, I noticed that both my ankles were somewhat puffy from all the running and jumping. Oh my God! I have pregnancy ankles!!! As if running eight miles and playing a basketball game weren't enough, I then went out to Sluggers and danced the night away after enjoying Cupid Has a Heart On. Miller Lites consumed? I think I lost count. Number of songs I danced to? Probably around thirty. Number of times I went down? Too many damn times for my legs' own good. Good thing alcohol was a good substitute for pain killers.

Unfortunately, getting home all buzzed at 03:25 in the morning was not exactly conducive to helping a friend move at 09:20. I did try to wake up though. But both my entire legs and my back hurt! Holly molly! So naturally, back to bed I went, before waking up again at 11:45. Then my other friend called, asking if I was still up to enjoying the beautiful Sunday out playing a pickup football game with his friends. Sure, why not? That was a decision that I would later come to regret. Instead of just taking it easy and having a relaxing game, I went all out and hustled up and down the field. After a couple hours of self torture, I finally did it.

After I caught the ball and shook lose my defender, I ran a good eleven yards towards the right side of the field to avoid another defender. Somehow my mind still believed that I was still young and fit like as when I was in high school, so the competitive side of me decided to plant my right foot down, spin a 360 and cut left to shake off the second defender. Of course, my sore body failed to oblige. Instead of spinning around, my tired and sore right leg just flopped, and while my body was trying to spin, the entire momentum continued going to the right of the field, which my body ended up tumbling to the ground like a freshly chopped tree. Along the way, with the aid of my full 188.5 pounds of lard and stupidity, I ended up spraining my right ankle.

GREAT!!!

Then I continued playing the rest of the day as a quarterback. One who could not throw with any accuracy more than twenty-five yards out. That sucks! And being injured was just like rubbing salt in my wound.

So now, it is Monday. I can barely walk or sit. My right shoulder hurts. I have pain in parts of my lower ass that I never thought muscles existed. My whole back aches. Both my legs are burning, and I still have that residual pain in my left calf. Not to mention a very painful sprained right ankle. And I also noticed that my second toe is bruised from all the running. If the weather wasn't so damn nice this past weekend, I would never have overextended myself! Maybe someone can provide me with Midol™ to take care of both the cramp and all the aches and pain I'm experiencing now. =)

Worse Than a Girl?

Some days ago, Erin quipped, "God, you're worse than a girl!" Normally I would have laughed it off, but this is serious. This is no longer laughing matter. That was her reaction when I caressed my belly like a four month long pregnant woman would with her own bulging belly. Okay, maybe not caressing, but rubbing it like one of those fat Buddha statues you see in Chinese temples. Except I wasn't sporting a million dollar grin on my face.

You see, I usually don't care so much about my weight. But last summer, I got a new job, and I was working very hard to do a good job that I left little room for running and other exercises. In fact, I didn't do as many races as I had hoped for. Worse yet, Thanksgiving and Christmas did little to help my sad situation.

Then eight days ago, a friend and I made the executive decision to turn this around. That Sunday, the two of us would do our final binging on delicious food, and start the Monday afresh. Eight days later, I am just now deciding to get on the wagon.

Don't get me wrong... I had every intention of getting on the wagon a week ago. But this is how kicking into the healthy bit turned out for me. It lasted all of a meal. I had a salad at the cafeteria at work for lunch. Then as the evening loomed closer, another friend and I conspired to get all-you-can-eat sushi buffet. So the three of us went, and let's see... I myself had three appetizers, tons of rolls and sushi pieces, followed by two desserts and half of hers, only because her boyfriend couldn't finish it. The check to the left is a living testament to my loathsome gluttony. Yes, I have fallen off the wagon before I could get my second feet on board! Sadly, I myself ate more than 50 percent of the items on this check. =(

Tuesday was going to be my new beginning. After having a bowl of Cheerio's, I had a renewed sense of purpose with renewed motivation. That lasted all of three hours, sad to report. The client team went to Chevy's Mexican restaurant, and I dumbly went along, despite having brought a lone, tiny sandwich from home. Oh, I'll just eat that for lunch tomorrow instead, I thought. Having not been to Chevy's in a very long time, I was overwhelmed with their new menu with practically nothing unchanged. Lunch special? Well, you decide how horrible I was by looking at that picture to the right.

Then I woke up Wednesday with a new sense of urgency. Stop screwing around; this is for real! And better yet, I was going to do a 3.14 mile fun run with friends after work at Momentum that evening. I felt especially awesome when I ate my tiny sandwich with a cup of fruits and yogurt for lunch. Yeah, the healthy me will start emerging today! Little did I know, I ended up eating eight (!!!) slices of pizza and a huge apple pie that night after the struggling 3.14 mile run. As if the gods weren't punishing me enough, I was hurting all over my knees from the short, brisk run. Apparently my legs are not used to the weight I have let myself go to!

I would have to say that Thursday was arguably a decent day. I had another tiny sandwich for lunch, and also another cup of fruits and yogurt from the cafeteria. I remember thinking that it was a going to be a promising day. Until I got home and sat my ass down to watch Grey's Anatomy. Somehow, I managed to eat three tiny sandwiches which I had prepared for lunch throughout the week some days prior. Crap! It was hopeless. At least it was just some sandwiches, right? I'll just pretend I never spread mayonnaise over them. Out of mind, out of tummy, right?

And just when I thought I couldn't sink any deeper, Friday was a real test of how low I could go. My health compadre and I conspired to have pizza together after work. I made damn sure that we involved our trusty field greens for companionship at dinner time, for as we all know it, you can certainly call it healthy eating if you include some vegetables. Never mind the fact that the salad dressing was somewhat high in delicious calories made with sesame oil. If it was any consolation, the pizza was vegetarian. Drenched in thick, juicy cheese.

But that didn't help us, or at least me, much. Before my friend left, I briefly got onto the weight scale in my bathroom, a device I have simply learned to ignore for almost a year now. I knew all along that the cheap Ikea crap was very generous and forgiving as it had always lied to me by about five pounds like any trusty and reliable girl friend any girl could ever have. But even that wouldn't save my soul from the damnation I had to suffer all week, in that I could not fit into any of my dress slacks, save one with the stretchable waist band from Perry Ellis.

180 pounds?!? Holy shit! In the back of my mind, I knew I really was 185 pounds. That was not comforting at all. It was quite depressing. In less than a year, I have managed to pack on almost 30 pounds. I should not have lied to myself each day while I stood naked in front of the mirror just before jumping into the shower. Oh, the lies I told myself, like I didn't have moobs (man-boobs) and that I was sporting the best single pack (as opposed to a six pack) anyone has ever seen. Reality set in. "This is the wake up call I needed," I remember thinking to myself.

Of course, I hit the snooze button just like I would when I wake up in the morning. Except that this snooze would last through the next day, Saturday. I met up with a few friends for dinner. Invariably, it was sushi. The thought of all that fish and green tea ice cream almost made me gag. For all of a millisecond, of course. I easily brushed aside the 185 pounds of mass that I am carrying, easily forgot how tight my jeans felt that night. I remember telling myself, "This is truly your last hooray, John. Enjoy tonight, and we'll reconvene on Monday."

Well, it is Monday now, a full week after my last attempt at the health kick. So far, I've done well: Cereal and banana for breakfast; home tossed salad and self-cut watermelon and cantaloupes for lunch; and a tiny sandwich with grapes, watermelons and cantaloupes for dinner. Hmm... This looks promising. I can totally see the sporty ol' me in a few months! Sadly, I know it is a little too late to make any major progress by this Sunday when I run the Shamrock Shuffle, but by golly, I'm going to try my darndest! Of course, I'll be wearing some thick overlays to hide the overflowing bulges here and there.

Now, if only I can ignore that voice telling me to eat that leftover pizza as my tummy growls before I go to sleep... Sigh

So Much For...

I rolled into the office with a renewed sense of purpose. Today's the day, I thought to myself, considering what happened last night. I unpacked my bag and turned on my laptop. Given that my client here in Los Angeles has a full cafeteria, I walked over and got two small boxes of shredded wheat cereal, skim milk, a banana and orange juice. I came back and ate my breakfast, feeling all proud of myself.

When I was done, I went to put my trash in the trash bin. Lo and behold, the corner of the office, where a bunch of us IBMers share the room, sported something new, something that wasn't there yesterday when I left work. In addition to the usual cans of soda and a variety of sweets, there are now two boxes of Girl Scout Cookies! Ooo, my favorites: Tagalong and Do-si-dos!

Well, my sense of renewed purpose just went down the toilet as I continued to chomp on the cookies in my mouth. At 09:20 in the morning!

Damn temptation!

Time to Slow Down

I have been in a denial for a little over a year now. I have been denying a simple little fact, blaming it on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I give up; it's time to face the music.

After changing into my running outfit in my hotel room, I stepped off the elevator on the second floor. Knowing that there wasn't much time till I had to meet up with my manager for dinner, I thought it best to put in as much running as possible. After all, it was going to be at one of those all you can eat Brazilian steakhouses. With time not on my side, I guessed at best I would squeeze in three miles. Oh well.

I swiped my hotel key at the door to the fitness center, and walked in where I was greeted with mirrors everywhere. My jaws dropped. The person staring back at me is not the same person I've seen many times before. Instead of a nice fit from my medium-sized Run Hit Wonder jersey, the person in the reflection was sporting a rather big and pudgy belly. The "roll" or "spare tire" was not only noticeable, but defining.

That's when I realized that perhaps I have to face the music that my metabolism has slowed down now. It has been of no use when I eat as little as possible, except for huge dinners. I even went so far as eating cereal for dinner some days of the week. No luck. My choices? Kick it up a notch when I'm running every other night from the usual five miles to eight miles. Or I could just eat significantly less in quantity as well as restrict certain kinds of food.

But here's the problem. I love to eat. Culinary arts and the celebration of such is a very integral part of my life. I would rather kill myself if I have to eat salad every night. And with life demanding so much of my time, there is no way I can run eight miles on a routine basis, unless I start running at eight minute-mile pace steady. Since I'm not an elite runner, I don't think my knees can handle that, or my heart for that matter with the asthma I have.

What's a 30 year old boy to do? Okay, I'm technically not 30, but I might as well be.

Oh well. I'll sleep over this little dilemma, while I try to digest the five pounds of meat I just consumed a few hours ago. Mmm... Skirt steak. Filet mignon. Brazilian steak. Pork ribs. Lamb. Brazilian sausages. Chicken. Beef ribs. Tri-steak. Or maybe I should totally give up trying and just let go. I think a 300 pound Asian dude would look mighty fine and attractive. ;-)

Restroom is not exactly a rest room...

BL: MA

READER DISCRETION ADVISED

This blog has been rated MA for mature audience.

So I work at this client site in Schaumburg, right? Well, they have several buildings, all of which are somewhat energy efficient. In other words, you'll hardly find any manual switches. Every lighting switch is timed to go off based on motion detection, restrooms included.

Anyway, I work at a building with twenty-something odd floors. At this particular tower, the fifth floor is entirely dedicated to the data center on raised flooring which services IT computing infrastructure for operations in Europe and North America. Because the data center is in a secured zone, and only two operators work within it, the restrooms on that floor are seldom used. How do I know that? For one, all the data center employees are female, and two, almost every time I walk into the restroom, the motion detector would trigger the lights to come on, suggesting no one has used it in a while.

If I don't work and sit in the data center but on the seventh floor, one may beg the question, "Why do you even use the restroom on the fifth floor?" Good question, I might concede. Well... Uhm...

Let's just put it this way. The restrooms on each floor have only two urinals and two toilets each. That configuration is obviously for the men's side of course, as I have no idea what the configuration is for women's. (Or maybe I do know, but I'm pretending not to...) With so little facilities in the men's restroom, it can sometimes be crowded considering that each floor seats about 150 employees. {How do I know that figure? It helps to be friendly and in good terms with one of the two floor administrators.} In other words, there are times, many times in fact, when the restroom is extremely nasty and filthy. I swear, most, if not all, men are just pigs. Sometimes I wish they were just as anal as I am when it comes to cleanliness and germ phobia.

And because of the sheer number of people working per floor, I sometimes have to wait for people; or worse yet, be waited on. It is especially horrible when I'm dropping the kids off at the pool, as that delicate (and intimate) process is definitely something I hate to be rushed on, you know? And with feet tapping impatiently on the other side of the super thin partitions/walls with cracks that you can see through, said kids being dropped off at the pool may, you know, at times have stage fright, thus prolonging the unnecessary long process.

So for reasons I have mentioned above, I enjoy going down to the fifth floor to use the restroom. I don't have to wait on anybody; nobody has to wait for me; and best of all, it is much cleaner. Not to mention the lack of a certain constant funky smell. And I know that nobody has used it in a while, because every time I go in there, the lights are off and my entrance would trigger the switch to turn on the lights. That feeling is akin to reading a fresh, crisp newspaper which you know nobody else have unfolded its pages. Ahh... My private restroom sanctuary...

But my private restroom sanctuary is there for me to escape the crowds and yuckiness. Apparently, just the other day, I discovered that this same restroom is also a private sanctuary for another person, but for totally different reasons. I walked in, and as expected, the lights were off. But as soon as the lights were turned on by the motion detector, lo and behold an employee got up hurriedly from the floor, apparently having a leisurely afternoon nap!

Whoa!!! I know the fifth floor restroom is clean, but not that clean! I just stood there, jaw dropped, while he groggilymade a dash for the door. Was I supposed to laugh? Was I supposed to stare? Was I supposed to avoid eye contact AND not laugh?

I wanted to tell him that he should somehow obtain a key to "mothers' rooms" scattered throughout the building. At least those rooms are cleaner, almost soundproof, and lockable so as to not disturb his sweet lullaby. The downside of this, aside from the fact of needing to convince human resources to supply him with a key, is that he will be there along with, uhm, specialty pumps.

I Need to Sweat More

I have been lucky enough in my life in the sense that I don't ever wear antiperspirant deodorant. It is not because I'm a cheap bastard who can't afford a can or tube of the bad odor fighting chemicals. For one, cans of anything contain aerosol, which is an environmental irritant. Secondly, those deodorant sticks either leave some mark on your clothing, or contain extra chemicals if it is claimed to stay on clear. Finally, all antiperspirant products contain aluminum-based compounds. If I remember the element chart correctly from my high school physics class, aluminum is a metal. No thanks for me!

Don't get me wrong. I have used antiperspirants in the past. Just not here in America, but only when I lived in Indonesia. Indonesia is a tropical country, and temperatures there tend to get really warm year round. Because I'm a tropical boy, I have gotten used to the heat that when I moved to the United States, I don't sweat as much anymore. To me, the temperatures are typically too cold. Yes, I like my place a toasty 75 degrees. I will never crank my air conditioner to temperatures colder than 75 degrees even in the summer time! The only time I sweat a lot is when I am running or playing some sort of a physical sport.

Why am I talking about sweat? Well, I think I may have found the root cause, or at the very least, a major contributing factor as to why I'm not successful at dating. Never mind the fact that I sign on to Match.com maybe once a month, and on average email about three people every two months through that online dating site. {Yeah, I pretty much kissed my six month Match.com guarantee goodbye after my first month.}

Anyway, back to the point. I think the reason why I'm not attracting women (actually, just women who I dig) is because I don't perspire enough. Even without wearing antiperspirant products, I don't give off a musky scent {or odor, whichever you prefer} that supposedly attracts women and causes them to be sexually aroused. Hey, I'm not making this up! Apparently researchers at the University of California Berkeley discovered that women who took a whiff of male sweat experienced improved mood and higher sexual arousal!

That's it! Screw the whole showering and putting on cologne thing before a date. From now on, I'll just run a mile on the treadmill immediately prior to picking up my date. Whoever the lucky girl is will be all over me before we get to dessert! =)