Never forget

I was washing my hands today in the men's restroom at work and noticed something amusing. No, it doesn't have anything to do with the awkward guy who will go descriptionless (awkward doesn't give you any hints among an office populated by engineers!) who neglected to wash his hans after a visit to the urinal. (Actually happened, by the way.) I noticed something startling about the soap.

Aside form the container being transparent, which lets us see that it is pink, which is only amusing because it kind of makes me feel like I am washing my hands with Pepto-Bismal (what do those words even mean? I'm both a sciencey and wordy guy, and I'm pretty sure I've never seen those roots anywhere else), it has directions on it. Directions. For soap. It would have been ok, had it read something along the lines of:

"Directions: Rinse hands, dispense soap, ha ha, are you really reading this! It's soap! You learn how to use soap before you learn how to read! Even the slow kid in your first grade class knew how to wash his hands!"

But it doesn't. It has real directions. It's absurd! Like on a Dasani water bottle where it says Ingredients: water. Thank you for that. It also has separate instructions for particularly soiled hands (you put the soap on before you rinse your hands in that case). I do like the use of "soiled" in place of dirty, it does add an air of classiness to the plastic, transparent container of industrial soap. The best part, thought, is towards the end when it says "for external use only," just in case someone really does think it's Pepto-Bismal.

Stunning realizations

This weekend, I opted to escape my apartment briefly to the mighty Atlanta. I saw mighty because it is bigger than Augusta, they have Fellini's pizza, and word on the street is that they want to steal our water. Those big cityfolk shan't have it! I don't really feel that loyal to Augusta just yet.

But it snowed this weekend. All of you northernfolk are probably saying, "So? It's January." January isn't supposed to work like that down here. It snows like once every two or three years. Guess how many times it snowed this week? If you said twice, give yourself a cookie, because that's how many times it did in the State of Georgia. I'm not particularly ok with that, and if I have to look for an engineering job in the Bahamas to get away from this weather, I guess that may just have to be the price I will pay. Then while watching all those football games where the temperature is smaller than the number of right thinking people in the Spears household, it makes me wonder how people live like that. I feel the same way about winter the same way I do when I look at pictures of mud huts in National Geographic. It's a shame, really.

The bloke in whose apartment I stayed, though, had a rather interesting feature in his bathroom that made me a little uncomfortable: a full length mirror. It's a little unsettling because as I was standing over the toilet, if I looked up BAM there I was. Right in my face. I don't think I'm necessarily a nervous goer (but then again, it's never really come up), but I don't like the idea of a person standing over me as I do. Even if it's me, especially considering the unnatural angle of me having to watch what that other me is doing. What exactly is the purpose of such a tall mirror? Is it for little people? I hope they appreciate it, because it is creeping me out.

There are luxuries we can't afford

I just got back from Christmas today. It was tiring. I feel like I need a vacation from my vacation. Every time I go home I feel like I gain 20 pounds because my mom is bad at portions and not making delicious food that is bad for you. So, I have to spend the next two weeks working out extra hard to get back to where I was two weeks ago. Isn't starting a new year grand?

One of the things I noticed once I got back is that I still haven't killed off the crappy cheap toilet paper that I brought with my from grad school. It is astonishing how much less of everything one person uses. Either that or I eat way too much cheese. But I didn't really notice, because I don't have good toilet paper to compare it to. (Actually, that's not true. I have some good tissue in the bathroom, but I want to use the crappy stuff first. It's a little like this concept.)

It makes a big difference, though, comfortwise. If you get nothing else from this blog, let it be this: spending a little extra on nice toilet paper is worth it. Saving a few pennies is appealing, but don't you remember how awful it was to blow your nose on those rough, brown paper towels they have in the bathrooms in high school? Yeah. I do have some questions about bidets, though, and how they fit into this scheme. I've never used one, but I've heard good things.

Shattering taboos, one pair at a time

I just got some new underwear this weekend, and I must say, I am completely pleased. I have been wearing underwear for a while now, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good at it. (Although, occasionally I do make mistakes. Once, more recently than I'd like to admit, I put my boxers on backwards. The urinal was completely off limits that day.) There are times that I'd like to mention things about underwear, but for whatever reason, underwear is pretty sexualized. I think that's a bit extreme. It'd be like saying that a guy who climbs Mount Everest once is a big time mountain climber. I've spent a lot of time with science, I want to see some repeatability, killer.

I would probably say that for the average person, underwear's day to day role is much less sexual than the media would lead us to believe. I'm pretty sure it's mostly so you keep sweat and stuff off your real clothes. And to let you have a chance to wear something that has dollar signs on it. (Sadly, I don't actually have money boxers. I wish I did.)

I might have underwear questions. And they might not be sexual in nature. Like, for example, what's the deal with the hybrid boxer-briefs? There is no way that they seem competitive with the full-on boxer shorts. Also, are the people who are wearing briefs later in life just afraid to try something new? How many people try boxers, but decide they hate freedom and go back? I want statistics on that. But this isn't polite conversation. Even though asking something like, "Do my cutoffs go with this blazer?" might be a little less controversial.

This is to say nothing about the feminine sorts of underwear. But they seem even more sexualized. Bras, for example. There are some girls who probably could get on without them, but they still insist on it. Is that because of social pressure? An excess of pride? A safeguard against turning into a human thermometer? You can't ask that question out loud.

And I think that's bunk. I would like to know what sorts of personal decisions go into electing between boy shorts and panties for girls. Is it similar to the issues weighed for boxers and briefs with guys? Or is it usually a sexualized decision? How often to girls top and bottom underwears match? That doesn't even come up with us! (Actually, I guess I only speak for those of us who are not transvestites.)

I think the biggest question is about the boxer-briefs. The more I think about it, it seems like the worst of both worlds. And is it really necessary to put those douchey looking underwear models on the cover of every underwear package? I know what it's supposed to look like.

Nobody better lay a finger on my...

Man, I miss Butterfingers. The candy bar, I mean, not athletes who do their jobs poorly. This probably sounds like a strange sentiment, when you are probably thinking, "Why, Engineer, what has happened to Butterfingers? Have they been discontinued?" No, they have not. I actually had one like a month and a half ago. But it was not the glorious bite of tastular explosion that I recall when I was a little lad.

It was one of those things that I loved in every way. I always ordered Butterfinger blizzards from Dairy Queen. At Halloween, I traded for them. I wanted Butterfinger flavored shampoo. The only downside to this delectable delight was that it filled in all the nooks and crannies of your teeth with fake peanut butter. I think it was supposed to be peanut butter? But when you were done, your teeth were all flat. It was remarkable, really.

They have a real problem with consistency, though. I guess it has to do with shelf-life; some of them are everything you hoped for in a candy bar, sometimes they taste like orange poo. The one I had a month ago did not measure up to the expectations of my memories. I use the term "memories" a little loosely, because it was probably only like two years before that since I had one. Anyway, in my mind, Butterfingers have fallen from grace. Much like Jennifer Garner (re: Ben Affleck). I will never order a Butterfinger blizzard again, as I have graduated on to real peanut butter. I wish it were an actual graduation, so I could eat my mortarboard.

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening

I am mostly writing right now to record the events I have seen this evening so that tomorrow when I read them I can be sure they actually happened. You see, tonight is a bit of a surreal time for me. I am in the laboratory running a computer program I wrote for a class on three computers because they take way too long (I think I wrote them poorly, but that's not the point. They work, and because they work, I am going to be done with grad school). I will likely be here for a few more hours, and I am starting to have those bleary visions when you've had your contacts in too long and it looks foggy indoors. Also, I have had a mug of tea and a bottle of Vault, which I think is bad news GI-tractwise. I think perhaps 20 oz. of that stuff is too much for mortal men to consume in one sitting.

Anyway, I've been sitting here a while, playing a lot of Zuma as I keep an eye on my computers. I am going to save that Aztec frog if it's the last thing I do as a Clemson student. I have also made a few trips to the restroom (tea and Vault will go through you) and I feel the need to mention one of my neuroses that I don't think has come up: when I enter a stall, I don't like to see or be seen by anyone. I don't really know why, but I feel the need to be undercover when I'm behind closed doors. It's like Clark Kent's glasses, except more convincing.

You might think that this goal would be easy to achieve at 12:30 at night on a college campus during the summer on a Wednesday (Thursday?). It was not. Foreign graduate students tend not to buy (split infinitive narrowly averted) internet access at their apartments, because it is expensive. So at this time of night, you can find a lot of folks who have eaten way more rice than you probably ever will. While I have been waiting, one of my lab mates got into a shouting match in Chinese (I only know two words in Chinese, and I didn't hear either of them) and while in the bathroom, my cover was blown. I'm less concerned now about the fact that my cover was blown, but more along the lines of how I was detected in the men's room.

As I exited to wash my hands, there stood a Chinese graduate student over the sink with his head bent down. I caught it with corner of my eye (failure number one) and figured he was just washing his hair or face. If you spend a lot of time in the lab, a quick whore's bath isn't such a bad idea. Especially with this heat, I could probably use one by now. When I exited to wash my hands, though, I saw in more detail (and he saw me -- failures two and three) and he wasn't doing either of those things. He was shaving his head with what looked like a Gillette Mach 3. I have never watched anyone shave their head before, so I didn't really think about the role that shaving cream would play. But this soon to be bald Asian man was covered in it.

If this were an actual dream, I would have no idea what it would mean. Perhaps a preoccupation with the Chinese, since there was a lot of yelling in Chinese (which, interestingly, due to the intonation system makes many sentences sound like they are not really over when they stop talking) and a Happy Gilmore dream sequence surreal image. Hopefully, this insanity won't continue for too long.

Ain't I a stinker? No.

I have been a little bit worried that my roommates would suspect that I was out there smelling badly. This is in part because I have been traveling a lot lately. I have visited such exotic locales in the past few weeks as Atlanta, GA; Greenwood, SC; Ormond Beach, FL; Augusta, GA; New Smyrna Beach, FL; and Aiken, SC. Atlanta was the first stop on this magical mystery tour, and I realized upon arrival that my deodorant opted not to make the trip. I think it might be tragically claustrophobic and afraid to spend time in my travel bag. I can only imagine the psychological horrors it feels once it is actually deployed.

I, of course, replaced the deodorant with a more adventurous one on the road. I wouldn't want to be an unwelcome guest in all of those places, and since I knew that once I got to my second destination (where the mosquitoes are) I would still have many more places to see I decided to get the Bear Grylls of deodorants, one completely unafraid of travel.

As I was touring the southeast, though, my other lonely deodorant was lying on my otherwise empty side of the bathroom sink. So, here in C-Town, my roommates (I can only presume) would look at my antiperspirant and say to themselves, "He must be pretty ripe by now." I feel I need to set the record straight: I wasn't. I immediately replaced it as soon as I discovered it missing.

This does raise a rather difficult question, though. Which one do I use now? Should I alternate days? Or underarms? Or maybe create a delightful cocktail of fresh sport and cool active to get the best of both worlds? Would they cancel each other out in that case? I think some experimentation might be in order.

All your lint are trapped by us

I was doing a lot of laundry today, because if I didn't my next wardrobe choice would have to involve pillow cases in some way. That eventuality has been sidestepped, so now I will not be looking like a street urchin at church in the morning. I did make a few observations, though, as I was handling wet clothes. One was that clothes function much better when they're not wet. The invention of the dryer must mark a critical point in human evolution. The impact of having warm socks is enough to put this on like the level of drinking glasses. (I mentioned evolution and church in the same paragraph!)

I need to ask, though, is there anything quite as satisfying as rebalancing a washing machine that is way out of whack? I submit that there is not. Returning a washing machine into proper levels of whack must have been the equivalent of slaying a dragon to the 1950s housewife. Or finding a $5 bill on the way to a Braves baseball game. It's the small victories that excited the 1950s housewife. At least, that's what I'm assuming based on stereotypes and old television programs.

The thing, though, that raised (NOT BEGGED) the most questions was the lint trap. Were there dryers way back when that didn't have lint traps? What happened to the clothes dried in such a dryer? Did everyone walk around covered in lint? What did that look like? I hope it looked like this.

In the pits

I ran out of deodorant this morning halfway through my application. Fortunately, like the Emperor, I had foreseen this. I bought some Right Guard or Gillette or something that was really cheap because it was being discontinued. I almost hope I don't like it because I won't be able to get more. It's the kind that has the little blue spheres in it; I think they're the kind that can stop Terrell Owens from coming over.

Because I ran out of my old stuff halfway through, my right underarm is rocking a different scent than the left. It's kind of weird -- asymmetrical deodorant leading to asymmetrical smells. The good news is they both smell fresh (I believe the new one is "Surf" scented -- whatever that means -- I always try to get ocean or water themed soaps and shampoos because I want to smell like home, but tragically, these things bear no resemblance to the way the ocean or surf smells. People not named Kramer take showers to get that smell off of them) so it's not like left good right bad.

Some people have more active sweat glands on one side of their body. Not me, though, when I sweat I barely stink at all. I'm immune to that, in the same way that I'm immune to the siren's call of American Idol. It's magical. But I wondered for the people who have one side more intense than another, do they vary their deodorant applications accordingly? Like five swipes instead of three? Or an entirely different, more powerful deodorant altogether? Am I just venturing into the lifestyle that these other, tragically misunderstood people live everyday? Oh, and does shaving your armpits really make you stink less? I wouldn't know, because regardless I don't stink anyway. The magic, remember.

I write about the bathroom oddly often

There is something about urinals to me that is inherently funny. Like zebras. It's basically a sink held up on its side into which I pee. It's so elegantly simple, but such an unusually shaped device and it carries a lot of baggage. Do you think it would be appropriate to strike up a conversation with someone you barely know about a urinal? (Exception: while drinking in a bar.) And why not? I don't know if I know you (but chances are, I probably d0), but I'm going to talk about urinals now.

This applies to regular toilets too, but why is it that we always seek out the cleanest one for use with urination? I can understand twosies or if you're a girl, but I realize that if there's a cigarette butt or some other contaminant in the bottom of the urinal and/or toilet, it's not getting anything out of me. I wish I could tell you why; it's not like pee is fragile, or a dirty urinal will return fire or something. I guess it's just that I subconsciously think I'm so awesome that even my toilets need to be clean for me to use them. Fortunately, I've never run into a situation where all of them were dirty. That could be uncomfortable.

There are also some urinals which are floor length, in addition to the sideways sinks. They're like the luxury ones, because they seem so decadent. There's no particular advantage from the user's point of view for having the urinal be that long, other than it's easier to avoid the splashback. I think the primary reason is that it becomes harder to miss the urinal. If you've ever worn flip-flops to the bathroom, though, you know how big an issue splashback can be if you're not careful. In fact, one of my engineer buddies and I once discussed a flow solution for urinals to make splashback (and, additionally, flushing) a thing of the past, but I think it would be kind of excessive.

I'll bet if you asked somebody what urinal pose they prefer, you'd get a surprisingly forthright answer. Some people go for the Leaner, where the body makes a right triangle with the wall and floor. There is also the Straddle, which all but eliminates inaccuracy but makes splashback disastrous. The counterpoint is the Marksman, where the user is about a foot away and aims for the cup part of the urinal -- splashback is never an issue but accuracy can be. This one works better with the floor length. For the particularly daring, you can do the Flying V, so named by the shape of one's legs during execution. Hang upside down from the two partitions separating the neighboring urinals and aim downwards.

Sometimes you find yourself looking into a trough that the establishment has asked you to use for your liquid waste needs. It's a strange feeling, because it's kind of fun since it's a different sort of vessel than you use on an everyday basis, but it's also a little dehumanizing since you're going at the same time as one or two other guys right next to you. You don't have the Dave Barry Rules of Separation with troughs. Although, one time I was oddly proud that while going I outlasted two cycles of guys coming through. It was like a 180 second session.

I recently visited an establishment that had a urinal without a lever for flushing, but it didn't have standing liquid in it either, so I imagine it flushed on its own time. I didn't really witness an actual flush, so it's only speculation. I mentioned my observation to those in my party, which led to a conversation that led to me thinking about this post, and one of the guys basically thought by putting some of this information out there I would be doing a service for the female readers in helping them understand a little bit about urinals. I hope this goes towards that noble endeavor.

We are a nation of innovators

This is my 100th post in How Observant. Isn't that exciting? I didn't think so either. 100 is kind of a lot, though, and I hope that I am progressing as I do this. Progressing as an observer and the occasional humorist. I'd like to put that on my business cards someday -- Engineer Sighted, Occasional Humorist. I'm only funny on Thursdays. Sorry guys, you'll have to drop in on my tomorrow to get a laugh.

Technology is doing a better job than me at progressing, certainly over the last 100 somethings -- I could say years, since we went from the Wright Flyer to the 777 in that stretch of time, that's pretty impressive. Or toilet paper reaching that second ply. Softer bathroom tissue is definitely a more significant milestone than having tv sets in the chairs in front of you while you fly to Amsterdam, at least on an everday level. I use toilet paper a lot more often than I fly to Amsterdam.

Cell phones are another good one. You can go to a 100 units of time much smaller than years to see progress there. 100 months, or even fortnights would get us from the RAZR to the SLVR, and that's obviously monumental. (I, personally, am still using a Nokia brick that I like to call the Soviet Phone Mark II. It's a 3595, if that means anything to you. The original Soviet Phone was an Ericcson that weighed like 3 pounds and reminded me of the one Zach Morris used to carry around, only less stylish.)

There are some developments, that are much less revolutionary.The electric stapler is one that immediately comes to mind. Ordinarily, I'm all for applying technology to things that don't really need it (for example, a cat that doubles as an electric can opener) but this one really kind of bothers me. I think it might actually be less convenient than the manual version. Then again, speed stapling isn't really something that's easy to do under any circumstances. Although, I do confess that whenever I need to get something stapled in the office I use the electric one, mostly for novelty sake.

I'd like to see more electric three hole punches. I'm not completely positive that they exist, but I'm pretty sure they must because one would be way more useful than an electric stapler, and I've never been to an office that doesn't have one of those. I'm kind of shocked that three hole punches are as unreliable as they are, actually. Rarely do I have a completely successful trip to one of those office supples. It usually takes a second pass, and that's a relatively good time. Sometimes the punches get stuck, or sometimes the punches have been rearranged because the guy ahead of your decided it might be fun to put the middle one closer to the top of the page for ha has.

Anyway, enjoy your 2007 Valentine's Day, which is extra special since it falls also on 100th How Observant Post day, which ought to be celebrated in some way. Phone calls and flights to Europe seem like good options, as does chasing a Siamese cat with a can of Bush's honey flavored baked beans.

I don't know how long my hair is or should be

I am right at that point in my hair growth where I could probably use a haircut. However, I have an interview on Thursday, so I'm not sure it's a good idea to get a haircut tomorrow, since if it sucks, I'll look like a guy with a bad haircut. I wouldn't hire a guy with a bad haircut. The upside to being right tat that point is that I could probably go a little while with my current hair arrangement and be ok for a little while.

It's such a tenuous time, though. Like when you finish shaving and are wondering if it's time to lose the current blade and go to a new one. If you jump the gun, you're being wasteful; if you're too late, then you look foolish in public. A friend of mine basically told me once that if I have to ask if I need a haircut, I need to get one. I'll tell, you, though, I'm going to take the risk and wait it out for a few days. I live that close to the edge.

It's tricky, because I basically only know how to do one thing with my hair. I have no knowledge of gels or pomades, and I'm not even sure that, considering my hair, either one of those things would be a good idea. (I think there'd be no doubt, though, that I'd be a Dapper Dan man.) It does get old having the same hair all the time, but I feel like my hair is holding me hostage and I don't have a lot of choice in the matter anyway.

A flaw in our bathroom paradigm

I, like most people, use the bathroom on occasion. I also like to wash my hands when I finish. It's really what separates us from the animals; cats dig in the dirt around their business, dogs just leave it it and people wash their hands. People - 1, animals - 0. Then again, animals are delicious, so I guess a fairer score would be people - 1, animals - 1.

I'll bet all of you have been in a situation where you are wearing a suit and need to quickly lose some weight. (If you're a girl who doesn't wear suits, I have not idea if there is an appopriate analog. Also, I'm not sure there are any girls who read this anymore.) After just finish up and you're pulling up your pants, tucking in the shirt, and buttoning up, I realize that in order to do all of those things I had to use my hands. The very same hands which are unfit for contact with the outside world. Instead, we have all sorts of bathroom germs on our pants, shirts and (heaven forbid!) belts. I can't say I'm particularly comfortable with this realization.

We all would be pretty alarmed if we saw our waiter leave the bathroom without washing his or her hands, right? Or a guy offer to shake your hand without, at the very least, a rinse? But unless you're in one of those handicapped stalls with the sink in there with you, you are literally wearing those very same germs on your person. My pre-realization respect for these handicapped accessible stalls were limited to novelty sake of having the room, if necessary, to park my car in the stall with me. That's all changed now. I am absolutely going to take advantage of the interior sink to wash before tucking. I'm no barbarian.

Granted, I'm no microbiologist, so I have no idea if the germs will live or die on my shirt, pants or (heaven forbid!) belt. But I suspect they are building some sort of tunnel system not unlike Boston's subway for rapid transit to get after my socks or possibly even tie. I think we need to make a push of relocating the sinks in every bathroom to be inside the stalls. We can't let the animals win.

We're all living in a material world and I am a material girl (or boy)

I had my first on-site interview of my graduate career, so I have been busy this past week. I flew into Washington, DC (my first time there) and saw the Capitol all lit up and the Washington Monument in the distance... all from the tiny, tiny window in the airplane on the taxiway. I would have liked to get a slightly closer view, but I didn't really have time for that. I had roughly 1 hour of unscheduled time that didn't have to be spent driving, so getting in and out of Reagan-National to the Mall just wasn't in the cards.

This started to get me thinking about having real money, as opposed to graduate student money, which is largely imaginary. They try to convince you that since you get tuition for free that you're really making $40k more than you're actually getting paid, and here's what I have to say to that: bunk. Christmas and my birthday just happened, though, so I'm financially secure for a little while at least. One of the things that comes up a lot is the living arrangements, since it would be awfully grand to have a little more room to put my useless junk. Buy or rent is a big question, and it's one of those that makes you realize you've transitioned from interesting, young person into a boring adult. Next I'll be talking to people about interest rates on investments. Good Lord, now I remember why I went to grad school to avoid this in the first place.

Anyway, the fun things are that I can start to think about what I want to put into that house. Since I'm going to start making something like 5 times what I currently make at any job, in my estimation, that's essentially limitless funds. Wondering if I should get the SNL DVD box set this month or next month will seem a little trivial. At least I hope so. But there are things that I think I want in my so-called "dream house" that without them would really fall short of my "dream." So, basically, here is a list of things that I will consider my life a monetary failure if I don't have them in one of the houses I will eventually live in:

• Water fountain - For some reason, water just tastes better to me when it comes out really cold in a water fountain. Unless it's an old fountain, then it reminds me of the older gym I used to play basketball in when I was younger, which made everyone wonder if the metal in the pipes was being entrained (we probably wouldn't have used this word then) into the flow (sorry, engineering thinking coming out) and into our mouths. Almost made going thirsty seem preferable.
• Urinal - Honestly, if you went into someone's bathroom and found a urinal, wouldn't you be intrigued? It would be really convenient and probably save a lot of water in the long run, so in my laziness I'm really trying to help save the world.
• Fireman pole - This would be way more awesome than stairs. The only trouble is that I would need stairs to get back up anyway, unless I have like Batman (Adam West era) had with rocket powered launchers to carry me back up. Might be cost prohibitive, but I can think of nothing that would be more awesome than that.
• Toucan - For some reason, I've always wanted a toucan. And I think I would let him try to crush the skull of anyone with his absurd beak if they ask if his name is "Sam."
• Movie theatre - It wouldn't have to be very big, but it would be neat to have a small room with an overwhelmingly large television that's stadium seated. Maybe have room for 12 people or so, not too gawdy, but be slanted like the floors in a theater. We could watch movies in there, or just things like the news or, if I'm really bored, the Food Network. It seems like everybody's watching that these days and it would give me something to talk about.

I kind of already have that last one now; my roommate bought a hugous projector so I got to watch the National Championship game in nearly life size. I'm glad the Gators won, but I think I'm already getting tired of Gator fans. Anyway, it's about lunchtime and I'm going to go and pout since I can't get my drink from a fountain.

We shall never be satisfied

Christmas came a little bit early at my parents' house. When I got back into Florida, there was a Gillette Fusion razor waiting for me. But who am I to turn down a free razor? I have been living in the past with a razor that's only three razors, so not only is this razor free, I'm being propelled for free into the now. I'm doubling the number of blades on my razor.

This attitude, though, doesn't answer the question of why Gillette is sending me free Fusion razors. I didn't get Gillette anything; does that make me rude? Then again, Gillette can afford it. I haven't used it yet. I still have a few razors that are three razors, but I'm afraid to jump headlong into the six razor, in case the experience really is as revolutionary as the commercials lead me to believe. It's also a little more expensive for the six razor cartridges than the three razor cartridges.

I can't remember the last time that something I bought was as revolutionary as the advertisers wanted me to think it was. High definition television, maybe, or limeade. Actually I don't remember seeing any ads about limeade, but it is pretty darn revolutionary. Lemonade is for pansies. But I sure don't remember getting something for free that changed my life. So I have to say I'm skeptical about the Fusion. Especially since I don't know how I can be sure that Gillette will stop at six. Why not eight? How about ten? How much of a luddite will I be considered if I stick it out with my three razors? Once I try out the Fusion, you can be sure that you'll hear about how smoothly shaven my face is. My guess is that it will be delightful.

What are we talking about again

Do you ever wish something that was socially acceptable that isn’t because you popped something in an odd place or dug something out of somewhere that came out in a funny shape? I sometimes do. I’m not going to tell you about what happened to me, because I don’t want your vision of my awesome to be tarnished by something socially unacceptable.

I do remember a story where my aunt was (proudly [not really]) telling a story about my uncle where he dug a hunk of wax out of his ear that was a perfect sphere. He, apparently, wondered this very same question, because she then proceeded to explain how he showed this artistic achievement to her.

I know there are people who compare farts, but that is actually pretty disgusting. I think it’d be a whole different ballgame, though, if farts didn’t stink. Do you really think they’d be all that objectionable if they were as inoffensively smelling as sneezes?

I’ve also come across people who are revolted by feet, which is sort of the opposite of what I’m thinking of here, but still weird enough to be mentioned, I think. I don’t feel any sort of animosity towards any particular body part. There are some that I like more than others (and I think you probably agree) but none that really offend me.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about something, but it’s not appropriate here, so I won’t go into it. Maybe we’ll talk more about potentially vile bodily functions, but not really.

No, no, not a Jew. Achoo.

I have a funny sneeze. I purposely chose an adjective of ambiguous meaning in "funny" because I mean it both in the sense that it's distinctive and at times comical. That's expected, though; I come from a rather solid pedigree of funny sneezers. My mom's is superbly loud, my dad's actually sounds like "achoo", and is the only sneeze I've ever actually heard that sounds like that. To be accurate, though, it's more like "ah.... CHOOOO!" and it sounds like he's emphasizing the last part on purpose and kind of faking it. My mom and I have called him on it, but he thinks we're crazy. All I have to say is that I'm not faking my ludicrous sneeze. My brother's individual sneezes aren't anything to sneeze at (had to be done and I apologize for it) on their own, but the real distinctions is they travel in packs. He goes for like thirteen in a row, usually.

I remember the first time somebody laughed at my sneeze. It was kind of a strange experience, because really, what's funny about a sneeze? Apparently, the answer to that question (if it's my sneeze) is "the sound." I don't know what the acoustic cause is, maybe nostrils that are just perfectly shaped to get an unusual intonation. I wonder if it would change with a nose piercing. Anyway, somebody recently said "Is that a bird call?" after one of my sneezes in place of the more traditional "bless you."

This makes me wonder what sorts of etiquette implications are involved in a sneeze. Surely it is preferred to offer the bless you than not; but where is the line drawn? And how funny does the sneeze need to be for the laugh and the [not] clever one-liner to take its place? My typical rule of thumb is that I don't give the bless you to people I don't know, and even then, usually not to dudes. Don't know why, but that's just how I roll. I sometimes don't even bother with the ladies, though, because if a person has a quiet sneeze or like a half-sneeze, it's hard to tell if a bless you is warranted, because really, is there anything more embarrassing then blessing a cough? I submit there is not.

My clothes sometimes smell like wood. That's not an innuendo. (Inyourendo.)

My dresser, as most dressers are, is made of some variety of wood. I purchased mine about five months ago, and it still sometimes transfers the odor of wood to my shirts and pants. On its face, that is not any real problem, since wood usually smells nice. However, it kind of plays with your head when you smell it on clothes, like if you were to drink a glass of milk and it tasted like celery. It's not inherently bad, it's just weird enough that it catches you off guard and feels wrong.

So, after I do my laundry and stick my clothes in the dresser, it collects the sent of cheap pine. After a few hours of everyday wear, though, it just starts to smell like regular clothes, so it's not a big deal. The big news is I started using a new laundry detergent last time I went grocery shopping, and the combination of cheap pine and Cheer is a smell as foul as any I have ever experienced, save a fat guy waiting in line on Summer day at Disney world. I mostly notice it in my towels, which makes me really excited to dry my hair with them. I worry that my head is broadcasting all sorts of stink rays, some ruthless combination of Cheer and pine, that makes my otherwise dapper appearance seem completely offensive.

I think I'm just going to have to wait it out, though, use up all of my laundry detergent and go back to an odorless soap once its all gone. I didn't realize at the time that I was buying an scented one, or that the previous one was in fact odorless. I just knew that my clothes didn't smell like the underside of the Loch Ness monster's flippers. Maybe I should just do what I used to do, and leave my clothes in piles on my floor. I never had unfortunately smells in my shirts when I did that.

Creatures of Habit

Do you ever do things like brush your teeth and then forget, only later to wonder if you brushed your teeth this morning? Actually, that was a bad example because when you brush your teeth you have that lingering fake peppermint taste in your mouth for like an hour. But something really habitual, mindless and reflexive to the point that you don't think about it anymore, like locking the car door or flushing the toilet. If you do your business in the bathroom and leave while drying your hands and step out and think, "Is my waste still lounging in that bowl, or did I send it on its merry way?" I don't think I've ever actually forgotten to do either of those things, but I sometimes forget that I actually did them. Isn't that weird?

I got back from watching a movie at a friend's place tonight, and wondered if I remembered to lock the front door before I left. I had no recollection of inserting my key into the lock to perform this act, much like I have no idea from where two pairs of my pants came. They are really shorts, but pants, to me, is a funnier word. Fortunately, I did not forget to lock the door. It's good, I guess, that I don't ever forget, but it's a little frightening, too, that I am capable of doing something to the point of not remembering if I did it. Could this apply to other things, less mundane and possibly more sinister? Could I have taken baseball bat to a Mercury Sable and simply have forgotten? Or robbed a Pakistani bank at gunpoint? I'd never know, because Pakistani money probably isn't worth that much; I wouldn't expect a huge lifestyle change after holding up one of those.

I hope, for all of your sakes, that I am not some sort of subconscious criminal genius. It would be kind of awesome, though, to be able to just have money appear in my apartment and I have no idea where I got it. I'd really prefer to remember how I got it, though. I'll try to sing a song or something for each of these frequently occurring events in my daily life, so that they'll stick out a little better. Although I've never forgotten to flush the toilet, that's not the sort of risk I'm prepared to take.

Somebody light a match

Today was a milestone day for me. For the first time I can remember, and maybe ever, I lathered, rinsed and repeated. I did this because I needed to shower to wash lake off of me after a quick trip to Lake Hartwell. The lake didn't all come out after one rinse, so I followed the directions on my shampoo.

It was quite nice this morning. But the Carolina clay/mud at the bottom is a little bit gross. I imagine it's what a bug feels like when it accidentally flies into your nose and lands in a pool of snot. At least, that's what I'm thinking about as my feet disgustingly sink into the waiting lake bottom. It was warm, but the sun was low enough that the trees shaded my water and keys so the water wouldn't taste like the lake and the keys wouldn't burn my hands when I pick them up to unlock my car.

I also noticed that the lake, much like all other bodies of water, is not above making humorous pockets of air get trapped within my bathing suit. In fact, as I was getting ready to leave, there was such a pocket trapped in my left pant leg behind my left thigh that expelled itself as I bent down to collect my book, keys and water, sounding suspiciously like an expulsion of gas that would ordinarily come from a region not terribly far away from that left thigh. Fortunately, no one was around to hear it, so I didn't have to explain anything to anybody. I'm pretty sure I did hear the lake giggle a little bit, though.