April 30th, 2010

Hanging In There

April 2010. I will forever remember it as the month when my youthful exubernance waved goodbye. The month it all went downhill. The month I turned 30.

I kid. Thursday, April 22nd came and went with scarcely a hint that there was any unusual significance there. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve had two solid years of simultaneous home-ownership, financial woes, and hair loss now? Whatever the reason, I long ago understood, and became ok with, the fact that I am a grown-up. Therefore: I might as well be 30.

There was but one occurrence that made me ponder this new stage in my life. This is most certainly going to plunge us into the realm of “too much information” but we are going there because I am now an old man and you will listen to me talk about my body in all its disgusting detail! Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

(Deep breath) here we go: you know those flappy, semi-wartish-type things that predominantly 50-plus folks get, mostly on their eyelids? The Monday after my birthday, I discovered that I’d grown one of those…in an extremely private place. Specifically, in a relatively-easily-accessible and forward-facing sector of an extremely private place, that would be virtually impossible for me not to glance at every single time I went to the bathroom.

My initial reaction, upon determining what was going on, was surprise. I had no idea those sprang up down there as you started to age, but then again, how widely-available would knowledge of such an intrinsically gross nature be? Then there was a brief period of acknowledgment that, wow, turning 30 really did mean that I was getting old. Then it was time to determine what to do about it. Haven’t we all wanted, at one time or another, to hone in on an elderly person’s eyelids and just de-tab them, with a pair of nail clippers, once and for all? Taking into account where this particular tab was, how long would you assume that I weighed that option? If your guess was over 1.5 seconds you are not, and have never been, male. In contrast, I chose a solution that was uber-male: I chose to believe that my disfigurement was temporary and that it would quickly go away on its own.

Four days later everything looked exactly the same and I had had it. I had to bring in a third-party and, being married, the third party to call on was obvious. Bringing in someone who you are presumably monogamous with to examine strange growths on the body part in question is a delicate matter. You must trust that person to trust you. And you must trust that the person trusts your trust in them. And you must have a powerful flashlight. LEDs are the way to go.

Here, devoid of any color commentary, is the conversation Steph and I had when I broke down and had her take a look:

Me: (Ahem) Ok…so…check this out! I promise that nothing out of the ordinary has been going on! I just turned 30 and bam! I am old enough to have a disgusting flappy-mole here!

Steph: Um…that is a weird color for one of those to be. I do not think that is what that is.

Me: Sure it is! Sometimes they are weird colors.

Steph : Hold on. (Coming back with the flashlight.) Your weird colored-mole is hiding some legs from you. Yep, that’s a tick. Hold on. (Coming back with tweezers.) There, it’s gone.

So yeah, it was a tick. I’ve had ticks before, just never ones that looked as much like a common-skin-growth as him and never there, so he caught me off-guard. And to his credit, he was causing no pain or irritation, and he couldn’t have picked a better time to climb aboard. Of course, he came off really easy, so I’m not sure if he was even properly attached…. Honestly, I’m kind of confused about what to think about it all.

Anyway, in conclusion:

1.) If you spend a lot of time outdoors, just assume anything on your body that you can’t identify is a tick.

2.) I am thankful that “burning them off with a lighter” is no longer the preferred method of tick-extraction.

3.) One of the less-frequently-mentioned upsides to being married: free awkward anatomical examinations.

And finally:

Maybe sometimes our troubles really aren’t just that we’re getting old.

Tags: Happenings, steph - 105 Comments »

March 25th, 2010

Farmer Bob Comics

So I haven’t posted on rwitch.com of late, probably because I’ve been too engrossed in my new project: Farmer Bob Comics!

’Til I’ve got something interesting to say here, please check out: http://www.farmerbobcomics.com/

Tags: Happenings - 73 Comments »

February 8th, 2010

Consider the Sauce

Let me just start by saying that fast food is gross. It’s greasy and bad for you. And I never eat it. I wouldn’t dream of setting foot in a McDonald’s or an Arby’s or even a Chick-Fil-A, ever…. I rarely even eat meat.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way: I eat at Chick-Fil-A all the time. I love it. I especially love their trademark condiment/slice of heaven, “Polynesian Sauce.” Every single thing they serve there can be slathered with Polynesian Sauce and it will only taste better — the fries, the wraps, the salads, the paper liner on the tray.

And they know they’ve got a good thing going on there. You know they know. They must. What I’d like to know is: why are they stingy, old misers when it comes to giving it out?

While the ketchup, the mustard, and the mayonnaise are widely available, next to the napkins and the straws, you have to ask your cashier for Polynesian Sauce. They keep it in some mysterious nook under the counter, as if it’s produced by specially-trained artisans who are crouching behind the deep fat fryers carefully combining rare ingredients before lovingly placing their creation into those little packets and hermetically-sealing them one-by-one, and who knows how much longer these masters will be around, practicing their craft? And therefore this sauce must be hidden from the world and then rationed out shrewdly. Yes, when a customer asks for “some Polynesian sauce” — with a look on his face not unlike the look a jonesing crack addict gives his dealer — we must hand him but one packet!

That’s right! If you’re lucky they hand you two, but that’s still ludicrous! Crack dealer, Chick-Fil-A cashier, we both know the deal with Polynesian Sauce: 1) it is delicious and 2) my order entitles me to an unlimited quantity of it, free of charge. I ordered the number one and I would like to proceed to my table and drizzle everything with a drippy, gooey, 1/2″ thick layer of tangy gel that will saturate the bun of my sandwich so thoroughly that I will barely be able to pick it up without it sliding out of my hands which, incidentally, I will need 50 napkins to keep clean during the course of the meal.

I suppose I am only complaining because I will no longer just straight-up ask for more sauce.

This is because, as that description I just gave probably conveys, when someone is a fanatic about a particular type of sauce and they get a hold of a large amount of it, it turns their dining process into a borderline-disgusting spectacle. I can’t be that guy anymore. I mean, I most certainly still am that guy, but I don’t want the Chick-Fil-A person to know.

Also, the process of getting more P-sauce just never seemed to go smoothly. After I’d receive my meal and make an initial request for sauce, harried cashiers would often toss a packet on the counter in front of me, and then immediately scamper off to tend to the fries or whatever, meaning I’d have to flag down another employee to get some more. Then there are some Chick-Fil-As (usually the ones in or around college campuses, where the clientele will come in droves, devouring any food item they can get their hands on and making a huge mess in the process) that just refuse to give out more than one packet of sauce. Or, there were times when the person behind the register would ask me how many additional packets I wanted and I would say “three” and they would look at me, utterly shocked, and announce “Three!?!” so loud that everyone around could hear. The very last time I simply requested more sauce I had an inexplicable feeling that there was going to be a full-blown “incident.” Perhaps something like:

Cashier: “More Polynesian Sauce? Sure. How many packets? Three!?! Um…alright. [Under her breath:] What is he gonna do with that much sauce? [Talking to me again:] Oh, I don’t have that many up here. Hold on, I’ll have to ask my manager to get some from the back.” [Yelling over to her manager, who is busy at another register:] “Alice! Hey Alice! I need more Polynesian Sauce up here. I got a customer who wants four packets. It’s wiped my supply out.”

Manager: “Four!?! Who in the world uses four packets of sauce?”

Cashier (shrugging): “It’s what this guy wants.”

Manager: “Sigh. Well, sit tight a minute, I’ll have to go get the key to the sauce room from my office. [To the crowd behind me in line:] Sorry everyone, we’re going to have to cease transactions at both registers until we get this guy’s sauce needs straightened out.”

Crowd (somehow transformed into an angry mob with pitchforks and torches): “Kill the sauce-hog!”

So I’m done with it.

It’s enough to make me just quit cold-turkey (cold-chicken?) and stay away from that restaurant and its confounding condiment etiquette forever. There are reasons not to do that though. For one, even though she doesn’t like Polynesian Sauce, my wife’s affection for the food at Chick-Fil-A dwarfs my own. Also, seeing as how I am rarely at Chick-Fil-A without Steph, I’ve devised a way to get a little extra Poly-Juice, on the sneak. What I do is I frantically beg Steph to ask for sauce too. She doesn’t seem to understand why she has to do this, but she’ll usually humor me.

“Wait,” you are thinking “you just said Steph didn’t like Polynesian Sauce.”

My dear reader, Steph’s sauce is not for her at all, but also for me! I am certain to get at least two packets! See what I did there!?!

Just please don’t let them know what I am up to. These people clearly have some really weird hang-ups about this sauce.

Tags: Food, Ideas - 30 Comments »