Some Funny Things Happened On The Way To My Grave

The other day I had my own little mystery to solve. Around 11:30 in the morning I stood up from my desk chair at work and discovered I had a small, but extremely damp spot just below my left butt cheek. My first thought (and by far the most stomach turning) is that while spending some time on the throne that morning, that something was...ermm..."wet" on the floor and the back of my slacks somehow rested in it. Next I was thinking I maybe, without realizing it, had spilled some of my soup from lunch on my chair before I sat down. But wouldn't that have burned a little?

I was really starting to get weirded out when over 3 hours later, it was still there! Just as damp, if not more so, than earlier. Did I lean against something outside? Is there a slow drip on my ceiling? Is someone shooting me with a squirt gun every time I stand up? Is my ass leaking?

Somehow, throughout the course of the day, it never occurred to me (since I never keep anything there) to reach into my back pocket...where upon investigation revealed an almost empty (maybe three sheets) baggy of wet wipes. I had taken them with me to the lav that I mentioned earlier and neglected to seal the baggy tight enough. And since walking down the hall at work with a baggy of wet wipes kind screams "Hey, I was just dropping a deuce!" to anyone I pass...I put them in my back pocket. Then I sat on them and my weight squeezed all the moistness out. Fail.

I wonder what people who saw my butt splotch thought?...well anyway, that was "case closed" on the wet ass investigation.

There is nothing worse than spending extra time planning ahead, only to have it all unravel before you at the last minute.

I have recently taken up cycling to work. Now your first inclination may be to ask me, "Why would you self impose such punishment?" Well, the hysterical laughter induced by my massive head inside such a tiny helmet aside, I actually discovered it was faster than just taking the bus alone. You see, living off the beach across the lake from Seattlle has it's perks, but convenient public transportation pick-up times is not one of them.

My work day starts at 7:30 AM, my bus leaves at 6:30 AM and my walk to the bus stop is exactly 12 minutes (18 with a hangover). My alarm goes off at 5:30 each morning. I get up promptly at 5:40am right after hitting snooze twice. Then, in the sort of daze you expect to see from crash survivors, the following occurs: I stretch, pee, trim my beard, shower, dry, brush my teeth, clean my ears, apply deodorant, attempt to stylishly mess-up my hair, dress, do a "spectacles, testicles, wallet & cell phone check, then rush out the door after realizing I should have left two minutes earlier.

I determined that it wasn't my streamlined routine that needed changing, it was my method of transport after I left the house that needed adjustment...namely I wanted a Segway. But understanding that a Segway might actually bring more ridicule by the general public than my bike helmet, I decided on a bicycle instead. I am able to wake and leave later, place my bike on the bus rack, bus into Seattle, get off at the first city stop and bike the rest of the way to my work. This method only works because my office has a locker room and showers, specifically to encourage people like me into believing that cyclers are cool and not just easy targets for inner city road rage. It also is made easy by me packing my backpack the night before with all the accouterments necessary for showering and changing on the flip side (cyclers can use cool lingo like that, don't try it at home).

So morning rolls around just after buying my new favorite tech toy, the Palm Pre, at this point I have had the phone maybe 36 hours or so. My backpack on, I tuck my new phone into the shoulder strap case, you know, in case I need to take a call while riding one handed (don't try that at home either). And this is where the proverbial shit hits the fan. Flat tire. Well not flat, just too low to ride. Keys come back out, run inside grab the pump; pump it up. No worries, plenty of time to spare since I'm riding my bike. I peddle down to the bus stop hop off and with a few mins to spare till the bus is due I decide to check out Fark.com on my new Pre.

As I slide it open, I notice a message indicator, I tap the screen pull up what looks like an advertisement email. But hey, it's got this really cool look to it, the edges of the screen look like 3-D burnt parchment. Cool. I delete it. Uh oh, that "effect" is on the inbox too, and every other screen! Ahhhhhh! You know when you push hard on your flat-screen monitor and it gets that warped look around your finger? Well apparently the pocket I had the new phone in against my shoulder was a little too tight. Including the weight from the pack pulling it against me,the phone's screen was acting like it had been between the hands of the Hulk during a fierce session of praying. I'm freaking out about my phone and the fact that if I can get a replacement, it probably won't be for awhile since they are sold out everywhere.

But I sigh and try to calm down, because the bus is here. But not for long. You see, the bus is here...just not for me, because the frakkin' bike rack is full! When is the rack ever full? I have never seen this before. Like a ten dollar carnival psychic, the bus driver reads my thoughts and comments on how rare the possibility. Thanks for your two cents, fat lady bus driver, but your math skills are lacking when predicting the probability of my having a bad day. Signs point to yes, bitch. So it's back on the bike and home for the car.

I will fast forward a bit now. Past fighting in the Roman chariot race that is the eastside-to-Seattle daily commute, to arriving at the parking garage at my office. I hustle inside to the locker room, set down my bag and go to open my locker. A image forms in my mind. A vision of my locker key, sharing a keyring with my bike lock key, inside the pouch attached to my bike, back at my apartment. My toiletry bag and towel are inside the locker. I did not shower Sunday, so I'm overdue. Screw it.

I strip down hit the shower and start scrubbing myself as best as possible with bare hands. This ain't working. It's like trying to clean a pig with a wet wipe, err...rather without a wet wipe...whatever. Suddenly a flash of inspiration. I hop out the shower, dripping wet and shuffle over to the sink, lean over and start pumping away at the provided hand soap dispenser.