Aug
19
August 19, 2007
Not to go all Seinfeld on you, but what is the deal with men and doctor visits? I swear it has to do with a rectal exam phobia. I mean, it’s like the male species as a whole has this terrified notion that the instant you walk into a doctor’s office, someone rams a finger up your ass, without even the common courtesy of a reacharound.
I’ve been nagging JB to see a doctor for what I’m fairly confident is an easily-remedied, non-deadly medical issue, and his excuses are both many and vague, and seem to center around the complaint that sitting in waiting rooms sucks. I’ll agree with him that wasting entire minutes of your life with only Golf Digest and Highlights as entertainment options does in fact suck, but I’m fairly sure that’s not the true nature of his hesitation. No, I’m thinking what JB is most wanting to avoid has more to do with the remote, theoretical possibility that he’ll be required to experience a security breach in his nether regions as part of the visit.
Hey, I’m the last person to say that a butt exam is any kind of fun. I mean, I get it: it’s uncomfortable, it’s embarrassing, and no one uses a safeword. However, as a woman who has had a ridiculous amount of internal probing over the last couple years I can only say that there are times when a person has to cowboy up. A person has to go to their happy place, and try to ignore the fact that there is a hand—and possibly, by the feel of things, a wiffleball bat—in a place previously reserved for very close friends and/or drunken hookups.
I think there’s even a Biblical saying about this: As thou groweth in years, there cometh a day when into ye most private orifice a gloved finger shall go. And yea, it shall leaveth a shameful film of lube in its wake.
Something like that. It’s right after the psalm about still waters and green pastures, I believe.
Anyway, any guy readers, can you confirm or deny? If you’re resistant to seeing a doctor, as most men I’ve ever known are, is it because you fear for the integrity of your butthole? It’s okay to share your feelings. This is a safe, nonjudgmental place. Group hug!
And now I have no smooth segue to, well, ANYTHING ELSE at this point, so let’s go to some photos from the weekend:
For anyone pretending to care about the more tiresome details of the kitchen remodel (god bless you and your generous soul), this is a new granite choice we picked out this weekend called Juparana Golden. It’s more dramatic than our previously-picked Giallo Veneziano, and has a bigger range of color. Also, aren’t granite color names wonderful? So romantic, for a slab of rock.
Also, don’t mess with this guy.
Seriously. Dude will totally throw down if he has to.
Well, unless you distract him by pointing out that he, too, has a beebee.
Aug
16
August 16, 2007
When I was around 18 or so I worked at a movie theater in downtown Portland—the Broadway theater, for those who might live in the area. Its fishbowl-like ticket selling stand and central location made for some great people watching, although unfortunately many out-of-towners did tend to treat it like an general information stand for the city (Helpful Tip: surly minimum wage earning teenagers forced to wear clip-on polyester bow ties are not your best bet for getting accurate directions on locating your tourist destination of choice).
During my stint as cashier/popcorn hawker/inventory counter-wronger (I remember being continually assigned to count the inventory in the stock room, which involved, among other things, visually tallying the number of paper cups in a giant stack—I’d get about two feet up and blink, then have to start over. And over. And over. Don’t even get me started on the giant case boxes of Twizzlers and the impossibility of accurately counting those motherfuckers), I saw a number of quasi-celebrities at the theater, including Willem Dafoe (in town, I think, to film the oh-so-unwatchable Body of Evidence), who is even shorter than you might guess; Lori Petty; Ed “Pale Eyebrows” Begley Jr; and most exciting of all (hey, it was the 90’s), Keanu Reeves, who I sold a ticket to and observed the social phenomenon of a crowd of people suddenly recognizing a movie star in their midst—it was freaky, like a pile of metal shavings being exposed to a magnet.
Since then, I once met Patrick Warburton outside his beautiful ranch house on the Rogue River, I saw Sinbad come by my company’s booth at a streaming media tradeshow, and last year at Macworld I saw Robin Williams.
I think that’s it, as far as my personal brushes with fame. I’m telling you these boring anecdotes in hopes that you’ll share your own celebrity encounters, for no particular reason other than I have the feeling some of you will have some interesting stories. Dish!
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