We head to the vagina doctor for our weekly exam [it’s obviously my wife’s exam. While I’m called a vagina on a daily basis by a number of friends I do not in fact technically have a vagina. Even though you have to part a large bush of pubic hair and pinch in the general to get my junk to pop it’s head out of the ground like Punksatony Phil, it’s still in principle a penis] and receive some disappointing news.
[editor’s note: Unlike her dickhead husband, my wife is by nature an extremely private person. She has also become a daily reader of this blog. I’m convinced that this is not because she loves my writing, my humor, or my slightly skewed but all around genius point of view, but because she wants to make sure I’m not writing about her. I tend to respect her privacy and hope I’m not betraying anything here by what I’m about to write. Time will tell and if this part of the post disappears tomorrow you won’t have to ask why.]
Anyhow, two weeks ago the doctor says that she was one centimeter dilated and 50 percent effaced. The doctor said clearly, “She can go at anytime.” Two weeks later, no fault of anyone, she’s still one centimeter dilated and 50 percent effaced. What this mean, we are now told, is that she will probably go a little bit late. In and of itself that’s not that big of a deal. It’s perfectly natural and normal and happens thousands of times a day to women all over the world. But two weeks ago they had said it would by ANYTIME. What the fuck? Is this doctor some kind of medieval mind fuck torturer, or what? At the beginning you’re given a due date. That date is locked in your mind. The little man probably won’t shoot out on that date, you know this, but it’s still the date you focus on. It’s set. It becomes ingrained in your mind. It’s the date you plan around. When someone changes that and says you can go at ANYTIME your mind set changes and everything get flip upside down and turned around. The due date is no longer the due date. The due date becomes this ever shifting, nebulous thing. Anytime. Fuck. Today. Is it today? Will it be today? No. Damn. Of course, if I was to have given it even the slightest bit of thought I would have realized that since no one can really predict anything and every woman is different the truth of the matter is that it always could have been at ANYTIME. Still, when the doctor, who I’ll assume is someone in authority who knows infinitely more than I do on this subject, tells you ANYTIME you start to prepare.
So, for two weeks it’s been a daily rollercoaster of anxiousness and, if I’m honest, slight disappointment that the little man isn’t ready to slide out and give the world a big “TA-DAH!” It’s no surprise that my wife is handling far better than I am. Her philosophy is that he’ll come when he’s ready and that’s okay with me. I agree that I want him to come when he’s ready, I just wish he was ready now.
Actually, if the little man is a little late this might actually work out better for me. This is completely and totally selfish, but I’m going to lay it out for you anyway. My mother-in-law is coming into town on the 26th and staying until the 2nd of October. I’m taking two weeks off from work when the baby comes. Now if he were to come this weekend or sometime next week, when his actual due date is, that would mean I would have one week off alone and one week off when my mother-in-law is in town. If the little man can wait until the end of next week, then I would have one week with my mother-in-law and one week on my own. I love my mother-in-law like a step brother, but I would rather have the latter scenario than the former. Maybe the little man is already looking out for the best interest of his old man. Which ever the case, the truth of the matter is that I cannot fucking wait for him to finally make his appearance.
Enough of this baby goo-goo sentimental stuff, let’s talk about poop, shall we?
And so I received this email from “PerlCharles”:
I hate to shit at work, and I hold it as long as I can. I live close enough to the office that I could get home and back in 20 min if I had to. I can’t shit with someone else in the bathroom. If someone sits in the stall next to me on a rare occasion that I cant hold it in, I clam up and don’t do anything until they leave. I think I’m a little strange for that, but I don’t want to be the guy in the office associated with the awful smell coming out of the john. I’d rather keep that a mystery.
Alas, I’ve never been lucky enough to live so close to my house that I could bolt home to shit and make it back before anyone got suspicious. I can’t imagine such a luxury. Even if the job sucked, this perk alone might make it worth hanging around a while. And it doesn’t make you strange that you can’t crap with someone else in the other stall, but it is a set back that few men share. I could never do this either. I have to be all alone to shit properly. Most dudes don’t care. It never fails to amaze me how I can walk into the bathroom here at work and all three stalls are occupied and the guys in there seem to be having a shit off. One wants to outdo [out poo? Childish and I couldn’t resist] the other. They don’t give fuck all about the smell, the farts, the grunts and groans, they’re almost proud of their efforts and the result. I always clench up when someone walks in, which can have problems of it’s own. You cut something in half midway through the procedure and I’ll guarantee you two things: one, you will use half a fucking roll of 80 grain sandpaper quality paper trying to dig out what you cut in half, and two, you will never be able to get yourself as clean as you want and need to be: you’ll be itching the rest of the day, and develop a keen bit of swamp ass sure to give you a nice little rash that will have you walking like Dale Evans before the end of the day. What’s terrible is when someone walks in, you stop what you’re doing, hoping that they are only going to piss and get the fuck out. But no. They go to a stall, drop their drawers, and unleash a mountain of shit and stink and water and noise and such fowl nastiness like it’s no big deal and there’s no one sitting in the next stall. As I’ve written before, my buddy Kyle actually takes a picture of his shit and sends it to his friends as if it’s the greatest thing he’s ever accomplished [in his case, it’s pretty close]. Men are foul and repugnant, and why every single women is not a lesbian is completely beyond me.
[editor’s note: Unlike her dickhead husband, my wife is by nature an extremely private person. She has also become a daily reader of this blog. I’m convinced that this is not because she loves my writing, my humor, or my slightly skewed but all around genius point of view, but because she wants to make sure I’m not writing about her. I tend to respect her privacy and hope I’m not betraying anything here by what I’m about to write. Time will tell and if this part of the post disappears tomorrow you won’t have to ask why.]
Anyhow, two weeks ago the doctor says that she was one centimeter dilated and 50 percent effaced. The doctor said clearly, “She can go at anytime.” Two weeks later, no fault of anyone, she’s still one centimeter dilated and 50 percent effaced. What this mean, we are now told, is that she will probably go a little bit late. In and of itself that’s not that big of a deal. It’s perfectly natural and normal and happens thousands of times a day to women all over the world. But two weeks ago they had said it would by ANYTIME. What the fuck? Is this doctor some kind of medieval mind fuck torturer, or what? At the beginning you’re given a due date. That date is locked in your mind. The little man probably won’t shoot out on that date, you know this, but it’s still the date you focus on. It’s set. It becomes ingrained in your mind. It’s the date you plan around. When someone changes that and says you can go at ANYTIME your mind set changes and everything get flip upside down and turned around. The due date is no longer the due date. The due date becomes this ever shifting, nebulous thing. Anytime. Fuck. Today. Is it today? Will it be today? No. Damn. Of course, if I was to have given it even the slightest bit of thought I would have realized that since no one can really predict anything and every woman is different the truth of the matter is that it always could have been at ANYTIME. Still, when the doctor, who I’ll assume is someone in authority who knows infinitely more than I do on this subject, tells you ANYTIME you start to prepare.
So, for two weeks it’s been a daily rollercoaster of anxiousness and, if I’m honest, slight disappointment that the little man isn’t ready to slide out and give the world a big “TA-DAH!” It’s no surprise that my wife is handling far better than I am. Her philosophy is that he’ll come when he’s ready and that’s okay with me. I agree that I want him to come when he’s ready, I just wish he was ready now.
Actually, if the little man is a little late this might actually work out better for me. This is completely and totally selfish, but I’m going to lay it out for you anyway. My mother-in-law is coming into town on the 26th and staying until the 2nd of October. I’m taking two weeks off from work when the baby comes. Now if he were to come this weekend or sometime next week, when his actual due date is, that would mean I would have one week off alone and one week off when my mother-in-law is in town. If the little man can wait until the end of next week, then I would have one week with my mother-in-law and one week on my own. I love my mother-in-law like a step brother, but I would rather have the latter scenario than the former. Maybe the little man is already looking out for the best interest of his old man. Which ever the case, the truth of the matter is that I cannot fucking wait for him to finally make his appearance.
Enough of this baby goo-goo sentimental stuff, let’s talk about poop, shall we?
And so I received this email from “PerlCharles”:
I hate to shit at work, and I hold it as long as I can. I live close enough to the office that I could get home and back in 20 min if I had to. I can’t shit with someone else in the bathroom. If someone sits in the stall next to me on a rare occasion that I cant hold it in, I clam up and don’t do anything until they leave. I think I’m a little strange for that, but I don’t want to be the guy in the office associated with the awful smell coming out of the john. I’d rather keep that a mystery.
Alas, I’ve never been lucky enough to live so close to my house that I could bolt home to shit and make it back before anyone got suspicious. I can’t imagine such a luxury. Even if the job sucked, this perk alone might make it worth hanging around a while. And it doesn’t make you strange that you can’t crap with someone else in the other stall, but it is a set back that few men share. I could never do this either. I have to be all alone to shit properly. Most dudes don’t care. It never fails to amaze me how I can walk into the bathroom here at work and all three stalls are occupied and the guys in there seem to be having a shit off. One wants to outdo [out poo? Childish and I couldn’t resist] the other. They don’t give fuck all about the smell, the farts, the grunts and groans, they’re almost proud of their efforts and the result. I always clench up when someone walks in, which can have problems of it’s own. You cut something in half midway through the procedure and I’ll guarantee you two things: one, you will use half a fucking roll of 80 grain sandpaper quality paper trying to dig out what you cut in half, and two, you will never be able to get yourself as clean as you want and need to be: you’ll be itching the rest of the day, and develop a keen bit of swamp ass sure to give you a nice little rash that will have you walking like Dale Evans before the end of the day. What’s terrible is when someone walks in, you stop what you’re doing, hoping that they are only going to piss and get the fuck out. But no. They go to a stall, drop their drawers, and unleash a mountain of shit and stink and water and noise and such fowl nastiness like it’s no big deal and there’s no one sitting in the next stall. As I’ve written before, my buddy Kyle actually takes a picture of his shit and sends it to his friends as if it’s the greatest thing he’s ever accomplished [in his case, it’s pretty close]. Men are foul and repugnant, and why every single women is not a lesbian is completely beyond me.
