Wednesday, July 15, 2015

A Perfect Circle

I don't want to write this. But this morning I had three anal abcesses.


Obviously I'm referring to work. I manage disability insurance claims. Some of which involves wincing at another new claim with the word, "fistula" in it. A deeply unpleasant word. Pardon me for bringing up the obvious but I don't quite understand why an illness associated with your arse has the word "fist" in it (stop - I know you're already picturing it). Mind you the word, "analgesic" oddly isn't related to your arse either. I must admit I did shut my eyes in despair yesterday after a nurse mentioned the word, "diarrhea" - only to quickly follow that up by asking if I wanted to see the, "discharge report." Good Lord woman, no. This isn't France. And I don't want to seem like all I talk about are bottoms (someone told me recently that I'm somewhat obsessed - and considering they haven't wandered through my internet browser history that's an incredibly astute statement to be making) I think it's entirely wrong when I'm speaking with a medical professional and they use the word, "ass." Repeatedly. If this were a movie I imagine Bob Odenkirk playing that doctor.

I mean seriously - we all dream of doing something with our lives that perfectly matches our passion. That truly satisfies us. Makes us feel alive. Connects with our soul. Having said that I really didn't expect to be spend part of a morning listening to a man in Kentucky tell me"well I knew something was wrong when my urine smelled like onions." If ever there was a phrase to put on Match.com it's that one. And I have only mentioned this to one person ever - but I'd be quite content to slip out of the rat race, work doing landscaping with all my Mexican brethren every day and write on my downtime. Not just lawn mowing and whatnot. I mean the full-bore, two-acres of landscaping, rock-scaping/waterfall nonsense. I expended untold amounts of sweat on designing, digging, planting and making the gardens at my old place. Very little in the last five years, work wise, has been as rewarding to my soul as that was. And here I am now - two thousand miles away listening to a 22 year old man in Kentucky who sounds like Elmer Fudd repeat the word "anus" down the phone.

"Hold on Gavin - aren't you supposed to be tying this in somewhat with living in Arizona? I mean - less graphic, descriptions of national arse-ailments sweeping America, and more stuff about being a dad?" Alright, calm down. Fact is my kids aren't here. Their mother has carted them off to Upstate New York until August for extended family time. So in between endless TiVo'd Judge Judy episodes and explanations as to why all those people on Facebook who rainbowed their faces should be kept on a national security databse, there will also be an awful lot of this -:

Worst. Mermaid. Ever.
Yeah that's my son chugging himself along. Although I wasn't sent a photo of ten seconds later. Quite possibly his sister began chewing on the underneath of his kayak. Not that he'd be scared of something like that. Not Tiny Ten Bears. He's not scared of anything. Well - except tomatoes. And Mr. Worm (the fact you made that seedy is shameful). Oh - and judging by his expression - this fish.

Fishstula

Needless to say twenty fours hours of jumping in and out of that lake and my daughter was at the doctor's being diagnosed with Swimmer's Ear.

Perfecting the "disappoint" look
Although she told me it didn't hurt at all. Just itched. And the water wouldn't come out. Though she also didn't joke that if anyone had the ear for swimming it was me. So clearly not 100 percent. Naturally Owen claimed to have Swimmer's Bumcheek.

See - there was a theme all the way through this after all.

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