For the past several days, every time one of us opens the door leading to the basement, a little brown mouse scurries down from the top step, cuts right into the bathroom, and then disappears under the door into the garage. I usually chase him with whatever’s in my hand (trying to trap him with a glass or swat him with a stack of clients’ medical records), but the little brown bastard is too agile to even come close.

Yesterday, Pretty Bride decided that, since it was the one night of the week we’d both be home, it was time to take the fight to the mice. We pulled the cars out of the garage and started looking for their home, which appeared to be near a giant bag of grass seed with a corner nibbled open. Piles and piles of grass seed in the corner of the garage, mixed with stacks of mouse turds (think grains of rice, colored black).

Then I pulled back the insulation from the wall and nearly vomited at the smell:  mouse urine, mouse birthing secretions, mouse fornication residue, more mouse turds.

A fat one scurried up the wall as I was vacuuming up the turds and grass seed; I aimed the nozzle at it and frantically tried to suck its well-girthed body into the flexible chord.  Fail.  He did a u-turn and bolted back to the concrete before sliding under the door to the bathroom.

We put glue traps along all four walls of the garage, catching another baby within 5 minutes of putting them out.  Stupid baby.

I walked over to it and watched it squirm and squeak as it wrestled against the adhesive gripping its little bastard mouse feet and its little bastard mouse side.

Me:  Does that feel good, little vermin?
Mouse:  *squeak*
Me:  How do you think it feels to be trapped in an unsellable house full of you and your little fucker mouse friends, huh?
Mouse:  *squeak!*
Me:  I got glue traps all over this garage.  I’m gonna catch your momma, your papa, and all your little mouse siblings.  All y’all are going to spend the rest of your sorry, short lives on trays of glue in this hot ass garage.  Thirsty.  Hungry.  And pissing all over yourself.  You excited about the next few days?
Mouse:

This morning, I barreled downstairs to check out all the traps.

Nothing.

Just the baby from last night, lying motionless on its side in the trap next to my car.  I trudged back upstairs to get ready for work.

I was about 2 miles down the road when my phone rang.

Me:  Hello?
Pretty Bride:  Did you look at the traps?  I’m afraid to look.
Me:  Yeah.  Nothing but the baby from last night.
PB:  Do you think they’re laughing at you from their new mouse home?  I bet they are.
Me:  I don’t know… let me know next time you drive your Odyssey.
PB:  Ass.

Me:  We had a couple showings the past couple weekends.  Any feedback?

My Realtor:  Hi, I spoke to Debbie already and she let me know your place was too small for her clients. They make independent films and needed a bigger space to do green screen work. The agent thought it showed well and said it was a nice little house. She also liked the sewing area. In have not heard from the other agent yet. Mike
Sent from my iPhone

Me:  That’s okay…pornographers probably have shitty credit anyway, since they never report their income and have raging coke habits.  And where the hell do they get off calling it a “nice little house”?  It’s not made of gingerbread.  Fuckers (pun intended).  What about the other showing?

My Realtor:  The house was #4 on their list of the ones they liked. They buyers need to sell their house in Lagrange before they can do anything. They are also looking at newer construction further out where they can get more house for the money. They liked the privacy of the backyard and felt that they carpet needed to be replaced and the walls painted. Especially because of the crayons. They liked the space. The agent thought the price was still too high.

We really should look at bringing it down to get more traffic. Let me know your thoughts.  Thanks, Mike
Sent from my iPhone

Me:  My thoughts are that that sucks balls.  I like the crayon marks on the walls–it’s why I won’t paint over them.  You know, those walls are going to worth HUNDREDS of dollars one day when Maddie’s teaching art somewhere where all the kids smoke weed and the all the professors ride bikes to work.  Lower the price again?  We move it another $5k and we’re $100k from where we started.  Can’t you reach deeper into your magic realtor hat and come up with something besides ‘bringing it (the price) down?’ Because that doesn’t appeal to me.  Maybe we offer lease purchase?  When does your contract end, anyway?

I’m still awaiting a response.

Maddie: Why did you say “shit,” Daddy?
Me: I didn’t…I said “shoot.”
Maddie: Shit!
Me: Shoot! It was shoot! We don’t say the other word.
Maddie: Then why did you say shoot?
Me: Because I parked in the wrong place…somewhere I wasn’t supposed to park.
Maddie: Daddy can’t park!
Me: Yeah, I’m a shitty parker. I mean. Shooty? Hell.  Don’t tell anyone about this conversation, ok?

Only the elite, high speed, squared away freedom fighters get to choose locations like Honolulu and Seattle for their Reserves/Guard active duty days. And since I finagled my way into just such an arrangement, someone in Washington must think me an elite, high speed, squared away freedom fighter. I can’t argue.

After flying from NYC to Atlanta at the conclusion of BlogHer, I came home for 3 hours before flying from Atlanta to Seattle for a week of training at the joint Army/Air Force installation about 30 minutes south of the airport.  After the first day of what service members call “death by powerpoint,” I headed north to pick up Dave from Blogography and meet Whit Honea at Pike’s Place Market in Seattle.  Having missed Whit at BlogHer this year, I was happy to see him again.  As for Dave?  I just saw him in Atlanta, but hey, he’s good company regardless.

Seattle isn’t very touristy, but we did ride the monorail to the Space Needle, and we stopped in at Starbucks’ “alpha chapter” for a drink after dinner at Ivar’s and before drinks at Von’s.

Dinner was a bit scary.  Apparently, the local fowl don’t take too kindly to strangers or children.

Whit and Dave seemed to think this amusing, but I didn’t particularly enjoy having this white warrior staring at my neck during the entire meal.  Look at his friend divebombing the ducking, running child.  Is this what y’all call entertaining?  Sick sons of bitches.

The Needle was cool…good views and a military discount.  Need I request more?

And who wouldn’t be excited about seeing the first Starbucks (which I can now add to my list of “first of the chains” along with KFC and Chick-fil-A)?

The second night, Dave and I went to Ray’s for a bromantic dinner and stroll along Alki beach.

One would have to be made of lead to not feel the love that night.  ‘Cause it was strong.  Strong like the smell inside my black 325i that July day in 1998 when I left a bag of garbage in the trunk all day, and it sat in an uncovered blacktop parking lot outside IBM for 8 hours.

On Wednesday night, I decided I should take advantage of our close proximity to Oregon and visit Portland, so that I could drop then number of states I haven’t visited to 5 (MN, NH, VT, RI, CT).  I made the mistake of mentioning my plan to drive 2.5 hours south to the Lieutenant from my base who’d flown out there with me, and he invited himself along.

Dinner was at Salty’s.  It was not bromantic.  In fact, it was annoying. The loquacious Lieutenant did not shut the fuck up for more than 30 seconds from the time we left base through the time we sat down to eat.  His soliloquies included such scintillating monologues as this:

Lt:  Look at that orange truck, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Uh huh.
Lt:  Look at that convertible, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Yep.
Lt:  Look at that bridge, man.  That’s crazy!
Me:  I reckon.
Lt:  Look at that sign for Mount St. Helens–that’s the tallest mountain in North America, right?  Let’s pull over and see it!
Me:  I think losing its top pretty much nullified whatever its height used to be, don’t you think?
Lt:  What?  Oh look at that motorcycle, man.  That’s crazy!

Over and over I thought to myself, “Why didn’t I lie and just say I had more client meetings in Seattle tonight.  Why?”

We pulled over to see Mt St Helens, only to learn that one has to drive another 40-something miles to get close enough to really see it.

Can you see the blood dripping out of my ears?  It’s there.

I actually captured on film a few seconds of silence.  See?  Here it is …

“Have another drink!” I kept saying.

After dinner and beers from an Irish pub, we got some Voodoo Doughnuts.  I chose a doughnut with crushed Oreos and peanut butter on top.  It was awesome like freedom is awesome to a recent parolee.

Someone in line told the Lt that Portland leads the country in strip clubs, so the next hour went like this:

Lt:  Hey look, a strip club–let’s go in there!
Me:  No.
Lt:  C’mon…most in the nation!  That’s crazy.
Me:  Atlanta has strip clubs.  Why don’t you just go when we’re home?
Lt:  Look at that one–it’s upstairs and says ‘exotic’.  That’s crazy!
Me:  Go in, then.  I’ll wait for you.
Lt:  Man, I’m from Barnesville, Georgia.  I can’t go into a strip club in Portland by myself.  That’s crazy!
Me:  I think you can.  Go.
Lt:  Oh man.
Me:  Go.

He wouldn’t go.  Finally, around 12:30am, we headed north.  I spent most of the drive slapping myself so I’d stay awake.  At one point, I pulled over at a state-sponsored rest stop advertising free coffee.  Thank you, State of Washington.  You saved my life.

Thursday evening, the group who was up for military classes went out together for dinner.  On the way back to base, a few of us pulled into a casino.  In two hours of playing $5 per hand blackjack, I won over $200.  I won 12 hands in a row at one point.  At least 15 folks gathered around to watch me play the last 30 minutes or so.  It was glorious.

Under the “surreal” category, I met–again–the guy who replaced me in July 2003 in Iraq:  i.e., his arrival meant my going home.  At that point in my life, I’d never been happier to see someone get off a plane as I was when he arrived.  When we realized whom we were staring at, he said,

Him:  Wow.  You look really different.
Me:  When you last saw me, I was in my 20s, had a shaved head, had no children, exercised every day, tanned every day, and had yet to start practicing law.  I was a completely different person.

I enjoyed hearing about how his 4-month rotation went after my team left.

Finally, Friday came, and I went to the airport.  I breezed through returning my rental car, went up to the baggage drop (after checking in online), and begged to go out on an earlier flight…and sit next to occupied seats.  I got it–front row in coach on a plane leaving an hour before my scheduled one.

I texted the Lt: lucky me!  got bumped to an earlier flight.  see you next month.
He wrote back: that’s crazy!

No, not crazy.  Smart and proactive.  See how a week of military powerpoint slides made me a better officer?

I think I love New York more for what it represents than what it is.  It’s where I went for spring break in law school.  It’s where I landed within hours of taking the bar exam.  It’s where I went AWOL while deployed to Andrews AFB, MD to get away from a jackass supervisor.  So when the opportunity to go back for BlogHer came up, I was all over it.

My first objective was to see my friend since the 3rd grade, Jeremy.  While entering his building, we ran into his downstairs neighbor.

Jeremy:  “Mr Thompkins, this is Michael.  I’ve known him since I was 8.”

I love that I know people who can say that.  More than chicken wings.

My next objective was to replace the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned:  the black Campers I bought in SoHo in 2004.

Done.

Then, it was dinner near Jeremy’s place in the West Village and off to his friend’s art exhibit.

It was naked chicks with bloody faces and bloody girlie parts.  I think the message was that the forced nudity of women is like violence against women.  Or that chicks who get naked bleed a lot, since they don’t have layers between their skin and the rough edges one encounters when doing womanly things.  Yes, that’s it.

An exhibit about women and art was a great preface to a conference I was slated to attend a couple days later.  Inspired, I made my own art.  See how artsy I am?

Jeremy had to shoot at 8 the next morning, so we returned to his apartment around midnight.  I decided I must go back out.  And out I went.

My work wife was in town that day, and I figured some of the nocturnal BlogHer attenders would be, too.  Within the hour, five of us were at a bar somewhere near the Hilton.  We stayed out til sunrise.

The next day I went by the MOMA for some more questionable art, like this boat of purple penises:

I had to twitpic this thing and ask for an explanation.  The best response was “Barney’s pubes?”  Yes.  Barney’s pubes.

That night, I attended a small party at the Ralph Lauren headquarters and met Ralph’s son, who’s an executive in charge of some stuff and told interesting stories about how his father started this company that sells lots of great clothes, a few of which I purchased just a few days prior!

See how sophisticated I look?

Afterward, I went to the Peoples Party, where, just like last year, I spent the bulk of the evening in the ladies’ room with Jenny and friends (after finally meeting this lady’s husband).

A bunch of us went out to a nearby Irish pub, where feelings of affection for the female blogging community further blossomed.

The next day, I attended a session or two, received a nice poem from a woman at a pink typewriter, attended the Aiming Low party, and then had drinks in SoHo with a few old and new Twitter friends.

Then a bunch of us ended up at a karaoke bar where I lost my voice for the next 4 days.  There are videos.  I’m not going to link to them.  Ah, screw it…yes, I will.

At some point, I finally met Faiqa, whom I greatly enjoyed getting to know, until she declared all over Twitter that I have “serial killer glasses.”

I met my attorney blogging friend, and I actually had a couple kind folks seek ME out to say “hi!”

I spoke to a couple Atlanta blogging friends whom I never seem to see except when we’re out of town.

I attended more sessions Friday (sitting by one of my favorite persons online), met a couple dad bloggers (the latter taking a tremendous amount of coaxing to come up to the Hilton, as he wasn’t attending the conference but lives in town) I’ve wanted to meet for a while, had dinner with my childhood friend and his sister, and then attended Sparklecorn, where the pictures indicate I danced during a song or two.

After the Cheeseburgher party that followed, a bunch of us hung out in somebody’s hotel room until my usual bedtime of 4.

I caught up with my favorite resident of the United Kingdom.

And most importantly, I spoke at length with a young boy’s mom named Chrissie who inspired a run and a fundraiser.

And she tearfully thanked me for supporting BHJ’s run for her son.  At which point I realized:  maybe the blogging thing is more than silly stories, sleepless nights, and shitty iphone pictures.  Maybe…just maybe…it’s changing lives.

A tax-deductible family vacation seemed like a wonderful idea several months ago when I paid for a conference in Florida scheduled for late July/early August. But every time I’d been to the panhandle, it was March (college spring break) or May (high school senior trip or weddings). And I’d never stayed at a place with a glass elevator lacking air conditioning when it was 100 degrees outside with 80% humidity.  And I forgot that when lawyers go out of town under the guise of continuing legal education, we tend to go out drinking til 2 or 3 every night, making the early wake-ups of preschoolers used to Eastern time absolutely tortuous. It’s a wonder no one got vomited upon.

The 6-hour drives (with one stop to eat) were surprisingly okay, despite the DVD player’s breaking within 3 days of lift off.  I got to talk to Pretty Bride without laptops and workloads in front of us for the first time in … months?  Longer?  The children either slept or made up shitty songs that didn’t rhyme.

Our nearly-3-month-old got sunburned, despite our diligent efforts to prevent it.  Umbrellas tend to blow over in the sand, and bonnets don’t cover entire faces, it appears.  Having a red-faced infant is guilt-inducing to normal people like my kind spouse.  I figure it’s a normal part of childhood.

The positives:  no oil or tar balls in sight; seafood tasted fine (i.e., none of us has died yet); the band at the Village Door let me climb on stage and play the bongos (sort of—I forced my way up there and played until forced back off)!  See how skilled I am?

The negatives:  hot as balls; not really a vacation to the continually child-wrangling Pretty Bride, who apparently likes to RELAX at the beach (WTF, selfish woman?).

Proposed changes for next year:
1)  I will help with herding children each morning to the sand by just skipping the conference and only attending social functions at night.
2)  Stay in a beach house, not on the 13th floor of a condo with a hotter-than-shit glass elevator that takes 10 minutes to arrive.
3)  Stay in Santa Rosa Beach or somewhere similar that’s quieter and more quaint, since I won’t care about being able to walk to the conference every morning at the Hilton.  We ate there one of the nights and found it much more desirable.
4)  Consider coming home from the bars at 1 or 2 instead of at 3 or 4.  Notice I use waffling language on this one.
5)  Ask Al Gore or God or someone of equal influence to make the highs in the 80s instead of high 90s/low 100s.

**

This concludes my second of four nearly consecutive trips.  Next up, New York City and Seattle!  Let the work-related emails continue to mount…

Wednesday afternoon, I rode in a Cessna Skyhawk from Honolulu, over Molokai, and onto Maui.  After we landed, I learned my new friend had never landed at Maui before, because his instructor told him it was the most difficult runway in the U.S. to land a private plane, since the winds come off the ocean and through the trees to create vortexes of sorts in the crosswinds on the tarmac.  Maybe that’s why we approached at an angle and got blown back into the air when we were a few feet above the runway, only to come down a few seconds later and actually land.  That wasn’t frightening at all.

I did find interest in our flying over a leper colony near the coast of Molokai, though.

Somewhere over the Pacific, I took the yoke for a few minutes…just long enough to update Twitter with a Top Gun reference:

I’m piloting a Cessna while tweeting! Where’s Viper? I want Viper!  posted by @themuskrat from Twitter for iPhone

I never actually expected to have a trip to Hawaii count as “annual training” when I saw the email mentioning an opportunity to do just that about 6 months ago.  But here I am.  In Hawaii.  Getting paid.

I arrived Friday afternoon after 10 hours next to a 25-year-old PhD student from Charleston who came for an Alzheimer’s conference; her name was Linnea.  I called the duty controller at the base where I’m supposed to train and learned I was to show up at 0530 the next day.  I walked over to Duke’s and had dinner and beers at the bar with another PhD student named Julian; he was from Switzerland.  Linnea soon joined us, and the 3 of us continued until 9 (keep in mind that 9pm was 3am to my confused body).

The next day, my duties on base ended at 9am.  That’s right.  So I drove over to Hanauma Bay for some snorkeling and swimming.

Except for scraping my knees on some coral and getting sunburned in that spot a person can’t reach on his own back with sunscreen, it was a great afternoon (I thought about asking a stranger to put sunscreen on my back, but none of the scenarios in my head ended well, regardless of gender of the asked).  Except for some reason, after I came back, I started getting lonely and walked several blocks down to where Pretty Bride and I went in 2008 after my last trip to Iraq.  This was bittersweet, so I felt some sushi and Asahi beer were in order.  I had several of both.  When I woke up the next day, I realized I’d bought a shirt for my boy Owen and some of those Under Armour underbritches for myself.  Oh yeah, and that I dropped $1000 at the Ralph Lauren store.  On a sportcoat and sweater.  Haven’t quite told the Mrs about that yet, so, moving on…

Sunday, I ran a couple miles down the beach at sunrise.  I passed a homeless man, a very happy woman with her coffee, a couple in last night’s clothes who didn’t care about each other’s morning breath, a fisherman with his Lab puppy, some children who resented their parents’ waking them at 0530, and several surfers.  Then, it was breakfast at Duke’s, where I became convinced that in Heaven, they will serve guava juice.  I was supposed to report at 12:30, but it got pushed back to 3:30pm, so I sat on the balcony and read all afternoon before dinner at Roy’s, where I saw the lady next to me pour a bottle of Coors over ice and drink with a straw.  I thought that my cue to leave.

The next day began at 0530 and ended by about 9.  I thought it would be a good idea to drive an hour to a trail I’d read about on the internet.  I walked through a church graveyard looking for the trailhead.  No dice.  Ran down a residential street past three very angry and protective pit bulls, stopping at where I thought the trail began.  And I saw this:

Great.  I returned the half a mile I’d run and started over.  Finally, I found this:

I figured a “beginner” trail would be about 1-2 miles.  It was 4.  Up a mountain.  And the trail was covered in roots and rocks.  And I wore my most inappropriate shoes.

Once I got on the trail, I didn’t see another human.  It was the most alone I’ve ever felt.  At first, it was peaceful, until every fluttering bird made me wonder if 1) Hawaii has bears and 2) how long it would take someone to find my mauled body, since not a soul alive knew where the hell I was.  So, with every painful step, I was afraid to cry out, for fear of a bear or puma finding me, and instead whimpered like a little hungry puppy.  Because that’s what men do.

I finally made it to the top.

As soon as I got back down to the beach, I put my throbbing feet into the cool ocean.  And I paused to take in the tranquil surroundings while berating myself for being such an unprepared, naive dumbass.  It was nice.

Then I stopped by a park on the way back to the hotel.

Dinner was at the Yard House, where I talked to a kid named Robbie from California who’d traveled with his Mormon parents but broke away to guzzle some beers and smoke some cigarettes.  I’m pretty sure Robbie was using a fake ID.  He said “bro” a lot.

Today, I scheduled two activities from my “bucket list:”  SCUBA dive and surf.  First was the dive.  I was pretty nervous about going underwater and relying on a metal cylinder to keep me alive, but I enjoyed it.  My right ear wasn’t very cooperative with the whole “clearing” process every few feet, and when we came back up to the surface, the instructor told me he was close to giving up on me, but I finally got it to work.  We saw several fish and a large eel.  My leader, Greg, took several pictures that he’s sending me later.

I was not optimistic about being able to get up on a surf board, but I was wrong!

However, I did bust pretty badly on my very first attempt, landing in a reef.  When I took off my shirt (see how I learned from the sunburn experience at Hanauma Bay?), I found a nice grouping of coral residue and blood:

That didn’t feel too good.  The lesson was for an hour, and it was supposed to be a group class, but I was the only person who showed up, so, private lesson for me!

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to fly to Maui with one of the guys I met at the military base who has his private pilot’s license.  I’m supposed to work in the evening after we get back.

So far, a great trip…I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be here.  I’ve already initiated the process for coming back next year for more mission-essential training.  It’s what our country needs.

This is where our 2-month-old sleeps.  Because we can’t sell our house.

I’m thinking this will turn out well for her in later years, however.  Besides the obvious character building she’ll get from staying in a closet for the first several months years of her life, I can see the following scenarios down the road, too:

Tween Party Host:  Hey, let’s play ‘60 seconds in the closet’!  Who’s game?
Lola:  I spent a large portion of my childhood in a closet.  It’s not that great.  Get lost, asshat.

Girl in Middle School:  Did you hear?  Lester came out of the closet last weekend!  I don’t think we should let him sit with us at lunch any more.
Lola:  I came out of the closet 10 years ago!  It’s hardly a reason to shun a friend, Madam Judge-A-Lot.

Young School Bus Rider:  I’m sort of a closet fan of the Twilight series.  Squeeeee!
Lola:  I wouldn’t characterize my fandom of anything as ‘closet,’ first of all.  Neither should you.  And second, why don’t you go buy a piece of intellectually stimulating non-fiction and, if you have enough cash left over, a clue!

See how I become Mr. Brightside?

I could write about the utter terror someone who passes out when given shots or blood tests faces when going for surgery on his nethers, but it’s easier to just provide my impressions from that timeframe as they were happening.

Accordingly, here are my tweets, in reverse chronological order:

1. 1. Fireworks behind our house tonight. Either the Braves won, or the city is celebrating my infertility. Fri Jun 25 22:49:22 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   2. Thanks for all the support, but tweeting a bunch isn’t brave. It’s how I cope: diversion. Fri Jun 25 15:23:57 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   3. Post surgery milk shake!!! (@ OK Cafe) http://4sq.com/5c5ccS Fri Jun 25 15:20:00 2010 via foursquare
   4. Am now safely in the passenger seat of our minivan. How appropriate. Fri Jun 25 15:16:03 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   5. The new walk of shame: gingerly shuffling out of the urologist’s office in front of 20 people. Fri Jun 25 15:09:42 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   6. Am upright. Still afraid to look down. Is this what it feels like to be a circus performer? Fri Jun 25 15:03:36 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   7. I like how it says “congratulations!”. Asses. http://yfrog.com/euofngj Fri Jun 25 15:02:39 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   8. This is where my bare ass sweat like a whore in church. http://yfrog.com/5cvhoaj Fri Jun 25 15:00:27 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   9. I am afraid to look down under this gauze. It’s like being on a building’s ledge. Fri Jun 25 14:58:34 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   10. They say no peas or ice. I did it scalpel-free! Fri Jun 25 14:57:19 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   11. Just got busted tweeting. Oops. Apparently I’m supposed to provide a semen sample when I’m at blogher: 6 weeks from now. Hmmm. Fri Jun 25 14:56:40 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   12. The video says I am supposed to take “specimen” cups with me. I can only imagine. Fri Jun 25 14:52:01 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   13. The dr said he knew I was a lawyer by my small penis. I said I knew he was a doc by his med mal insurance releases. Fri Jun 25 14:50:25 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   14. Why is STP’s “Half the Man I Used to Be” in my head? Fri Jun 25 14:49:13 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   15. I think smelling burning flesh was the worst. Oh yeah, and the damned needle that made me sweat a quart. Fri Jun 25 14:48:11 2010 via Twitter for iPhone
   16. I think he’s done. I’m alone w the video again. 2:46 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhon
   17. I hope this isn’t “intern day.” 2:25 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   18. The video stopped. http://yfrog.com/j2bzcj 2:23 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   19. Now the video wants me to take off my pants. Stranger danger!!! 2:19 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   20. The video says not to worry. The video does not know me. 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   21. I like the word “rare.” 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   22. They are making me watch a video. I don’t want to know the risks, asshole. 2:16 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone
   23. a touching post by a friend about my balls: http://bit.ly/9OrSkO 11:43 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck
   24. am 3.5 hours away from my appointment to get neutered. stressed. is that what a rapist in saudi arabia feels like? 10:39 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck
       

Now that it’s over, I gotta say I recommend doing it scalpel-free, like I did here.  No ice or frozen peas.  No swelling or bruising the next day or the next day or the day after that.  No finding my absent penis on a blanket next to a broken toaster oven several hours after losing it.

The worst part?  The clamp.  I was terrified to look down, but at some point, some sort of vice grip contraption was cinched around my johnson.  I was certain it was going to lose its nutrients’ supply, turn black, and fall onto the floor before ending up in a pawn shop.  But it didn’t.  I was VERY relieved, however, when the cinch came off at the end.

As for my interpersonal relations?  Okay so far.  I mean, my pecker wasn’t talking to me for the first several hours afterward.  I avoided eye contact until Saturday afternoon (a good 24 hours), and even when I reached out to it to resume normal conversation, it played “hard to get” and retracted like a defeated turtle.

I think our relationship will improve over time, however.  It keeps asking to go for vigorous runs down the nature trail behind our building, and I have to gently tell it, “Not yet.  Doctor’s orders, buddy.”  It seems to understand, even if it acts petulant right now.

Someday, it’ll thank me for the sacrifice my psyche endured for its freedom from suffocation by latex or butting its head against hard plastic.  Some day, oh peevish penis.  Just not now.