My husband came up to me a few days ago, all serious-like.
"I need to ask you something," he said timidly.
"Shoot."
"Well... if I ask you, it will change things."
"What things?" I asked, wondering if this was the moment, which my insecure inner crazy person always knew would come, when he would announce that Ha! I don't really want to be married to you!
"Okay, here it is." Dramatic pause. "What does it mean when it hurts when you go to the bathroom?"
After the initial thought that I kind of wished this was a divorce talk instead, I realized I needed more information. "I assume when you say, 'go to the bathroom,' you don't mean peeing, yes?"
"Yes."
Unfortunately, I still needed more information. I explained to him that since this could be a major health concern, I will engage in this conversation, but could he please play along and not look at me while I asked the following questions? "Okay, does it hurt, like, just on the way out?"
"Yes. But it bleeds too."
I finally understood what very smart people were always saying about the burden of knowledge. And then I turned on the Autopilot, repeating word for word the conversation that anyone who has ever seen a GI has had. "You probably just have hemorrhoids. A few drops of blood at the end or just on the toilet paper is common. I know it might seem scary, but it really doesn't take a lot to make the bowl turn red." Then I veered slightly off the script and added, "Perhaps this has something to do with your fondness for Chipotle."
"So what do I do to fix it?" he asked, conveniently skipping over the oversized-burrito issue.
"I will pick you up some stuff at the drug store. I can't bear to talk about this anymore."
"Well don't you have something I can use? It really hurts."
"No. You can't use my stuff. You can't share stuff like that."
"Why? Sometimes when I run out, I use your deodorant and that's no big deal."
"First of all, ew. And second, deodorant goes on the outside whereas this..." I said, trailing off in the hope that I would never, ever have to finish that sentence.
"No."
"Oh, yes."
"Forget it. I'll live with the pain."
"All right, talk to me in two days."
Two Days Later
"Can you get that stuff for me?" he asked me.
"It's in the closet, I got it yesterday. I marked yours with an 'A'"
LOL LOL LOL< that just cracked me up. And all I have to say, is I hope you enjoyed the honeymood while it lasted. I can relate, mine is loooong over. Let's not even discuss the nasty conversations we have had over the past several years. I am glad to hear from you, and know that I think of you often. And hope your dad is doing well. HUGS!
Posted by: Jen | March 17, 2007 at 05:35 PM
I thought this was hilarious. My husband didn't get why it was so funny. Go figure.
Posted by: ErinM | March 19, 2007 at 10:24 PM
I agree there should just be some things that are never discussed. In fact, I think there should be old style confessionals, but instead of a priest, a pharmacist waits for someone to enter the booth to ask questions in the safety of anonymity, face shielded. Well, that or a pharmacy hotline. Either way. Hope your hubby is feeling better adn hope things are going well with your father's treatment. Hugs!
Posted by: Jeannette | March 21, 2007 at 12:45 PM
Dude, what does it say about me that I read this post and thought "I don't get it." (I also thought "Poor A.") But then I can talk to a wall about poop and hemorrhoids and whatnot, so my opinion probably shouldn't count.
Incidentally, upon further thought, I also find sharing those supplies to be weird and just not right. I guess even I have my thresholds...
Posted by: Noelle | March 21, 2007 at 02:39 PM
It's been such a long, long time. Are you okay?
Posted by: uberimma | July 10, 2007 at 09:01 PM