Kobayashi Maru

So this weekend I attended a concert that was simply phenominal and ridiculously cheap. $10 for four bands. Now this would make sense if it were on a college campus and the bands were a bunch of garage bands whose only other audiences were their moms. But that was not the case at all. It all started with:
Jane and Gord followed by The Cruzeros followed by Smith Funk and Strauss followed by Corey Doak. Each had their own unique sound. In fact each of them were headliners in their own right - truly. (NOTE: Personal friends and consistent passengers on the Maru will know that I am not one of those folks who just says nice things for the sake of saying nice things. Seriously, life is too short for that - you gotta get your sarcasim in where ever you can.)

I was simply stunned by the talent of the night. Jane and Gord were more folk music (which isn’t my favorite - though it’s better than say rap), but the sound that two people could produce was really good. At one point Jane picked up this oversized guitar that was evidently “two octaves lower than a concert guitar.” It had an incredible sound.

The Cruzeros are a country style band that came out with an unplugged style set. Being a Texan, I deeply appreciated good country music - they even did a Merle Haggard cover, and did it well!! Not bad for a bunch of Canadian boys…

Smith Funk and Strauss might have been the best of the bunch honestly. Andrew Smith invents new ways to coax sounds out of a guitar. He makes them do things that whoever invented the guitar never imagined them doing. And Sherri Funk’s vocals are worth the price of admission alone.

Corey Doak ended the evening with a raucous full band extreme worship set. The whole evening was done as a fund raiser for the local Gospel Mission and they netted a little over 8 grand towards a new 12 passenger van. Truth be told, a van costs WAY more than that, so if you want to be a part of something bigger than you you can make a donation too. Just chose Men of Destiny in the designation drop down box.

This addicitions recovery program is moving out of the downtown core to give the men an even better chance of overcoming their addictions. This is a GREAT thing, but the downside is that now the program will need independant transportation - hence the van. So if you stop by and read this post, go the extra mile and give some of your affluence to those in need - every bit helps.

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So this weekend I came home from some work related activity to find Ferf and the Muppet deeply engrossed in a Dora the Explorer episode. Dora being the greatest preschool show currently running in North America. Which is why, even though I live in a country that is technically bi-lingual English and French, the Muppet learned to count to ten in Spanish at the same time she did in English. AND why when I grabbed her the other day and held her and she said, “let me go daddy!!” I said, “what’s the magic word?” she said ABRE! But I digress, this post is not about Dora - besides, I personally think that the Backyardigans could seriously kick Dora’s arse any day…

So I come home from a day long fantasy baseball draft - a league that, I might add, I have won 3 out of the last 4 years. I love the fact that a bunch of Canadians get together every year to show that they do not understand the great American sport of baseball - and to prove it, they give me their money year after year. I do love this part of Canadian culture!!

ANYWAY…I come home from that day, which by the way might have been the greatest fantasy baseball draft of my career, and find my family firmly ensconced on the sofa watching said TV show. Being the adaptable guy I am, I snuggled up to the Muppet. She turned to me and asked if daddy was going to cuddle and “watch a little TV” with her. I told her that of course I was, that there was nothing more in the world that I would rather do. At that point the Muppet turned away from the show crawled up onto my lap, put her arms around my neck and said, “You’re a good man daddy!”

Now, I have no idea where she heard that…one would hope that she heard her mother say that …over and over and over again in many different places in front of many differnt people…however, I really don’t know. Whatever the case, I am glad that she heard it and more importantly (to me at least) that she repeated it with perfect spontaneity and phenominal timing.

I love 2 1/2 year olds - well, mine anyway. The Muppet’s verbal skills are so much fun - especially because she has such a great way of looking at things. Her personality is really asserting itself and it’s a lot of fun. For instance, the other night we were going to some friends house for dinner. That afternoon, I was telling the Muppet about it so she knew what the day held (she is so much like Ferf in that way - MUST KNOW DETAILS!!). Before I put her down for her nap, I told her whose house we were going to for dinner and she jumped up on her bed and said, “Oh boy Daddy they have besert!” (which is Muppet speak for dessert) Besert is a big thing in the Muppet’s world. Huge really. Almost as important to her as her special Aunties and Uncles.

One set of them was in town this weekend. Badger and the goddess had come down from the freakishly frozen north to party with us and others. Now it is important to note for the purposes of this post that prior to the current incarnation of the Badger becoming the Badger, he was J-Dog. So to the Muppet he was introduced as Uncle J-Dog. She promptly renamed him, due to an unfortunate mispronunciation, Uncle Gay-Dog. (So if you find yourself over on the Badger’s site, feel free to give Uncle Gay-Dog a shout out.) It was over all a phenominal weekend. Aside from the Badger and the Goddess being here, Coastal and Bear were here too. It was a weekend fest of bloggers! It will be interesting to see if the others talk about this weekend on their sites as well. I have never laughed as hard as I did that night. It was like having the top smart asses in the province together for a diner party. Mostly because that is exactly what it was. I can’t wait for the next one…

In the meantime, we await the opportunity to have the Muppet’s Big Girl Party that will take place when she goes potty 10 times in a row with no accidents. (Because that is evidently what it takes to officially become a true big girl according to Ferf and some strange connection to Dora that I don’t really understand.) So until the Big Girl Party happens, we continue to watch and wait and hope that the Muppet doesn’t paint on the walls with poop like Champagne so lovely suggested in her comments.

In the meantime, did I mention that she said I was a good man?!

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We seem to be getting a full dose of that phrase around the house these days, or it’s twin “I’m going to do it all by MYself.” Which I suppose is to be expected. The Muppet is now 2 years and 8 months old - she’s almost ready to get a job. From climbing into and out of the car, to putting on her shoes and sockies, to turing on the TV, it is all about independence and being able to do it alone. It’s awesome to watch (unless one is in a hurry and then it borders on seriously annying).

But the newest thing in her life is her brand new “big girl bed”. When we moved into the new house the Muppet moved from her crib into a twin size bed (with side rails for safety). Now while the side rail will keep her from rolling out of the bed when she’s sleeping, it does absolutely nothing when it comes to keeping her in the bed - especially during nap time. In fact, just the other day about 30 minutes after I put her in said big girl bed for nap time she came walking back down the hall carrying a diaper and tells me that I need to change her diaper. I grabbed her hand, turned her around and told her that during nap time she wore a diaper so she could pee if she needed to without getting out of bed. But she turned to me and said, “no daddy…I pooped.”

That, i have to admit, changes things a bit and so I softened up a bit and told her “OK let’s get that poopy diaper off you.” I expected her to be very happy with this, but to my confusion she said to me, “no daddy, put a new diaper on me.” To which I assured her that this was the second portion of the plan. Yet she told me again, “no daddy, put a new diaper on me.” Now by this time I had her laid down on the floor and was taking her pants off, so imagine my surprise when her jeans came down to reveal that there was NO DIAPER on her. Deeply confused I asked the Muppet, “Where is your other diaper??” And she looked at me and calmly told me that she took it off and wiped her bum ALL BY MYSELF!!

It was about that time that I noticed the changing pad on the floor (thank God the material cover was not on it and the vinal cover was showing). It was covered with poo. The diaper was kinda wadded up on it and there were about 7 wet wipes in a poo filled pile on the changing pad. She said to me, “I did it on the changer just like Mommie always does!” with just the right amount of glee in her voice.

After I realized that the wipe up job she did was not comprehensive and that her jeans had serious skid marks on them, I cleaned her up and tried to explain to her that while I appreciated her becoming a “big girl” and that doing most things “all by herself” was commendable - when it came to poopy diapers, maybe we should hold off on the not asking for help thing.

I have no idea if that sank in to her or not. Now that she can get out of her bed with ease she has had some serious nap issues in the afternoon (though she still sleeps through the night like a champ). But to date, I have not had to follow up on her individualized personal efforts of poopy diaper clean up.

I have to give her credit for at least containing her efforts to the changing pad. That made the whole thing a funny blog story instead of a nasty excrement experience for us all. In all the ways that count, she’s a genius. Just ask her - she’ll tell you!

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I know…I know…I have been semi-unfaithful to you as loyal readers. You have been taking my name in vain as you seek out new life and new civilizations here on the Maru and, for the most part, of late I have been remiss in sharing my musings and perspectives.

But be of good cheer my good men and women (and those of you who are not good but are readers as well) as I will soon be back with some new unique thoughts and ramblings. For the last week I have been involved in a protracted move from one abode to a new domicile, and this has taken ALL of my time in the evenings and that is when I do my writing and posting (I would never do that at work Boss, believe you me - that would just be wrong!!!! I had to put that in because he often lurks around the Maru.)

So once I have moved totally and fully into my new place - which is exceptionally sweet I feel compelled to add - I will be here again captaining the ship through the waves of life!

Until then, here are some puppies…

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So a friend of mine, who will remain nameless even nicknameless, recently underwent surgery to “unload his gun” so to speak. He has decided that he has planted enough and there is now no need for more seed. Having not gone under the knife myself, I cannot really comment on the ideology behind the surgery nor on the technical nature of the medical procedure (though I can say that 8 years of med-school and interning in a surgical specialty simply to repeatedly cut into groin after groin day after day is outside my scope of understanding. I don’t grasp the urge to commit to that particular speciality. I personally have no real desire to handle other men’s genitals on a daily basis (though some of my readers are otherwise wired I understand. To quote the bard Seinfeld, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”) Even more so, I have less desire to do so after they have been shaven and slathered with pre-surgical ointment.

Though I do have to admit that Norelco does make the idea of shaving seem more acceptable. It’s the extra optical inch that caught my attention. My friend was happy with that outcome though, I must admit - optical or not!

Nonetheless, and nonethemore, he and his wife decided that him getting cut was best for everyone. I do have my own ideas of how that conversation went though, and I doubt very seriously that he started it off by slapping his hand down on the table and saying, “I’ve made up my mind. I am letting someone approach my nether regions with a scalpel and that is that. Don’t argue with me woman. I have a burning desire to take this one for the team.” I am rather certain that the decision was made prior to any discussion even taking place. The wife knew that having already given birth to children that it was HIS TURN to deal with non-consummational, medically related activities in and near the neutral zone. I am sure that he knew that he had no real chance of ever receiving another conjugal visit in the bedroom if he even hesitated in his acceptance of the reality of the situation. I am sure that his wife even pretended that this was some parallel universe style Jeopardy episode and phrased it in the form of a question. (Alex, I’ll take Small Incisions for $1,000) She probably even discussed the upside of it - the long term cost savings on birth control, the ability to be completely spontaneous with passion (as long as someone planned ahead and got a babysitter), the fact that “all the men are doing it these days”. I bet she gave him all of this information like it made a lick of difference regarding the decision that SHE made sometime in the past (most likely 4-5 minutes after the birth of their last child). But, for the sake of the blogshere, let us be completely and totally honest:

1. I believe that his involvement in the decision making “process” did not even include a YES DEAR. He had no choice. It was a dictatorial style mandate handed down to him with clear and unwavering expectation of his complete and utter acceptance. Wherein acceptance does not require that change is possible or even conceivable, nor does it require that the situation be desired or approved by those accepting it. Indeed, here acceptance is required when the situation is both disliked and unchangeable, or when change may be possible only at great cost or risk (ie. a doctor can cut you or I will).

2. Even given the previous truth, it was in his best interest to act as if he not only agreed with the idea, but that it was, in fact, his idea to begin with. Knowing that no man ever comes up with the idea of allowing someone near his gonads with a sharp object and an intent to lacerate.

3. The concept that this incision into a man’s otherwise universally safeguarded and protected jewels somehow can be evaluated as equal to a woman having to bear children and give birth, is patently absurd. Girls grow up with an understanding that they can become pregnant and experience the miracle of birth. In fact, to be stereotypical and unashamedly sexist, girls are usually brought up looking forward to the day they can do this. They carry around little dolls pretending to have gone through it. ON THE OTHER HAND, boys do not grow up thinking “one day I can experience the miracle of someone carving up my ding ding“; we don’t look forward to the day that someone will come at us wielding a sharp object and a willingness to cut into our crotch; Mattel does not make a vasectomy kit for boys to play with; there is no such thing as a Little Tykes Slice and Dice Home Sterilization Play Yard. This goes against all that is instinctual and holy in our world. Jock straps are intended to hold protective cups for God’s sake! Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) else in our world is dedicated to the protection of our collective schlongs! And yet, every day men line up in front of little guillotines - euphemistically speaking of course - to voluntarily be surgically “key holed”.

Back to my buddy’s story, when I left off “they” had come to the “bilateral” conclusion that this was “best” for “them”. And so he went under the knife. A day surgery so they say. He was probably given anti-anxiety medication prior to the procedure. After all, nothing would cause more anxiety to a man than the thought of having a honed edged near one’s testicular area. Then a surgical team “prepped” him for the surgery which included the most intimate shave he has ever experienced (outside of some temporary collegiate experimentation under the influence of alcohol and liberal professors). Then an anesthesiologist loaded him up with some high quality drugs that would numb the pain – temporarily anyways.

I imagine that the medical team had the surgical theater all ready for the procedure. They would have anticipated that it would take the average 15 minutes to complete. They would have turned on some music for the doctor (because they always do that on TV and Lord knows that everything you see on TV is real). Maybe something classical to soothe everyone. Maybe something modern and toe tapping to keep the team awake and focused after hours of assembly line vasectomies. OR…maybe something topical from the 80’s like: AC/DC’s Big Balls; or Bryan Adams’ Cuts Like a Knife; Culture Club’s Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?; REM’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It; INXS’ New Sensation; Howard Jones’ Things Can Only Get Better; or even Pet Shop Boys’ What Have I Done to Deserve This?.

Unfortunately for my poor associate, this is where things stopped going according to plan. The 15 minute procedure was extended to almost 30 minutes. (Some of you might be saying, “big deal, so it took a little longer – there’s any number of reasons for that”) This is true, there could have been any number of reasons…but unfortunately this time there was only one reason.

A member of his family called me to chat and over the course of the conversation relayed unto me the unfortunate circumstances that he’d had to endure. They told me that the surgery took longer because, well, the Doctor…umm…he uhh…he was unable to…errr…locate his intended quarry so to speak. It seems that that he could not find my friends vas deferens. At this point I said to them, “Wait a minute. Did you just tell me that they couldn’t find his John Thomas?” (This is where I imagined that some member of the team walked over to the CD player and popped in a little U2, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.) To which they assured me that his baloney pony was visible to the naked eye. To be fair, they were looking inside for something completely different…but still, come on, that particular scenario HAS to be a shot to the ego. It just has to be. Think about this. No matter what the reason, anytime your tallywhacker is being sought out and the seeker (no matter who they be and no matter what the reason for seeking) cannot find said intended target…this has GOT to be excessively rough on the male ego. That is simply not the kind of thing that one would want appearing on a blog for example…but I digress.

To get back to the original story, I asked how they could not have…found their goal. And they told me that apparently, what they were looking for was a little higher up than expected. To which I obviously asked the same thing that you were probably thinking, “His testicles hadn’t dropped? Did you just tell me that? Cause that is what I heard you say.” Again, they assured me that this was not what they were saying. It was simply a matter of physiological differences and while there are norms that they work off of, everyone is unique. SO the outcome of this whole thing is that they had to cut yet another hole in his cojones and do some serious rooting around until they could snip the right things and henceforth effectively take him out of the gene pool.

What this meant for him was 72 hours of frozen peas on his swollen peas. That’s a lot of sitting in the lazy-boy watching TV and tuning into the networks for fear that something arousing would come on a cable channel and make his life even more painful. All the while his wife would diligently serve him and make him comfortable. Bringing him chips, beer, hard liquor, whatever it took to make him feel better. Hell, she’d have peeled grapes and fanned him with a palm leaf if he wanted. Cause every time she walked into the kitchen she smiled and thought “better you than me SUCKER.” Not only that, but you know she is now part of an ultra-secret sorority of women who have secret eye contact symbols where they can acknowledge each other in public, in grocery stores, in the bank, in a liquor store, in a church – wherever, and smirk at one another in nonverbal communication that says universally, “I got my man cut too!” I swear it exists. Take my word for it. No woman would ever admit it, but it’s real. Forget all this smoke and mirrors that the feminist movement spews out about inequities and glass ceilings. They shattered that glass ceiling a long time ago – and now those shards are used to slice us where it hurts. They giggle as they go to the grocery store to buy frozen vegetables before you go into surgery. They know they’ve won.

But there is always hope. Before my friend went quietly into that goodnight of fertility, he saw another guy at church and told him of the impending doom to his fruitfulness. With some sympathy, this man relayed his personal story of his Kaptain Kielbasa being cut down in its prime some 10 years earlier. My friend nodded with solemnity and trying to change the subject, noted that this man was alone that morning and asked after his wife, inquiring if she were sick. The man smiled and replied, “Kind of.. She’s at home with morning sickness.”

So maybe there is hope for my friend to one day find himself fertile again – not that being such is the end all be all of maleness. But they do say that 1 in 2000 men spontaneously regenerate their vas deferens even after being snipped and cauterized.

All I’m saying is that if the body “fixes” itself, then maybe, just maybe, it knows it ain’t supposed to be broke!!

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