C used to be a pharmacy rep for a baby formula company. Because of this, our garage was filled with crates and crates of the stuff. Every two months or so a semi-truck would pull up in front of the house and the driver would use a forklift to deliver pallet after pallet of formula boxes. This would occasionally confuse some of our neighbors, who assumed that C was pregnant and that we really believed in being prepared.
She left that job and is now the COO of a super-upscale concierge medical practice that is focused on issues related to men’s sexual health. The two urologists to whom the practice belongs are good guys and C really enjoys the job. Their offices are amazing, their client list very exclusive, and they provide extensive cutting edge service. If you live in Northern Virginia, have lots of money and are unhappy with your sexual performance, this is the place you go for help.
I explained what she does to my father, who accurately summed it up by saying, “Ah, so she helps rich guys get erections? Of course she does.”
This new job has had an amusing effect on a daily tradition at our house, the dinner time “what did you learn today” conversation.
We do this every night. We try to always all eat dinner together, and while we do it, we go around the table and talk about one thing we learned. The boys have begun to react with mock horror every time it is their mother’s turn.
“So,” what did you learn about penises today, mom?” T1 will say, and then pointedly put his fingers in his ears and stare at her, blank faced and deaf.
T2 takes another tactic adopting, for some reason, a radio news person persona.
“Hello ladies and gentlemen,” he will say, pantomiming holding a microphone and sounding weirdly like a kid Edward R. Murrow, “today we are going to interview the lady who talks about tentacles all the time.”
He knows the correct word is testicles, he just thinks “tentacles” is funnier. He’s right.
To be fair to C, she hardly talks about tentacles all the time, but if you are eight, once is probably plenty.
Recently the practice filmed a new promotional video for their website. It was designed to show what the experience of a visit to their office is like. Somehow, I was wrangled into a playing a prominent role in said video.
I decided my character’s name was Stone Riprock. I was a successful litigator from New Jersey, recently divorced, who was ready to get back into the dating scene but didn’t want any little Stone Riprock’s running around. I could have been suffering from erectile dysfunction or low testosterone, but I couldn’t even IMAGINE what having those two conditions would be like, so I stuck as just a man with super powerful sperm. I spent the day pretending to meet the doctors, pretending to have a vasectomy and then really lounging around drinking bourbon while wearing a comfy robe in their extremely nice recovery room, all things that actually occur in their offices.
“I just like that you found a way to make whiskey the cure for male sexual issues for a change,” observed my friend John after watching the video.
It’s online now. It came out well, with only one thing marring an otherwise perfect promotional representation of having your vas deferens clipped in an opulent setting. That one thing was my hair.
I’ve mentioned it on these pages before, but I hate my hair. It’s horrible. I’ve got a little bald spot that the boys love pointing out. It’s always been fine and now it is thinning in the front. The fineness has always made it a styling nightmare. In the 90’s I had the hair drapes look, parted in the middle. In the 2000s I went with it lazily parted to one side.
What I didn’t realize until watching the video is that I’ve been parting my hair on the wrong side. For a decade. And none of you ever told me.
Or maybe you did. Pretty much every time I’ve gone for haircut the stylist has attempted to part it on the other (correct) side and I have consistently said, “oh no, I part it like this.” This hasn’t happened once or twice, it happens just about every time and with a variety of stylists. Still, it never occurred to me that I was doing it wrong.
The minor change in coiffure doesn’t instantly change me into George Clooney or anything. But it does, inexplicably, make me look…better. I’ve got a weird face to begin with, C’s face, for example, is pretty much perfectly symmetrical, my face looks like maybe I had the most minor of strokes. Parting my hair on the other side, however, balances out the droopiness ever so slightly. It ends up making me look more adult, closer to my 40 years (superhero t-shirts aside). It’s the kind of haircut that Stone Riprock would actually have.
It makes me wonder what other minor things I’ve been doing wrong for a majority of my life.