Sunday, 22 November 2020

Notes On A Vasectomy

The worst thing about leaving this blog alone for so many years is the lost opportunity to keep you all updated on the state of Husband's balls. Not the varied shaped and sized ones that he likes to hit around a golf course or yank off some poor child in pursuit of a Try. Nope, no siree, I mean the actual balls, the ones that produce fertile swimming things that resulted in an ENORMOUS AMOUNT OF PAIN for me. Yup, those balls.

Older readers, oh loyal ones, will have followed the hilarious antics over our thirties as a vasectomy was contemplated. For you new readers I have been Generous and Organised and linked the three ball centred episodes at the bottom of this post so you can catch up. You're welcome.

 Anyway, it is a relieved and exhausted Millennium Housewife who gets to announce that he finally got them done, dramatically and not without a yelp, but he did it. God bless the ball surgeon.

It wasn't without its incidents. The trauma of having to Shave The Area began our day, with Husband asking if he could borrow my razors:

"Women's are softer" he wailed contemplating the pink handle and inflated price tag of my Gillette, "they've got a moisturising strip," which they have, and do moisturise the first ten centimetres of my legs perfectly.

There then followed an hour of scrape, scrape ouch as Husband attempted the tricky turns and twists rarely found on a chin or cheek and rendered himself bald in the place no-one should ever, ever, have to look at bald.

He walked out of the bathroom rather proudly, and surveyed himself in the mirror, Doomed from the get go, there they hung, like two bald sea urchins knocking together in a fisherman's net. He turned to clench each ginger-furred buttock in turn and flexed his arms, checking his biceps still worked. 

"Still male," he boomed to no one who was listening and sprayed himself with Dove For Men. He got dressed, more buoyant than bouffant which was pleasing.

As we left the house we passed Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head, standing along the drive in a row of black armbanded mourning. Pokey carried a set of large, inflatable scissors and Stu was dressed as a nurse. I think Bucket Head had misunderstood the brief and was waving two gay flags enthusiastically and shouting encouraging words. 

"Aright Pokes!" Yelled Husband, bravado abounding, "want an autograph?", Pokey attempted to push the scissors crotchwards and Husband leapt nimbly aside, managing a quick wave, much in the manner of a celebrity. It was actually quite impressive and he bounced into the car all puffed and proud.

This buoyancy lasted, ooh about the thirty minutes it took to drive to the ball lopping off clinic. Disappointingly the clinic was not as exciting as I make its sound. I had dreams you see dear Reader, that the ball clinic would be appropriately and elegantly appointed. A kind of advert if you will, for what goes on inside. Bricks and mortar shaped buttocks, scalpel shaped tiles anointing the roof, bandages for curtains and the hedges topiaried as flaccid, mournful penises. But no, it was boringly grey and square, the only excitement shown by the women, drinking champagne and toasting each other in a pop up tent on the lawn.

Millennium Housewife had a great time, those women were brilliant. I have definitely made two new friends; they tell great jokes, drink champagne and generally make a day of it. I was only sorry I hadn't bought a cake.

Husband emerged an hour and two bottles later, cheered drunkenly by Susan and Annie, my new friends. He drove us home (I'd had way too much champagne) gently, wincing around the corners.. 

It was like watching Twizzle come home from the vet all over again. Subdued and disorientated, Husband took himself to the sofa and spent the afternoon sitting on an inflatable with rugby and beer. 

"They all look so male" he whimpered, watching another scrum half do something rugbyish and getting himself up gingerly for another ball numbing beer. Credit where credit's due, he did manage the walk from sofa to beer fridge admirably well. It was slow though, and clumsy, like watching Lassie operate in a low oxygen environment.

So there he sat, de-balled and mournful, for about a week, head hung and vitality lost. Until that is Pokey visited, hinting darkly that they may be closing the pub down since revenue had plummeted. Ever the superhero Husband mustered a large sigh and stood himself up to save the local. Managing a slight spring in his step he charged down the road, carrying his inflatable, Lassie to the rescue. My hero.

 Catch up on the ball play here:  Firstly in the naive and optimistic To Snip or Not to Snip, followed closely by a failed New Year's resolution to finally get them chopped in  Cutting The Ties That Bind , and lastly the nail biter of an episode where you were left guessing whether the dog or Husband had finally succumbed to the scrape in New Balls Please. I know you were all delighted for Husband when (spoiler alert) it turned out that it was Twizzle who had sacrificed his tubes in service of population control.


Vicus Scurra said...

You obviously think it is OK to come and go as you please.
If your husband was a real man ....

ADDY said...

Ouch and double ouch! Glad to see you back again.

MONK said...

good article


Kampus terkemuka said...

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