So, it goes like this . . .
So… as you all know, my husband had hernia surgery last Friday.
Let’s just say, that he is so lucky to have someone to love him, and to wait on him, and to cook for him 24 hours a day… it’s really too bad she lives 3000 miles away…
Nah! Just joking… (Love you, Mama Karper!)
When he and I got married, one of my wedding gifts from him was for him to get a vasectomy.
“V” “V” for “Victory!”
“V” “V” for “Vasectomy!”
The crowd responds and roars with ample applause, “Yeeeeaaaahhhh!”
Yes, that was a happy (and relieving) time in our lives, and I think back to that night… that night of his vasectomy surgery when he came limping home.
I stood ready with a frozen bag of peas to place on his “nads.”
He laid down carefully in our four-poster bed (thick posts, I might add.) Uniquely (not to be confused with “Eunuch-ly” which would mean that his manhood would’ve been cut off altogether… or all apart… as the case may be) appropriate for this surgery, as they stand wide and tall, phallic-ly representing ample length and girth.
So, he lies in our bed and he retells the story of his surgery while his legs are spread with a package of peas on his delicate “package.”
Evidently the vasectomy procedure is done in stirrups… just like when all us chicks have to do when we go in for our beloved Pap smear. Yeah.
Well boys, we’ve had to be in this position for years, I might add.
And, I said an inward “Hallelujah!”
A man finally had to assume “the position.”
“Did the doctor ask you to scoot down?” I ask with an inward smirk…
His reply was, “Yes.”
My heart warms at the thought of my man, any man, having his bare fuzzy ass leering over the edge of that damn stirrup table.
Another inward “Hallelujah!” once again.
Of course I didn’t demonstrate to him my glee that his “taint” was exposed for all to see. I kept that to myself, as I smiled. But make no mistake, I did smile.
“Honey how do you feel, my love? Are the peas doing the trick? Maybe another package by now? Frozen carrots, perhaps?”
“No.” He says, “No carrots, thanks.”
Another use for the term, “Pass the peas, please” that is not dinner time usage. Hoorah for the expansion of our dear english language.
Peas… the new superfood.
Well, there he lies, pained and silence with spring fresh vegetables cooling his groin, and I said, “Let me make you dinner… you’ve had an awfully hard day.”
“Honey, you are just too good to me,” he said.
“I know. I am looking to repair that flaw of mine sometime soon.”
So, I go downstairs and prepare a meal fit for a vasectomized King.
While, upstairs he waits watching “2 1/2 Men”… and trying desperately not to laugh.
I prepared a bed tray for him.
I unfolded the legs.
I placed a napkin and flatware to the right.
A Diet Mountain Dew. The nectar of the caffeinated gods, I placed on the tray, and a glass of ice (with a straw) while my man’s dinner was cooking.
I could hear his pained “guffaws” as he resisted the surgery, the peas, and the “2 1/2 Men.”
But, I must prepare his food, mustn’t I?
If not me, then who would feed his vasectomized balls?
So on a plate I placed his meal, with a candle on the side.
Mood lighting, you know.
I carried the tray slowly… regally… I mean, he did do all this just for me.
He had his sack cut.
How much more love could he show me?
So yes, I carried this tray with pride and pomp because the circumstances lied there neutered on that bed.
And, I set down his tray of culinary delights… a hot dog and two apricots cut by a knife.