Some days I don’t have to go out of my way to find something to write about in my blog. I’m perfectly content to skip a few days, better to have something to say rather than bore you with the details of what I had for lunch or how I’m sorting the laundry (right, I’m a guy. Sort? Everything in hot!)

This week my wife’s off from work. She’s taken off to do a concentrated time of potty training with the boys. Apparently she’s of the belief that all the effort she puts into training them before she goes to work flies right out the window once daddy takes over with his “a little poop in your britches won’t kill you” approach. Unfortunately, it has also given her additional time to nag me about a few things, namely my need for a check up.

I don’t have good luck at the doctor’s.

It’s not that I don’t like them. Her. It’s more that I don’t go out of my way to visit her. I hate being the subject of the game “interesting places to stick a finger,” but there was concern over the mystery of the strangely swollen testicle. Yeah, I know, we’re entering into too much information territory, but bear with me. My doctor assume that I have this hypochondriac streak in me, thus why I only go to her if an appendage is dangling off. Or something completely inappropriate be leaking. Which brings me to her treatment of said streak: submitting me to the humiliating test, thus me suffering through the mammogram (he of said leaking breast, the account of which can be found in Morbid Curiosity #8).

Now, I like my doctor, but she has this way of half-glancing at me like I’m detailing my latest UFO abduction. It doesn’t help that, like the toothache that prompted the visit to my dentist earlier that morning, the pain was no longer present. But, hey, I don’t take any chances when it comes to my boys. It’s part of that simple code that I live by. Don’t ask me why I’m so paranoid. Cancer doesn’t run in my family. Heart disease doesn’t run in my family. Heck, only bad moods run in my family. My doctor decides to placate me by sending me for an ultrasound.

For the record, there’s no such thing as easy small talk once you’re naked from the waist down next to a lot of expensive looking machinery. I tried anyway, as the technician prepared to smear a ton of gel on the holy twins.

“Gee, I hope that’s been warmed.”

“Of course, we don’t learn anything if they shrivel up on us now do we?”

Like I needed a smartass lab tech. He then asked me to hold my main guy while he did his brand of picture taking. Normally if I hold myself that long, I’m ready for a nap. In this case, I’m smeared with gel, get to listen to my pulse down there (which reminded me too much of listening to my kids’ heartbeat when my wife had her ultrasounds), and without so much as dinner first, am left with my penis looking like it just got a Jheri curl.

Luckily it turned out to be only a benign cyst.

The long and short of things is that I am not to play so rough with my boys, uh, my kids. Though, I assume that’s why for Christmas they bought me a “Daddy cup”.

And yeah, I pretty much wrote this whole thing for the “my penis with a Jheri curl” image.