When you make a living as a communications consultant, you learn to live with disappointment.
A big contract you were expecting to get falls apart at the last minute.
You do everything right in a communications audit, but the client decides not to take any of your recommendations, and it was all for naught.
You break your ass to launch a great new communication vehicle . . . and there’s a change in leadership, and the new leader decides to “go in a different direction.”
All of those things have happened to me a lot more than once. So I’m used to having my expectations crushed liked grapes in a Tuscan winery.
But still . . . despite a career’s worth of disappointments, nothing prepared me for the disappointment and letdown I received three days ago. I was so crushed, it took me three days to be able to write about it.
But first, some background.
As regular readers of this blog know, I had a vasectomy in January. It was horrible. All those men who told me that “it’s nothing, just a little snip snip and you’re done” and “I was playing golf the same day I got it done” and “you won’t even notice it” are God damned macho son of a bitch liars.
You won’t even notice it? I noticed it. How do you not notice a searing hot, buzzing little rod being jammed repeatedly into your nut sack? How do you not notice that? And not only did it hurt at the time, but it hurt for a long time afterwards.
For a month, I walked like the Penguin on the old Batman series.
Anyway . . . after you get a vasectomy, you have to get tested, to make sure you’re shooting blanks. I was supposed to get tested in late April, but I never got around to it.
So on Wednesday, I finally decide to go in and get my stuff tested. Now, it’s important to note: When you do this, you don’t get to create the specimen at home. You have to go in there and create it at the lab.
Which is kind of naughty and exciting, isn’t it? And I was sure they would make it so easy for me to provide a specimen, too.
I had visions of this wonderful, dimly lit room, loaded with sexy magazines and videos, various lotions and oils, a comfortable couch to lay on, assorted little buzzy toys for the nether regions in case you lean that way, soft music playing . . . . in my head, the whole thing would be rather, I don’t know, romantic.
Except that I would be by myself. But I’m used to that.
So Cindy and I go to the clinic, get signed in, and a battle-scarred nurse says to me:
“Oh, you’re here for a fun test!”
Yes! I remember thinking. I AM here for a fun test. The rest of these sorry sons of bitches are going to be getting tubes or fingers rammed up their asses, or needles stuck in their arms . . . but I’m heading to the Pleasure Palace for a delightful little rendevous with myself!
I couldn't wait to get into my room!!
Then, the nurse shattered my dreams. She handed me a plastic cup, and said:
“Go in the bathroom. When you’re done, there’s a trap door in the wall. Put the specimen in the door and let me know when you’re finished.”
What’s this? The bathroom? Oh, I thought. That must be what they call the special little cozy love room. Cute.
But no . . . it was a bathroom. A public bathroom. No oils, no music, no porn, no buzzy toys . . . just a sink and a toilet and a trap door.
And the toilet didn’t even have a lid on it. It was a glorified fucking porta potty, is what it was.
And the worst part of it? I could hear the people in the lab on the other side of the trap door. I could hear them clearly!
Which meant, of course, that they could hear me! Not that I would be moaning loudly or anything. But could they hear me . . . I don’t know . . . rubbing? Could they hear and chuckle over a sort of whoosh whoosh whoosh noise?
Would they secretly be timing me? Was there a hidden peephole? Did the battle-scarred nurse go into the lab and say: “We’re going live in Bathroom Number One people,” so everyone could set their stopwatches?
One minute into my session, I convinced myself that people were, in fact, timing me. So I made it a macho thing, manhandled the son of a bitch, and got er done in about two and a half minutes. A minute of which was spent checking the trap door to make sure it was really shut tight.
It was the hardest I've worked since the time I did seven shifts at a factory, working an assembly line.
So I finished, stuck my specimen in the wall, and went out to face the nurse.
“I’m done,” I said.
“Okay, thank you,” she said.
“Was I the fastest one ever?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Was I close?” I said.
“I don’t keep track,” she said.
“But you probably have an idea,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“It was like, three minutes,” I said.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” she said.
“I bet I was the fastest,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
At that point, Cindy took me by the arm and led me quietly from the building, before I could make an even bigger fool out of myself.
Another day, another dream dashed. Such is life.
Comments (11)
“Could they hear and chuckle over a sort of whoosh whoosh whoosh noise?”
Steve, only if you are masturbating with a swatch of corduroy or making the woosh woosh noise yourself.
I’ll let you know how it works out at about 9:30.
Posted by Rob Patey | June 22, 2007 11:49 AM
Posted on June 22, 2007 11:49
OK couldn't wait.
No woosh woosh noise.
Still trying to figure out how to tell my wife why my corduroy slacks are now one leg cut offs.
Posted by Rob Patey | June 22, 2007 11:52 AM
Posted on June 22, 2007 11:52
Steve - Sorry for your great disappointment. However, if this is ANY consolation AT ALL for you, those of us who are fans of your "unique" style have missed you desperately and this was classic Steve.
P.S. Now that you're back the rest of the world will be spared any repeats of my painfully awful poetry, so you can consider yourself a battle-scarred humanitarian just by blogging - See, your pain isn't for naught!
Posted by Kristen | June 22, 2007 5:05 PM
Posted on June 22, 2007 17:05
Steve - you went to the wrong lab.
I must admit - I used to work in a hospital lab. And we did time people. Seriously. And then after they left we'd all look at to see if there were dead little swimmers in the scope.
And you are not the fastest...at least not against the guy we had here in NW Indiana - 1 minute, 40 seconds. ONE MINUTE 40 SECONDS. We all commented to each other on what a lucky, lucky woman his wife is.
Really??? Your goal was to be the FASTEST??? Ummmmm, trust me, in my lab - the fastest got made fun of. And so did the guys who took too long. (one guy was in there for 25 minutes. Either there was whiskey involved in his pre-visit tension release or he had hard-on anxiety because of the hidden cameras, I'm not sure) There's some undefinable area in between that makes a woman think she's got a shot at the O...
But I digress...
My lab would have noticed, Steve...that's all I'm sayin...
Posted by Rebecca (token IT Goddess) | June 22, 2007 5:45 PM
Posted on June 22, 2007 17:45
Steve,
Yep, this was pretty much my experience also, which is why I left the first sample and refused to go back for the next two scheduled follow-up visits.
I didn't time myself, but I remember thinking that I was taking too long. Hard to get into the spirit of the thing. Maybe we should invest in a man-designed clinic, where the experience will be so great that guys line up to get re-vasectomized.
Posted by Tom Keefe | June 23, 2007 5:11 PM
Posted on June 23, 2007 17:11
Gosh, remember back when Steve started blogging, and hardly used a mild swear word and stuck pretty much to comments about communications? I think we can safely say the blog has evolved to "everything has an element of humour to it and anything is fair game." You always make me laugh, Steve, no matter what the topic!
Posted by Sue Horner | June 24, 2007 10:46 AM
Posted on June 24, 2007 10:46
Steve,
My husband and I have been trying to get pregnant for awhile and he had to do one of these "tests" as part of our fertility analysis, but the lab did not have any place for him to contribute the sample onsite.
However, for his sample to be viable for the test he had to deliver it to the lab within 30 minutes of giving the sample, and they felt morning was the best time for the test.
We live about 30 minutes from the lab during non-rush hour time, so my husband had to stay home from work, wait for rush hour to end, have all the lab paperwork ready to go with him, "achieve" the sample, pull up his pants, run right out the door, and then drive like hell, hoping there was no accident, long traffic light, or unexpected road construction to impede his progress to the lab! Not to mention, the sample had to be kept at body temperature, so he was driving with the sample container between his legs!
Needless to say, he found this a stressful experience and wished there was somewhere, anywhere he could do the test onsite! Count yourself lucky...
We've missed you...please blog more often!
Posted by Sonya | June 25, 2007 2:13 PM
Posted on June 25, 2007 14:13
Steve:
Did they not tell you about the ice? The key to a relatively painless recovery from this procedure is ice -- copious amounts, applied (not directly, of course, but in a bag inside a towel or some such) to the target area for many hours afterward. No ice, no comfort.
And definitely no golf the same day. I wouldn't believe anyone who made that claim.
Greg
Posted by Greg Marsh | June 25, 2007 2:47 PM
Posted on June 25, 2007 14:47
Steve,
You may no longer be "master of your domain," but you are definitely master of THIS domain.
Posted by Robert J Holland, ABC | June 25, 2007 3:21 PM
Posted on June 25, 2007 15:21
Steve, I love your blog and have read it for years, but I think I may have to consider it NSFW: Not Suitable For Work. (I'm not a prude - I find your posts hilarious - but I'm not sure how my superiors would feel if they knew I was spending work time reading posts about masturbation.)
Alternatively, I could just try to make sure I check it when I arrive in the morning, since there's no one else here at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m.
Posted by Andrea S-R | June 27, 2007 9:49 AM
Posted on June 27, 2007 09:49
Sue, you're right -- usually Steve at least fabricated some sort of connection to communications. But who cares... I don't even do employee comms anymore but keep coming back for the sheer entertainment value.
And Sonya...does your husband know you share that story? On the Internet?
Steve, for the sake of Andrea S-R and others, maybe you should insert arbitrary sentences about communications in the middle of your anecdotes. Like, "...You have to go in there and create it at the lab. (A SIGNIFICANT SAMPLE SIZE IS OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE WHEN MEASURING YOUR RETURN ON INVESTMENT.)..."
Posted by ShariS | June 28, 2007 12:54 PM
Posted on June 28, 2007 12:54