20 Diseases

One of my fondest memories of childhood is playing 20 diseases in the car with my dad. It’s this game he made up for when we were on road trips. You know those god-awful trips with the entire family in which you are forced to go to a rock quarry somewhere in the middle of Oregon to look for geodes. Anyway, we had one of those super cool station wagons with the wood panels, except ours were just the doors painted to look like wood panels. It would be my two brothers and I crammed in the backseat with my folks upfront and the dog in the way back.

So the game went something like this… My dad would say I am thinking of a disease and then we would ask questions just like the game 20 questions. The person who got to 20 diseases won. So our questions would range from, “is one of the symptoms a rash?” Or “does it give you diarrhea?” Or “is it fatal?” Now this might seem like an easy game if my dad would have thought of diseases such as influenza or the common cold. But my dad is kind of a rare disease expert. So our questions would also include, “is it a kind of hemorrhagic disease?” Or “what type of contact does it spread through?” Or “is it hereditary?” We learned about all kinds of diseases; Hantavirus, Ebola, Creutzfeldt - Jakob disease. And the best part of this game, as far as he was concerned, was that no one ever got to 20. I don’t even think my brothers and I would have even known where to look to learn about diseases. We were young kids.

Typically he’d give us a few easy ones like Elephantitis or Lyme disease. Then we would spend the next few hours on the more difficult ones. My brothers and I would begin all these trips determined to win and then inevitably hate the game after losing round after round; My Dad taking bizarre pleasure in keeping us engaged and frustrated at the same time. I actually became pretty decent at this game predicting his pattern of going from dermatological disorders to diseases of the gastro-intestinal variety.

As an adult, I find that very few of my friends are interested in playing the game 20 diseases. I don’t have to miss the game though, since the game has morphed into something else. It has taken on a new premise and is usually it’s based on conversations that begin with, “I had unprotected sex with him 2 weeks ago and now I have a strange itch.” Or “there was a hard bump with a white pustule on his scrotum, what do you think it was.” Unfortunately with the adult version the only thing you typically win is a trip to Planned Parenthood and a prescription for antibiotics.

In the Pink...

Getting a bikini wax is quite a bonding experience. Not only do you end up bonding with the woman ripping hair off in between your legs, but it does seem to be a topic of conversation between women friends. As i was going in for my monthly manicure i couldn't help but think that this woman holding up my left leg up in the the air while shmearing a warm green goo on my nether-regions has a more intimate view of me than most guys I date. Seriously, a good brazillian takes at least 20 minutes. That is quite a chunk of time. Think about the last time you were downtown and how long you took? Frankly i have known her for a good 10 years and while she is ripping, we are rapping. I ask about her kids, she asks about dance. We talk about restaurants and movies and sometimes even dating. This is probably one of the most intimate relationships i have ever had.

In addition to knowing about my life - she has a perspective of me that I just don't have. I guess I could take the time to look, but still haven't got around to it at least not for a full 20 minutes. I have profound respect for her sense of professionalism as she pulls out her tweasers to make sure everything is even. This is one of those moments as she is completely between my legs I begin to think about how strange this would be on a date. I actually haven't had the experience of some guy telling me i am uneven. But her - she cares. She would notice. I appreciate this level of TLC.

As for my girlfriends - we spend inordinate amounts of time discussing this topic - who do you go to? Does it hurt? Do you go for the brazillian? How often do you go? How does it feel to be bald? And of course, there is always a virgin waxer in the crew. Being old-school (i have a lot of wax cred), I tend to be the "go to" for wax advice. I love these moments discussing skin sensitivity, ingrowns, and the best underwear to show off your new do. My friends and i have a great sense of humor about all this. We come up with new "hairstyle" ideas and sometimes even show them off.

Unfortunately, I find my waxer doesn't really have the same sense of humor. I did once make the mistake of calling the brazillian the pedophile special - that didn't go over too well and is probably the biggest near dealbreaker in my lasting relationships at the bikini wax shop. Hair ripping is serious business and I almost sabotaged one of my oldest relationships. We have since made up but i was quite concerned I'd have to date for a while until i found my new perfect wax relationship.

A Lap Dance for Jesus

On a typical Friday night I am usually kicking it with my best friend James at some dive. Since we have known each other since before I was old enough to drive I am sure you can imagine how many years of this we have clocked in together. We usually meet up at one of two dives in the financial district in San Francisco and then slowly make our way to the "better" dives of Oakland. For many years, Smitty’s was the bar of choice. Decent juke box, cheap shots, pool table and a great cast of characters. Recently James initiated a change of venue. I was skeptical about this new place until I met Jesus.

There were a few of us gathered around the pool table enjoying our beverages and playing rounds of pool. Then Jesus walked in; a fairly tall, thin white guy with a beard and long straight brown hair. He was the white archetype of Jesus in his white toga and hemp sandals. We were intrigued. I was first to notice and quickly pointed out to James that Jesus was drinking PBR. I was a bit surprised by his beer choice. For some reason I had always thought the son of God would have chosen a better tasting brew, but perhaps he was used to wine and didn’t have a palette for ale. Jesus then sat himself next to the pool table on a bench seat alone directly across from my little posse. We all agreed… Jesus looked sad. Certainly given the state of our planet we could all surmise why Jesus would be sad, and we all felt something needed to be done.

We ruled out buying Jesus a drink since he had just obtained one and buying Jesus PBR in a can seemed a bit sacrilegious. Then my friend Erin began rifling through her purse and pulled out $2, turns to me and says, “you need to give Jesus a lap dance!” And before I could answer, James slaps another $2 on top of Erin’s and says you should do it for $4. Now, just so everyone is clear, I have actually never given a lap dance, but even given my lack of experience I felt I was worth a bit more than 4 bucks. I say no way, minimum is $20. But my friends know me all too well and count on the fact that I can’t say no to any challenge, especially one such as this. How many opportunities in this lifetime do we have to give Jesus a lap dance? I decide I am still worth more than four and let them know that for four dollars I can make Jesus genuinely smile and for $20 I will surprise him by shaking my ass on his lap. And while my friends know me, I also know my friends and I knew they would rather spend their money on more booze than on a dare.

They went for the smile. So I strolled over to Jesus and plopped myself down right next to him. I turn and smile and say, “Jesus, my friends and I were concerned that you seem really sad and thought it might make you happy if I give you a lap dance.” Jesus lets out a little smile as I continue, “they even offered me $4 to do it although between you and I, despite my lack of experience, I think I am worth at least $20.” At this point Jesus begins to point and says, “see that girl in the toga over there?” I nod yes. “She’s my girlfriend, so I will give you $10 if you don’t.” I say deal and take his $10, we are both smiling as I stroll over and grab the 4 bucks from the table. Not bad for a typical Friday night.

A Shade of White

There are moments in life we realize how strong we are. Sometimes it’s in the physical sense such as lifting the sofa bed on moving day. Other times it’s when we realize that as life brings us obstacles, we handle them with dignity and grace. It’s these moments I find myself stuck in my head. I don’t share them. I quietly write about them. Letting myself have that alone time to just be in my head and feel all that I need to feel. I used to be so afraid of my feelings that the only emotion I could really allow myself was anger. I couldn’t imagine ever having any other sense of the world but anger. Dressed in black with my hair some various shade of purple or pink while referring to my Doc Martins as my sole mates. They were, afterall, the only shoes I owned at that time. It’s funny now, I can’t remember the last time I was really angry. Anger gave out long ago to the pity parties I used to throw myself which eventually gave way to the strength I aspire to maintain.

Today I wandered down the same hospital hallway I have grown to know since childhood. Today was different though. There was only paperwork to be signed and other family members to console while I breathed deeply reminding myself to be strong. There were the doctors doing their best to sound professional and optimistic when all of us knew the truth. We had all met here before. We knew the sterile smells, the sound of the nurses voice paging above and even some of the patients. But today was different.

I didn’t speak a word as I listened to all the questions barely audible through the choking back of tears. I looked from face to face to face as the words rallied back and forth. My mind began to drift. I thought about my third birthday. I remembered the Raggedy Ann cake and the banging on the front door. It was the bomb squad. We were to be evacuated. They had discovered 26 sticks of dynamite under the house and now we had to go. My mother refused, screaming that I hadn’t blown out the candles on my cake. I had to make a wish before we left. I remember the men dressed in white as they stood around singing. She had her way… with one exception. There was a giant flashlight lit up in the middle of the cake. And after I made my wish and blew my young breath against the metal, the light was switched off.

Panties and a Shave

I am beginning to think that shaving my legs before a date has become a jinx. For many women, including myself, shaving legs before a date can be ritual. But perhaps it is this very ritual that jinxes any possibility of taking the date home or even wanting to see this date again. On those occasions I don't have time to shave nor put on those perfectly cute panties, the chemistry is just right and then I am faced with some poor guy rubbing stubble and finding me in granny panties. (sorry for the heterosexist rant - but I can only speak from my own experience). I try to think to myself that no dude even cares if he finds stubble and briefs, after all I am naked and they are about to get laid. Maybe this is what the lesson needs to be for all dates - if you find stubble and ill-fitting panties it's simply because taking you home was exactly the plan.

And what is the male equivalent? Do guys think about their stubble? Do they think about which boxers or briefs to wear? I don't know of any woman that has been completely bummed after taking a guy home and finding that he is commando. Smell yes, tightie-whities, no. But none of us are happy to find stink, so that doesn't really count. I guess I could ask all those ball-shavers - do they think about their stubble. Do they give themselves a nut wax before going out? But then how many woman really care about stubble on scrotum? I haven't heard of any tongue injury's due to "stubble that could kill" on balls before. Although that term is definitely used about legs and facial hair. I am guessing that if i lament about male facial stubble i could possibly get censored, so i will leave that to everyone's imagination.

I do have to wonder though, if there was an impact on women when the 5 o'clock shadow was in style. I wonder if there was an increase in visits to the doctor for stubble burn. I can only imagine those visits to the doctor - "what we have here is a terrible abrasion. I will be prescribing you some antibiotic cream. The gillette razors are for your male partner which can be picked up in the pharmacy".