Rhoid Rage

Pictured: Slang for asshole

WARNING: The following includes what some may consider "too much information," specifically regarding my anatomy. I apologize. I have tried to keep it PG by using childish euphemisms and not being too visceral, but if you have a weak stomach perhaps this would be a good one to skip.

Consider yourself warned.

...

I'm only 31, but apparently that isn't too young to start having old man problems. The issue began last Friday. Darby and I were having a typical evening at home, staying up until almost 2 a.m. sewing/teaching me to sew,* when I started feeling a little sore on my bottom, particularly with the window-rattling flatus I was periodically experiencing. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time—we'd had Indian food for dinner and, being vegetarians, we are extremely gassy anyway—but there was a distinct stinging sensation down there as I prepared for bed.

I didn't sleep well at all. I woke up several times from the discomfort, and I could see that I hadn't moved all night. By morning I felt exhausted and was fairly certain my symptoms were more than the average bout of excess methane.

At first I tried to ignore it, even believing I might not have to tell Darby. However, it didn't take long for her to deduce something was wrong. For one thing, I was extremely edgy, bellowing at the dogs for walking through the piles I'd just made while sweeping the floors. The other giveaway was that I couldn't sit. I was just pacing and doing random chores to keep busy.

At one point Darby asked how I was doing, and I meekly admitted that I had something wrong on my butt. She sympathized and said pimples on one's butt can be very uncomfortable. I explained this wasn't a pimple, and described the location more accurately.

Until the moment Darby used the word "hemorrhoid," I was still in denial about it. It seemed impossible that it could happen to me, a regular guy. Granted, it's not a subject that comes up too often with my friends, but as far as I knew, I was too young and healthy for this to be happening. I thought it might just be an irritation or an allergy or something that would magically go away if I ignored it. And maybe it would've, but it turns out it's not that easy to ignore what feels like an intermittent pinch of pliers on your anus.

It's a cliché to feel embarrassed buying certain things in public, but I figure cashiers have seen it all. Once I was buying only a single, muscular cucumber, while the guy directly behind me was buying only a can of Redi-Whip. The cashier also noticed this and looked at both of us, trying to decide why we were paying separately. As I was paying, the urge to say something like, "Honey, I'll be in the car," was overwhelming, but I held it together.

Another instance of potential humiliation was the first time I bought condoms. They were locked away in a glass case, to prevent people from having sex through mortification I guess. In order to purchase them I had to first ask an employee to unlock them for me. Of course, the person I asked did not have a key to the case so they actually got onto the phone/loudspeaker rig and broadcast that "Jennie" was "needed at the condoms."

This stuff never bothers me. I figure I'll probably never see any of these people again. And even if I do, I'm just not all that concerned about the opinions of Walgreen's employees. Until now. Suddenly the prospect of standing in line with a tube of Western Family Ointment at nine in the morning seemed profoundly upsetting. Even laying the item on the conveyor belt seemed to be inviting too much scrutiny, so I just held it label-down against my thigh.

For obvious reasons, I went to the closest store possible. The problem with this decision is that I will see these people again. I see them all the time. The cashier was kind. She quickly scanned the item, flicked it into a bag and sent me on my way. Normally, she is extremely friendly, but I noticed she didn't look me in the eyes. From now on I will be that boy who has something wrong with his ass.

Even though Darby and I have been married for six years and have been through our share of embarrassing moments of intimacy, the act of going into the bathroom to apply the ointment was also singularly shameful. There is just something about knowing my wife knows I am, at this moment, smearing gel onto my butt hole that I found upsetting.

Again, I would like to apologize for the graphic nature of this story, but this was not even the worst part. No, the worst part was the actual application of the medicine because it is at this point that I first meet my new friend, the hemorrhoid.

I don't know what I thought a hemorrhoid was, or how it should look and feel, but I guess I expected it to be more like a small sore, something more akin to a nostril zit or some such ailment that causes a disproportionate amount of pain for its size. And perhaps some hemorrhoids are. Honestly, my knowledge of them is limited. What I do know is the thing that was now protruding from my pooper was quite a bit larger than I was expecting, and it definitely didn't want me rubbing anything onto it. Upon locating it, I audibly gasped.

I didn't get a mirror or anything, I'm not a weirdo, but if I had to guess I'd say my sphincter had assumed the shape of a coiled snake that had recently ingested a cow. And as with my real-life encounters with snakes, I got out of there as quickly as possible.

It's odd to feel so repelled by a part of one's own body. Even without swollen lumps, we use paper barriers in order to clean our butts, rather than just rinsing with soap and water like every other part. We are conditioned from an early age to think this is an unclean place, yet we let our dogs on the sofa and they don't even wear pants. Even the subject is taboo, as evidenced by the face you are likely making while reading this.

The worst part is, I am still not sure what brought this on. It was very sudden, and was not the result of anything irregular. I spent most of that day going over everything I've ingested in the past few days, becoming increasingly paranoid I had created an accidental, and therefore repeatable, combination of hemorrhoid-inducing foods. Was it the new green tea? The two bowls of granola? The flax meal in the granola? The ratatouille I made? Eggplant always gives me trouble...

Fortunately, after what was a fairly long day of hanging out of the couch, I think I am going to live. The ointment works (sort of), and my discomfort is slightly lessened. I even managed to go to a friend's house this evening, and they never once asked about strange postures or wincing.

Living with hemorrhoids is not so different from being a normal person, except I have to sit down and stand up more slowly, and every once in a while I get a shooting pain in my ass. The tricky part will be tomorrow when I have to go to school (obviously I won't be able to bike) and sit through two lectures on un-upholstered chairs. Wish me luck. I'll let you know how it goes. Or perhaps not.


* I don't know what it is about so-called woman's work that I enjoy so much. I think my estrogen levels must be too high from all the tofu and art school. I still like football and other guy stuff, but I noticed I tend to get weepy when Brett Favre retires every year.

Hunter/Gatherer

Why isn't "hero" a job anymore? I would save princesses all damn day.

Unless I get accepted to the University, (and I probably won't), I will be waiting for the next two years to begin my actual nursing school. It's not a sure thing. I might get in. But if I were a betting man I'd say no.

I am attempting to enter what they call the "second degree option," a program specifically suited for art school burnouts who want to start a new career but don't want to take English Composition I again. This means I can transfer my credits from my first trip through college and just jump right in with the juniors (and by jump right in I mean I had to take 16 credits worth of biology courses). This is great because it means I can get a bachelor's degree in the same amount of time it would take to get an associates degree at my current school (and that's not counting the two year waiting list). Unfortunately, it looks pretty bleak.

The problem is with my grades. You see, I wasn't always a straight-A student. I got a fair amount of B's, and there were even a few C's my freshman year while I adjusted to life out on my own, juggling homework and copious amounts of drugs.

C's were never acceptable to my parents. After my first grade card the following conversation took place:

Mom: "You shouldn't be getting a C in Art History."
Me: "What could my grades in Art History matter in the long run?"
Mom: "You never know. You might not always want to be an artist."
Me: "I would rather die than not be an artist!"

I did eventually learn to be a good student. At some point I just got sick of being told my art was shitty and I started spending more time on it. As for the history classes, I just stopped taking them.

My cumulative GPA at the time of my application will be just above a 3.6. This isn't terrible, but the fact is it might not be good enough. A lot of it will depend on who else applies. They only accept 8 people per semester to do the second degree option. If I'm not one of them, I'm not exactly going to be surprised. And it's nice to know that so many of the people entering my field are huge nerds. Of course, what this means really is if I don't get in I will have two years to kill, and I have started to plan accordingly.

...

Job hunting is one of my least favorite activities. There is something so humbling and artificial about all of it, from the way I feel I am supposed to dress* to the way I am suddenly forced to answer questions that don't have right answers. At these moments, it is as though I am watching myself on a video and I can see what a jerk I am being made to look like. It all feels like a test to see if I will play along. Usually I do, but I come across as so awkward or milquetoast that I wouldn't hire me either. And there are the times when I decide to inject a little humor, you know, to liven up the interview process. I've heard that you want them to remember you when you walk out the door, but I'm not clear on how to accomplish this. I'm not very tall. I have ordinary clothing. I don't wear cologne. The only thing I really have is a sense of humor, one which I have learned through trial and error is quite strange.

The thing is, even though I know this, I can't always contain it. Sometimes, when I'm put in a situation that calls for seriousness and good manners, I can feel something diabolical swelling inside my chest, like an hysterical laugh in the middle of church, and I say something I don't fully understand. Once I was asked what type of animal I would be. In a low growl, I said I was an animal. Another time I was asked which position I was applying for, at a restaurant mind you.

I answered, "I don't know... Bounty Hunter?" The guy look at me like I was crazy, and I think he was onto something. He repeated the words Bounty Hunter very matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," I said, my initial enthusiasm quickly receding. "Do you have those? No? Okay then, cashier I guess." As I left I thought I could hear the shredding of an application.

There was a time when finding a job was extremely simple. I would go to a place where a girl I liked worked. I would fill out an application, which probably didn't take long because I had no prior experience. I would get an interview, to which I would dress nicer than I ever would again for that job, and suddenly I would be offered a job. At one point I had a perfect track record—I had been hired for every job I'd ever interviewed for, and I don't remember doing anything special to prepare besides laying off the weed for the afternoon. I can't figure out what I've lost in the time between when I was a greasy high-schooler with no goals and now, where I have had a dozen jobs, earned two college degrees, and I don't wear sandals to the interview. Whatever it is, they all pick up on it immediately. I never get offered jobs anymore.

To date, I've applied four times to Whole Foods, the stupid jerks. I go to the store and I can see who they're hiring instead of me. Usually it's more teenagers with filthy hair and no experience. One thing I have noticed is that their employees tend to have odd names, like Maverick, or Yessiree, which is why on my most recent application I wrote John "D'Brickashaw" Photos.

Based on a bit of advice from a former employee, I also tried to pull a fast one.

The application is an annoyingly complex process that has to be done entirely online. In a way this is good because I can not get the job without even leaving the house. But there is also no way to tell if anyone is actually reading my résumé. With this in mind, I put on a tie, drove to the store, and asked to speak to the manager. I calmly explained that when I had pasted my info in the text box it looked all jacked up and silly, and here was a copy of my properly formatted résumé on ivory stock, to which they replied, "Let me get the Team Leader."

Andrea, the Team Leader, was friendly, but I could also see she felt like I was either too stupid to use the online form or too pushy to follow the rules. She asked why I wanted to work at Whole Foods, like it's a lifestyle decision or something. I told her I loved Whole Foods, particularly the bakery to which I was applying, and in fact had made a pie only the night before.

"What kind?" she asked.

For some reason when I said "apple" it sounded so obvious that she probably thought I was lying about baking it in the first place. She thanked me for coming in.

If I don't get hired at a grocery store it won't be so bad. What I'm really hoping for is a job at a hospital. Unfortunately, even the most rudimentary positions require either some kind of certification or prior experience, and this means yet more school. Still, I applied for 7 different jobs at various hospitals—everything from housekeeping to outpatient aide. I even wrote a nice cover letter outlining my plan to become a nurse and my desire to work in the field. I felt I was convincingly assertive yet humble and eager. I made it clear that I would accept any position offered, but still no word.

I've also applied to a local coffee chain, a national coffee chain, and the hippie grocery store where you have to be a "member." Frankly, I don't see how any of these places are going to hire me either. Even as I fill in my work history, I can see that there is nothing I'm putting down that is going to convince the manager I would make a good barista since I haven't already been a barista.

Some of the applications ask more personal questions, such as "are there any accomplishments or awards you would like us to consider?" What on Earth do people write? If they'd truly achieved something worthwhile they probably wouldn't be looking for work at a coffee shop. And even if they have, how would it carry over?

I could write, "I once beat The Legend of Zelda in one sitting. I also defeated Contra** without losing a single man. And I can jump over the hood of a car." I honestly think these things are impressive, but they aren't going to demonstrate my prowess with giving people correct change, as though people use cash anymore.

Alas, I'm back to surfing Craig's List, but that is truly a dismal place these days. I did find a job post titled "Stable Help" that required "some experience with horses," this way the person they hire won't be frightened by the amount of poop. I never really wanted to muck stalls again, having done that throughout highschool for my pony, Thunder. I taught at one of the most prestigious art schools in the country. I earned a master's degree when I was 23. But I guess you can't escape your past. I'm just a shit-shoveler after all. I'll probably call tomorrow.


* Actually for someone who has never held a job that required ties, I own a pretty solid collection. I just feel stupid walking into Starbucks dressed up and holding my application. It's so obvious to everyone that you are hoping to get hired at Starbucks. It's like asking someone out in public, and they say they have to think about it.

** That means I could beat it without using UUDDLRLRBASelectStart, suckas! Interesting side note: my little brother once went Trick or Treating as a "Contra Man" (his words, which he had to repeat at every door). He wasn't allowed to go shirtless though, which is fine because he probably weighed 60 pounds. Instead he carried a laser gun, wore a red bandana, and a beige top. I went as a football player, which was also met with some confusion when it was pointed out that there was no team called the Michigan Rams.