And so, as the sun will rise and set, the cycle of pranks continues. The only other person that can appreciate, retaliate and enjoy these pranks with such passion, is Dylan.
Chapter 26
Forever After-Dylan
Grant: Let me tell you what your sister did to me this week. I was going through airport security and handed the TSA agent my driver’s license. He looked at it, laughed, and told me it was “very funny.” I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. When he handed me back my ID, apparently someone had covered it in clear tape and drew on my face.
Dylan and I erupt in laughter. The little kids also erupt in laughter even though they have absolutely no clue what is funny. Which is funny. We’re at Dylan and Nikki’s house. I’m sitting next to my husband as he’s telling this story and I’m proud of myself. Dylan is clearly proud of me too.
Grant: Then, as I’m going through the next leg of security and have to pull out my bag of clear liquids, someone put a large bottle of KY in my plastic baggie which was too big to go through security. So in front of the agent I had to pull it out. She asked me if I wanted to put it my checked bag. I said, “No thanks, I’ll just throw it.”
Laughter erupts throughout the room.
C.J.: But none of that tops the time Dylan put his nut sack in your respirator and sent you a picture after you’d used it.
The whole room rattles with the vibrations of people who love each other and love to prank one another. Except Grant. He’s not laughing. He’s making fun of us laughing. Which evokes more laughter.
Dylan: Grant, you know I only did that because you ate the last three of my monster cookies.
Which apparently in guy world constitutes retaliation.
Nikki: But the best time was in Jamaica when you [pointing at Grant] stuffed that napkin in your mouth that Dylan had just wiped his ear puss on. Nikki can barely finish what she’s saying. And then . . . you got up . . . and had to vomit. BAHAhahahahah!
Grant looks like he might vomit again thinking about that incident. And it may seem like we’re ganging up on him but it’s not without good cause.
I’ve come to Dylan’s today with only one thing in mind that I must get done before we leave. It’s time to ask him my questions. Dylan is sitting next to me on the worn, brown leather sofa in his living room. His legs are crossed, which is odd. You’d think he’d be a man spreader but he’s not. He’s holding a small dark glass bottle of beer. A red strip, from Jamaica, of course. It’s Sunday, there’s a football game on TV but no one is watching it because a Pixar film is on for the kids instead.
C.J.: Dylan, when did you first suspect Grant and I were together?
Dylan: Grant, listen. You have to help me with this date ‘cause I don’t know dates. I first thought about you guys like, yeah maybe you really are screwing around, but I don’t know the date. It was that night we all went to Willy’s.
Grant: God there were so many. Maybe it was that night we put chalk handprints on everyone’s back.
Laughter erupts once more and Dylan’s dog Peanut, apparently annoyed, jumps off the couch and goes to lie down away from the raucous.
C.J.: That was hilarious. You guys know that somewhere we have pictures of each of the victims that night. Some show the handprints and some are with you two smiling with your arm around some stranger who is thrilled to be a part of whatever is so funny.
Nikki: Everyone in the bar had a white handprint on their back.
Nikki is sitting on the sofa too, holding the baby. A girl, their second little one who is only a few months old. Nikki and Dylan got married in Jamaica just two years after we all traveled there together.
Dylan talks slowly and deliberately with great expression and passion in everything he says, no matter how significant. When he begins to tell a story the inflection in his voice is so dramatic you’d expect to hear that someone died when all that really happened was someone farted into the microphone on stage last Saturday night.
Dylan: I can’t remember exactly if I left, or you left. We were at Willy’s having a good time and the next day someone told me that you two stayed together after everyone left or maybe that you’d left together. And I found out you guys were probably together all along. Because why would Grant want to stay up any later than me? We were done having fun. Dylan looks at Grant and freezes. Dude did you just get splashed by those balls?
Dylan hauls off into full on belly rolling laughter because the plastic ice cube ‘balls’ that are in Grant’s Bloody Mary just dropped into his drink splashing him in the face. Grant wipes the drink from his chin and shirt. It shouldn’t really be that funny but apparently everything is funny when we’re together and drinking.
Dylan: Speaking of balls, I have nine rounds in.
Nikki looks at Dylan and silently shakes her head. She’s had to hear him tell everyone about this and knows this will not be the last time he will be talking about his ejaculations with friends and family. And sometimes strangers. My husband shakes his head too.
Grant: I can’t catch up. I still have pain.
Nikki: Are we talking about the Brosectomies again?
Now the girls burst out into gut-splitting laughter. Dylan and Grant are not laughing with us.
C.J.: Brosectomies! Bhahahah! I can’t stop laughing I can hardly speak. What a great fucking term. Nikki, you’re a genius.
Nikki: [bowing] Thank you. Thank you.
C.J. : [laughing] The Brosectomies.
Chapter 27
Forever After-Brosectomies
“Which surgery do you want to go through with?” My hands were on my hips and I was ready for a full debate. “A vasectomy or an abortion? Huh? ‘Cause the way I see it those are the choices. And I’m telling you now, if we are faced with having to have the conversation on whether or not to have a baby if I get pregnant at fifty-five, I’m going to be pissed and resentful.”
“Honey I know, I know. I just haven’t made the call yet. I will.”
“Right. Just like you’ll get the basement finished seven years ago.”
“But what if we want to have another one. What if something happens to one of the kids?”
“We’ll adopt,” I said. I’ve said it before. “We’ll start a hobby farm and rescue animals. We’ll volunteer at the hospital with sick kids. We’ll figure it out. If you want to have more kids, find someone to drop one off at the door and count me in! But I seriously CANNOT grow another human. Look at my hair! It’s almost all gone, imagine what the inside of me looks like!”
“It is not. Your hair is fine.”
“You see this bald spot!” I part my hair in the back to show him the bald spot that never grew back after my third pregnancy. “Don’t you see what our shower looks like after I wash my hair? It’s like a goddamn chinchilla crawled down the drain. Wait. I just thought of something. You’re only saying you might want to have more kids so you can put off the little knife surgery that’s a ten-minute office visit, aren’t you?”
“Of course not. You’re right, we’ve talked about this. I’ll do it.”
“Look. You brought it up a long time ago and said that’s what we’d do. Why is this not done already? It’s been three years. THREE years! It’s a fifteen-minute visit for fuck’s sake. Why are you still dragging your feet?”
He shrugs. And because I know he is the Grand Pooba Supreme King Procrastinator I realize this may never get done and that I have to go to DEFCON 1. There was no other option. “Sweetheart.” I change my tone. “Do you love me?”
“Yes I love you.”
I change my tone again. “Did you love me last night?”
“Yes I loved you good last night.”
“Yes you did baby. I hope it was memorable ‘cause that’s the last time you’re going to see my naked ass bent over the bed until you get this done.”
I didn’t want to have to use that card.
I really didn’t.
I knew if I played that hand, I’d have to follow through so I didn’t say
it lightly. He told me long ago on his own accord that once we were done with kids it was the no-brainer thing to do, and that he wanted to do it. Now he was just putting it off for reasons unknown to humankind. I was simply holding him to what he said or like that canoe full of mail, ten years would go by and we’d have enough sperm saved up to populate a whole colony.
“Well, we don’t have to have sex,” I can feel my temperature rise. “We can do other things,” he says with a charming smile knowing he was heating up the water trying to make it steam.
Unable to control my rising contempt, I squeezed my lips together and made jerky body movements as I talk. “Nope. No we can’t,” I shake my head. “Any interaction that might cause an erection is out. OUT.”
Grant pulls me into him like he does when he’s trying to neutralize me. He wraps his arms around me and wraps one leg around mine rubbing up next to me like I’m a scratching post. I keep my hands on my hips, my chin high and face looking away. In that moment I think this is exactly what the dog must feel like and why she makes these exact same gestures when he’s patronizing her.
“Honey, come on.” He laughs and then whispers in my ear all serious and genuine like. “I will this time. I promise. I’ll make the call. I know this is the right thing for us, it’s just not something to look forward to.”
“Yes it is. And I don’t believe you.”
“Honey, don’t be like that.”
“Like what? This is what four years of sleep deprivation does to a woman and the thought of having another baby makes my toenails fall out just thinking about it. Sorry, not sorry. Better back away before you get an erection, ‘cause that shit ain’t happening.”
It was this conversation that kicked off a three-week moratorium on sex before one wild night in the hot tub where things got out of hand and I lifted the ban for twenty-four hours. I could rationalize my one night change of heart because he made the call.
If you consider the above conversation to be an argument, I guess Grant and I argue. I can’t think of something we’ve argued about in a more heated way than him getting his ass in to get a vasectomy. In reality, he really didn’t argue with me on whether or not to get one, he’d long ago told me he wanted to and that it was the best thing for us. He just avoided the conversation and phone call. A true procrastinator, especially when it comes to something as undesirable as this.
For all other things that are possible triggers to an argument, our secret sauce is not to get too worked up. It is unspoken that even if the other person makes a bad decision like bringing home a rescue dog without the other’s permission, because one of us might have fallen in love with said rescue dog—the silent rule is that whoever feels the most strongly about whatever it is, or whoever can at least present the best argument, wins.
For example, I wanted to take Dani on a trip to Washington D.C. alone. Just her and I. I felt strongly about it. I really, really wanted to take her as there was a particular event I felt she and I should attend on animal rights. And I wanted to take her to the Smithsonian. I presented my case as I would anything else beginning with, “Are you okay if Dani and I go to D.C. on these dates so we can attend a congressional session and go to the museums?” To which I thought he would reply, “Of course! That’s a great idea, I’ll help you book your trip.”
What I got instead was a very adamant husband who felt that in this particular political climate, given what was going on in the U.S. at the time, it was not safe. When he feels so strongly, I am respectful, listen to his rebuttal, poke as many holes in it as I possibly can, and argue my side of the case intelligently. At the end of it all, if he is still not on board, I respect that. I respectfully, but not without disappointment, concede. We did not go to D.C.
He asked me not to go. I didn’t go. He asked me to please not protest dolphin killing while we vacationed in Japan, I’ve decided to hold off. He’s asked me to send him my GPS whereabouts before I go into any remote areas to rescue dogs. I do. I’ve also promised him that in the event of a kidnapping I will leave sufficient urine, feces, fingernail scrapings, and the perpetrator’s bitten off ear on the ground so he can come and find me. On these things, we agree.
This type of respect is then reciprocated when he thinks it might be a good idea to take our toddler children hiking at Cascade River Falls, because it would be fun. I oppose and let him know what my obvious and not so obvious concerns are and that this is one of ‘my things.’ He respectfully, but not without disappointment understands that I’ve picked this thing, and concedes.
We do not have a rule to not go to bed angry because we don’t ever get to that point. Not that we couldn’t. We’ve just committed to making the other person’s life easier, not harder. And we apply that to everything we can. When conflict arises, we pick our battles very carefully. We do the same thing with our kids. This seems to keep the peace.
The vasectomy conversation inadvertently became one of my things. But to my surprise and amazement it was Dylan who helped kick Grant over the fence. Or at least hold his hand while they walked along the edge until Nikki and I kicked their asses over.
Dylan and Nikki had just had their second and final baby. Nikki’s birthday gift three months after the baby was a vasectomy. Out of sheer coincidence, Grant was scheduled for his within a week of Dylan’s. A two-week time span which Nikki dubbed The Brosectomies.
Those two weeks went down something like this . . .
“Hey bud how you feeling?” Grant puts Dylan on speakerphone so I can listen and laugh. We both know this will be an interesting conversation with a man who has a very thin filter.
“It was terrible,” Dylan said and I see Grant visibly sink down with despair.
“Don’t listen to him!” I shout at Grant, who’s standing across the room holding his hand tight between his legs. He looks like he might shed tears for my poor hurting brother. “Hang up the phone! Of course he’s going to say that, he just got done with it. No one said it wasn’t going to hurt. Quick hang up, he’ll be fine.”
“It was so bad bro,” Dylan continued. “But I don’t think it’ll be that bad for you. Unless your nut sack is as tight as mine, but I don’t think so.”
Spoken in true Dylan style. Grant and I are both holding back laughter.
“Dyl, why do you say that?” Grant asked.
“The doc said I have the tightest sack he’s ever seen. That he knew I was going to be a challenge but that he was up for it.”
Grant sits listening and laughing with his legs so tightly crossed, he might as well have castrated himself and saved himself a visit to the clinic. “Do you think it’s from when you were born?” Grant asks and I hear Dylan on the other end of the line, the general this-fucking-sucks tone in his voice came through loud and clear.
“Grant, let me tell you what happened today, okay?” He continues in his best story telling tone. “They had to use a clamp to pull my sack down.” Grant visibly cringes. “That’s what hurt the worst. The rest wasn’t a big deal at all so you should have no problems. I asked the Doc, in all the years you’ve been doing this, have you ever seen a sack as tight as mine? He said he hadn’t.”
I throw my hands up in the air and let them slap down—totally not surprised. Well folks. There you have it. Dylan is . . . unique. Why wouldn’t he be unique in all the ways one could be, including genitalia. And apparently he was, this was proof.
The day had finally arrived full of sunshine and unseasonably warm weather. I had the whole day off with nothing to do. I was home with our three-year-old and I was the designated transporter to and from the clinic where Grant was to have his procedure with the little knife.
I was privy to more conversations via speakerphone over the next few days and weeks to come. Most of which were about one topic. They went something like this . . .
“You tug on yourself yet?” Dylan asked.
“No. Hurts too bad. You?”
“Yeah. First time. It ached at the base. A dull ache that lasted a while.”
>
“I’m not looking forward to it. Twenty-five to thirty ejaculations is a lot.”
Which is apparently the number of times they needed to ejaculate over three months or so to be considered sterile.
“I know. I’m trying to get started and knock a few out this weekend while Nikki is out of town at her parents. I’m marking them on that plastic jar they gave me. The one I’ll have to jizz in a few weeks from now and take back to see if I’m sterile. Did they give you the cup too?”
“Yep. I got the cup. But I don’t know how I’m going to make it happen in the office that day? I’ve never done that before. Might have to bring the home videos your sister and I made.”
Dylan is seemingly okay with these I-fucked-your-sister jabs. Considering the circumstances and all.
1 week later
“How many in are you?” Dylan asks.
“About three.”
“That’s it!? Dude I’m up to nine. Got em’ all marked on my cup.”
“Bro, I’m never going to be able to catch up to you.”
In the weeks that followed, the conversation didn’t change much except their number of jerk offs did increasingly climb and eventually they both met the goal and officially became the sterile husbands we so wished for.
In true guy fashion, when the ejaculation goals had been met and it was a tie—idiots, of course it was a tie, it wasn’t a competition—a new unexpected competition sparked.
“You get your results back yet?” Dylan asks.
“No, you?”
“Yep. I’m sterile. And get this. The results came back that I had one point nine milliliters of ejaculatory fluid. Can you believe that? One point nine!”
This was the topic of conversation among us for the days that followed. For at least three of those days, Dylan got to wear the I-ejaculated-the-most-fluid crown and paraded the trophy through the streets. Which, I’ve got to give it to him, is a more original way to establish dominion over all the species and nature itself, because whipping out your dick and a ruler has been overdone.
Forever After Page 11
