Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
The Strip beckons
Oy, I’m tired. We’ve been squeezing patients into the schedule so that the boy and I can get out of town at the end of the year. It seems like I spent eight hours today shoveling ear wax, which is exhausting, no matter what you might think.
Stick around to the end, and I’ll tell you one of my favorite ear wax stories.
I grew up in a teaching family, which meant my dad had his summers off. Half the time, we vacationed “back East,” visiting relatives in Massachusetts and Connecticut. The other half of the time, we went to Vegas.
I come from a long line of poker players, folks who have (or had) the knack of making money at the table every time. Bliss to my father is an afternoon playing low ball, then coming home forty or fifty bucks in the black. I’m not sure why he avoids the higher stakes table, but soon, I’ll have the opportunity to ask him.
Yup, we’re going to Vegas.
My parents retired to Las Vegas. I wish they would have retired to Maui, Seattle, Portland, or San Francisco, but no, they retired to Vegas. Thus, even though I’m all grown up, half of my vacations still find me in Vegas.
In case you’ve never been, this is what Las Vegas is all about:
Leaving casinos reeking of cigarette smoke, buzzed on other people’s nicotine, tinnitus amped up a few dozen notches thanks to the slot machine noise;
Walnut-brained casino employees chasing us away from one area after another because I have my underage son in tow;
All you can eat buffets where ugly excuse me handsome Americans pile their dishes eighteen inches high with king crab claws (because, after all, it takes energy to go back for fourths and fifths);
Traffic that makes me homesick for Los Angeles;
Freezing cold winters, blistering hot summers.
Why did they retire there?
Anyway, I can’t complain*. They’re flying me and Jake out on their dime, thanks to the fact that our money pit of a house has left us nearly broke. We’ll be there from the 26th to the 1st, so if any of y’all are going to be there, let me know. We can score some free watered-down drinks at Slots-o-fun and flirt with the mini-skirted seventy-year-old hostesses.
Karen gets a pass this time. She’s recovering from a nasty crud, and doesn’t want to get sick so soon after this last illness.
A mom brings her sixteen-year-0ld girl in for an ear cleaning. The second I start scooping brown gold from her canal, she begins moaning like Meg Ryan.
Now Mom’s laughing, my office staff is wondering what the hell I’m doing back there, I’m squirming (thanking my stars I don’t have to stand to clean ear wax), and, unbeknownst to me, a little old lady totters up to our front desk.
“Excuse me, dear,” she says. “Does Dr. Hoffman clean ear wax?”
And my receptionist is trying very hard not to say, “Does he ever!”
D.
*Hah! What am I saying? I live to complain.
Hmm. I’ve never found earwax to be much of an aphrodisiac, myself. I can only conclude that the moaning, combined with the penetration of the warm, moist ear canal by the gleaming shaft of the ear-wax-scooping-thingy… oh, ok. I get it.
Some folks find it pleasurable because it’s an itch they’ve longed to scratch, and here I come along and scratch it for ’em. Other folks have exactly the opposite reaction — they start kvetching the second I touch their ears. Go figure.
All I can say is (to quote my 4-year-old) EW!
EW! EW! EW!
Yeah, sxkitten, that’s my reaction to Las Vegas, too ;o)