Chirky

Last night, Roger and I had a grooming session. The sessions may consist of any
of the following:

1) Me examining his face, trying to find any blackhead, whitehead, or blemish
visible by the naked eye. I willingly admit that I am completely obsessed with
squeezing puss, whether on myself or any other person, regardless of whether it
is from a blemish, ingrown hair or any other random cause of puss. If I were
academically qualified, this would TOTALLY be my profession!

2) Me dislodging and removing hairs from his face, neck and eyebrows �
double-fisted with a needle and tweezers. Generally, said hairs are either white
(which he doesn't want at the tender age of 5daysbeforehis35thbirthday) or
ingrown. However, I will admit that sometimes I tweeze hairs just for the fun of
pulling them.

3) Me teaching him proper techniques and procedures for cleaning ears.Last
night's grooming session entirely dealt with the latter, and this is why:

Saturday our washing machine started making an odd "whirr whirr whirr" sound,
like the motor was working but the agitator wasn't.

After disassembling it, consulting a washer repairman, and buying several repair
parts, Roger discovered that the cost to repair it would be expensive, and it
would be a better investment to just buy a new one.

The last store we visited, and consequently the store where we bought our
washer, was Best Buy. While we were hem-hawing over different features of
washing machines, Roger whispers to me, "By the way, don't look in the sales
guy's ears. You'll want to gag."

Roger knows me well. Very well. Well enough to know that I start gagging at the
drop of a hat. His story about peeing in a tin, freezing it, and sliding it
under someone's bedroom door? It made me gag. The thirty seconds of liposuction
that I glimpsed on MTV? It SO made me gag.

Naturally, since Roger told me not to do something, I wanted to do it. I was
curious about the inside of his ears. And even though I didn't want to gag, I
did want to get a glimpse of them, if only because my flesh desired such
grotesque images.

I glanced toward the salesman, whose face was turned toward mine. Shifting my
gaze to his left ear, I felt my throat start to close up and my stomach turn
upside down. I WAS NOT EVEN FACING HIS EAR. I WAS FACING HIS FACE. AND I COULD
SEE HIS EAR WAX. THERE. WAS. THAT. MUCH.

I immediately hurried over to Roger, grabbed him by the arm, and urgently
whispered, "Roger. I. Saw. His. Ear."

And Roger laughed. At me! Meanwhile, my eyes were beginning to water, my stomach
was violently churning with butterfly-sized aches, and my closed-up throat was
doing its best to induce vomit.In fact, the memory of it has given me a
stomachache, and I am now burping up acidic portions of the leftover lasagna
that I had for lunch today. (As good today as it was Saturday night, Eddie!
Except for the burps. Those are gross.)

Was that too much information?

So last night, I armed myself with q-tips and began talking to Roger about the
importance of cleaning out one's ears on a frequent basis.

Personally, I clean mine everyday. I figure: I brush my teeth every day. I
shower everyday. I change my undies every day. My ears are just another part of
my body, and deserve to be treated as more than a potato patch.

Unfortunately, not every other human in existence agrees.

As I began the grooming session, I noticed that Roger had skin flaking from his
ears. I think it might have been from a sunburn, or just a need to exfoliate.

And then he said, "I will call you "Sweetie Pie" and you can call me, "My Beloved with
Flaky Ears"."