Nether regions are what most people would call private parts, except that we think calling them private parts is stupid. They are nether: south of the belly button.
“Carter, don’t forget to wash your nethers before you get out of the bath!”
“My nethers are all itchy. I hope I’m not getting a yeast infection.”
You get the picture.
Nether regions require an excessive amount of maintenance, don’t you think? Or maybe not; considering their many and varied functions, perhaps it’s appropriate.
For us women, of course, there is the annual visit to the doctor to be sure our nethers are not moving in a cancerly direction. Is there anything we all do that is more universally despised? The women in my family refer to it as assuming the dead cockroach position.
Stupid legs in the air, stupid feet in the stupid stirrups in some stupid white room that is always too stupid cold. Pretty hard to think of a more undignified, more vulnerable position than that.
One time, my doctor asked me if it was OK with me if an intern did my pelvic exam and, being a person in favor of doctors learning to do doctorly things, I said yes. So this guy, maybe 25 or so years old, was trying really, really hard to be professional, but I could see that he was terrified right out of his ever-loving mind. Trembling. White. But trying. And the doctor started talking to him – teaching – and the intern turned to look at him, but what? What was he to do?
Should he leave his fingers in there? Or remove them?
He couldn’t decide. He opted to leave them.
While he turned his head to listen to the doctor.
A minute or two into their conversation, I had to speak up. “Excuse me?” I said. They both turned to look at me.
I looked at the intern and said, as gently as possible, “That isn’t a thumb rest.”
Of course, he yanked his hand outta my nethers in a hurry and I would have spared him the embarrassment if I could have, but I guarantee he has never made that mistake again.
I wonder how many women owe me a thank you for that?
Men’s nethers require far less maintenance than women’s, in general, but if they run into some kind of trouble, there is, of course, an equally demoralizing position to be assumed. Oh, yes.
(Swiping some of this next bit from another blog. No, not plagiarizing; I actually wrote every word, but in the comments section of someone else’s site. So you might have read it before. I’m lazy like that today. Also? Some people might have missed it and that ain’t right.)
Five years ago, Brian had this weird job. Said job is not germane to the discussion except that it involved a great deal of driving. HUGE quantities of driving, and for a man of a certain age (and also of a certain girth) this may lead to a great many hemorrhoids. Which it did. Duh. Shit like that is ALWAYS happening to Brian. He is Murphy’s Law personified.
He told me that he was having trouble with hemorrhoids and acting all sad and disturbed about it, which I mostly ignored because a) he’s a big baby about any and all discomfort and b) what the hell was I gonna do for him? I bought him the hemorrhoid medicine and kept plying him with ibuprofen. What else was there to do?
He went to see our doctor and I was all eye-roll-happy about it because really, how silly, but he came home and said he had to have it surgically drained. Fine, whatever, they can’t do it for like 5 days. I was living my life and he was following me around like some kicked puppy, telling me how insensitive I am and he is in SO much pain, blah blah blah.
The next day, I finally troubled myself to actually pay attention, and I realized he was as pale as a sad, whining ghost. He held out his sharpest pocket knife and said, “Please poke a hole in it! I can’t stand it. Just poke one tiny hole!”
At which point I nearly died laughing because there was nothing about performing minor surgical procedures – at home, with a pocket knife – in our marriage vows.
But I consented because I am just that awesome.
While I put the kids to bed, he sterilized the knife and attended to matters of personal hygiene and that was when I should have shoved one of Carter’s diapers in my pants. I went into the bedroom and he was kneeling on the edge of the bed with his face resting on a pillow and saying, “Hurry up! Do it!”
It didn’t seem to me that “hurry” and “knife” and “anus” were the best possible combination, so I was taking my time, making sure the knife was super sharp and checking out this truly impressive hemorrhoid (at least I think it was impressive; it’s actually the only one I’ve ever seen) and he starts yelling at me, “DO IT! DO IT! JUST POKE IT!” I was laughing so hard I was basically doubled over and terrified that I would make a mangled sliced-up mess of his anus, but with all the yelling I finally got down to business.
So I poked it and it bled and Brian made an orgasm sound which makes the anus poking event officially the weirdest “sex” I have ever had.
Pretty sure I’m among history’s most loving and long-suffering wives. Pretty damn sure.
He still had to have the hemorrhoid surgically drained by someone with a) better credentials and b) more appropriate tools, because all I did was poke a little hole. Give me a little credit! I do know my limits.
OK, OK, so I don’t know my limits at all, but I do try to keep my surgical activities to a minimum.
So off he went to the doctor to have it surgically drained, but the didn’t have the special table that I guess they use for anal procedures, so the doctor improvised.
Anal procedures. There is a special table for anal procedures.
They had Brian assume the same position that he had at home, which I thought was plenty good enough, but the doctor wanted better visualization. So he took one long strip of tape and taped Brian’s right ass cheek to the table. Repeat for the left side.
So are you visualizing this? Face down, ass in the air and taped open, and the whole time he was laying there thinking to himself, “Do not fart. Do not fart. Do not fart.”
After? He felt much, much better.
A giant hemorrhoid that has been recently drained will tend to leak, and what were we to do? We brainstormed for awhile (paper towels? coffee filters?), and then I had a genius idea: stick a tampon in his crack, of course!
It worked great, but tell every man you know: if you have a tampon in your crack to catch draining hemorrhoid blood, even if you are a die-hard boxer man, wear BRIEFS. If you are wearing boxers and shorts and you happen to be of the man-shape that is all belly, no butt, there is a chance that bloody tampon will fall out onto the floor.
At a street festival.