Life Starts with a Hernia Check.

After I was offered a job at a water municipality in Irvine, I was made aware that I would have to complete a drug test. I shrugged and agreed because the only drug I have ever done was Tylenol PM, which I was addicted to as a child. So I drove out to Santa Ana to the clinic which I was required to complete my test at.

The clinic was easily miss-able, as was proven by the fact that I passed it three times before realizing that my destination was a tiny building between a clown/party rental store and possibly a crack house. Of course they didn’t have much parking, so I parked in front of the clown/party rental store, where I felt the poorly graffitied clown would protect my truck from any gangster who felt the need to break into my truck. Not that I have much in there worth stealing, besides some dance shoes and Sudoku puzzles.

The clinic lobby was incredibly small, which made it so that I had to squish in between a large Mexican man and a man who kept yelling about a bus back to the Goodwill. I started to fill out the paperwork that I was handed, but found difficulty filling out any information because I was not given a clipboard nor a pen. Luckily, I had my trusty man bag, that’s sole purpose is to be filled with pens. As for the clipboard, I couldn’t find a substitute from my bag, so I had to write awkwardly on my lap, which rendered my penmanship illegible and reminiscent of Thai.

Most of the paperwork consisted of filling my name out repeatedly, but then I reached a sheet that asked my medical history. I went down the checklist, but was uncertain why they would need to know if I had varicose veins. I didn’t think that I had those, but to be certain, I tried to raise my pant leg to see. Unfortunately, this made me lean awkwardly to the side and my head touched the shoulder of the large Mexican man. He glared at me and so I started to lean towards the Goodwill shouting man, but decided I would just put no to the varicose veins question.

I was brought into the back of the building for my drug screen, but they then informed me that I would be receiving a full physical as part of my employment. This started by putting me two feet away from an eye chart and having me read the bottom line, which when two feet away is like 25 sized font. I breezed through and was taken to another room by a tiny waif of a male nurse. He put me on the scale, weighed me, and then asked what height I was. “Like 6’4”, I think.” He sighed and decided that maybe he should actually measure me. He placed me against the height gauge and said, “Yeah, I can’t see that high. We’ll say you’re 6’4”.” This was turning out to be the most blasé physical I have ever taken in my life. The mini-man nurse then told me I had to have my hearing tested.

The hearing test included me being shoved into a tiny, soundproofed box and listening for beeps through headphones. The problem was not my hearing, but the fact that I could not fit into the booth. Going in forward wasn’t working because I didn’t have room enough to turn around to sit, so I was coached to back into the booth. The problem then was the fact that I could not sit on the stool in the booth without having my head pressed against the ceiling. For lack of a smaller stool, I was told to just squat in the booth for the duration of the test.

Hearing tests are bizarre to me, because when I take them, I feel it is necessary to squeeze my eyes as closed as possible, depriving me of one of my senses; therefore, making my hearing superhuman. And apparently, I squeeze the I-heard-something-buzzer just as hard, which makes my palms sweat. Unfortunately for the mini-man nurse, this meant that he would have to take the buzzer from me after the test, which was by then, dredged in sweat.

The next part of my physical was the drug test. I had been prepared to pee for about two hours and was on the cusp of exploding, so I welcomed this test with outstretched arms. I was given a new nurse for this test, who spoke in only disconnected sentences. “Purse,” he pointed at a cupboard for me to put my man bag. “Don’t flush,” he pointed at the bathroom where I would be peeing (which the toilet was filled with blue food coloring) and handed me a cup. I rushed in and peed with great haste, and then I left the cup on the counter in the bathroom so that I could wash my hands. But when I went to turn on the faucet, I noticed that it was wrapped in yellow caution tape that had EVIDENCE displayed along the length of it. I opened the door and stole some antibacterial gel from the nurses’ station, where I found the mini-man nurse glaring at me.

“Did he watch you pee? Martin! Did you watch him pee?” Martin (which, by the way, is pronounced Mar-TEEN <which, when said by the mini-man nurse, sounds like a screeching monkey>) turned the corner and shrugged. “Well you’ll have to do the test again.” That would be a feat impossible, and fortunately enough, the mini-man nurse remembered how blasé this whole physical was and just let my pee pass.

Martin looked at me in the hallway and said, “Cup?” I had left it in the bathroom, like is required at most decent medical offices, but apparently, he wanted me to bring it out, into the hallway, without a cap. I went back and retrieved the sample for Martin, who then started to pour it into vials over the carpet. I couldn’t help but wonder how much pee had dripped into that carpet, but I assumed enough had to gross me out.

After Martin packaged up my pee, I was sent to get my lumbar X-rayed, which was the only normal portion of my physical. The only problem that I faced was trying to contort myself into the positions that the tech needed me to be in for the X-ray. First we tried with my hands above my head, but they hit the wall, so then we tried to the side, which then they hit the base of the machine. We settled with me clutching my arms against my chest while in the fetal position.

The last of my physical was for me to be examined by the doctor, who may have been the only white man in the entire building. He seemed nice enough, but I could tell he was in a rush to have me out. “What’s your name, hands out, pulse, lean, lean, lean, breathe in, out, what school did you go to, pants, shorts.” I didn’t have enough time to answer any question before he would shout out another order. I asked, “Pants?” He made a motion with his hands which meant I should take my pants off. “Shorts?”  It didn’t click with me that he meant my underwear, so he tugged his waist band which then made me realize, oh, I have to be naked. Before I could get my briefs down past my thighs, he had already dived in to prod my testicles and demand coughs. He was out of the examination room in less than two minutes from when he entered, and I just had to leave without another word.

I got back to my truck, which had been protected by the graffitied clown, and I hopped in. I started to drive off and reflected on the clinic, which probably deserved a clown graffitied on their wall because that place was the closest I have ever been to a circus in my life. I started down the freeway, but smiling, because I will have a job, and my life can begin, even if it did have to start with hernia check.

Compensating Your Caboose.

The Broderick family has two curses: One of them involves spilling food on ourselves at every meal, and the other is, “Big Gut, No Butt.” While the first is only inconvenient, and I have learned to cope with it by packing a change of clothes with me in my truck at all times, the second I have been not able to adapt to as easily.

I used to exemplify the curse with my extensive gut and tiny butt, but due to the loss of my gut, I only half represent the curse at the time being. The problem with losing my gut is that I lost the tiny semblance of a butt, which I did have, in the process. Now, I have made it so that I have lost enough gut that my butt has turned concave. 

I will be the first to admit that if I had enough money, I would go under the knife and get my butt augmented, faster than you could say uncomfortable silicon. Usually people are surprised when I say that I would get butt implants if I had the opportunity to get some sort of plastic surgery, generally assuming that I would get a rhinoplasty due to my large nose. I love my nose, and would never get it touched, but the fact that people assume that I want a rhinoplasty makes me think that maybe everyone else finds my nose to be hideous and beaklike.

The problem with butt implants is that after you receive them, you cannot sit down for three months. And as much as I love standing and laying down, I couldn’t do that for three months, especially because I would regain my gut that I have worked so hard to trim down. Another reason why I wouldn’t get butt implants would be that I would not be able to decide on a butt size. Should I go with a Kardashian butt? Maybe a J.Lo… Unfortunately enough, butt implant sizes only come in female comparisons.

So for my last birthday, my best friend and her mother (who coincidently is also one of my best friends) got me a birthday present to solve all of my glute problems. The answer comes in the form of butt boosters, or tiny, mesh shorts with butt padding in the back. Not only did they get me a butt booster, but they got me two, just in case I wanted to look extra bootylicious for my nights on the town. Immediately, when I pulled them out of the box, I tried them on. First with just one pair, but after a few minutes, I had to put on both, just to see how big I could get.

I strolled about town in them and discovered how much more comfortable life is with padding on the backside. Which then made me think of the most uncomfortable chairs in the world, which just so happen to be in every church building in the country. I knew that I had to wear my butt pads to church, just to see if life would be any more comfortable.

Getting ready for church was bizarre, mostly because I couldn’t decide if I should have just one pair of pads or two. I tried on the two first and had problems getting my slacks on and over my false butt, which then just made me look ridiculous, so I opted for the one pair. The problem therein lies with the fact that I bought slacks that make it look like I have a butt, even though I don’t, so my butt looked ridiculously large (and especially wide). Luckily, with the help of a sweater vest, I was able to make my butt look less noticeably fake, and more acceptable as part of my normal body.

I had to make sure that I walked normally, so that my mother would not see my prosthetic butt, because if she had any inkling of its falseness, I am sure she would have sent me to the bathroom to take it off immediately, and then come back for a non-padded spanking. Just in case she did find out and sent me off the bathroom, I brought the other butt in my man purse, so that I could put on both in the bathroom and really make a spectacle before being spanked maliciously in Sunday School.

I told a few people about my fake butt, which just made it so that they watched me as I walked to see if they could spot a difference. This wouldn’t be so awkward if only one person was staring at me as I walked by, but by the end of church, I had a good fifteen people trying to judge my butt. Some said they could tell because it didn’t shake, and others said that it was a little too high, but nobody really said that it was unbelievable because I am known for having the flattest bum on the planet, so I was quite satisfied with the results.

The saddest part of the whole situation is when I take off the boosters, because I feel like I am naked without my butt. So I like to slide on the shorts for an extra fifteen minutes, just to make me feel like I have completely escaped the Broderick curse of Big Gut, No Butt. Then I take off my implants for the day, and hide them away so that my secret butt won’t be found and used for evil. And then, when I sit down, I realize how boney my butt is and I get tempted to slide them right back on again.

The Brothers Broderick

Growing up, my brother and I were complete opposites and bitter enemies: I wanted chocolate, he, vanilla; I was fat, he was skinny; I was brains, he was brawn. If we weren’t fighting, we were strategizing against one another, and my entire childhood I remember hating my brother. I was his infinite pestilence, and he was my eternal tormentor. Our fighting had actually escalated to the point to where we had to move into a new house so that my brother and I didn’t have to share a room, because if we lived in each other’s space for one more day, there would have been a dead Broderick (and I think it would have been me). 

Cameron left on his mission, and things had become a bit better between us, which meant that we mostly just ignored each other for the majority of the day. Communication was limited to grunting and head nods, and I was ready for a vacation from our interactions. The last thing Cameron said to me before he left on his mission was, “Brothers gotta hug.” Which he said at six in the morning, while I was leaving for a week long hiking trip. I’m not sure if Cameron was still par-asleep at the time he said this, but we parted with an awkward hug at the end of a dark hallway.

Two years later, I was uncertain to how our relationship would be when he came home from his mission. I had gone away to school, and didn’t really make much of an effort to keep contact with his on his mission, possibly sending him two emails throughout the entire duration of his time in Guatemala, and one he responded with, “I’ll punch you in the square.” So when my family went to go pick him up from the airport, I was apprehensive to the whole thing. We didn’t say much to each other the week that he was home, and then I took off for school leaving for four months.

When I came back home, it was Thanksgiving. And while we did have a Thanksgiving meal, it was really a Thanksgiving lunch because we had been invited to a Tongan wedding for dinner. I had no clue of this and brought no church clothes back from Utah.  My dad, being as helpful as he could, offered me a white shirt and tie from his closet. We had been the same size at one point of my life, but due to a sudden weight loss of 70 pounds for me, his clothes fit me as well as a tent would. My only option was to wear the classiest of clothes that I had brought: an orange t-shirt with a fox on it, trouser cut jeans, and neon pink, spray painted boat shoes. My mother nearly died of embarrassment when she saw how I dressed for a wedding reception. The shoes really did it, and she would sooner die than let me go to a wedding reception in such tacky things; so instead, my mother thought it to be best to have me wear my late grandfather’s shoes, because that was the better option for the night.

My family arrived early to the reception, with the exception of my sister, who magically disappeared with her boyfriend the hour we were going to leave. So my mother, father, brother, and I sat at a table in the middle of the room, waiting for the festivities to start. Of course, because my mother and father are very close friends to the parents of the bride, my parents were whisked away to the table of honor, leaving my brother and me alone at a table.

Tongans started to file in and nobody would even look our way. Why? Probably because we were two skinny, white kids, dressed in t-shirts and jeans, but I can never be sure. Not only did nobody talk to us, nobody would even sit at the tables adjacent to ours, separating the Tongans and us by a good 15 feet. Cameron and I had to forge a friendship, or certainly die a lonely, segregated death. After we were strange, sibling friends, Cameron decided that we had to prove our worth to the Tongans, and the only way to do that would be to out eat them.

Cameron and I went through the buffet line and got everything we could, in Tongan sized portions. Did it matter that we just ate a Thanksgiving sized lunch an hour before? No, because we were determined. And the first round of food went well enough, until Cameron got up to get more food. This of course meant that I had to get up for more food, because I was not going to let my new found friendship go to waste because my lack of appetite. We went back up and got a large plate of teriyaki chicken and some grayish purple slice of nasty. Apparently, it is like taro root, but my brother and I identify it as purple butt cheek: This can either be because it tastes like a butt cheek, or because the Spanish word for it is very close to the word for butt cheek.

I was able to finish my chicken, and Cameron was able to push down his purple butt cheek. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get my butt cheek down my throat. After one swallow, I was sure that I had just eaten the most bland, dense thing on the planet. Cam looked over at me, “If I eat your purple thing, will you eat my chicken?” We switched plates, and have been great friends ever since. I’m not sure if we gained any prowess with the Tongans, but we did receive a blanket when we left, which is essentially like getting a trophy anyway.

Somehow, food has become the bridge that has brought my brother and I together, and so Christmas, I bought him a mini-deep fryer. The things that were fried could be considered nightmarish: m&m’s, raw sausage, assorted chocolates. We ate all of it anyway and left the house smelling like a fish fry.

More recently, Cameron and I treated ourselves to a beast of a sandwich called, “The Junkyard.” This sandwich includes “Two Handmade Patties, Provolone and American Cheese, Ham, Roast Beef, Pastrami, Bacon, A Fried Egg, Onion Rings, Chicken Strips, Avocado, Lettuce, Tomato, and Onion on Grilled Sourdough.”  The sandwich, itself, is probably around six to seven inches tall, and is impossible to squish down. So I chose to use a corn cob nibbling method to eat my sandwich, while Cameron tried to squish and cram the entire sandwich in his mouth at one time. This was surprising to me because Kathryn is the sibling known to cram massive amounts of matter into her mouth at a time, but Cameron must have picked up a few pointers from her.

I didn’t want to be the first to finish the junkyard, so I slowed my pace down, making me seem less of a fatty. Cameron, too, decided that he didn’t want to be considered a fatty, so he slowed down. I would wait for him to take a bite before I would, and the junkyard seemed like it would never end. Right after we finished, we looked at each other and said, “I slowed down to your pace so I wouldn’t be the first done.”

It’s amazing that Cameron and I have made a friendship out of food, but somehow a miracle happened. And the person more dumbfounded than I is my mother, who probably expected to bury one of her sons after a fight between brothers.  His friends are now my friends, and we choose to be in each other’s presence now, rather than simply dwelling in each other’s vicinity. I think it is because on his mission, and during my schooling, we became more like each other: He and I are both brainy and brawny (although we excel in our respective positions), he and I are both skinny, and we have mostly given up ice cream and have decided that slurpees are much better anyway (so screw chocolate or vanilla).

Death by Soreness. AKA Banana-rama Biking, and Lactic Acid.

The summer of activities has started, and somewhere along the way I have become more sore than I have been in my entire life. It all started when my brother threw me a coming home party; most of the people that showed up, I have never seen in my entire life, and they had thought that I was actually coming home from a mission, but that’s neither here nor there. The party was a mustache bash, and to come in, a mustache had to be present on your face. Many party goers thought my brother was joking, until they got to our house and he turned them away until they were properly mustached. 

After a while, my brother broke out the big surprise of the party: an Xbox Kinect. We projected the games across the back of the house and had everyone watch while we made idiots of ourselves. My brother challenged me to a duel of Olympic Games, which started my week of soreness. Apparently, if you raise your knees rather high, while running, you run faster on the game. I was nearly leaping in the air to go as fast as humanly possible, pummeling my feet into the cement deck. I should have been wearing underwear as well… but I had no time to change from my swim trunks when a challenge was presented. Cameron won as usual, but I still beat him in a few events.

Sunday night was restless. And after trying to go to bed at midnight, my brother knocked on the connecting bathroom door to get me for a midnight-no-longer-Sabbath-let’s-get-In-n-Out snack. This, of course, was organized by Cameron’s sugardaddy (Joe), so I got a free bunch of fries out of the trip. But going to the midnight-no-longer-Sabbath-let’s-get-In-n-Out snack, and having Joe pay for my food, meant that I owed him. This would be paid back by a Monday morning game day.

I rolled out of bed on about six hours of sleep and zombied my way to a park, with my brother, to meet up with Joe and a few other friends from the ward, where we stood in the 100 degree heat at nine in the morning. Here, I was introduced to the most bizarre combination of baseball, football, polo, and plastic that I have ever come across in my life. The game is called foobasolf, and due to how dumb the game is, I refuse to actually describe the rules on my blog, and while it was a good laugh for a while, I don’t necessarily plan on keeping the foobasolf tradition alive after I move away from home. The second game was more enjoyable, and was a combination of ultimate Frisbee, lacrosse, and beach toys. Unfortunately for the other team, I used my entire body to block any type of passing between teammates, utilizing my crotch to make players so uncomfortable that they were not able to make any type of decent throw.

Tuesday was the day of an impromptu bike ride that my Mother planned with a few friends in the ward. She told on me on Sunday, asking, “Are you coming?” Not knowing what I was coming to, I said yes, just in case she was taking a group to a massage parlor. Then I was told that we would be going on a bike ride for 22 miles. I haven’t ridden a bike in over five years, and tried to get out by saying, “Oh darn, I don’t have a bike.” But my mother was prepared, and had already managed to get a hold of a fleet of bicycles for the tour de Hemet.

Tuesday, I rolled out of bed again, but this time at six, to get prepared for the activity. I managed to pull some clothes on, which was a miracle because of how sore I was from diving at wiffle balls during the previous day’s activities. After going about town to collect all the bikes we could, we met up at the trail.

I tried a few bikes, but nothing seemed to work for my lanky body. I was left with a choice: an obnoxiously colored bike that had issues with its gears, and a decent bike with a skinny, little banana seat. In a rushed decision, I chose the banana seat, and took off on the trail.

The first few miles wasn’t horrible, but when the trail turned to rocky horribleness, the banana seat started to rise higher and higher into what should be my butt crack, but due to my lack of butt, it is just a random crack. With each rock, the seat was nailed up and up until it wouldn’t go no more. My thighs burned, I was loamed in sweat, and somehow I managed to pedal my way to the end, and laid down into the back of my truck. Rigor mortis set in, and I was not able to get up. I just laid in the back of my truck, waiting to be roasted alive by the California sun.

Somehow, I was able to get myself back to my truck, waddling of course, and drive the bikes back to their proper owners, and then I promptly fell asleep on our leather couches. I only awoke to nature’s call, which had me cowboy strutting down the hallway as fast as I could, but when I finally took my seat, I realized that getting off of the pot might prove to be problematic. I sat there and realized that I could die there, just like Elvis did, or I could force myself off of the toilet, and make something of my life. Getting off of the toilet was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, but I refused to be found like Elvis, dead and bloated on the toilet.

I had difficulty walking after the mustache bash, but then somehow pushed myself to play games in the park, where running, diving, twisting, and movement were encouraged. I thought I was sore then, but now that I made a 22 miler, I think that it will be impossible for me to move in morning, and I might die from sheer exhaustion. But if I die tonight, I will be buried a biking, diving, running, throwing winner, which is more than I ever thought I would be.