There are so, so, so many things to say about a title like this, the most obvious of course, being “Why does your father have a frozen testicle collection?”, but we’ll get to that later. For some reason, the title of this missive makes me think of the Romantic poets, of Keats and Shelly and odes to nightingales, grecian urns, or melancholy. I think Baxter Black‘s musing on whirl-pak stew are far more appropriate, however.
Back to the frozen testicles. I was on the weekly staff call when Megan remarked that Dad was upset that he couldn’t find the testicles he’d been stockpiling in the back freezer. Once I finished choking and we all got our laughter under control, I asked the obvious question, “Why does dad have a collection of frozen testicles?” I should have known better. See, my dad saves *everything.* EVERYTHING. The weird, specimen-quality embryos, the ancient xrays from the ’70s, the pickups that no one else wanted, the eight-track cassettes of “Three Dog Night,” old equipment from my grandfather’s hospital, and that’s just the starting list. For dad to have a specimen collection in the back freezer should not be news, but I guess I just never thought to hear those particular words–frozen, testicle, and collection–strung together. To be honest, I never wanted to hear them conjoined either.
No one is fessing up as to how said collection came to be discarded, but frankly, I’m a little relieved. There are few things worse than being asked to go and find something in the refrigerated section and coming up with items the make you go “ewww…” Dad is dejected, but I’m guessing that he’ll use this as an excuse to start his collection anew. I think I’ll use this as my excuse to get the clinic a “lunch only” refrigerator. Dad’s collections will be segregated to their very own frozen tundra.
And now, what to make for dinner…(no worries, nothing from the freezer collection)!
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