Reading: The Book of Three

Moving: walked 2.7 miles and swam 1.2K

Watching: "The Usual Suspects"

14 August 2000: Taking my lumps

I am becoming lumpy. Lumpier.

Yesterday I was putting together new closet organizers while RDC played with his new toys in the family room. I couldn't keep my hands off my face, specifically near my left ear, directly in front of the lobe. Had that always been there?

Finally I went downstairs and demanded RDC have a look. I flopped on the futon, telling him to use whatever he needed to, scalpel, needle, pliers, whatever. I meant that the lump should be removed, like a wart.

I've broken out uncontrollably at two points in my life, both times of keen emotional stress. In the fall of 1989, I put up with it until I discovered a blackhead on my cheekbone, just under my eye socket. I squeezed that thing out mercilessly and gave myself the hairy eyeball. No more of that, if you please, and that was the end of it.

The other time was 1991, and it lasted the whole school year. I called my face the Pacific Ocean because, like that ocean, it was bounded by the Rim of Fire.

So anyway. What RDC discovered was much more disgusting than any other single nastiness I've ever grown. I don't need any help popping a whitehead; I asked him for help because I wasn't sure if this was a new mole. And it was on the side, where I couldn't see it. He squeezed with two hands, and from inside my head I heard a pop as he rocketed across the room in disgust.

Apparently it had fermented much deeper than my epidermis. A sebacious cyst, presumably with a root system like a dandelion. Should I be proud?

Of course, this is only amusing to me because this was the first one I ever grew and I don't expect others. My friend Mike told me that anything you can squeeze isn't acne. He ended up growing a beard, both to hide his cystic acne and because shaving was so painful and bloody.

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This morning, walking to work, I met a dachshund named Bergie and through bars pet a mostly golden who was prowling, not very viciously, the fenced grounds of a church. In that kind of mood, I was walking merrily along listening to Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil when I felt a sharp pinch. On my thigh, less than an inch from my crotch. There I am, in the street, reaching up the loose leg of my shorts overalls, very ladylike, and yes, grabbing something. A yellowjacket. Little fucker. I hurled it to the ground and stomped on it, smearing it across the asphalt.

Right at the top of my thigh, right against my crotch, with still a mile to walk. Ow.

On the theory that my sister, who hasn't been a happy camper lately, could not possibly be having a worse morning than I unless she'd just been stung on the eyeball, I called her. I'm always having a better day than she, so I figured I should even things out. Except that I woke her up, so we didn't talk long.

It was only when I got to work and showered that I realized a reason the pain had persisted was that I guess I damaged the damn hornet (aren't yellowjackets miniature hornets, not big bees?) removing it from my shorts. Though not a honeybee, the stupid thing had left its stinger in me. A twig, nearly.

So yes, I wantonly killed an insect. Last night I discovered an overgrown mosquito-shaped thing on my water glass, lemony green and pretty despite its shape, and I chased it around a bit before I could get it into my hand and out the door. But perhaps I wasn't gentle enough and killed it, and the yellowjacket was karma. Probably it was just mean, though.

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This morning while speaking my voicemail greeting I realized that my father had called me on Friday, August 11. When I talked to him on the 12th he didn't bring it up, but August 11 isn't just the anniversary of our arriving in Denver and Blake's hatching in 1995. 1989, 1995, and 2000 after Leap Day could share the same calendar, and in 1989, his mother died.