Saturday, September 22, 2012

Late but Great: Madonna 2012

MJagger and I went to the Madonna concert Wednesday night as scheduled.  This is our seventh Madonna concert together--we are true Madonna whores. (This was my tenth time seeing Madonna in concert. Can I claim this on my tax returns?) After weeks of anticipation, the day had come.  We survived our work day, got into my stick-shift car and headed to Chicago, tickets and money in hand.  Thankfully, MJagger had taken motion sickness pills, as there is NOTHING like being the passenger in a stick shift car in stop-n-go Chicago traffic.  I did my best to keep her from getting "stick-shift-induced-car sickness" but with the rush hour traffic, anything I tried was a feeble attempt....it literally took us one hour to go nine miles.  That is not a typo.  The 1.5 hour trip took us three hours.  So much for being early.  (Thankfully, we had heard that Madonna was starting her concerts later than advertised, so we didn't feel stressed. Worse come to worse, we'd miss the opening DJ and I can't say either of us gave a rat's ass about that.)

We took our traffic-tortured selves for dinner at a nice Chicago restaurant, seated in one of the better window seats.  I think it was my Madonna t-shirt that inspired the hostess to give us such a nice window seat--or, maybe it was my stick shift car...the valet guy seemed very impressed that I drove a stick shift car--"One in a thousand" he claimed. Dinner was indeed delicious, very enjoyable, perfect preparation for the concert. Word to MJagger: when they say "the special," this refers to what they are featuring, not the price.  Oh, to see MJagger's face when the bill came...although the special was indeed very special, it was not on special. Yum!

We parked our car in the "crack lot" and got to the venue without incident. We were pleasantly surprised by our seats--much closer to the stage than anticipated, a clear view of the catwalk, sure to be able to see Madonna without issue, even via my trifocals.  We settled in and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Madonna didn't take the stage until 10:30 PM.  This on a weeknight--a school night!  TEN THIRTY.

I'm used to waiting for bands to start--they are almost always somewhat late...but 2.5 hours late? It just seemed rather disrespectful.  I hate to say that--I hate to say anything even remotely negative about the lady who's changed the music world--but it seemed very disrespectful toward her fans. For Pete's sake, I am usually asleep for an hour by the time 10:30 PM rolls around.  Doesn't Madonna know that half her audience belong to AARP? Look around--we're her people. MJagger was probably the youngest female there and she's 40.  (Gay guys don't count--many were in their 20's--the gays of all ages have a healthy respect the Queen of Pop.) I was so tired by the time Madonna took the stage that I could barely stand up and cheer.  I think my agitation kept me awake.  Sure, there was a DJ for a half hour (around 9 PM or something) but I didn't pay to hear some Rick Astley looking DJ.  I paid to see my beloved Madonna, preferably more on time than not.

Thankfully, I loved the show.  Madonna will never be a great singer--that's not why you go to one of her concerts. You go because she is an amazing show woman.  Amazing. There is nothing like a Madonna concert--it is an experience, a happening, an artistic event.  It's lights and technology and music and visual overload. It's wonder. You don't go because you want to hear her greatest hits--that's not going to happen.  Madonna is true to her most recent album, in this case MDNA.  If you bought your ticket with the hopes she'd sing all her songs from the 80's and 90's, you were one mighty disappointed ticket holder--that's not what she does or has ever done.  (Well, besides the Re-Invention Tour, but that long ago and unusual for Madge. You missed your chance for greatest hits if you missed Re-Invention.) Here's a blurry photo of the opening act (all my photos are blurry--what can I say--camera phones can only do so much), complete with the largest Catholic Incense thingy I have ever seen.  Praise the baby Jesus, Madonna is still struggling with her Catholic roots.  Someone get her an exorcism!

People have been complaining that her opening act is too violent and too bloody.  Um, have you people watched TV in the past 25 years? This was no worse than those crime shows on television, so don't be having a double standard.  Did I like that she had guns and blood and yuck splattering everywhere on the big screen? Not particularly.  Did I get upset or disturbed by it? Not at all.  It had a point and it really wasn't worse than anything on Prime Time.  Here's a really blurry photo of Madonna striking a gun pose, complete with posse of gun-toting women. Bang, bang!

(Don't even get me started about the double standard about age--why is it that men in music can easily be 60 or more years old and no one says a word but bring on a 54 year old woman who happens to be in amazing shape and can run circles around most 20 years olds and you get a bunch of criticism that she's too old to be doing this or that.  Grrrrr.) 

She sang several of my favorite songs during the not-so-shocking-supposedly-horrible-blood-bath Act One, so I was all good with everything even more-so than I would have been.  I happen to like her old and new music.  I listened to the new album non stop in preparation for the concert.  I checked out the set list.  I read reviews. I did my homework. I embrace the ever-changing world of this genius. Anyone who features Lil Wayne in a pop song is all right with me.

My favorite part of the show was when the "marching" drummers came out, suspended over the crowd, banging out a killer cadence.  MJagger says my jaw dropped open and I believe her. Being a drummer and a marching band nerd, I was in hog heaven. All that marching and baton twirling and loud snare drumming....I didn't think it could get better, despite it being 11:30 PM.  I wasn't a big fan of this song prior to the concert but I have to say, this rendition made it a favorite.

Leave it to Madonna to make baton twirling cool.

Thankfully, Madonna's concert was two hours in duration. Although that left me incredibly sleep deprived, provided a challenge of driving so late at night & made it almost impossible to think/function/speak/perform while at work the next day, I was glad she gave us our money's worth once she bothered to take the stage.  The concert itself was exactly what I was expecting and for that I am grateful. The chance to go to another Madonna concert with MJagger was completely appreciated.  The audacity of Madge being so late was disappointing.  I gave it four out of five stars in my official review (I know, what a nerd--I do concert reviews on line.  What ARE we going to do with me?)  I took away a star for her starting so late.

Would I go to another Madonna concert?  Are you kidding me? Did you even just ask that question?

Yes, of course I would.  Next time, though, we'll skip dinner and take a nap instead.
*********************************************************************

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Getting things off my chest

As long-time readers know, I am a fifty year old with a subtle (okay, not so subtle) flair for the dramatic. I wasn't going to write about this but I decided it's only fair.  I tell all to my readers.  (Correction: almost all.  The wife has requested a few boundaries be kept.  In her words, "is NOTHING sacred?")  I write this for entertainment value and to show solidarity with the peri-menopausal, anxiety-ridden hypochondriacal women of the world of which I am sure exist.  Stay strong, sisters of the middle age!


No need to panic.  I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating, weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.

It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain.  As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...

Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair.  I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty.  Good for me.  Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing.  Sigh.

(I'm not kidding.  I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on.  Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)

I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....

Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients.  I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing.  I went to a safe place in my mind.  I was one in the moment.  I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....

Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit!  (Remind self to apologize to clients.)

...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies.  As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).

Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid.  Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not.  Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell.  God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....

I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy?  That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this.  Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.)  I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like.  I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it.  Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow.  Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.

Fast forward to eight days later.  The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason.  Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear.  I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again.  Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face.  These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well.  The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.

Now, it's last night.  (That's kind of a weird sentence.  NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it.  I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was.  I tossed and turned,  flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight.  Imagine how comforting all that was.  I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament.  I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them.  (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand.  Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem.  I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous. 

So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch.  I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER.  The pain kept me up all night."  She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do.  I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror.  She agrees to take me to the ER.  I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.

Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER.  Not me.  This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits.  I also shaved my legs for good measure.  I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain. 

If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist.  Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth.  Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world.  EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical.  The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety.  This might just be anxiety."  They smile and nod but pay no heed.  I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard. 

Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety.  Yes, my left arm is bothering me.  No, there is no rhyme or reason.  Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident.  Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign.  The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit.  He laughed.

Guess what I was diagnosed with?  I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."

You are wrong.  I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco. 

WTF???? Norco? A pain killer?  I'm not in "that kind" of pain.  I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco.  Not me.  I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it.  I am left with "chest pain."  Duh. I knew that.

The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure),  that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative.  I'm fit as a fiddle.  I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those.  He asks if I get heartburn often.  Oh brother.  I am rather insulted by this.  I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV.  I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain. 

I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days.  I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions.  I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert.  MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late.  I have to take the wife out for dinner. 

I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.  

I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart.  He'll patronize me and ooze support.  He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test.  He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety."  Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.

It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions.  I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising.  I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.)  I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying.  I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive.  I will hang out with friends more and with work less.  I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic.  I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.

Okay, once a month.  It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.

Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
*******************************************************************









Sunday, September 09, 2012

Fourth and Four

Ten more days until the Madonna concert. What to wear, what to wear?

It's my absolute favorite time of year.  Well, besides my birthday week, but that's a given.  I suppose I could say it's my favorite time because it's the time of the wife's birthday and the falling leaves and the closing of the white pants season, but I would be lying.  Those are all really nice things but it's not what makes September rock. It's my favorite time of the year because professional football is back.

Pathetic, I know.

I can't help it.  I love football.  I cannot think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.  (No disrespect to the baby jesus.)  I can't think of one thing I don't like about it.  If the wife can watch reality TV all day and night without too much whining from me, I can watch one day of football without judgment.

(By the way, what IS that mess of a honey boo boo? Oh, the lost thirty minutes I'd like to have back.)  

This year, I have taken football to a whole 'nother level: I am in four fantasy leagues.  What WAS I thinking? It sounded like a good idea at the time but now I'm not sure.  I am super confused and it's hard enough just remembering to check my players' injury status let alone decide who to start. Thankfully, one of the leagues is "only" a confidence pool, so I suppose I should call blog this Fourth and three, but I still have to remember and complete my confidence picks so at four I shall stay.

Thankfully, I was able to figure out how to have two of the leagues on my smart phone, so I can keep track of them from wherever I might be on any given Sunday (pun intended).  It doesn't work out as well as I thought it would, though--I accidentally waived one of my starting running backs when trying to move him up on my list.  It's hard to read on a smart phone when you're 50 years old--that tiny print will get you every time.  I was sick over that and couldn't get him back.  Something about have to wait about the waiver.

This was the first time I participated in a "live draft;" meaning, a bunch of us got together and sat around some stranger's living room while wearing our favorite team jerseys. We stuffed our face with food  and chose our teams, one by one, player by player, all picks displayed on the big screen.  MJagger invited me to the league and she knew the majority, if not all, of the people at the draft.  It happens to be an all-women league, which is really not here nor there except for it's important for blogging purposes: I ask you to envision 14 middle-aged women (sorry, MJagger, you are now middle aged upon crossing that 40 mark) sitting in a living room, 12 of which are wearing Bear jerseys. (I was rocking my McFadden Raider jersey and some poor lady was wearing an Alabama t-shirt. So you can envision how good I looked, here is a photo of me wearing said jersey at a Packers game last year. I've got balls to wear the opposing team's jersey while at Lambeau.) I sat on the couch, cheat sheet in hand, quietly surveying the crowd.  They were obviously well versed not only about football but also about fantasy football.  MJagger had a fantasy football magazine in front of her and it was clear that she had been studying.  Me? I had a few new apps on my phone and decided to go with technology for my information.  We sat by each other and whispered things to each other in an attempt to make sure we didn't end up picking players that were injured, released, on strike or in jail. The Alabama lady picked a guy that was waived and a guy that was no longer on any team.  I didn't have the heart to tell her.

Okay, I'm lying--I was giddy with delight that she picked those people because that means I have a better chance of beating her.

The thing that left me incredulous is that these Bears fans are so hard-core that none of them would pick Aaron Rogers for their quarterback.  I mean, come on--here's the top-rated quarterback in the league and they are all passing him up.  I was number 12 in the draft and almost got Rogers as my starting quarterback. That's unbelievable. The wife would have been pissed off had I gotten him (it's true that every player I ever pick ends up getting hurt) but I would have been a rock star.  Unfortunately, someone finally decided they'd rather win than be true to the orange and blue, so I just missed my chance.

The ladies sounded sincere and polite, gently cheering on each person's picks.  One lady would say, "good pick!" after every pick made by MJagger.  I found this strange and turned to MJagger, who explained to me that was this lady's way of saying "F*ck you."  Oh my.  There was indeed some competition going on.  Sure enough, once MJagger had alerted me of this, I watched carefully and I could tell that the lady was being a complete and total ass.

This was pretty serious stuff.  Too serious. I thought there might be a cat fight if things didn't lighten things up, so I took things into my own hands: I announced I was taking a kicker in the second round.  I thought they were all going to die.  I'm sure they thought I was a moron, but I knew what I was doing. It is fun to toy with the draft.  (I actually didn't take a kicker until the third round, which was terrifying enough for these ladies. I love messing with people.  Keep 'em off balance, that's what I say.)

The draft took over three hours.  I was exhausted by the end.

The next draft was a live on-line draft; meaning, we were all sitting at our computers in the comfort of our homes doing everything electronically.  I was number nine, which meant I had a wee bit better choice of first pick but not much better.  They had a live chat going on so I joined in.  MJagger was also in this pool-- again, these were a bunch of her friends--so, I asked if we could say whatever we wanted in the chat.  MJagger said "of course!" so I typed in some naughtiness, trying to get some banter going.

Silence.

Thanks for nothing, MJagger.

The live computer draft only took an hour, which seemed like drafting on crack in comparison to the live in-person draft.  I thought about drafting the exact same players for both teams, helping me keep track of my Sunday antics, but this was not possible as many of my players were drafted for other teams.  I suppose I should be happy, as my computer draft scored me a whole bunch better players.  If I don't do well in that pool, it's my fault for starting the wrong players.

So, today I will study my three teams (the confidence pool was done and locked by Wednesday, thank god) and try to figure out who to start, where.  I will have NO idea who to cheer for today, as I have players scattered across the league; in fact, I believe I have no "team-duplicates" on my rosters (meaning I have one player per team per league).  I am going to have to rely on the NFL channel, my computer, my phone and the wife to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm winning, if my players are even playing. The remote control is going to be ON FIRE!

I'm gonna need an assistant to keep track of all this.  An assistant and a bookie.

Today, I will not think of Madonna; rather, I will think about cheering for players on teams I hate. It's the weirdest thing to do that, but I will do what I must do to cheer my players to individual victory.

If things get ugly, I can go back to thinking about Madonna, but I'm hoping to stay focused, not distracted by Madge.  I can think about Madonna on Tuesday....after Monday Night Football.

It's fourth and four....I'm ready for some football!
*******************************************************************






Saturday, September 01, 2012

Have stitches, will travel

After nine (or, is it ten?) days, I decided it was time for my stitches to come out. You didn't think I was going to pay anyone a penny to do something that easy, did you? No, it was my duty to remove them myself.  Before you get freaked out, I have to tell you: I've taken many a stitch out of myself and I've even taken stitches out of the wife's back (she wouldn't let me take her staples out despite the doctor offering me the opportunity--kill joy). I figured this would be an easy ordeal--snip, snip, rip.  The only thing of concern was the angle but I figured I could work around it.

The first order of affairs was to post my intention on Book de la Face.  One must have priorities.

The second order of affairs was to find implements with which to remove the staples.  I thought I had used my Swiss Army knife in the past, but wasn't sure. I can't imagine I used the army knife to take the stitches out of my face but couldn't remember anything else, so shrugged my shoulders and kept moving on.  I gathered up various implements such as the army knife, a sewing kit "ripper thing," an exacto knife, a steak knife and some tweezers.  For good measure, I grabbed a lighter and a bottle of rubbing alcohol (in hindsight, probably not a good idea to have both these items within inches of each other).  I heated up each of the tools (okay, so the steak knife was for looks--I never intended to use it), then used the rubbing alcohol to "super-sterilize" the tools.  I splashed a bunch of rubbing alcohol onto the stitches and leaned back.

In the middle of all this, the wife came screaming in the door, hopping and yelling and howling and grimacing and crying.  "I got stung by a bunch of bees!" She was in understandable, sheer-terror-type pain. She was unable to identify where or how many times she had been stung.  I put down my implements and made her a baking soda paste.  I know how to make a good first aid paste with the best of them. (She's fine, just in pain.  Those bees are so screwed.  I see chemicals in their short-bee-lives.)

It didn't exactly go as planned.  I returned to the kitchen table and grabbed the first stitch. Those puppies had no intention of coming out of there.  I pulled. I sawed.  I yanked.  I cut.  Nothing budging.  I think it was that my skin was stuck to everything.  Maybe I waited too long to try to get them out.  So, I returned to Book de la Face to get more info.  One guy suggested I use cuticle scissors, but after a quick check with the wife, it was determined we own no such implement.  Another tour of the house left me empty handed.

I decided to do what any upstanding American would do: I drove to Wally World.

I went to the World of Wally in search of cuticle scissors or other small cutting device. I grabbed some band-aids and rubbing alcohol (I figured I should probably get more of that) and then wandered toward the chocolate (I was a bit unfocused). That's when it occurred to me: Wally World has a doctor's office!  I meandered toward the small office and read the sign.  Yup, they take stitches out....for $78.  (It was rather bizarre--almost every service they offered was $78.)  Who knew?  I mean, who the hell would think that a chain store would have removal of sutures as an option? I knew my insurance would cover the cost besides the co-pay and I really didn't want to take time off of work to go back to Dr. Derma (it's way across town and would require at least 2 hours of my work day, considering wait and travel time). Even if my insurance didn't cover the cost, it would be worth it.  I bellied up to the bar and waited for the nurse to head my way.

I am here to tell you that I got my money's worth and that the nurse had one hell of a time getting those stitches out of there.  She's digging and pulling and cutting and digging.  "Oh my, that doctor really made these tight!" She tried from one angle, then another.  She moved to the other side of the exam table.  It was quite clear I wouldn't have gotten those things out on my own, no matter how hard I tried.  It was pretty uncomfortable, I must admit.  I was one happy grrrrrl when she was finally done.  I think she was sweating.

When she was finally done, she handed me the scissors and tweezers. "Do you want these? I'm just going to throw them away."

Score!

I am now ready to remove YOUR stitches....and, I'll do it for free.  No need to cough up $78 or sterilize your exacto knife. I've got the implements and a new bottle of rubbing alcohol......