How I Fought for my Mole

Cindy-Crawford Style Noted

Cindy Crawford and her mole. Image from Style Noted website.

I have a skin condition (rosacea) that, if left untreated, will turn my face into a vein-strewn red mess. Years ago, I had an elective skin treatment to eliminate the broken veins that had snaked their way onto my cheeks and nose. It was a light laser treatment, which they said would “feel like a rubber band is being snapped on your face.” Let me tell you, it was a heck of a lot more painful than that! But the treatment worked well. Since some veins and other assorted age-related globules were beginning to appear on my face, I decided it was time to subject myself to more elective self-torture.

I went to a local plastic surgery clinic that has a skin care specialist. She took one look at me and gave me a facial to remove about seven years of dead skin. We discussed options for removing my globs and decided on the lamprobe, a device that uses high-intensity something or ruthers to zap the veins and bumps into oblivion. This option was cheaper than the laser treatment I had before, so I was all for trying it.

We discussed what she would remove on my face next week, once my skin recovered from the shock of the facial. Things were fine until we talked about the big juicy mole I have on my right cheek. Well, it used to be a mole until a couple of years ago when its color began mysteriously disappearing. Now it’s just a big bump.

I swear I could hear the saliva collecting in the skin care specialist’s mouth as we discussed zapping my mole. She wanted it to add to her collection of dead skin tissue that I’m sure she keeps on a shrine in a hidden room inside her home.

I panicked. Unlike the other unwanted spots on my face, my mole had been with me for as long as I can remember. It had become part of my identity. Sure, it wasn’t as sexy as Cindy Crawford’s mole, but I was uncomfortable at the thought of parting with it.

The specialist said I should think about it during the coming week, and let her know when I came back for the procedure. So I did. The more I thought, the more I knew my mole had to stay. But that old crone’s bump alongside my nose? That could go. All those bumps on my forehead? Those could go, too. Good riddance.

The day of the procedure the specialist showed me a small device (like a pen) that had a pencil-lead thin metal probe on the end of it. This is what she would stick into my skin, firing the high-intensity whatevers to zap my face.

Would it hurt? She wouldn’t answer that directly, instead saying how some patents “got tired” after the worst blemishes were zapped and sometimes decided to leave the rest for another time. That did not bode well.

She washed my face and we discussed again what would go. The mole? “It stays,” I said. I gave her the whole Cindy Crawford argument.

She countered with “But Cindy Crawford’s mole has color to it. Yours doesn’t. It’s just a bump!”

After further negatory comments on my part, she begged, “Are you sure you don’t just want it made smaller? I can do that.”

“We’ll see once we get to that point,” I said.

She began on my forehead and worked her way down my face. It @#$%^&*! hurt. Not as much as the laser, but enough that my back arched several times while the probe did its nasty work. Specialist Lady said I was doing wonderfully.

Somewhere in our conversation punctuated by small moments of intense stinging – like a wasp was having its way with my face — I asked her if anyone had ever tried to hit her because of the pain. She said a woman raised her arm once, but put it back down after the specialist called the woman’s attention to it.

When Specialist Lady arrived at my mole terrain, I knew by that point how much more it would hurt than the other things she’d removed. I turned a hard heart to her pleas and said no again. But I did let her take off a mole on my lower neck as a consolation prize.

However, it’s been a few days now, and my neck mole has turned into a colorless blob. I’m a bit worried it will stay that way and am regretting giving Specialist Lady even this bit of turf. Well, I guess if it stays a colorless blob, it will match the one on my cheek! Who knows? Maybe I’ll even become attached to it.

* * *

P.S. My  neck mole did eventually disappear, so the treatment worked!

Help, help! I can’t find my dog.

Oh, there he is.

Oh, there he is.

Having nothing profound to say, I am posting photos of my dog. You haven’t heard from Buddy for a while – not since Christmas 2013. Oh yes, and when he shat upon my exercise room fantasy . In the meantime, he’s been perfecting the art of camouflage.

A highland cow. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

A highland cow. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

The photo above was taken last week. Buddy looks a lot different now, after a visit to the groomers. Buddy is a goldendoodle (half standard poodle, half golden retriever). He has actual hair that needs to be cut. This means he doesn’t shed (thank goodness!) But it also means he needs a haircut every six weeks or so.

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Buddy after a haircut.

I always think he looks like a Scottish highland cow before his groomings. Some of my friends think he looks more like a sheep. Whatever the impression, afterwards, he looks more like a doe-eyed African gazelle. Although he weighs 75 pounds, he looks about 20 pounds lighter with all that hair gone. And he’s less likely to disappear into the carpet.

Three Wishes

My new magic slippers.

My new magic slippers.

I was granted three wishes last week, but didn’t realize it until they were over. Have you ever had one of those weeks when things randomly and mysteriously work out?

It began with a pair of slippers. My house slippers were held together by pink duct tape that was slowly eroding (long story). When I put them on every morning, I felt a bit like Reese Witherspoon in the movie/book “Wild” where she loses her hiking boots and makes do on the Pacific Crest Trail with her feet and sandals wrapped in duct tape.

I decided it was time to class up my act, so I bought some new slippers during an after-holiday sale. I didn’t have time to try them on in the store, and I forgot that sizes run small for this brand. Once at home, I found they were too small. A few days later I returned to the store only to discover they were out of larger sizes in that style. Resigned, I chose a different style that I was less enthusiastic about, and brought them to the counter for exchange.

As I was explaining my plight to the cashier, I noticed a pair of the original slippers on the counter behind her. Might those be the right size? She said someone had just returned them and she checked the size. They were my size. Score! How lucky was that?

My second wish involved a shared lunch. It was Thursday and all my regular lunch people were otherwise occupied. As I sat in my office, wishing I had someone to go to lunch with, in popped a co-worker who asked me if I wanted to eat out. She and I had never lunched without others along, so this was a new thing. But now I had someone to eat with. Score!

My third wish involved my son’s indoor soccer game. The day of the championship game, I noticed I had an appointment that conflicted with it. I didn’t think there was any way to change the appointment, so I was resigned to missing the game. Soon afterwards, the phone rang and it was the appointment people. They wanted to know if I could come later. Scooooooore!

If I had known I was receiving three wishes last week, I probably would not have wasted one of them on slippers. I would have chosen world peace or a vaccine for Ebola. But having company for lunch and being able to see my son’s soccer game were pretty darn worthwhile.

The Ears and Doors of Yale

An interesting carving in an archway at Yale.

An interesting carving in an archway at Yale.

I have a navy blue sweat jacket with white letters emblazoned across the chest that spell out “YALE.” Ivy League paraphernalia are not common in northern Minnesota, so I get sideways looks when I wear it. It’s also not common to “brag” in this manner about going to an Ivy League school. When someone is curious or brave enough to ask if I went to Yale, I delight in saying, “Yes! . . . But only for three days.”

Door1You see, I went to a science writers conference there a few years back and couldn’t resist buying the jacket. I wear it when I’m in the mood for a social joke, or when I’m cold (which happens quite often).

The wording over the door says "Yale News." A door for journalists.

The wording over the door says “Yale News.” A door for journalists.

Anywho, I thought I’d share with you some photos of my Yale meanderings. I have this thing for doors, and Yale has some great ones. It also has some great ears. If you ever get the chance to walk the campus in New Haven, Conn., look for these!

The dining hall door. Note the cooked poultry above it.

The dining hall door. Note the cooked poultry above it.

Door2Door3

The Banned Words of Bleak Mid-Winter

lssubanishtoon_AdamRaffaele

Cartoon by Adam Raffaele

I look forward to this time of season every year. What’s to like about bleak mid-winter – especially since the temperatures are below zero and I have a head cold that’s producing enough mucus to irrigate a small farm field? Why, the “List of Words Banished from the Queen’s English,” of course! The list is distributed annually by fellow northerners over at Lake Superior State University in Sault Ste. Marie, Mich.

At only 2,500 students the university is small, but its influence on writers looms large with a forty-year tradition of publicizing words that are misused, overused, or generally useless to society. The tradition of listing words everyone loves to hate started at a New Year’s Eve party in 1975 and has enjoyed worldwide fame and attention since then.

This year’s list includes several entries that I totally agree should be banned, such as SWAG. Around my house (which contains a highschooler and his friends) this means that someone is “cool” more than it implies a “free gift.” I have heard this word enough times to last a lifetime. Yes, it should be banned for the sake of parental sanity.

Another term that should never be uttered is ENHANCED INTERROGATION, or as the head of the CIA would say for short, EIT (for Enhanced Interrogation Techniques). The term hit the national spotlight last month with the release of the U.S. Senate report on the CIA’s intelligence-gathering tactics under former President George W. Bush. Torture is torture, people. Let’s not sugar-coat it with a lot of extra syllables.

The top word on the list, however, I’d never heard of. It’s BAE, which stands for “before anyone else.” I suppose it could also be a shortcut word for “babe.” Perhaps I’ve never heard this term because I am nobody’s bae (maybe it’s the mucus). But my Facebook friends and my highschooler assure me the word is alive and well among the middle school and highschool crowds, and apparently, people are sick of it.

The other word of note is NATION used as a suffix to denote fans of a team, celebrity, or the like. I thought it was entirely and appropriately ironic that Lake Superior State University encourages people to join the “Laker-Nation” in the standard institutional blurb that’s included at the end of the banned word list story. I hope they did that on purpose.

Some of the other words are featured in the cartoon above. If a word strikes you during the year as one that should be banned, go here to list it with the university and see how it fares in next year’s list. They also have a Banished Words Facebook page that you can join.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go blow my nose again.

Year End Review (or is it Rear End View?)

Photo credit: Heather Cowper

Photo credit: Heather Cowper

The end of the year calls for a review of the second year of this blog. Since last April, when I did my rather tardy year-end review for 2013, the number of my followers and views has grown, which is heartening. It’s always nice to know that the effort is worth it. Marie’s Meanderings received 3,000 views in 2014 (out of a total of 5,100 views), and has 126 followers.

I continue to receive the most feedback by sharing my blog stories with my Facebook friends. Between them and my followers, each story has the potential to reach almost 300 people.

The most popular post that I wrote since April was my social commentary on our local Christmas City of the North Parade. The story was shared among several of my Facebook friends who perhaps feel the same way – that sending our kids parading down the street in the dead of winter is a form of socially sanctioned child abuse. (Smirk.) And I can’t forget to say it was mentioned by fellow blogger Colette on her blog, WriterInSoul. Her humor is even quirkier than mine. I especially enjoy her “Things Men Have Said to Me” postings. Check it out!

Next comes “Why I am a Zumba Failure,” perhaps because there are many others out there who do not like to gyrate their hips in public.

Finally, is “The Planet Where They Don’t Give Christmas Presents” poem. My guess is its popularity has to do with the appeal of mild profanity among my Facebook friends.

But (or I should say, Butt) the most amusing aspect of my blog continues to be the international appeal and usefulness of the image that conveys the message “don’t flush toilet paper down the toilet.” It accompanied a post about my temporary roommate who had an obsession with toilet paper. That’s why I’ve chosen the image to decorate this post. It has received 69 clicks and downloads this year from many a country that must have sub-standard plumbing, including: Greece, the United Arab Emirates, India, Turkey, Romania, Pakistan, Cambodia, Kuwait, Malaysia, and the Philippines. I am proud that my blog serves such a purpose to the world, and hope to continue to be similarly useful in 2015.

Thank you, my friends, for reading!

Two Poets in the Cereal Aisle

Image from Pulpconnection.

Image from Pulpconnection.

I attended a reading last night by Duluth’s Poet Laureate Jim Johnson. (Yes, Duluth sports its own official poet.) Superior writer Tony Bukoski also read from his essays. It was hosted by Holy Cow Press – a local publisher that’s been in business for 37 years. Both Jim and Tony write from their ethnic roots (Finnish and Polish, respectively), providing for many laughs and some sighs. Topics included accordions, cows, gravel roads, railroads, and tractors. No saunas, though. Maybe next time.

The reading inspired me to uncover a poem that’s been incubating within me for several years. The reading must have made me think about local poets. Hot off the brain press – enjoy!

Two Poets in the Cereal Aisle

He stands, head bowed toward boxes
on the Captain Crunch shelf.
Bearded and barrel-chested,
if Hemingway had been a poet,
this is him.
The local Old Man and the Sea
is in my grocery store.

I slide over
pushing my cart softly, carefully.
Not wanting to disturb.
Will I see in his next book
a poem about golden wheat?
About waves and ships?
Short men in blue uniforms with
shiny gold buttons, and wearing
large hats?

Eyes still closed,
he reaches out his hand,
steadies himself against the shelf —
inspiration rocking and
pulling him
away from shore.

©2014 Marie Zhuikov

The Christmas City of the North Parade: Socially Sanctioned Child Abuse or Festive Community Event?

Huddled masses watch the Christmas City of the North Parade.

Huddled masses watch the Christmas City of the North Parade.

It only took me fifty years to figure out how to stay warm while watching Duluth’s local winter parade in person. One could watch it on the television and stay warm, but that doesn’t count. I needed to watch the parade in-person because my son was marching in it for the first time as part of the high school band. This Northland rite of passage requires parental attendance. I did so for my oldest son, thus for my youngest, too.

It’s almost always below freezing for the parade, which challenges both marchers and spectators. I marched in the parade myself for at least four years for various school bands, and due to this, have little love for it. I recall the numbness of cold appendages, frozen valves on my French horn (which my boyfriend thought could be solved by pushing down hard on all the keys, thus breaking the strings and rendering the instrument tuneless) miserable school bus rides to and from the staging area, and the pain of thawing fingers and toes. (This was before the time of hand warmers.)

But we band rats didn’t have it as bad as the cheerleaders. Back then, before someone got wise and invented flesh-colored thermal tights, they danced in short skirts and skimpy nylons. I am half serious when I say that I thought then and still think now that the Christmas City of the North Parade, far from being an event that brings the community together, is just a case of socially sanctioned child abuse.

Truly, most of the participants are children — from dance schools, high schools, and community groups. Only in Duluth does it seem like a good idea to make our progeny travel a mile-and-a-half down a frozen road, performing for our amusement and joy. Even the television anchors from the station sponsoring the event stay indoors now, much to the disgust of the hardy spectators.

Pleasant parade memories aside, this year, I did it right. The parade route changed so that it passed several eating establishments. I met some friends (thanks Charlotte and Katie!) at an arts café over an hour before the parade began. That way there was still plenty of parking (found a nearby free spot on my first try) and ample time to eat before the parade. I had eaten at home, so I just drank some wine.

Wine! Silly me. Why had I never thought of combining alcohol with parade watching before? The beverage filled me with warmth and goodwill toward this thinly veiled community child abuse event.

Our kids are in there somewhere . . . .

Our kids are in there somewhere . . . .

When the parade started, we stood outside on the curb, waving to the passing floats, facing the cold wind blowing down the street. When we got chilled, we went inside the café lobby and watched the event on television and through the café windows, which fronted the street. All of us had sons in the same band, so once we saw the band approaching on the television, we worked our way to the curb to see it pass by in person, and to wave vigorously to our sons.

Then I headed for my car. Why stay and watch the whole event if I didn’t have to? As I passed the café windows, I noticed an empty table in a prime parade viewing spot. I thought, “Next year, that’s where I will sit.” Although my son will be in the parade then, too, since his maiden voyage is over, I can get by with even more comfortable viewing arrangements in the future. Just look for me and my friends at the center table, sipping our wine and staying warm, while the rest of the world marches by.