it's the icing on the cake

directions: make sure that you are alone-- all house guests, children, domestic partners and/or pets who may be in heat should be on the other side of a locked door. note; you might feel dirtier doing this by yourself, but that's your own non-secular stuff and far too weighty to fit on a packaging label. squeeze yourself a massive amount of "butt'r"-- the same thinking that also uses half a roll of toilet paper to fashion a protective poo shield between your fingers and what you really don't want to touch. do this next part quickly, you are not trying to ration out the miserly serving of cream cheese that franchised coffee shops give you to cover a bagel. what you defer in technique can always be adequately covered by volume. remember; it's a teriyaki marinade going on in your chamois, and the only thing worse than dried out chicken is a dessicated hoo-ha.

an in-flight manicure

forget the dry, recycled cabin air wreaking havoc on your skin; turbulence is the silent killer-- of cuticles. it creeps up suddenly, like jaws, taking you down a helpless hundred feet.



clearly i need medicating, or mittens.

i got it!

forget "becoming a woman". i got my first "runner's bloody toenail".



well, quarter toenail. but it still counts.

what can brown do for you, when there's anal bleaching available?

if you are trying to find that special something for the person in your life who owns 90% of skymall's merchandise, then a gift certificate to a salon offering anal bleaching, is the perfect way to express your love and unconditional commitment.

for those cave dwelling troglodytes that are a little self conscious because their sphincter falls on the higher cocoa content shade of brown, relief is available for a mere $75, and just 10 minutes out of a hectic schedule. busy jet setters, can even take care of bothersome brown bum holes while transiting the duty-free at schipol airport.

however, maintaining a whiter than white sphincter requires return trips to the salon for touch ups- fortunately, unlike bleaching your hair, there are no tell-tale dark roots to out you as anything less than a "natural". of course, if your pay cheques are not issued by 'red light movies', and an albino anus isn't mandated in the contract, then less expensive solutions are within reach for anyone on a tight budget.

fishies for the little piggies

fish pedicures (not scaley creatures with feet, but creatures with scaley feet) appear to be doing the rounds on the breakfast tv circuit-- although they were only recently brought to my attention via the regis/kelly-lee/barbara-ann-free lunch table forum. having someone i do (or don't) know, grope my in-step for 45 minutes, followed by rigorous grating and harvesting of the parmesan maturing on my heels, is even less appealing than having daily pelvic exams performed by the teletubby-phobic evangelist, jerry falwell. now you can fork out $50 for a lukewarm tub filled with tiny carp, to nibble (and tickle) on the dead and crusty bits of your feet. i personally, can't imagine being denied the satisfaction of feeling like i had just won a prize for picking off the biggest chunk of gnarly skin- or at least something that resembled a map of italy.

this obviously begs the question; what next? perhaps there will eventually be a daily special, where your salon will throw in a few tablespoons of termites in order to rid you of those stubborn, ingrown toenails. leeches are obviously, already used for medical procedures, but boa contrictors could be applied to the abdomen to deal with bloating and constipation. perhaps an octopus to the thigh in order to banish persistent cellulite? or even, addressing the girl mustache/excessive nostril hair/overgrown bikini line/stubborn mole hair issue, through strategic placement of the household pet phylum (rabbit, guinea pig, hamster).

i have the hand/eye co-ordination of a toddler on crack

it is evidence based best practice that stress relief is most effectively achieved by engaging in physically strenuous activities-- trying to be the first down the jetbridge when the pilot turns the 'fasten seat belt' sign off does not count. the utter god awfulness of last week earned a big, tarnished gold star, and a subsequent effort at reparation by: "engaging some positive coping strategies". the treatment protocol was determined to be; a long (and slow) mountain bike ride-- get back to nature, and see some non-rattling, non-poisonous, non-bitey wildlife; remain upright and vertical on the trail (as opposed to grabbing at bits of bush/twig/piles of horse manure to stop me + bike from sliding all the way down the drops); avoid faceplanting into super barky oak trees (and anything involving 'leaves of three'); burn off the "brookie" (brownie and chocolate chip cookie) a la mode; discharge all of the pent up physical aggression that i really, really wanted to inflict on police officers, credit card fraudsters, assorted colleagues, voice messaging systems, and customer service people who finally did answer my call, but didn't sound like it was all that important to them.

perhaps waverly park- or the 'trail of ten thousand elevations' (most of which seemed to disappear into cumulonimbus) was not the most prudent choice for; nerves, ego, or someone with the current frustration tolerance of a 5 year old having to sit through an entire catholic mass. instead of reclaiming control of at least one thing from the week, there was a cosmic scratch that kept this particular track on skip, as evidenced by minimal control (less than usual at any rate) over the bike, which probably had more to do with the discovery of loose rear brakes, on a steep and switchbacky downhill (despite the trail's overall topographical emphasis on ascending); non-compliance from both the respiratory and circulatory systems respectively; the sensation that a sewing machine had been strapped onto my camelbak; strange ticking noises coming from the mechanics and wilderness. the overwhelming frustration and complete lack of control was ultimately the neutralizing agent that finally popped the preceeding week's inflamed "stress pimple"-- and rather like a fresh tube of toothpaste, erupted into some moderate ocular leakage, with a side of mucous. fortunately there were no wasp stings to the neck as there had been during last weekend's foray into my own personal REI commercial.

the apres bike ride shower involved a rigourous skin check for: rorschach-looking haematoma, volcanic insect bites, and seeping rashes, in addition to the characteristic sunburn blisters and spandex chafe.

grafting and mining my skin's surface is truly the most effective of therapies.

chafing

as i no longer have ringworm to contend with, my skin is going into withdrawals. today i ran 15 (point 3) miles, and am experiencing redness and soreness in parts that petroleum jelly does not usually reach.

it is a well known fact that cotton is the enemy of the distance runner, or middle aged baby boomer who never updated their wardrobe. and i am a "fabric of our lives" devotee who admits to wearing knickers under bike shorts (see blog from last summer about smegma in your chamois). during previous higher mileage half marathon training, i used vaseline to prevent inside thigh chub chafe ("ITCC"). however, colder temps and longer pants this morning, meant that this particular area was a non-issue. instead, i have sustained some serious "nappy rash" around the knicker elastic line (you know the part).

i also found significant "heart rate monitor chafing", while i attempted to stand up and maintain my balance in the shower this afternoon.

(still no black toenails).

a ringworm by any other name (isn't)

i have delusions of grandeur that are specific to self-diagnosing any and all dermal "dysfunctions". however, the itchy, raised circular bumps on my fingers and palms had not responded to the intermittent application of OTC ointments, and were in fact transferring to the adjacent metacarpals. guilt, associated with contagious exposure to others via handshaking, scissor sharing, or poking my fingers in someone else's flubber, spurred me on to make the $35 co-payment (plus parking meter).

dr. derm scraped my "ringworm" onto a slide and peered at it under a microscope. he noted; "there is nothing fungal or contagious". according to his medical school training and aeons of experience (as opposed to my surfing webmd), he determined that i had a form of contact dermatitis or eczema of the hands. he gave me a trifold pamphlet and some free samples (why don't godiva give out free samples the same way the PPO peeps do?).

honestly, i think i'm just going to miss telling people that i have ringworm. or perhaps more accurately, i will miss seeing their reaction when i tell them i have ringworm.

scabies

no, i have not added this to my list of assorted skin disorders (yet). rather, there has been an outbreak of scabies at work (amongst a couple of new kids). panic ensued (amongst the staff).

scabies comes from the latin "to scratch". we are all feeling itchy. the resident counselors have been quarantining the bean bags, linens, and are shrouded in gowns like extras from ER. they are not happy. they do not appreciate my encouragement (minimization) "oh, you'll be fine. you haven't really come into contact with it".

rather than ask the health clinic for a topical treatment for the kids' skin, i would like to request an oral sedative for the staff.

holy mole-y, batman!

every day at 8am, i walk into work with a "to do" list. my cognitive rehearsal has been played over ad infinitum. by 8:05 this is scrapped. plans are hijacked by meltdowns (staff as well as children), bum wiping (as previously cited), and minor surgical procedures. today, anyway. today, i was "cut", "shaved", and "burned"; or the unabridged version, "disa goes to the dermatologist" (and yes, i know it's about bloody time).

i got to recite the laundry list of dermal neuroses to my own personal jesus. my bible bump (he confirmed the "leave it alone" treatment protocol), the ringworm (he scraped at it with a razor), the "monthly" acne (prescription written), and the ever changing/growing/discolourating moles (an offer to slice off two of them).

fart.

at my last mole removal, i had a girlfriend hold my hand during the procedure (and make the call, and drive me to the office- i love my codependent friends). i do realize that mole excision is not open heart surgery, or even child birth, however for an avoider like myself, needles, anaesthesia, and removal of any parts of my flesh (unless i happen to be the one picking it off) brings me that much closer to my inner wimp. not to mention that i've had the moles in question, since i was born. the paedatrician even joked with my mother about a "third nipple", given their size and placement. yes, i'm a very sentimental soul.

the mole doctor finally won me over, not with the horrors of skin cancer, but the promise that cauterization would mean big scabs in a couple of days (something really juicy to pick at!). he administered the lidocaine, shaved and sizzled the first one, and then hacked away at the "nipple". cue: unsolicited, anxious, tangential monologue about what brought me to louisville, and my disappointment over the dearth of "horses, fried chicken, and rednecks". fortunately, there was a delay between his completion of the procedure, and the very acrid smell of burning flesh; specifically my burning flesh.

i left with two less moles, $35 less dollars, and a bag of samples to treat my ringworm. more importantly, i left without lectures on sun burn, sun screen, regular mole checks, and everything else that i routinely do/don't do.

on becoming a bible thumper

in my relentless efforts to locate more things on my skin to pick at, i happened upon a bump at the top of my foot, near the "where i tie my running shoes" crease. delving into that rigourously peer reviewed authority (google/wikipedia) on all things dermal, the diagnosis was narrowed down to a gangleon cyst. according to my PLR (physician's laptop reference), they are more common in females (that would be me), and tend to be prevalent between the ages of 20-60 (me, again). the little blighters are more casually referred to as "bible bumps".

historically, treatment involved whacking them with a heavy book to diffuse the cyst. obviously, back in ye olde days, the poorer folk were an illiterate bunch and had little use for hardback copies of "moby dick", "war and peace" or "star struck; a novel by pamela anderson". however, every household did possess a copy of the big book; handy for reciting scripture, propping doors open, and casting out demonic cysts. perhaps my copy of "harry potter and the deathly hallows" would be sufficient. i am reassured in the knowledge that i have a number of people to call on who would be more than willing to smack me with a heavy object.

fortunately, there is a non-violent/non-surgical treatment option that aligns with the philosophy i routinely ascribe to; "leave it alone and it will eventually go away".

invasion of the body snatchers

i believe that there has been some rare strain of contagious PMS permeating my (only my) orbit this week. many of my nearest and dearest appear to have had a logical reasoning lobotomy. obviously the common denominator in this little bipolar mood swing equation is myself, and i am aware that i can be difficult/perplexing/trying/exasperating/patience testing, amongst all the other "synonyms for a 5 year old for $400, please alex". but it is not a full moon this week, and i want my friends back.

i should be irritable, my chigger bite count is up to 30. i am itchy.

averaging approx. 75 ml. of calamine per week

same time of year, same issues. i need to move somewhere there are no trees, shrubs, insects, animals or children. this would also mean no hiking, mountain biking, frisbee golf, bbq's, camping, pets, or job.

i started scratching myself earlier this week, however this is my baseline behavior so was not especially concerned. unfortunately, i felt lumps on my face. this obviously meant that i had to continue touching and navigating them. by the time i got to a mirror, i saw the now familiar poison ivy configuration of blister stripes on my forehead and cheeks. i am zulu warrior, watch me scratch.

as with the addictive things in life (i like to scratch 'n pick), one typically results in several. on my knuckle, my shoulder, my elbow, neck, and toe. my personal impulse control is minimal, so the blister gets pushed and poked until, oops! it bursts. at which point it oozes and seeps pure, undiluted itch.

i do not have health insurance at this "inside your 10 week grace period" time, but because i am an annual skin veteran, i now possess an array of products designed to combat my persistent symptoms. the apres shower routine has evolved into a finely choreographed application of topical analgesic to the various extremities. however, many of my itches and blisters are visible, so i have opted for clear gel instead of the more festive pink streaks and blobs. the advantage, despite calamine lotion looking a little strange, is that many people immediately recognize and diagnose the problem (at times from quite a distance) and offer sympathy. the gel, while clear, does dry, crack, and peel in the same way as it's pink counterpart, but without the pink prompt, co-workers/random strangers do not offer their condolences and their own poison ivy stories, instead i catch them staring at my moulting face, and inching a little further away.

dont even get me started on the bloody ringworm.

memorial day field trip

memorial day weekend is typically a time to remember those who have sacrificed their lives for this country (being an alien i dont get all misty at the; hand on heart, hat doffing, and singing patriotic ditties), shopping the sales (possessing a uterus qualifies for automatic participation), and the great american tradition of whacking monstrous chunks of beef onto hot charcoal (i am partial to hot cow on toasted bread). however, this past weekend didn't involve any of the aforementioned activities. rather, it was a random patchwork of people (age, nationality, sexual orientation, emotional maturity), cuisine (mexican, vietnamese, vegetarian, fresh produce) and outings. as previously cited, the outings began with squatting in a field, followed by frisbee golf. my flinging and aiming has improved significantly since the first excursion, although i am now itchy, so perhaps i did spend a little too much time in the woods rooting through poison ivy to retrieve my poorly aimed throws. hydration was an important and necessary feature to the weekend where mojitos, the 'mexican mint juleps', were consumed at regular intervals, to the soundtrack of old, white men playing steel drums in a park gazebo. the weekend climaxed (ha!) with a field trip to the over 21's version of "toys r us". the jeopardy question being: "what happens when you combine pina coladas with a group of social service professionals and a radiology technician?"

and what an enlightening experience it was. unfortunately, these are things that i am now unable to erase from the mental hard drive. obviously some citizens out there have an excess of money and are either lacking in their own personal creativity, or are trying to be entirely too creative for their own good. with that said, there was much school girl (and boy, this was a co-ed venture) tittering and giggling a la 'behind the bikeshed'. pay attention: here comes the soft and cuddly moral of the story; whether youre at an adult store, grocery store or mattress store, if the collective sense of humour falls under the umbrella of "puerile", it is either going to be a very long evening, or youre in jolly good company.