I blame the enormous bruise on my arm on a coworker.
I listened to him when he suggested getting a full body examination at the dermatologist. There are three good reasons I should. One, I had never had one in the past. Two, I have extremely fair Irish skin. Three, I have had a mole on my back for years that needs to be checked, and a pink dot on my temple that had been burned off in the past.
I called to make the appointment for the full body scan but they had nothing available because they were booked for the next six months for the full body scan. I start to make the appointment for just checking the one, then, when she interrupted, “Hey, wait a minute! Here’s a full body scan appointment for two days from now because someone cancelled. Do you want that?”
It’s a sign. I took the appointment.
At the dermatologists, she thoroughly looked all over my body, up and down unshaven legs and pale arms. She looked like a giant bug with her lit up magnifying monocle.
|who doesn't love snapchat?|
I have moles of every shape, size, and color on my back, and I’m concerned about every one of them. She looked at them carefully but pronounced them all ok. However, that pink dot on my temple? She numbed it for a biopsy. “I don’t like this one. Don’t get worried, I’m not saying it’s basal cell carcinoma…,” she trails off. She and the assistant then took turns explaining to me that if caught quick enough basal cell carcinoma is not deadly.
Long story not made shorter, it was basal cell carcinoma. A week later, I found myself flat on a table getting that sucker cut out. (editor’s note: there are clear margins and it’s ok now.)
At home that night, I have a ton of groceries in the house
but plan on milking the painful stitches in my face for every bit of
non-cooking pity I can get. Joe fell neatly into my trap and agreed, then said
the words every woman longs to hear. “Why don’t you call Portillo’s?”
|I stayed at work even though I looked like this and no one even said anything.|
Why don’t I indeed? I couldn’t call fast enough and Joe left to pick it up.
Question: If you’re picking up an order to bring home, don’t you normally look in the bag prior to leaving the restaurant? Answer: Yes, you do. Every time. Apparently my romper wearing husband didn’t get that memo.
|he's all mine.|
Through my pain, I managed to athletically leap off the chair and open the bag when he gets home. At the bottom of the bag, there are two beef sandwiches and two tiny fries. Not bags of fries. Not orders of fries. Just two short individual fries.
I looked at Joe. “This is not what I meant when I ordered two small fries.”
He looked in the bag too, and says, “Well, that’s okay. We don’t really need them, do we?”
We’ve been married for ten years and he doesn’t even know me.
“Well, no, we don’t need them,” I said. “But I want them. We paid for them.” I NEED them. I seethed internally. I just had surgery for crying out loud and deserve some poor poor baby fries.
“But we had a $5 coupon,” he said. “It’s not like we paid for them, not really.” There’s no fight in his eyes, though.
The voice that issued from my throat sounds only vaguely like mine. “I’m calling the manager and going back to get the fries.” Joe knows he has been beaten. He’s crestfallen because he’s not going to get to eat that sandwich until we have the complete meal we paid for.
I spoke to a lovely manager who was suitably upset that we didn’t get our order and if we came back she’d have the fries ready.
Joe offered to go back, but I told him I’d go. I didn’t want to admit I didn’t want him to go because what if he didn’t check the bag AGAIN and I end up with no post-surgery fries? Again?
A guy at Portillo’s opened the door for me, then a second door, and I thanked him and rushed through. Fries, I think. Fries.
It was then I cracked my left arm on the handle of the second door.
In my rush to get my promised fries, it did not really register how bad I hit my arm. I was so excited about the fact that the manager threw in two free pieces of chocolate cake that the pain barely registered.
I got home and we wolfed down every morsel.
Although my arm had a little lump on it, it wasn’t really red. A few minutes later, though, my arm started throbbing. The tempo matched the throbbing in the stitches in my left temple and the toothache on the right. (whole separate story.)
The next day, and several subsequent days, the bruise started to look like a paint sample card from Menards.
|ow. ow. ow. this pic doesn't do it justice.|
It reminded me of last October, when I submitted an order for pizza at a local pizza place and when I got there, they didn’t have my order and claimed I submitted it to our Janesville location. “But if you want to wait for twenty minutes, I’ll get a new order ready for you.” *
I was hungry, and I was angry, and when I got into the car, I slammed my fingers in the car door. The fingers on my left hand. I’m still not sure how I did that, because if I am driving, I shut the door with my left hand.
|ow. part 2.|
So twice now, this is what happened when I was hungry, in a hurry, and our food order was messed up. This is what happens when you’re hangry. **
Angry plus hungry. Hangry. As far as I’m concerned, hangry equals injury. My left arm and fingers told me so.
*the manager called me back and said that the kid behind the
counter lied. He comped me the entire meal.
|my little scar. it looks much better now.|
**I'm aware this might be a symptom of a weight problem.