One Hour Break

Is it sad that I look forward to a doctor appointment just so I can get a break from the kids? If you're wondering how:

• sitting in a waiting room staring at people you don't know and reading three-year-old issues of People magazine,
• lounging on an exam chair wearing a drafty hospital gown in a room the temperature of an ice box,
• talking about my mystery diagnosis and sharing itchy butt stories regarding other patients,
• carrying on a "normal" conversation while the dermatologist closely examines every. square. millimeter of your naked skin, or
  
• sitting calmly, trying not to punch the doctor, while she freezes a wart off my foot
  

can be considered a break from the kids, then allow me to tell you. While under the care of my dermatologist, not once did I hear, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! J-man slobbered kitty!" "NOOOOO! Don't touch me Miss-Miss!" "Waaaaaaaaa!" or any other combination of the previous.

Bliss. Complete and utter bliss.

Until the freezing of the wart. At that moment I realized true dermatologic discomfort. When I've previously had smaller warts or questionable spots (read: pre-cancerous ick) frozen, it was all of five seconds while I mentally thought, Oh, that's cold. Oh, that hurts! and it was over. This time around?

Forty-five seconds of the doc carrying on a normal conversation and every vein popping out on my forehead while I mentally chanted, OK, that's cold. Oh, that hurts! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW! Motherfucker! Ow! Ow! G-damn! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! over and over and over again until I calmly looked down at the top of her head, imagined the liquid evil getting kicked across the room, and said, "OK. That's enough. Thanks!" through clenched lips.

Yeah. For the next few days, please refer to me as the Coal Miner's Gimp Granddaughter.