Nothin' Says Lovin' Like Removin' Your Nubbin'...

It was with nothing short of ghastly horror that I read over at Paige's Blog that she, too, was having Nubbin' issues... Nothing quite steals one's thunder as having a total stranger proclaim just a few days earlier than you that she'd had her potential cancer removed one week before oneself did... The only conclusion I can come to is that she's my Jewish twin sister from another mother...

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But indeed, I had a nubbin' of my own--not under my breasts like Paige, but right out there for all the world to see, on my left cheek. (You can even see it in the profile pic if you look at the enlarged view... Creepy...)

It had been there for as long as I can remember, as Freddie the Freckle. Along the way he turned into Maurice the Mole. My nephew Devin had great fun last time he was over, sitting beside me watching a movie, and every five seconds poking his finger on it and saying, "Waz that, Sason?" Then at some point last year, it turned into a symptom of the Black Plague. Never having been a fan of the Black Plague myself (although I hear hundreds heeded it's siren song in the past...), I decided to have my hot doctor look at it.

Having made an appointment with hot doc (I actually have a whole team of docs right in Whitehall, but when I can, I request him... He tickles my fanny--No, no, FANCY, he tickles my FANCY!...) He looks at it, asks the usual "Does it hurt?" "What's it doing?" "Are you doing anything Saturday night?" Okay, that last one was just in my head, but you know the drill. After all that hoopla, he suggests I see a plastic surgeon.

Having never been to a plastic surgeon before, I wasn't sure what to expect--would there be varied sizes of breasts set up everywhere for comparisons' sake? A wall of noses labeled with the celebrity from whom they had been stolen? A parade of naked models wandering around with hors d'ourves trays?

I left work early so I could make it to the four o'clock appointment with plenty of time to spare, and following my Yahoo! Map directions faithfully, I pulled up to what could only be described as a mansion. The sign out front very clearly said "Dr. Edward Salgado," so I knew I was at the right place, but holy crap! I questioned whether I should even bother going in--what are the odds that my podunk crappy-ass insurance would cover this? Look at where I'm getting treated! Surely if this place had busts around, they would be tastefully placed in bronze casts and not nakedly wandering about serving pigs in a blanket...

I entered through the marked door and was assaulted by tacky well-to-do-ness. Leather couches, Windsor chairs, mahogany tables, prints and paintings. Across the large foyer was a receptionists' desk, so I wandered the 6,000 yards over, passing at least five hundred old people and one woman who looked like she wanted to be thirty but was plainly in her fifties.

Receptionist: And your name?
Me: Jason Hughes, I have a four o'clock?

She winced. I looked at my hands to make sure I wasn't holding a gun, saber, or anything else remotely wince-like in nature.

Receptionist: There's no need to shout, sir. Please have a seat, we'll be with you shortly.
Me: Shouting? I'm not... I'm not shouting.

She winced regardless.

Clearly this was hoity-toity neighborhood. I would have to hide my red-neck roots well here. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I pick up a People magazine and pretend to be interested in Jennifer Aniston's love life while the grandmother in cheap whore's clothing eye's me up and tries winking at me through a haze of Botox, eye shadow placed on with a nail gun, and wrinkle-less porcelain skin...

Receptionist: Jason? Please follow me...

Through giant cherry-stained French doors I follow her back a long hallway with more paintings, tables, and (surprise, surprise!) a bust--but of an old dude, not some Pamela Anderson-cleavage mold.

I'm placed in a room which disappointingly doesn't look like the Hilton. I was expecting a jacuzzi at least, but it's the normal table with paper sheeting. I get all those questions again ("Any allergies?" "Does it hurt?" "Did Hot Doc ask you out?") and then I'm left to my own devices for another 45 minutes, which I use to open cabinets, look under the sink, steal a few Q-tips. I eventually give in to boredom and start playing Bejeweled on my cell when in walks not a hot Latino doctor named Salgado, but a short little old man. Nip/Tuck this wasn't.

Chart in hand, he proceeds to ask me... All the same questions! "Does it hurt?" Did the nurse not write down these answers? Or did you manage to get through med school without knowing how to read? I want to shout. However, I play his little game until I answer, "Well, sometimes it bleeds..."

Suddenly I hear a gasp. I look up from the interesting spot I had found in the carpet to see the doctor coming straight at me with a needle!

Me: Whoa-ho there doc! What are you doing?
Dr. S: What--are you allergic to Novocaine?
Me: Um, first, no, I'm not, and secondly, I'd like to be warned before you start jabbing me, and third, what's the Novocaine for?
Dr. S: We have to get that thing off and into the lab! This could be serious! (He turns to an intercom, needle still in hand) I'm going to need a nurse in Room 5. (Back to me.) This may pinch a bit.

It did. More than a bit. The doctor left to give the Novocaine time to work it's magic, and it was pleasingly numb soon enough, drool starting dripping through my lips on the left side. Soon I was beginning to drift off, staring back at the interesting spot on the floor again when the door to Room 5 flew open and I see the doctor charging at me, this time with a scalpel!

Me: Doc, you gotta stop doing that!
Dr. S: What?
Me: Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors?
Nurse: (Giggles)
Dr. S: I'm sorry, Mr... (looks at chart) Mr. Hughes, but we must have that thing removed and sent to the lab! Lay down please.

It took all of five seconds, and I didn't feel a blessed thing. In fact, I was quite surprised when he told me I could sit up and placed a cup in my hand. I looked dubiously into it.

Me: That's it?
Dr. S: That's it. We'll call you in seven to ten days with the results.
Me: From the lab?
Dr. S: Er, yes, we'll call with the results from the lab.

Pretty soon I'm a free man again, a little warier of doctors who belong in Beverly Hills, but nubbin' free for the first time I can remember in a long time. It's only been five days (no lab results yet), but I can picture the crazy bastard in something resembling a Bat Cave, pouring strange liquids into beakers, creating an army of Nubbin' to run around with...

In other news, I got cruised at the Turkey Hill the following morning... Nothin' says lovin' like the removal of a nubbin'. Life is good again.