In the zombie apocalypse I’m reasonably certain that I’ll survive the initial wave. Pay attention, take the signs seriously and hunker down. But after that I’m dead. Why? I don’t really have any skills that lend themselves to survival in that kind of world. I’m no good with a cross bow, my sniper skills are limited to Call of Duty and I have no idea how to make a fire or determine what is or is not edible in the wild. I have, on the other hand, developed a few skills during my years as a Dad.
The girls forced me to learn how to paint toenails. I have three daughters. If you had three daughters, you’d know how to do it too. You’d also know how to use a flat iron on your soon to be 6th grader’s hair. Why? Because just like Recon Platoon in Heartbreak Ridge you have improvise, overcome, adapt. Plus, little known fact here, but my hair in the winter of 1988/1989 was in reality long enough to be eligible for flat iron use. I didn’t know what a flat iron was or what one looked like back then…but I did know what awesomeness looked like and it was my hair, a Milwaukee’s Best Light and a Poison video on a Friday night in the dorms. Boom.
During my hiatus from writing this blog I also learned how to remove stitches. Yeah, like a freaking doctor. Guess that makes me the field medic in my house. Anyway, Mom had this weird bump under her skin right behind her left ear. Like any other Gen Xer who saw Kindergarten Cop I unceasingly stated in reference to said growth, “it could be a tumor.” She had it checked out and it was a cyst. Which, at least to me, sounds much grosser than a tumor. A cyst sounds like something that will mutate and turn you into the Kathoga from The Relic.
Regardless, Mom thought it would be a good idea if I removed the stitches. Yes, you read that correctly. She suggested this knowing that the only things I’m good at removing are nachos from their plate, beer from its can, and any sense of rationality from my reaction to the Steelers losing. Despite this she still handed me a seam ripper and the tweezers.
Oh, you don’t know what a seam ripper is? Me either. Still don’t. But Mom does. She learned how to use it in 4-H. Now don’t get me wrong, using something called a ripper sounds completely and utterly awesome. Using it on my Mom’s head? Suddenly not awesome.
“So you want me to take this seam ripper and sever this line of stitches kinda in the middle about here?”
“And you are doing this of your own free will and are totally aware that said stitches are in fact in your skin? The skin that is on your head?”
“Then you want me to grab the end this here piece of string that is woven into the skin on the base of your skull with these tweezers and you want me to pull on it until it comes out?”
“Are you sure? Because this seems like a trick. Like I’m going to do it and it’ll immediately cause horrendous pain and you’ll hold it over my head and use it as weapon until we’re 85 and it’ll come up in some argument we’re having about Depends undergarments.”
“Just do it.”
So I did. And it turns out I am a stitch removing savant. Either that or it is incredibly simple to remove stitches. I’m going with the former…