“How do you handle pain?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Um, I guess pretty good,” was really the only response I could muster. I’ve had an open wound on my arm for over a week and am just now getting to the doctor about it, so I assume I’ve tolerated a fair amount.

“Okay, I’m going to take this and probe the wound to see how deep it is.”

“Um, okay?”

“I’m just going to stick this Q-tip into the wound to see what we’re working with.”

I suppose he interpreted my response to mean that I didn’t understand what he was attempting. Oh, I understood. I understood all too well. He slid his stool closer and unwrapped the Q-tip. This was no ordinary Q-tip. I’ve seen Q-tips. They’re like 4 inches long. This was about 10 inches long, with a wood base and a thick cotton…well, tip. It was a Q-tip but on steroids.

With only a moment in which I could do nothing but look away, he stuck it right into the wound. apparently he wasn’t satisfied with the lack of depth because he proceeded to swirl the instrument around, creating the sensation that he was ripping the existing wound open. He went deeper. As he poked and prodded what was an already open and bleeding wound, I instinctively clasped my shirt sleeve and pulled, an act that my body must have thought would help since my brain could focus on nothing but the pain and not urinating. After what felt like several minutes, he withdrew his instrument of torture and showed it to me.

“This is how deep it is,” he said half smiling while he pointed to the bloodied end of the Q-tip, which painted the cotton and extended a half-inch up the wooden stem. “What it is is an abscess. I originally thought it went straight down into the muscle, but after some digging, I realized it was at an angle.” He stared at the stick as though he had just performed a party-trick. A look of satisfaction showed on his face as though he was an amateur magician that had just pulled a quarter from behind my ear.

“Oh, thanks,” I muttered. My brain was clearly not working accurately as what I had intended to say was something to the effect of, “What the fuck, psycho?”

He turned to make some notes in my chart, and the room was suddenly hot. Pain radiated from the now more-open wound, and I was beginning to sweat as I struggled to keep my breath. I sat trying to convince myself to breath slowly and get my wits about me, but it only got worse.

“I’m actually starting to feel a little lightheaded to be honest,” I admitted.

He turned his head and offered semi-dismissively, “Just lay down. Your blood pressure is probably just dipping a little.”

I followed his recommendation and felt instantly better. I stayed there while he returned to the table and cleaned the injury, which was now spouting more blood than before. It was at that time that he thought it prudent to utter the following statement while failing to contain a chuckle: “I suppose you don’t handle pain as well as you thought.”

Apparently my brain had an opportunity to recover as my response came without hesitation. “No, it’s just that your last patient assured me you’d lube up before sticking something that long in someone.”

It came out before I even had a moment to think. He let out an uncomfortable laugh and finished up quickly. Needless to say, he didn’t write a note for me to take to work.

I know St. Patrick’s Day was a few weeks ago, but with pictures finally coming together on Facebook, I am reminiscing about everything that went on that week, and I’m reminded of something I realized: St. Patrick’s Day is one part of a triad of holidays that grows proportionally more disappointing as you get older.

If you’re a female, St. Patrick’s Day is like an old friend that you are so close with, but who then starts dating your crush or ex-boyfriend. It’s a distinct incident that stands out forever in your mind as the moment where everything changed from happy, reliable friendship to something altogether different. From that point forward, you love her for the memories, but your relationship with her gradually devolves to an acquaintance you’ll acknowledge whenever she’s around, but that’s about the extent of it. Sure, you had some great times celebrating St. Paddy’s Day, but now you don’t really have the energy to spend the day bar-hopping and risking public intoxication citations, bar fights, kissing someone ugly as sin because they’re Irish, and pretending midgets aren’t creepy because they’re dressed as a leprechaun (they’re still tiny, weird little bastards). What you really want to do is go to one place — a friend’s house, an uncrowded bar, anywhere — have a few more drinks than you should, kiss someone because they’re Irish AND just a fringe member of your group invited by a friend of a friend’s cousin so there’s no future awkwardness when you don’t call, and then turn in relatively early because it’s a Wednesday and we all have real jobs now and can’t take off without looking like immature alcoholics.  

There are similar problems with the night before Thanksgiving and New Years Eve.

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I was having a conversation the other day that led me to realize there were major issues surrounding some of the most beloved cartoon spokespersons for the popular cereal brands that were most prevalent throughout my childhood.

I was telling my coworker that I never understand why the Trix Rabbit never met a nice female Rabbit and made a small adorable but intimidating bunny army that could assist in attaining the cereal he so desperately wanted when I realized something. The real problem with this scenario was that General Mills was actively portraying a situation where they saw it fit to exclude someone from a nice thing for no reason. It actually was suggesting to kids that it’s okay to NOT share the good things you have with others. What kind of subversive message is that to present to children?

General Mills didn’t really up the ante with Cocoa Puffs either. What are they trying to say with Sonny the Cuckoo Bird? Well, obviously that you’ll go “cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” but is that a fear you want to instill in children? Oh hey, kids. These are delicious. So delicious, in fact, that you’ll go certifiably insane if you eat them. Don’t even try to tell me you won’t eat them because I know you can’t resist. They’re that good. Damn you, General Mills. I’ll eat them, but I won’t enjoy staying up at night worrying that I’ll be fit for a straightjacket after my morning bowl.

There is no mistaking that Buzz Bee is an absolutely terrible choice for a serious mascot. Sure, it makes sense that a bee would represent Honey Nut Cheerios, but children should not be told at a young age that bees are lovable, friendly creatures. Who’s to blame when little Timmy approaches a nest in the hopes of meeting a friendly, cereal-wielding member of the swarm and gets stuck more than Thomas J at the end of “My Girl”? They may as well have a sexual predator as their mascot for crying out loud.

The massive gift-exchange that was the entire month of December ended with a few new additions to the household — most notably, a Nintendo Wii system. Many are familiar with the interactive system, and most embrace the innovation of technological entertainment and physical activity that mark the Wii as perhaps the most universally appreciated gaming system currently on the market.

But let me tell you something, Wii. If I’m enjoying “playing” tennis or bowling for a while or spending more than a half hour using Wii Fit, I don’t need you suggesting that maybe I should take a break and go outside for a while. I’m moving around pretty well inside the confines of my own home, so why don’t you get off your high horse and let me be. Seriously, where does my VIDEO GAME SYSTEM get the nerve to tell me that maybe I could use some time outdoors? Plenty of alternative sources exist for that advice to be doled out: girlfriends, parents, wives, your whiny kids who want a turn.

Video games should not shun the fat, pale, lazy kids that have turned their industry into the booming financial success it has become. The Wii shouldn’t recommend you go outside for a while for the same reason a Wal-Mart employee should not tell someone who walks into the store with a hundred dollar bill they got for Christmas that maybe they should take it to the bank. It seems innovative, but it’s actually terrible business.

So, Nintendo Wii, I’m going to play you, but you’re just going to have to accept the fact that someone paid $200 so that I can enjoy the very leisure activities from the comfort of my own home rather than go out and sprain my ankle because the local tennis court is in terrible condition because the city doesn’t have the money to maintain public recreational facilities.