Better watch out for the skin tag

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WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO

FIRST-EVER GUEST POST AT I DO THINGS!

My policy on guest posts has always been a big selfish NO! because it’s my blog and get your own blog. But then this poor soul reached out to me and said, “Wise JD, your readers — and by extension, the world — need to know how to remove a skin tag.”

Well, guess what? I am never going to remove a skin tag in my life, so why not let “Some Lady” tell us how?

Enjoy!

Tag — You’re It!

OK, so you know how you’re on approach to the Big 5-0 and you keep getting zits?

You are stunned no one told you that you’d get them far past your teens, but you accept it. Zits are relatively easy to get rid of. A little time, a little stringent. You cope.

Besides, if you could pick anything from the family of gross skin disorders, zits win because there are far worse alternatives.

So you’re motorin’ along, dealing with your 40-something zits, but then along comes zit’s idiot brother who crashes parties and everyone hates because he’s an ugly drunk.

That brother is a skin tag. A gnarly, flip-flappy piece of skin that shows up uninvited and never leaves, even when you ask nicely and try to send it off with a six-pack.

I had a skin tag for a few weeks in a very unfortunate place. Right on the county line that runs between East Thigh-Butt and North Hooha.

That’s right. There.

I allow it to camp out undisturbed until one day the tag caught on my underwear and hurt like a mother. The time had come to kick it to the curb. I didn’t want to see a dermatologist because I wasn’t too keen on showing anyone where it was. Isn’t it enough you have to go to the gynecologist and show him all your junk under a flood light? One crotch visit a year is plenty, thank you.

So thus began my venture into Googleland for “how to remove a skin tag at home.”

Ready? Here are the choices:

1. Each night, coat the skin tag with clear nail polish and let it dry. Apply a bandaid. In the morning, use nail polish remover to wipe off the polish and apply a new coat.
2. Disinfect a pair of scissors or nail clippers and CUT IT OFF. You will bleed. A lot and forever.
3. Tie a string, fishing line, or dental floss around the base of the tag and pull tight enough that it cuts off blood flow to the tag. It will balloon, dry up, turn black and fall off.
4. Cover it with duct tape. Yes, duct tape, the staple of handyman toolkits and medical science alike.

The bleeding option was out and so were the bandaid and duct tape methods because I don’t want anything adhesive next to my goodies.

That left only the choke-to-death method.

And so I tie sewing thread in a little noose, hike my leg up on the bathroom sink, and bend over in a position suitable only for advanced yoga enthusiasts.

I pull up on my thigh, hold the string around the tag and pull tight. I miss, try again – pull tight – I miss, try again – pull tight – success!

I choke my skin tag for a few hours then take a shower, where my expertly tied noose is flung off. It is now stuck to the shower curtain, still tied and laughing at me. Amateur.

I make a new noose.

This time, I try sturdier dental floss, mint flavor. Waxed dental floss is sticky and doesn’t tie smoothly. But I try over and over until I sufficiently choke the tag and we all feel minty fresh.

Two days later, the noose falls off again in the shower.

Frack it all.

I think it’s never coming off and I’m going to have to bite the bullet and let a doctor have at it.

But then . . .

Today.

During a review of the situation, I discover that the noose must have worked well enough because now I have what looks like a mushroom growing down there.

A little stem with a dark bulbous cap on top.

I have murdered my skin tag.

I want to yank that sucker off, but I’m afraid of pain.

But afraider still of showing this thing to my gynecologist, who I have to see in a few days. What if it doesn’t fall off in time?

And so I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and pull hard and fast.

The mushroom cap pops right off! I’m standing in the ladies room holding my dead skin tag, feeling triumphant and now finally free of zit’s idiot brother.

So there you have it. How to get rid of a skin tag while keeping absolutely none of your dignity.

You’re welcome.

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Mushroom came from here

One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small

Something’s been bothering me lately and, not surprisingly, it has to do with butts.

Butts. We all have one. Hopefully only one! Wait . . . nope! I knew it. There’s at least one poor guy out there with two.

Anyway, for those of us who have only one butt, it’s pretty obvious that this part of the anatomy was not exactly designed for ease of access by its owner. For example, notice how your butt is not on your face? There’s a reason for that. It’s because it’s a butt. It belongs behind you, and that is why it’s euphemistically referred to as your “behind” or “rear.”

Which makes the existence of suppositories even more mysterious and WTF.

I was once prescribed a suppository. I can’t remember what it was for, because nature provides us with amnesia for those situations. I do recall that I was able to hold the suppository near my butt; however, I never worked up the courage to put it in there, because . . . that’s my butt! I could get it close to the, you know, but I couldn’t make myself actually insert it. It’s like trying to punch yourself. Your body has a built-in defense mechanism to keep things like that from happening.

I also remember that I had to lie on my side. Think about it. There’s really no other way to get the job done. Because it’s BEHIND you. Like, wa-a-a-ay back there. And then also UP.

So I get confused and angry whenever I see Hollywood take the easy way out when depicting suppository scenes.

Twice now I’ve watched movie characters stick stuff up their butts as if they were shoving popcorn into their mouths. Remember the scene in Trainspotting, where Ewan McGregor’s character simply slips his hand down the back of his jeans and pops those pills up his butt? Same thing with Jonah Hill in Get Him to the Greek. When he’s asked to “put the candy in the jar,” he wanders behind a potted plant and, with just the slightest of grimaces, crams it up there.

It’s impossible! Standing erect, fully clothed, not even loosening the pants? It simply cannot be done, unless you have a extra-long giant arm or maybe are double-jointed.

It’s criminal to misrepresent this complicated and difficult procedure, especially when, according to the Worm Guru, we’ve ALL got gross, itchy butt worms and will need to not only make our own suppositories but learn how to get them up there.

I say, good luck with that. I’ll be swallowing my butt-worm suppository. It’ll get down there one way or another, right?

Right?

Please share your suppository and/or butt-worm stories. If anyone out there can do it standing up? I’m gonna need to see the video.

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Pills came from here.

If you go down to the woods today
You’d better not go alone

Hey, let me ask you guys something.

Has anyone ever chased you around with a whisk broom? While you were naked? And giggling?

I’m willing to bet this has happened to maybe 1% of our population, and yet this is the scenario dreamt up by the great minds at Charmin for their latest ad campaign:

“Pieces Left Behind”

It has sort of a melancholy ring, don’t you think? Pieces left behind . . . It’s poignant, in a way, and—

OHMYGOD No it isn’t because they are talking about TOILET PAPER stuck to your BUTT!

To. Your. Butt.

Toilet paper.

If you don’t believe me, watch this short horror film wherein two cartoon bears cavort through the forest, one chasing the other, trying to sweep off the PIECES LEFT BEHIND.

Charmin Bears Horror Film

I have so many questions.

When did this become a problem? If you accept the premise that our toilet paper is indeed leaving pieces (on? in? around?) our butts, how come we’ve never seen the evidence? I mean, I don’t go around checking my butt (naked, at least), but I bet I’d notice hunks of soggy TP floating toward the drain in my shower.

Also, Charmin, may I point out that humans are not, in fact, bears? We usually wear clothes. Therefore, the horrifying embarrassment of toilet paper stuck to our naked butts in public is not so much a big deal.

Unless.

Oh, dear god. I am not a bear, nor do I frolic in the woods, BUT! I have been known to appear in public in only my birthday suit and . . . maybe also PIECES LEFT BEHIND???

What if all those curious stares and muttered comments at our au naturel resort were NOT about the awesome gravity-defying qualities of my naked butt? What if . . .

I can’t even think about it. Can you? If so, DON’T! Don’t think about those Pieces Left Behind, and it’ll be like it was before. Ignorance is bliss. We can all go back to the time when we didn’t know we had toilet paper stuck to our butts.

Or we can just go buy this magical non-Piece-Behind-Leaving toilet paper.

But then the bears will win.

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Bear came from here

The mush was as tasty
As tasty could be

Hey, y’all!

It’s another food post! Should I just bag the whole I Do Things concept and rename this blog “JD’s Dumbass Emporium of Food and Medical Procedures”? You can get back to me on that.

Anyway, for about a hundred years my mom has been rhapsodizing about the virtues of spaghetti squash. I was skeptical, to say the least. To say the most, I was downright nauseous. I like spaghetti and I like squash but combining the two seemed like an abomination of flavor. How the hell does this:

become this:

?????

“You just pull the squash tendrils off and serve it like spaghetti,” she’d say. “WITH SAUCE?” I’d ask incredulously. “Yes! It tastes just like spaghetti.”

How is this possible?

(Spoiler: it’s not.)

But then I saw this at the Pioneer Woman’s site:

Yup. THAT is spaghetti squash. It looks good, doesn’t it?

So I made a deal with my mom. Prepare spaghetti squash with butter and cheese, and I will eat it with a totally open mind and open gullet. Spaghetti Squash Sunday was on the calendar, tho I kept postponing it out of terror.

But finally the day of reckoning came.

But first!

I scarfed a PB sammy to coat my stomach.

I also brought along some back-up salad.

My mom did all the work while I watched and made throw-up noises.

BLEEEUUURRRGGGH! We’re supposed to eat THAT? I could feel my mind and my gullet slowly closing.

According to the Pioneer Woman’s recipe, you simply “use two forks to lift the strands out.” (Hacksaw and mallet not shown.)

Surely anything tastes good with a pound of butter and cheese? Surely . . . ???

Thank goodness we have cheery pasta bowls!

Hmmm. That’s a lot of work for a very little squash. Maybe it’s just as well.

You can thank me that there were no more photos after this shot. Otherwise you would’ve seen a normally polite and well-mannered JD practically THROW UP at her mom’s kitchen table, eyes watering, face turning red, napkin fluttering, gag reflex . . . reflexing, GROSS OHMYGODWHY? and barely get that innocent-looking bite of stuff down her totally closed-up gullet, followed by emergency doses of back-up salad.

I tried.

My mom, to her credit, was not completely disgusted with me. “I’ll put yours in the fridge for later,” she said, as she gamely ate her portion. Well, some of her portion. Mostly she ate back-up salad.

And later she threw it all out.

And so, my friends, the moral is this: Enjoy your squash and enjoy your spaghetti. Just don’t let them have sex and make a spaghetti squash baby. But if you do, make sure you have plenty of back-up salad on hand.

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Spaghetti squash came from here

Squashes came from here

Spaghetti came from here

Chicken in the bread pan, pickin’ out dough

Chicken foot, chicken foot, I ate a chicken foot (to be sung to the tune of “Lollipop.”)

Sooo, what’s up, chicken butt! Did you ever say that as a child? I said it often, as a college student. I still think it’s funny. People’s reactions to this perfectly reasonable question vary but are typically a combination of pity and speechlessness.

But this is about feet, not butts.

Yes, I ate a chicken foot. But before you get too excited, I have to confess: I ate that chicken foot in a dream.

But the dream was SO realistic, y’all!

I was in China, staying at the Hilton with my friend Ann and her boyfriend Tom. At some point, Ann’s Tom changed to Tom Krasinski (from The Office, and if I have to tell you that, well . . . you’re a chicken butt!). I know, I know!!! The actor’s name is JOHN Krasinski, but when I woke up and blearily  jotted down some notes about the dream, I wrote “Tom,” thinking, “Well, it makes sense. Same first name.” Then later in the day it hit me. It’s JOHN, you moron. That was a side note, if you couldn’t tell.

Anyway, the dream was like a Locked Up Abroad episode only with no drugs. Some mysterious entity had paid for our hotel; we were given money and instructed to just hang out and enjoy the city.

Fine, except I don’t speak Chinese!

There was some espionage-type stuff (a mysterious man asked me about a number and then got electrocuted in a phone booth). Otherwise, the action took place at a food court. All the food was Chinese, but not normal Chinese food, like Panda Express. It was all weird things, like eyeballs (sorry, Chinese people! I know you don’t eat eyeballs and even if you do it’s not weird). Regardless, I paid for all this strange food with my strange money and ate it furtively a few blocks away.

Later, Ann, Tom, and I saw a vendor frying chicken feet, and it was like, THIS IS IT! The opportunity to eat the weirdest food EVER (again, sorry, Chinese people). But you hear me, right? We’ve all been to dim sum restaurants, where the chicken feet passed by . . . and kept on going. Well, here was my chance, finally, to eat a chicken foot, and it seemed like it was going to be awesome.

So here — in what HAS to be the most lifelike (and therefore totally reliable) dream I’ve ever had — is what it’s like to eat a chicken foot.

First, it was perfectly deep-fried, like an onion ring. I bit into it, and a sumptuous morsel of chicken almost popped out. I slipped it back in, for, of course, that’s the best part! Before I got to the bone, there was this long, thin hard part that I nibbled on as if it were the most delicious delicacy, but it tasted like an uncooked spaghetti noodle. Someone yelled, “THAT’S THE TENDON!” And I was like, Oh, GROSS! because I’d eat a bone but not a tendon?

And now you know what it’s like to eat a chicken foot!

Please share your most realistic chicken foot–related dreams!

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Chicken foot came from here

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Ooh, that smell
Can’t you smell that smell?

OK, I didn’t literally eat cat puke, but by the end of this post . . . well, you’ll see.

(“NO WE WON’T” proclaim 10,000 grossed-out-already readers.)

Oh, yes. You will.

So it was on daylight savings night that we learned the lesson again: Cats cannot tell time. It was 5 AM (formerly known as 6 AM), and they wanted their damn breakfast. And like every other morning, I was ready to get up, but I didn’t want to reward their obnoxious behavior. Gus howls into the air. Pru knocks books off the shelves. Gus howls some more. Pru howls. Dave howls, “GET UP ALREADY!”

OK, OK!

I tried something I’ve never tried before. I fed the cats and . . . WENT BACK TO BED!

What will happen? Surely having been fed they’ll now go off to do whatever satisfied cats do while humans try to sleep.

Oh. That activity just happens to be ensuring those humans STILL do not sleep.

Gus howls. Pru knocks books off the shelves. From having been up quite recently, I know the house is very cold. I don’t want to get out of bed again. Weirdly, I’m not even hungry. I think about the two donuts waiting for me in the cabinet. Not appealing. Strange. I’m planning to go to McDonald’s for coffee, tho, so maybe . . .

As soon as I think that thought, I swear, I smell hashbrowns. Specifically, McDonald’s delicious, greasy hashbrowns. Mmm. Maybe I’ll get . . .

But wait. That smell is real, not in my head. Oh, god, no. I peek over the edge of my bed.

Yes, in between bouts of howling, Gus has performed the rare Silent Puke. Right next to the head of the bed. It smells. Oh, NOW it smells like puke. A few seconds ago, however . . . well, I don’t want to think about that.

Flash-forward 2 hours. I can hear Dave stumbling around in the bedroom, so I leap into the room to warn him. My reward is a gratifying guy-scream of surprise.

“Don’t step in the cat puke!”

I explain the story as I’m cleaning up, even sharing the part about the hashbrowns.

“Gross!” he says, clearly not wanting to hear any more. But he will hear. He must.

Dave heads into the kitchen. “Are you sure Gus didn’t puke in here? I can smell it!”

“No, that’s, uh, you see, I DID go to McDonald’s.”

“You didn’t.”

“And I got hash browns. Four, to be precise.”

Dave says no more, he merely heads to the basement in silent disgust. I brush my teeth for the thousandth time and reflect upon the merits of a mouth replacement.

*        *        *

Have YOU ever eaten cat-puke-by-proxy? Did you enjoy it? Please, someone tell me I’m not alone in this.

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Hashbrown came from here

All aboard . . .

Mad Cow Disease is no joke. Especially when it’s happening to me. Really, only when it’s happening to me, otherwise, it’s pretty damn funny, let’s be honest. I mean, it’s called “Mad Cow,” which is hilarious. And, yes, I realize the scientific name is something like “Bovine Spongybrain” or something, but the folks who came up with “Mad Cow”? I tip my hat to you, sirs and madams.

ANYway, now that we’ve all agreed that Mad Cow is hysterical when it happens to other people, let’s get back to me.

I’m pretty sure I have the non-funny form of Mad Cow based on the following evidence:

1. I ate some meat.
2. I may have posted a nude photo of myself online, but I’m not sure because . . .
3. . . . I seem to have brain problems.

o

Proof of Brain Problems

I almost bought a new blender despite the fact that the old one is RIGHT HERE where I walk past every day.

I almost bought a duplicate pair of my favorite shoes because I couldn’t find mine despite the fact that they were RIGHT HERE where I walk past every day.

I spent an hour searching for Pru, convinced she’d gotten outside or flushed down the toilet (it could happen) when the whole time she was in the chair I sit in EVERY DAY!

That’s Mad Cow, right? RIGHT? You can tell me. Don’t spare my feelings. Believe, me, I’d tell you. And would I ever laugh.

o

Learn More About Our Friend, the Mad Cow

• Official Mad Cow Disease Home Page (warning: this site contains links to articles titled “Calf Cannibalism Continues” and “Scrapie dans un boeuf”). MOO! I mean, BOO!
• “God Made Cows to Eat” Does a 9-year-old boy have all the answers? (Hint: no.)
• A Dee-lightful Alternative to the Dangerous Hamburger (I SWEAR, if you click on this . . .)
• OK, Seriously, An Alternative to the Dangerous Hamburger (HAHAHAHAHA!)

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JD sincerely apologizes to any blindies out there. Kids! Visit your eye doctor! Blindness, unlike Mad Cow Disease, is NO JOKE.

Baby, who turned the temperature hotter?

Oven guy came from here

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What’s your take on ashes?

I mean, of the human kind?

Should the “cremains” of your loved ones be scattered or stored? Perhaps you’d prefer to eat them or shoot them off into space?

Cremains are the cremated remains of a dead body. These flecks of burned-up skin and bones are often kept in a tasteful urn and displayed discreetly on a shelf or mantel.

Except sometimes this happens:

Horrifying urn comes from Personal Solutions

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Um.

Yes. That is a personalized urn, designed from a photograph provided by a well-meaning loved one. The deceased’s features are meticulously re-created to . . .

OH MY GOD AND THEN THE TOP OF THE HEAD COMES OFF!!!

Sorry, but did you SEE that thing? Surely no one actually puts that in their HOUSE where they LIVE, do they? Because I will tell you now: if I woke up in the middle of the night and saw my loved one’s creepy HEAD stuffed with ASHES (and why does the candle look like part of the head?) I’d need a second urn.

Because I would die of fright, is what I’m saying.

And, look, I speak from experience. We kept the remains of my beloved dad in a plain urn for several years before scattering his ashes sort of illegally. Would my dad have wanted his ashes kept in an urn that looked like his head? No. Would I want my dad’s head-urn in my house? No. I remember what he looks like. I have photos. Personally, I’d rather FORGET what my dad looks like than have this ghoulish scooped-out HEAD as a reminder.

I’ve told people I want to be cremated, but really, I just DON’T want to be buried. Because as everyone knows, it’s almost a given that you will be buried alive. Of course, you can be cremated alive, too, but that’s quicker. No, I don’t care what happens to my body after I die. Toss it in a ditch. Throw it in a lake. Chop it up and feed it to the wolves.

But for god’s sake, PLEASE don’t put it in a JD Head-Urn.

I kinda like that
I wanna tap that

Recently I discovered a fun-filled Web site that’s all about SEX only funny.

It’s called Can I Tap That, and for those of you who don’t have a copy of Urban Dictionary handy, that phrase simply means “Can I have sex with yo’ ass?” Uh, not literally the ASS part, necessarily, just, you know, to have sex with somebody. It’s street talk, yo!

Here are the instructions:

Text someone and ask them if you “can tap that.”
Submit your hilarious exchange to Can I Tap That.

Examples from the site:

Me: Hey, when are you going to let me tap that?

Her: In your dreams.

Me: Sweet! I’ll see you tonight . . . rawr.

*     *     *

Me: When you gonna let me tap that?

Him: Gurl, i will slam your body down and wind it all around.

Me: Well that sounds . . . invigorating.

*     *     *

Me: Yo baby, baby check it. Can I tap that?

Her: I imagine you “can.”

Me: May I tap that?

Her: That’s better

Me: So when?

Her: NEVER!

*     *     *

Me: So when can I tap that?

Her: I’ll have to get back to you on that.

Me: Well, me and my hand are looking to make it a threesome.

Her: OH MY, I don’t know if I want to be part of that party.

Me: There will be punch.

Isn’t this fun? So I thought I’d try it out on Dave. He doesn’t have a cell phone, and I don’t really text, so I planned to just confront him.

In my head, it went like this:

JD: Yo, can I tap that?

D: Girl, you know I be down with that.

JD: Day-um, yo’ ass is fine! I’m a tap that mother!

D: Aw, hell, YEAH!

JD: Let’s get down.

D: Tap it!

JD: Right now?

D: Fo’ sho’.

JD: I have a headache.

In reality it went like this:

JD: Yo, can I tap that?

D: What?

JD: You heard me, man! Can I tap that?

D: (backing away) What?

JD: I wanna tap that ass.

D: Is this something for your blog?

JD: You’re ruining it.

D: What am I supposed to say?

JD: Just answer the question.

D: What was the question?

JD: CAN I TAP THAT?

D: I don’t get it.

JD: (sighs heavily and explains all about the Can I Tap That site, thereby wrecking the whole thing)

D: Oh, you young people.

JD: . . .

D: Hey, I wanted to ask you. What’s Twitter?

JD: I have a headache.

The problem, I realized, was that we were talking face to face. So later that day, I e-mailed him.

JD: Yo, can I tap that?

D: Yeah, sure. I guess. What exactly does this mean again?

JD: It means can I tap yo’ ass.

D: Yes, undoubtedly. If I can “tap” yo back. Am I saying this right?

JD: More or less. You got a package today. Is there something sex-ay in that package?

D: Cool. That’s my Chinese Jesus book.

J: I have a headache.

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Why don’t you try this fun game? Ask a loved one—or, better, a complete stranger—if you can “tap that.” See what they say! Maybe you’ll actually get to tap that. Or maybe you’ll just end up with a headache. (pours Vicodin down throat)

The young ones are hungry
Their nests are so bare

Even today, I wake up screaming.

That doesn”t happen, actually. The “wake up screaming” part. But I thought it’d be a more dramatic way to start this post than “One day I was walking along and a bird attacked me.” Yes. Singular bird. Also less dramatic than the plural “birds” of the title. But just you wait.

One day I was walking along and a bird attacked me. Oh, I can hear you. “Silly JD. It’s always about you. The bird just accidentally flew into you; it didn’t attack you!”

Well, let me ask you: Is three times an accident? When it’s the same bird? And always my personal head? I don’t think so.

I used to enjoy walking along the lakefront in Evanston. I wore headphones and rocked out to my Walkman (yes, I really am that old). My happiness evaporated one sunny morning when, as I came to a particular spot on the path, a large black bird divebombed (dovebombed?) into my head.

OH, GOD! I could feel its beak on my skull! It had pulled my hair! Clearly it wanted my hair for a nest, and who could blame it? Even then my hair was already good nest material. I screamed, flapped my arms, jumped spastically. People stared in pity. NOT because they’d seen me attacked by the bird. No, they conveniently didn’t see THAT part. All they saw was this poor, crazy woman, obviously off her meds and probably full of cooties. They gave me a wide berth and moved along, even as I pleaded to them: “Didn’t you see that bird? Didn’t anyone see that bird?”

A few days later, it happened again. Same spot, same bird. Oh, I just know, that’s how. I tried outsmarting it by wearing a baseball cap, but this bird, THIS BIRD still tried to peck out my brain. THROUGH THE CAP!

On my third trip, I just ran at breakneck speed. Did you know birds can fly at breakneck speed?

I was determined to outlast the bird, but by my fourth trip, I simply couldn’t make my legs move once I got to “that spot.” I just turned around and walked home. Defeated.

Did you also know birds can laugh?

To this day, I duck when a bird flies too low or swoops out unexpectedly from a tree. I whimper softly when I have to approach a gathering of birds.

And sometimes, sometimes, I see a black bird of a certain size and shape. Looking at me. Waiting.

I have to go outside sometime.