It's going to leave a mark

I went to the dermatologist on Monday. Partly because I needed some refills, and partly because our insurance is changing on October 1, and specialist visits will now be $$$$.

While there, I indicated a mark on my temple. I've had it for a while, and I couldn't be sure, but I think it had gotten bigger. Or darker. Either way, different.

"It's probably nothing," she said, "but let's send it in and make sure." And with that, her nurse whipped a hypodermic needle out of a drawer. I am not good with needles, so I immediately closed my eyes. "Oh, don't go to the bad place," she said.

Too late.

I kept my eyes shut until she was completely done with whatever it was she did, and I was sporting a small round band aid on my left temple. Luckily, my hair usually flops that way, so it's covered. Unless I have a bad hair day, and have to pull it back in a ponytail. Which is pretty much everyday.

Regardless, I got a list of wound care instructions about keeping a band aid on it for 5-10 days, use peroxide and POLYSPORIN (all in caps, that's how important it is.) I had polysporin from the last time she scrapped something off me, but it expired in February. Not that I think it would hurt to still used it, but it might not be as effective. My dad would beg to differ. I guarantee you that right now, in his toiletry man-bag, Dickie has a tube of first aid cream that expired in the mid-90s.

"I need to stop at the store for peroxide (also expired), polysporin and little band-aids," I said to Jan.

"Why don't you have band-aids?" she asked.

"I do have band-aids, I just don't have little round ones."

"Why not?"

"Um... I just don't." (Sometimes, I just don't know.)

So, yes. 5-10 days. Sigh. Well, it's been three and I figured, three days, five days, what is the difference? I look like an idiot with a band-aid stuck halfway into my hair. I took it off and was ready to face the world.



And then the air hit it. YEEE-OUCH! And I think it's bleeding. It's definitely going to leave a mark. You win doc, I'll be re-bandaged. For two more days. Maybe three. Just to be on the safe side.

Don't Stop Believing I Hate Journey

I love concerts. LOVE them. I love to hear the live music and, of course, to see my favorite bands in person. I cried when I was in the same room (okay, stadium) with Paul McCartney, Sting and the reunited Duran Duran. Since moving to South Florida, I have not been to many concerts. Because no good bands come here. It's rare. Like Haley's Comet. Yes, they go to Miami and Fort Liquordale (seriously, there are liquor stores everywhere), but those cities are an hour to an hour a half away. It's like being in Binghamton all over again, and all the good bands went through Syracuse, leaving Bingo-town to Ratt and Cinderella. Granted Cinderella's drummer is from there, and my mom was his math teacher. I just wanted to see Prince. And Duran Duran...

I digress.

My friend Leslie is amazing, and she asked me to join her at the Night Ranger, Foreigner and Journey concert this past weekend. I went for the Night Ranger. They were my first concert in the 9th grade, so they are a bit of a sentimental favorite.

Now, usually, when you go to a show, the ticket says 7, but it doesn't start until 8, 7:30 at the earliest. Night Ranger came out at 6:50. It was still light out. People were nowhere near their seats. Well, we were. We're geeks.

Anyway, they rocked it. They were having fun, and sounded great. I wished our seats were closer so I could be on my feet right in front of them. I actually debated getting a T-shirt. I had the most awesome gray baseball shirt with black sleeves that I got from that first show. 7 Wishes tour… soooo fabulous. My inner 14 year old was wearing it. If I still had it, my outer 40 year old might have tried to pull it off. They can still rock in America, but I wished their set was longer. I am slightly suspicious they might have been wearing the same jeans from back then. Jack Blades, still with the hair, helped by the fan on the stage, blowing it back. It was a nice effect.

The roadies slapped the Foreigner stage up lickity split. Music started...Mr. Roboto? Nope. It was Foreigner. Huh, their lead singer looked like a Ramone, with his floppy hair, dark sunglasses and skinny emo lady jeans. But, since there was not one single original member of Foreigner up there on stage, we technically saw some kind of sanctioned cover band. They sounded great. I was surprised I knew all the songs. The guy behind us and his lady friend were apparently huge fans, dancing up and down the aisle playing air guitar on a T-shirt. If there is a Foreigner version of the hippie shuffle, he was doing it. I predicted that Jukebox Hero might make both of his heads explode, and I am pretty sure I was right. Big finish... Mr. Roboto again? Nope. False alarm.

Journey. Sigh… I usually refer to them as "Fucking Journey," said with more than a little disdain. For awhile, there was an '80s station in Atlanta, and it seemed like every time they cut to commercial, they'd say, "when we come back, a hit from Journey."

Really?? I lived in the '80s. Journey was not as huge as people think they were. Were they? And "Don't Stop Believing,"sigh. So overplayed, so…. Fucking Journey.

BUT, I love concerts, so I was there. On my feet. And it's not like I don't know all the words to all the songs, because oddly enough, I do. Woo hooo…

And soooooo bored.

Yeah, their tiny little lead singer sounds just like Steve Perry, but did we need a prolonged guitar solo on every single song? I don't think so. And no one wants to hear your new song, Journey. Everyone here squeezed into too tight brand new Journey shirts just want to hear your shit back catalog.

We left a little early, and heard the dreaded "Don't Stop…" just beginning as we were walking to the car.

It's official. I do not like Journey.

And Skinny Emo Lady Jeans is the name of my new band.