Slap-face

If you want to find yourself staring at other people’s skin, get a rash.  I guarantee you’ll look at nothing else.  You’ll wonder why everyone has better skin than you.  Don’t they get red when they get stressed?  Am I the only one stressed around here? 

I got my first rash when Charlie’s oldest, Jenn, came to live with us.  I didn’t think I was that stressed.  I’ve been homeless, through a nasty divorce, moved 33 times as an adult before moving to Oregon, which with the gray and rain is stressful enough; why can’t I handle living with a 25 year-old pregnant, unmarried, ex-meth addict with twenty tattoos? 

My rash left when Jenn did and I didn’t think about it again.  Not until the holidays.  I enjoyed my Thanksgiving with a big-ass cyst on my chin.  I did everything I could to get rid of it but it loved its little home above my jawbone.  It stayed until Christmas, which, by that time, I not only had a cyst but a whole host of bumps and red raised areas to keep it company.  I never even owned real non-eye lady-like make-up before.  Now I look normal only because I learned to face-paint.

At some point, a normal person would go to a dermatologist.  Charlie kept bothering me to make an appointment.  I made excuses.  He gave up and made one for me himself.  I cancelled it when he got busy with work and he didn’t notice. 

I have issues with authority even though I have no problem being married to a Cop.  My anti-authoritarianism comes out in weird ways.  I follow the law to the letter but I’ll do anything to stay away from Doctors.  They act like they know everything and then tell you what to do.  Even if they’re wrong, you still have to give them money.

Charlie grew up in Florida without sunscreen.  Dermatologists are the only thing between him and skin cancer, so he has a different perspective.  One of his best friends is a Doctor.  Come to think of it, that Doctor might have some authority-issues of his own.  He drives a red hot Cop-magnet sports car and his wife gave him a radar detector for Christmas.  I ought to be more forgiving toward Doctors.

Charlie decided it was time for his spot-checking appointment and, once again, made an appointment for me, too.  He told the receptionist we could share the same examining room.  I think he wanted to make sure I didn’t duck out.

At Charlie’s insistence, the dermatologist saw me first. 

“Why are you here?”

“I have a rash.”

“You have rosacea,” she said after a quick look.  “Does it get worse when you get stressed?”

“Pretty much.”

“It’s a mild form; easily curable.”  She wrote out a prescription.

“Good,” I said.  “All I know about rosacea is that when I lived in England, the really poor villagers, the ones with bad teeth and head lice, they had permanently red cheeks.  My friends called it ‘slap-face.’  Now I’m the one with slap-face.  What’s next?  Head lice?”

With this sort of alarming news, I had to go to Peet’s.  Caffeine aggravates slap-face, but I have a mild form.  This is justification number one.  If I go directly home to the hellhole, I know I’ll get stressed.  That’d be worse.  Justification number two.

Not two minutes after I ordered the biggest hot drink I could possibly manage, the General walks in and taps me on the shoulder.

“I knew where I’d find you.  I need your credit card.”

“I’m up to my limit,” I said, “and I have rosacea.”

“I’m driving two of my friends to the Clackamas Mall so we can get our formal dresses.  We’ll look like the L.O. girls if we shop locally.  Nicci’s so stressed.”

“I’m stressed.  It’s supposed to snow and it’s getting dark.  I have rosacea.”

“I’ll have two people in the car to help me merge.”

“You have a provisional license.  I have rosacea.”

“Can I get a Madeleine?  They’re my favorite cookie.”

I gave her sixty cents.  She went right up to the counter, ordered one and ate it right there in front of the cashier.  “Those are amazing,” I heard her say rather loudly.  The Peet’s cashier gave her another one for free.  That’s what happens when you have a Mom who comes home smelling like House Blend way too often.

The General took my credit card out of my pocket and left.  “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye,” I said.  “I have rosacea.”

I might have said this a little too loud.  I noticed the usual Peet’s people looking up.  Some of them were much older than me, although none of them had a rash.  None of them had an artistic application of Cover Girl all over their chin, either.

Okay, so maybe slap-face isn’t all bad.  Make-up, I hate to say, is kind of fun.

A little help? [] 10:10:05 PM