Confessions of a former scab picker (and no, those lyrics are not in a song...that I know of)

First of all, let me just begin by getting something off my chest. Long(er) haired cats are the worst. Now don't get me wrong, I love my Maggie. But her medium-to-long hair coat is a pain in my rear. She comes in with leaves, twigs, grass, bugs (some slimey & nasty that I don't dare describe or figure out what they are), and everything else possible in her coat. So who gets to pick it out? Erin. Luckily, she doesn't get too matted, but still. The people downstairs do pet grooming. Homie up here on the 2nd floor don't play that.

(I mention this because Maggie just jumped on the couch and had something in her tail. I was too lazy to put the laptop down and grab it. Because that would involve getting up & then throwing the thing stuck in her tail away. It's 10:15 people, that action would simply exhaust me.)

Anyway, as I sit here with said laptop in my lap (such a novel idea) and Itchy (the dog) at my side, I started to itch (no pun intended). I think this is because Itchy is having a field day cleaning himself & itching with his teeth. He's like gnawing at himself...maybe he has psoriasis or fleas. Ugh, if he has fleas I will give him away. One pet having fleas turns into two pets having fleas and so on. And they all go outside, so the vicious cycle starts again.

I digress.

So I started itching, and rediscovered this mole that I have on my side. Now, I have like 200+ moles I swear. I always want to ask the dermatologist to count them, but something leads me to believe that he has better things to do. And he's a doctor, not a mathlete. But seriously, I'm in his office once every six months for the exact purpose of checking all my moles from head to toe. Do us all a favor, and count them. I know for a fact I sprouted a new mole on the side of my middle finger like 2 weeks ago. Would he know that unless he counted my moles? No.

Again, I digress.

This mole itches every now & again. And this evening I have taken to itching and itching it. To the point where I feel like I could pull it off. *gag* But I can't. So now it just feels weird and I have to wait until Tuesday to have him check it. Why do I have to have gross moles? Apparently, it runs in the Smith/Carrasco family. My mom used to have a big one (roughly the size of a nail head) on her back and when I was a baby I would point at it and say "bug" to her. My dad has this skin tag mole looking thing on his neck. He's had it ever since I can remember. Anyway, he told my nephews that it's his "power" button, so when they were little (like Chase is now) they were terrified to get near it.

I think I'm destined to have gross moles because I am a former scab picker. That's a huge confession, I know. I just had thing thing when I was a young girl about picking scabs. Any scab of mine, I picked it. Maybe it was because I wanted to bleed so that I could have a bandaid. I was always the kid asking my mom for bandaids when I had the smallest scratch. I picked mosquito bites, wipe out scabs, anything & everything. Obviously, I left myself some scars. But none of which are super noticeable now that I am 27.

Worse than picking my own scabs? I would beg my brothers to let me pick theirs. Is that not disgusting? I loved it - something about it I had to have...we would lay on the couch and I would beg Ryan (who was only 4 years older than me, more prone to accidents & usually willing in exchange for some slavery on my part) to let me pick one. To this day, if my nephews have a scab on their skin, I will scratch over it, in hopes of scratching it off. The shame, the utter shame of confessing that is inmeasurable. But I do it. I'm a bit better about my own scabs now...but as a general rule, I don't allow myself any injuries that would scab. I'm just not that adventurous. The last time I can recall getting a scab from doing something adventurous was skipping down the gravel driveway at our house when I was 13 and wiping out. I don't know what was worse - that I got a huge boo-boo for that, or that my mom saw me and still laughs about it to this day.

The moral of this story? Don't pick scabs...yours or anyone elses, for that matter. Because if you do, moles will come back to haunt you. It might not be the hairy gross type like on "Uncle Buck", but it will be something that will bother you & you'll want to pull it off and you can't. Because you are a reformed scab picker.

Hi, my name is Erin and I'm a former scab picker. Oh, and I like alcohol too.

Pick your battles, right?