My Little Thug Earring, She is Gone Away. Or, The Treacherous Machinations of Dr. Mendez

[Doesn't that title sound positively Sherlock Holmesian? I thought so, too.]

You've heard all my various whinging about the piercing and are heartily sick of it by now, I'm sure. So, apparently, was my OB/GYN, who is also my Primary Care Physician (otherwise why, really, would he need to know anything about my ear, right?) He calls me "Cece," as in "C.C.", as in "Chatty Cathy," because, he maintains, I've gotten way, way more talkative (not to say "chattery") since he hooked me on estrogen, my Fabulous Drug of Choice. I, on the other hand, just like to think of my predilection for conversation (not to say "monologues") as evidence of my flair for social niceties.

But never mind that. To recap: got the first cartilage piercing in March. All went well. No trouble. So a month later, I got the other one done. From the first, it was The Thug of Piercings. Grouchy, bad attitude, making everyone else miserable. You know. First cellulitis, which I really do believe led to everything else that's gone wrong this summer. I think the chiropractor would concur, thinking of balance and chi and stuff. But I was determined to make this baby work. I took the antibiotics, and I used the hot compresses, and I tried sweet-talking and making a milagro charm--I tried EVERYTHING.

On the way to Art Unraveled, she pitched another fit, and I had to call Dr. Mendez from the hotel in Tucson for another round of antibiotics, which you KNOW I loathe, but there were reasons. Which I will not go into because you can imagine for yourselves, and you might be post-prandial and not want to hear. So trust me: things were not good.

In exchange, he said I had to come in when I was done with them and let him have a look. I told him I didn't want to take out the earring. It was dangerous, I argued: the infection could heal from the outside, leaving a horrible pocket of--oh, never mind. Leaving things not-so-good on the inside, OK? He scoffed. I argued. "Just come in and let me look at it," he said.

So this morning I go. It's much, much better. "See?" I show him. But there's still a little white bump on the back--something that's common in piercings--and he says, "It's never going to heal. How long has it been?"

I admit: four months. But let's try a couple more weeks, I say. He shakes his head and says, in effect, "Whatever." (At least he doesn't do like The EGE and say, "Whatever, white people.") I tell him that if I can't get it healed by then, I'll let him take it out and look more closely. OK, he says. You can tell he doesn't mean it, though. You can tell what he means is, "Yeah, right."

Now, let me pause and add here that we're all very jolly: his new Office Manager/Assistant/Secretary/Everything Person is his wife, Connie, who recently retired after teaching English. We had a graduate class together lo! these many years ago. The EGE knows her from school. So we've known her forever. So there we all are, The EGE, me, Dr. Mendez and Connie, talking about what it's like working with your spouse, which we all do. I tell her I sympathize because I can't imagine working with her husband. He's just the tiniest bit demanding even if you're *not* working with him. (I love him because I can say that to his face and not get stabbed with needles.)

OK, so we're laughing and teasing him, and he says, "So when you can't get it to heal and I have to take this thing out, how does it work?" You know, those endless loops with the little ball that piercers put in.

I say, "You just pop the little ball loose, and then you can take out the hoop. But DON'T DO IT NOW!"

He says, "I'm not taking it out; I'm just looking to see how it works! [pause] Oops. [sound of little metal ball bouncing across the floor]. Sorry."

That's when I hit him.

So here we all are, all four of us, trying to find this tiny thing amongst the furniture and equipment and stuff, me griping steadily about how he did this On Purpose, and him laughing and insisting, no, he did not. I am not buying it. We find the little ball, and he says he can put it back and he soaks it in alcohol, but by then I don't even want it any more. Not on my ear. It's been on the floor, for crying out loud! He knows me; he would know this. It was all part of his plan, I swear. Him and The Thug Earring, in cahoots.

So the earring comes out. And he promises that, when it's healed, he'll pierce it for me in a better location--higher, where the cartilage is thinner. He says this with some conviction, as if he's been moonlighting at a piercing parlor.

This idea amuses me a great deal: in the local House of Piercing, you get people in tank tops and flipflops with many, many piercings and vast acres of tattooed skin and odd (not to say "skanky") hairstyles. Dr. Mendez always looks like either an investment banker or the guy in the commercial driving the Mercedes S-Class up the driveway to his estate. I think if I were to let him re-pierce the ear, I'd first make him put on one of those temporary tattoos and an earcuff.

Sadly, I think flipflops would probably be out of the question.