Tuesday, May 11, 2010


I was at the dermatologist today. I’m supposed to go every two years to have my moles looked at, being unable to keep track of them myself. The doctor hoped I wouldn’t be chilly with my clothes off, but being a puritanical wasp, in fact I was kind of warm with embarrassment. This is absurd since my dermatologist is also my gynecologist, and her examinations have gone beyond the surface of my skin.

At least today I was allowed to keep on my underwear. I lay down on the examining rack and was prodded left and right and flopped over onto my belly. I was reminded of playing “Hänsel” with my son, how he used to lie on the couch while I “cooked” him – smeared his back with imaginary ketchup, sprinkled him with pepper, or tenderized him with karate chops, then pretended to scoop up little chunks of him, and told him how delicious he tasted.

My doctor did none of that. But she assured me that also I have been generously sprinkled. Browsing around with her cold little nitelite microscope, the doctor exclaimed, “Frau Sloat! I have counted over 100 moles!”

song of the day: watching the detectives


ArtSparker said...

Over a hundred moles sounds deserving of congratulation, to you, your dermatologist, or both of you. So...congratulations!

Kathleen said...

Eating one's children, ah! We are delicious witches.

I have acquired many more freckles than I can now count, and have a sweet doctor who keeps an eye on those for me. Plus, the woman who squeezes my breasts between glass plates always asks about my poetry!

BJeronimo said...

It's funny how your embarrassment of exposing yourself to your gynecologist is so delightful in how you don't hesitate to relay the details to we on the Internet.

I also love the way you, in many posts, combine what may be the salatious (semi-nude woman) with the innocent (youngster giggling under his mother's touch.)

Your writings are a joy.

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