Starting Now.

I have a mole behind my knee I've taken to calling Mr. Borgnine. Today is the day it comes off. It will take us a while to get everything set up, and to get past the blistering fear. We are starting NOW. 

Before that, though, it's important that I tell you this. As of today I have four blogs. All of them, save this one, are abandoned but I cannot kill them. Each has a purpose. One is about rescuing feral kittens in Alabama. One is an effort to inject into the genX-Z zeitgeist the idea of mixing movie titles to hilarious effects, which was wildly popular among three or four pop culture dorks I met at Burning Man. One is about how I tried remodeling houses to come to terms with my mother's death, or something. That one never had any real focus. Each of these blogs is, ultimately, FATALLY TOO FUCKING EARNEST. And so, I cannot keep up with them because they are too demanding, and I cannot kill them because they try so hard.

I would be this way about children, too, if I had them: can't keep up with their unending need for calories, comfort, excellence, and eyeglasses, can't kill them because of the big eyes and the fact that they try so hard. So creating this blog is the equivalent of having a fourth child while the first three are starving in a closet because they cry a lot and they don't match my shoes.

Fuck it. That's apparently the kind of mom I am.

And so this blog is born. This is just the place where shit happens. No rules, no standards, no structure. Words, occasional pictures, some cats, a lot of me, some husband, a dollop or two of ointment....

...which brings us to the current challenge and the subject of mommy's first new blog post in almost three years: the DIY removal of Mr. Borgnine. Mr. Borgnine (not Ernie, which would be too familiar and not nearly deferential enough for a mole of this caliber) is approximately the size of Uzbekistan, and if I'm ever going to stop the war in Afghanistan I have to remove the US's ability to use the back of my knee as a supply route to troops. 

2:00pm: So we start by getting organized. (My doctor in this operation is my longsuffering husband, Scott.)

Me: If we're going to do this, let's get our supplies together.

He: Okay, what do we need?

Me: Band saw. Hydrogen peroxide. Neosporin. Giant Maxipads for the blood. Wait. I have a question. Is pie in any way necessary for this operation?

He: I see how it is. I will check into our pie options.

Me: I am aware of our pie options. Listen to the question. Is pie in any way necessary TO YOU for this operation?

He: No. I do not need pie.

Me (crumpling foil full of pie crumbs): Good. There is no pie.

...at which point he walked to the other room, presumably to look up the anatomy of Uzbekistan on the internet.

3:10pm: The husband is collecting towels. He is expecting, I think, a geyser of blood. I think this may be unrealistic. Mr. Borgnine seems minimally vascularized, in my medical opinion - which is informed by at least seven years of Grey's Anatomy and House episodes. 

The cat, Sophie, is now surrounded by piles of medical supplies. This is what it will be like when we become a field hospital three days into the zombie apocalypse.

4:15pm: He has brought in a number of lighting sources. He demonstrates now why he is in charge, and how my definition of "good enough" and his definition of "good enough" don't live on the same planet. 

4:22pm: Everything is assembled. We have abandoned the idea of tying me to the bed to avoid my kicking him in the face. It seems impractical, even though to both our imaginations it seems absolutely necessary. There may be some loss of tooth.

Additionally, we have decided that the kitten Sophie cannot watch, no matter how much she begs. The idea of Sophie taking Mr. Borgnine as a new toy - or more frighteningly a snack - is too heartbreaking for us. Mr. Borgnine has been a part of our marriage for a long time. He deserves a dignified burial.

Scott and I are now retreating to our private, y'know, retreating-places to gather our strength for this offensive. Scott is killing things on the xBox. I will be smoking menthols on the front porch and killing pigs with birds. Sophie will be organizing her arguments for being able to attend the event, to be delivered through the door. 

4:26pm: See, here's the thing. Have you ever fried a chicken? I mean, like, all the parts of the chicken? When you fry the back, you get to see the parson's nose cook and it's fascinating, all that tasty fat bubbling and crinkling and becoming perfectly crispy. Have you ever eaten the parson's nose? The parson's nose, the arrow-shaped fatty part at the base of he chicken's spine that holds the feathers, is the locus of concentrated chicken tastiness, the most succulent, most delicious, and most decadent part of a fried chicken. Not many people are stalwart enough to withstand its onslaught of fatty flavor. And that's the problem: Mr. Borgnine looks like the parson's nose.

I need to look up the definition of psychosis, because I'm pretty sure it will say "someone who wants to fry up a mole because it looks like the parson's nose". I promise this is something I will not do. But really - could you blame me if, after heavy blood loss and mentholated nicotine and blistering, blistering fear, I was tempted?

8:15pm: We are both really good at procrastinating.

8:43: MY HUSBAND IS AWESOME. So are the twin angels ice and Anbesol. Mr. Borgnine is no more.

Some lessons learned:

• The kitten will assert that her folk are world-renowned experts in home surgery. They are not. Also, when the kitten licks your mole, re-sterilize.
• When performing home surgery, it's best to do it when the patient is not paying attention. Easy to do for a back-of-the-knee-molectomy. I'm betting this is harder for home amputation or home appendectomy. 
• My husband is AWESOME. Just bears saying again. He didn't faint. Neither did he puke. 

And answers to some questions you might have:

• Why yes, I did consider going to the doctor.
• A small amount. Possibly a teaspoon.
• No.
• We locked her in the closet.
• Only if it grows back.
• Home surgery is easier than killing a blog. Even a dead, cancerous, infected blog that only causes me pain.