Will Have You In Stitches

(I recently had a mole removed in a relatively awkward place: my left breast. The dermatologist didn’t seem overly concerned about leaving as small a scar as possible, despite me asking him to be careful. I had the procedure done first thing in the morning and was instructed to remove the bandage and replace a fresh one over the spot before going to bed. I’m standing in the en-suite bathroom in our master bedroom when this exchange occurs.)

Me: “My God, babe. These stitches are awful. He didn’t care at all.”

Fiancé: “It can’t be that bad. Let me see.”

(I show him; the stitches are those large black plastic kind you often see. Not exactly delicate.)

Fiancé: “I bet it will heal better than it looks.”

Me: *visibly upset* “It’s all puckered and awful.”

(I go back into the bathroom, look at it again, and start giggling to myself.)

Fiancé: “What’s so funny?”

Me: “Well. You know what the stitches remind me of? Frankenstein. So that would make this… Frankenboob.”

Fiancé: “Can we call the other one ‘Igor’?”

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