Scene in the kitchen, Thursday evening:
Kristie: "Blaine, look at this. Is this a tick?"
Blaine: "No, that's just a mole."
Kristie: "I don't have a mole there ... I think it's a tick."
Blaine: "For pete's sake, it's too small to be a tick. It's teeny tiny. If it was a tick, it would be all puffed up with blood. It's a mole. Or a scab or something."
Kristie: "I probably have Lyme disease."
Blaine: "You are so overdramatic. Besides, when would you have gotten a tick? You don't even LIKE the outdoors."
Kristie: "Probably from the lake last weekend. When I went behind that tree to pee. I'm telling you, it's a tick."
Blaine: "For the last time, it's not a tick. And why did you pee behind a tree? That's totally not your style."
Kristie: "It was that or walk all the way back up to the cabin or pee in the lake and quite frankly, it was too cold to get wet. Quit trying to change the subject .... let's focus on my Lyme disease."
Blaine: "For the love of God, it's a mole."
Scene in my bathroom, Friday morning:
I'm 42 years old and familiar with my own body. I do not have a mole there. I tugged on it .... it came off .... and its legs were moving. A tick. Tiny, yes, and not engorged, which according to Wikipedia, means it most likely WAS a deer tick and I will be keeling over from Lyme disease any minute.
In the meantime, we are going to the lake again this weekend. Open notice to anyone going with us --- I refuse to pee behind a tree again and become all tick infested and court Lyme disease. So if you're swimming near me, I suggest you do so with your mouth closed.
That's all I'm saying about that. You have been warned.