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The other morning, around 6am, as James prepared for his final day of work – the final day before his adventures in stay-at-home parenthood would commence – he roused me from my slumber with the following:

Ash, Ash! I have an early birthday present for you… it’s about to be like Christmas morning. I have a zit, on my back, that hurts like a bitch, and I’m asking you to do the honors.

Now you’re probably all thinking, um GROSS! TMI! WTF?!

But yo, zit popping is my jam. And by jam, I mean obsession. And by obsession, I mean I should probably seek counseling to help reign in my irrepressible delight in exploding pussy pimples.

Nothing brings me more joy. Nothing. Save maybe a foot massage while mowing a bowl full of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked and starring at a photo of R. Patz.

Now that shit is heaven.

Essentially, James had made my day, nay my week, nay perhaps my year in permitting such excavation. Typically I have to whine and beg and threaten to revoke sex in order to gain access to a bulging zit on his person – or I turn the impulse on myself and my face turns a raging shade of crimson – because once you pop, you can stop! (Who knew that slogan was so universal). In fact, I wish I were one of those limber Cirque du Soleil performers who can contort her person into a pretzel in order to more adequately reach and experience the joy of an erupting pore on areas such as one’s own back – the very problem experienced by James on said morning.

One man’s loss is another woman’s gain.

So that, folks, is the story I have to share with you all today, because to begin to process a move 3,000 miles away from the beach, and the Pacific, and eternal sunshine, and my hetereo-life mate, and breakfast burritos, and that nursery sends me into a troubled, deep dark place that should be supressed at the moment as I shuffle my shit into our new home. And because, if it weren’t for that man, that man who knows all my strange quirks and the potential joy provided by a ripe pimple, I don’t know how I’d get through this.

That’s right, I wouldn’t. Instead, I would be standing in a pay phone booth chugging milk.

Obviously.

Oh, and these Three Stooges are bringing me some joy in the interim: Moe, Larry and Curly.