Jan 28, 2012 |
The pollen alert today (Friday) was ridiculous. Only Southern California could have a weather alert for high pollen warning.
I never had allergies in my childhood. We lived in the Midwest, fought mosquitoes in the summer, sled on frozen rivers in the winter, and enjoyed cherry blossoms in the spring.
Then we moved to the desert. The forsaken, empty, barren desert. You’ve heard this story before. Okay, it’s not that forsaken. It’s growing. And we have several Starbucks, so we must be okay on someone’s map.
Our winters are different. We get a light dusting of snow (if we’re lucky). A few rainstorms (if we’re really lucky). And all the dead leaves from the fall get blown away with the Santa Ana winds.
This year we haven’t seen the snow or much rain yet. But the Santa Anas are back in force. And that means dirt and dust and dried up leaves and anything else that wishes it had wings, does. Even the tiny pollen.
Did I mention I never had allergies? Yup. That’s right: past tense. Because ever since I’ve lived in the desert, guess what: Spring hates me. Sad. Sad. Sad.
But that’s okay. I’m one in a million. Literally. Because I am the only person I know who is verifiably allergic to prescription allergy medications.
True story.
Can’t breathe? Too bad! Eyes running like the Nile? Invest in Kleenex. Stuffy nose? Yeah… the whole mouth-breathing thing is not attractive, but it works. Headache? Well at least for that I can take an ibuprofen.
But an allergy pill? No way. Not this body. They do weird things to me. Allegra. Claritin. I forget what other brands I’ve tried.
But after my fourth yearly trip to the E.R., the doctors finally figured out that I’m just one of those lucky people who can’t take allergy medication. They give me heart palpitations. They make me dehydrated. Irritable. Incoherent.
And in one case, caused me to pass out.
In public.
At the Courthouse, no less.
Yeah. That was a fun one.
It was about ten years ago. I was a legal secretary and had to file papers with the Court. I walked across the street after having taken my morning allergy pill. By the time I stood in line for five minutes I knew something was wrong. Thankfully, I recognized our Process Server. She later told me I asked her to call my boss before I went down. All I remember was being in and out of consciousness for over half an hour. I woke up in the E.R. with an oxygen mask and two IV’s.
Not scary at all…. right….
There was a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo about platelets and blood counts and Oh-Two and stuff I didn’t understand. But what I did understand was that I can’t take allergy pills again. Ever.
Now and then I conveniently forget. Now and then (about once a year) I get so miserable I figure an over-the-counter Claritin can’t be that bad. And now and then I puke my guts out. And then I remember.
Why am I telling you all this? Well first, I’m desperate for writing material because it’s midnight and I have to have a decent post up in five hours. (How’d I do?) Second, and I should hope this is fairly obvious, but the Santa Ana winds are a-blowing which means I’m a-sniffling and a-sneezing. Third, now that my sad story is out there for public consumption, I’m reminding myself ahead of time to not take any allergy pills this year.
No matter how miserable I get. No matter how stuffy or watery or scratchy or irritable I get. This, too, shall pass.
And I’ve made it my goal to not get in any accidents and not have any hospital visits this year. Hey. I’m almost through January. That’s pretty good in my calendar.
Now if I could just take a deep breath and relax…
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 27, 2012 |
That’s a big word. One that I’m faced with everyday as the mom of a teen aged daughter. As a writer. As someone who lives in the current times.
And while I agree there are times when I need to bend a little more, there are also times when I need to stand strong.
I’m faced with one of the latter times now. People don’t realize that their actions affect others, and I’m on the outside of a situation trying to keep the boundaries from getting hazy.
It’s not that I’m unmoving. It’s that I care. I care enough to say “enough”, and to draw a line in the sand. I can’t help it when other people cross that line, but I sure can help that it doesn’t happen to me or Dot or anyone else who cares to really listen.
I do the best with the information I get. If there are red flags and stop signs involved, I’m thinking that’s not the best time to compromise. If the information I get is errant, I can only go by what I know.
So I like to be informed. I like to make good choices. I like to protect the people around me. For them, I will not compromise.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 26, 2012 |
Remember when we were kids, and we all had one of these, but each one was distinctly different? And no matter how many parts came in the box (which wasn’t too many, to be honest), we each had our favorite way of dressing them up?
I want a Mr. Potato Head.
My friend Lisa (affectionately known to me as “Schmoo”, from that late 70s- early 80s Scooby Doo sidekick) is always cautioning me to be careful when I say things like this. I don’t know what she’s worried about. Not enough people read this Blog (yet) to really inundate me with my material must-have’s. I’ve yet to receive any stuffed frogs or even a lottery ticket. Of course, it’s also come to my attention that I haven’t always blatantly said “I want…” So in case you missed the writing between the lines, I want stuffed frogs. Lottery tickets. Kitchen accessories by the boatload. Not that I expect others to provide for me. But if I won an endless gift card, these are the things I would spend some of it on. I’m just sayin’…
And, yes: I want a Mr. Potato Head. I want lots of them. Lots of pieces. Lots of manipulative little pieces to make him up however I want, because he won’t complain. Who could ask for a better man?
There’s a store in Disneyland’s California Adventure called Engine Ears Toys. For a flat fee you can purchase a container and stuff it as full as you like of Mr. Potato Head pieces and parts. As long as you can close the container properly, you can fill it with anything from the Mr. Potato Head open piece bins. It’s awesome. They have everything: basic parts, specialty pieces, and exclusive bits.
Every time I visit the Park, I’m so tempted to grab a bucket, a body, and start stuffing.
I think it would be fun for Nippers to have an office companion. One that would serve as an entry warning. If Mr. Potato Head looks angry, you can bet my writing isn’t going well. When Dot comes in to see how I’m doing, I can just point to his glasses and book and she’ll know I’m in the middle of something. During break time, I can have him sunning on the beach (hey, at least someone in this household deserves a decent tan!). When I’m on a roll, he’ll smile happily from his corner.
Of course, he’d get lonely so pretty soon I’d have to provide him with a Mrs. Potato Head. Now that would be fun. Lips. Eyeshadow. Flowers. Hats. Yeah. I could have a lot of fun with Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. [Would that be the Family “Potato Heads” or “Potatos Head”?]
And every time I went to Disneyland, I could add a few more new pieces to their wardrobes. Let’s face it, some spectacular outfits are now available. And what other creature do you know where you could replace an ear for an arm or an eye for a foot?
Remember all the giggles and laughs we used to have at our own sillyness? How many times our parents would roll their eyes at our creations? How our friends would manipulate their own to say, “Yours is good, but look at mine!”
I’d hide his pieces throughout the house and go on a Treasure Hunt. I’d use him for a piggy bank. I’d make him spy on Dot every now and then. He’d be the Mascot of the House. I can see it now: “Mr. Potato Head of Bedford Manor”.
Yeah.
I really want a Mr. Potato Head.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
