My cousin emailed me recently pondering the question of getting a pet. He’s thinking about a kitten, but wondered if you were supposed to bath them as a recent “joke” collage of cat bathing photos made him rethink cats as a pet. He thought they looked pretty traumatized by the whole bathing routine and wondered if there was a better way to keep them clean...like steam-cleaning or vacuuming. He makes me laugh.
I told him that steam-cleaning or vacuuming was probably adverse to their little kitty brains and they would most likely, in a diabolical kitty way, find amusing (for them) and subversive ways to get back at you.
I started thinking about the right pet for him, as I like to be very helpful to my relatives, and since he lives in a condo, the size and nature of the pet is important.
He needs a small pet of some sort, but nothing in the rat/hamster genus. Those animals are probably too small of a creature and would easily get lost…probably to the neighbors’ dismay when they found his pet inside their clothing bin.
No birds. They tweeter and screech making it impossible to take short or long naps. I can attest to the screeching part as I had a parrot one time. He adjusted the volume of his screeching to the volume of his surroundings. The volume on our stereo equipment could not go high enough to out blast him. He also liked to greet the morning with high-pitched screams and squawks. Apparently in birdie time, 4:30 AM is “rise and blab” time. And they are very…very messy in a stinky sort of way. They also make your husband consider divorcing you unless you rid yourself of the green monster. It's a very bad memory for me.
Snakes are downright slithery and not meant for pets…no matter what snake lovers say. Same goes for any knarly-skinned animals such as an iguana or any other lizard. No good for a pet. You never know what they’re thinking. They always have the same look on their face whether they are debating biting you, or wondering what happened to Mazie…their previous friend in the tank. How can you trust a pet that doesn’t have discernable expressions for various thoughts?
Fish are just boring. Although you can go to sleep watching fish swim around in aimless paths across the tank, which is probably good for your blood pressure. But what are they looking for? Surely they’ve noticed there is never anything new in the tank. Or anywhere else to go. Fish are good for putting you to sleep, but no good for petting. It’s hard to get into a fish and feel any love. They just don’t last that long. Sort of toilet-bound animals.
Pigs, although very smart, are too snout-y. I don’t want my pet rummaging around my house for things. It would make me feel like I wasn’t a very good house keeper as the pig would continually find bits of things to eat on the ground. And they look like farmyard animals. Would your friends talk behind your back about your pig-sty of a house?
Ferrets look like a cross between a rat and a slinky. And they steal your things, which make them the criminal element of the animal world. I don’t want to support that behavior in my house. There are prisons full of people like that.
I guess in the final analysis, a kitty that you don’t have to bath is the right pet for my cousin.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Avert Your Eyes
So there I was getting ready for work Friday morning…slathering my face with beauty creams and curling my chicken-plucked-night-hair, when my husband came to the doorway and said the washing machine must be having problems as my youngest son had unplugged it. And he didn’t leave a note as to the issue before he left for work. But my son did leave all the lights on and his alarm kept going off making annoying beeping noises until I found the correct button to punch to turn it off instead of continually smacking the snooze button.
And why do men ask you to look at household mechanical devices with issues, but not cars or other manly things with issues? They never say, “Oh honey, the fuel injection system seems to be clogged, you'd better come out here and take a look at it”. Are the mechanics of a washing machine somehow in the female domain, thereby making us an expert by default on any failure issues? I’m confused on the logic of it all.
I went out to the garage, which as I said seems silly since I am in no way a mechanic and can only stare blankly at objects which are not functioning in a normal manner. There wasn’t any sign of water spilling out on the floor, so that blew the extent of my “things to check list”. I considered using my Mad Mommy face and demand the agitator, or whatever malfunctioning part was to blame for the malaise of the washing machine, cease and desist any further flagrant non-working rebellious actions. It was only a momentary consideration that I promptly dismissed as a waste of a good mean mommy face.
My husband started it up to see what would happen. Nothing, but what should happen when you start a washing machine. We’re both confused at this point.
I went back in the house, gathered my things up and before I departed for work, my husband said he thought he knew what the problem was…or wasn’t in this case. My son unplugged the washer to use the smoothie maker for his morning protein drink. He makes them in the garage so the sound doesn’t wake us. Obviously he forgot to re-plug the washing machine back in.
Feeling lots better about the future of our home devices, I sailed to work in my new car with a slight feeling that something was amiss…like maybe I forgot something important. You know that feeling when you’re missing earrings or your watch? La la la I arrived at work with my music beating out a happy tune. Got out of the car and started to walk down the stairs. Oh…NOW I remember what I forgot. That would be my eye shadow. Crap.
When I got to my desk to put on the eye shadow, I looked in the mirror and realized I had also forgotten to put on lipstick, base makeup and blush. I was, in short, a pasty-faced women who displayed the “before” look of a makeup ad for women who really…really…need some products troweled on their face.
I’m blaming my son, my husband and the washing machine. The whole affair threw me off my pace so I didn’t put my game face on for the day.
Avert your eyes everyone I’m hideous!
Thank goodness, like every smart working woman, I keep emergency makeup in my desk drawer. Whew. I’m only half-hideous now.
And why do men ask you to look at household mechanical devices with issues, but not cars or other manly things with issues? They never say, “Oh honey, the fuel injection system seems to be clogged, you'd better come out here and take a look at it”. Are the mechanics of a washing machine somehow in the female domain, thereby making us an expert by default on any failure issues? I’m confused on the logic of it all.
I went out to the garage, which as I said seems silly since I am in no way a mechanic and can only stare blankly at objects which are not functioning in a normal manner. There wasn’t any sign of water spilling out on the floor, so that blew the extent of my “things to check list”. I considered using my Mad Mommy face and demand the agitator, or whatever malfunctioning part was to blame for the malaise of the washing machine, cease and desist any further flagrant non-working rebellious actions. It was only a momentary consideration that I promptly dismissed as a waste of a good mean mommy face.
My husband started it up to see what would happen. Nothing, but what should happen when you start a washing machine. We’re both confused at this point.
I went back in the house, gathered my things up and before I departed for work, my husband said he thought he knew what the problem was…or wasn’t in this case. My son unplugged the washer to use the smoothie maker for his morning protein drink. He makes them in the garage so the sound doesn’t wake us. Obviously he forgot to re-plug the washing machine back in.
Feeling lots better about the future of our home devices, I sailed to work in my new car with a slight feeling that something was amiss…like maybe I forgot something important. You know that feeling when you’re missing earrings or your watch? La la la I arrived at work with my music beating out a happy tune. Got out of the car and started to walk down the stairs. Oh…NOW I remember what I forgot. That would be my eye shadow. Crap.
When I got to my desk to put on the eye shadow, I looked in the mirror and realized I had also forgotten to put on lipstick, base makeup and blush. I was, in short, a pasty-faced women who displayed the “before” look of a makeup ad for women who really…really…need some products troweled on their face.
I’m blaming my son, my husband and the washing machine. The whole affair threw me off my pace so I didn’t put my game face on for the day.
Avert your eyes everyone I’m hideous!
Thank goodness, like every smart working woman, I keep emergency makeup in my desk drawer. Whew. I’m only half-hideous now.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
War Tales of Buying a Car
When you think about going to a car dealer to buy a new or used car, do you:
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
Friday, July 13, 2007
A Doctor With His Tail On Fire and Crack for Allergy Sufferers
Have you ever seen a doctor move like his “tail was on fire”? I’ve only seen it in the movies or on TV before Monday. To watch it in person is a thing of beauty. When it’s caused by your reaction to his procedure, it’s downright thrilling…in a scary “Oh shit, am I in some medical jeopardy here?”
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
The View From My Pedestal
“The practice of putting women on pedestals began to die out when it was discovered that they could give orders better from there.” Betty Grable
Many years ago when I was a divorced mother of two children, I worked for a computer company. Interestingly, I discovered after some years there that I had a reputation as a fun party girl. That seemed odd to me given the fact that in a good year I might go out on an actual date a couple of times. Apparently to the male population, a happy outgoing divorced woman equals a good-time floozy who does things they can only imagine in their techy dreams. The male logic still eludes me.
I did have one fellow in our department who would sing to me at our Friday afternoon beer busts. He also told me one time that he had had a vasectomy. I thought that was a good thing given that he had thinning dirty hair, watery blue eyes, crusty particles on his eyelids, and a belly which protruded nicely to hold up his baggy pants. But it wasn’t a piece of personal information I was particularly interested in knowing. And what do you say when a man tells you something like that? “Oh great. Now I can have unprotected sex with you and not worry about creating lizard-like children.” It isn’t easy being a single woman.
I was at a party one time and discovered I had an amazing talent for tuning out one conversation from an incredibly boring man, to another conversation of a much more interesting man. Floozy traits I guess. I could actually look at Mr. Dull with a pensive considering “I’m really listening to you” face when all the while I was tuning out everything he said so I could tune into someone else's conversation and at the same time consider my options for extricating myself to join the more interesting fellow. It was an out-of-body experience.
The best memory of this party was the conversation I had with yet another boring fellow who declared he was going abroad to “find himself”. Personally, I think if you lost pieces of yourself you’d do well to look for them right at home in a dusty unused corner thereby saving a lot of money and wasted conversations with strangers who don’t care a wit about your losing or finding yourself.
Apparently this fellow saw some very secure, grounded, and admirable traits (I was in a good “space”) in me so he said (and I quote) “I put you on a pedestal”. I thought that was such a novel notion so I tried on my newfound position on top of that pedestal to see what the view was like. I found out something very interesting from up there. The man down below took on aspects of a doormat...sort of a weenie kind of guy who brought out an untapped desire in me to walk all over him in an attempt to kick his fanny into an upright manly position. Sadly, it didn’t work so I climbed down from atop the pedestal and sought out the food tray.
Ah, the life of a good-time, divorced, party girl. You meet people who make you happy to stay home.
Many years ago when I was a divorced mother of two children, I worked for a computer company. Interestingly, I discovered after some years there that I had a reputation as a fun party girl. That seemed odd to me given the fact that in a good year I might go out on an actual date a couple of times. Apparently to the male population, a happy outgoing divorced woman equals a good-time floozy who does things they can only imagine in their techy dreams. The male logic still eludes me.
I did have one fellow in our department who would sing to me at our Friday afternoon beer busts. He also told me one time that he had had a vasectomy. I thought that was a good thing given that he had thinning dirty hair, watery blue eyes, crusty particles on his eyelids, and a belly which protruded nicely to hold up his baggy pants. But it wasn’t a piece of personal information I was particularly interested in knowing. And what do you say when a man tells you something like that? “Oh great. Now I can have unprotected sex with you and not worry about creating lizard-like children.” It isn’t easy being a single woman.
I was at a party one time and discovered I had an amazing talent for tuning out one conversation from an incredibly boring man, to another conversation of a much more interesting man. Floozy traits I guess. I could actually look at Mr. Dull with a pensive considering “I’m really listening to you” face when all the while I was tuning out everything he said so I could tune into someone else's conversation and at the same time consider my options for extricating myself to join the more interesting fellow. It was an out-of-body experience.
The best memory of this party was the conversation I had with yet another boring fellow who declared he was going abroad to “find himself”. Personally, I think if you lost pieces of yourself you’d do well to look for them right at home in a dusty unused corner thereby saving a lot of money and wasted conversations with strangers who don’t care a wit about your losing or finding yourself.
Apparently this fellow saw some very secure, grounded, and admirable traits (I was in a good “space”) in me so he said (and I quote) “I put you on a pedestal”. I thought that was such a novel notion so I tried on my newfound position on top of that pedestal to see what the view was like. I found out something very interesting from up there. The man down below took on aspects of a doormat...sort of a weenie kind of guy who brought out an untapped desire in me to walk all over him in an attempt to kick his fanny into an upright manly position. Sadly, it didn’t work so I climbed down from atop the pedestal and sought out the food tray.
Ah, the life of a good-time, divorced, party girl. You meet people who make you happy to stay home.
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