Maybe being a mouth breather isn't so bad.

We were fully intending on going to see Date Night on Sunday night. Really. We were going to get up off of the couch and go forth into the world. But somewhere between dinner and the gastrointestinal gymnastics that are usually required for me to digest food, my throat started hurting. And it wasn't just a little tickle. It was as though I had had a side of acid with my salad and then made sure it was REALLY in there by scraping away at the flesh of my esophagus with a dull fork. It was a sudden onset - one moment I was trying to wrestle the remote away from Marc and then the next it hurt to swallow. Or breathe.

We decided to stay in.

"Allergies!" yelled Marc, who is a constant sufferer. His religion is the neti pot and some sort of nasal spray that he jams up his nose each morning and night. That ritual is followed by a hefty, "hhhhhhhhnnccccccCH!" into a tissue which usually results in the deposit of some matter which he then views and comments upon. "Wow! You should see this!"

I've never had allergies that were not food related. And then two years ago I started having a lingering sore throat whenever the pine trees out back were full of pollen. But even then it was more of an annoyance. The two times a year it happened, Marc would say, "NETI POT! YOU SHOULD USE THE NETI POT!" I always declined. My friends, do you know what this is? It masquerades as a charming, miniature tea kettle that you actually force up one nostril (after filling it with a saline solution) then allowing the salt water to flow into one side of the nose and out of the other washing out any lingering debris, pollen, spare change, what have you. Marc always seemed remarkably refreshed and buoyant after his sessions. They proceed like this:

Prologue: Enthusiasm! "Honey! I'm going to go and use the neti pot!"
Stage 1: Deployment!
Stage 2: Euphoria!
Stage 3: VICTORY!

Despite my love of a natural and home remedy, I remained unconvinced. It had problems written all over it, starting with drowning and ending with loss of sex appeal. Then my niece Heidi wrote this about it and I told Marc to stop wielding the stupid thing at me each time I had a sniffle as it wasn't going to happen.

Exh. A - Sudden Loss of Sex Appeal

I can still see that photo when I close my eyes.

But by last night, my congestion had taken a turn for the worse. Marc, unable to stand the thought of spending another night next to his sniveling wife dragged me into the guest bathroom and said, "Look. You're going to do this. I'll do a demonstration first. You are not going to drown. It's not hard. It won't hurt. It will give you tremendous relief." So he showed me. Of course, I knew what was involved, but he was talking to me the whole time while his nose drained, so I thought - ok, this can't be all that bad. And I was sick of breathing through my mouth. He went through his above steps, ended with a flourish and then prepared a pot for me.

My own experience went something like this:

Prologue: Trepidation! Suspicion! Horror!
Step 1: Excitement! Perhaps I'd be able to breathe again! Perhaps some voluminous amount of snot would pour forth and I'll be healed! Sort of like fishing a large clump of wax out of your ears - gross, but so satisfying.
Step 2: Quiet contemplation. Hm. The water just poured out one side, and then half way through, I switched nostrils. Marc watched in fascination despite my demands that he GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.
Steph 3: THE BURNING! What they don't tell you is that if you tilt your head back just a small amount, the salt water goes cascading down your throat. Which, in my case, was completely RAW. After much sputtering and expulsion of water and snot and other random bits and some unprintable language, I put the damned pot down and blew what felt like a gallon of water from my nose.

I didn't feel much better. But I didn't feel worse. I was more shocked over the fact that I had survived the ordeal even though the outcome - the lack of joie de vivre or even a new pony - was disappointing at best. Instead, I just really wanted to lie down and kept worrying that my head would leak if I leaned over too quickly.

Today, things were worse. Not from the neti pot but just because my "allergies" had blossomed into a full blown cold. I always hate it when a formerly compliant body part suddenly goes rogue on me, and the fact that I use my nose with some frequency and suddenly couldn't made this whole thing pretty disconcerting. I look resplendent, let me tell you...like something that feeds on the flesh of the innocent. I spent the morning at work shouting instructions at my clients from across the room and willing the minutes to move quickly so that I could get home. Despite last nights lukewarm performance, I was holding out hope for the neti pot. Perhaps it was an experience that improved with practice?

I dashed upstairs, prepared the pot and stuck it up my nose and tilted. And waited. And waited. So profound was my congestion that only after a good 30 seconds did a small drip make it's way out of the opposite nostril and into the sink. This was not the progress I had been hoping for and so thought I would speed things along a little bit by taking in a short breath and then forcing it out of my nose quickly. Which did nothing to help my nose.

But my left eye. SWEET TAP-DANCING H MOSES.

I may have some sort of degree in Biology, but even I'm not sure exactly what happened. When I exhaled, the water that was supposed to come out of my nose instead shot out of my left tear duct and splattered all over the mirror which was a good two feet in front of me. I looked on in horror as the liquid gently dripped down towards the counter and wondered if that had actually just happened. A quick survey of my face showed it to be true, and I immediately put down the pot and called Marc at work to ask, "What does it mean if it shoots out of your EYE?"

There was silence on the other end...I think while Marc wondered if he had passed the stage where an annulment might be an option. "It came out of your EYE?" he said in a stage whisper. I relayed the story again in greater detail. He remained silent. He had no answers. I had waded into unknown territory.

I hung up the phone, neither comforted or feeling any modicum of relief. My eye still oozed and I couldn't breathe out of the center of my face. I rinsed the pot and set it back on Marc's prescribed towel and decided that perhaps my relationship with it, though brief, had been turbulent enough to warrant backing away from the device forever. Perhaps, my work here was done.

Perhaps, I'll rely on modern science instead. Perhaps I don't always need to seek out a home, natural remedy first. Perhaps a poultice and twirly dance won't cure the itching. Which is why I immediately went to CVS and purchased some Tylenol Cold & Sinus and have taken to my bed for the rest of the day.

There is still salt water leaking out of my left eye. This is the opposite of rad.

A+

Did you know that everyone seems to know their blood type except me? Which is odd as over the years I've been through my fair share of blood letting, and one would think I would have spotted my blood type somewhere in there. I probably was too busy burying my head in a bucket to much care given my hatred of phlebotomists. What drives you towards that profession anyways? Not that I don't appreciate them. I suppose my severe aversion towards watching my own life support drain away into any number of tubes just makes me balk at the idea of doing such a thing on a daily basis. Can't we just go back to leeches?

So two weeks ago I had to go and have some more blood tests done. Knowing my history, Marc came with me to hold my hand. I believe my nail imprints have finally started to fade from his palm and he's getting the feeling back in his forearm, so vigorous was my clenching. But it helped. I started intently at him and he asked all sorts of ridiculous questions to distract me and the clinician was really very nice and it was the first time I've ever not thrown up after such a visit. 10 points for Marc!

Monday, we went to the doctor to get the results of the test and he turned to me and said in his very kind voice, "You have A plus blood! It's really excellent!" Being that I was an overachiever in school and spent much time wearing a frock made out of goat hair and covering myself in ashes if I DIDN'T receive A's on my work, this was stellar news. I turned to Marc and said, "I HAVE THE VALEDICTORIAN OF BLOOD! I ROCK!" This, of course, in front of my very intelligent doctor, who I then turned to after my gloating and asked, "Great! What type am I?" Marc snorted from the corner and my doctor, with a bemused expression on his face said, "You're A POSITIVE, like I just said."

Oh.

Those first glorious two seconds I thought I had the blood of a superhuman and could go forth and resume licking doorknobs and perhaps even put on my resume, "A PLUS BLOOD, BITCHES!" But no.

It's possible I'm taking this harder than I ought to.

Pink blossoms

The weather has been so fickle lately. We had what my mother referred to as "a REAL German rain" on Sunday. I'm not sure what that implies...that if you stood out in it you'd have a sudden proclivity for Spaetzle and Schnitzel with side of cabbage? Or that you'd suddenly become blond, blue-eyed, precise and efficient (this rain WILL STOP in two more minutes!)? Regardless, it's been wet and then dry and then wet again. And now it's just windy. But I took this the other day on a walk with Kylie and it was a nice reminder that though April seems to need a rather heavy dose of Ativan to deal with its apparent bipolar disorder, that spring is on its way. My lily white skin is looking forward to it. I'm rather sick of people sticking a mirror under my nose to see if I'm still alive and breathing.

No need to call out the cavalry.

Wow!  That last one was cranky, wasn't it?  I got a few emails from people regarding my state of mind and my need to allow my anger to go.  I suppose it could come across that way, but the point I was trying to make it that perhaps we all ought to revisit the Golden Rule and remind ourselves that what we put out into the universe should reflect what we would like bestowed upon us.  I could use the reminder myself.  Especially when I'm in an annoyed mode and barf all of my cantankerous thoughts onto the internet.  Next thing you know I'll be poking at people with my walking stick if they're mouth breathing in my presence. 

So do not worry.  I'm not descending into a negative vortex.  On most days, I'm positively ebullient!  Just not yesterday.  I just don't cotton to those rude types.  That is all.

On manners

I've been frustrated. It's not you, I promise. Well, it MIGHT be you. It depends. I don't know what it is but I've noticed an increased amount of horribly bad manners from the general public and it's getting to the point where when I say, "I hate people!" I'm really only sorta kidding. If even a little.

And I'm not talking about table manners, though I'm the first person to say, "SWEET MOSES CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!" if you're chomping in my vicinity. Or elbows on the table. That I CANNOT abide by. Were you raised by wolves? My Mother actually made my brother and I endure what she called "Manner Meals" when we were little which included what fork to use when you were seated at a table that had a confusing array and what kinds of conversations were proper to have at dinner parties. This was all so that she could relax if we were ever invited to the White House. She didn't want to be associated with offspring who didn't know their soup from their dessert spoon and ate with their fingers. That would be worse than voting Democrat.

But as much as I despise the above, what I've noticed is a general disregard by individuals for the people around them. I would hope that we would all realize that we are not the only people on this planet. That there are those that perhaps need a door held open for them or for you to just move your grocery cart out of the way rather than leaving it in the middle of the aisle while you ponder the olive oil selection. Today I was at CVS and as I paid my bill, my wallet fell out of my hands and my change scattered everywhere. There were two people behind me, neither of whom were infirm or incapable of bending at the waist, and rather than reaching down to help, they just stood there while I scraped around their feet for my escaping quarters. Really? You're not even going to step aside? You're going to actually look down at me while I reach between your legs for my change and give me a hostile glare? After I chased down the last dime I stood up and turned to the person behind me and said "Thanks!" sarcastically. I'm not proud of this, but by the surprised look I received in return, I think I got my point across.

I'm by no means perfect and could often be accused of being off in my own world, but I'd like to think that when I'm out, that I'm aware of those around me and am willing to help should the need arise. My Mom and Dad raised us under the premise that other people's needs were greater than our own - they were not advocating that we allow ourselves to be taken advantage of but rather to be aware of others and to be the kind of people who politely step aside when we're in the way and have enough spatial awareness to anticipate that kind of thing. I can't tell you how often I'm in a store or a restaurant where people are standing in the middle of a traffic area and I have to actually physically touch them and say, "You're in the way" to get them to move to the side despite the obvious fact that I cannot climb over them in a dress and four inch heels. A simple "excuse me" doesn't even seem to work anymore . Perhaps a swift kick in the shins would deliver the message more clearly.

It's made me crotchety, and I don't like that. I've started being more rude to get my point across, having less patience. I used to assume that people weren't trying to be asses, but now I just feel as though I live in an area where people are so largely concentrated on themselves that simple manners and consideration are no longer considered necessary...that everyone should be aware of THEM. Therefore they should be able to leave their cart where it's a pain to get around, not let the pregnant mom with two small children in line first, not offer their seat to an elderly person and not hold open the door for the person behind them because they are too busy texting some other Very Important Person who is probably talking loudly on their cell phone while at a restaurant.

I mean MY GOD. I feel like at 34 I've turned into my parents who are always muttering something about "kids these days." Instead it's PEOPLE these days. They are bringing me down. I realize I'm entering the Freakout Territory From Which It Is Difficult to Exit Gracefully, but seriously, I'd like to know what I could do besides wear a sandwich board that says, GOT MANNERS? all while standing on the busiest corner in Silicon Valley. Because if one more person cuts in front of me in line all while talking into their Bluetooth headset and then brushes me off when I tell them that THE LINE ACTUALLY STARTS HERE, BEHIND ME, I might just lose it and move us all to Iowa. I hear they know how to chew with their mouths closed there. It's a start.

Sleepless in Mountain View

Hi all! I just thought that since I was awake at 4:30am on a Saturday morning that I would write to you! And Share Why I Am Up! Because when one is AWAKE at these unholy hours, it seems only logical that one should Tell Everyone! Or I'm just delirious! It's hard to say!

About an hour ago, I was jolted awake by this short burst of sound that I think was loud enough to liquefy at least part of my brain. I recognized it immediately as the fire alarm that is hard wired into the house. Not the nice civilized smoke detectors that say, "You know, don't hurry up from your tea or anything, but I think your toast might be burning. No, no...no need to panic...we're just letting you know with this lovely, lilting beep that you might want to consider that something is amiss." It was not that noise. It was a noise more akin to, "THIS IS YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE NOW BEFORE THE ENTIRE WORLD COMES TO AN END RIGHT ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD GAAAAAHHHHHHH!" and then your ENTIRE brain liquefies and you die. And the caps are bigger. It was that sound. This alarm has only gone off once. It was this winter and we had made a very enthusiastic fire. It was the kind of enthusiasm that caused smoke to pour forth and no amount of newspaper flapping was going to divert it from every corner of the house. When this foghorn from hell started going off, Marc and I of looked at each other and wondered what kind of demon was possessing our home. We located the noise (an alarm we had never looked high up enough to see - we have delicate necks that don't respond well to craning) and did some MORE vigorous flapping along with a pathetic jump or two up towards the blooming thing and the noise eventually stopped. Kylie didn't come back into the house for hours or stop panting for days, so we thought, "Well, let's not do THAT again!" It was the opposite of fun.

So when that alarm interrupted a VERY IMPORTANT DREAM - I was in the midst of a tête-à-tête with Timothy Olyphant - I was annoyed. It was only a 3 second burst but enough to get my heart racing in a way that would indicate defibrillator pads needed to be employed. I lay there waiting for my heart to stop pounding - or just STOP (which took a while), rolled over, started to drift off, and the stupid thing went off AGAIN. I got out of bed, went out into the hallway, shook my fist at it a few times and said, "JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!" Kylie in the meantime was weaving around my ankles so I went to let her out as any noise like that usually ends up with her vomiting on my feet. As I was downstairs, the alarm went off two more times, and I knew sleep was futile. I went to our circuit breaker box and looked to see if anything would indicate I could cut power to the thing. Nothing. I went and stared really, REALLY hard at it. It went, "BLLLLARRRRRGGGHHHHAAAAAAA!!!!!" at me again. If this thing had a middle finger, it would have been rubbing it with glee into the middle of my forehead.

I called the non-emergency 911 number for Mountain View. The woman on the other end of the line sounded less than impressed about someone calling with a malfunctioning alarm. "Can't you just check to see if the battery is old?" she asked, I'm sure filing her nails and snapping her gum in boredom. I had this whole visual of how she looked that dated back to a wartime operator in the 1940's - sort of like this only less cheerful:


I'm fairly certain that is not what was on the other line, but it's what came to mind. I considered adding, "Oh, and my carotid artery is spewing blood!" just to get her attention, but what I really wanted was to go back to sleep.

I explained that we have VERY VAULTED ceilings and that there was just no way, despite my climbing prowess, that I was going to be able to reach up that high. She sighed and said, "Allllll riiiiiiight. I'll send out the firemen." I imagine that she rolled her eyes to her fellow operators as she connected my call.

The advantage of living so close to the firehouse is that they showed up in less than five minutes. I had a Claire Dunphy in Modern Family moment and wondered if I had enough time to change and put on my eyebrows, but I was distracted as the alarm went off two more times and then Kylie deposited her dinner into the ivy out back. Better there than my feet.

They sent out three firemen (all of whom were VERY good looking...and here I was in old sweats! Without so much as a swipe of lip gloss!) who all seemed rather bemused that this blond person with no discernible facial features couldn't deal with something so trivial as a fire alarm.

Long story short, the alarm didn't go off ONCE while they were here. NOT EVEN ONE TIME. The brought in a Very Large Ladder and went up to the alarm to have speaks with it - it remained silent. All the while I willed it to GO OFF, but it just smugly sat there, thinking, "I'll just bide my time and wait until they leave and she is just on the border of sleep..." It would appear that our system is just very, VERY old and they couldn't disable it, so after about 25 minutes of mucking about, the three of them said, "Well, good luck with that. Call an electrician in the morning." I did a very good job of not clinging to their ankles and saying, "TAKE ME BACK WITH YOU SO THAT I CAN GET SOME REST! I DON'T NORMALLY LOOK THIS WASHED OUT!" Instead I just forlornly watched as the Very Good Looking Men left. I let Kylie back into the house and now am shuttered away in my office, writing this to you.

Marc is, of course, out of town and not privy to all of this excitement. I think I'll give him a smidge of the experience when he gets home by pouring some ice water over his head around 3:30am. It's only fair. Or, does anyone have an air horn I could borrow?