My Grain (or Quibbles and Bits)

And God said “let there be fucking annoyances enough so that it seems like misery.”
It’ll do until the next best thing comes along.


First off, allergies make no sense whatsoever.
I can understand, perhaps MAYBE that human beings should be allergic to all sorts of unnatural things. Fake vanilla scented candles. “New-car” scented pine trees to hang up your unmistakably OLD car. Whale puke with added various chemicals to make the sort of smelly crap that women who also wear too much make-up marinate in before walking around with their own private scent cloud around them like a skunk, totally oblivious to the fact that my chest just seized up because I made the mistake of attempting to breath while in their wake. Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, allergies.
But why, why why why in gods name are we allergic to TREES FUCKING? As far as I know, there were trees before there were human beings to be allergic to them. There have always been trees, and there will probably always be trees. We turned from a glob of primordial soup into little viscious amoebas in the shade of some blasted tree, so tell me, god, why are we allergic to them?
Second, if we have to be allergic to trees fucking – it’s summer-time in Virginia when it’s all hot and ugly and humid and I’m miserable that really makes me ache for a better place to live. like space. A nice space station. with climate control and no dirt and no bugs. – then why do our bodies have to do such unpleasant things about being allergic.
I mean, not only is my head over-pressurized to the point where I feel that it’s going to split open, but my nose is 1) stuffed up 2) running and 3) cracked and bleeding. Seriously. Isn’t one or two of these things bad enough? Shouldn’t they cancel each other out? Mucus might not be the nicest substance around, but surely it could have some moisturizing properties or something. If it tried really, really hard. (go back, edit sentence and take out several “I mean”s. Sheesh. Starting to sound like Arlo Guthrie here… “I mean that I’m sitting here on the bench…”)
Third, there’s nothing at all you can do about allergies as far as I’ve noticed, that aren’t almost or more so, unpleasant than the allergies themselves. Ok… what are my options?
I can: 1) take very expensive oral prescription medications that are no longer covered by my insurance because some fuckwit thought it’d be a good idea to make Clariten an OTC drug and now insurance companies won’t pay for Allegra because you can get Clariten OTC, except why the hell would you when it’s $12 for 10 tablets? Get serious!
2) Get a prescription for some expensive inhaled allergy medication like Flo-nase or something. (Flo-nase… doesn’t that sound nice? Calm… quiet… a day at the beach? Floooooo-nase) Hah. Guess again. I snorted cocaine once and there isn’t anything else this white girl ex-druggie-wanna-be is going to shove up her nose again thank you for playing. Can not do it. Got a script for this stuff once. Bought it, brought it home, opened it once or twice and could NOT bring myself to squirt medication up my nose. Nope.
3) buy semi-expensive OTC allergy medication. benadryl or some other equally non-effective thing that makes my mouth dry and my eyeballs feel like balls of rubber cement that have been rolled around under my desk (yes, I was reading someone else’s blog with his psuedo-serious philistine philosophy woe-is-me/woe-is-the-world commentary the other day, why do you ask?) and sucks $5 out of my pocket.
4) Get shots. Thanks, no. Lemme get this straight… for some two to three YEARS you want me to get two shots in my arm several times a month and then every other week and then…. no. No. Big fat no. Despite the fact that “once it’s over everything is cool”. Yeah. Unless you move. And I like this part of Virginia, mostly (when it isn’t summer time) but I’m not so attached to it these days that I wouldn’t bolt for somewhere a little less fucking miserable if Kevin was offered a better job. I was attached to it. Now I’m less so. I can be mom-like and see no one anywhere in the country. Anyfuckingwhere. Someplace cooler would be nice.
5) Cut down all the fucking trees. If you haven’t guessed, right now I am fully in favor of this plan. I always wonder why people are so concerned about the rain-forests. I mean, have you ever looked around you? Particularly in south-eastern Virginia – more affectionately known as “the tidewater area”? There are more trees than I can shake sticks at. And they grow like crazy. That’s because when summertime comes around, they’re FUCKING and filling the air around them with their unused jizzum which coats my car in a faint yellow film and makes me feel like I woke up with my brain replaced by a cantelope.
— we will take a short pause here as we rant and rave to the completely uncaring universe that for the 8th time this month some asshole has called my cell phone looking for “Trombone” which is very annoying. Even more so, it falls all the way into fucking annoying when it’s 12:15am (“You are aware that it’s twelve in the morning?” “Yeah, well, y’know the guy what I calls mostly it’s ok t’call at 12pm.” It’s not 12pm asshole, it’s 12am. Learn to read a fucking clock.) and now the baby is awake and crying. Pardon me while I go stuff a bottle into her. Now back to your regularly scheduled rant about allergies —
Jeez. Now I forgot where I was… rant… I was ranting… fuck.
Oh yes. Allergies.
In any case, once you have allergies, it doesn’t really matter which one of the above five choices you make. Nothing really helps. Until the tree or grass that you happen to be allergic to stops fucking. Or when you leave your sister’s house, if you happen to be my friend Karen, who is desperately allergic to cats (Which would be a very sensible reason not to like them. Of course, not wanting them to knock your cute little family of china penguins on the floor at 3 in the morning would be another reason not to like them. Anyone want a pair of completely stupid cats, one gay, the other one straight? Free to bad home.)
Thus, allergified, you have to cope.
Coping, pre-baby, consisted of dosing myself with enough Benadryl to knock out an elephant, climbing into bed armed with several cans of diet soda and some Aloe Vera soaked kleenexes, and ignoring the world for a week or so. On occassion coming out of my nest and stepping around the piles of wadded up tissues collecting in snowdrifts on the floor to peer at the computer bleerily before going back to bed.
You know, back in BC (Before Child), I never really thought much about what it would be like to actually Have Children. For a long time it was “No. Never. Fuck that noise. No kids. I hate kids.” And to some degree, I still do. Of course, on that note, I hate people, too. In general. I like specific ones. (It’s not quite like pumpkin pie in which I hate all pumpkin pie. Even your mother’s pumpkin pie. Even my mother’s pumpkin pie.) But your general, run-of-the-mill talking-on-cell-phone-while-driving or butting-in-line-at-Starbucks or minding-everyone-else’s-business-but-her-own or giving-my-husband-the-hairy-eyeball-because-he-wears-a-long-black-coat people? I hate them.
I certainly never imagined myself having a baby. I could see having a kid. Maybe. Sometimes. Playing in the yard, tossing a frisbee badly, or using the box for a new refridgerator as a house or going to a school play (please god, don’t let Jessica want to play soccer… I’m still almost 100% positive that I would rather curl up and die than be a soccer-mom. I don’t have the highlights for it.) Maybe. Possibly. But a baby? I’d never held a baby before Liz put Penny in my arms. I was taught how to change a diaper at the hospital.
I’m learning all sorts of interesting things, having a baby of my own. And the first thing that I’ve learned (and learned well) is that the baby Does Not Care. I’m sure she’ll grow up into a nice, charming, empathic individual in about thirty years or so, but right now she does not give a royal fuck if my head aches. Not in the slightest. She could care less that my nose alternates between stuffy and runny and that when I close my eyes I can feel the slow, inexorable movement of the world spinning on its axis and the planet moving in graceful, ponderous circles around the sun and the sun whizzing along in spirals around th- nevermind, I’m making myself sick all over again. Jessica cares not one whit.
She wants to get up at seven-thirty or eight in the morning and is not at all concerned that I haven’t slept. So what? Up! up up up! Mom! I can’t even take her into the bedroom with me and give her a toy anymore. Nope. She’s learned to crawl just enough to crawl off the end of the bed chasing her toy. Sound sleep interrupted by screaming baby that just fell off the side of the bed? Once is enough, even if I am a Very Bad Mom ™ who really just wanted a nap.
My sinus cavity is no longer cave-like, but instead burgeoning with mucus? So? Bottle now! Food now. No, I want to feed myself; well fine then, get food in your hair, see if I care. I want to play, I want to smack buttons that go “moo!” and jump up and down in the excer-saucer and …. ug. I love my daughter, but this morning I would have cheerfully paid someone to take her away for a while. (My favorite baby-sitter is off vacationing in Spain with her daughter-in-law and newest grandbaby and while I’m seriously envying the trip and am happy for her, I wish she’d come home soon.)
I managed to drag myself through the morning without injuring anyone. Myself mostly, but also my daughter and the two stupid cats that no one wants and who insist on being underfoot except when they’re climbing on something to knock other stuff down. Why did I think I wanted cats? I don’t remember anymore. Mostly they just annoy me these days. Jessica, however, thinks that cats are fascinating. She wants to pull their tail and chew on their fur and has been habitually trying to coax them to come over to see her by offering bits of animal cracker. This afternoon, she was trying vienna sausage bits. That might actually work.
Around twelve-ish, she started the much longed for and anticipated rubbing of eyes. This means that it is nap-time, and god only knows how badly I wanted a nap. Whisk the baby out of the high-chair and cuddle her against my shoulder. Put her to bed. Give her the blanket my DMiL made for her and kiss her forehead. “Night night.” Says I. I leave the room and pratically sprint for the bedroom. Thud. I fall into bed and do not pass Go, do not collect $200 for the better part of two hours.
And then the phone rang. Have I mentioned the asshole that’s been calling here looking for Trombone? Yeah, that asshole. Please god, Trombone, whoever you are, whoever the FUCK you are, please stop giving my number out to your mostly intoxicated asshole friends. I know they’re assholes and you don’t want to talk to them, but why, why god, do you have to send them to me? I didn’t do anything to you!
Jessica was not asleep when I got up, but she had been being quiet in her crib, quietly talking to her feet or whatever it is she babbles at in there when she’s not shrieking davavava! at the top of her lungs like some french madwoman. She probably would have let me sleep at least another hour or so if Trombone’s asshole friend hadn’t called.
But I did feel somewhat better. Had a sneezing fit followed by a bloody nose followed by discovering that my hair was just long enough to get in the way when I throw up. So I had to take a shower. But I did, honestly, feel better. Which may just give you a slight indication of how bad this morning was.
Got back on line, talked with friends. Commiserated about how awful being sick is. Feeling mostly ok, I thought. Proceed with Life.
I dressed the baby up in her swim diaper and swim suit and took her outside to splash around in this little paddling pool we bought at the dollar store (and believe me, it looks like it’s worth every penny – all 100 of them – on it.) I also stuck a sunhat on her head, which she found completely annoying because it has elastic around it to keep it firmly attached to her mostly-bald little head so she doesn’t get sunburn, but she’s a baby and doesn’t know anything about sunburn so this hat thing just has to go, but it won’t come off and… oh! water! Splash splash! Wait, there’s a hat on my head. Like that. For about fifteen minutes or so. Mostly because I couldn’t stand sitting cross-legged on the porch with the cement turning my mostly nice legs into a mass of backwards printed concrete for another minute. I wanted to take a picture, even remembered to grab the camera. Forgot the disk for the camera until I plopped Jess in the water. Then it was all over. Couldn’t leave her Alone In Water for fear she Might Drown. And I didn’t want to get her out of the water and into the house for the 20 seconds it was going to take me to grab a computer disk. Gosh, being a parent is so exacting. Why didn’t anyone tell me about this shit?
So, no pictures. Ah well. She was cute, and you’ll just have to take my word for it. Back in the house, back online for a bit. Everyone’s leaving, going home from work and stuff, except for the one friend who habitually gets online everyday but rarely says much of anything and while I’m glad he’s finally gotten a girlfriend and seems relatively stable and happy (my husband actually asked me the other day if this particular friend died or something, since it was the first time in seven years that I haven’t had a huge fight with this friend in the spring.) it might be nice if he held up his end of the conversation from time to time. I decided I was being a selfish fuck for wanting him to spend hours entertaining me when he obviously had better things to do, so I logged off.
Maybe this was a mistake. Logging off led to the inevitable fact that my entire life is neatly contained in this little package of silicon that sits on and under my desk and that I honestly don’t have anything better to do. I play with the baby, but she does a pretty good job of playing on the floor all by herself and I don’t know that I contribute much except annoying her by moving her toys just out of reach in an attempt to get her to try and crawl someplace other than over the side of the bed.
Getting offline and playing with the baby reminded me of just how badly my head ached. Particularly when said baby grabbed a handful of hair on both sides of my head and yanked – THWACK! – my head down to give me a very wet kiss on the chin which would have been very sweet if her head wasn’t composed of titanium and mine of porcelain. Ow. Fucking ow. She does not notice and things that mom is very, very funny.
So, handed the baby off to the husband once he got home and went back to bed.
And, if you haven’t noticed, it’s now 2 in the morning and I’ve been writing a bloody blog entry for 2+ hours while reading someone else’s blog and snickering to myself.
And Kevin will be waking up to go to work in…. 2 hours.

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3 Responses to My Grain (or Quibbles and Bits)

  1. Trombone and his Mississippi Delta friends sound ever so slightly cracked. Or perhaps just drunk.
    My sympathies, anyway. Would that I had the money to get you coffee for tomorrow, I would.

  2. Liz says:

    Oh, gods, I remember those allergies. They suck in ways that nothing else in the universe sucks. I haven’t had them that bad in a long time, but I remember, yes I do… (As an aside, I had no allergies while I was pregnant, and a return of those allergies might possibly be enough for me to consider giving Penny a sibling…)
    Anyway, my most sincere sympathy, and commiseration for your allergies, and e-mail for your inbox when you wake up, and hopes that Jess is feeling soooooo tired this morning and sleeps in (as Penny is Wide Awake), and also, congratulations on having written a very amusing (if sympathy-provoking) entry at 2AM while suffering Those Allergies.

  3. Gris says:

    ::clapclapclapclapclap:: Indeed. I’m *really* glad I had the foresight to shut the door, or someone might have come to see why I was making all these odd noises… and no, I didn’t *mean* to laugh at your misery, I do condole deeply and suchlike, but you must admit, you’re in rare high snark in this one.

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