The Sneeziest of the Sneezers in Sneezeville

Well the hell is going on with pollen count this year!!???!!!  I just double punctuated that sentence, you know it must be really fucking serious.
       For realsies, I am a ridiculous sneezing, itchy throat, watery eye MESS this allergy season.  I cannot stop sneezing, literally, CANNOT stop.  ACHOO!  I can only hope that theory that you lose brain cells everytime you sneeze isn't true because at this rate I will be eating my own poop next week.
       I don't remember it being this bad last year, maybe I just blocked it out or plain old forgot, what with all those missing brain cells.
       I used to have seasonal allergies really bad when I was in college in Santa Barbara.  Especially during those Santa Ana winds.  Not cool, Santa Ana, not cool.
        For kicks my roommates used to imitate me by putting on my jacket and back pack, and then they'd say, "Hey, guess who I am.", go outside and stand there exaggeratedly sneezing in what I had to admit was a pretty dead on impression of me coming home from campus.  I don't even know how I managed to sit through classes without disrupting everyone, I probably just shoved tissues up my nostrils to stop the violent sneezes so I didn't blow the papers off everyone else's desk... it's becoming clearer and cleared to me why I didn't date much back then....
       I took every kind of medication I could get my hands on, but very few worked.  For awhile I thought my problems were solved when I discovered Claritin, but alas, twas short lived, my body adjusted to the stuff and it no longer worked.  My body is constantly outsmarting me, if only my brain were that quick.......
      So, I lived with it.  It's not like I had them all year, it was really just Spring, but hey, that's still three months of brain cell loss.  Over the years it adds up. 
      After college I moved to San Francisco but I don't really remember having that much of an allergy issue there, maybe because it's so damp the rain keeps the pollen in check, who knows.  Or maybe I was just too drunk too care.   
      However, when I moved to Baltimore things went nuts.  The four seasons, a new thing for this southern California gal, were amazing, especially the colorful spring.  I loved them.  But when makes all those glorious colors?  The vibrant greens, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows?  Why it's POLLEN you idiot!  Disaster.  I could hardly see the trees through the sneeze....s.  What to do?  Well my neighbor Amanda had the same issues as myself and she started taking Nasonex, which is that stuff you spray up your nose and snort.  Attractive, I know.   But hey, it worked.  Got my own prescription and voila, goodbye itchy, watery, sneezy girl!
      But here I am, back in Southern California and I'm a constant sneezing mess yet again.  I just went to the doctor to get my new prescription on Nasonex, hopefully my body hasn't outsmarted itself yet again and will accept it.  I refuse to think about what will happen if it doesn't work.  What's my option then?  I can't stop sneezing, my throat hurts from all the mouth breathing I'm doing at night because my nose is stuffed, I have a headache, I'm tired, this is bullshit.  If it doesn't work, I'll just have to move to somewhere with no pollen.  I wonder what The Sahara is like this time of year.  Hey, maybe I can get my hands on what of those controlled environment plastic tent things, you know, like Boy in The Bubble.  People can bring me stuff and I can sit in it and watch TV.....hey, wait, this isn't sounding so bad.  It will be like a vacation, do you think Dominos will deliver in there?
      Well, maybe I should try the Nasonex first before breaking ground on the bubble.....I'll let you know.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shove more tissue up my nose.
     

Knock knock. Who's there? It's 40, bitch.

I’m turning 40 in one month and my body is falling to absolute shit. 

      
           I’d always heard that 40 was the magic number in hitting the wall but I guess I just never believed it was true.  I like to think of myself as being in “pretty good” shape.  This is not to say I’m an Olympian but I can at least walk more than 1 block without getting winded.  I go to the gym multiple times a week, do cardio, lift weights, eat *relatively* healthy (Doritos are ok, right?), take vitamins, all the stuff Doctor Oz tells me to do. You’d think that things would be staying intact on my body.  Not so.  Things are happening, my friends, and they ain’t good.

      
         About three months ago I was sitting talking to a friend while I had my legs crossed.  I looked down and noticed a couple of very pesky varicose veins on my shin threatening to pop out to say hello.  Sweet Mother Humpers!  I can see those two sonsabitches sitting there, just under the skin, waiting for November 12^th to make their big appearance.  I guess this should be no surprise, most of the women in my family have these bulgy veins in their legs, I just thought since I hadn’t seen them by now that I would avoid them.   Apparently not.  Welcome to the varicose club, sweetheart.  We wear support hose in here.

 In addition to the disgusting veins it seems my vision is failing now too!  What the hell.  Ever since I was a kid it was, “Just perfect, Kristin!” from the optometrist.  Now it’s, “Oh, wait, this isn’t looking good.  You mean you can’t see that?  These little letters down here?  Uh oh.”  Seems I have something known as presbyopia,  which is taken from the Greek word presbys meaning "old man" or "elder" but according to most medical glossaries it translates very simply into "old eyes".  Awesome.   Kristin “Old Eye” Leoncavallo.  That sounds about right. 

            I noticed the failing vision about three months ago.  I started holding things out farther from my face so that I could read them, like my grandma when she’s trying to read the back of her medication bottles.  So, now I have reading glasses, which actually isn’t too bad since I look wicked cute in them.  At least, this is what I'm telling myself......

               
        What else is wrong, Kristin, you whiny bitch?  Well, I’ll tell you.  I have thickening toenails.  What the heck is THAT!?  “You should meet my friend, Kristin.  She’s a good cook, can throw a Frisbee with both hands, and has ridiculously thick toenails. “Seriously, when I paint my toes now I have to spend 15 minutes filing the TOP of the nails to work down my elephant hooves.  Who ever heard of such a thing.  They never mentioned this in the welcome to 40 handbook.

             
          Let’s talk about my hair.  As a kid I always had really boring straight hair, which is why I started getting perms in high school (hey, it was the 80’s.)  I wanted that gigantic poof like Jaime Gertz in Less Than Zero, and every other movie from the late 80’s, early 90’s.  So cool.  Well I permed until the end of high school, then once in college I decided to grow it out, back to straight.  Apparently gigantic curly gelled-out hairdos were not cool anymore.  What would I do with those tubs of LA Looks?  Hey, we all have to change sometime. 

               
          So, I let it grow.  And grow, and grow and I think to myself, “Jeez, this perm is lasting FOREVER.  It just will not grow out!”  Wrong.  It was growing out, alright.  It was just growing out curly.   Sometime between 1988 and 1991 my hair Gertzed on it’s own.  Where were you four years ago, curls?  Just my luck, I’m always just one step behind the cool kids.

                 
          So, me and my curly hair did our best to get along.  Things changed for me when I bought a flat iron, however.  Life was good again, I could have straight hair like Rachel Green and Demi Moore!  Look at me!  I’m CURRENT!  I’m not even wearing leg warmers anymore!  (well, not where anyone can see me.)

               
           That old adage is true, you always want what you don’t have.  Have straight hair?  You want curly hair.  Have curly hair?  You want straight hair.  My five year old proves this every day, he’s got a million toys but he doesn’t want those.  He wants the neighbors toys, you know, the ones he CAN’T have.  Ahh well, what can you do. 

              
           Well, I’ve learned to live with the curls, although now I’m 39 and my hair just keeps getting bigger and bigger with each passing year.  The flat iron is having less and less effect on it.  It’s more of a flattened frizzy wave that I end up with.  Most time I just say screw it and leave it curly, trying to manage it the best I can. I figure before this decade ends I should have my full fledge afro.

              
            But the worst part about turning 40, at least to me, is that I can’t seem to tolerate sulfites anymore.  And you know what has sulfites in it?  WINE!  Ahhhhhh!  Just kill me now.  Seriously, take anything you want, JUST DON’T TAKE MY WINE! 

               
           This is something I noticed last month when I woke up one morning with a serious hangover.  I’d attended a friend’s wedding the night before and apparently drank waaaay more than I intended to drink.  Okay so maybe I did intend to, whatever.  I was out of the house, kid free, I cut loose.

                 
           The night was fun, but when I awoke in the morning, it was not so fun.  I was feeling really anxious and nervous, not at all what I was used to after drinking.  Headache?  Tiredness?  Uneasy stomach?  You betcha, but nervousness, flushing,  and anxiety?  No.   I thought that maybe I was just worried about something or just overly tired.  I never once thought that I was having some kind of weird reaction to my best friend, Vino.  Not possible.  I refused to think it.  

              
             So, the next week I tried again.  Yep, same thing.  Woke up, heart pounding, flushed, anxious, feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, and for any of you that have ever had a panic attack before I feel your pain.  It sucks.  Who knew my beloved wine would turn on me?  After all we’d been through together…..

So what now?  Am I supposed to drink BEER?  I DON’T THINK SO.  I am a lady, for shit’s sake, AND I LOVE TO DRINK WINE.  So now I don’t know what to do.  You’re probably thinking, “Kristin, you’re over reacting, just don’t drink wine, it’s not that big a deal.”  Well, you obviously don’t understand my relationship with this dark and delicious goddess.  What I mean to say is, uh, I don’t have a problem, I can quit anytime I want.  Whatever.  .........don’t judge me.

          This is really traumatic for me, this will mean a serious change in my life style.  Okay it’s not like I’m guzzling bottles of pinot every night, but I do enjoy a glass (or three) with dinner sometimes, and when I go out, wine is what I drink.  What do I do when I go out now?  Drink hard liquor?  I think I’d rather have anxiety hangovers as opposed to the projectile vomiting and headaches I get after booze.  You’re probably saying, “Well you don’t have to drink that much of it. “  and what I would say to you is, “Suck it.”

So what’s left?  Bathtub gin?  Rubbing alcohol?  Heroin?  I just don’t know.   

                
           According to the internet I can drink “organic” wine, which contains the lowest level of sulfites per measure. Hmm.  Well, I guess I’ve got to give it a shot, I’m not ready to throw in the towel with this relationship just yet, not after all we’ve been through together.

               
           So, 40 is a knock knock knocking on my door and in five weeks I’ll be answering… if I can get there with my limited vision, or see the door through my humongous afro, or pick up my feet with the four inch thick toenails.   At this rate I’ll be Quasi Moto by 45.  What’s in store for me next?  Arthritis?  Broken hip?  Leaky bowels? (I already pee a little when I laugh, thanks pregnancy).  Only time will tell….in the meantime I’ll just be over here, waiting, drinking a glass of chardonnay, and having a panic attack.

The Freak Show

          I love the gym, I really do.  I know most people will say, “Oh, I hate exercising inside, all cooped up in the stinky gym.  I’m much rather be outdoors.”  Not me.  Give me a gym any day of the week.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the outdoors, love to sit outdoors, love to camp, I even love taking slow leisurely walks outdoors.  But exercising out there?  Out in the open?  Where people can see me? And what’s to entertain me out there?  Chirping birds?  Gentle breezes?  No thanks,  I’ll be on the treadmill in front of the tv if you need me.

          There are so many options at the gym, and so many weird people to watch.  It's like my own personal wildlife channel.  No matter what gym you go to there are always the same folks there.  You know these people, they’re at your gym too.  There’s weird naked person in the locker room.  You know the one, she always stands in front of her locker totally nude and checks her email on her iPhone, or brushes her hair, or files her nails, just totally nudey nudey-kins.  They just LOOOOVE to be nekkid.  Not me.  I’m  the one huddled between my open locker door and the corner, trying to take my bra off under my shirt so no one glimpses any bits of the business.
 

          And what about the beefcakes?  You know those guys.  The ones that lift a ridiculous amount of weight and then GRUNT and posture and then SLAM the weights down after their last rep.  Really beefcake?  Is all that necessary?  I feel like I’m watching a documentary on gorillas, “There he is, the big alpha male, showing off his strength to the females of the group, demonstrating his dominance to the other hairy apes.”  

            And then there are the socialites.  You know them too, they’re the ones that live and the gym, have their hair and make-up done, and never work out.  They socialize and know absolutely everyone there. “Hey, Bob!  Hey!  How’s Cheryl?  Is she over that cold yet?  And how about the grandkids, how’s little Jimmy?”  These ones are maybe my favorite, I love to watch them flit around, although it’s really fricken' annoying when they’re on the machine I want to use, just sitting there talking to whomever they see walk by.  Go home!  I’m sure your family is wondering where you are!  See what I mean?  My own personal wildlife channel.  Fascinating.

            After moving to San Diego last year I decided to join 24 Fitness which is a popular gym chain out here in California.  I always have the same routine when I go there: I drop Henry off at the Kids Club (thank GAWD for the Kids Club, free babysitting, hallelujah.) and then I get out my book and sit on the recumbent bike for about 20 minutes and read before going to do my actual work out. Okay, okay so the recumbent bike, that's the one where you sit and your legs are stretched out in front of you while you peddle, isn’t much of a work out, I get it, but it DOES give me some nice quiet time where I can read uninterrupted IN THE DAYTIME without having to be asked, “Mommy, what are we doing now?  What about now?  Well what are we doing later?  What will we do tomorrow?  Do you have any cookies?? ” and on and on and on.  When I’m on the bike?  No one asks me those questions.  No one asks me any questions, it’s great. 

             I do not come to the gym to meet people.  I come to the gym to read and maybe work out.  Maybe.  It’s my quiet time so everybody go away and leave me alone.  Thanks.  (This is actually what I told them when I signed up for the gym.  When the sales guy said, “Well you can always add Zumba classes on for an extra $25 a month, or there’s always Spin, or Roomba, or Agua Zumba Roomba Spin.  Any of those interest you?  I said, “How much would it cost for me to do none of those and for everyone to leave me alone?”  Uh, that’s free I guess.)

             So, here I am a year later and I still love the gym, and I still don’t talk to anybody, which is just the way I like it. It makes it so much easier to look like shit at the gym when you don’t know anyone there.  When you start making friends you feel the need to do things like, “shower” and “put on clean tee shirts.”  That sounds like an awful lot of work.  And I’m not at the gym to work, thanks.

             About three months ago I’m doing my thing, sitting on my bike, reading my trashy vampire series.  No not THAT trashy vampire serious with the sparkly fella, the DIRTY Vampire Series, the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  If you haven’t read it you need to do it now.  I don’t care what you’re doing now, drop it, quit your job, lock yourself in a room for a week and read all the books in the series.  Trust me, you WILL thank me.  These are the dirtiest, nastiest, most wonderful things I’ve ever read in my entire life.  Vampire Porn, it doesn’t get any better.

            So there I am in solitary bliss, peddling away, reading my vampy trash when all of a sudden I hear from the bike next to me, “Hi.”  This is like being on an airplane and realizing the person next to you wants to chit chat.

            I slowly lower my book, extra slow to emphasis my annoyance, and look over to my left to see the annoyingly beautiful girl in the 24 Hour Fitness uniform of red shirt, black pants, peddling away on the bike next to me.  “Hi, I’m Shelley, one of the trainers here and I’ve been watching you on this bike every day.  Do you really think you’re getting a good work out on this?”  Well, no, but it at least appears that I'm exercising, and that's all that really matters.

          I then of course go into my explanation of my routine, and how I’m really just using this as “mommy time” before my real work out.  

            She, being a mother herself, understands completely.  So we start talking about mom stuff, as we moms like to do, when she says, “You know, my morning client just cancelled on me so I’ve got a free half an hour.  Would you like a free work out? No pressure, I just might be able to teach you something for your future work outs and hey, and it will give me something to do so my boss doesn't think I'm slacking.  Who knows, you might actually enjoy it.”  Oh alright, I'll try anything once, let’s do it. 

           So I put my book down and we start to work out.  Funny enough, I actually DID enjoy it.  She showed me some different exercises and we chatted and laughed, like we were old pals.  Unfortunately I soon discovered that she was just duping me with her friendly smile and relatively easy work out so that I would sign up for some training lessons, which I did of course, because I’m a sucker.

         I should have known I was in trouble when I showed up for our first legit work out session.  She had this evil glint in her eye which said, “I am going to make you wish you’d never been born.  You think the recumbent bike is a good work out?  Think again.  I’m going to show you a good work out. ”  Then she literally said, “I hope you didn’t eat too much for breakfast because there is a good chance I’m going to make you puke today.”  Huh?  What? I just thought we were going to chat about our kids and lift a couple of weights, like last time.  What have I gotten myself into?  There will be puking?  Oh shit!  Help, someone, what have I done?!

 
         She enticed me with the easy fun work out last week, I had no idea I could ever experience pain like this, and most of all never expected to PAY someone to inflict pain on me like that.  This chick with the zero percent body fat took me to hell.   She worked me until I was almost dead. I just kept thinking "I hate this, I hate her, I hate this, is it over yet?  Can I quit?  What if I quit?  Can I just quit?  I hate this, I HATE HER! She can't FORCE me to do this, can she?  Make it stop, make it stop!"  Thankfully, after 40 minutes it stopped.  I literally could not walk out of the gym after she released me from her evil work-out grasp.  Judging from the satisfied smirk she had on her  face as I limped away from her I'd say she was definitely pleased with what she had done to me.  Some friend, ha!

       I literally could not make it to the locker room and had to go sit down on the bike for a cool down and to get some feeling back in my legs so I didn't pass out on my way to the showers.

         As I'm sitting there on the bike trying my best not to die I noticed people looking at me as they walked by, most of them guys.  What’s this? Are they checking me out?  I thought to myself, "Wow, this training must really be working!   Look at all these dudes looking me over.  Who knew it would show so quickly! Dammit I am looking GOOD!"

         Well, after I got the feeling back in the lower half of my body I sauntered into the locker room, okay I’ll admit with a little bit of a swagger thanks to all those stares and the quick ego boost.

          
         So I head into the locker room to change my clothes, grab my stuff and then decide to go into the bathroom for a quick pee.  After I finish up washing my hands I raise my eyes to check out my face in the mirror.  OH. MY. GAWD.  My face!  What’s happened to my face!?  It’s like there was someone else’s head on my body!  It was a mass of bright red, pink, white and, in some spots, purple blotches!  The real bonus is that the majority of the blotchiness seemed to gather right under my nose, across my upper lip.  In other words, it looks like I have a big red Magnum PI skin mustache, dammit!  What’s wrong with me!  Am I dying?  I think I’m dying.  Apparently, I just had never worked out hard enough to realize that this is what happens to my face when I get overheated.  Great, I can hardly walk, I look like a burn victim AND I want to throw up.  Why did I agree to this?

     
            The weird thing was it was only my face.  My neck and chest were normal but my face was this weird compilation of colors.  It then turned even redder after realizing those guys weren't checking me out because they thought I was hot, they were checking to make sure I wasn't going to fall over and die (or maybe they were just Tom Selleck fans).  They were keeping their eyes on me to see if they’d need to jump into action to perform CPR.

           Mortified.  Completely mortified (not to mention my personal embarrassment thinking I looked like some hot shit. Yeah, you look like Elle McPherson after one workout, moron.)

           I got my stuff, put on the sunglasses, tucked my head down and scurried out of there as fast as possible before someone else could get a gander at my freak show face.  So much for the "I'm so beautiful" ego boost.  More like, “I need some medical attention.”

           
            But even though I hate to admit it, I did learn a lot from my training sessions with Shelley and learned how to maximize my time a little better while at the gym.  I did lose some weight and Shelley and I are still friends (even though I refuse to pay her to torture me).   I continue to do the recumbent bike on occasion, but now I bump it up to level 8, just to get a little rosey glow in my cheeks….but not enough to give me a mustache.

Tweekers with Beans

     My husband gives out cans of beans to homeless people.  I don’t mean he has a soup kitchen, I mean when he sees homeless people on the side of the road holding out “anything helps” signs he holds out a can of beans to them.  His car is loaded with them.  I said, “Why don’t you just give them money, it’s what they want.”  He says no, that every one else gives them money, he gives beans.  When I ask how they are supposed to open the beans he says, “They all have can openers.”  Apparently they keep them tied to the end of those sticks, wrapped in that bandana.  

     Here in San Diego most of these homeless people just seem to want cash, they don’t want your stinkin’ beans.  Nevertheless, Doug is insistent on his all-bean handout policy. Give a man a dollar he’ll eat for a day.  Give a man a can of beans and he’ll still eat for a day, but now will also be slightly gassy.

     He has also loaded MY car with cans and cans of Ranch Beans, his hobo legume of choice.  So here I am, riding around town, cans of beans rolling at my feet.  What am I to do?  I’d much rather give these guys money but now I’m so bean-heavy I have to unload them where I can.

     So the other day I finally work up the nerve to give the damn beans to a homeless person.  It was actually a young couple that I've seen panhandling down the way from us a few times now.  They look to be in their twenties and as they walk up and down the street corner he holds her hand and whispers to her and she looks down at her feet and mopes along.  I'll bet you a million cans of beans that he tells her to "look hungry and sad" because the change in her expression after the whisper is so abrupt it's comical.  Anyway, yesterday as I was stopped at the light, I rolled down the window and said to them, "Hey, I've got some beans, would you like them?" And the guy paused for a minute, gave me a weird look and said, "Uh, yeah sure..I guess."  Frankly, he didn’t look thrilled at all to have the beans, he looked like he was humoring me, seemed like he was hoping for a dollar instead.  But whatever, in honor of my husband, I gave him the beans, he thanked me and they were on their mopey way again.  

     Two hours later I saw them sitting by the 7-11 in the grass talking and laughing, no more moping, and no beans in sight. I'm hoping they ate them and didn't just pitch them in the nearest trash can.  "This is what I think of your stupid beans, lady!" Is what I picture them saying, right before they jump on the nearest box car out of town like the hobos in my husband's head.



      But, let's look on the bright side, maybe they looked cheered up because they had fully bellies, while simultaneously fulfilling their fiber intake for the day. We can only hope.