Allergic to what?
Friends, after sixty kinda-pricks today during my first-ever appointment with an allergist, I found that in addition to dust mites and pigweed, I’m somewhat allergic to cockroaches which, for your additional disgust, are grouped in the molds category.
Apparently, lots of people are allergic to cockroaches (order: Blattodea or, alternately, Blattaria; aren’t those gross names just perfect? They must derive from the sound a roach makes upon being squished by a freaking-out woman or the person (in my case, my father or T) she’s called in frantically to do her bidding) and their nasty, moldy, crunchy, spurty, filthy selves). My allergist blamed my reaction on having grown up in Louisiana; there are that many there, of both the flying and solely locomotive types. Perhaps my geographic heritage also explains my slight reaction to oak trees and sweet gum trees, though those results made me awfully sad and I refuse to acknowledge them.
I mean, what, pray tell (other than a Redwood but they don’t speak to me in the same way), is grander and more awe-inspiring than a century-old Live Oak in Louisiana? Very, very little. At least in the tree kingdom. Maybe a baobab, but I digress.
Although I miss much about Louisiana, I do not in any way miss cockroaches. They are a repulsive scourge with no reason for being. Like mosquitoes, but much uglier and creepier.
But anyway, dust mites. Now I’ve gotta encase all my pillows, mattresses and such, BUT doing so will reduce my exposure to those buggers by 30% (or so I’m told), so maybe that’s one less experience with Hitler-chap and man-voice than I currently plod through each year. I’ll take it.
The elderly and driving
Y’all, I loved my Nanny more than most folks, and I’ve always treasured the many, many older people in my life whom I’m lucky to call friends. But I simply must say that north of seventy, most people need to relinquish their driver’s licenses. It would be a full time job for me to accurately tell you how many older peeps I see blowing through stop signs every day. Stop signs are NOT suggestions, y’all. They are simple visuals to relay one simple message: STOP.
I have a great-aunt who drove through the front windows of a Cold Stone Creamery; she was certain she should retain her license. I regularly see l’anciennes driving more slowly than Nutmeg strolls, weaving over the land dividers and back with not a care in the world. This is dangerous, friends, dangerous.
You don’t, at a certain age, say Happy Birthday to yourself by deciding you no longer need to follow the rules of the road. I’m just saying.
Great game for 7+-year-olds and dinner
The boys ate nearly a pound of ground beef in hamburger form for dinner. Plus broccoli, peaches, milk, buns… It’s really UNbelievable how much males can consume. That’s all good though; it just takes me aback sometimes.
More interestingly, before dinner, Jack and I played a new game: Forbidden Island. All players are on the same team, and the goal is to acquire the four treasures and helicopter off the island before it sinks in flooding waters. I admit to being on the edge of my seat at one point while Jack drew “flood” cards. Would we survive? Would we have time to procure the Chalice of the Earth before flying to safety?
I highly recommend it. Made me Gamewright, a Mensa select … T got home and we grilled pizza and cooked yet another plum tart.
Hubs has just wooed me with an episode of House of Cards. I’m off!
Tags: forbidden island game