Happy, Happy! Joy, Joy!

My brother, John, is here in the handsomely grinning flesh.  All the way from centrally-located Merced, California.  Courtesy of a 1:30AM wake-up on Thursday; a rather dreary commute to the airport; two connecting flights (one of which was 15-minutes late due to headwinds; one of which dutifully waited for the last passenger on the manifest to board and be seated); and a 2:27PM landing in sunny and pleasingly mild Nashville, Tennessee.

I couldn't be happier.

Yes, that would be me snapping a shot of my OTHER love in the airport restroom
while awaiting the arrival of Brother John . . . 

Well, to be truthful, if I exerted a bit of thought on the matter, there probably exists a short list of possibilities which would shove me on into nirvana, but eating whatever tender morsel my palate so desires without consequences; sowing countless sunflower seeds with my best pal, Julia Roberts, on her New Mexico property while talking shop about the brilliant screenplay I've written for her next box office smash; crisscrossing the skies at the controls of my very own environmentally-friendly jet plane over parts of Canada and these here United States to drop in on my friends and loved ones whenever the desire strikes my loving and loyal heart;, and world peace . . . these perfectly lovely and lofty goals won't soon be gracing my doorstep with their iPad's and single backpack in tow.

So, to reiterate: I couldn't be happier!

Ashley jumping in her for her first Uncle John hug o' the visit.

My brother hails from a long line of master 'situational observationists' with accompanying opinions (again -- the spell check claims these are NOT words and, again, I'm coining them for my own selfish purposes).  In my husband's family, they call such folk 'professors.'  I might have occasion to be labeled as such though I'm ever so certain that my observations are brilliantly accurate (oh, how tough can it be to disengage my tongue from my cheek . . . or my humble from that pie . . . or my size 9 1/2's from between clenched teeth?).  We often enjoy lighthearted, though quite earnest, back-and-forth verbal swordplay under these auspices.  I just can't get enough!

We retrieved Sarah from UTC to spend a long weekend with us!

Here's a perfect example.  Last night, after a gluttonous evening meal of home-prepared tempura veggies, shrimp and meats, John bellied up to the kitchen island and stood there, silently observing the leggy white sprawl of young dog soaking up the cool of the ceramic-tiled floor.  After a long second, in which a charming male version of the Mona Lisa mystery smile appeared on his dimple-cheeked face, John emphatically stated that we didn't name Hank the Wonder Pup aptly enough.

The profile of a 'lucky dog!'

    "Well!  Just you wait a cotton-pickin' second, bub!" I thought rather loudly, "This is MY dog, little brother, get your own if you need to name something!"  The nerve!  The sheer boldness!  He'd been around maybe one full day and thought himself worthy enough to even suggest an alternate moniker for Hankie-Pankie?!  I was working up the juice to spit out a snappy retort because I'm pretty darned sure that 'Hank' is the very JUST RIGHT name for my full-on, handsomely masculine, early-rising, mistress-loyal, completely beloved, canine companion.  And then Brother John completed the thought I had so rudely interrupted inside my defensive-sister brain, "It should be LUCKY or JACKPOT, LOTTO or LOTTERY or some such, because the moment he happened across you was the best day of his life.  He is set.  Forever!"  That stopped me short.  Perhaps Brother John had earned his doctorate over the past year and thus, graduated from his professorship?  I mean, how could I thrust or parry against his assertion?  When you're right . . . YOU'RE RIGHT.  But if any of you even breathe a word of this to him, I'll vehemently deny it and state for the record that my blog account was hacked!

Mom, Brother John, Me . . . and You-Know-Who!

And about that tempura dinner?  John's idea.  His affection for food, and his desire to remain fit and healthy without denying himself pleasurable flavor options, rivals mine.  Though I shopped for, and chopped up, the various ingredients to be bathed in brown rice batter and baptized by boiling canola oil, it was the team of John and Jimmy -- good ol' reliable J&J -- who dipped and fried and drained and served to the ravenous awaiting crowd.  Zucchini, asparagus, mushrooms, green beans; chunks of beef, chicken sausage, pink shrimp.  And pickles in homage to our Southern location.  Ohhhh, yeahhhhh, so say I, with equal portions of delight and disgust!  My cutie of a husband asked beforehand if we owned a Fry Daddy.  I answered in the negative.  But we DID have a fry daddy, didn't we?  TWO fry daddies, in fact!

The tasty end results of the J&J dinner partnership.

And I swear . . . SWEAR like a sailor just home from two years in seas far, far, far-r-r-r-r away, if Hank (wow! what a great name! so apt!) the Wonder Pup does not cease and desist in this renewed habit of jumping on the counter and pulling down his 'hunt' for his chewing and gnawing pleasure (he ALMOST destroyed the Starbucks Free Drink certificate this morning), he might find himself starring in the next J&J tempura fest!

Three of the four Valdez Bunch men.

Still A Good Morning

Let me publicly (interesting to note: this blogger considers the online forum a public venue) declare right here, right now, with a 100% certainty you can take to your local bank and drop into an interest-bearing account or CD, that there is absolutely NOTHING which rends asunder the peace of a still Saturday morning with more speed than a tooth-brushing session with a certain white Wonder Pup!  (Yes, he has attained capital letter status even without his proper name attached.)  The moment that overgrown front paw flicked chicken-flavored toothpaste into the air, thus ensuring a schmear on my glasses lens and a spattering on my freshly washed hair, not to mention the thick daub on his foot which he then proceeded to spot all along the kitchen floor, it was all over but the shoutin'!  Literally.

Before that heinous episode, my thoughts centered around the remnants of a post-midnight visit between my oldest and youngest children which were scattered from the living room coffee table to the kitchen island.  Usually, the mere fact that cups and food and shoes had NOT been put away before retiring for the evening would incite me to mild inner riot.  Mama doesn't like to rise-and-shine to a messy home and hearth.  Can't we all just wash a few dishes, put our clothes away, stack the lap blankets and turn out the extra lights?!  But today, full of good-feeling and yet digesting tasty homemade sushi from an evening spent catching up on the back of a fully-involved week with my husband and hostess neighbor (not sure if that sentence works but I'm leaving it in), I awoke with my rose-colored glasses perched atop my Hultgren family nose.

The partially finished cup of milk in my Scrabble mug told a line from a sweet little story of sibling friendship.  The package of opened sesame rice crackers (there's an 'almost-pun' in there) on the counter, sitting next to the half an avocado, was yet another bread crumb in an unfolding trail of revelation as to how a late-night session of snack-and-chat played out.  The tossed couch pillows and television remote the punctuation for it all.  The mother in me warmed to the notion of my grown and growing babies choosing to spend their precious personal time together: in this case, big sister, Ashley, tired and hungry after a full 9-5 at her desk job, followed by another on-her-feet 5 hours spent seating seafood lovers at their tables for the big shrimp fest, "endless shrimp for $15," at Red Lobster Restaurant; and, only brother, Zachary, just home from an across-town jaunt to a rousing rivalry of a football game in which his high school dropped into the loser position but many a stellar blow-by-blow play was executed, regardless.  Mom and dad had officially bowed out of the evening, weary bones eager to surrender to the pillow, so we offered no real company other than the quick bedside conversation and hug session standard to all evenings.

Baby Zachary bonding with Ashley at a very young age.

(Our little dog, Rosie, was dying of illness here.
The girls were saying good-bye before we had her euthanized.)

The loveliness, the tenderness, the security roused within me, as mental picture after mental picture marched across my fertile brain in regards to the activities of the by-products of my fertile womb -- this array of feelings conspired to affirm my role as mother and caretaker and keeper of the family flame.  A welcome wind of refreshing which aired out what can quickly become an inner room of stale air and dust bunnies when guilt and worry and stress collect.  It also served to dislodge a memory from the Valdez Bunch archives of another moment between siblings, this one shared by Zachary and middle child, Sarah, when we yet lived in Colorado.  Years before the wagon train journey to the South.  Years before sleep became a hot commodity not to be interrupted even by texting once it took hold!

Who doesn't want to squeeze Sarah's cheeks?!

The two of them used to enjoy what they liked to refer to as "Pal Night."  This bit of camaraderie involved waking up in tandem sometime in the youngest part of the early morning after a few hours of sleep.  They would raid the pantry -- my post-witness to the events always revealed popcorn kernels and empty cups, sometimes fruit or the rare candy I might have had hidden (evidently not so very hidden) in a jar -- and then share their loot in our small living room by the light of whatever entertaining kiddie show they found on the television.  I know they would often sit or lay side-by-side, talking or laughing or simply enjoying their freedom in silence, sometimes playing a game or coloring in an art book, until by unspoken mutual agreement my two little darlings would slowly climb the stairs back up to their shared bedroom, clamber into the bunk bed and return to their slumber, another Pal Night tucked under their belts.

Insert my sweet sigh here, "Sigh-h-h-h . . . " How can I follow that up?  All I can possibly hope for is a continuance in some form or another of these pal nights, in various configurations of siblings, as the years propel my progeny ever forward.  As wonderful as it is that they need me, need their father, it is infinitely more comforting to realize that they both need and desire the company and commentary of one another.  Because only they, my trio of dark-haired, brown-eyed, strong-lung-ed lambies, share their particular common childhood.  Only they are suited to almost-perfectly understand one another in regards to how their perceptions and ideas and feelings and emotions and memories came into being, varied and different though they may be.  They were all under the same influences of their wildly woolly ma and their mildly mannered pa.  They are bound, and thus, would be most blessed and encouraged in their lives' journeys to foster their relationships without restrictions of time and mood.

Thus, through the haze of poultry by-product hazed spectacles, I publicly share with all of you my maternal vision.  And I bid YOU a good morning.

"The MONA LISA of Mother's Expressions"

I Ain't NEVER!

One of my cousins on my husband's side (which, to me, is just a cousin -- a cousin is a cousin is an aunt's and uncle's child) used to interject conversations or chats with this little humorous saying, "Well, I ain't NEVER!"  Kind of a take on something Scarlett O'Hara might have said in an indignant moment sans the improper grammar.  But in the context used by my cousin, it's more akin to poking fun at something that can be either true or outlandish, reassuring or annoying, but something demanding extra attention or exclamation or double confirmation.  If I remember rightly, it's also one of those phrases she used to toss out there when a few or more glasses of wine has passed her lips.  For whatever reason, I find it appealing.  And I hadn't heard it in a very long time until I came across it on Facebook.  (Yes, that counts as hearing because the moment I saw those words, her voice popped into my mind, crystal clear and rife with her brand of personal statement: though others may use the line, she OWNS the line.)

Anyhoo, this afternoon -- on a day where the clock stood still, where I rolled out of bed at 5:30AM'ish to throw together a lunch for my husband who had to leave early for work meetings, where I promptly returned to bed and surrounded myself in layers of pillows, blankets and darkness, whereby I missed my morning interactions with my kids because I slept in until 9AM and they let me sleep on, and only Hank the Wonder Pup's deep bellow at the world beyond our back yard interrupted this rare dormancy which could have lasted on into the 10 or 11 hour -- those four words raised their communal little heads in my inner world as I hunched over our ailing grand dame of a dog, Panda, and crooned soothing comfort over her.

As I simultaneously ran light hands and fingers over her head and chest, stopping to gently massage her rear legs, and carefully avoiding any pressure over her cancer-harboring bulging mid-section.  As I let her know that I realized just how great a dog she has been for all of us.  That she was, and is, THAT good family dog, the Valdez Family pet and mascot, the stolid presence so central to our household experience since the birth of our son.  That I was sorry for the white pup's rudeness when he earlier ran past her and whacked the side of her masked face with the small log he had clenched between his teeth.  That his place in the house in no way usurped her alpha status as head canine: he would be important in my life, and IS central to my present happiness, but he will never be THE Valdez family pet.  Only she could fill that one-time appointment in all our lives.  Further, I start to softly cry at this point, I apologized for the unfair development of her health in her golden years.  Because she's having a senior day, overcome by the need to sleep, uninterested in food, showing no real perkiness or interest in anything around her save me when I happen to approach her in the cool north-shaded corner of our yard -- that's in the vicinity of the triangle created by the ornamental Zebra grass, the oakleaf hydrangea and her water dish -- Panda chooses merely to watch me through hooded eyes, piercing blue orbs of sweetness.  And lick my hand each time it finds her muzzle.

I know.  Moving.  Touching.  A precious portrait of a dog and a dog's best friend and master.  It truly is.  Really.  But aside from that, what got to me was the fact that just yesterday my feelings ran hot and rather irritatingly angry.  Over nothing seemingly too large.  My poor confused son and husband is all I can say on that topic.  And at noon today, this boo-hoo moment with Panda marked the third emotive gush of appreciation and affection coupled with either waterworks or their beginning within half an hour.  (The initial gush involved me thinking I should dash off a card to my brother-in-law to thank him for finding this fantastic house in which I've found solace and friendship and a cozy spacious kitchen where celebrations of all kinds forged memories which help now to compensate for the loss of the old elm tree; the second gush centered around, surprise, surprise, Hank the Wonder Pup as he gallivanted around the yard and splashed in the pool, because his unexpected arrival into my world has proven to be both cathartic and a bridge by which I can more safely cross the waters of change swirling about me.  That's a lot, huh?!)  Outside of PMS or the mild depression I experienced before accepting help from a mild daily dose of anti-depressant, this circuit-breaking flow of feeling is abnormal and interrupting to my daily schedule!  Thus, "I AIN'T NEVER!"

And I blame it all on that sinus infection which so tortured me last week and through the weekend.  Which began as allergies and graduated into intense pressure and regular pain that forced me into the doctor's office, hoping for relief I couldn't find in my own remedying search.  Said doctor prescribed a one-two punch of antibiotics and prednisone.  Ah, prednisone.  That common corticosteroid used in treating all manner of inflammation caused by multiple marauders to the human body.  While the benefits are many and invaluable to countless individuals, it also spins off unwanted side effects.  In me, the primary side effect, of which I warned my my family the moment I walked out of that office with the script, manifests with sudden mood changes.  Me no likey!  Hubby no likey!  NO ONE no likey!  We know this because there was one other run-in with illness which required me to take a 5-day step-down pack of a similar medication: I appeared to be possessed by a Mr. Hyde version of myself for three days.  Awful.  Miserable.  And a bonafide, super-dee-dooper, highly recommended reason to explore other remedies for physical maladies when at all possible.  Though I lately sound more like a walking one-woman pharmacy, I've always eschewed the ingestion of, and reliance upon, any kind of pill to feel better.  Remember, this is the gal who crawled around the floor with labor-like period pains for a few years before a physician talked her into regularly taking the 800-mg dose of ibuprofen which shuts down that specific agony.  Can't say, "I ain't never!" about that.

Well, there you have it.  My mental meanderings in blog-form for this Tuesday.  Take what you will from it.  Or leave it there on the floor with the slobber and hairs from my newest counter-measure against depression!        

Before I Lay Me Down To Sleep

I should be in bed.  In bed and sleeping.  As opposed to in bed and playing one of fourteen Words With Friends games or reading one of the many books perched atop my headboard.  But having just tucked in 24 blueberry mini-muffins and 12 full-sized of the same, I felt the need to tuck in my blog.  Then we can all sleep -- as my fine examples model below.

Though Pastor Rodney MORE than delivers the sermon each Sunday,
he also appears to have a soporific effect on my son.

Father and son more than enjoy sleeping in.

Leave it to a cat . . . 

Hank's preferred living room nap spot -- when we invite him.

Ashley's preferred napping spot -- when HANK invites her!

Yet another favorite spot and another varied position.
(In case you'd forgotten, his name is Hank.)

Panda sleeps so hard that we all feel the need to check for the telltale rise and fall of her
ribcage to ensure she is, indeed, yet with us on the Earth!

The day started out with me still wide awake after midnight, working on a short story.  My headache had finally let up after several hours of stillness on the couch with my husband, our iPhones, my daughter and her DVD set of the "Friends" sitcom series, and several oral medications that I had downed before surrendering to the stillness.  My head finally hit the pillow around 2:30'ish; my head lifted from the pillow for the day when Hank called out to me at 6:45.  His bladder had requested that he do so.

As part of a fundraising opportunity for my son's wrestling team, me and the boy and his father joined other parents and their boys in collecting trash left behind in the bleachers, lawn areas and parking lots of the high school after Friday night's varsity football game.  Besides wanting to do my part and expecting my athlete to do likewise, I'm also the vice-president of the wrestling booster club per a request from the coach at the end of last school year.  Yes.  I realize this comes as quite a shock to those of you who know how very NON-organized-sports knowledgeable I am.  But I think the coach felt that my interpersonal skills and knack for diplomacy might be useful in some capacity.  And how could I say NO to a man who showed up for teaching and coaching last season while simultaneously comforting and supporting his sick wife who spent a significant amount of the school year in the hospital!

An organized litter pile.

Good form!

Discarded chewing tobacco: GROSS!

Did I mention how GROSS tossed-out chaw is?!

Now, if you've ever witnessed even a single wrestling match (if that is the correct terminology -- you see there! I don't know!) you can attest as to the swiftness of foot, hand, and every other body part, that these fit kids display.  It's rather amazing to me.  It reminds me of a National Geographic special I once watched where a large snake of the constricting variety was wrapped and writhing around it's prey, twisting and turning in a seamless series of moves too quick for my eyes to discern.  In other words, these boys can MOVE.  They are in great shape.  They run.  They jump.  They lift weights as a class in school.  They practice in the off-season at home with one another to keep their skills swift and well-oiled.

But take this group of boys to an early-morning session of trash-grabbing and set 'em loose . . . suddenly their feet are made of lead.  I've never seen them move more slowly than they do with a black plastic bag in one hand and a vast expanse of candy wrappers and Coke bottles spread out before them.  Their eyes glaze over.  When they do begin to actually collect the incredible amounts of human debris left by what can only be described as animals (I thought we were a civilized society with a widely recognized system of discarding waste), it appears that their knees and elbows have rusted, that their spines have been fused together.  And if I follow behind them with my own bag, that same bag will be half-full with the sundry obvious pieces of garbage the wrestling brigade missed.  In fact, my husband found a $20 bill last Saturday during his own collection reconnaissance behind the boys.  (Is it okay that we didn't donate that money to the club, but instead my man treated me to Starbucks?)

I had to look twice, thinking the frontman was wearing one of his medals!
 These kids love to drive the 'mule!'

Would it be too 'trashy' to ask this cute guy to come home with me?

We had a bag malfunction at one point . . . 

They sense an end to this 2-hour trash-fest!!!

Dirty hands: I bring disposable gloves but they opt out.  Why?!!!
We ARE handling unfamiliar waste, after all. 

Slow and steady . . . 

Fill 'er up, boys!

That's the face of a boy who knows he's about to get
his biscuits and gravy for breakfast!

My son read my mind and dislodged my month-long hankering for blueberry pancakes at "Cracker Barrel" -- thus convincing us that a breakfast celebration should be had by all.  I downed all three crispy pancakes, drenched in blueberry syrup, and suffered bloat for many rough hours afterward.  But they were as tasty as I remembered!  I also managed to destroy my son in a game of checkers while we waited for our table.  The only dark spot was the empty space where our college girl should have been sitting and enjoying her own overkill All-American breakfast with mom, dad, brother and sister.  Instead, she spent hours engaged in a deep study of Federalism, hoping to comprehend the subject for her big (I've heard the outline and believe it to be TOO big) political science test on Tuesday next.

Upon our return trip home, we chose to tackle the overgrown jungle which frames the sidewalk leading up to our front door.  Kudos to my man for his splendid skills with the electric trimmer!  And he didn't cut the cord.  (What?  Who HASN'T accidentally sliced a couple of 100-foot cords in half while laboring under the hot sun with a heavy electric tool in hand?!)  I'm happy to report that all bushes and trees have been reduced to an attractive profile.  I managed to multi-task by calling my brother, Gary, and chatting while clipping and cutting and bagging.  It looks pretty darned good.

After that, there was the nap to sleep off the effects of the diphenhydramine I popped to counter my allergies.  A necessary shower to make me presentable again.  A quick cold dinner with Jimmy consisting of a quite flavorful whole-grain pasta salad -- replete with veggies and green olives, oh! and fresh Italian parsley.  I enjoyed a pleasant 2-hour visit over wine with one of my neighbor gal pals.  You know about the muffin-baking session.  Those are for church, by the way.  My Sunday to bring fellowship food.  Churches, especially BAPTIST churches, have that whole 'loaves and fishes' thing down pat!  Ya gotta be oh! so careful as those extra pounds can creep on before you know it.

A kitchen at midnight SHOULD be redolent with the aroma of blueberries and lemon!

 All in all, an average day in the life of this American girl.  Woman.  House-frau.  Whatever you want to call me.  Just PLEASE don't call me average.

Commemorating Ten Years Passed

It's been a busy day here on the Valdez homestead.  Or, it was a busy day 35 minutes ago as we are now officially on 9/11/11 turf: the 10-Year Anniversary of a day in the life of these United States of America that I'm certain all of us can recall with clarity enough to cover where we were when we heard the news and what feelings the horror evoked within.

I had just walked into my kitchen in Broomfield, Colorado for the morning and turned on "The Today Show" to check in with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric.  We had company, our cousin and his wife, and they would need coffee before their drive back up to Wyoming.  I remember that once the reality of what I was witnessing sunk in, my immediate thoughts were, "Well, we are now joined by blood with a significant portion of the rest of the world that we see in the news who suffer the blows and arrows of terrorism on home soil."  While I grappled with my own worries about what cities might be yet targeted, it was impossible for me to wrap my mind around the fact that these types of murderous, ideological, hideous acts occurred with daily regularity for so many in other countries.

But this is not what I sat down to cover.  Doubtless, you can see and hear as much or as little about 9/11 as you want just by switching your television or radio either on or off.  I'll leave that up to you.  My prayers include those loved ones left behind who yet struggle both with their loss and the means by which that loss barged into their collective consciousness.  I'm a bit saddened to note how very divided our country is right now when I consider the sense of citizen closeness America experienced within its borders for roughly two years after Bin Laden's attack on our home soil.

____________________________

Somehow, my original topics for this entry don't seem appropriate to include here.  I'll leave you to your own musings about our country and the decade we've had post 9/11.  Would you do me a favor and leave your comments in the form of your personal recollections of that day?  Or about a significant change you may have made in your life because of it?  I'm quite interested to know what my readers have to say on this.  I've heard plenty on NPR and NBC.  Let's hear from you . . .

Inflammation of the Allergy Bone

Well, I broke down and scheduled an appointment with my doctor to investigate my ongoing sinus issues.  Fascinating to you, I'm sure.  But what else CAN I write about while the contents of my sinus cavities are controlling the quality, or lack thereof, of my days?  This summer has definitely been one of increased allergy activity for many folks here in the Middle Tennessee area; I'm not alone in that.  (And I cling to that as the primary cause for my clogging issues as the alternative involves an adorable active white pup who stole my heart!)  My husband generally suffers with fall and winter allergies that outpace the warmer season problems which most people have.  So, he has struggled with chronic headaches which often turn him into a grumbly bear in the mornings.  And my entire childhood was punctuated by the continual presence of my mother's both sinus AND migraine headaches.  Though a common enough occurrence, extended sinus-related problems are not pleasant and can really affect one's health and mindset.

"Hello, purrrrr, I really raise some people's 'dander' with my personal grooming habits!"

I've probably ingested more over-the-counter drugs in these past few months than have ever entered my body over the entire course of my life!  Nasal decongestants, especially Mucinex-D with it's guaifenesin for thinning and loosening mucus (ah, mucus, mucus, mucus!) and pseudoephedrine HCI for clearing nasal and sinus congestion, pop right out of their tiny foil pouches and into my eager mouth.  Antihistamines like Allegra and Zyrtec and generic Benadryl (diphenhydramine HCL) rotate in my line-up, escorted into my system with a pain-reliever chaser.  Ibuprofen for the evening; Excedrin Migraine for the daylight hours -- contains caffeine, you know.  Though this merry mob of OTC's has been effective enough for the summer, this past week they pooped out and the pain and pressure has escalated.

And let's not forget the Neti pot, saline solution for rinsing sections of the sinus maze -- I've graduated from one potful for both nostrils to one PER nostril.  Drinking coffee, probably because it offers a further boost of caffeine and releases that 'good feeling' with me, seems to help, too.  Oh, and yesterday my good friend suggested a head steam with herbs: I loaded up a ceramic mixing bowl with fresh peppermint, pineapple sage, parsley and a dash of melaleuca oil, emptied a whistling teapot of boiling water over the mix, and perched at the counter under a towel, inhaling and exhaling.  It afforded relief for about an hour -- a very gracious hour -- and there was the bonus of open pores.  At least my skin can look great while I feel like a dung heap is festering behind my eyes and nose!  My son noticed the bowl with its odd contents and, after a brief explanation from me as to its purpose, gave it a go for himself and loved it: even through my discomfort, I enjoyed that.

All of this reminds me of what I consider an existing 'issue' between those who suffer from allergies and those who do not.  I can't tell you how many conversations I've had with well-intentioned friends and family members who offer up natural remedies involving various essential oils, plants, teas, candles, etc.  When I tell them that I can't have that scented candle in my home or that oil under my nose because they cause allergy headaches (like rosemary, which I grow and eat, but which also delivers an instant stabbing headache to the center of my brain if I crush the leaves and smell the oils on my fingers; similarly goes lavender), I'm always, ALWAYS met with, "But it can't.  It's 100% natural.  Straight from the source," or "Well, if it's pure and/or organic, that won't happen."

"I'm sorry -- did I cause that sneeze?"

"I'm beautiful.  I'm natural.  And I pack a wallop of ugly for some of you!"

 This has always puzzled me.  But I realize it is simply a lack of circumspect thought before speaking.  We are ALL guilty of that in some area.  Most allergies involve a bio-chemical reaction to things found in, of all things . . . wait for it . . . wait . . . wa-a-i-i-t . . . NATURE!  What could be more natural than a rose freshly unfurled from its bud-state, its scent drifting sweetly through the air . . . and straight into some poor unsuspecting nose, causing a sudden release of histamines throughout the body, incurring instant sneezing and runny secretions down the back of the throat and into awaiting white tissues?  What more direct source could there be than those horse hairs or saliva-encrusted cat hairs which are released from their epidermal animal moorings and transferred onto the dermis of a child who suddenly develops welts, hives and uncontrollable itching?  What about peanuts and shrimp, perhaps tastily prepared  -- I'm thinking hot red peppers and snow peas -- in a Chinese restaurant and brought home confined in that familiar white box with the thin metal handle, traveling down the gullet and closing the windpipe as it goes, encouraging anaphylactic shock in the chopstick holder?  Need I mention bee stings and pollen and grasses and molds?!  My husband and daughter react almost instantly to honeydew melons and eggplants; my sister to walnuts; a good friend of mine to soy in any state.  And all have had these food items in an organic state.

"We don't mean to make you itch!"

The long and short of it is this: we are allergic, in varying degrees, in some individuals, to the very world and environments around us.  There are even stories of those who react to things within their own bodies, to the very air that we breathe, to the conditions within which change during childbearing.  Unfortunately, that is just how it is.  And that is less than ideal.  Uncomfortable -- like, say, a bowling ball where the head should be.  Irritating -- scratchy throats which invoke pig-like sounds from the sufferer attempting to internally alleviate that itch!   Sometimes dangerous -- that's why they make epi-pens.  Good for certain large drug-producers -- I mean, you saw MY short list.  Painful at times -- did I mention the wee little people running around with pickaxes inside of that bowling ball?  A real downer -- especially if shifting sinus cavity contents cause one to stagger in a dizzying episode . . . or force one to sleep upright with three or four pillows to maintain the position.

Enough said.  I've got a headache from all of this!