It's pollen season. The evil stuff is on everything, in everything, making our whole family sneeze and pop medication daily. Some days I think the desert would be a better place for us. Poor Kevin has developed baaaaaad allergies and recently I thought of getting him tested, until John reminded me of my last test.
The appointment for my allergy test was, of all things, on my husband's 50th birthday. I didn't think anything of it at the time, because I naively thought that it wouldn't be a big deal. Stupid decision #1. I patiently sat there and allowed the nurse to draw this cool grid on the underside of my forearms, then 'scratch' me with this tool that, after the 4th scratch, felt like a hole puncher. Ouch! Yes, I'm a wimp.
Once I was all prepped and ready to go, she brings out this huge box with all these different vials of serum in it. Eau of ragweed, birch pollen, and the like. One by one, she drips a bit in a square drawn on my arm. "Now don't scratch" she warns. "We want these to cook for a few minutes."
Don't scratch? Why didn't they just say don't breathe? By the 3rd vial my arm began to itch furiously. By the 10th vial I felt like one of those animals caught in a trap that literally wants to chew the limb off. However, I steeled myself and let her continue, and didn't scratch. I did, however, do a dance around the waiting room while I had to stand there and "cook", waving my arm like a chicken. My arms were on fire. It was like a million mosquitos had suddenly tried to have me for lunch.
The nurse came over to see how I was doing after five minutes. My arms by now had turned red and swelled up nicely...a little too nicely? "Oh wow! We'd better give you something." She hands me an antihistimine. Three more minutes pass and the antihistimine doesn't appear to be working. "Are you driving home?" she asks.
"Yes-I have to stop and pick up my husband's birthday cake" I'm a little confused why she's asking
"You need another antihistimine. Just go home quickly, okay?" She hands me another pill. Stupid decision #2.
The outcome of the lovely torture session, er, medical test is that I'm allergic to anything that produces pollen. Oh, and factor in cats and dust too. If I can live in a desert I'd likely never have to worry about allergies again. I live on the coast of British Columbia, which is a temperate rainforest. Pollen heaven.
So I'm finished and I run to the store to pick up a last minute item for John's birthday. While there, I pass the lingere section and see all these frilly red numbers on display. Valentine's Day is only days away and being the multitasker I am, I choose something that I think will make a lovely gift for both of us. Only...think a bit here. I'm high on Claritin, and I don't quite feel it yet. I feel good, actually. Maybe a little too good. Stupid decision #3. A stop at the pizza place and the grocery store for the cake....oh wait...is the car in front of me white or black? I can't tell. I'm a little sleepy.
I got home and in three minutes flat I am passed out cold on the couch. Happy 50th sweetie, I'm far too drugged. Which is sort of funny, if you know me well. Me, the girl who has never been drunk, never tried smoking, and hasn't even seen drugs outside of Tylenol. I'm too straight. So John got a good laugh out of me being a bit, um, out of it for the evening.
The next day I decide to inspect my lovely Valentine's 'gift' for my husband. I pull it out with anticipation, thinking how pretty it was when I saw it at the store. Much to my horror, it actually is a very red, very trashy, very ugly piece of lingere that I would never, ever, wear. I immediately took it back to the store, chuckling to myself about the situation. Of course, when I'm asked why I'm bringing it back, I couldn't resist. "Never buy lingere when you're high" was my answer. The salesgirl gave me a look that said "are you high now?".
No more Claritin for me. Just coffee.