My husband, myself, and our two daughters are wrapping up our summer vacation. We took a trip to North Carolina to visit relatives on my husband's side of the family, then we drove another few hours to the coast. We spent three nights in Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina. This small, coastal town only has about 450 permanent residents. There are no chain restaurants, no amusement parks, and we learned on our first evening there that mini-golf is THE most popular nighttime activity on the island (and there is only one mini-golf course, so it is one of the only nighttime activities on the island). I would recommend this place to anyone who is looking for a nice place to take their family on vacation.....unless you get bored easily. If you and/or your family need a lot of activities to fill each minute of the day, go some place else. I, however, can fill a week with time sitting on the beach, watching the waves and pelicans diving into them looking for fish, reading a book in a hammock, and drinking frozen concoctions that help me hang on (Jimmy Buffet reference). What I have discovered is that the less I do on vacation with my body, the more my mind wanders. As my butt sits close to the sand, my brain is doing the equivalent of an Ironman competition. To the other tourists on the beach, I appear to be dozing off in my chair, but my mind is a flurry of ideas so frantic for fruition that I still cannot calm them when it is time to sleep at night. While I lazily lie in that hammock and try to read a book, I am asking myself questions about every aspect of my life: Why don't we move to a state closer to the ocean? I wonder if my dad would have enjoyed the beach? What are my daughters going to be like in 10 years? How did I gain back 20 of the 30 pounds I lost last year? What do people see when they look at me sitting on the beach? Am I ever going to finish one of the books I have been trying to write for the past five years? Should I stop dying my hair and let it go gray?
You would think a vacation would put you at ease. Do not get me wrong; this has been a much needed get-a-way for all of us. We have all had a great time, and the beach does melt away stress better than any method I know. But, how do I get my mind to be able to take a vacation? How do I get that beachy feel to permeate the layers of hair, scalp, and skull to allow the subconscious to feel at peace? I tried pouring sand in my ears, but all that did was cause a nasty infection. I tried snorting sea water, but that just made me cough and choke and sneeze out salty boogers. I even allowed a sea gull to make a nest in my hair...lets just say that did not give the desired results. When we say a person has their toes in the sand, we instantly imagine they are relaxed. When we say a person has their head in the sand, we see them as hiding from reality. All I want is to be relaxed in my reality, so what do I bury to get that?
Peace does not happen when everything just fixes itself. Peace is not a result of having everything you want. To achieve peace, a lot of time there first is a war. An objective must be made, and peace comes in the accomplishments in reaching that goal. Instead of asking all the questions, maybe the time has come when I start answering them. Maybe we all need to take one of the questions that keep us up at night and make it our goal to answer it. Put it to rest. Mark it off the list. Maybe all the answered questions will start to build like grains of sand in your mind. Maybe the goals that are reached will form an oceanside hammock that swings in the breeze. And, maybe the accomplishments we make will blow across our skin and make us smile and smell the air. Just maybe.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
Which is worse: syphilis or Bieber fever?
My home town was recently graced with the presence of one of today's most famous, pop music performers - Justin Bieber. Although we were spared any public displays of his rebellious nature (like his controversial pissing in a mop bucket at a show in another state), there were numerous Facebook posts about his performance, his arriving on stage late while suspended by wires and wearing angel wings, and countless opinions of how people feel about him. Our local news station's Facebook page was full of comments from parents, grandparents, and youths who attended the show and thought it was great. However numerous these type of posts were, the anti-Bieber following definitely tipped the scales in their favor. I admit when I saw the picture of him in the angel-wing costume, I felt the need, and fulfilled the need, to express my opinion on the hottest thing to come out of Canada since Wayne Gretzky and Alex Trebek. I simply typed, "Douche bag." As I scrolled down to read some of the other comments, I started feeling bad for the little guy. People were seriously slamming his music (which I do not care for), his look (which I find manufactured and pretentious), his attitude (which reminds me of any cocky, nineteen year old boy), and their disappointment in the parents that allow their children to listen to his music (which my daughters do not care for). Then, it hit me......we sound like all the parents before us that hated their children's music. I started laughing at myself realizing I was criticizing something I do not understand or appreciate because I will never understand or appreciate the appeal of Justin Bieber. It does not matter because I never expected my parents to understand or appreciate the music I loved when I was living under their roof.
Let's play a game! I am going to post a few pictures. I think it will help me get my point across. Here is the nineteen year old that thousands of girls are going crazy for:
When I was seventeen years old, here is the group of thirty-something men me and my friends were going crazy for:
Let's play a game! I am going to post a few pictures. I think it will help me get my point across. Here is the nineteen year old that thousands of girls are going crazy for:
My guardian Bieber
When I was seventeen years old, here is the group of thirty-something men me and my friends were going crazy for:
Whitesnake circa 1988
When my older sister was seventeen years old, here is the band my mother let her drive to another state to see:
The Police
When my younger sister was seventeen years old, here were the performers she was going crazy for:
Featuring classics such as, "Gangsta Gangsta," "Fuck the Police," and, "Dope Man."
If you look at these pictures, I hope you see my point. Bieber is a harmless, young, naive Canadian with a lot of money, good hair, and a limited time in the spotlight. If the kids want to buy his CD's, download his music, and go to his concerts, let them. He will eventually fall from grace, need his money for rehab and court costs, and in twenty years, VH1 will do, "Justin Bieber: Behind the Music," and he will do a comeback album that even his fans do not really like. It is the circle of life, so just let it run its course. Who would you trust your daughter with? The 100 pound Bieber, or five members of Whitesnake?
When you think back at the stupid, crazy things you did when you were nineteen, you can probably think of a few shenanigans that were worse than using a bucket as a urinal. I will divulge no names and claim no responsibility for these antics, but I know people who have peed in a Burger King cup because they could not get to a bathroom, had intercourse in a row boat, flashed their boobs to an entire campgrounds, stolen street signs and a flag from a Dunkin Donuts, and outran the cops after drag racing through a neighborhood. Give Bieber a break. If you do not like him or his music, then do not listen to it or contribute to his wealth.
One last point: the world changes, and we must change with it. Just like we won't like our kids' music, they do not like ours anymore than our parents did. Your grandparents probably hated your mom's music....especially those four, rebellious, long-haired British guys:
The most hated, dangerous twenty year-olds in 1964
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The List Made For Us
We make lists to remind us of what we need to buy and things we need to do. Some days, the list just does not get completed. We run out of time or get distracted; sometimes we set unrealistic goals for ourselves and expect too much out of the time we are given. We have a few choices in these cases. We can pick that list up tomorrow and finish it. We can prioritize to make sure the most important things are done. Or, we can get frustrated, crumble that list up in a ball, and curse at it while we throw it away. My experience with lists have at one time or another taken each of these routes. My favorite list is my grocery list. I am completely food motivated, so I enjoy writing out all the items and checking them off when they reach my shopping cart. Not all lists are this easy to complete, and the hardest are the lists we do no write for ourselves.
I believe in God. A higher power that while allowing us to have free will to make our own decisions still has total control over what is going to happen every minute of our lives. This Presence brings me peace and reminds me that we each have a list that is written for us. Everyone has a list of things they are to accomplish while they are here. When their list is complete, God does not crumple them up and toss them away. He smiles and says, "Awesome! I finished another one!" Some people have very long lists that may take 99 years to finish. Others, although not as lengthy, have important things to do in the short amount of time they are here. We are so used to making our own lists and figuring out how long it will take to complete all our tasks. What we forget is that the list made for us is a secret: we do not always know what is on it or how long we have to complete it.
It may seem unfair to think we have a, "secret list," to do. How can we know how to complete it when we do not even know what is on it? That is when it is important to prioritize. The list made for us is written by God, so it is not that hard to figure out what might be on our, "To Do," list:
This week, two people I know passed away. I do not know if they could have been any more different. One was a 99 year-old woman whom had played the role of wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, nurse, and matriarch to an amazing family. She was respected and loved, and I have no doubt her loved ones will make sure her memory lives on. The second was a 45 year-old man whom had played the role of husband, father, brother, son, friend, and free spirit. He had the most amazing smile (which he got from his mom) and that little devilish glimmer in his eye (which came from his dad). Both of these people, although so different, had finished their lists. God was so happy to be able to mark off their lists knowing they had accomplished what they were supposed to do. Each had loved, laughed, taught their children the importance of family, and with their passing, will once again bring others together in the name of love, family, prayer, and laughter. Do not feel sad about the things they did not get to accomplish. Be joyous in knowing they did all they were supposed to do.
Dedicated to Agnes Reese and Jim Mandabach. May you meet in heaven and smile upon those whom still love you.
I believe in God. A higher power that while allowing us to have free will to make our own decisions still has total control over what is going to happen every minute of our lives. This Presence brings me peace and reminds me that we each have a list that is written for us. Everyone has a list of things they are to accomplish while they are here. When their list is complete, God does not crumple them up and toss them away. He smiles and says, "Awesome! I finished another one!" Some people have very long lists that may take 99 years to finish. Others, although not as lengthy, have important things to do in the short amount of time they are here. We are so used to making our own lists and figuring out how long it will take to complete all our tasks. What we forget is that the list made for us is a secret: we do not always know what is on it or how long we have to complete it.
It may seem unfair to think we have a, "secret list," to do. How can we know how to complete it when we do not even know what is on it? That is when it is important to prioritize. The list made for us is written by God, so it is not that hard to figure out what might be on our, "To Do," list:
- Love and respect your parents
- Make your siblings your friends
- Teach your children #1 and #2
- Forgive others
- Be kind to people and make them smile
- Bring people together in the name of love, family, prayer, and laughter
This week, two people I know passed away. I do not know if they could have been any more different. One was a 99 year-old woman whom had played the role of wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, nurse, and matriarch to an amazing family. She was respected and loved, and I have no doubt her loved ones will make sure her memory lives on. The second was a 45 year-old man whom had played the role of husband, father, brother, son, friend, and free spirit. He had the most amazing smile (which he got from his mom) and that little devilish glimmer in his eye (which came from his dad). Both of these people, although so different, had finished their lists. God was so happy to be able to mark off their lists knowing they had accomplished what they were supposed to do. Each had loved, laughed, taught their children the importance of family, and with their passing, will once again bring others together in the name of love, family, prayer, and laughter. Do not feel sad about the things they did not get to accomplish. Be joyous in knowing they did all they were supposed to do.
Dedicated to Agnes Reese and Jim Mandabach. May you meet in heaven and smile upon those whom still love you.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Racism - it's not just for breakfast anymore (Rated R for language and adult situations)
It takes a lot to shock me. I've been around the block many, many times, but the human race seems to find a way to occasionally make me say, "What the Fuck?" I was reading my morning cyber news while drinking a cup of coffee and eating my egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. There is a story about a new television advertisement for Cheerios. Cheerios is a part of nearly every one's childhood. It was one of the most popular snacks for my children when the were toddlers. Put some of those crunchy O's in a snack cup, and you have a happy toddler for any two-hour car ride. I ate Cheerios for breakfast when I was a kid. My mom even put them in her homemade Chex Party Mix (as I still do today). What could anyone have against Cheerios? Even the name sounds happy. Well, as I said at the beginning of this post, here came my, "What the Fuck," moment. Watch this commercial:
Time is sometimes the only tool that can teach tolerance. The unfortunate side to that is that it does not happen quickly. It is a terribly slow procedure that usually takes generations to learn. How can you speed up the process? Start with yourself. Allow your heart to accept differences in others, and the next generation will do the same at a much faster pace. Be aware of what your are against, and make sure you are disagreeing with someone for the correct reason. My example of this goes back over 20 years ago. Back when we were much younger, a friend of mine, who I had known since kindergarten, started dating guys of a different race. Her parents were totally against it, and she expressed to me how much this upset her. I told her I did not care whom she dated, but I was not going to support her dating anyone who treated her like shit. She was choosing guys with no jobs, no cars, and no respect for her. Who cared what color their skin was?? She was being used and hurt. I had friends who dated guys the same ethnicity as them, and when those guys were acting like douche bags, they got the same advice from me: If that man has no future, no respect, and no responsibility for his actions, he does not deserve a place in your life.
There are all sorts of different Cheerios: original, honey nut, peanut butter, apple cinnamon, banana nut, frosted, fruity, and yogurt covered. General Mills knows that even though they are all different on the outside, on the inside they are all the same...just like people.
I think the next Cheerios commercial should show someone pouring the plain Cheerios and the chocolate Cheerios in the same bowl....scandalous.
Are you wondering what all the fuss is about? This commercial got so many hateful, racial posts on YouTube that they had to disable the comments area for this this clip. Really? Really?! There is an adorable, articulate child in a lovely home with both her parents discussing healthy nutrition, and this beautiful example of a loving family was turned into a platform to rant about the evils of interracial relationships. Well, now I am turning it into my platform to rant about acceptance and tolerance and love.
I applaud the General Mills company (who makes those tasty O's) because they have no intention of pulling the commercial from their advertising rotation. I hope they push the envelope and have a little boy talking to his, "two moms," over a bowl of Cheerios. Maybe they will have a black man and a white man feeding Cheerios to their adopted Chinese daughter. I hope more companies take a broader look at examples of, "normal family life." People need to remember that just because it's not your normal doesn't make it wrong. I know their are people out there that are already quoting Bible verses to make their point. I know Catholics usually do not quote Scripture, but here is Matthew 22:35-40:
- 35 One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: 36 “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
37 Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’[a] 38 This is the first and greatest commandment. 39 And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b] 40 All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”
Time is sometimes the only tool that can teach tolerance. The unfortunate side to that is that it does not happen quickly. It is a terribly slow procedure that usually takes generations to learn. How can you speed up the process? Start with yourself. Allow your heart to accept differences in others, and the next generation will do the same at a much faster pace. Be aware of what your are against, and make sure you are disagreeing with someone for the correct reason. My example of this goes back over 20 years ago. Back when we were much younger, a friend of mine, who I had known since kindergarten, started dating guys of a different race. Her parents were totally against it, and she expressed to me how much this upset her. I told her I did not care whom she dated, but I was not going to support her dating anyone who treated her like shit. She was choosing guys with no jobs, no cars, and no respect for her. Who cared what color their skin was?? She was being used and hurt. I had friends who dated guys the same ethnicity as them, and when those guys were acting like douche bags, they got the same advice from me: If that man has no future, no respect, and no responsibility for his actions, he does not deserve a place in your life.
There are all sorts of different Cheerios: original, honey nut, peanut butter, apple cinnamon, banana nut, frosted, fruity, and yogurt covered. General Mills knows that even though they are all different on the outside, on the inside they are all the same...just like people.
I think the next Cheerios commercial should show someone pouring the plain Cheerios and the chocolate Cheerios in the same bowl....scandalous.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Excuse me, could you point me to the nearest leper colony?
Several days ago, I left my home and purposely forged into enemy territory. On the outside, I appeared confident and unshakable. Inside, my heart was accelerating, nausea was twisting my stomach in knots, and there were nearly tears. I entered the doors to the building, walked up to a woman with a name tag, and asked, "Where is the dreaded swimsuit department?" She looked at me, smiled, and pointed down an aisle. "What we have is right over there." The way she worded the sentence made me think that maybe there were not many suits to choose from. Perhaps swimsuits had gone out of fashion and were being replaced by loose fitting, yet some how flattering, smocks? The swimwear of the early 1900's was making a comeback! A time in history when it was not unusual for women's swimsuits to have sleeves. God was smiling on me......
My friends and I at the beach.
As I happily approached the area the sales associated had pointed towards, I was reminded that God has a sense of humor. The racks were full of brightly colored Lycra, floral and striped, one-piece, two-piece, and teeny weeny bikinis. Something for everyone!!!! I kept looking for the retro swim romper or the newest aqua frock from Paris, but I was disappointed to find exactly what I find every year. Lots and lots of choices that fall into one of three categories: "Doesn't fit," "Ugly," and "That'll Do." I have never had a bikini figure. I have never won a, "Hot Bod," contest. But, I am comfortable enough with myself that I will put on a swimsuit and enjoy the pool or beach with my kids. I like to get tan lines in the summer ("Tan fat looks better than pale fat."). Fruity, frozen drinks while sitting on a pontoon with friends and family are some good times. To my advantage, my best "assets" are out of the water while I'm standing in the shallow end of the pool. My plan is to get to the cookout early, make sure the bosom looks awesome, and keep the lower half of my body underwater until everyone is intoxicated. After enough drinks, no one will care how I look in my suit. It may be my tipsy friends whom do not care; it may be tipsy me whom no longer cares how I look in my suit. I believe swimsuits should come with a gift card to the nearest liquor store to make the event less painful (and more likely to be blacked out of your memory) for everyone. I picked a suit from the, "That'll Do," pile, and I pray that I do not have to go through this process for at least a year.
The most comfortable I have ever been in swimwear was both times I was pregnant with my daughters. It may seem strange to confess that at the two times when my body was its largest, roundest, most bulbous and swollen, those were the most content I ever felt in a swimsuit. Why? Because when you have a baby in your belly, no one expects you to suck in that gut. There was a reason Sports Illustrated did not call you for the swimsuit edition that year: you were swimming for two. I loved floating around like a big ole whale gestating her calf in the water. It was liberating to just bob up and down with the waves, and when I would get 'beached' on the steps of the pool, some concerned friend would roll me back into the water. Ahhh, memories.
The most comfortable I have ever been in swimwear was both times I was pregnant with my daughters. It may seem strange to confess that at the two times when my body was its largest, roundest, most bulbous and swollen, those were the most content I ever felt in a swimsuit. Why? Because when you have a baby in your belly, no one expects you to suck in that gut. There was a reason Sports Illustrated did not call you for the swimsuit edition that year: you were swimming for two. I loved floating around like a big ole whale gestating her calf in the water. It was liberating to just bob up and down with the waves, and when I would get 'beached' on the steps of the pool, some concerned friend would roll me back into the water. Ahhh, memories.
Shopping for a swimsuit, for me, is like purposely vacationing at a leper colony. Why do I put myself in that uncomfortable place? I guess I am the Father Damien of Swimwear. I am sure that shopping for swimwear is a lot of fun when the size you buy is the same as your shoe size. If that were my case, I would be arriving at my sister's Memorial Day party wearing clown shoes.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
A Love Letter
Dear Mom,
Happy Mother's Day! I thought I should write you a letter to make sure all these words are on paper. That way, if I am ever at a loss to tell you how I feel about you, I can refer back to my notes. You are an amazing person; not just an amazing mother, but you are amazing to your core. This fact is confirmed by the hundreds of people who get a smile on their face simply by the sound of your name. You raised four children that all have children of their own. Your grandchildren have been blessed that their parents had the most wonderful example to learn from. The love and tenderness you brought to our childhood, the laughter and smiles you freely gave to all of us, and the love of singing any song regardless of knowing the correct lyrics or not were my favorite parts of growing up. You were the soft hand to Dad's iron fist. You were (literally) always the, "good cop," to his,"bad cop." You allowed yourself to be the clown when the situation needed a comedic hero. When it comes to being a mom, I had the best instructor there is.
Even if a person goes to the best schools and has the best instructors, it does not mean they are going to be perfect at what they do. I am the iron fist in my children's lives. The role of, "bad cop," is usually played by me. Ironically, I am the clown even though real clowns annoy the crap out of me. Statistically, I am not the daughter that grew up to be just like you. However, one day you gave me the best compliment. As different as we can be, you told me once that I was the kind of person you had always wanted to be. I voice my opinion. I stand up for the underdog. When I was in fifth grade, I slapped a girl in the face because she said my friend was ugly. I am fearless. I keep my friends and family close, and I send toxic people on their way. The best thing you ever said is that I am nothing like you, but that I am what you strive to be. How ridiculous is that? It is amazingly, lovingly, and honorably ridiculous.
Happy Mother's Day to my mother. You are the beautiful, smart, funny woman that I want to be when I grow up.
Sincerely,
Amy (your favorite)
Happy Mother's Day! I thought I should write you a letter to make sure all these words are on paper. That way, if I am ever at a loss to tell you how I feel about you, I can refer back to my notes. You are an amazing person; not just an amazing mother, but you are amazing to your core. This fact is confirmed by the hundreds of people who get a smile on their face simply by the sound of your name. You raised four children that all have children of their own. Your grandchildren have been blessed that their parents had the most wonderful example to learn from. The love and tenderness you brought to our childhood, the laughter and smiles you freely gave to all of us, and the love of singing any song regardless of knowing the correct lyrics or not were my favorite parts of growing up. You were the soft hand to Dad's iron fist. You were (literally) always the, "good cop," to his,"bad cop." You allowed yourself to be the clown when the situation needed a comedic hero. When it comes to being a mom, I had the best instructor there is.
Even if a person goes to the best schools and has the best instructors, it does not mean they are going to be perfect at what they do. I am the iron fist in my children's lives. The role of, "bad cop," is usually played by me. Ironically, I am the clown even though real clowns annoy the crap out of me. Statistically, I am not the daughter that grew up to be just like you. However, one day you gave me the best compliment. As different as we can be, you told me once that I was the kind of person you had always wanted to be. I voice my opinion. I stand up for the underdog. When I was in fifth grade, I slapped a girl in the face because she said my friend was ugly. I am fearless. I keep my friends and family close, and I send toxic people on their way. The best thing you ever said is that I am nothing like you, but that I am what you strive to be. How ridiculous is that? It is amazingly, lovingly, and honorably ridiculous.
Happy Mother's Day to my mother. You are the beautiful, smart, funny woman that I want to be when I grow up.
Sincerely,
Amy (your favorite)
Friday, May 3, 2013
ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!!!!!!!! Wait...it's just allergy season.
I live in Indiana. The Crossroads of America. The Hoosier State. Heart of the Midwest. Home of the Indianapolis 500 - The Greatest Spectacle in Racing. AND, the worst f@$&ing place to be if you have seasonal allergies. About 15 years ago, I started developing, "hay fever." A little sneezing, watery eyes, no big deal. As the years have progressed, so have the allergy symptoms. My allergist explained to me at one appointment that parts of the country gets a lot of tree pollen. Some parts of the country get grass and weed pollens. Lucky us get to enjoy both here in Indiana. This week has been the worst for me so far this season. Every day, when I walk out of the house to my SUV, there is a fine layer of yellow pollen covering my vehicle. The temperatures have been warm and breezy, but I have every window closed and the A/C blowing. If I try to do some yard work, I have to keep tissues in my pocket and remember not to rub my itchy eyes.
Most of allergy season, I can find relief with over-the-counter allergy medication and allergy eye drops. Unfortunately, there are a few weeks a year that my normal regimen does not quite cut it. A few days ago, I decided that more is better when it comes to antihistamines. Instead of one allergy pill for the 24-hour period (as prescribed), I took two pills about 12 hours apart. I still sneezed and snotted all day. My eyes were so extremely itchy, I rubbed them until they were swollen, red, and watering. Then, I was reminded that I had put lotion on my hands prior to clawing my eyes because then the skin all around my eyeballs started to burn. More allergy eye drops squirted into the irritated orbs, so then gooey liquid was dripping down my face. I still could not get to sleep, so I took a Benadryl at bedtime. I finally fell asleep. That must have been when the zombies showed up.
I woke up very reluctantly the next morning. I slowly staggered into the bathroom, turned on the light, and saw myself in the mirror. Holy Christ, it looked as if I could have eaten someones brain for breakfast. My eyes were gross, hollow-looking, dark circles on my face. The combination of eye goo from the pollen, allergy eye drops, and irritating hand lotion had dried into a creepy scaly pattern around my eyes. The sheer amount of antihistamines in my system were still giving me a contact high. I actually was sooooo zoinked out that I stared at my reflection like the un-dead had commandeered my body. "You look like me.....but you aren't exactly me...." I brushed my teeth in slow motion. When I walked down the hallway to wake up my daughters, I thought I was going to start dragging one leg and holding both arms straight out in front of me. I was relieved to hear the words, "Girls, it is time to wake up," come out of my mouth instead of, "AAARRR!!!!! BRAINS!!!!" As the day went on, I slowly came out of my fog and felt slightly more like myself again.
So, next time you watch a zombie movie, look at those poor creatures. Are they really after your flesh? Did they really want to eat brains? Maybe they just need a Zyrtec and a box of Kleenex.
"Excuse me...could you tell us where we could find the aisle with the allergy medications? Thanks."
Most of allergy season, I can find relief with over-the-counter allergy medication and allergy eye drops. Unfortunately, there are a few weeks a year that my normal regimen does not quite cut it. A few days ago, I decided that more is better when it comes to antihistamines. Instead of one allergy pill for the 24-hour period (as prescribed), I took two pills about 12 hours apart. I still sneezed and snotted all day. My eyes were so extremely itchy, I rubbed them until they were swollen, red, and watering. Then, I was reminded that I had put lotion on my hands prior to clawing my eyes because then the skin all around my eyeballs started to burn. More allergy eye drops squirted into the irritated orbs, so then gooey liquid was dripping down my face. I still could not get to sleep, so I took a Benadryl at bedtime. I finally fell asleep. That must have been when the zombies showed up.
I woke up very reluctantly the next morning. I slowly staggered into the bathroom, turned on the light, and saw myself in the mirror. Holy Christ, it looked as if I could have eaten someones brain for breakfast. My eyes were gross, hollow-looking, dark circles on my face. The combination of eye goo from the pollen, allergy eye drops, and irritating hand lotion had dried into a creepy scaly pattern around my eyes. The sheer amount of antihistamines in my system were still giving me a contact high. I actually was sooooo zoinked out that I stared at my reflection like the un-dead had commandeered my body. "You look like me.....but you aren't exactly me...." I brushed my teeth in slow motion. When I walked down the hallway to wake up my daughters, I thought I was going to start dragging one leg and holding both arms straight out in front of me. I was relieved to hear the words, "Girls, it is time to wake up," come out of my mouth instead of, "AAARRR!!!!! BRAINS!!!!" As the day went on, I slowly came out of my fog and felt slightly more like myself again.
So, next time you watch a zombie movie, look at those poor creatures. Are they really after your flesh? Did they really want to eat brains? Maybe they just need a Zyrtec and a box of Kleenex.
"Excuse me...could you tell us where we could find the aisle with the allergy medications? Thanks."
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