Beccablog Answers Viewer Mail

It's the end of the month, folks, and thus time for me to answer viewer mail. Since no one ever sends me email (except loathsome spammers), I must ferret out your queries in a less conventional manner: I'll use the search strings some of you have used to find me here at Beccatown. (Don't worry. Though I see your search terms, I do not see where they are coming from so your anonymity is protected.)

Anonymous Viewer #1 queries, "What's the dankest thrift store you've ever been to?" Good question, AV1. I've been going to thrift stores for many years so I have a lot of dankness to chose from. However, for pure dank discomfort there's nothing like a good estate sale.

Most estate sales are mundane if not cheery, but every once in awhile Beccablog stumbles upon which radiates the kind of desperation and unhappiness found only in a Theodore Dresier novel. Mom has died, and the kids couldn't stand her. Thus they take their revenge by selling off every item the poor woman ever owned, and many that would cause her shame if she knew that complete strangers were riffling through them (e.g. her "foundations"). And what about that half bottle of Prell? That will fetch eight cents! And that brush with hair still tangled in it must be worth something. This is truly the dankness of the human soul made manifest. And please, cash only.

A related dankness question comes from Anonymous Viewer #2: "Can you get an infection from a steam room?" Well, AV2, it depends on what kind of infection you mean. Many believe that the warm, moist air of the steam room actually speeds recovery from sinus infections and other respiratory maladies. The Swiss even throw in a little iodine gas to make things interesting. (What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.) However, I believe you may be asking about a -- a -- you know, an infection.

Ohhhh. That's another story altogether. You may want to have a seat, AV2 (being careful to apply some antibacterial cleanser to the bench before seating your posterior upon it). Human Papilloma Virus (HPV) can indeed be spread by sharing toilet facilities, steam room benches, and swimsuits. If you think you might be infected, please see your doctor.

I'll be on vacation for the next several days, so I will blog again in a week. Keep those search strings coming, people!

The Knife-Edge of Toddler Schedules

A busy and social day. We met Girl Detective and her son Drake at a local mall's play area. I envisioned us chatting urbanely whilst the toddlers played. But we spent most of our time sprinting after our sons as they raced out of the play area into the mall proper.

Who could blame them? The stores are all colorful and brightly light, shiny and sparkly, and they play music of a kind. They're much like 90% of the toys we own. Henry was particularly drawn to a bridal shop. (He'll make such a lovely bride someday, in some off-the-shoulder number; he has beautiful arms.) In a moment of rashness, I suggested we go somewhere for lunch but Girl said that she had to get Drake home for lunch and nap: if she was out past 11:30 and he napped in the car, the schedule was shot to hell. I had to agree -- Henry is the same way. It was wishful thinking on my part.

Despite leaving the mall on time, and getting home for lunch on time (with no power naps in the car), Henry still refused to nap. I think he was just too wound up. Now he's off with Jon for their first night of Water Babies swim class. Jon put the swim diaper on him before they left. Because of the tightness of the diaper, it looked like he had only one buttock -- like he was wearing control-top pantyhose. The idea, I suppose, is that the tightness will help prevent leakage (auslaufschutz, for my German-speaking readers).

I have the house to myself for an hour! Pardon me while I rock out.

Everybody's Hustlin' Just To Have A Little Scene

I am pining for my stolen iPod. I've decided that I'm going walk during my lunch hours, when the weather is clement (you hardly ever see "clement" used as a weather adjective, do you? but I just used it, so there). And what walk doesn't call out for a little soundtrack?

Music can cure a variety of ills. Last week, as I was driving into work and feeling blah, Donovan's "Sunshine Superman" came on the radio and I felt like my entire body was suffused with happiness and light. I often have songs playing in my head, background music for my day. (Sometimes this is not so charming, e.g. when the "you and Betty Crocker can bake someone happy!" jingle rings through my brain, like Methuselah disguised as a frolicksome lamb. Get thee hence, insipid tune snippet!)

But my iPod is gone. I haven't yet decided if or with what I will replace it. Thus I am tuneless, and will walk unaccompanied by happy or melancholy music. I will try to take advantage of this and be in the moment, notice the bare trees like gnarled claws, the snow slush the texture of wet sand (and just as arduous to walk in), the cold air whistling through my sinuses (ouch).

Velcro: Satan's Fastener of Choice

If you have a baby, you have bibs. And if you have bibs, you have Velcro. Most likely you do a lot of laundry since every item of clothing (both yours and Baby's) quickly becomes saturated with mashed cantaloupe, globs of yogurt, and -- during cold and flu season -- sparkling smears of baby snot. (Why does it sparkle so?) Velcro, when carelessly mingled with other kinds of laundry, wreaks the kind of havoc usually associated with rabid squirrels.

"Why not just fasten it?" you say, "before you put it in the wash?" Ah, would it were only so! The irony of this deceptive little fastener is that while it may take all of your strength to unfasten it in normal circumstances (and with a recoil like a Colt .45), it will wantonly unfasten itself with the merest encouragement from your 30-year old Kenmore washing machine. (The agitation of which is so weak that it can barely spin a load of laundry consisting of two washcloths and a ticket stub.)

Thus you will find yourself tearing bibs from your only "good" jeans, from a pair of tights that you accidentally added to the load (goodbye, tights!), and from each other. (They are coiled together, Velcro over Velcro'd loop, like mating squids.)

And the sound of your hair tearing from your scalp is the sound of Velcro-from-Velcro -- SCCRRICH!

To Post Or Not To Post?

I have mixed feelings posting about this, because I've posted about it a few times in the last couple of weeks. But I'm going to do it, because I know some people read this to get a "dose of reality" re. motherhood. And this is it, baby! In fact, it fairly reeks of reality.

I'm still sick. I've been sick with a virus/flu/cold/pinkeye illness since January 5th. Henry came down with the "croup" on Wednesday night -- that seal-bark cough I remember well from my childhood (and I'm guessing the accompanying sore, aching throat and chest pain, though Henry is too young to tell us so). We saw the doctor on Friday who confirmed it was croup, and also gave us some tips on treating him. She checked his ears, too, and they were clear. She let me peer into his ear and see the tube, a white glow at the end of the ear canal.

She said that cold, night air often helps the airways shrink and suggested that we keep a snowsuit in Henry's room, and if he coughed at night we were to bundle him up and take him outside for a few minutes. (Note: the low temperatures here in America's Winter Wonderland have been in the -15 range, not including windchill.) Jon and I got everything prepared and we hunkered down, prepared for a rather miserable night.

But Henry slept soundly. A couple coughs here and there, but nothing very croup-y. He was fairly cheerful and seemed much better this morning, though he did have a runny nose. He woke up from his nap this afternoon very fussy. His left ear was draining bloody pus. We still have the antibiotic ear drops from the last ear infection, a mere two weeks ago. So we started him back on those, and I called to get him into the doctor tomorrow -- but there's no one available. It's a holiday and the clinic is short-staffed. I'll have to call tomorrow and try to wheedle them into squeezing us in somewhere. I think his ear drum may have burst, but the tubes were supposed to prevent this from happening...

I feel badly about this on so many levels. I feel sorry for Henry, who is miserable and has had to endure one infection after another. I guess we just have to resign ourselves to the fact that Henry -- at least for now -- will not ever get "just a cold." I am seriously considering quitting my job to stay home with him and get him out of the daycare situation. Yes, he'll still get sick -- but less often. (I think. I hope.) I also feel badly because dealing with our various illnesses has completely occupied my mind for nearly two weeks. I had to postpone my personal retreat (for the second time) and I have had no time to myself, no "down" time (naps during illnesses don't count). Jon has carried the burden of toddler care and house care for the last couple of weeks, because I've had to spend so much time in bed. However, it hasn't been enough -- I am still sick and exhausted.

Right now my life feels like a morass of doctor appointments and runs to the urgent care, fevers and Tylenol, ear drops and eye drops, chapped lips, runny noses, and pus-y ears. A visual sympbol for my life sits next to me: a wastepaper basket overflowing with used tissues.

I'm finding it difficult to be amused.

This One Is Mostly Whiney But I Tried To Make It Amusing, At Least A Little

Ok. I'm STILL SICK. In fact, my virus or infection (what-have-you) up and sprouted itself a bad case of pinkeye this morning. Last night I felt like I had something in my eye, maybe a cat hair (lord knows we have enough pet fur around here -- beneath the radiators there are dust bunnies the size of actual bunnies). So I rinsed out my eye with some of Jon's multipurpose solution (note: the term "multipurpose" does not mean you can use it to fry smelt) and forgot about it. Woke up in the morning and my eyelids were spackled together with -- to use the medical term -- goo.

Jon's eye was infected, too. Henry is -- thus far, knock wood -- clear.

So we tag-teamed toddler care and took turns going to the doctor. Jon went first, got some antibiotic drops and returned home. I went, saw a different doctor, and was given a lecture on how the medical establishment overprescribes antibiotics, there is now a strain of strep that is resistant to penicillin, and that there was a study on this at Harvard ("Harvard!" he emphasized, brandishing some papers) that says blah blah blah. Oh, and he glanced at my eye. Merely glanced. He did not shine his little light into it, he did not look at my throat or up my nose, he did not palpate my glands. He was "95% sure" it's a virus, the same virus that's been causing my fevers and aches this past week.

A little research shows that the syptoms of viral and bacterial conjunctivitis are basically the same, that they are transmitted in the same way, and are both equally (highly) contagious. The only way to tell for certain which is causing the infection is to culture it. But that's expensive, and I'm sure my HMO encourages doctors to be conservative in these things. And Dr. Harvardstudy may be right: it may be "just" viral.

BUT HE DIDN'T LOOK AT ME.

"Dear Dr. Harvardstudy,

Brandishing papers does not constitute a diagnosis, nor does citing statistics. Perhaps the majority of pinkeye cases are viral, but that statement does not mean that the woman in front of you (I'm right here, doctor!) has a viral infection.

Sincerely,

Ms. Weepyeye."

It used to be that to see a physician in my HMO, you had to run the gauntlet that was the Nurse Line. You spoke to a nurse over the phone and described your illness, and he or she decided whether you could see a doctor. These conversations can basically be boiled down to:

Patient: I'm sick and need to see a doctor.
Nurse: No, you're not. Shut up.

The HMO dispensed with this system a couple years ago. In fact, they pride themselves on allowing patients to make appointments with their doctors at any time. HUGE billboards advertise this fact, billboards featuring close-ups of calmly smiling and satisfied patients, basking in the love and care they received from Dr. Harvardstudy at MongoHMO.

So now instead of getting the "You're not sick, shut up" talk over the phone, I have to drive to the clinic to get it.

Twice!

I'm Not Sick Enough To Be Interesting

I went to the Urgent Care center today because I still have a fever (hovering around 100), body aches, and extreme fatigue -- but not respiratory symptoms (like I'd probably have with the flu). I thought, "Maybe I have mono, or Hodgkin's Lymphoma."

But the doctor said it was just some other virus, that I should take Tylenol (HA!) and get plenty of rest. "You just don't have enough interesting symptoms. Now, the fever of 104 -- THAT was interesting. If that happens again or if you get a rash or some other symptoms, come back and see me."

Next time I'll have the good sense to lodge something weird in my eye before I go, then I can say, "Hey, Doc, I know my fever and body aches and malaise are not interesting, but look at the golf tee that's stuck in my eye!"

Jon did most of the house work and toddler wrangling this weekend. He's good people.

I have resolved that, even if I feel lousy tomorrow, I will go forth with a happy countenance, and have a big latte and maybe a chocolate croissant for breakfast. I will not complain about my pathetic, boring excuse for an "illness" and will not Google my symptoms in the hopes of finding out that I am more seriously ill than all suppose (so that all my whining and self-pity is justified). Nay, I will instead take some vitamins and drink plenty of water (especially after that latte) and I will spread good cheer and amuse my co-workers with my antics*.

And I will not stick a golf tee in my eye just to get attention. (Nor for any other reason.)

*Antics? What antics? A handspring? A back flip?! But I'm SICK, I tell you, SICK!

Flu

Home sick with the flu. It came on suddenly last night: extreme fatigue, muscle aches, joint pain, fever of 103, sore throat, blah blah blah. I woke at 4AM feeling lousy and lay in bed, contemplating going downstairs to make myself some juice. But the stairs seemed impossibly long, and the juice-making process complicated, and the time needed so protracted (a few minutes, at least) that it was beyond my capability.

So I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep and strange dreams filled with snippets of song and images of juice containers and real estate listings (we've started to contemplate moving). When I have a high fever, my brain spews all manner of miscellaneous gunk -- like it's tuned to several different radio and television stations simultaneously.

Jon gave me some breakfast before he left this morning, and I spent all day in bed. I watched a few episodes of "West Wing" on DVD (I'd made a library run yesterday) and then took a four hour nap. I am much better tonight. My fever has gone down to 100, and the pain in my muscles has lessened somewhat.

Henry has gone to bed. He is recovering from the ear infection and has been in a great mood. He laughs more and more lately and even laughs himself to sleep. One of his favorite games is to follow Della the Dog around the house. When she stops, he stops, and he holds his hands over her back like he's going to pet her or grab her -- and just as his hands touch the ends of her fur, he errupts into peals of laughter and pulls his hands away.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Henry has another ear infection.

Shit.

My Resolution

I love making New Year's resolutions. It appeals to the German in me. Also the neurotic. This same impulse allows me to derive enjoyment from writing out "to do" lists with little checkboxes next to the items. I love to fill in checkboxes! Use a number 2 pencil and please fill in completely. Not like this, like THIS. Yeah. I love that.

This little pecadillo is an off-shoot of my perfectionism and it's not healthy. It creates a lot of inner turmoil for me and does not result in the tidy, organized life of which I dream. Rather, it results in even greater laziness and failure to complete things I start.

How does it do this?

Well, because I desire to be perfect and have the perfect life -- but because I know that this desire is unrealistic and unattainable, I give up before I even try. I mean, why start if you're only going to fail, right? It's unrealistic expectation of perfectionism followed by defeatism with a creamy dollop of disappointment and depression on top. YUMMY!

Thus, I have decided that this year I will make one resolution: I will let myself off the hook.

I do solemnly swear that I will let myself off the hook.

I will set realistic goals and do my best to attain them.

If I don't attain them, I will know that I tried. I gave it the good fight, did it for the gipper, gave it my all, and any other cliche re. expended effort.

And I will make lists of these goals and I will put checkboxes next to them.

Amen!