Allergies, the elderly and stop signs, Forbidden Island

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!

La sera/AROMO

It's just past the flux point in Italy when you start to greet people with Buona sera, "Good evening", rather than Buon giorno, "Good day". It's funny how often, in the afternoon, I muse on that whit of knowledge. I suppose it's in part because my sister lives in Italy, and when I'm there, I try to speak accurately. But I also like that inflection in their day; it's an acknowledgement of what is past and what is shortly to come. Buona sera can only be used for so long; soon enough you've got to switch to Buona notte, accepting that nighttime is upon you and il giorno will alight anew in the near future. I'm sitting in AROMO. The door swung open, and I left it that way; better to hear the rustling leaves, chirping birds and cadenced crickets in chorus outside. Nutmeg is perched on this little hut's railing, ever-hopeful that he'll catch a bird or insect as it flits past. The kids are playing happily inside with a sitter, and I've come out here for a sliver of time to myself. It's been too hot lately to spend much time in this space. I've missed it.

I like the solitude and the simplicity that sit with me in this room. I love that I've carved a spot within it -rug, desk, lamp, chair- but that reminders of the boys remain all around. Newspaper clippings, pens, notepads and a tiny stapler are within my reach; beyond, are planks of wood decorated by children in the thrill of being able to paint on walls. A blackboard hangs in the corner, a rainbow of broken chalk lining its narrow tray. Nonsensical labels crafted by last-year Oliver "tell" us what certain items are. From the old peg board hang dusty tools, wands and an odd bin of miscellany.

Out here I feel disconnected in a way that I don't inside. It's a mere fifteen feet to our basement door, but that bit of physical distance is important: in my cozy annex, I'm home but only kind of. Our Wi-Fi reaches me, but I choose to ignore that fact; why is so hard to do that inside? What makes this space different?

I think it's because of how AROMO came to pass; a homebody mother recognized that she needed a sanctuary and her children no longer used the playhouse she'd built them. She brought the structure to its initial fruition for them but then along with her as she evolved. A full circle sort of event.

T laughs when he sees me come in here, but I don't care that I have to duck slightly to enter. Once inside, I can stand tall and stretch out, in myriad ways. This little space is in the center of the Venn diagram of many things I treasure: my home, nature, proximity to my children, my kitchen. What's not to love?

Out here, my breath slows, my shoulders drop, my mind opens. It's so weirdly easy to forget my to-do list. Inside that thing haunts me like a needy ghost, but in my own room? Poof.

I stole away today because I have been working hard. I wanted to escape the pings of others' needs and sit with myself and my thoughts for a while before I must head out again. Simple rejuvenation of the best sort.

Sunday, Sunday

This morning at 8:34am, I looked up at the clock, fully expecting it to read something north of 10:30. Imagine my chagrined shock to find us still in the eights. Sweet lord. Ol joined talking forces with Jack today, and I swear to you that by noon, T and I were twitching. I suspect he dissociated briefly at the farmers market but he tells me that's not what the odd manner and stare and aimless gait were about.

We went to said market because after a storm last night blew out the steamy humidity fest that was DC, today was spectacularly beautiful, and I wanted to get out of the house and eat. Knowing the boys would eagerly snarf a Red Zebra pizza and some Pleasant Pops, we started with those. T got a pizza too and nearly licked the box clean. I went for a trio of tacos at Chaia and was not disappointed. We arrived too late for chicken, darn it. Eco-Friendly foods sold out hours earlier I was told. Boo. More chicken next week but today's was never-frozen and next week will have spent a week in the cold store. Ah well, at least I'll get me some.

Once home, we planted the children in the basement in front of a lengthy movie. I hauled it upstairs with Cat and T went to the gym with some mystical energy he summoned. Then we moseyed to Jack's first baseball game of the season and cheered them on as they won, 9-3. Amazing how those kids have grown and actually learned to play good ball as a team. Back a few seasons ago, I'd perhaps not have bet on such a turn-around. ;)

Tomorrow is a largely responsibility-free one, and I couldn't be happier about that.