So because of this darn yellow jacket allergy, and because it’s still hot here and the yellow jackets are everywhere and one might attack me anywhere, anytime, I have to carry all these rescue medications with me. An Epipen goes in the back pocket of my jeans, for obvious reasons, but also Benadryl gel caps in the front pocket, and a rescue inhaler (a bronchodilator), in my purse or the other back pocket if I’m out in the yard in case I get stung and my airway starts to close- in addition to using an inhaled corticosteroid twice a day, morning and evening and taking a long-acting antihistamine nightly.
It’s all so complicated! I’ve never used so many medications in my life, and this is the very first time I’ve used antihistamines. Ewww. Don’t like ‘em. Plus I’m now getting a venom shot once a week. Got the concentration upped today and I’m feelin’ it, let me tell you.
There is definitely a relationship between yellow jackets and their victims – this isn’t random, believe you me. They are attracted to certain people for unknown reasons. They are attracted to me. I can’t wear fragrance of any kind– that means no lotion, no perfume, no fabric softener, no fragrance in my soap or detergent or deodorant. Heck, I barely wash my hair because it’s impossible to find a fragrance-free shampoo.
How I miss those long ago days when all I had to worry about was running into the occasional mountain lion while hiking… le sigh…
I had this dream a couple nights ago that author Amber Skyze came for a visit. She opened the back door and in flew an entire swarm of yellow jackets. Oh, the situation got ugly fast. Amber honey, I know you wouldn’t do that to me. It was your evil twin!
Last night I dreamed I had enrolled in a cooking class taught by a famous celebrity chef, except he didn’t show up so Rachel Ray took his place. Why Rachel Ray was in my dream I don’t know. I haven’t watched one of her cooking shows in ages.
Anyway, the food was okay, a little under-seasoned, but this weird thing happened. Rachel asked me to go into the kitchen and find the salt. So I went. Unfortunately I didn’t see the salt so I opened the door to a walk-in pantry and there was the chef, the celebrity chef who’d been MIA – flat on his back with, uh, two women wearing chef’s hats doing, uh, stuff. They all stopped what they were doing to stare at me.
I could feel my cheeks burning. I said, “Excuse me,” and I shut the door. Instead of returning to the class I left the restaurant and stood in front, in the dark, wondering where in the hell I’d parked my car because, man, I just wanted to get out of there.
Rachel Ray followed me outside. She said, “Wait, I need your evaluation.”
I said, “I don’t think you want my evaluation.”
She slid her arm through mine and gave me a knowing look. She pulled me back inside. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “I really really need your evaluation.”
She took me to this stairwell where there was this loud spinning fan. She said, “We can’t be overheard here. Now spill.”
I was about to spill when my dog woke me up with a nose in my face – 5 a.m. wake up call on the nose.
So hey Rachel, if you still want the scoop better give me a holler. Wouldn’t you like to know which celebrity chef? Never thought of him as a sex machine, that’s for sure.