I’d never suffered from allergies until moving to Austin, TX. The first time I experienced severe allergies, I thought I had the flu. A friend gave me a clue about cedar fever. Using a combination of hot toddies and a neti pot, I recovered my voice and sinuses.
A year later, I started going to Bikram yoga. That hot yoga sweated out most toxins, including allergens, which kept everything in check.
Fast forward several years. My allergies flared up as if it was Year One in Austin. I discovered a few days later that an invasive species, zebra mussels, had infiltrated our water supply. I credited those creatures with my newest allergy symptom–a clogged left ear.
Periodically, my left ear opened and closed like a bivalve. Drops of hydrogen peroxide into the ear canal initially opened it. Then, I used my neti pot for my sinuses to attack the problem from the other side. Once the water problem cleared up, so did my ear.
Months later, strong winds turned up the air. All allergy suffers got anchored. Turns out, a clogged left ear was a new normal. I did my usual: Bikram, hydrogen peroxide, neti pot. Those things relived other symptoms, but not my ear. This time around, I broke down and got a new allergen weapon: garlic oil drops.
Originally, I thought I’d be cheap and make it myself, but when I looked at how to press my own oil and then buy an ear dropper especially for that purpose or a small container with a nozzle top for that use, hell, it was much easier to pay less than $10 for it already made and compounded with other good shit.
As I periodically coughed and blew my nose throughout the day, I saved the garlic drops for nighttime since there was a bit of a ritual involved. I had to lie sideways on my sofa, watching TV as a distraction since I couldn’t multitask while the drops were in my ear. Not really in my nature to merely watch TV. I usually eat or paint or sew or do anything other than allow the TV to entrance me.
So the drops relieved the pain, but did not unclog the ear. Apparently it’s an inside job. Like many other sinister things in life.
In my attempt to humor this on-going situation, I fancy that my left ear is the political one. Refusing to completely reopen due to all the bullshit swirling around the political arena. Perhaps that’s what it’s trying to do.
Somehow I got it in my head that 2019 would be the year I moved out of my long-time apartment with its ever-rising rent and buy a place of my own. Despite the fact that I’ve been underemployed since exiting the classroom. Teaching had grown into an experience where I’d felt trapped. My hair thinned out and my teeth gnashed at night. I knew merely remaining in the classroom because I cared about my students was not enough.
Yet, once a teacher, always a teacher. I saw every other job through an academic lens. Flitting from one company to the next, the first thing I realized was to learn as much as I could, then bounce. Another learned lesson in the gig economy: having one job was not enough.
Thanks to most major bills due monthly, I wrote out the numbers and concentrated on paying them. At one point, I had a $30/wk grocery budget. Nonetheless I managed to self-publish my second novel with the help of three part-time jobs, one of which became full-time. Somehow I’d scraped together the money to pay all the bills at the end of every month even though I still felt there was not enough.
At times, especially when I earned both an hourly salary and commission, I had some disposable income. During those rare times, I dared to dream. I’d publish a third book. Take another trip outside the States. I’d finally move out of my apartment, especially since I didn’t like the way the new leasing office staff ran things. I’d had enough.
Like clockwork, seasonal expenses came through: a flight home for Christmas, Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, 6-month car insurance bill twice a year, car inspection, yearly rent increase…I somehow managed. No matter how hard I applied myself at any new job, my lucrative moneymaking skills were not enough.
I read books in between calls as both a call center agent then as an independent health and life insurance agent. I wrote and painted whenever I found the time. Secretly embarrassed and ashamed of chronic underemployment, given how educated I was. Life was supposed to get better as you aged and matured and made more of the right choices. Somehow, despite all that I was doing, it was not enough.
So when I walked into the bank to handle a variety of tasks, one of which was to discover how big of a mortgage loan I could secure for a condo, I knew the answer already. I’d internalized the life lessons. The mortgage expert had complimented me on being out of debt and paying off everything at the end of every month. Yet, as he kept flipping through the last three tax returns (where 2016 didn’t actually count), I saw the calculations through his eyes. Not enough.
Whatever else I do in life, I’m always learning to be more comfortable in my own skin. Unapologetically comfortable in my own skin such that on the day when I’m too Black for some people and on the next day not Black enough, I’m OK on both days.
In an ironic twist, all Black women are the perfect degree of Blackness to be put in the “Angry Black Woman” box. All you have to do is react indignantly to being disrespected and BOOM, you’re in! And trust me, if you’re a Black woman, disrespect is right around the corner. If it’s not touching your hair without your permission because they find it beautiful, then it’s saying you’re not beautiful based on Eurocentric standards; to not being heard when in professional or academic settings, to being praised for your articulation when they actually do hear you even though you’re educated; to being regarded as a hardworking mule because you’re Black and female, to being paid less for doing the same job and having the same credentials because you’re Black and female; to working twice as hard just to get half as far, to being dismissed as an opinionated know-it-all. No matter what we do, there’s always an insulting filter to view us through.
Oh, and have you heard? The brown paper bag test is back! Except this time, you’re unacceptable if you’re lighterthan a brown paper bag. Now, they may not literally reference a brown paper bag, but they’ll still sneak it in when talking about whether politicians like Kamala Harris or Cory Booker are Black enough. And before you say, “But they’re not talking about skin color. They’re talking about how much privilege those politicians have.” Just let me say this: when Obama first ran for president, the opposition consistently showed pictures of him with his skin darker than he was in reality. Now, Black people may say “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice,” but unfortunately, that’s not a national sentiment felt across all demographics.
But let’s return to privilege and the ancient battle between the haves and the have nots. Even if you’re the most peace-loving individual, you’re still a participant in the battle whether you want to be or not. If you’re a successful Black person, there are some demographics that absolutely hate you. And you don’t have to be Oprah or Obama successful to trigger the “uppity negro” reaction. Or the “you’re one of the White Black people” reaction. Just be perceived as having more success than the demographic that hates you believes you should have.
What do you know about the struggles of real Black people? You were raised middle class, in the suburbs, and your nerdy, bougie ass has a Master’s degree. You don’t know the latest Black dances, Black slang and you’re bad at sports. (Yes, I’m talking about myself here.)
From the very first time I was given the insulting compliment of not talking like a Black person as a freshman in college, I’ve been aware of the battle. I didn’t know what it was at the time. Like any complex situation, the boundaries are fluid. Like an ameba. You never know an ameba’s exact shape because it’s always moving. Or if you know its exact shape because you took a picture of it, then you don’t know where it is at the moment. Oh yes, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle can be used in more situations than electrons.
So, when I remember the shape of a situation, it’s frozen there in the past like a picture in a memory book. When I speak of it, it’s from that snapshot, but in reality, that situation has moved along and undergone many shape shifts. And when I recollect to speak my truth, for which things shall I apologize?
Where do I draw the line? The line is as fluid as an ameba’s ectoplasm. In these transformative times where everyone is checking everyone else’s privilege, I can’t even look to political leaders as a guide.
My gut-check tells me this: I won’t apologize for authenticity. If shown a better way to say or do something, then I’ll adjust, but an apology isn’t the end of the conversation if it’s not the end of the conflict. I’m at the point in my life, that I value conflict resolution more than any crowd-pleasing, Band-Aid apology. Nor will I offer one. And these days people demand apologies not for reconciliations or empathy, but to destroy the person who’s being asked to apologize as if every error or lack of judgment or difference of opinion can be equaled to committing a crime.
For criminal wrongdoing, apply the consequences of the law. For all other things, it’s negotiable, but often times, the demanded apology is a manipulation tactic. I should apologize for speaking too loudly or harshly or at all. Or I should apologize for not having the demeanor of the preconceived, “appropriately” Black woman for whichever person who’s judging me at the moment.
I’ve got another idea: I’m going to start thanking people for the opportunity to help them manage their expectations when it comes to interacting with me. Of course, I won’t use those exact words, but that’s going to be my new mindset because I for damn sure won’t be apologizing! (You’re welcome.)
May not look like much to others, but with this painting, I stumbled onto subtle blending–except for his hands. There’s usually an area or two where I just concede that the effort has defeated me. For this painting, it’s definitely the hands. The hands are so bad, one may not even notice the lips aren’t that great either.
But I love the blending everywhere else. Up until this point, I thought that I had to first color the shading and contouring, then merely paint to blend those colors with water. What I realized through trial and a lot of error, was, unlike painting with oils, watercolors must be layered to produce the desired effect. The blending technique I use with oils just muddy watercolors.
I’m sure I could have watched even more YouTube videos about painting with watercolor crayons, but it’s been a wonderful journey to put all this together. I even recently bought a refurbished monitor that didn’t come with a stand, so I could lay it flat in my lap while it’s hooked up to the laptop, projecting the image that I’m tracing onto tracing paper. Genius!
I finally found a workaround to my lack of drawing skill. Now, I’m practicing to become more respectful of the medium. I’m not looking for mastery, which means with every improvement, I’m going to be ever so happy. No matter how small the gain.
I have 16 pages of drawing paper before I switch to actual watercolor paper. From there, the remaining rough drafts will be completed on watercolor paper. By then, I expect to up my game even more since a better quality of paper will look better.
The monthly luncheon with my insurance/entrepreneurial group coincided with St. Patrick’s Day weekend. So, we sipped the house punch throughout lunch, but followed up with an Irish decaf coffee topped with green honey-based whipped cream and edible glitter.
Our rosy red cheeks and smiles may be deceptive, but the three of us represented a wealth of financial knowledge, which overlapped in some areas. Yet it was the knowledge that we brought to the table that made this meeting so valuable.
I’m currently studying real estate investments and tax law. Another colleague had recently started a new job with the city and discussed her compensation and benefit package. The other colleague had recently picked up another insurance agent gig and was in the process of buying a new house.
We intertwined those pursuits over some good food, personal and professional triumphs, and lots of laughs. And without formally stating it, we all walked away with a renewed sense of what we each needed to do by the next lunch meeting in April.
One of my Austin Writers Roulette poets launched a book on St. Patrick’s Day. He wore a discrete shamrock and encouraged everyone who was reading to wear green. He brought together friends and family from out of town and out of state.
He started off the event by read a few selections from his book.
Then he gave me such a warm introduction to join him on stag. I spoke about how I inadvertently became a part of his latest book. In August 2017, the theme for the Roulette was “Old School Soul Food.” For a previous roulette, he’d written very poignantly about his grandmother’s cooking. I’d looked forward to his participation for this upcoming roulette. And therein started the argument! He told me that he couldn’t write more on the subject. I pushed back, saying that he couldn’t possibly have just one story about his grandmother’s cooking. We went for another round. That back and forth via email became the “Blue Bowl Epistolary.” (My participation starts at timestamp 13:12)
Although she could have upstaged the whole event, thanks to being the daughter of a famous spoken word poet, she was totally down to earth. She read her contribution to the book, and then followed up with another piece not in the book as all we participants had.
After the reading, we all hung around talking, especially since people who’d attending the event wanted us to autograph their copy of the book.
The gathering was a quasi-family reunion whereby everyone came from out of town to support the book launch.
The one misstep I made was handing my camera phone to someone who normally takes pictures with an actual camera.
He loved the speed at which he could tap the screen and take rapid-fire pictures until I took it from him.
I’ve never officially celebrated this “holiday” even though I’ve wished people Happy Pi Day for several years. Since I firmly believe in attending all of the leasing office’s free food and drink events because they raise my rent yearly, I signed up for the pizza “social.”
It was social in the respect that as one made their individual pizza, we all talked, but as our stylish carrying case denoted, we had to bake them at home. With half a mind on my newfound diet, I grabbed an already cooked whole wheat mini pizza crust, smothered it with pesto and topped it with things that were mostly diet-compliant (I think. The crust itself wasn’t!).
The leasing agent suggested adding fresh basil, which wasn’t part of the pizza bar, but I had some at home. She also told us that since everything was technically cooked, we only had to heat it in the oven until the cheese melted.
Except she ran that advice together with a separate thought and came out with: “Have fun until the cheese melts.” Me being me, that statement sounded a lot like sexual innuendo. I thought of my neighbors who only seem to hit it at 2 AM on a Tuesday or Wednesday on the other side of my bedroom wall. That’s when their cheese melts.
I admitted wanting to knock on the wall and tell her to send him over after they were done. I initially thought about asking the leasing agent who those neighbors were, but decided against knowing, which everyone present agreed was the better option.
Instead, I heated my pizza at home until the cheese melted and enjoyed it with a glass of Malbec. Happy Pi Day!
As a child who attended public school, I always knew I had to wear something green on March 17th whether I was Irish or not, rather than run the risk of being pinched. Even as an adult, I love not just wearing green on St. Patrick’s day, but dressing up for an occasion despite not having an actual character in mind since Halloween is my favorite holiday. Why dress boringly every day of the year?
And then out of nowhere while driving, Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” reminds me of something green. Picture this: a gas-guzzling medium green Town & Country station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the sides. Bare thighs sticking to the fake green leather in the back middle seat between my two older sisters with the smell of cold fried chicken, circulated by the AC.
We took family car vacations in the 70s and 80s. The longest ones were during the dead heat of summer from Little Rock, AR to Cascade and Hampton, VA to visit both sides of the family. I don’t remember ever staying in a hotel en route to visit the relatives. We minimized having to stop for food because Mom always fried up a lot of chicken legs for us to eat along with chips and soda, which was a treat because we normally drank Kool-aid or sweet tea with dinner and bottled water wasn’t yet a thing. Anyway, if we ever got hungry or thirsty, all we had to do was reach or crawl over the backseat to get something to eat or drink because wearing seat belts wasn’t a big deal either.
Even though Willie Nelson’s hit song came out in 1980, the year after my family had moved from Arkansas to North Carolina, it so perfectly captures those long cross-country family vacations. In reality, my mother couldn’t have started singing “On the Road Again” during those trips. Yet I clearly remember her singing that song during the start of subsequent trips in the green machine.
And speaking of music, how did we not end up killing one another with just one radio and ME for entertainment? This reminds me of one short-lived game that I invented where I was the radio and all my sisters had to do was change the channel and I’d sing a different song.
One my sister’s tapped me on the nose, told me that was the “off” button and wouldn’t turn me back on. Neither would my other sister. I was mad as hell. I complained to my mother, who I could clearly see was laughing even though she was facing forward and wasn’t making a sound. When Mom regained her composure, she turned around and suggested that I just be quiet for a while.
As a child, the only times I was “quiet for a while” was during church, half the time at school, and when I was asleep. As a matter of fact, if I’d grown up in the 90s, I would’ve been given Ritalin. Instead, my elementary school day consisted of two outside recesses. The neighborhoods where I lived were so safe, I could play outside, unsupervised with my friends over a large area. Mom used to joke that if anyone ever kidnapped me, they’d bring me back. She also claimed that she’d only hear my voice out of all the other kids. Yet if I was in the house and awake, but she couldn’t hear me, then she knew I was up to something.
So, there was NEVER a snowball’s chance in hell I was going to be quiet while confined in a station wagon and awake. No climbing trees, no playing on the monkey bars, no bike riding, and no running around while screaming and laughing out loud. Just sitting between my sisters for 16 hours who didn’t even know the proper way to play radio!
Over the years, newer family cars replaced the green machine and yet it still lingered. My father had been a mechanic in the Air Force, and especially loved working on cars. He was such a car enthusiast that he was always ready to buy a new car if it wasn’t for my mother pumping the brakes on the idea.
When I was a senior in high school, I’d driven the green machine over to a friend’s house party. Even back then, I never gave a damn about a car being a status symbol–just a way to get from point A to point B. However, the old station wagon, with its weathered fake wood paneling had developed a nervous tick. At random times, the horn honked–all by itself.
I made that entire 15-minute drive to my friend’s house and back waving at people to play it off. Most people waved back. When I returned home and complained to my father about the honking, he responded matter of factly, “Oh yeah, you have to pull up on the steering wheel when you drive it.”
The last memorable time I spent with the green machine, I was a college student. Typically, I came home with a large green Army bag full of dirty clothes to be washed and ended my visit with a trip to the commissary with my father to stock up on groceries.
During this particular trip, Dad had locked the keys in the car. We used a payphone to call Mom to rescue us. While we sat on top of the back of the station wagon waiting, Dad looked over the grocery bill. I’d zoned out until he shouted, “Tampons! Girl, those things are expensive. No wonder this bill is so high.”
In retrospect, I’m amazed that was when Dad had learned about the high price of menstruating. After all I was the youngest of three daughters and he’d been married for nearly 30 years by that point. But who am I to judge? That was the moment I’d learned Dad was the bring-home-the-bacon-and-give-the-money-to-your-wife kind of husband.
And these days, that’s the only green I’m usually thinking of.
En route to my mother’s surprise birthday party, which happened a full two months after her real birthday, one of my cousins, who carpooled with us, was reading “The Plant Paradox.” Essentially, the premise of this diet is to eliminate, or at least seriously restrict, the amount of lectins in one’s food.
Lectins are proteins, the most famous of which is gluten. Since plants evolved lectins to deter predators from eating them, insects learn to avoid plants that make them sick. If humans were the size of insects, then we’d be more aware of these naturally-occurring poisons when we ate certain plants.
Yet there are a slew of autoimmune diseases, cancers, inflammation, weight gain and such caused by eating lectins. When I saw that Crohn’s disease was one of them, I texted one of my nieces to see if she’d heard about the connection between lectins and Crohn’s. She very wisely asked me which foods contain them. So, I took a picture of the list, which easily has over 100 things. She texted back: oh nvm lol I’ll stay on medicine.
Typical.
Yet, I love a good challenge. I already choose about two recipes a week to make; so this wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to shift the ingredients. As a matter of fact, unlike the “success story” people in the book, I had no immediate health issues. So, I could ease my way into a new diet.
Nonetheless, I wanted to make a good attempt, which means getting rid of foods that aren’t on the “yes” list. The biggest three culprits are wheat products, corn products and potatoes. But that’s not all! Ripe fruit, which I usually buy a huge amount of every week for smoothies, signal the human body that winter’s around the corner and it should start storing fat.
I mulled it over and decided that I’d bag up everything that wasn’t in the diet and give it out to the ubiquitous panhandlers around Austin. After all, the food was still good quality even if this particular diet told me to avoid such things as wheat and corn flour, oatmeal, peanut butter, sunflower seeds, refined sugars, canola oil, sugar snap peas, cornstarch, baking powder, ramen noodles and other things that filled 5 banned single-use (but now they may make a comeback) plastic bags.
The only two things I kept were brown and wild rice and two packets of microwave grits. I wasn’t sure if grits contained lectins, but I had both of them for breakfast the next day. As far as the rice was concerned, I coupled it with one of the lectin-free recipes. (I know, already starting out sacrilegious.)
So the first time after I bagged all the contraband food up, I’d left to go to my screenwriting class. In addition to my backpack, I took a bag of groceries in each hand. I didn’t pass a single panhandler en route to class nor back. I chalked it up to the recent cold front.
So those bags of food stayed in the car since it was all nonperishable plus the weather made it seem as if they were refrigerated. Besides, I figured I’d pass them out en route to yoga.
Of all things! The panhandlers I thought would be out weren’t–except in the intersections that had green lights. As much as I wanted to give the bags away, I wasn’t about to cause a traffic jam or accident to do a good deed. So, I thought I’d hand them out on the way home. Wrong again. This time, they were at another part of the intersection than where my car was at a red light.
In the meantime, I made my first two lectin-free dishes: salmon with sautéed spinach and red onions with avocado oil and lemon juice; and seaweed wrapped chicken strips with spinach, avocado and cilantro sauce.
So for the first dish, I cheated a bit and used the rest of my brown and wild rice. You see, contrary to popular belief, the best rice is white. All that brown rice that’s supposed to be healthy really isn’t because the brown hulls contain the lectins. Even something like gluten free foods have a lectin worse than gluten, wheat germ agglutinin or WGA for short.
Proving once again that the third time is indeed the charm, on the third day, returning from exercise class, I gave away both bags to the same panhandler–a black man who thanked me profusely for the groceries. As I drove away, I felt lighter than the absence of two bags of groceries.
The next day, at the same intersection, this time coming from yoga class, I gave away two more bags to a younger guy who looked Latino. He took both bags, saying he’d share with the other guy, but as far as I could watch where he went, I couldn’t see who “the other guy” turned out to be.
Then, later in the evening, I helped run the Women in Film & TV (WIFT) booth on 6th St as part of the SXSW’s celebration of International Women’s Day. This was the first time I’d met some of the other board members. Throughout the event, servers circulated around and passed out free food samples. At that point, I made up my mind that in observation of this diet, I’d eliminate my consumption of lectins at home, but since I didn’t have any dire health issues, I wouldn’t be absolutely miserable about it. I enjoyed every free wheat flour treat that came my way.
On the way back from that event, I gave out the last bag. Thus, accomplishing a major task in pursuit of healthier eating.
For my second time participating with this ethnic dining Meetup, I had the opportunity to try a Uzbek food that was touted as being the ultimate fusion between Chinese and Middle Eastern.
Most of the dishes on the buffet I’ve made some version of at home. Yet, I’d never made all of them at once since cooking for one doesn’t require such a spread.
The Meetup organizer had actually arranged to have the buffet with the restaurant, so I’m happy that so many of us, close to 40, actually showed up. I think it may have been the biggest turn out he’s had since he started this group. A huge contrast to the handful of us who came out for the Korean dinner.
I’d been initially concerned whether or not this event would be cancelled because so many people had bailed within 24 hours. As a matter of fact, for a few days leading up to the event, there was a lot of back and forth between the organizer and members.
Being a Meetup organizer myself, I knew the two Meetup rules of thumb: 1) the people who ask the most questions won’t show up; and 2) only half of the people who sign up will show up.
I sat at the all women’s table, which turned out the be the rowdiest table. I’m never quite sure if that’s my effect on things or what naturally happens when a group of motivated women get together in general.
I loved that a few of us brought a bottle of wine since the organizer had warned us that the place didn’t serve alcohol. I sampled everything on the table. I, of course, was the only one who’d brought a silver chalice–mostly because it’s a conversation starter. I’d taken a mostly full bottle of chardonnay that I’d used for one of the latest recipes I’d made, which had called for a cup of dry white wine.
The woman beside me had brought a bottle of Hungarian wine to share except she kept comparing its smell to gym socks or a wet dog, but declared that it tasted better than that. I laughed and told her that that was a great way of not having to share a bottle of wine.
I got a good feel for the table prior to passing out my business cards for The Austin Writers Roulette. I’m always in recruiter/advertising mode when I attend any event. I encouraged them to come as an audience member or a participant since everyone has a story to tell.
I especially wanted to know more about one woman of color who had an interesting family tree that included both Indian and Black and was raised in Wisconsin. She’d recently attempted to join a Meetup group for Black people and had been rejected. She concluded that she didn’t appear Black enough. I scoffed, “Wow, if they rejected you, then I know I shouldn’t apply since I’m even lighter!”
Are we Black people bringing back the brown paper bag test? I know in the past that lighter skin Black people would discriminate against other Blacks who were darker than a brown paper bag. Has the pendulum now swung in the other direction? Can’t we just be free of such hatred?
Despite the fact that I made it home in time to watch the Oscars, I figured I’d hear about it enough in the coming weeks. I’d already done the most thrilling and meaningful things: meeting new people and trying a new genre of food.
Nearly ten years ago when I moved to the Music Capital of the World, I thought I was allergic to beestings and had no problem with pollen. I’ve learned some things since then.
There’s this seasonal Welcome to Austin condition known as Cedar Fever that makes newbies feel as if they’ve come down with the flu. As trial and error would have it, cough drops relieved my itchy throat and sneezing, a neti pot cleared my sinuses and Bikram yoga kept most seasonal allergy symptoms in check–with a host of other wonderful benefits.
Yet, keeping the flora and fauna that resides within the human body in balance is as challenging as maintaining world peace. You never know when something’s brewing until your intel briefs you. In my case, it was ear wax.
I hadn’t experienced a good ear wax flood in years. When I say “flood,” I don’t mean that anything was leaking out, but as I slept the wax buildup plugged my ears, making me feel as if I was underwater. Combined with my heartbeat, I felt as if I could hear waves underwater.
A few days later, I smelled the stench in the water flowing through the pipes in my apartment. The next day, I learned the stench was caused by decomposing zebra mussels that had invaded the water supply. Yet I didn’t realize that those dead zebra mussels had thrown off my ear wax.
I did my usual hydrogen peroxide in the ear to break up the wax. That solution worked for a few days.
Then, women at yoga suggested I use garlic oil drops. One even suggested using my neti pot, which I didn’t think of because I focused on ear wax rather than inner ear pressure. The neti pot helped relieve the pressure from the other side, but only temporarily.
As I battled with keeping my right ear open, the water treatment facility used charcoal to remedy the dead zebra mussels stank. Periodically, my right ear would just pop open on its own, only to re-close just as inexplicably.
Then, it would pop open in the morning and only close as I slept. At that point, I stopped messing with it. After all, I didn’t really need to hear while I slept. No harm, no foul.
Finally, the problem cleared up altogether. That’s when I noticed that the water hadn’t stunk in a few days. Eureka! Those damn zebra mussels had had one last hurrah in death.
I’m not allergic to shellfish (yet!) , but I’m a firm believer of drinking tap water since it’s potable. However, the small fluctuation in water quality was enough to cause an immune response as my body knew it didn’t need the essence of zebra mussels.
In the meantime, I’m going to keep doing the things that promote body peace: daily exercise, fresh food, 8 hours of sleep and a glass of red wine!
